He Who Kills the Dragon

65.

Bäckström had left his beloved local bar before midnight. His blond tornado from Jyväskylä had been prevented from accompanying him, since her more routine companion had suddenly shown up in her place of work. He had also glowered at Bäckström. So Bäckström had lumbered home, opened the door to his cozy abode, yawned indulgently, and stepped right in.

I’ll just have to make do with squeezing little Siggy, Bäckström thought, at the very moment when he realized he had unexpected company.

‘Welcome home, Superintendent,’ Farshad Ibrahim said, smiling amiably at his host.

His gigantic cousin didn’t say anything. Just glared at Bäckström with his black, deep-set eyes. A face that could have been carved in stone, were it not for the slow grinding of his jaw.

‘And what can I do for you gentlemen?’ Bäckström said. What the hell do I do now? he thought.

‘Perhaps I could offer you a little drink?’ he suggested, nodding toward the kitchen.

‘Neither of us drinks,’ Farshad Ibrahim said, shaking his head. He was leaning back comfortably in Bäckström’s favorite armchair, while his cousin was standing in the middle of the room, glaring.

‘Don’t worry, Superintendent,’ he went on. ‘We’ve come in peace, and we have a little business proposal.’

‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said, as he shook his yellow linen trousers as discreetly as possible, even though they suddenly felt drenched with sweat and his legs started trembling of their own accord in a mysterious way.

‘We’re interested in what your colleagues are up to,’ Farshad said, ‘and as I see it, there are two possibilities,’ he continued, sounding like he was thinking out loud.

Then he had put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a bundle of thousand-kronor notes, and put them on Bäckström’s coffee table. A bundle that bore a striking resemblance to all the others Bäckström had himself found in a perfectly ordinary pot of gold. Then for some reason he had pulled out a stiletto knife from his inside pocket, unfolded the double-edged blade, and started to pick at his nails.

It’ll have to be a Bäckström double, Bäckström decided. And because there wasn’t much choice, he gave it his all from the outset.

‘Spare me, spare me!’ Bäckström exclaimed, his big round face twisting and his clasped hands rising in supplication. Then he had slumped to one knee in front of the gigantic Talib, as if he were thinking of proposing to him.

Talib’s jaw stopped grinding and he took a step back, looking down sympathetically at the pleading Bäckström who was on one knee at his feet. Then he had shrugged, turned his head, and looked at his boss. Evidently embarrassed, or so it seemed.

‘Act like a man, Bäckström, not a woman,’ Farshad said in a tone of warning, shaking his head and pointing the knife at him.

And at that moment Bäckström struck.