67.

As soon as the obviously embarrassed Talib had looked away — such weakness in a man, as weak as a woman — Bäckström had made his move. He grabbed hold of his ankles with lightning speed and pulled as hard as he could.

Talib had toppled backward like a sawn-off fir tree, however that could be possible considering where he was from, Bäckström thought. He just tumbled backward, straight back, his arms flailing, before his neck and the back of his head smashed into Bäckström’s coffee table, cracking the slab of finest Kolmården marble.

Bäckström had pulled out Siggy in the twinkling of an eye — getting up with some difficulty, admittedly — before closing his left eye to be on the safe side and taking careful aim.

Farshad had also stood up, raising his hands in a defensive gesture, dropping the flick-knife, point down, onto Bäckström’s expensive carpet.

‘Take it easy, Superintendent,’ Farshad said, waving his raised hands.

‘Make my day, punk!’ Bäckström roared, firing off a proper salvo with not the slightest intention of causing any scratches in his newly laid parquet floor.

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