He Who Kills the Dragon

71.

Bäckström and Annika Carlsson had snuck out the back way, through the courtyard. In the street outside the front door there was mayhem, and the uniformed officers had their hands full. Journalists and curious onlookers. Quite a number who tried to get into the building. If only to reassure themselves that Bäckström actually lived there. A stream of letters, flowers, parcels, and a veritable memorial garden of lanterns and banners, even though the weather outside was high summer.

‘Two things,’ Annika said as soon as they got inside the car. ‘You have to have a debriefing, and you have to talk to our colleagues in internal investigations.’

‘Why do I have to?’ Bäckström sulked.

‘The sooner the better, because then it’ll be done,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Where do you want to start?’

‘You may as well decide that as well,’ Bäckström said.

‘A very wise decision,’ Annika Carlsson said. She patted him on the arm and smiled.

The debriefing had gone quickly. It was with a former colleague that Bäckström knew from his time in National Crime, who had burned out, had a crisis, rediscovered himself, and found a new role within a police organization in a process of constant change.

‘How are you feeling, Bäckström?’ his former colleague asked, tilting his head to one side.

‘Great,’ Bäckström said. ‘Never felt better. How about you? I heard you hit the wall.’ You useless sod, he thought.

Five minutes later Bäckström was walking away.

‘But what am I going to put in my report?’ his debriefer asked.

‘Use your imagination,’ Bäckström said.

His visit to the Stockholm Police Department for Internal Investigations had taken a whole hour. Bäckström had sat there on numerous previous occasions. For considerably longer, while everyone argued and shouted at one another in an openhearted and collegial way. This time they had started by offering coffee, and the superintendent who was in charge of the Rat Squad had personally welcomed him and assured him that he wasn’t suspected of having done anything wrong. Bäckström had exchanged a quick glance with Annika Carlsson, who had accompanied him in case he needed a witness, and she was also the Police Officers’ Association’s representative in the Western District.

Everything that had emerged thus far unanimously supported Bäckström’s version of events. The forensics team, Peter Niemi and Jorge Hernandez, had found numerous pieces of evidence to back up Bäckström’s story. The first officers to arrive at the scene, Sandra Kovac, Frank Motoele, Magda Hernandez, Tomas Singh, and Gustav Hallberg, had all given testimony in his favor.

‘We spoke to Motoele just an hour ago. Evidently he was the first man in, and what he told us was pretty strong stuff. Said it looked like a battlefield in there, and that it’s a miracle you’re alive, Bäckström. And you’ve probably heard that another of the perpetrators tried to stab Motoele out in the street a couple minutes before they were able to get inside and help you.’

‘An awful business,’ Bäckström said. ‘That young lad. How is he, by the way?’ What do you mean, help me? Snotty-nosed kids, he thought.

‘Good, under the circumstances,’ the investigator said, without going into any details. ‘Well, really we only have four questions.’

‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said, and Annika Carlsson’s eyes had already narrowed in a clearly cheering way.

Bäckström had been carrying his service revolver when he went into his flat at half past eleven in the evening. Why?

‘I was on duty,’ Bäckström said. ‘Considering the current situation, I and my colleagues carry our service revolvers whenever we leave the station. I was home to change my shirt and get a bite to eat before going back to the police station in Solna.’

‘We’re more or less working round the clock at the moment,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘We’ve got two double murders that both seem to be connected to the armed robbery out at Bromma. We’re seriously understaffed. A total of six officers to cover two murder investigations.’

Fuck me, Bäckström thought. Surely she can’t be falling in love with me?

‘Yes, it’s terrible,’ the investigator agreed, shaking his gray hair. ‘We’re on our knees right now.’

Farshad Ibrahim had a copy of the key to Bäckström’s flat. Did Bäckström have any idea how he might have got hold of it?

‘Well, he didn’t get it from me,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’d never met Ibrahim before he attacked me in my flat. I have two keys, one that I keep in the drawer of my desk at work, and one on my own key ring. And the caretaker has a copy, of course.’

‘You have no idea how Ibrahim might have got hold of your key?’

‘No,’ Bäckström lied. He had already worked out what had happened, but intended to sort that out with GeGurra and Tatiana Thorén. ‘I haven’t lost a key, if that’s what you’re wondering. If I had, I would have changed the lock at once.’

‘The caretaker?’ the investigator suggested.

‘I’ve hardly ever spoken to him,’ Bäckström said.

‘The copy you keep in your desk drawer at work. Do you keep the drawer locked?’

‘Hang on, now,’ Bäckström said. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that one of my colleagues might have given my key to anyone like Ibrahim and Talib?’

‘What about the cleaners?’ the investigator persisted.

‘I don’t think we’re getting very far,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Besides, this isn’t really our subject, if I can put it like that.’

‘No, of course not,’ the investigator agreed.

I must remember to put a key in that drawer, Bäckström thought. Just in case, but how do I get hold of one that looks the same but doesn’t actually fit? he thought.

Bäckström had drunk alcohol in his flat. Why?

‘I took a whiskey,’ Bäckström said. ‘My heart was racing at something like two hundred a minute, so I thought I needed one. I’d already worked out that I wouldn’t be doing any more work that night, and I handed my own gun to Niemi as soon as he arrived.’

The investigator had complete understanding of this too and would probably have done the same himself.

Back of the net, Bäckström thought.

Bäckström had fired a total of six shots. One of them had hit Farshad Ibrahim. Did he have any idea which of the shots that was?

‘The last one,’ Bäckström said. ‘Now that I’ve a chance to think about it for a while, I’m pretty sure of that.’

First the gigantic Talib had thrown himself at him, and he had already drawn his pistol. Bäckström had tried to defend himself and managed to draw his own weapon. Several shots had been fired while he was wrestling with Talib, before he managed to bring him down and disarm him with his bare hands.

‘Then the other one came at me with his knife, ready to strike,’ Bäckström said. ‘So I took aim and shot him in his left lower leg.’

‘Yes,’ the investigator said, and sighed. ‘Well, I think that’s everything. Sometimes there really does seem to be someone holding a protective hand over us police officers.’

‘What do you want to do now, Bäckström?’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Do you want to go home and get a few hours’ rest? And you should probably get something to eat?’

‘The station. A burger on the way will do,’ Bäckström said. ‘After all, we’ve got a case to clear up.’

‘You’re the boss, Bäckström,’ Carlsson said.