He Who Kills the Dragon

75.

That same day Bäckström had held a press conference with his boss, police chief Anna Holt. Also on the podium was his immediate superior, Superintendent Toivonen, as well as the county police chief’s own press secretary. Because a large crowd was expected, the county police chief had put the auditorium of police headquarters on Kungsholmen at their disposal.

Regrettably she was unable to attend herself because she was obliged to attend a series of important meetings. At least that was what she told Holt, but in reality, in the world where nothing is ever really concealed from eyes that can see and ears that can hear, she was sitting alone in her office, following proceedings on TV4’s live broadcast.

Anna Holt had kicked it off, giving a brief summary of what had happened. Almost no questions, even though the room was packed with journalists.

Then Toivonen had explained what was happening in the investigation into the armed robbery out at Bromma and made it clear that the main suspects were now in custody. Later that day the prosecutor would propose the formal arrest of Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, and Hassan Talib for murder, attempted murder, and aggravated robbery.

But as far as the two perpetrators of the armed robbery itself were concerned, Toivonen said little. The situation was sensitive and for that reason he didn’t want to comment. This was a view that the journalists didn’t appear to share, because almost all of their questions had been on that particular subject. They also appeared to know most of the details already.

Kari Viirtanen, Nasir Ibrahim? Did he have anything to say about them?

No comment.

Kari Viirtanen had been shot outside his girlfriend’s flat in Bergshamra. The perpetrators were the men behind the armed robbery who wanted to take revenge on him for messing things up and shooting the guards, wasn’t that true?

No comment.

Nasir Ibrahim had been driving the getaway car at the raid in Bromma. He had abandoned it outside the Hells Angels’ clubhouse, five hundred meters from the scene of the crime. Then he was found murdered in Copenhagen. The Hells Angels getting their revenge?

No comment.

Somewhere around then the press secretary had broken off the questions in order to let Superintendent Bäckström speak. None of the journalists objected.

Could Bäckström tell them what had happened on Monday evening in his own apartment?

Suddenly there was complete silence in the room. The journalists even shushed the photographers who were trying to take pictures of him.

Bäckström surprised everyone who knew him. He was reserved, concise, almost brusque. On the few occasions when his mouth twitched in an approximation of a smile, he looked rather like a Swedish version of Andy Sipowicz, the hero of the television series NYPD Blue. Nor did this fact escape either the reporters or the headline writers. But it was still a toss-up. Either Andy Sipowicz or Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry Callahan.

‘There’s not really much to say,’ Bäckström said. ‘They got into my apartment, and the minute I walked in they attacked me and tried to kill me.’

Then he nodded and smiled a crooked smile.

His audience took this to be a dramatic pause, and that there was more to come. Bäckström merely shrugged again, nodded, and looked almost uninterested.

‘Well, that was it, really,’ Bäckström said.

His audience didn’t seem to share that view. There was a barrage of questions, and when the press secretary eventually restored some order, he invited the reporter from the largest television channel to speak.

‘What did you do then?’ she shouted, holding her microphone up even though Bäckström was sitting five meters away and had a microphone of his own attached to his lapel.

‘What could I do?’ Bäckström said. ‘One of them had a pistol and was trying to shoot me. The other one had a knife and was trying to stab me. So I was just trying to save my life.’

‘So what did you do?’ the national broadcaster’s reporter yelled, not prepared to be overlooked a second time.

‘I did as I’ve been trained,’ Bäckström said. ‘I disarmed the one with the pistol and rendered him harmless. The other one was trying to stab me, so I shot him in the leg. Below the knee,’ he added for some reason.

‘Hassan Talib,’ the reporter from Expressen panted. ‘One of the most feared heavies in the country, and a renowned assassin. He tried to shoot you and you say you disarmed him and rendered him harmless. According to information from the Karolinska Hospital, Talib has a fractured skull and is in intensive care, still in a critical condition.’

‘First I removed his weapon, seeing as he was trying to shoot me, then I brought him down with a judo move I learned when I was a boy. Unfortunately he hit his head on a table, and I’m very sorry about that.’

‘You disarmed him and brought him down—’

‘I think he has to take some of the blame for this,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘What do you think I should have done? Give him a kiss and a big hug?’

No one in the room seemed to think so. There was cheering and applause and Bäckström was praised to the skies, and it could doubtless have carried on through the night if he hadn’t put a stop to it himself after just ten minutes.

‘Now, if you’ll excuse me,’ Bäckström said, standing up. ‘I’ve got a job to do. Among other things, I’ve got a double murder to sort out.’

‘One more question,’ pleaded the female reporter from TV3, and because she was better known for her blond hair and big breasts than her journalistic accomplishments, Bäckström had given her a half-Sipowicz and a benevolent nod.

‘Why do you think they were trying to kill you?’ she asked.

‘Maybe they were more afraid of me that some of my colleagues,’ Bäckström said with a shrug. Then he pulled off his microphone and walked out. When he passed his colleague Toivonen on the way out, he did so in a way that couldn’t escape anyone.

What’s good for Bäckström is good for the police, and that’s good for me, the county police chief thought, switching off the television. For the time being, she thought.