He Who Kills the Dragon

76.

An unusually quiet hero who, unlike both Andy Sipowicz and Harry Callahan, belonged in the real world. In the absence of Bäckström himself, other people had to talk about him. The Aftonbladet newspaper had a large interview with his shooting instructor, which was practically lyrical.

‘The best pupil I ever had... one of the best shots in the police... ever... absolutely phenomenal... particularly under pressure... Absolutely ice-cold...’

Several of his fellow officers had spoken out, and the fact that most of them chose to do so anonymously was simply because Bäckström had always been ‘a highly controversial figure in the eyes of police management.’

There was complete unanimity and every comment was enthusiastic.

‘A legendary murder detective.’

‘He’s always right.’

‘He always sticks up for his fellow officers.’

‘Completely fearless, never backs down, never stands aside.’

‘Heads straight for his targets like a train.’

And so on, and so on.

Two of his fellow officers had appeared under their own names. First, his old friend and colleague, Detective Inspector Rogersson, himself a ‘legendary murder detective,’ who contented himself with saying that ‘Bäckström is a hell of a guy.’ And second, one of his former bosses, Lars Martin Johansson, now retired, and the man who fired him from National Crime.

‘What do I think about Evert Bäckström?’ Johansson said.

‘Yes, what do you think about him?’ DN’s reporter repeated, even though he had done his homework on Johansson and Bäckström’s shared history.

‘Evert Bäckström is an absolute disaster,’ Johansson said.

‘Can I quote you on that?’

‘Absolutely,’ Johansson said. ‘As long as you don’t call this number again.’

For some reason Johansson’s comment didn’t appear in the paper.

When the press conference was over Holt had provided a simple lunch for those most closely involved. Bäckström had been thanked with a cut-glass vase on which his name had been engraved under the emblem of the Police Authority, as well as with an old-fashioned police badge that was supposed to have belonged to Viking Örn.

As soon as Bäckström got home he knocked on the door of his alcoholic neighbor, the former TV executive, and gave him the vase as a gift.

‘What the fuck do I want that for?’ his neighbor said, glowering at Bäckström suspiciously.

‘I thought maybe you could drown yourself in it, you fucking rat,’ Bäckström said. During his visit to the internal investigation team he had had the chance to listen to the recording of the call made to emergency control.

He had spent the rest of the evening reading all the letters and e-mails he had received, even replying to some of the most promising. He opened all the parcels and presents and had a few drinks in the process.

The best vodka in the world, Bäckström thought, holding up the little drinking glass that Nadja had put in the bag with the bottle. A lot of heart in that woman, he thought.