He Who Kills the Dragon

77.

On Wednesday, a fortnight after the murder of Karl Danielsson, a fair amount had happened. Bäckström had gone from ‘police celebrity’ to ‘national celebrity.’

Stockholm Police’s biggest criminal investigation since the murder of Foreign Minister Anna Lindh had been reduced to ash and ruins, and even though it was the perpetrators who were responsible for the conflagration, Toivonen wasn’t inclined to laugh. He and his colleagues were left with the task of trying to mop up the mess, and it didn’t look like an easy job.

It was impossible to talk to Hassan Talib at all. His doctors merely shook their heads. Even if the patient survived, he wouldn’t be able to contribute much, even in the future. Extensive brain damage. Permanent damage.

‘Superintendent, you’re going to have to drop any hopes of that,’ the doctor said, nodding to Toivonen.

Farshad and Afsan Ibrahim could at least talk. The problem was that neither of them wanted to talk to the police.

Fredrik Åkare had already been questioned. He had been good-humored, had brought his usual lawyer, but had been completely uncomprehending. He and his friends were supposed to have murdered Nasir Ibrahim? A person that Åkare had never met, would never dream of meeting? And in Copenhagen? It must be at least a year since the last time he visited the Danish capital to see old friends and acquaintances.

‘Sometimes I almost worry about you, Toivonen,’ Åkare said with a smile. ‘You haven’t started drinking, have you?’

Peter Niemi had submitted a new forensic report, which, in any ordinary case, would have been a breakthrough in the investigation.

‘The pistol Bäckström took off Hassan Talib matches the bullets that were pulled out of Kari Viirtanen’s skull by the pathologist,’ Niemi said. ‘Although fuck knows what we do with that now.’

Toivonen had made do with a loud sigh. That fucking fat little bastard, he thought.

‘What do we do?’ Niemi repeated.

‘Make sure the prosecutor gets something to read,’ Toivonen said. ‘Preferably before Bäckström holds his next press conference.’

‘I see what you mean,’ Niemi said. ‘Do you want to, or shall I?’ he went on.

‘What?’

‘Strangle the fat fucker with our bare hands,’ Niemi said with a grin.