He Who Kills the Dragon

86.

‘What do we do now?’ Annika Carlsson asked.

‘Now we take it nice and slow,’ Bäckström said. ‘We don’t mess it up by rushing.’

‘I’m listening,’ Carlsson said.

‘That list that Alm drew up of everyone Danielsson knew,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’d like to take a look at it. Call him, tell him to get here at once and give me the list.’

‘No need,’ Carlsson said. ‘You can read mine. I’ve got a copy.’

‘That’s a shame,’ Bäckström said. ‘I was looking forward to having a chance to wind the idiot up.’

The old boys from Solna and Sundbyberg, Bäckström thought, as he read through Alm’s summary of Karl Danielsson’s acquaintances some fifteen minutes later. Halfy and Flash and Jockey Gunnar. Godfather Grimaldi and his former colleague Roly Stålhammar. Good old boys who’d spent the best part of fifty years drunk off their ass.

Then he called one of them.

‘Detective Superintendent Bäckström, the nation’s hero,’ Halfy Söderman said. ‘To what does a simple man such as myself owe the pleasure?’

‘I need to talk to you, Söderman,’ Bäckström said. Already wasted, and here I am stuck behind my desk, sober, gray, and underpaid, he thought.

‘My door is always open to you,’ Halfy said. ‘It will be an honor for me and my simple household. And would the Superintendent have any specific requests as far as refreshment is concerned?’

‘Coffee will do fine,’ Bäckström said brusquely. ‘Black, no sugar.’

Then he had gone into Nadja’s office and picked up Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary, then called for a taxi.

‘Are you sure I can’t offer to drop you off?’ Halfy Söderman asked, nodding toward the bottle of cognac standing on the kitchen table between him and Bäckström.

‘I’m fine,’ Bäckström said.

‘You’re not just quick on the draw,’ Söderman declared. ‘You’re a man of strong character too, Bäckström,’ he said, pouring a decent splash into his own coffee cup.

‘Ah, liqueur’s good,’ Söderman said, sighing with pleasure. ‘And good for you. One million alcoholics can’t be wrong.’

Maybe not all of them, Bäckström thought.

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you about,’ Bäckström said, pulling out Danielsson’s black pocket diary.

‘Well, because it’s you, just go ahead, Bäckström,’ Halfy said. ‘If it had been one of your so-called colleagues, I’d have got into a three-round scrap with them by now.’

‘Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary,’ Bäckström said. ‘There are some notes in here that I can’t quite get my head round.’

‘I can well imagine,’ Söderman grinned. ‘Kalle was a crafty bastard.’

‘There are certain notes that come up again and again. We think they mean that he was paying out money to three different people.’

‘I can believe that,’ Söderman said. ‘And without a stain on his character. What are their names?’

‘They’re abbreviations,’ Bäckström said. ‘Initials of their names, we think. Plus the amounts.

‘The initials are HA, AFS, and FI. All in capital letters, take a look,’ Bäckström said, holding the diary out to Söderman.

‘What are they supposed to mean, then? The abbreviations, I mean. What are the names?’

‘Hassan Talib, Afsan Ibrahim, and Farshad Ibrahim.’

‘They’re those fucking bastards who tried to kill you, Bäckström,’ Söderman said as he leafed through the diary.

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said. ‘Can you remember if Danielsson ever talked about them?’

‘He never talked about stuff like that. No matter how hammered he got. As to whether he was stashing money away for people like that? I can quite believe him doing it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to talk about it.’

‘No?’ Bäckström said.

‘No,’ Halfy Söderman said emphatically. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, Superintendent. Mind you, I’d be happy to do my bit if it would help get those camel jockeys locked up for so long that they chuck the key in a lake. But I’m sorry to have to tell you that they’re probably innocent, I’m afraid.’

‘Really?’ Bäckström said.

‘Kalle Danielsson was a funny little shit,’ Halfy said. ‘These notes are about something completely different, not those date pickers from Fuckknowswhereistan.’

‘Tell me,’ Bäckström said.

‘It’s a good story,’ Halfy Söderman said, shaking his head and smiling happily at his guest.

‘Are you sitting comfortably, Bäckström?’ he asked.

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said.

‘Then I’ll begin,’ Halfy said. ‘Hold onto your ears so they don’t drop off.’