He Who Kills the Dragon

90.

After lunch on Monday Bäckström was ready to strike. First he spoke to Annika Carlsson and explained the details to her.

‘Bäckström, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said, shaking her head. ‘You’re probably the craftiest officer I’ve ever worked with. I can’t even count the number of evidential details you’re planning to raise in your conversation with this awful person.’

‘Me neither,’ Bäckström said. ‘So you’ll do as I say?’

‘Of course, boss. What are we going to do with Felicia and young Stigson?’

‘Backup,’ Bäckström said. ‘Taking Stigson along is out of the question and if the situation gets critical I don’t want to have to worry about Felicia.’

‘That makes sense,’ Annika agreed.

‘They can wait outside in the car, just in case, until we call them in,’ Bäckström said.

Then they set off for number 1 Hasselstigen in two unmarked cars. Stigson and Pettersson pulled up outside the entrance. Bäckström and Annika Carlsson took the lift up. As Annika Carlsson hid on the stairs, Bäckström knocked on the door and, since the meeting had been arranged earlier that morning, the door was opened just after his second knock.

‘Welcome, Superintendent,’ Britt-Marie Andersson said, with a wide smile that showed off her sparkling white teeth, and for some reason she ran her left hand down the middle of her generous cleavage.

‘Can I offer you anything, Superintendent?’

‘A cup of coffee would be nice,’ Bäckström said. ‘Actually, I was wondering if I could borrow your loo?’

‘Of course,’ Britt-Marie Andersson said. She tilted her head to one side and leaned forward to improve the view. ‘Why do we have to be so formal, anyway? I’m Britt-Marie,’ she said, holding out a suntanned hand.

‘Bäckström,’ Bäckström said, responding with a half Harry Callahan.

‘You’re a proper old-fashioned kind of man, aren’t you, Bäckström?’ Britt-Marie Andersson said, smiling and shaking her head. ‘Make yourself at home, and I’ll get us some coffee.’

Bäckström went into the toilet. As soon as he heard that she was busy in the kitchen he padded out and unlocked the front door. If the situation became critical he didn’t want his colleagues to have to break the door in. Then he flushed, opened the toilet door noisily, went into the living room, and sat down on his hostess’s flowery sofa.

Britt-Marie Andersson had laid a whole tray. She had even got her little cockroach to be a good Little Sweetie and go and lie down in his flowery little basket. Then she sat down on her pink armchair, pulling it forward so that her suntanned knees were almost touching Bäckström’s well-tailored yellow linen trousers as she poured the coffee.

‘I presume that you take it black,’ Britt-Marie said with a contented sigh.

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said.

‘Like all real men,’ Britt-Marie said with another sigh.

Except when I have an espresso, because then I usually have some warm milk on the side, Bäckström thought.

‘Black is fine,’ Bäckström said.

‘And can I tempt you with a little cognac? Or perhaps a little whiskey?’ Britt-Marie said, nodding toward the bottles on the tray.

‘I was thinking of having a little cognac, myself,’ she cajoled. ‘Just a teeny, tiny little one.’

‘Go ahead,’ Bäckström said. ‘That’s probably a good idea,’ he said, without going into the reason why.

‘So tell me,’ Britt-Marie said, tilting her head to one side. ‘I’m practically dying with curiosity. On the phone you said something about wanting to pop in and thank me.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Bäckström said. ‘That’s what I said—’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ Britt-Marie said, taking a cautious sip with pouting lips, ‘but I really must compliment you on your outfit. A yellow linen suit, light brown linen shirt, matching tie, dark brown Italian shoes, handmade, I’m sure. Most of the detectives I’ve met usually look like they slept on a park bench before going to work.’

‘Clothes maketh the man,’ Bäckström said. ‘Well, thank you for the compliment, and of course I came here to thank you.’

‘And here’s me, hardly knowing how I could have helped!’ Britt-Marie Andersson said.

‘Me neither,’ Bäckström said. ‘But to start with, you tipped us off about my former colleague, Roly Stålhammar. The only thing you forgot to mention was that you used to go out with him some forty or so years ago and that you pretty much fucked each other’s brains out back then. And when he turned out not to be good enough for us, you helped us along the way by identifying the Ibrahim brothers and their unsavory cousin.

‘Mind you,’ Bäckström went on. ‘I do believe you on one point. I’m sure you did see them talking to Kalle Danielsson, and I’m absolutely convinced that the big lout standing by the car did make an obscene gesture at you. But when we still weren’t happy, you managed to persuade one of my most foolish colleagues to believe your story that Seppo Laurén had been a very violent young man for years. Who also happened to hate his father, Karl Danielsson. In fact, for the past fortnight you’ve had my officers running round like a flock of headless chickens. There was really just one thing that you forgot to tell us.’

‘And what might that be?’ Britt-Marie Andersson said. She was sitting up straight now, without a trace of a smile or the slightest tremble of her hand as she refilled her little cognac glass.

‘That it was actually you who beat Karl Danielsson to death on that Wednesday evening with his own saucepan lid, and that you strangled him afterward with his own tie just to make sure. Before taking the briefcase containing all the money that he was stupid enough to show you just before. And that on Friday morning, just thirty hours later, you strangled your young lover Septimus Akofeli. Since he seems to have worked out more or less at once that you did it and by Thursday was under the impression that you were acting in self-defense to stop Danielsson from raping you. You must have said something about Kalle Danielsson to him before. Probably that Danielsson had tried to fuck you against your will. And when you met on Friday, you and Akofeli, he wanted you to go to the police and explain what really happened. That you were the victim, not Danielsson.

‘You strangled Akofeli in your bedroom,’ Bäckström went on, nodding toward the closed door at the end of the living room. ‘After you’d fucked his brains out, so that he was suitably docile when you offered to give him a back massage. Before you both went to the police and laid your cards on the table.’

‘That’s the most fantastic story I heard in my whole life,’ Britt-Marie Andersson said. ‘But because it’s deeply insulting to me, I do hope you haven’t told it to anyone else, Superintendent. Because then I’d be forced to report you for slander. Grave defamation of character, as we’re supposed to call it these days. And what would that look like?’

‘Don’t worry. This is strictly between the two of us,’ Bäckström lied. ‘I haven’t breathed a word.’

‘Oh, I am pleased,’ Britt-Marie Andersson said, her smile almost back to normal again. ‘Suddenly I get the impression that you and I will be able to find a solution to this. Birds of a feather flock together, isn’t that what they say, Bäckström?’ Bäckström’s hostess said, pouring herself a third glass of cognac.

‘I met your former brother-in-law the other day,’ Bäckström said. ‘He’s a very interesting character.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Britt-Marie snorted. ‘He’s been an alcoholic for the past fifty years, hasn’t spoken a word of truth in his life.’

‘I thought I might tell you what he had to say anyway,’ Bäckström said. ‘And if I were in your shoes, I’d listen very carefully.’