Bäckström had had a good day, even if it had appeared threatening at the start when his boss foisted a wife-abuse case off on him. What do you mean, wife abuse? thought Bäckström. Every policeman worth his badge knew that these were only drunken hags who wanted nothing better than to have their drunken husbands beat them up. All women liked a little whipping (Bäckström knew that from personal experience), but certain specimens persisted in spicing up marital coexistence by running off now and then to Mister Policeman to complain. They should have a damn good beating instead, thought Bäckström while he steered his service car to the victim’s residence. Strangely enough she lived on fashionable Karlavägen, which had made him sufficiently curious to show up for questioning at the residence.
What a hell of an apartment, thought Bäckström when he had finally sunk down into the victim’s sofa. There was no shortage of dough here, and most likely she was trying to squeeze her man for even more and he’d quite simply taken a swing at her, but without a doubt the case offered certain openings. She didn’t look too bad either, thought Bäckström. Certainly over forty, but she had big knockers and could surely get good speed going on her little mouse if a real pro like Bäckström was at the stick.
“Yes, Mrs. Östergren,” said Bäckström gently. “If you would be so kind as to tell me what happened. You can take your time and try to take it from the beginning, even if it feels terribly difficult just now.”
Mrs. Östergren nodded and snuffled. I do believe, God help me, that I’m sitting here making myself horny, thought Bäckström contentedly with his head slightly to one side.
“There there, Mrs. Östergren,” he said consolingly. “This is going to work out. I’ll see to it personally. Soon we’re going to see the light at the end of the tunnel,” he added. When I’m looking into your pussy, you fucking sow, he thought.
Three hours later Bäckström was sitting at the after-hours unit, writing out his report. If our friend the executive doesn’t get locked up for this then he never will be, thought Bäckström. His dear old lady had gotten both Bäckström’s work and home numbers, so that part the dear spouse didn’t need to think about. If she just rises to the bait I’ll be greasing up her snout, thought Bäckström, and he pulled the last piece of paper from the typewriter. High time for a beer or two, he added to himself, looking at the clock while making the most necessary corrections with his ballpoint pen.
Oredsson had spent the day with ten or so of his closest cohorts, all of them officers with the uniformed police, of course. Three were actually women but completely okay despite that fact. One of his friends had gotten the use of an abandoned hut from an older relative, and there they had practiced breaking in and freeing hostages (blank ammunition, of course) and then they’d barbecued and finished a couple cases of beer while they chatted about this and that.
“This sort of thing should be cleared up before it happens,” explained Mikkelson, who worked with the riot squad and knew what he was talking about. “It’s nothing that needs to be fussed about when it’s already happened.”
A white man, thought Oredsson, and in the evening they would be meeting again, go out on the town, and show the colors.
A spot with better prospects than this probably doesn’t exist, thought Jarnebring contentedly, looking around the large bar. He had found a dive on Kungsgatan where mostly police and a few firemen, security guards, and other assorted folks went, plus at least a few battalions of female nursing personnel. He’d gotten results right away. Two female officers from the police cavalry, at least one of whom seemed firmly determined to ride down his on-duty girlfriend.
“You’re looking nice,” she said approvingly. “I’ve never seen you in a suit before, but it looks good on you.”
“Business,” said Jarnebring and shrugged his broad shoulders apologetically. “I’m at Östermalm now, so the American embassy invited me to dinner. Think about that, ladies, when you’re galloping around out on Djurgården. See to it that you behave yourselves.” Jarnebring gave them a quarter of a wolfish grin.
“And if we don’t do that?”
Damn she’s good-looking, thought Jarnebring. The night has hardly begun and I’m already home.
Jarnebring increased the power to half a wolfish grin. Leaned over and whispered in her ear. She giggled but her friend suddenly looked wary. A possible leak there, thought Jarnebring, and how do I seal it?
When Bäckström came in he was in an excellent mood. En route to the bar he had already planned the first gentlemen’s dinner for his colleagues in homicide in his new apartment on Karlavägen. They’re going to shit their pants, those fucking paupers, thought Bäckström delightedly while he slipped past the coat check. He had left his coat at work on Kungsholmsgatan. Who the hell wants to pay for something like that? thought Bäckström, staring at the coat checker. Fucking loan shark.
Because he was completely broke, not a fucking kopeck in his pockets, he had immediately started scouting around for a suitable victim that he could borrow a little from, but the pickings looked thin. On the other hand it was booming like hell out on the dance floor and there was a good pull from the bar; plenty of abandoned bottles and glasses. Bäckström made an evasive maneuver behind a burly type in a suit who was standing with his back to him chatting with a couple of blondes that he had a vague memory he’d seen somewhere. Some damn security guard who’s been at daddy’s funeral and wants to show off that he has a suit, thought Bäckström as his fat fingers wrapped themselves around an almost full half liter of strong beer. There it is, thought Bäckström. Carefully pulled the beer toward him and turned around, back against back. A sure trick that always worked. He sighed silently with pleasure and raised his well-earned malt.
Suddenly the suit reached out a hand, big as a hairy Christmas ham with fingers on top of it, and grabbed hold of his beer.
“Watch out, you bastard, I’m a cop,” Bäckström threatened, and at the same moment he saw that it was Jarnebring. Has that bastard started sneaking around in disguise? thought Bäckström. He knew perfectly well who Jarnebring was. All policemen knew that. Only a month ago the fucking psychopath had torn the leg of an older colleague from Östermalm in order to get at his job. Wonder how many people he’s beaten to death? thought Bäckström, and suddenly it felt as if he had a large black hole in his chest approximately where his heart used to be.
Jarnebring sipped his regained beer, smiled his wolfish grin, and nodded toward the mirror wall behind the rows of bottles standing on the bar.
“Do you see that mirror? I’ve been watching you since you came in.”
Bäckström had a good reply on the tip of his tongue but for some reason that was never really clear to him he refrained from it and contented himself with nodding.
“I think you should go home,” Jarnebring continued. “You seem a bit overworked.” Jarnebring exchanged a glance with the bartender, who nodded, eyeing Bäckström.
“Go home and sleep,” said the bartender. “And listen, I believe this place will get along fine without you. Just so you know.”
Bäckström shrugged his shoulders, turned on his heels, and left. Actually he had only intended to make an evasive maneuver, but that damn gorilla standing in the doorway clearly had an eye on him. He smiled broadly toward Bäckström, held the front door with an exaggerated bow, and showed the way out with a sweeping right arm.