His legs just folded up and he fell headlong to the street on his face. Dead, thought Hedberg, for he knew from experience, even though he’d never shot a man in his entire life.
And at the next second he backed up a step in order to get a better firing line, cocked the trigger with his thumb since the weapon was sluggish, aimed at the same place on the upper-class whore that the traitor had been married to, and fired again. She sank down on her knees with a sagging head and eyes that didn’t seem to see. And presumably she must have twisted at the very moment that he fired, just when the flare from the muzzle blinded him, because he hit her in the lung and not in the spinal column where he’d aimed.
He was content to look at her for a few seconds, for in a minute at the most she would be dead, and in any event by then he intended to be somewhere else. Then he turned and because it was icy and slippery he ran straddle-legged and jogged along the stone border between the street and the sidewalk, and as he ran toward the stairs up to Döbelnsgatan he put the revolver back in his jacket pocket.
For a great and noble cause, he thought, and he couldn’t have said it better himself.
When he came up onto Döbelnsgatan he stopped running, crossed the street at a normal pace, and continued straight along down the hill. At Regeringsgatan he turned right and took the stairs down to Kungsgatan, and as he was walking down toward Stureplan and the subway and saw all the people around him he knew that the flock gave him all the protection he needed and that he’d already gotten away. When he stepped into the apartment at Gärdet the time was only ten minutes to twelve. He took off his shoes and all his clothes and put them in an ordinary black plastic garbage bag, on top of which he set the revolver, and then he carried the sack out to the kitchen and placed it next to the refrigerator.
After that he showered and washed his hair, and when he’d rinsed off all the lather he did the same thing over again, letting the hot water run the whole time. Only after that had he gone to bed. He hadn’t thought about anything in particular, and he fell asleep almost immediately.
The next morning he took a taxi to the airport bus and the airport bus to Arlanda, and if there were policemen out chasing a murderer they weren’t at Arlanda, in any event. For once his plane took off on time, and when he landed in Palma it was almost seventy degrees, and for the first time since he’d moved there it felt like coming home.
CHAPTER XXI
Falling free, as in a dream
Stockholm, February 28-March 1
Oredsson and Stridh had been standing at the hot-dog stand down by Roslagstull when the roof came crashing down on their heads. Stridh had gone crazy, asking on the radio if they should attempt to cordon off the main road at Roslagstull themselves while waiting for reinforcements, but instead they were ordered to drive to the crime scene and help out with the practical aspects.
What is happening? thought Oredsson, while they drove down Sveavägen toward the city center with spinning blue lights. He didn’t understand a thing, and if this was the beginning of something bigger that he and his comrades were part of, shouldn’t he have heard something?
“This is complete madness,” Stridh hissed. “What will we be doing there? Someone has to cordon off the main roads. Even that drunkard down in the pit must understand that!”
He seems completely crazy; must be a social democrat, thought Oredsson.
When they finally arrived there were police and ordinary civilians everywhere, and everyone was running around like headless chickens. First they helped set up a cordoned-off area, but as people were in the way the whole time-it had to be done quickly-it wasn’t a very large one. It actually turned out roughly like a sheep pen-in any event, it was the smallest cordoned-off area he’d seen, thought Oredsson. And after that they just remained standing there while waiting for further instructions.
Because it was Friday evening and Bäckström was still behind on his finances, he had as usual been slaving at the after-hours unit, and when the alarm was sounded he understood immediately that this was the great moment in his life, and before anyone had gotten other ideas on his behalf he’d thrown on his coat and driven down to the crime scene. For where else should an old experienced homicide detective like him be?
Unlike everyone else, Bäckström also tried to get a few things done. First he took a peek at all the ordinary citizens who were in the general vicinity to check out if he saw anyone remotely suspicious, but they all just looked completely down in the mouth, and a few old ladies had even turned on the waterworks, whatever good that would do. Then they started chucking flowers inside the cordoned-off area (God knows where they’d gotten hold of them at this time of day), and then he trotted down to Tunnelgatan to get a little peace and quiet and see if he could find any tracks or anything else interesting. There were God help me tracks everywhere. Must be a millipede that shot him, Bäckström thought, grinning.
Then he expanded his investigations and took the opportunity to chow down a sausage with mashed potatoes at the stand on Sveavägen, and when he came back the Chimney Sweep himself was just getting out of a taxi along with that little fairy Wiijnbladh, and because he didn’t have anything better to do he went up and said hello to them.
“How’s it going?” said Bäckström.
“Under control,” said the Chimney Sweep, who was a stuck-up bastard.
Kiss my ass, thought Bäckström.
“The chief and I are standing here, analyzing the situation,” said Wiijnbladh, who was an ingratiating bastard.
And I’m on my way to the Nobel dinner, thought Bäckström.
“What have you come up with, then?” said Bäckström smoothly. This will be fun, he thought.
“That the crime scene obviously leaves a great deal to be desired,” said the Chimney Sweep haughtily.
And what were you intending to do about it? thought Bäckström.
“So unfortunately there’s not really much we can do,” sighed Wiijnbladh, shaking his head in distress.
Sure, and it’s damn cold too, thought Bäckström. And who doesn’t want to come in out of the cold?
Then they got into a taxi and drove away, but because he was a real policeman he hitched a ride with a patrol car that happened to be passing by.
“Good that you came, Bäckström,” said the boss as soon as he stepped inside the door. “We have a tipster who’s contacted us, but she refuses to talk with anyone other than you.” The boss handed over a telephone message slip.
“It’ll work out,” said Bäckström, heaving a large manly sigh. Seems to be a reasonable woman, thought Bäckström. Certainly someone he’d screwed, even if he didn’t remember the name.
“How was it down at the crime scene, by the way?” asked the boss.
“Heavy,” said Bäckström. “This can get heavy. Really heavy.”
Then he got coffee, closed the door behind him, and called up the female tipster with the good judgment.
“Am I speaking with Chief Inspector Bäckström?” she hissed excitedly.
“Yes, it’s me,” said Bäckström with manly confidence. Just a matter of time, he thought.
“We met on Christmas Eve,” she whispered. “I was the one who was raped by my old boyfriend.”
This is God help me not true, thought Bäckström, moaning to himself. That fucking Lapp owl who ratted out her poor guy. The one who had that priceless dartboard with the victim on it, thought Bäckström. Too damn bad he hadn’t taken it with him after all. Now it would be worth a lot.