Then he’d been struck by a thought. A completely new thought, for it was remarkably often that he was struck by such thoughts while working on something completely different. It is undeniably a strange coincidence, he thought, that the prime minister happens to be murdered the same weekend that I’m out of town to ski in Vasaloppet. On closer reflection this was really a question of yet another track, he thought, and closed his preliminary notations at once with a thirty-sixth entry: “Vasaloppet track.”
Bäckström had landed another lead, and though he differed somewhat in body type, in dedication he was just like a hunting dog. His colleagues in the uniformed police had brought in an old junkie who was running around at the scene of the crime and acting out, and when they’d taken the goods off him he’d started howling that he was willing to “make a deal,” and his offer this time was a detailed description of the perpetrator, who had just about run him down as he fled the scene.
“Jan Svulle Svelander,” said Bäckström, in order to show that he was a man with a knowledge of people.
“So what?” said Svulle, shrugging and trying to squeeze a pimple on his nose.
“My colleagues in the uniformed police say that you saw the perpetrator,” said Bäckström.
“Could be,” said Svulle. “Depends.”
“I don’t know exactly how large a reward there might be,” said Bäckström, “but we’re certainly talking about a million.”
“A million,” said Svulle with eyes like saucers.
“At least,” said Bäckström, nodding heavily. “Might it have been this old guy?” he asked, holding up the photo of the dart-thrower he’d taken with him from the Lapp owl.
“Yes,” said Svulle. “Dead certain. That’s him.”
“And this isn’t something you’re saying just for the sake of the reward?” said Bäckström slyly.
“Who do you take me for?” said Svulle, offended. “It was him. Dead certain. Hundred percent.”
At fourteen zero zero hours the chief constable welcomed the investigation force. The room was chock-full. People were sitting and standing on each other, and a younger detective had even climbed up and lain down on the hat shelf out in the lobby in order to be part of this historic event. It was mostly just Bäckström who was missing, for he was sitting at the after-hours unit and didn’t have time to come because he was completely occupied with clearing up the murder of the prime minister. He was quite convinced of this since he’d found the dart-thrower near the top of the lists of threat-makers that the secret police had sent down to them.
The whole thing had gone quickly and efficiently, and Grevlinge could take care of the purely practical aspects, thought the chief constable when he stood up and demanded silence with a commanding gesture.
“Yes, gentlemen, that’s about all for now, and in order to give you a few parting words from one of history’s great personalities, I thought I would simply say in conclusion”-the chief constable made a precisely calculated stage pause that he’d rehearsed in front of the mirror in his office-“that this, gentlemen… this is not the end… far from it… and this is not the beginning either… but,” said the chief constable, making another stage pause, “one thing I can promise you for sure… this is the beginning of the end.”
CHAPTER XXII
Falling free, as in a dream
Stockholm in March
On the Sunday after the murder the chief constable held his first press conference, and considering its national significance it had been decided to broadcast it live on TV. It was with a certain excitement that Waltin settled down on his large sofa, since he’d already understood at the investigation command’s first meeting what the major news that the chief constable intended to present would consist of.
Little Jeanette was also on the scene, despite the fact that he’d already decided to get rid of her. She had aged noticeably recently, and that sort of thing just didn’t work, but be that as it may, this event demanded an audience, so she had to put on her little rose-colored slip while she served him the malt whiskey that he needed in order to get into the right mood.
As the whole thing dragged on for a while Waltin unfortunately got more than a little intoxicated, so when it was finally time he was forced to lie down and cover one eye with his hand in order to focus right. The advantage on the other hand was that he avoided seeing little Jeanette, who was sulking as usual. But at last it was finally time. The chief constable leaned forward, nodding seriously but nonetheless smiling toward his audience, and after a well-timed pause he held up two revolvers in front of him while he was met with a veritable cascade of flashbulbs, wave after wave streaming toward him.
“These, ladies and gentlemen,” said the chief constable, “are two revolvers of the same type as the one that the perpetrator used when he shot our prime minister.”
You don’t know how right you are, thought Waltin with delight. After the investigation command’s meeting he had seen with his own eyes how that little pompous ass Wiijnbladh demonstrated them for his top boss.
“I’m guessing it’s the one in your left hand,” Waltin had yelled, “the one with the short barrel,” and when he did so he’d been overcome by a violent fit of laughter. Exactly like when he’d stood on the escalator that time and thought about dear Mother, who’d just left him for good on the tracks down below.
He is, God help me, not all there, thought Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, age twenty-eight. And he can’t fuck like a normal person, either. And now I’m going to forget the lunatic.
By Monday Bäckström’s little investigation was already wrapped up, and all that really remained was to collect the murderer. But because everyone clearly had so much going on, a few more days went by before he finally got an audience with the chief constable. Evidently he was working all night too, for it was almost ten before that little nausea-inducing Grevlinge finally let him into the chief constable’s office.
What the hell are all these homos doing here? thought Bäckström when he saw the three civilians who sat in shirtsleeves and red suspenders around the chief constable’s conference table. True, he already knew that business with Babs, for Babs himself had told Bäckström that he was best friends with the chief constable when Bäckström had questioned him that time Babs had been robbed by a seaman that he’d brought home to play Donald and Daisy Duck with, but those other two? Where did they come from?
The older one was suspiciously like that Queerlund that SePo used to run around and drone on about, and that somewhat burlier character was even more like the man who was a cashier at the Society for Swedish Leathermen down on Skeppar Karls gränd, where the board of directors used to hang members up on hooks from the ceiling the whole night. Damn, this doesn’t add up, thought Bäckström, for the chief constable himself had a reputation for being a real threshing machine with the ladies. What the hell is going on? thought Bäckström. I must warn him, he thought.
“Sit down,” said the chief constable cordially, indicating an empty chair with his hand.
“Yes, don’t be shy, now,” said Queerlund, winking, while Leather Man only looked damned eager. The only one that behaved himself was actually Babs, who doubtless still remembered the investigation that Bäckström had conducted.