Bäckström found a new bar, downed a few more beers, and finally called her from a pay phone. No answer, and after a number of rings the answering machine came on and he hung up.
Then things had just rolled on by themselves, or so it seemed. Next bar, two more beers, another attempt at the pay phone, and suddenly he’d been standing outside the usual old dive on Kungsgatan. First he’d taken a cautious peek through the window. That fucking whore who worked at Saab-the one he’d screwed last summer-was sitting in the half-empty bar, lacing her fingers together with some fucking homo watchman. Bäckström decided to go in.
“It’s full,” said the half-ape who stood in the doorway, grinning.
“What do you mean, full?” said Bäckström.
“It’s always full here,” said the half-ape and grinned even wider. “Besides, you seem to have had a few too many already.”
A few too many, thought Bäckström. Don’t try and get familiar with me or I’ll kill you. But he didn’t say that. He just left. Finally he made it home, squeezed the last drops out of one of the bottles he had bought on payday, then called her again. No answer, so he left a message on her answering machine. And what the hell was it I said then? he thought as he walked into the chief’s office.
The head of the homicide squad was named Lindberg. A few years earlier he had succeeded one of the legends of the Stockholm police, and because everyone on the squad was sick and tired of legends, a few of the old hands had a chat with the union, and that’s how Lindberg had become the boss, and the good thing about him was that he had no clue at all about anything whatsoever. A little fat, incompetent old bastard, thought Bäckström, and if you fixed it that you were the last one to speak with him, then you were living in the best of all worlds.
The problem was Lindberg’s own chief. He had succeeded in pressing himself down into Lindberg’s visitor’s armchair and already looked as if he were going to have a stroke. His name was Danielsson, Chief Inspector Danielsson according to the service register, but in the building he was generally known as Jack Daniels, which was easier to remember. Jack Daniels, thought Bäckström, nodding heartily while he sat down on an empty chair nearest the door to have his escape route secured should things get hot. Strange that you haven’t drunk yourself to death.
“You wanted to speak with me, chief,” said Bäckström.
“Yes, yes,” said Lindberg defensively. “It’s about that woman on Karlavägen, that Mrs. Östergren who was abused by her husband. Her attorney has contacted us and-”
“Have you quit homicide?” interrupted his chief.
“What do you mean?” said Bäckström.
“Now tell it like it is,” said Jack Daniels. “You’d planned to talk your way into a little fling with that upper-class whore on Karlavägen. The one who tried to get her man put away.”
“Oh well, oh well,” said Lindberg conciliatorily. “Now let’s not quarrel just because… because of this plaintiff. We all know how difficult they can be in these kinds of cases. Yes, Danielsson, you of all people ought to know that,” he added, glancing nervously at his guest in the armchair.
How the hell could you know anything about that, Danielsson thought morosely, for you’ve never investigated a crime, have you? But he didn’t say that.
“You horny bastard,” he said instead, giving Bäckström the evil eye.
Lucky not to have been born yesterday, thought Bäckström half an hour later when he had returned to his office. It was just as he had thought. That fucking whore had used him and tried to knife him in the back, but that was her mistake, thought Bäckström. That sort of thing didn’t work with an old pro, however hard she tried. Clearly she had turned over the tape from her answering machine to her lawyer, who in turn had given it to Lindberg, whereupon his boozer of a boss had insisted that they listen to it, in spite of the fact that he and Lindberg were already in agreement that the homos in the violence-against-women group should take over the case.
But that was where you shit all over yourself, thought Bäckström, for it was at that point that he’d come up with his stroke of genius.
First they had played the tape from the answering machine, and maybe it sounded a little weird, as it well might when you’re worried and call someone late at night. But Bäckström had kept his cool.
“What’s the problem?” said Bäckström. “She’s the one who insisted on being questioned in her own home, because she couldn’t bear to go to the police station. And it’s clear that I got worried when she didn’t open the door.”
“So you called her,” said Jack Daniels softly.
“Yes,” said Bäckström. “I obviously didn’t have reasonable grounds for anything else, even if for a while I did fear the worst.”
“At one-thirty in the morning?” said Jack Daniels.
“That must be wrong,” said Bäckström. “It was much earlier than that.” I’m guessing there isn’t any clock on those things, he thought.
“You were so fucking loaded you can hardly hear what you’re saying,” interrupted Jack Daniels.
“Drunk,” Bäckström burst out indignantly. “I was cold sober and standing there, brushing my teeth. I was about to go to bed. It was just past ten, I guess. I was standing there brushing my teeth, and that’s no doubt why it sounds a little unclear.” Ingenious, thought Bäckström.
“Yes, yes,” said Lindberg, raising his hands like some fucking Pentecostal preacher. “Then I believe we’re clear on this matter.”
Say what you will about Bäckström, thought Lindberg’s immediate supervisor, Chief Inspector Danielsson, but he’s a shrewd bastard. Lazy and incompetent, but shrewd! He was horny too, the fat little devil-quite a mystery how he managed it, lush that he was. I must have a little nip myself, he thought, glancing at the binder on his bookshelf where he had hidden the office bottle. He looked at the clock. Not before twelve, he thought gloomily, and besides, he’d forgotten to buy throat lozenges. Wonder where he came up with that bit about brushing his teeth, he thought.
How come Danielsson is called Jack Daniels? Bäckström pondered. Simple. Easy to remember. How do you kill a Jack Daniels? Assume that I invite him home for dinner, buy a little herring and meatballs for the sake of appearances and a shitload of aquavit. A whole fucking case and three or four cases of strong beer. Which he gets to pour into himself until he chokes and then I help him with the last gulps. Too uncertain, decided Bäckström, and it sounds fucking expensive. Besides, it was Friday and high time to slip away for the usual business errands outside the building.
Vindel is from Norrland, thought Johansson, old dog owner and teetotaler. So he gets up early. Johansson looked at the clock and decided to talk with Vindel before he went to the office. Why should I do that? he thought, suddenly despondent as he stood on the street, waiting for his taxi.
His analysis had been correct anyway, thought Johansson as he sat in Vindel’s parlor with a cup of coffee before him. Dark, old-fashioned furniture, large Oriental carpet on the floor, wall clock above the sofa, and so clean it sparkled. Johansson had already made note of the large framed portrait on the sideboard over by the window. Silver frame with ornaments.
“That’s Charlie,” said Vindel and sighed. “He reached thirteen before he died.”
“I like Pomeranians too,” said Johansson, which was perhaps not completely true, as both his father and his brothers had always kept Norwegian elkhounds and he had never objected to their choice.
“You hunt, of course,” Vindel declared.
“Yeah,” said Johansson, and his Norrland dialect was apparent.
“Home on the farm,” said Vindel, and this was more a statement than a question.
“Yeah,” said Johansson. “Both of my parents are still alive, although my dad is starting to get a little frail.”