Then he found a crazy artist hag who apparently supported herself by taking nude pictures of herself that she then dabbed paint on and sold for big money. She had written an entire book about her rich love life, and most of it was apparently about Palme. At least according to the newspaper articles about the book.
Surely just the tip of the iceberg, thought Bäckström. The guy must have been sex crazy. And on the very next search he hit gold. Pure gold. A vein as thick as his own index finger.
Two journalists had written a revealing exposé a few years earlier. It was about the Brothel Madam and the major brothel scandal that shook the establishment in Stockholm in the mid-seventies. One of her most frequent customers was apparently the prime minister at the time, who moreover had the nerve to flagrantly exploit two underage prostitutes. One who had just turned fifteen and one who was only thirteen.
The net is closing in, thought Bäckström, and at the same moment his phone rang.
“Bäckström,” said Bäckström with a suitable damper on his voice because the Eagle of History had just flown past and touched its wing to his forehead.
It was his relative at the union. He had dug around a little and for practical reasons started in the break room at work. There an old colleague who had worked with the uniformed police in Stockholm in the seventies told him that Palme had evidently been involved back then with Lauren Bacall.
“You know, that dame who was married to Humphrey Bogart,” the relative explained.
“So how certain is that?” asked Bäckström. “That old lady must be a hundred?” At least, he thought.
Quite certain, according to his relative. Bacall had visited Stockholm and stayed at the Grand Hotel. Late at night she had a visit from the prime minister.
“So how certain is that?” Bäckström persisted. A hundred years old, he thought. He jumped from teenagers to hundred-year-olds? Must have been crazy perverse, thought Bäckström.
Quite certain, according to the colleague his cousin had talked with. You see, he’d been responsible for security during the celebrity visit and had personally seen to smuggling the prime minister in through the hotel staff entrance, to be as discreet as possible.
Definitely crazy perverse, thought Bäckström.
After that Bäckström proceeded to external surveillance, which he initiated with a visit to private banker Theo Tischler. Bäckström had met Tischler in connection with an old case he’d been in charge of. True, that was almost twenty years ago, but their meeting at that time had ended in the best manner and Tischler still remembered him.
“Sit yourself down, Bäckström,” said Tischler, pointing to the large rococo armchair where he usually placed his visitors. “What can I help you with?”
Danger in delay, thought Bäckström, and chose to get right to the point.
“Friends of Cunt,” said Bäckström. “Tell me about it.”
“No foreplay, just right to it,” said Tischler, smiling. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything,” said Bäckström. “Everything that may be of interest,” he clarified.
“Sure,” said Tischler. Then he told him. Just like he always did, and often without even having been asked.
“That little pathological liar Claes Waltin was expelled. He brought the society’s name into disrepute, so I was forced to kick him out.”
“So how did he do that?” asked Bäckström, even though he already knew. “Did he beat up the ladies he hit on?”
“No, hell no, it was worse than that. He had a prick the size of Jiminy Cricket’s,” said Tischler. “What the hell do you think the ladies thought about that? What the hell would they think about the rest of us in the society? So he was thrown out on his ears. Clearly I couldn’t associate with someone like that. Do you know what my buddies called me, by the way? When I was in the Sea Scouts?”
“No,” said Bäckström.
Then Tischler told him about the Donkey, and even though Bäckström had asked to know everything, he was forced to stop Tischler an hour later.
“I think I have a clear picture,” said Bäckström.
“Impossible,” said Tischler. “Then you must have seen it.”
“This Thulin,” said Bäckström by way of diversion. “Do you have anything interesting about him?”
“You mean the Apostle of Aquavit,” said Tischler. “Back then he drank like a Russian, and when he was loaded he started raving about his strong faith in God. Though now he has become a fine fellow.”
“I’ve understood that,” said Bäckström. “There seems to have been a trophy too,” he said, looking slyly at his interview victim.
“Trophy? What could that have been?”
“One of those prize trophies that you awarded to the one who hit on the most ladies. Cuntmaster of the Year I think you called it.”
“No,” said Tischler, shaking his head. “What would we do with something like that? I guess we didn’t need a trophy. I was always the one who won. Why should I award an expensive trophy to myself? All the bar tabs I had to pay were enough.”
He got no further than that, and as soon as he was outside on the street again he hailed a taxi. On the way home he made a detour to the usual greasy spoon because his empty stomach was echoing seriously.
High time to put a little something in my craw, thought Bäckström, ordering a sausage with red beets and fried eggs, double pilsner and an ample shot, for the sake of his digestion. Then one thing led to another, and when he finally got home to his cozy pad he lay down on the couch in front of the TV and started flipping between all the new and interesting channels he’d acquired.
Everything has its time, said Bäckström, like the philosopher he was, and the internal surveillance on the members of the Friends of Cunt Society could profitably be put off until the morrow.
84
Bäckström was used to having to toil like a dog. Strictly speaking he’d done it his whole life as a policeman, even though he seldom got any reward for his efforts. Mostly shit, actually, from all his envious, feeble-minded colleagues. During the last week it had been worse than that. He had been tossed between external and internal detective work. Forced to sneak around in the basement of the police building and then at the next moment sit for hours in front of his computer, hold discreet meetings out in town where he had to carry on whispered conversations and pick up the tab; he was even forced to visit the archive at Swedish Radio to get a copy of an old TV program in which one of his suspects was standing in a gravel pit in Sörmland shooting wildly in all directions with a Magnum revolver.
He had exploited all his contacts, convinced, persuaded, threatened, begged, and pleaded. Called in services and return favors and was even forced to bribe an unusually corrupt colleague with a bottle of his best malt whiskey.
On Wednesday evening it was finally done, and as he stood there with his Magnum Opus in hand-the bundle of papers still wafting their agreeable aroma from his computer printer-it was as if some force, even stronger than himself, touched his great heart.
“The murder of Olof Palme. Crime analysis, perpetrator profiles, and possible motives. Memorandum prepared on September 26 by Detective Chief Inspector Evert Bäckström,” Bäckström read out loud.
Finally done, thought Bäckström. And if he’d only been able to take care of the whole thing from the very beginning, all of the nation’s innocent citizens would not have needed to hover in uncertainty for more than twenty years.
A conspiracy with four members. He had been clear about this early on, as soon as he got on the trail of that secret society. True to his systematic disposition it was also there that he started. By mapping out the roles that the various perpetrators had played. That Claes Waltin was the brain behind the murder was apparent. A high-ranking policeman with SePo who had full knowledge of what the murder victim was involved in. Who had been able to more or less plan the deed in every detail.