Once that part was finished, the others had been allowed to do their bit. Prosecutor and member of parliament Alf Thulin, who had full insight into what the Palme investigators were doing the whole time, could even manage them for long periods and take necessary misleading or evasive maneuvers as needed. That was also where the wealthy Theo Tischler came into the picture, to put out smoke screens and also dole out a lot of money as needed to the first investigation leader so that he could continue chasing the life out of a lot of crazy Kurds. Then he too had been fired.
Which left the well-known business attorney Sven Erik Sjöberg. What had been his task when Palme was murdered?
According to reliable witness reports from the crime scene, which were also supported by various technical investigations, the perpetrator who shot Palme was definitely at least six foot one.
Claes Waltin was too short. Only five foot eight, apart from everything else that burdened a legal queen like him. Theo Tischler was even shorter, five foot seven, the same height as the victim. Squarely built and bald besides. It was even worse with Thulin, who according to the information in his passport could almost be described as a tall, stately dwarf at all of five foot five.
Sven Erik Sjöberg remained. A giant at five foot ten compared with the rest of the society, and both physically fit and powerful besides. Remarkably like the man that the witnesses described, and though he’d been dead for almost fifteen years, it was here that Bäckström made the first thrust. As always his intuition led him in the right direction.
Sjöberg had evidently been a diligent society brother and club joiner. Not just as a young law student in Friends of Cunt, for that was only a modest beginning. The introduction to a long career in social life that extended from the local Conservative association in Danderyd to the Employers Association in Uppland, the Friends of the Countryside Association, the Shareholders Association, the Taxpayers Association, the Association Against Employee Funds, the gentlemen’s society Stora Sällskapet, Lilla Sällskapet, the New Society, Society for a Free Sweden, Rotary…And so on, and so on. All the way to the Swedish Hunters Union, the “Sneseglarna” sailing society, the Polar Bears winter swimming club, and the Magnum Boys shooting association.
The Magnum Boys, thought Bäckström, licking his lips, and by the next day he knew everything worth knowing about this illustrious confederation. Fifty-some men, marksmen, gun collectors, hunters who met regularly at a gravel pit in Huddinge, where they then passed the time by shooting at cardboard figures and empty gasoline cans with Magnum revolvers and automatic weapons.
When Bäckström read through their annual report for fiscal year 1990 he also found an item that reported that the vice chairman, Sven Sjöberg, had evidently made an appearance as the guest of honor in the noteworthy TV program The Boys at Fagerhult in October that fall. The very next day Bäckström acquired a copy of the program from the TV archive, and it was then that he ran across yet another vein of purest gold. Thick as his thumb this time.
After that there had been dinner, and it was then that the decisive piece fell into place. Sjöberg was invited to appear on the TV program not only in his capacity as a hunter, marksman, and society brother. In reality he was there to discuss the Bofors arms deal with India. In his capacity as member of the board of directors and the company’s attorney for many years.
There was no doubt that you should buy your cannons from Bofors, if you asked Sjöberg, and if you had such a product to offer bribes were wholly unnecessary. Not much more had been said either; instead they proceeded to make a toast to the deal and discuss more essential things, such as how best to kill innocent animals.
In light of this new information Bäckström revised his previous analysis of motives. Not just sex, although there seemed to be strong bonds that united the perpetrators with their victim. Besides, he had found evidence for the second classic motive. Money. Lots of money, which Bofors paid out in bribes to both Indians and others. Not least to the murder victim, if you were to rely on the dozens of allegations in that direction that Bäckström had found on the Internet.
Sex and money. Perpetrators and victim who had a common past. A victim who had been murdered because he had a falling out with the others. With the brain Waltin, the mole Thulin, the financier Tischler, and the marksman Sjöberg.
The same Sjöberg who regrettably had died almost fifteen years ago and therefore could not be questioned. A completely natural death as it appeared. At the Santa’s Elves Association annual Christmas dinner he rose to give the customary thank-you speech and started by opening his mouth, which he’d done his whole life. But instead of beginning to talk one more time he suddenly had a stroke, collapsed like an empty sack, taking a grilled pig’s head with him in his fall, and died on the spot.
After a long period of illness. Jeez, Louise, thought Bäckström, who’d read his obituary in Svenska Dagbladet but was not as easily fooled as all the others.
85
It was time to move from words to action and confront the two perpetrators who were still alive, thought Bäckström as soon as he was done with his restorative Thursday breakfast of pancakes with fried ham, applesauce, toast with extra-salty butter, a big cup of strong coffee, and a gulp of Jägermeister to top it off. Then he ordered a taxi and rode down to the Parliament Building. Upon entering the reception area he handed a business card to the security guard and asked to see member of parliament Alf Thulin, on a matter that was both urgent and sensitive.
“Do you have an appointment, Inspector?” asked the security guard.
“Unfortunately there wasn’t time for that,” said Bäckström. “Win or lose, I took a chance and came here.” Now suck on that, you little desk jockey, he thought.
It was a win, obviously. As always when he tugged hard on the reins. Five minutes later he was on the couch with the Apostle of Aquavit. Nowadays a fine, respected fellow, so it was crucial to be careful with the knife as you drew it against the whetstone. At least to start with, he thought.
“You wanted to see me, Inspector,” said member of parliament Thulin, forming his short, thin fingers into a little church arch.
“I’ll get right to the point,” said Bäckström. “Even if my business is somewhat delicate.”
“Be my guest. I’m listening,” said the member of parliament, making an inviting gesture with his right hand.
“Friends of Cunt,” said Bäckström, sticking out his round head toward the one being questioned to inspire added respect. “Isn’t it high time you unburdened yourself on this point? Let’s start there.” Then we’ll take the rest as we go along, thought Bäckström, who’d done more interrogations than most.
“Excuse me,” said the member of parliament, looking at Bäckström with astonishment.
“I’m talking about the Friends of Cunt. A little society of comrades of which you were a member during your happy student days. I’m sure you remember it.”
“I don’t recall that we’ve dropped formalities,” said the member of parliament, glancing at the closed door to his office for some reason.
Okay, thought Bäckström. If you’re going to be that way. “Stop fooling around now, Thulin,” said Bäckström, giving him the classic police stare. “I want you to tell me. Be my guest, Thulin. I’m listening. Or would you prefer that I call you the Apostle of Aquavit and take you with me to the confessional up at police headquarters?”