During the following twenty-four hours a dozen of his bosses with the Stockholm police would devote the majority of their time to discussing how dangerous he really was. Because opinions diverged, finally they called his previous boss, Lars Martin Johansson, and asked for his assessment.
“A short, fat bastard who spouts nonsense all the time,” Johansson summarized.
“Do you assess Bäckström as constituting a danger to the life and safety of others, boss?” asked the psychologist Johansson was talking with.
“Bäckström,” Johansson snorted. “Are you kidding me?” Dr. Fridolin, he thought. What kind of fucking name is that?
But they got no farther than that.
88
On Friday morning Johansson called in Anna Holt and informed her that she and Lisa Mattei would be traveling to Mallorca on Monday morning. He had already organized a discreet link to the local police colleagues. All resources would be placed at their disposal. No stone would be left unturned.
Johansson even made sure the Spanish police would be responsible for the investigators’ security during their stay. Not only the usual services provided to colleagues. Their contact person was a Spanish police superintendent about his age, who was acting head of the detective squad in Palma and an excellent fellow, according to one of his friends who was Spain’s own Johansson. Among real Spanish constables he was called El Pastor, “the Pastor.” Not because he was particularly God-fearing but mostly because he looked the part. A tall man with a stern, clerical exterior who could get even the most hardened offender to open up and cry his heart out on his bony shoulders.
“Mallorca,” said Holt. An address seven years old that Hedberg himself had provided, she thought. The same Hedberg who probably had very strong reasons to keep away from the police.
“We have to start somewhere,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders. “Besides, I’m pretty sure that’s where he is.”
“How can you be so sure?” asked Holt.
“A feeling,” said Johansson, shrugging his shoulders.
“A feeling?”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “You know, the sort of feeling you get sometimes, which means that some of us can see around corners.
“That’s where the bastard is hiding out,” he continued. “I feel it in my marrow. So now it’s a matter of hiding in the bushes and not scaring him off.”
“The prosecutor,” said Holt. “I assume you’ve reached an understanding with the prosecutor?”
“Of course,” said Johansson. “You’re going to get all the papers within an hour. Signed and ready. Talk with the cashier if you need money. I get the idea the girls leave early on Fridays. If they’ve already left I can arrange it for you,” he added generously and tapped the pocket with his wallet in it.
“You’ve talked with the prosecutor,” said Holt. “With the prosecutor in the Palme investigation?”
“Are you crazy, Anna?” said Johansson. “I’ve talked with our own prosecutor. The one I always use. He’s completely informed about my line of reasoning.”
“So what is that?”
“That there are reasonable grounds to suspect that it was Hedberg who murdered Jorma Kalevi Orjala. That so-called hit-and-run accident, if you recall. In reality it was probably the case that Hedberg simply got a witness out of the way. One more witness. Just like he did that time when he robbed the post office on Dalagatan.”
“Are you joking?” said Holt. “A case that was written off in May of 1986.”
“There’s nothing wrong with having a few papers with you,” said Johansson. “As far as age goes it’s fresher than Palme anyway. Besides, we have actually opened it up again. The colleagues at the group for cold cases took it over from Stockholm yesterday. High time they get something they can chew on.”
“But, Lars-”
“Listen now, Anna,” Johansson interrupted. “Sure. I understand exactly what you intend to say. Forget about Jorma Kalevi. I want Hedberg back here. I want him home in peace and quiet, and I don’t give a damn how it happens, purely formally. Try to be a little practical, for once. Are we agreed?”
“No,” said Anna Holt. “But I understand what you mean.” Besides, you’re the one who decides, she thought.
89
That same Friday morning Bäckström woke up in a bed in the psych ward at Huddinge hospital. A friendly minded fellow patient, who was only suffering from low-level compulsive thoughts at the moment and even had permission to visit the hospital store, sneaked the morning papers to him and asked for an autograph considering that Bäckström was on the front page of both Metro and Svenskan. Not by name, true, but still.
On the other hand Dagens Nyheter had been more restrained and even left an opening for alternative explanations. There it was said that a police officer on sick leave had contacted “a well-known member of parliament to make complaints against the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation’s way of running the Palme investigation,” but what happened beyond that was extremely unclear. According to the same newspaper’s reliable sources, it had never been a question of a “hostage situation.” The member of parliament in question had not submitted a police report and could not be reached for comment. The police response on the other hand was reported to both the Stockholm police department for internal investigations and to the ombudsman at the Ministry of Justice and the Office of the Chancellor of Justice.
By afternoon Bäckström had already been moved to the neurology department, where first his round head and bruised body had been stuffed into a torpedo tube of an X-ray machine. Then he got boiled cod with egg sauce, elderberry juice, and rhubarb pie. Before he fell asleep he had to stuff almost half a dozen tablets of various colors into himself, and when he woke up the following morning one of the Stockholm police department’s human resources consultants was sitting beside his bed, observing him with a worried expression.
“How’s it going, Bäckström?” asked the consultant, patting him on the arm.
“What’s happening?” Bäckström wheezed. “Is there war?”
“It’s over now, Bäckström,” said the consultant, patting him a little more to be on the safe side.
“Now if you just take it easy and rest up, everything’s going to work out fine.”
“That’s what you say,” said Bäckström. What the hell is he saying? he thought.
“You’re soon going to meet your very own support person,” said the consultant. “The police chief himself has assigned Dr. Fridolin to that task. You know, the one you met at the gender sensitivity course where you had your stroke. Fridolf Fridolin, you know.”
“Little Frippy,” said Bäckström. What the hell is wrong with an ordinary shot to the back of the neck?
“It’s going to work out, Bäckström,” the consultant assured him. “Now just take it easy and-”
“I want to talk with the union,” Bäckström interrupted. “Besides, I demand to be guarded so those fucking SWAT terrorists can’t make another attempt to kill me. Just none of my colleagues. Bring over some reliable half-apes from Securitas.”
On Monday he had been discharged and could go home. Fridolin, who had been at his side faithfully the whole weekend, drove him and even accompanied him up to his cozy pad.
“I’ll see to it that someone from home services comes and cleans for you, Eve,” said Fridolin with a faint smile as soon as he stepped inside the door and was confronted with the Bäckströmian home sweet home.
“Sit down, Little Frippy,” said Bäckström, pointing to his couch. “We’re going to have a serious talk, you and me.”
Then Bäckström gave the good doctor his memorandum about the conspiracy behind the murder of Prime Minister Olof Palme. Complete with crime analysis, profiles of the four perpetrators, and possible motives. In addition, he produced a copy of the crime report against Waltin for his efforts with the candlestick on Walpurgis Eve, 1968.