‘How many months do you think it’ll be before we hear back from the lab, then?’ Bäckström wondered.
‘We’ve managed to nag them into making this a priority,’ Hernandez said. ‘After the weekend, is the latest our colleagues in Linköping have told us. To summarize what we’ve got so far,’ Hernandez went on, ‘we’re probably talking about a perpetrator who is physically strong, well above average height, with a serious dislike of his victim. If the clothes turn out to match, and if they belonged to Danielsson like the saucepan lid and the upholstery hammer, he seems to be pretty experienced. He puts on the victim’s raincoat to avoid getting blood on his clothes. He takes off his own shoes and puts on the victim’s slippers for the same reason. He puts on the victim’s washing-up gloves so that he doesn’t leave fingerprints. The only thing that bothers us is the behavior of the victim’s dinner guest, because at an earlier stage of the evening he left a mass of prints all over bits of crockery, glasses, cutlery. And he doesn’t seem to have made any effort to get rid of those at all.’
‘Doesn’t bother me. Not in the slightest,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. ‘Because that’s what pissheads are like. First he sits and has a drink with Danielsson. Then he suddenly turns on him and when Danielsson goes to the toilet he kicks off his shoes; grabs a pair of slippers, a raincoat, and washing-up gloves; picks up the saucepan lid; and sets to work as soon as Danielsson steps out of the bathroom and is standing there swaying and trying to do up his fly. He’s probably already forgotten everything that went before.’
‘Peter and I were also thinking along those lines,’ Hernandez said, nodding. ‘But we’ve also been wondering whether this is more than just a question of spontaneous anger — if there’s a more rational motive.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like the fact that he stole from him,’ Hernandez said.
‘Exactly,’ Bäckström agreed with heavy emphasis. ‘Which just goes to show what a fucking moron he is. Stealing from someone like Danielsson. It’s like trying to cut a bald man’s hair.’
‘I’m afraid that probably wasn’t the case on this occasion,’ Hernandez said. ‘In the top right-hand drawer of Danielsson’s desk we found a bundle of winning slips from Solvalla. All of them cashed in and held together neatly in date order with an elastic band. The top slip is from the meeting out at Valla the same afternoon and evening that Danielsson was murdered — the day before yesterday, in other words. He won twenty thousand six hundred and twenty kronor, and the winnings were paid out from the cashier at Solvalla immediately after the race. It was the first race of the V65 coupon, to be precise, at half past six that evening. But we haven’t found the money. His wallet, for instance, which was on the desk in his bedroom, was completely empty, apart from a few business cards.’
‘Well, I never,’ Bäckström said. ‘Well, I never,’ he repeated. Must have been a serious win for someone like Danielsson, he thought.
‘A couple more things,’ Hernandez said. ‘Things we’ve found, and things we haven’t found but should have.’
‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said, grabbing a pen and his little black book.
‘We’ve found a betting slip but no money, we’ve found traces of what we think was a briefcase but no briefcase. We’ve found one open and one sealed carton of Viagra. Written out to Karl Danielsson using a repeat prescription that we’ve also found. Six pills remaining out of eight. According to the details on the prescription, he’s had another eight pills since the start of April. We also found a box of condoms, containing ten originally, but there were only two left.’
‘So our victim had at least two strings to his bow. Even if he needed help getting his instrument tuned,’ Bäckström said with a grin.
‘We found two keys to a safe-deposit box, but we haven’t located the box yet,’ Hernandez went on. ‘But we didn’t find a cell phone, or a computer, or any credit cards. No bills for any of those either, for that matter. We found an ordinary pocket diary with a few notes in it. But no other diary, no photos, no personal correspondence.’
‘A typical drunk,’ Bäckström said. ‘What would someone like that want a cell for? To call and order home delivery of drink? And who’d give a credit card to an old lush? They’re not that stupid, even in Social Services. Anything else?’ he added.
‘There were several bundles of taxi receipts on his desk,’ Hernandez said.
‘Mobility allowance. I daresay all alcoholics get that in our glorious socialist paradise, and the rest of us have to pay for it.’
‘No,’ Hernandez said. ‘No chance. They’re just normal receipts. I have an idea that he used to trade in them.’
‘What, taxi receipts? What on earth for? Are they edible?’ Bäckström said.
‘I think he knew a taxi driver, and bought his unclaimed receipts for maybe twenty percent of the amount on them, and then sold them on for fifty percent or so to someone who could claim them as tax-deductible expenses for their business. Presumably something he learned during all those years he spent working as an accountant, and he’s bound to have a few contacts left from those days,’ Hernandez said.
‘I thought old drunks collected empty bottles and cans,’ Bäckström said.
‘Maybe not this one,’ Hernandez said.
Whatever the hell this has to do with anything or the cost of vodka, Bäckström thought with a shrug.
‘Was that everything?’ he asked.
‘Yes. That’s pretty much everything so far,’ Hernandez said, standing up. ‘You and your colleagues will be getting a written report covering what Peter and I have come up with to date, including a number of pictures of the crime scene and the postmortem later today. You’ll get it by e-mail.’
‘Good,’ Bäckström said. Astonishingly good, considering it was the result of collaboration between a bastard Finn and a strutting tango dancer, he thought.
12.
Detective Inspector Annika Carlsson had been at work since half past seven that morning, even though she hadn’t got to bed before midnight the previous evening.
She had hardly had time to sit down at her desk when Peter Niemi called her cell to tell her about the clothing they had found.
‘I’ve been chasing Bäckström, but he isn’t answering,’ Niemi explained.
‘I’ve been chasing him as well. I suppose he’ll show up in due course. I’m worried about him. He doesn’t seem well. He looked awful yesterday. I don’t know if you noticed.’
‘Yes, I did, but what the hell,’ Niemi said. ‘Since both the Pole and his workmates need to be interviewed, and the sooner the better, I thought I’d call you.’
‘Well, thanks for that,’ Carlsson said. Niemi’s good, she thought. Really good. Not only good at what he does, but the sort who actually gives a damn.
‘Like I said, I’ve been out to the site and we’ve been through the trash bin but didn’t find anything interesting. And there was nothing in the vicinity either, in case you’re wondering. We even took a dog patrol, even though it was the middle of the night. Since then I’ve spoken to the lad who found the bag containing the clothes. Nice boy. Almost speaks better Swedish than someone like me,’ Niemi said, his smile audible in his voice. ‘But because it was all a bit hectic, I didn’t get long to talk to him.’
‘So now you want me to do it properly, with a tape recorder and making notes?’ Carlsson said, also smiling so broadly it came through her voice. Why can’t all men be like Niemi? she thought.
‘Exactly,’ Niemi said. ‘That’s what we’re like, you know.’