‘Well,’ Alm said, sighing for some reason. ‘What else can I add? He was born and raised in Solna. Lived here all his life. Keen on sport. First as a participant, then as a coach. Extrovert. Dynamic. Found it easy to get on with people. He made things happen, you could say—’
‘But that’s not all, eh?’ Bäckström interrupted with a sly look on his face. ‘There was quite a bit more to him than that, wasn’t there?’
‘Yes,’ Alm said, nodding curtly. ‘Stålhammar used to be a boxer. One of the best in Sweden in his day. Swedish heavyweight champion several years in a row in the sixties. On one occasion he was up against Ingemar Johansson for a charity gala out in the old Circus building on Djurgården. Ingemar Johansson, Ingo, as he was known,’ Alm clarified, nodding for some reason toward Felicia Pettersson.
‘Hearing you describe what a decent old fellow he was almost brings tears to my eyes,’ Bäckström said. ‘I can hardly recognize Roly-Stoly from your description. One meter ninety tall, one hundred kilos of muscle and bone, and with the shortest fuse in the entire force. Used to get reported for violent conduct more than the rest of us put together.’
‘I hear what you’re saying,’ Alm said. ‘But it wasn’t quite as simple as that. Stålhammar made things happen, like I said. He’d saved a lot of young kids who were on the slide from getting themselves into serious trouble. If I’m not mistaken, he was the only one of us who did voluntary work as a probation officer on his own time.’
‘When he wasn’t drinking like a fish, because that was still his best event,’ said Bäckström, who could feel his blood pressure rising. ‘And still is, from the looks of it...’
‘Maybe I can elaborate on this,’ Sergeant Jan O. Stigson, twenty-seven, said with a cautious hand gesture. ‘In light of the current case, I mean.’
‘Are you an old boxer as well, Stigson?’ Bäckström asked, now starting to get seriously annoyed.
A radio-car officer for the modern age. Shaved head, bodybuilder, IQ like a golf handicap, and for some reason brought in from the patrol cars to help on a murder investigation. Only a stupid Finnish joker like Toivonen could come up with something like that, Bäckström thought. And it sounded like the poor bastard came from Dalarna as well. Sounded like a packet of crispbread when he talked. One of those folk-dancing cretins with scarves tied around his knees who just happened to have wandered into a murder case. Christ, what the hell is happening to the Swedish police? he thought.
‘Go ahead,’ Annika Carlsson said with a decisive nod. ‘So the rest of us don’t have to listen to Bäckström and Lars arguing about an old friend. Because I don’t think any of us really wants to hear that.’
Who the hell does she think she is? Bäckström thought, staring crossly at her. I’m going to have to have a word with her about respect and authority after this meeting, he thought.
‘We got quite a bit of information going door-to-door yesterday,’ Sergeant Stigson said. ‘I think a couple details might be extremely relevant in light of what Alm has just told us about our former colleague Roland Stålhammar.’
‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said. ‘What are we waiting for? Is it a secret or what?’
‘Stina Holmberg, seventy-eight, widowed,’ Stigson said, nodding to Bäckström. ‘She lives in a flat on the ground floor of number one Hasselstigen. Nice old thing. She’s a retired teacher, seems alert, still got all her marbles, and nothing wrong with her hearing. Her flat’s directly below Danielsson’s, and because the walls are quite thin, she had some interesting information to add to the investigation.’
Stigson nodded to emphasize his words and looked at Bäckström.
Oh, for fuck’s sake, this can’t be happening, Bäckström thought. This bastard folk dancer must be related to that witness, Laurén. Half-brothers, probably, since they’ve got different surnames.
‘I’m still waiting,’ Bäckström said, throwing out his hands in a despairing gesture.
There had been some sort of party in Danielsson’s flat on Wednesday evening, May 14. According to Mrs. Holmberg it had started at nine o’clock in the evening, with loud voices, laughing, and shouting, and about an hour later it had got seriously rowdy. Danielsson and his guest had been playing records at top volume, nothing but Evert Taube, according to Mrs. Holmberg, and they sang along to the choruses.
‘ “The Stoker’s Waltz” and “The Brig Bluebird of Hull,” and “Fritiof and Carmencita” and lots more, it just went on and on,’ Mrs. Holmberg elaborated.
It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, but because she was a bit scared of Danielsson, she called another of her neighbors and asked for help. Britt-Marie Andersson, a younger woman who lives on the top floor.
‘That Danielsson could be a bit of a handful,’ Mrs. Holmberg explained. ‘Even if it’s not a nice thing to say about someone who’s just died. A big, rough man who used to spend all day drinking. I remember one occasion when he was trying to help me in through the front door and he was so drunk that he fell over, almost knocking me and all my shopping flying.’
‘So you called your younger friend, Britt-Marie Andersson, and asked her for help?’ Sergeant Stigson confirmed. He had conducted and recorded the interview himself and was now reading from the transcript.
‘Yes, she’s a sensible girl. And she’s not afraid to tell men like Danielsson when they’re being a nuisance; it wasn’t the first time I’d asked for her help.’
‘Do you know what Miss Andersson did after that?’ Stigson wondered.
‘Mrs. Andersson, not Miss. She’s divorced, or else her husband went and died. I don’t actually know. But I suppose she went down and spoke to him, because a little while later it was nice and quiet once more.’
‘Do you happen to know what time that was, Mrs. Holmberg? When everything went quiet again, I mean,’ Stigson clarified.
‘It must have been around half past ten in the evening. As far as I can recall.’
‘What did you do after that, Mrs. Holmberg?’
‘I went to bed,’ Mrs. Holmberg said. ‘Which was just as well. If I’d stuck my nose outside my door I daresay I’d have been beaten to death as well.’
‘That younger neighbor, then? The one she asked for help? What does she have to say?’ Bäckström asked.
‘Britt-Marie Andersson. Hubba-hubba,’ Sergeant Stigson said with a happy smile.
‘What do you mean, hubba-hubba?’ Bäckström said.
‘What a woman,’ Stigson said with a deep sigh. ‘What a woman. Blonde, a true blonde, I’m sure of that. What a body. What a chest. Hubba-hubba. Eat shit, Dolly Parton, if I can put it like that,’ Stigson explained with a blissful smile on his face.
‘And could she talk as well?’ Bäckström asked.
‘Oh, yes,’ Stigson said with a nod. ‘She was lovely, and it’s a good thing I had the tape recorder with me, because, well, with that body—’
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Annika Carlsson interrupted. ‘Just tell us what she said!’
Okay, dancing boy had better watch out, Bäckström thought. Carlsson’s got that look in her eyes, and she’ll soon rip your arms and legs off, little Stigson, he thought.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Stigson said, his cheeks suddenly ablaze. He shuffled through his papers nervously, then started to read once more.
‘The following is a summary of information received from witness Britt-Marie Andersson,’ Stigson read.
‘At approximately ten o’clock on Wednesday evening Mrs. Holmberg phoned Mrs. Andersson to ask for her help with their neighbor, Danielsson. Mrs. Andersson went down to Danielsson and knocked on his door, whereupon Danielsson answered, evidently seriously intoxicated. She told him to keep the noise down, and if he didn’t, she threatened to call the police. Danielsson apologized and closed the door of his flat. Mrs. Andersson stayed outside for a couple minutes, listening, but when the gramophone was switched off she took the lift back up to her own apartment. Approximately a quarter of an hour later Danielsson phoned Mrs. Andersson’s landline. He started shouting at her and generally behaved disgracefully. He told her that she shouldn’t stick her nose into things that didn’t concern her. Then he hung up. According to Mrs. Andersson, the time was then approximately half past ten in the evening.’