‘So you don’t think they were the ones who did it?’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘I seem to remember that Brännström was fond of long-distance skiing and winter sports.’ Another fucking idiot, he thought. He and Stålhammar must have made a right pair. The blind leading the blind.
‘This was in July,’ Alm said. ‘The victim had been lying there for a week, so if you don’t mind...’
‘By all means,’ Bäckström said.
‘To get to the point,’ Alm said, ‘Niemi was calling to say that he had just compared Stålhammar’s prints with the ones they found on the glasses, bottles, and cutlery in Danielsson’s flat.’
‘And?’ Bäckström said.
‘Well,’ Alm said. ‘They’re Stålhammar’s prints.’
‘Would you believe it?’ Bäckström said. ‘Such a nice, decent man as well.’
‘Okay, this is what we’re going to do,’ Bäckström, who had just finished thinking, said. The fact that it had taken only thirty seconds showed that he was starting to feel like his old self again, he thought.
‘Annika,’ he said, nodding toward Carlsson. ‘Talk to the prosecutor about what we’ve got on Stålhammar. It would be great if we could just go and pick him up and lock him away for the weekend. Then we can start on him on Monday morning. Three days in a cell without a drop of alcohol usually works well on old pissheads.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ Annika Carlsson said, without pursing her mouth at all.
‘Nadja, you keep trying to find the number of Danielsson’s bank box. It’s probably full of a load of old receipts and shit like that. Sort that out with the prosecutor as well, so we don’t have to deal with any crap later.
‘The victim’s old friends,’ Bäckström went on, nodding at Alm. ‘Get photographs of them and we’ll do another round of the neighbors and see if we can’t winkle out a few eyewitnesses as well. Preferably people who saw Stålhammar rolling round the neighborhood wearing slippers, washing-up gloves, and a blood-drenched raincoat.’
‘I’ve done that with eleven of them already,’ Alm said, digging out a plastic sleeve from his folder. ‘Driving-license shots or passport pictures of all of them. I’ve got address lists. We may have to finish that off later, but Stålhammar’s picture is already in there.’
‘Excellent. In that case I think I’m going to start by borrowing your pictures,’ Bäckström said without explaining why. ‘Full steam ahead now, Alm. Stålhammar is priority number one now, and everything else is no priority at all. Agreed?’
Alm contented himself with nodding and shrugging. Like all bad losers, Bäckström thought.
‘You’re coming with me,’ Bäckström said, pointing a fat finger at Sergeant Stigson. ‘We’re going to take a drive past Stålhammar’s house and have a discreet little look at what the bastard’s up to. Well, I think that’s everything, at least for the time being.’
‘What about me?’ Felicia Pettersson said, pointing at herself just to be sure.
‘Yes, you,’ Bäckström said with extra emphasis. ‘Have a think about that paperboy. That lad, Soot— Him, Akofeli. There’s something about him that doesn’t make sense.’
‘But what could he have to do with Stålhammar?’ Felicia looked questioningly at Bäckström.
‘Good question,’ Bäckström said, already heading for the door. ‘It’s worth thinking about, Felicia,’ he went on. There, that gave the pretty little darkie something to chew on as well, Bäckström thought. What the fuck did Akofeli have to do with their murderer? Not the tiniest little thing, if you ask me, he thought.
‘Get a car for us, Stigson,’ Bäckström said as soon as they had got far enough away from Annika Carlsson’s sensitive hearing.
‘Already sorted,’ Stigson said. ‘I’ve got Stålhammar’s address. Järnvägsgatan number—’
‘Later,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘Give that woman, Andersson, a call and ask if we can call in at Hasselstigen.’
‘Sure, boss,’ Stigson said. ‘Are you thinking of showing her the pictures of Stålhammar?’
‘I thought I might take a look at her boobs first,’ Bäckström said. He was starting to feel like his old self again. Everything in its own good time, including pictures of Stålhammar, he thought.
‘Boobs,’ Stigson said, sighing and shaking his shaved head disparagingly. ‘I promise you, boss. We’re talking melons here. Massive great melons.’
17.
Oh, for fuck’s sake! Bäckström thought, as soon as she opened the door. Britt-Marie Andersson was an old crone! She had to be at least sixty, he thought. This from a man in the prime of life, who wouldn’t be fifty-five until the autumn.
Big blond hair, porcelain-blue eyes, red mouth, teeth that were so white that they probably were porcelain, sunbed brown, her flowery dress a fair way above her knees, a generous neckline, and there was no way she was ever going to sleep on her front. What a fucking fate, Bäckström thought. At least sixty, and as a result she’d missed her chance at the Bäckström super-salami way back before the turn of the millennium.
To complete the picture, she also had a little dog that ran round yapping. One of those Mexican cockroaches that you could drown in a teacup. Just to underline the point, his name was Little Sweetie.
‘There, there,’ his owner said soothingly, picking up the wretched creature and kissing it on the nose.
‘Little Sweetie always gets jealous when Mommy has gentlemen callers,’ Mrs. Andersson explained, blinking and smiling with those red lips.
You should probably take care not to end up in a threesome with him and little Stigson, then, Bäckström thought. He seldom missed a chance to think along those lines.
After that he had quickly pulled out the pictures of Danielsson’s friends to put an end to this farce and get away from there. Their hostess had sat down on a low pink plush armchair and had directed her guests to the flowery sofa opposite. And all the while Little Sweetie ran around yapping until his owner took pity on him and lifted him onto her lap.
The folk dancer had been in a state of bliss. Reverse pedophilia, Bäckström thought, and when old crone Andersson leaned over the table to get a closer look at pisshead Danielsson’s pisshead friends, little Stigson’s eyes had gone completely vacant.
‘I recognize almost all of them,’ Mrs. Andersson said. She straightened up and took some deep breaths just to make sure, as she flashed a broad smile at her guests. ‘They’re Danielsson’s old friends. They’ve been coming and going all the years I’ve lived here, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen any of them sober. Isn’t that one supposed to be an old policeman?’ she asked, putting her long red fingernail on Roland Stålhammar’s passport photo.
‘That’s right,’ Bäckström said. ‘Retired.’
‘I daresay he was the one in Danielsson’s flat when all that noise was going on, the evening before he got killed.’
‘What makes you say that, Mrs. Andersson?’ Bäckström asked.
‘I saw him when I was out walking Little Sweetie,’ Britt-Marie Andersson said. ‘He was walking down Råsundavägen. It was around eight o’clock. He could well have been on his way round to see Danielsson.’
‘But you never saw the person who was inside Danielsson’s apartment?’ Bäckström asked, simultaneously giving Stigson the evil eye.