And it looked like his enemies were starting to back down. That bastard Lapp, Johansson, had suddenly resigned with immediate effect, which is what it was called these days when someone got fired, and just a month ago the head of personnel for Stockholm Police had contacted him and offered him a post as a superintendent in the crime unit of the Western District. Suddenly he was a full-fledged citizen of the force once more, with access to all the goodies kept in police computers. The chance to help one or two old friends in trouble, and forewarned was also forearmed. No more barrels of shit and lost wallets, just your average criminals, people who had chopped their wives’ heads off, blasted holes through the babysitter, or had a go at the neighbor’s underage daughter.
‘I promise I’ll think about it,’ Bäckström told the head of personnel with a serious nod.
‘It would be good if you could, Bäckström,’ the personnel head had said, leafing nervously through his papers. ‘Don’t take too long — they need you, you know. Toivonen, he’d be your new boss, is keen to have you as soon as possible.’
Toivonen, Bäckström thought. That Finnish joker, his little ‘fucking fox’ who he had trained to do some neat tricks twenty-five years ago. Couldn’t have turned out better, Bäckström thought.
The plan had been for Bäckström to start his new job as a violent crime detective with the Western District Police on Monday, May 12. That was when his new appointment came into force. But because Bäckström was still Bäckström, he had decided to start by taking some extra time off. He had called the Western District and told them that he was unfortunately unable to come in that day. An old job from his previous posting, concerning the dumping of environmentally hazardous material, was going to court that day and Bäckström was obliged to be there and give testimony.
The following day was impossible as well. He was due to undergo a thorough medical examination with the Stockholm Police staff doctors. It was a thorough check that was expected to take all day. He was therefore unable to appear at his new workplace until Wednesday. Then, the day before that, he had received the news that had almost killed him — from a doctor who turned out to be a latter-day Dr. Mengele — and when he staggered off to the Solna police station on Wednesday, May 14, it was with mortality in his heart.
Now, just one week later, he was himself again.
Bäckström is back, as always, Bäckström thought, because obviously he spoke fluent English. Since he was a discerning and habitual television viewer, on top of everything else.
On Monday, May 12, Anna Holt’s honeymoon was definitely over, and it didn’t have anything to do with Bäckström.
That morning two thieves had intercepted and robbed a security transport just as it was leaving the gates to the VIP entrance of Bromma Airport. When the criminals had transferred their takings and were about to make off, one of the two guards had used a remote control to detonate the capsules of dye inside the money sack. Then everything had spiraled out of control. The raiders had performed a U-turn and had run down the first guard as he attempted to run off. One of the thieves had jumped out of the vehicle and fired a number of shots with an automatic weapon, killing one guard and seriously wounding the other. Then they had driven off, abandoning the vehicle and the sack of money scarcely a kilometer from the scene of the crime. And then they had vanished without a trace.
That was just the start of Holt’s nightmare. That same night a renowned rogue from Finland had been shot outside his girlfriend’s flat in Bergshamra when he was about to drive away. It wasn’t clear where he was going or why, but in his hand he had been carrying a small suitcase containing everything from clean underwear and a toothbrush to a ten-millimeter pistol and a flick-knife. It was too late to ask him. Two shots to the head, definitely dead.
Toivonen, who was leading the search for the Bromma raiders, had long since stopped believing in coincidences of this sort. There was a connection here, and the following day his forensics experts had confirmed it. His latest murder victim had traces of red dye on both wrists. Dye that was difficult to wash off, and whose chemical composition, down to the last molecule, matched the dye that the security company used in their explosive capsules. It was also in the right place, if he had taken part in the raid, between his gloves and the sleeves of his black jacket.
Someone has started cleaning up after themselves, Toivonen thought.
When Bäckström’s ‘pisshead murder’ occurred two days later, Anna Holt had felt almost relieved. Finally a normal case, she thought. A gift from above, even. Soon she would have good cause to change her opinion on that matter.
27.
‘What the hell do we do now?’ Bäckström snarled, staring first at his colleague, then at the safe-deposit box.
‘We have to call one of our senior officers at once, to make sure our backs are covered,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘We have to make sure they come down here and seal—’
‘Shut the damn box!’ Bäckström said, unable to look at the wretched sight any longer. Dragging a literal-minded dyke with him when he had for once been let into Ali Baba’s treasure chamber. And he had no signal on his phone either.
‘The walls in a vault like this must be extremely thick,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘If you like I can run up and call,’ she added, taking out her own phone.
‘This is what we’re going to do,’ Bäckström said, pointing at her with his short, stubby index finger. ‘You stay here, don’t do anything, and if some bastard comes in, shoot him. And for God’s sake, don’t lose that damn box.’
Then he had gone up into the main bank premises and called Toivonen. He had quickly explained the situation that had arisen and had asked for orders. To cover his back, Bäckström thought. If there had been any justice in the world, he would have been on his way to Rio by now.
‘Who have you got with you?’ Toivonen asked, not sounding particularly excited.
‘The Anchor, Annika Carlsson.’
‘You’ve got the Anchor with you,’ Toivonen repeated. ‘How much money are we talking about here?’
‘Must be millions,’ Bäckström said, and groaned.
‘And you took the Anchor with you?’
‘Yes,’ Bäckström said. Fuck, his voice sounds really weird, Bäckström thought. He can’t be drunk, can he? Not at this time of day?
‘Okay, then. Ask if you can have a plain paper bag, take the damn box with you, and get yourselves back out here, and I’ll talk to Niemi and he can sort out the rest.’ The Anchor, Toivonen thought. This was all too much.
‘But we need to cover our backs,’ Bäckström said. ‘I mean—’
‘You’ve done that,’ Toivonen interrupted. ‘The Anchor will stick to the rules until her dying breath, and she’s as flexible as an old traffic cop and straight as a die. Just make sure you don’t get any ideas, or she’ll try out her cuffs on you.’
As soon as he had hung up Bäckström got a paper bag from the bank official. He had signed a receipt for the box. And carried it out to the car himself, where he held it in his lap the whole way back to the Solna police station. Annika Carlsson drove and didn’t say anything.
As soon as Toivonen had got off the phone he had gone out into the corridor, called his closest and most trusted colleagues into his office, and closed the door behind them.
Then he had explained what was going on in broad strokes, saving the punch line till last in the traditional way.
‘Which one of our colleagues do you think the fat little bastard took with him?’ Toivonen said, so delighted that he couldn’t stand still.