More than three hundred and fifty square kilometers of land and water between Lake Mälaren to the west and Edsviken and the Baltic to the east. Between the old tollgates of central Stockholm to the south up to North Järva, Jakobsberg, and the outer archipelago of Lake Mälaren to the north. A queendom with some three hundred thousand inhabitants. Half a dozen billionaires, a few hundred millionaires, and maybe ten thousand who couldn’t put food on the table each day and lived off social benefits. Plus all the ordinary people in between.
A realm with five hundred police officers, many of whom could justifiably be reckoned among the finest in the country. And then there was Evert Bäckström, of course. Plus all the ordinary, normal officers in between.
Now the fire-breathing dragon had dug its claws into what was her territory and her responsibility. Five murders within the space of a week. As many as you would normally expect in a whole year in an area that was nonetheless reckoned to be one of the most crime-ridden in the country.
What I need is a white knight on a purebred charger who can kill the dragon for me, Holt thought, starting to giggle as she thought what would happen if she said that out loud in one of the meetings of the network of female police officers where she was on the board.
He who kills the dragon gets the princess and half the kingdom, Holt thought with a smile. And if that role is taken by any of our colleagues out here, then little Magdalena Hernandez stands a good chance of getting the role of princess, she thought. At least she would if their male colleagues got to vote on the matter.
She herself was too old, forty-eight that autumn, Holt thought with a sigh. Besides, she already had a man whose company she was enjoying more and more. She was very fond of him, maybe even loved him, even if up to now she had tried not to think like that. It would be quite good enough if my white knight kills the dragon for me, she thought.
He who kills the dragon gets the princess and half the kingdom, Anna Holt concluded, nodding to herself as soon as she had made the decision.
And I’d prefer it if he could get on with it straightaway, the police chief of the Western District thought.
47.
On Friday Detective Inspector Alm had hoped to be able to get away from work a bit early. It would be the weekend in a few hours anyway, and there was a fair amount to get done before he could enjoy it in peace and quiet together with his beloved wife and two good friends they had invited over for dinner.
Nothing remarkable about that. Their case seemed to be developing at a surprising pace, and more or less without any input from him. Akofeli’s unexpected demise had admittedly complicated matters, but it would all sort itself out if only he got the chance to have a really good think. Unfortunately all his hopes on that score had been dashed, and he hadn’t even managed to go and get wine like he had promised. Instead he had to call his wife and argue about it before she finally gave in and did all the things he had promised to do.
An hour after lunch, when he had more or less already packed up and prepared his retreat through the most suitable back door the police station could offer, he had received an unexpected visit. By the time he eventually got home his guests were already sitting and waiting in the living room. His wife was standing in the kitchen, clattering crockery and glasses, and the glance she flashed at him was not a kindly one.
‘Hello, darling,’ Alm said, leaning forward to give her a kiss. On the cheek, at least, he thought.
‘If the detective inspector would care to look after our guests, I’ll try to see to it that they get something to drink,’ his wife said, twisting her head away.
‘Of course, darling,’ Alm said. What an unbelievably wretched day, he thought.
‘How can I help you, then, Seppo?’ Alm said, giving Seppo Laurén a friendly nod and taking an involuntary glance at his watch. Maybe it would be best to switch on the tape recorder as well, he thought, as he placed his aide-mémoire on the desk. The lad was far from clearheaded, so you never could tell.
‘So how can I help you, Seppo?’ Alm repeated with a smile.
‘The rent,’ Seppo said. ‘What am I going to do about the rent?’ he said, handing Alm a payment slip.
‘What do you normally do?’ Alm said amiably, looking at the payment slip. Just over five thousand kronor, Alm thought. Pretty high for a two-room flat in that building, he thought.
‘Mom,’ Seppo said. ‘But since she’s been ill I’ve been giving them to Kalle. But now he’s been killed. What do I do now?’
‘Kalle Danielsson used to help you with the rent?’ Alm said. ‘Since your mom got ill?’ he clarified. I’ll have to get someone from Social Services, Alm thought, glancing at his watch again.
‘Yes, and I used to get money for food as well,’ Seppo said. ‘From Kalle, I mean. Since Mom got ill.’
‘It was nice of Kalle to help you,’ Alm said. Surely he should be getting some sort of pension or disability benefit? Alm thought.
‘S’pose so,’ Seppo said, shrugging. ‘He used to argue with Mom.’
‘He argued with your mom?’
‘Yes,’ Seppo said. ‘First he argued with her. Then he pushed her. She fell over and hit her head. On our kitchen table.’
‘He pushed her?’ Alm said. ‘In your home? And she hit her head?’ What’s the lad saying? he thought.
‘Yes,’ Seppo said.
‘Why did he do that?’
‘Then she got ill and fainted at work and had to go to hospital. Ambulance,’ Seppo said, nodding seriously.
‘What did you do? When Kalle argued with your mom?’
‘I hit him,’ Seppo said. ‘Karate. Then I kicked him. Karate kicks. Then he got a nosebleed. I got cross. I hardly ever get cross.’
‘What did Kalle do then? After you hit him?’
‘I helped him into the lift,’ Seppo said. ‘So he could go home.’
‘And this happened the day before your mom got ill and had to go to the hospital?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened after that? When your mom was in the hospital?’
‘I got a new computer and loads of computer games.’
‘From Kalle?’
‘Yes. He said sorry too. We shook hands and said we wouldn’t fight anymore. He said he’d help me until Mom got better and came home again.’
‘And you haven’t hit him again since then?’
‘Well,’ Seppo said, shaking his head, ‘I did hit him once more.’
‘Why did you do that?’ Alm asked.
‘She never comes home,’ Seppo said. ‘She’s still in the hospital. She doesn’t want to talk to me when I’m there.’
What’s going on? Alm thought. I’ve got to get hold of Annika Carlsson, he thought.
48.
Nadja Högberg had got three names from Toivonen. Hassan Talib, Afsan Ibrahim, and Farshad Ibrahim. The initials HA, AFS, and FI in Danielsson’s pocket diary. That leaves two, she thought, as she started up her computer at eight o’clock on Friday morning. Just over five hours before her colleague Detective Inspector Lars Alm got an unexpected visitor in his office.
SL and R, first and last names, and first name, respectively, she thought.
First she had pulled out their list of everyone connected to the murders of Karl Danielsson and Septimus Akofeli. Victims, family, friends and acquaintances, workmates, neighbors, witnesses, suspects, and anyone else who just happened to be there. She had checked the first and last names of 316 people and had come up with three matches: Susanna Larsson, eighteen; Sala Lucik, thirty-three; and Seppo Laurén, twenty-nine.
Susanna Larsson worked at Green Carriers with Akofeli. Sala Lucik lived in the flat above Akofeli and was on the door-to-door list, but they hadn’t been able to contact her because she had spent the past fortnight locked up in Solna, suspected of serious drug offenses. Seppo Laurén was Danielsson’s neighbor. The same young man who, according to Bäckström, was ‘a few sandwiches short of a picnic.’