‘One hundred and one million, six hundred and twelve thousand kronor, to be precise,’ Toivonen said, reading from his notes just to be sure.
‘That sounds like a decent day’s work,’ Holt said. ‘Not your usual shitty little raid, I mean.’
‘No, although it was complete fuckup for us,’ Toivonen said.
Not one single krona of the money had been recovered. None of those involved were ever brought to trial, even though everyone had a fair idea of who they were and how the whole thing had been planned and carried out. The only consolation under the circumstances was that none of the staff had been wounded, and that was thanks to the raiders rather than the police.
The kingpin was a well-known gangster of Moroccan descent, Abdul Ben Kader, born 1950, so now approaching sixty. He had lived in Sweden for more than twenty years and popped up regularly in criminal contexts. Everything from illegal gambling and drinking dens, brothels, organized theft, and receipt of stolen goods to insurance scams and armed robbery.
Constantly under suspicion, taken into custody, locked up on three occasions. But never convicted, never obliged to spend a single day as a convicted felon in a Swedish penal institution.
‘A couple months after the Akalla raid the bastard retired and went back to Morocco,’ Toivonen said with a wry smile. ‘Apparently he now owns a number of bars and at least one hotel.’
‘So where do the Ibrahim brothers and their cousin come into this?’ Holt asked.
All three had taken part in the raid. That was the firm belief of Toivonen and his colleagues. Farshad, who had been twenty-eight at the time of the raid, was the one who led the actual operation. His cousin, who was three years younger, had driven the forklift, and his little brother Afsan, then just twenty-three years old, had grabbed as much money as he could get his hands on, even though he was dressed in overalls, gloves, and a full ski mask.
‘Ben Kader could be described as a sort of mentor to Farshad. Farshad was his favorite even though he wasn’t from north Africa but Iran. They’re both Muslim, by the way, and teetotalers,’ Toivonen added for some reason.
‘Farshad arrived here as a refugee with his family when he was only three years old. His younger brother was born in Sweden. Ben Kader had no children of his own, and because little Farshad was made of the right stuff, he evidently took a liking to the lad. We know that they’re still in touch, because only a few weeks ago we received information from our French colleagues via Interpol that they met up on the Riviera as recently as March this year.’
‘Danielsson,’ Holt prompted.
‘Ben Kader used him as his bookkeeper, accountant, and financial adviser for his legal activities. Among other things, he owned a grocery store in Sollentuna, a tobacconist’s and a dry cleaner’s out here in Solna. In hindsight, that probably wasn’t all that Danielsson did, but because it could never be proved, he was only ever questioned for information.
‘When Ben Kader returned to Morocco, Farshad both took over the grocery store and got Danielsson into the bargain. Farshad still owns the shop in Sollentuna. He has relatives working there, but he’s listed as the owner. Danielsson, on the other hand, has vanished from the paperwork.’
‘Akofeli,’ Holt said. ‘How does he come into this? He could hardly have been involved in the Akalla raid, since he would have been, what, sixteen at the time?’
‘To be honest, I haven’t the faintest idea,’ Toivonen said, shaking his head. ‘I don’t think he was involved with either Danielsson or the Ibrahim brothers. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time and slipped into it all on a banana peel. I think we can forget any idea of him murdering Danielsson.’
‘What about the Ibrahim brothers and Hassan Talib, then? Could they have murdered Danielsson and Akofeli?’
‘No idea,’ Toivonen said with a sigh.
‘Maybe it’ll work out,’ Holt said, smiling. ‘Bäckström promised that it would be sorted soon. He said he just needs another week.’
‘I can hardly contain myself,’ Toivonen snorted.
Then Toivonen had gone home to his row house in Spånga. Prepared a meal for his two teenage sons, since his wife had gone up to Norrland to visit her ailing father. After the meal his boys had disappeared to meet their friends. Toivonen had poured himself a beer and a small whiskey shot and started the weekend in front of the television. When his younger son got home at eleven, his dad was lying on the sofa, dozing in front of the sports channel.
‘Aren’t you going to go to bed, Dad?’ his son asked. ‘You’re looking a bit tired, if you ask me.’
51.
Messrs. Bäckström and GeGurra had met in the main dining room of Operakällaren just after eight o’clock in the evening, and an extremely obliging headwaiter had shown them to their discreet table out on the veranda. He had taken their drink order, bowed once more, and hurried away. As was traditional, GeGurra was picking up the tab.
‘Marvelous to see you, Superintendent,’ GeGurra said, raising his large dry martini as he cautiously nibbled at an olive that had been delivered on a saucer alongside.
‘Good to see you too,’ Bäckström chimed in, raising his own ice-chilled double vodka. Even though you’re becoming more like a standard ass-bandit every day, he thought.
Then they had ordered. Bäckström had taken the lead and even GeGurra the faggot had gone along with his selection and chosen to eat like a normal person. More or less, at least.
‘To start I’d like Skagen toast with a side dish of salt salmon, the steak à la Rydberg with two egg yolks. Beer and schnapps throughout, and I’ll get back to you about the rest.’
‘And what sort of schnapps would monsieur le directeur like?’ the headwaiter asked, leaning sideways another few inches.
‘Czech lager, Russian vodka. Do you have Standard?’ What do you mean, directeur? Bäckström thought.
‘I’m afraid not,’ the headwaiter lamented. ‘But we do have Stolichnaya. Both Cristal and Gold.’
‘Stalichnaya,’ Bäckström corrected, with his newly acquired knowledge of Russian. ‘In that case I’ll start with a Gold with the fish and Cristal with the steak,’ he declared, like a true connoisseur.
‘Single or double?’
Is he pulling my leg? Bäckström thought. What’s he doing, handing out samples?
‘Large doubles,’ Bäckström said. ‘All the way through. No half-measures.’
GeGurra had concurred, and complimented Bäckström on his choice. He had abstained from the salt salmon and the extra egg yolk, and made do with a single shot with the starter and red wine with the main.
‘If you have a decent cabernet sauvignon by the glass?’
Naturally they did, according to the headwaiter. They had a fine American wine from 2003, Sonoma Valley, ninety percent cabernet.
‘And just the slightest touch of petit verdot to give it a lift.’
Queers, Bäckström thought. Where the fuck do they get all that shit from? A lift. Shirt lifters, maybe.
But they had a pleasant evening. GeGurra was in an expansive mood. He thanked Bäckström for his latest assistance in informing him most admirably about the developments in the big art racket that the police had spent the whole winter investigating. Naturally Bäckström’s half-witted colleagues had made a mess of things again, but GeGurra hadn’t even figured on the preliminary investigation.