‘He’s a demon with numbers,’ Alm repeated. He must be drunk, he thought.
‘I remember once, it was one of the races before the big Elitloppet race and Kalle had dragged Seppo along with him. He can’t have been very old. Before one of the races I happened to say that it was completely open. That any of them could win. Ten horses, one favorite and two second favorites. Odds of winning between two and five to one. The other seven would give you better than twenty to one. The one that would give the best return would have paid out more than a hundred to one.’
‘I see,’ Alm said. Definitely drunk, he thought.
‘The lad, he can’t have been more than ten, asked if he could borrow seven hundred off Kalle. Kalle was in a good mood, a bit drunk. He’d won on an outside bet in the previous race. He hands Seppo a thousand-kronor note. Seppo asks me to put one hundred and forty-two kronor and eighty-six ore on each of the seven horses with the longest odds. He was too young to bet then. He could hardly reach the counter in those days. I explained to him that you couldn’t bet with the two kronor and eighty-six ore.’
‘ “One hundred and forty, then,” Seppo says. Okay, I did as he said. One of the seven won. Night Runner, that was his name. Paid out eighty-six to one. Do you know what the lad says?’
‘No,’ Alm said. What does this have to do with anything? he thought.
‘ “Give me my twelve thousand and forty kronor,” he said.’
‘I don’t actually understand what you mean,’ Alm said.
‘That’s because you’re soft in the head. Seppo isn’t soft in the head. He’s different. He talks like a muppet and he looks like a muppet. But he’s not soft in the head. And why do I suddenly feel like punching you in the face?’ Stålhammar said.
‘You don’t think Kalle might have had something going on with his mother?’ Alm said, thinking it was high time to change the subject.
‘I’ve got no ideeeaa about that,’ Stålhammar said with a grin. ‘How about asking her? If she had something going on with Kalle, I’m sure she’d remember.’
So it’s like that, is it? Alm thought.
‘You don’t think Kalle could have been Seppo’s dad?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Stålhammar said, grinning. ‘Not the lad, because he doesn’t say much. But maybe you and Bäckström could ask Kalle. Fix up one of those mediums they have on television. A real window licker who could help you get in touch with the other side. Ask Kalle, why don’t you? If you’re lucky, maybe you could squeeze him for some back payments of child support.’
So it’s like that? Alm thought, and before he had time to thank Stålhammar for the conversation, he had already turned on his heels and left.
57.
Early on Monday morning Linda Martinez had told Toivonen how things had gone with their surveillance of the Ibrahim brothers and their cousin Hassan Talib.
It had all gone according to plan, actually better than they had hoped. They had already attached transmitters to three of the Ibrahim family’s cars. They had found a previously unknown Mercedes that was evidently being used by Hassan Talib. And if the eagle-eyed god of surveillance was merciful, Martinez reckoned they should be able to crack two of their cell numbers later that day.
‘They headed off in different directions. Talib chatted up a girl in Café Opera and went back to hers by taxi. She lives out in Flemingsberg. Farshad and Afsan left the club soon after and went home to Sollentuna. When Talib got out of the taxi outside the girl’s house he made a call, and a few seconds later, when Farshad was standing outside the house in Sollentuna, his phone started to ring. The lads in phone surveillance are busy checking the cell tower, and because they know their positions and have got an exact time, they think it’s going to work.’
‘Of course it’s going to work,’ Toivonen said. If this is war, it has to work, he thought.
‘Anything else?’ he asked.
‘We might have a problem,’ Linda Martinez said. ‘Take a look at these pictures and you’ll see what I mean,’ she said, handing over a folder of surveillance photographs.
A quick glance at the photograph on top was enough. I’m going to kill that fat little bastard, Toivonen thought.
‘Tell me about it,’ he said.
Farshad and Afsan had left their home in Sollentuna at eleven. They picked up Talib from Regeringsgatan twenty minutes later. Then the three of them drove on to Café Opera.
‘At half past eleven exactly they disappear into the club,’ Linda Martinez said. ‘Two of my team follow them. Inside, one of them sees our colleague Bäckström standing at the bar with a girl. The Ibrahim brothers and Talib are standing farther inside the club, and according to my guy, Frank Motoele, actually, it was quite obvious that they were checking out Bäckström. Motoele says he got the impression that Farshad was trying to get eye contact with the woman who was with Bäckström. But there’s nothing to suggest any contact between Bäckström and our three subjects. Bäckström seems to have been completely oblivious, focusing all his attention on his female companion.’
Half a dozen photographs of Bäckström and his companion. Considerably more of their three subjects. Two pictures in which Bäckström and his companion are visible in the background, with Farshad Ibrahim in the foreground, back to the camera.
Bäckström leaning on the bar. Smiling and making extravagant gestures toward the beautiful woman by his side. A broad smile from her, laughter; she seems utterly absorbed by his company.
‘Do we know who she is?’ Toivonen asked.
‘Yes,’ Martinez said. ‘Sandra Kovac went in and recognized her immediately from her time with the Security Police. Her name is Tatiana Thorén. Originally from Poland, Swedish citizen, married and divorced Thorén. A kept woman by profession. One of the most expensive, by all accounts. Between ten and twenty thousand per night. Flat on Jungfrugatan on Östermalm. Hardly ever takes clients there. Mostly hotels.’
‘So what happened next?’
‘Soon afterward Thorén and Bäckström leave Café Opera. They take a taxi from the street outside. Go home to Thorén’s flat, where they spend the night. Bäckström doesn’t leave until ten o’clock the next morning. The minute after Bäckström and Thorén leave the club, the Ibrahim brothers follow suit. They go directly home to Sollentuna. Farshad’s car. The black Lexus, and as usual it’s Afsan driving. No attempt to follow Bäckström. Talib leaves half an hour later. He has company in the form of a young woman. Takes a taxi back to hers, like I said. We’ve identified her too, Josefine Weber, twenty-three, works in a shop selling jeans on Drottninggatan. Nothing remarkable about her. She seems to hang about in bars, socializing with people like Talib. It would be great if we could get hold of her phone number. I get the feeling it wouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘So what’s your interpretation of this, then?’ Toivonen said.
‘That they went to Café Opera to take a look at Bäckström. That it was Thorén who made the move on Bäckström, and told them where the two of them were. Looks like a standard recruitment attempt, and if you ask me I think they’ve already got their hooks into our so-called colleague, Evert Bäckström. It can hardly be a coincidence that they picked him out. Not considering the man’s reputation.’
‘I think pretty much the same as you,’ Toivonen said. I’m going to kill that fat little bastard, he thought.
58.
Since Bäckström had no idea what was being discussed in Toivonen’s office, he was in an excellent mood when he arrived at work. He was also unusually early due to the fact that he had made an appointment that day to pick up his service revolver at last. The very weapon the powerful forces ranged against him had tried to deprive him of in order to be able to kill him the easiest way.