Door-to-door. The third time around at number 1 Hasselstigen. Now it was all about Farshad Ibrahim, Afsan Ibrahim, Hassan Talib, and any contact they may have had with Karl Danielsson. They also had good pictures: their own recent surveillance photographs, complemented in the name of justice with a number of similar figures who had nothing to do with any of this. Linda Martinez’s faithful colleagues. Only the olive-skinned variety, no brown, black, or blue. Even though Frank Motoele had offered his services when he helped his boss put together the material.
Seppo Laurén hadn’t seen anything, even though Alm did his best to prompt him.
‘I haven’t seen them,’ Seppo said, shaking his head.
‘Take another look, just to make sure,’ Alm cajoled. ‘The people we’re interested are foreigners — immigrants, if you like.’
‘I don’t understand what you mean,’ Seppo said, shaking his head.
A proper little genius, Alm thought, sighing and taking back his photographs.
‘But these pictures are only of foreigners, or immigrants, as I suppose you have to say these days,’ Mrs. Stina Holmberg said.
‘But there’s no one here that you recognize, Mrs. Holmberg?’ Jan O. Stigson said.
‘Out here in Solna it’s nearly all immigrants,’ Mrs. Holmberg said, nodding amiably at Felicia Pettersson.
‘Not that that has anything to do with anything,’ she added.
Most of the neighbors hadn’t recognized anyone.
One Iraqi immigrant who lived on the third floor and worked as a ticket collector on the underground had, however, expressed his appreciation of the work of the police.
‘I think you’re on the right track,’ the ticket collector said, nodding to Annika Carlsson.
‘Why do you think that?’ Carlsson asked.
‘Iranians, it’s obvious,’ the ticket collector said, and chuckled. ‘They’re crazy, they’re capable of anything.’
Bäckström had joined in relatively late, and after a preparatory conversation with his colleague Carlsson.
‘I think it would be best if you and I talk to that Andersson woman,’ Bäckström said. ‘Considering young Stigson,’ he clarified.
‘I understand exactly what you mean,’ Annika Carlsson agreed.
In actual fact Bäckström hadn’t been thinking of their colleague Stigson. He was out on his own investigative business. After his encounter with Tatiana Thorén — which was bound to become a long-term affair, since she seemed to be completely crazy about him — it was high time for a comparative study, to make sure he didn’t let himself in for any problems in the future.
Old women get so fucking saggy as they get older, Bäckström thought.
Mrs. Britt-Marie Andersson had provided them with a golden nugget. Or two, to be precise.
She has to have some sort of fucking metal framework up top, Bäckström thought half an hour later when he and his colleague Carlsson were sitting on Britt-Marie Andersson’s sofa showing her the photographs. Even though their presumptive witness had the same impressive volume as Tatiana, who was half her age, they still maintained the same elevation.
What the hell does she do when she lets them hang loose? Bäckström wondered. Does she have to lie on her back first, or what?
‘I recognize this one,’ Mrs. Andersson said excitedly, pointing at a picture of Farshad Ibrahim. Just to make sure, she had leaned toward Bäckström, pointing with a red fingernail.
Incredible, Bäckström thought, trying to tear his eyes away and look at where she had put her finger.
‘You’re quite sure?’ Annika Carlsson said.
‘Quite sure,’ Mrs. Andersson said, nodding to Bäckström.
‘When did you last see him?’ Bäckström asked.
‘The day Danielsson was murdered,’ Mrs. Andersson said. ‘It must have been in the morning, when I took Little Sweetie outside. They were standing in the road talking to each other. Right outside the door.’
‘You’re quite sure?’ Annika Carlsson repeated, exchanging a meaningful look with Bäckström, who had finally got control of himself and was leaning back in the sofa just to be on the safe side. There was no way he could lift his leg, because the old bag would doubtless get turned on if she caught a glimpse of Siggy, he thought.
‘And that one,’ Mrs. Andersson said, putting her finger on Hassan Talib. ‘He’s a really big man, isn’t he?’
‘Two meters tall,’ Bäckström confirmed.
‘It’s him, then. He was leaning against a car on the other side of the road, watching Danielsson and that other one, the one Danielsson was talking to.’
‘Did you see what sort of car it was?’ Carlsson asked.
‘Black, I’m sure of that. One of those expensive, low ones. Like a Mercedes, or maybe a BMW.’
‘Could it have been a Lexus?’ Carlsson asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Mrs. Andersson said. ‘I’m not good with cars. I’ve got a driving license, but I haven’t had a car for years now.’
‘But you remember the big man standing there?’ Bäckström said.
‘I’m absolutely sure of it,’ Mrs. Andersson said. ‘He was standing there staring at me, to put it bluntly. When I happened to look over at him, he... well, he gestured to me. With his tongue, I mean,’ Mrs. Andersson clarified. She was starting to blush.
‘An indecent gesture?’ the ever-helpful Annika Carlsson asked. ‘An obscene gesture?’
‘Yes,’ Mrs. Andersson said, breathing heavily. ‘It really wasn’t very nice. So I came straight back in.’
Bloody brilliant, Bäckström thought. The old bag must have a good memory, he thought.
‘Why didn’t you report it?’ Carlsson asked.
‘Report it? What for? Because of what he did with his tongue?’
‘Sexual harassment,’ Annika Carlsson clarified.
‘No,’ Mrs. Andersson said. ‘From what I’ve read in the paper, there’s no point.’
Abort, abort, abort, Bäckström thought.
‘Well, thank you very much indeed for your help, Mrs. Andersson,’ he said.
‘You can calm down, Nadja,’ Bäckström said half an hour later when he returned to his office. ‘About that business with the diary, I mean. We’ve got a witness who’s identified both Farshad and Talib, says she saw them talking to Danielsson outside his house the same day he was murdered.’
‘I hear what you’re saying, Bäckström,’ Nadja Högberg said.
Maybe she isn’t always so shrewd, Bäckström thought, giving his trousers a shake just to be on the safe side.
62.
Before he went home for the day Bäckström looked into Toivonen’s office to tell him about what Mrs. Andersson had seen. The poor Finnish bastard probably needs all the help he can get, Bäckström thought. Besides, he had his old supervisory role to consider.
Toivonen had been strangely uninterested.
‘Yesterday’s news,’ Toivonen said. ‘But thanks anyway.’
‘Just let me know if you need any help,’ Bäckström said, giving him one of his most good-natured smiles. ‘I heard over lunch that you’ve got a hundred people working on this, but that you’re not making much progress.’
‘People talk a lot of crap,’ Toivonen said. ‘We’re doing okay, so don’t you worry about the Ibrahim brothers and their little cousin. How are you getting on yourself?’
‘Give me a week,’ Bäckström said.
‘I look forward to it,’ Toivonen said. ‘Who knows? Maybe they’ll give you a medal, Bäckström.’
I wonder what the fat little bastard really wanted? Toivonen thought, when Bäckström had left. I must have a chat with Linda Martinez, he thought.
If you give a bastard Finn your little finger he usually tries to take your whole arm, Bäckström thought, as he left Toivonen’s office. But not this time. I wonder what he’s really up to? he thought.