In spite of all of Toivonen’s informants, in spite of Bäckström’s witness in Hasselstigen, Nadja Högberg hadn’t been able to let go of Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary. Besides, she had had an idea.
You don’t only give money to people, Nadja thought. You pay for goods and services as well. Almost always without paying any attention at all to who produced or provided them.
It’s worth a try, Nadja thought. Just to be on the safe side she knocked on Bäckström’s door, in case he was still playing cops and robbers with himself. Empty, and his phone was switched off, as usual.
I’ll have to try to talk to him first thing tomorrow, Nadja thought. It’ll have to be the first thing I do when he shows up, she thought.
In actual fact it would be almost a week before she had the chance. That evening things would take place in Evert Bäckström’s home — in his cozy abode on Kungsholmen — that would shake the whole nation and put Detective Superintendent Bäckström’s name on the lips of every man and every woman, and that would almost cost Chief Superintendent Toivonen his life, because, even though he was in perfect shape, he came close to having both a stroke and a heart attack simultaneously.
63.
This time Hassan Talib was there from the start when the black Lexus left the villa out in Sollentuna at eight o’clock in the evening. The surveillance vehicle had kept a couple blocks away and followed them along a parallel road, since they could track the target on the computer screen in their car and had no need to take unnecessary risks.
Only when they had passed the old tollgates in toward the center did they creep closer. The traffic was heavier, Sandra Kovac was driving, and when the black Lexus turned left at the end of Sveavägen she realized at once what was going on. The biggest multistory carpark in the center of Stockholm, she thought. Several blocks of it, with three stories underground. Four exits, and dozens of ways in and out for pedestrians.
‘Shit,’ Sandra swore. ‘The bastards are going to run.’
Magda Hernandez had grabbed a portable radio, jumped out of the car, and stopped by the ramp into the carpark in case they did a U-turn and drove out again.
Kovac and Motoele had chased around the garage trying to locate the black Lexus, and when they finally found it, it was empty, neatly parked on the lowest level beside one of the many exits. By then Kovac was already talking to Linda Martinez on their own encrypted radio channel.
‘Calm down, Sandra,’ Martinez said. ‘This sort of thing happens. It isn’t the end of the world. Take a turn round the area, see if you can’t get a glimpse of one of their other cars.’
‘So what do we think about this?’ Toivonen said half an hour later. ‘Are they planning to go abroad and get a bit of sun?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Martinez said. ‘It’s been quiet all day, no increased activity on the two cell phones we cracked yesterday. Since they left the garage it’s been completely silent on their phones, which probably means they’re together and don’t need to call each other. But they’re obviously up to something. The question is, what?’
‘Airports, ferries, trains?’ Toivonen asked.
‘Already sorted,’ Martinez said. ‘Our colleagues there have been warned and have promised to do what they can.’
‘Damn,’ said Toivonen, who had suddenly had an idea. ‘Bäckström, that fat little bastard, we have to check—’
‘Toivonen, you must think I’m soft in the head,’ Martinez interrupted. ‘We’ve had him under full surveillance since he left the police station four hours ago, four hours and thirty-two minutes, to be precise.’
‘So what’s he doing?’
‘He got home at seventeen minutes to five. What he got up to inside the flat isn’t clear, but to judge from the noises he seems to have taken a long nap. An hour and a half ago he turned up in his local bar, and he’s still there.’
‘Doing what?’ Toivonen said.
‘Drinking beer and shots, eating frankly dangerous quantities of vegetable mash and knuckle of pork, all the while hitting on the waitress. A fine blonde, name of Saila, a compatriot of yours if you’re wondering.’
Life isn’t fair, Toivonen thought.
At about half past eleven that evening another call was received on the Stockholm Police emergency number, 112. One of several thousand that had come in over the past twenty-four hours, and sadly all too similar to far too many of its predecessors.
‘Hello, here’s another call to spoil your quiet evening,’ the voice on the telephone said.
‘So what’s your name, and how can I help you?’ the operator said. Drunk, he thought.
‘My name’s Hasse Ahrén,’ the voice said. ‘Director Hasse Ahrén, I used to be head of TV Three,’ the voice explained.
‘And how can I help you?’ Hammered, the operator thought.
‘Someone’s shooting like a fucking madman inside my neighbor’s flat,’ Ahrén said.
‘What’s your neighbor’s name?’
‘Bäckström. A little fat bastard who’s some sort of policeman. Drinks like a fish, so if you’re wondering, Constable, I reckon he’s responsible for the shooting.’
64.
Bäckström had been obliged to postpone on three different occasions until he finally got back the weapon that was his fundamental human right as a Swedish police officer.
The first time he hadn’t even had a chance to fire a single shot.
Bäckström had taken a taxi out to a firing range south of the city. He met his shooting instructor, the altogether-too-common sort whose furrowed brow naturally merged with a shaved head. He was given his weapon, inserted a loaded magazine, reloaded, and then turned to ask which of the targets he was expected to blow holes out of.
The instructor had thrown himself to one side, suddenly pale as a headache pill, and screamed at him to put his weapon down immediately. Bäckström had done as he was told.
‘I would appreciate it, Bäckström, if you didn’t wave a loaded weapon with the safety off toward my navel. In fact, I’d be really, really happy,’ the instructor said, his voice sounding strained.
Then he had grabbed the pistol, clicked the bolt action, removed the cartridge from the chamber, pulled out the magazine, and checked with his finger just to make sure before putting the gun in his pocket.
‘Because otherwise you’ll shit yourself,’ Bäckström said, as politely as he could.
It hadn’t helped, because he wasn’t allowed to shoot. The instructor had merely shaken his head and walked away.
The second time he had a female instructor, and as soon as he caught sight of her he realized what his adversaries were up to.
The bitch had even put on a padded vest and a helmet, and stood behind him the whole time while she told him what to do. Bäckström couldn’t be bothered to listen. How could he, since he had already put on the ear protectors like she had told him to. Instead he had tried to focus on his real task, and had raised his gun, carefully taken aim, closed his left eye, and even squinted with the right one before firing a well-aimed salvo at the cardboard cutout in front of him.
Splendid, Bäckström thought, as he looked at the results a minute later. At least half his shots had hit their target, and even though he was no doctor, he could see at once that most of them would have been fatal.
‘So where do I pick up my service revolver?’ Bäckström asked.
At first she had merely shaken her head, her face the same color as her colleague’s had been previously, and, when she finally spoke, her voice sounded exactly the same as his.