‘Forensic investigation, right,’ Toivonen snorted. ‘You saw what it looked like. There must have been at least fifty people traipsing through that flat.’
‘Including you and me. And the rest of our colleagues who were in there. And that isn’t Bäckström’s fault either.’
‘No, heaven forbid,’ Toivonen said. ‘Give the little fat bastard a medal and an extra year’s salary. By the way, did you happen to notice the furniture that fat little—’
‘Hang on, Toivonen,’ Holt interrupted.
‘What? I’m listening,’ Toivonen said. I’m completely calm, he thought.
‘I’m suddenly starting to get the impression that you’re jealous of our dear Bäckström,’ Holt said with a smile. They’re like children, just like children, she thought, as Toivonen marched out of her office.
Even on the morning news, Bäckström was the nation’s new hero. Several of his colleagues shook their heads and wondered how on earth it could have happened. Most of them chose to keep quiet and go along with it. One or two aired their concerns.
Jorma Honkamäki was one of them. He had bumped into Frank Motoele at the entrance of the Karolinska Hospital.
‘You can’t help wondering what the hell happened — really, I mean,’ Honkamäki said, and sighed.
‘What do you mean?’ Motoele said, looking at him with eyes that were suddenly as black as a winter’s night in the savannah.
‘That fat little bastard,’ Honkamäki clarified.
‘Think about what you’re saying,’ Motoele said, turning his gaze inward. ‘That’s a hero you’re talking about. Respect.’
71.
Bäckström and Annika Carlsson had snuck out the back way, through the courtyard. In the street outside the front door there was mayhem, and the uniformed officers had their hands full. Journalists and curious onlookers. Quite a number who tried to get into the building. If only to reassure themselves that Bäckström actually lived there. A stream of letters, flowers, parcels, and a veritable memorial garden of lanterns and banners, even though the weather outside was high summer.
‘Two things,’ Annika said as soon as they got inside the car. ‘You have to have a debriefing, and you have to talk to our colleagues in internal investigations.’
‘Why do I have to?’ Bäckström sulked.
‘The sooner the better, because then it’ll be done,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Where do you want to start?’
‘You may as well decide that as well,’ Bäckström said.
‘A very wise decision,’ Annika Carlsson said. She patted him on the arm and smiled.
The debriefing had gone quickly. It was with a former colleague that Bäckström knew from his time in National Crime, who had burned out, had a crisis, rediscovered himself, and found a new role within a police organization in a process of constant change.
‘How are you feeling, Bäckström?’ his former colleague asked, tilting his head to one side.
‘Great,’ Bäckström said. ‘Never felt better. How about you? I heard you hit the wall.’ You useless sod, he thought.
Five minutes later Bäckström was walking away.
‘But what am I going to put in my report?’ his debriefer asked.
‘Use your imagination,’ Bäckström said.
His visit to the Stockholm Police Department for Internal Investigations had taken a whole hour. Bäckström had sat there on numerous previous occasions. For considerably longer, while everyone argued and shouted at one another in an openhearted and collegial way. This time they had started by offering coffee, and the superintendent who was in charge of the Rat Squad had personally welcomed him and assured him that he wasn’t suspected of having done anything wrong. Bäckström had exchanged a quick glance with Annika Carlsson, who had accompanied him in case he needed a witness, and she was also the Police Officers’ Association’s representative in the Western District.
Everything that had emerged thus far unanimously supported Bäckström’s version of events. The forensics team, Peter Niemi and Jorge Hernandez, had found numerous pieces of evidence to back up Bäckström’s story. The first officers to arrive at the scene, Sandra Kovac, Frank Motoele, Magda Hernandez, Tomas Singh, and Gustav Hallberg, had all given testimony in his favor.
‘We spoke to Motoele just an hour ago. Evidently he was the first man in, and what he told us was pretty strong stuff. Said it looked like a battlefield in there, and that it’s a miracle you’re alive, Bäckström. And you’ve probably heard that another of the perpetrators tried to stab Motoele out in the street a couple minutes before they were able to get inside and help you.’
‘An awful business,’ Bäckström said. ‘That young lad. How is he, by the way?’ What do you mean, help me? Snotty-nosed kids, he thought.
‘Good, under the circumstances,’ the investigator said, without going into any details. ‘Well, really we only have four questions.’
‘I’m listening,’ Bäckström said, and Annika Carlsson’s eyes had already narrowed in a clearly cheering way.
Bäckström had been carrying his service revolver when he went into his flat at half past eleven in the evening. Why?
‘I was on duty,’ Bäckström said. ‘Considering the current situation, I and my colleagues carry our service revolvers whenever we leave the station. I was home to change my shirt and get a bite to eat before going back to the police station in Solna.’
‘We’re more or less working round the clock at the moment,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘We’ve got two double murders that both seem to be connected to the armed robbery out at Bromma. We’re seriously understaffed. A total of six officers to cover two murder investigations.’
Fuck me, Bäckström thought. Surely she can’t be falling in love with me?
‘Yes, it’s terrible,’ the investigator agreed, shaking his gray hair. ‘We’re on our knees right now.’
Farshad Ibrahim had a copy of the key to Bäckström’s flat. Did Bäckström have any idea how he might have got hold of it?
‘Well, he didn’t get it from me,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’d never met Ibrahim before he attacked me in my flat. I have two keys, one that I keep in the drawer of my desk at work, and one on my own key ring. And the caretaker has a copy, of course.’
‘You have no idea how Ibrahim might have got hold of your key?’
‘No,’ Bäckström lied. He had already worked out what had happened, but intended to sort that out with GeGurra and Tatiana Thorén. ‘I haven’t lost a key, if that’s what you’re wondering. If I had, I would have changed the lock at once.’
‘The caretaker?’ the investigator suggested.
‘I’ve hardly ever spoken to him,’ Bäckström said.
‘The copy you keep in your desk drawer at work. Do you keep the drawer locked?’
‘Hang on, now,’ Bäckström said. ‘You’re not seriously suggesting that one of my colleagues might have given my key to anyone like Ibrahim and Talib?’
‘What about the cleaners?’ the investigator persisted.
‘I don’t think we’re getting very far,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘Besides, this isn’t really our subject, if I can put it like that.’
‘No, of course not,’ the investigator agreed.
I must remember to put a key in that drawer, Bäckström thought. Just in case, but how do I get hold of one that looks the same but doesn’t actually fit? he thought.
Bäckström had drunk alcohol in his flat. Why?