‘And what did he say?’
‘He denied it,’ Alm said.
‘Well, there you are, then,’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘Okay, I don’t think we’re going to get much further sitting here talking. Let’s get to work. At least that’s what I’m going to do.’
But only after I’ve had a nutritious lunch, Bäckström thought. Even a living legend needs something nice to eat, he thought.
81.
After lunch Bäckström had spent the remainder of the day granting a number of exclusive interviews, in which the recipients of this honor had a few thoughtful words bestowed upon them along the way.
For the female reporter from the Christian daily paper Dagen, he confessed his childhood beliefs and his faith in the Lord.
‘Beaten to the ground with deadly force, I was granted the strength to get up and strike back,’ Bäckström said with a pious look in his eyes.
For the representatives of the two evening papers he had in turn revealed that he had long thought that the police were too reluctant to share information. Not least to the evening papers.
‘How else can we hope to reach out to that great detective, the general public? We’d be lost without you and your colleagues.’ Bäckström sighed, nodding to the reporter from Expressen.
‘The public interest,’ he said half an hour later when he was talking to the journalist from Aftonbladet. ‘It’s actually the duty of the police to inform the media, so that they in turn can tell our citizens how things are going.’
In the conversation with Svenska Dagbladet that followed he had revealed his concerns about various deficiencies in the rule of law.
‘Our fight against crime must be conducted openly,’ Bäckström said, looking intently at the paper’s representative. ‘Too many of my fellow officers have far too lax a view of the rule of law.’
Finally, Dagens Nyheter, where he contented himself with agreeing with all the leading questions put to him.
‘I completely agree with you,’ Bäckström repeated, for the umpteenth time. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself. It’s absolutely terrible. I mean, where on earth are we heading as a constitutional state?’
On his way home he paid a visit to GeGurra for an openhearted conversation between just the two of them. GeGurra wasn’t merely perplexed, he was utterly mortified now that he realized how the crooks had got hold of the keys to Bäckström’s apartment.
‘I can assure you, my dear Bäckström,’ GeGurra said. ‘That woman has deceived you and me alike. All I told her when she called and asked if I would like to take her out to dinner was that I was already engaged. That I was going to have dinner at Operakällaren with a very dear friend who happened to be a police officer. I had no inkling that she had questionable intentions when she appeared. As I understood it, she simply appeared to be quite captivated by you.’
Right, Bäckström thought.
‘So what are we going to do about the coffee table, the carpet, and all the bullet holes in the walls?’ Bäckström asked.
On that point he didn’t have to worry himself at all. GeGurra had all the contacts and resources necessary to put everything right. Straightaway, no less.
‘I insist that you let me do that, Bäckström,’ GeGurra said. ‘The fact that I was entirely ignorant does not release me from my obligations in the slightest. After all, I was an unwitting accomplice to your being placed in mortal danger.’
‘The coffee table, the carpet, the walls,’ Bäckström said, not about to let himself be sidetracked by fine words.
‘Of course, my dear friend,’ GeGurra said. ‘What do you think of that coffee table, by the way?’ he asked, gesturing toward the coffee table in his own office.
‘Antique, Chinese lacquerwork — the colors would match your sofa perfectly,’ GeGurra cajoled.
‘Nice carpet,’ Bäckström said, nodding toward the carpet that the table was standing on.
‘Another antique from China,’ GeGurra said. ‘An excellent choice, if you were to ask my opinion.’
The police officers stationed at Bäckström’s door had been replaced by two contracted guards from Securitas. They helped him to carry up the coffee table, the carpet, and the various packages that had arrived during the course of the day.
Bäckström had prepared a simple meal from the things in his fridge. Then he had gone through the day’s haul. E-mails, letters, parcels, and presents. Everything from a knitted tea cozy in the shape of a hen and a handwritten letter containing one hundred kronor to a considerably larger amount that an anonymous benefactor had transferred into his account.
He threw the tea cozy in the bin.
He read the letter. A ‘Gustaf Lans, eighty-three, retired bank director’ wrote, ‘May God protect you, Superintendent. Thank you for all your hard work.’
Thanks yourself, you mean old bastard, Bäckström thought. He put the hundred-kronor note in his wallet and threw the letter in the bin.
Just as he was done with these administrative tasks there came a knock on his door.
‘Hello, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said with a smile. ‘I thought I’d look in on you before you went to bed.’
Hello, Bäckström thought.
‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’ he asked.
Annika Carlsson admired his new coffee table and his new carpet. And even the bullet holes in the walls and ceiling.
‘If I were you, I think I’d leave them as they are,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘They’re seriously cool. Think about all the girls you must have here. Wow, this guy’s got bullet holes in his walls,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘It even makes me—’
‘Sorry, Annika,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘A personal question?’
‘Sure,’ Annika said with a smile. ‘Go for it. I’m listening.’
‘And you promise not to be offended?’ Because who wants to get their jaw broken before they go to bed? he thought. He’d had quite enough with Talib and the other wretched prick.
‘You’re wondering if I’m a dyke?’ Annika said, looking at him in delight.
‘Yes,’ Bäckström said.
‘There’s so much talk,’ Annika Carlsson said, shrugging. ‘My most recent partner was a female police officer who worked in domestic crime in the city. That ended six months ago. But the last sex I had, if you want to know — if we’re not counting the sort you make for yourself that is — was with a guy. Not even a fellow officer. He was some sort of salesman. I picked him up in a bar.’
‘Any good?’ Bäckström asked.
‘No,’ Annika said, shaking her head. ‘All mouth, no trousers. Almost exclusively mouth, actually.’
A woman, talking like that. Where the hell are we heading? Bäckström thought, but contented himself with a nod.
‘I like to keep an open attitude. Don’t want to restrict the field, if I can put it like that,’ Annika Carlsson clarified. ‘Were you wondering anything in particular, Bäckström?’
‘I was actually thinking of going to bed,’ Bäckström said. What the hell is happening to Sweden? he thought. To me and all the other normal, decent, hardworking men? What’s going to happen to us?
82.
The first thing Bäckström did on Friday morning was to decide to disperse the last remaining cloud in his otherwise clear blue sky. He went straight to Toivonen’s office and asked for a new service pistol, since his own was evidently stuck with forensics until the lazy sods in internal investigations pulled their fingers out.
‘What do you want it for?’ Toivonen said, glaring at Bäckström.