Then the riot squad came in with a little gypsy lad who had been siphoning gasoline up on Karlbergsvägen. It was Ornery Adolf’s squad-dear colleagues have many names-and he and his guys were sour as vinegar, for the rest of the tribe had managed to escape. He was a funny little guy, thought Bäckström. With Goofy shoes, trousers a foot too long-where had he pinched those?-and the tribal chieftain’s cap on his curly little head. He was bent over like a poker and moaning that he’d gotten gasoline in his little belly and had to go to the hospital, so Bäckström arranged a barred compartment for him too. Farthest in, to be on the safe side, so he wouldn’t disturb the others who were there.
But then the boss started to make a fuss about the gypsy’s age, and that perhaps it would be best if someone sat with him in a normal room until the old ladies from the social services after-hours office had time to drag themselves there and take over.
“It’s cool,” said Bäckström. “I’ve counted his fingers and there are six on each hand.”
The boss, who was a Pentecostalist, was a humorless bastard, so he didn’t want to hear that, and for a while it looked rather critical. But then the tribal chieftain himself showed up with half of his numerous relatives to talk the lad out, for he was only thirteen according to Papa Taikon, and then it became a real circus. For clearly they’d missed the fact that Ornery Adolf and his lads had taken the opportunity to stay and chow down a holiday snack. And then they suddenly had six folk dancers arrested instead of one. This is a pure Christmas week sale, thought Bäckström.
Then of course a bunch of old hags came in too who’d gotten a little well-deserved Christmas whipping. One of them wasn’t half bad. True, her face looked like a Lappland owl, but she had rather nice tits and was only half as old as the other drunken hags who’d gotten a beating. High time for a case of my own, Bäckström decided, took her into an interrogation room, and turned on the red light on the door in order not to be disturbed.
First the usual sniveling, but Bäckström had paper napkins on hand, so that would no doubt work out.
“I understand that this is awfully difficult for you,” he said with his most sympathetic tone of voice. “You shouldn’t feel any pressure, so take your time and start from the beginning. You can take my card, by the way, in case you need someone to talk with.” So you can get your little mouse greased up too as soon as you look human again, he thought.
A few hours earlier she’d gotten the bright idea to toddle over to her ex-boyfriend’s to give him a Christmas present. True, it was over because he drank too much and ran around with other women and was generally crazy, but he should get a little Christmas present in any case, and when he got it he’d evidently started wrestling and seen to it that he got a lay as a bonus. How fucking stupid can you be? thought Bäckström, for in the preliminary report the officers from the uniformed police had filled out there wasn’t any mention of a rape.
“You don’t have his name and address?” Bäckström asked as he leaned forward and patted her consolingly on the arm. Out in the cold, he thought gloomily, and close up those tits weren’t especially noteworthy-who the hell gets turned on by Dachshund ears? Wonder if I can ask to get my card back? he thought.
First he spoke with the boss and told him about the rape the colleagues had missed, and because the chief was that type, he got so worked up that Bäckström was worried he would get the big police medal.
“Nice to have a few people who’ve been around a while,” said the boss, nodding. “Good, Bäckström, good,” he repeated. “I’ll take care of the victim and make sure that the doctor has a look at her, then you see to it that you bring in the perpetrator.”
What the hell kind of justice is there in this world? thought Bäckström gloomily fifteen minutes later. The victim had gotten a lay and now she was lying in a warm doctor’s office resting up. The perpetrator had gotten both a present and a lay and was no doubt sitting at home boozing in that good ol’ cottage warmth. He himself was sitting in the dark in a bumpy service car in the middle of an ice-cold Christmas Eve, together with that surly guy from the union, to collar some crazy bastard who was nesting far out in the southern suburbs, and if he was even still at home Bäckström would certainly get to celebrate Christmas in the hospital with a Mora knife in his belly.
Plus the union guy sat and nagged the whole journey that they had to see to it they got backup from the uniformed police before they went into the apartment.
“Perhaps we should check if he’s at home first,” said Bäckström wearily. “Or what do you think?”
The union guy was content to nod. True, he was surly, but still he did have the good taste to keep his trap shut. The ex-boyfriend was home. Bäckström listened at the mail slot and heard sounds both of the TV and of someone going to the can. And because he was there anyway he rang the doorbell and the perpetrator opened, let them in, and asked if they wanted anything. A cup of coffee or something? On the other hand he couldn’t offer them any aquavit for he’d stopped drinking. There was something here that didn’t add up, thought Bäckström.
A dark, rather husky fellow in his mid-thirties, completely sober as far as Bäckström could determine. His apartment was small and neither tidy nor untidy. The bed in the only room was covered with a throw but it didn’t appear arranged. The TV in front of the sofa was on; clearly he’d been sitting and watching when Bäckström rang the doorbell. Nothing arousing either, a normal American flick-Bäckström had seen it himself when it was at the theater.
The only thing that gave a little hope was all the books he had and a few posters on the walls that clearly seemed political, even if they weren’t exactly Chairman Mao. Wonder if he’s a communist? thought Bäckström, and while their host, the perpetrator, was making coffee, Bäckström took the opportunity to snoop around a little. It was then that he found the dartboard that was hanging on the door to the bathroom. Damn, thought Bäckström. That was the face of our dear prime minister, with hook nose and everything. Damn solid workmanship, too, with the picture printed directly on the target itself, and the majority of the thrown darts appeared to have landed just right and straight on the nose of the poor bastard.
There’s something that doesn’t add up, thought Bäckström, for of course he couldn’t be a communist.
“Damn amusing dartboard you have,” said Bäckström when they were sitting on the sofa drinking coffee. “Where can you buy one like that?”
“You mean of the traitor?” said their host, and here there was definitely something that didn’t add up. “You can have it if you’d like. I can get more.”
“That’s okay,” said Bäckström, for that damn union guy he had with him had already started to purse his lips. “There was another thing that we wanted to talk about with you.”
So then they did that and as so often before it appeared that the little whore had made it all up. They’d been together, but otherwise there wasn’t a thing that was right. He was the one who’d left her, and it would soon be six months ago, for he couldn’t put up with her constant boozing and yelling; he himself had tried to quit drinking alcohol. Suddenly she’d shown up at his place on Christmas Eve and the present she had with her was a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.