How the hell does the little sow get that to fit together? thought Bäckström. And the only prospect he could think of personally was a royally drunk Italian customs agent he’d met at a conference a few years earlier.
I’ll kill the Lapp bastard, thought Bäckström, and with these consoling thoughts in his round head he fell asleep almost immediately in his newly purchased Hästens bed.
The following day was like all other days at his new job. Old bikes, shithouse barrels, and for a week now half an office that a practical-minded entrepreneur had dumped on a wooded hillside on an old aristocratic estate twelve miles north of Stockholm. A lot of worn-out computers, wobbly desks, and dilapidated desk chairs. A method of disposal both practical and cheap if you couldn’t make it to the dump, and what the hell did the police have to do with this? thought Bäckström.
Although he did realize it was the wrong wooded hillside. The fine people who lived on the estate had been extremely indignant and took the chief constable aside when he was at dinner with their old friend His Majesty the King. Already the next day the case was on Bäckström’s desk. Serious environmental crime with highest priority from the highest police leadership and necessary assistance required from the lost-and-found warehouse’s most experienced property investigator, that is, Bäckström.
“So I guess you’ll have to borrow a service vehicle, Bäckström, and do a little investigating on the scene. Sounds like there’s a lot of nutritious technical clues out there if I’m correctly informed,” said his immediate boss as he gave him the assignment and set the complaint on his desk. “By the way, don’t forget to take along a pair of rubber boots,” he added thoughtfully. “The ground is supposed to be pretty damp this time of year.”
The case had mostly been going nowhere, but Bäckström did his best to get things moving and was even invited to a restorative lunch by the crime victim himself when he interviewed him about the probable time of the crime. Basically whenever, according to the plaintiff, because these days he spent most of his time in his house on the French Riviera where fortunately he didn’t own any wooded hillsides he had to worry about.
“Probably one of those bankruptcies,” the landowner suggested, saluting his guest with his schnapps glass. “Unless you have any better ideas, chief inspector?”
“I’m thinking about having the whole pile of shit hauled to the tech squad,” said Bäckström.
“Sounds like an excellent idea,” his host observed. “I assume the police will cover the expense.”
“Of course,” said Bäckström.
His boss had not been equally amused. Especially not after his conversation with the head of the tech squad, but Bäckström stuck to his guns and if this was to be war, so be it.
“So now I’m suddenly supposed to forget about a serious environmental crime,” said Bäckström indignantly. “Even though that fucking greenhouse effect will be the death of both old ladies and children. You have kids, don’t you?” With an exceptionally ugly old lady, he thought.
“Of course not, Bäckström, of course not,” his boss protested. “Yes, I have three kids so I understand exactly. What I mean is simply that perhaps we shouldn’t expect that tech will treat this as a priority. You haven’t tried to trace the things yourself?”
“Bookshelf ‘Billy,’ office chair ‘Nisse,’ and a lot of old broken computers that were bought over the counter ten years ago. Though I did find at least two hard drives among the other mildew, and if the boys at tech just focus on those I think we’ll be home free,” said Bäckström. That gives you a little something to suck on, you effeminate little binder carrier, thought Bäckström.
Then his old benefactor GeGurra called him on his cell phone and suddenly there was hope in his life again.
“Do you have time for dinner next week?” Gustaf G:son Henning wondered as soon as they were finished with the introductory courtesies. “I have a very interesting story, and I think we can be of mutual benefit and use to each other, if I may say so. Unfortunately I have a lot of work right now, so what do you think about the Opera Cellar on Monday at seven o’clock?”
“Of course,” said Bäckström. “You can’t give me a clue?” Now this is starting to look like something, he thought. That fucking office furniture they could almost lamentably shove up their rear ends if they asked him.
“Big things, Bäckström,” said GeGurra. “Much too big to be discussed on the phone I’m afraid.”
Wonder if they’ve pinched that old Rembrandt at the National Museum, thought Bäckström. The one with all those bastards sitting and boozing while they swore some fucking oath.
“Worse than that, I’m afraid,” said Gustaf G:son Henning, looking at his guest seriously as they sat down in the usual out-of-the-way corner and each got a refresher while they studied the menu.
“What do you know about the weapon that was used when Olof Palme was shot?” he continued, as he nibbled carefully on the large olive that the waiter had set on a dish alongside his dry martini.
Goodness, thought Bäckström. Now we’re talking.
“Quite a bit,” said Bäckström, nodding with all the dignity that suits anyone who was there when it happened. Now the Lapp bastard will have to watch out, he thought. The honorable Henning was unquestionably a man who dealt in hard goods. Not an ordinary glowworm who let his jaw run on its own.
“Do tell,” said Bäckström.
“I have a few questions first, if you’ll excuse me,” said his host.
“I’m listening,” said Bäckström.
“They say there’s a reward?”
“The socialist government put a price tag on the bastard. Fifty million tax free provided he’s delivered in travel-ready condition.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ready for further transport to the courts and our dear criminal justice system.” Bäckström grinned, taking a gulp of his life-giving malt.
“What if he’s dead?”
“Still fifty million if it can be proved that it was him,” said Bäckström. “On the other hand, if you can only deliver the weapon he used, you’ll have to be content with ten million,” he continued. “Because we have the bullets from the crime scene to compare with, it’s also pretty easy. If you find the right weapon, that is. Proving that it was the one that was used, I mean,” Bäckström clarified.
“What would happen if you were to show up with the weapon? Or mentioned where your colleagues could find it?”
“I wouldn’t get any money in that case,” sighed Bäckström. “I am a cop after all, so I’m expected to do that sort of thing for free.” On the other hand I would have guaranteed hell from the Lapp bastard and probably wind up in jail as thanks for clearing up his shit, he thought.
“What if the tip came from me?” asked GeGurra.
“Then you’d get pure hell,” said Bäckström, nodding in emphasis.
“Anonymously then? Assuming I gave an anonymous tip?”
“Forget it,” said Bäckström. “We’re talking about the assassination of Olof Palme, so you can forget anonymity. Jail! That’s where you’ll end up. Out of pure reflex, if nothing else.”
“Even if I can prove that I wasn’t the least bit involved?” his host persisted.
“Then you can still forget about being anonymous. This is no ordinary lottery winnings we’re talking about,” said Bäckström. “Some of my fellow officers are as taciturn as a tea strainer. Give out more than you pour in, if you know what I mean.”