“Sad,” said GeGurra and sighed. “Personally I’ve done considerably larger deals than this without saying a word about either the seller or the buyer.”
“Sure,” said Bäckström. “It’s a completely different matter, since I’m the one who’s the cop in this company.”
“Yes?”
“What do you think if I ask the questions and you answer?” said Bäckström.
“Of course,” said GeGurra and nodded. “Then I’ll tell you what I heard from an old acquaintance almost fifteen years ago.”
“Wait now,” said Bäckström, making a deprecating gesture. “Fifteen years ago? Why haven’t you said anything until now?”
“It was as if it never happened,” said GeGurra, shaking his head. “But then I saw in the newspaper a week or so ago that the head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation apparently opened a new secret investigation. Because the crime will soon pass the statute of limitations, I thought perhaps this was the right time to speak out.”
“Okay, I’m listening,” said Bäckström. Talk about danger in delay, he thought.
Almost fifteen years earlier, an old acquaintance, who “was in the same line of work as Bäckström,” told Gustaf G:son Henning about the weapon used to murder Olof Palme. Because he had kept a diary for many years, Bäckström could of course get an exact date for their conversation if he so desired.
“Why did he tell you that?” asked Bäckström. A fellow cop. That’s the shits, he thought.
“He wanted to know what it might be worth if it was sold on the international art and antiques market,” GeGurra explained. “People collect the strangest things, you know,” he said, shaking his head. “A few years ago I sold an old pair of flannel pajamas that had belonged to Heinrich Himmler, the old head of the Nazi SS, as I’m sure you recall, for three hundred fifty thousand kronor.”
“What kind of answer did he get? Your acquaintance, I mean.”
“That it would probably be extremely difficult to find a buyer. Considering that it concerned a still unsolved murder of a prime minister. A million, tops, at that point in time. But that the potential price could obviously change radically as soon as the murder was past the statute of limitations, assuming the weapon was not criminally acquired, of course. The limitations period for receiving stolen goods is a bit complicated, as I’m sure you know. In any event, after the end of that period this would surely be a matter of millions.”
“More than ten?”
“Certainly.” GeGurra nodded. “Assuming that you find the right buyer, and I know several who would reach down pretty far to add a showpiece like that to their collections.”
“The Friends of Palme Haters,” said Bäckström and grinned.
“Yes, one of them, at least.”
“Did he tell you anything else about the weapon?”
“Yes. Among other things he said that this did not concern a Smith and Wesson revolver as has always been maintained in the media. Instead it concerned a different, American-manufactured revolver, a Ruger. The model is called Speed Six and has a magazine that holds six bullets. Chrome, silver-colored, with a long barrel, ten inches I seem to recall he said, a.357 caliber Magnum. Wooden butt made of walnut with a checkered grip. In perfect condition. I remember I asked about that, by the way. That kind of information is important to someone like me.”
“Did he say anything else?” said Bäckström. “Did he have any registration number on the weapon?” The model may actually correspond, he thought.
“Not that he gave me anyway. On the other hand the weapon was ready for delivery, in the event of a deal. It had been stored in a very secure place for a number of years.”
“So where was that?” asked Bäckström.
“In the lion’s own den,” said GeGurra, smiling faintly. “Those were his own words. That it had been stored in the lion’s own den.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I’ve no idea. But he seemed extremely amused when he said it.”
“Did he say anything else?” asked Bäckström.
“Yes, actually. One more thing. Pretty strange story, in fact. According to what he alleged, the same weapon had been used for another two murders and a suicide. A few years before it was used to shoot the prime minister. I definitely remember that he said that. That this was a weapon with a long history. It had been used not only to shoot a prime minister who spied for the Russians, but also to clear away more ordinary riffraff. He expressed himself more or less like that, actually.”
“Does he have a name?”
“Who?” said GeGurra, with a modest smile.
“Your informant. The one who was in the same line of work as me. Does he have a name?”
“Yes,” said GeGurra. “But hardly a name that you discuss at a place like this. So you’ll have to be patient for a few hours. I asked one of my co-workers to place a discreet envelope in your mail slot. The usual monthly amount for our old deal plus a little extra to defray your expenses in connection with what we’ve just discussed, which I hope can be our next project. Plus a slip of paper with the name of my old acquaintance.”
“Sounds good,” said Bäckström. “By the way, how did you get to know him?”
“Like most of the others,” said GeGurra. “He bought a painting from me. A Zorn, actually.”
“Goodness,” said Bäckström. “That wasn’t cat shit.” Wonder what a colleague like that had worked out? he thought. Must have been better than the lost-and-found warehouse.
“A rather unusual Zorn,” said GeGurra. “When the great painter of women was in his most exhilarated mood, his female studies could be rather penetrating, if I may say so. Not just skin, hair, and water. An unknown side of Zorn, or perhaps a side not readily discussed by art historians, but which suited my acquaintance’s somewhat special taste. Like hand in glove, if you will.”
“He painted her pussy,” Bäckström concluded.
“The best-painted cunt in Swedish art history,” GeGurra concurred with unexpected emphasis. “What do you say to an ample slice of meat, by the way, and a decent bottle of red?”
Bäckström remained sitting at the restaurant longer than he intended. He had yet another project to attend to. Besides an envelope that waited on his own hall mat.
GeGurra really is an old brick, thought Bäckström as he sat on his couch, counting up the monthly stipend, plus the to say the least generous incentive to support the new project. Although personally he wouldn’t have given many kopeks for the name of the informant on the enclosed slip of paper.
What do you mean “colleague”? No way did that fairy manage to shoot Palme, and how did someone like that have the money for a Zorn? thought Bäckström, shaking his round head before downing an ample dose of Estonian vodka and fruit soda. Besides, there was definitely someone else he knew who always used to bang on about the fact that he had been a good friend of the same man.
Now who the hell was that? thought Bäckström, and never mind, for it would certainly come back to him. Must be that fucking Baltic vodka, he thought before he fell asleep. Like an eraser on an otherwise perfectly functioning brain like his.
34
On Thursday, August 31, contrary to habit Bäckström had been dutifully active the whole day, because there were big things going on. Not bicycles, waste drums, or worn-out office furniture. Likely this was a matter of future Swedish crime history that for once had ended up in the right hands and not with one of his more or less retarded fellow officers. For once it was also so expedient that he had access to all the information he needed in his own computer. Even the police lost-and-found warehouse had been mobilized in the hunt for the revolver used to shoot the prime minister. A hunt that had gone on for as long as the hunt for the murderer himself. Which had required tens of thousands of man-hours over the years and still with no results.