Then he called Johansson’s secretary again to give her yet another little reminder. Called her on Monday, on Tuesday, and on Wednesday, when his bottle cap popped off and he told her a thing or two she needed to hear. The only result was that his own little office fool and so-called boss came charging into his office and threatened first one thing and then another, and then suddenly Bäckström was going to be granted the favor of meeting Anna Holt.
From weak dick to ass licker to that anorexic dyke whose ribs you can count through her jacket. We’re taking giant steps here, thought Bäckström as he put his best foot forward in the corridors that led to Police Superintendent Anna Holt.
Clearly he was the target of a conspiracy. They had recorded his calls in secret, and Holt threatened first one thing and then another. First he only intended to give her some general advice and tell her to stick her opinions up her anus, but because this still was about the murder of a prime minister he tried to make an effort and give her everything GeGurra had given him. Decent fellow that he was, case-oriented as he was too, and considering the great values that were at stake.
What the hell is happening with the police? thought Bäckström as he left her office. Where the hell are we headed, really?
37
Holt was not impressed by the little that Bäckström had to tell. It sounded too much like other weapons tips that had come into the Palme investigation over the years. For the sake of orderliness she had nonetheless done such checking as she could with the help of the case files. It took her almost two days. With the greatest probability two wasted days, she thought as she put the last paper aside.
During more than twenty years the investigators had received close to a thousand tips that entirely or partially concerned the weapon that was supposed to have been used to shoot the prime minister. In addition over six hundred.357 caliber Magnum revolvers had been test fired. Practically all of them Smith & Wessons and legally owned. Nothing of what had been done had yielded any results. A few tips had seemed promising, because it was always like that. None of them led the police closer to the weapon or the perpetrator who had used it.
All of this information was collected in over sixty binders. For once at least the majority of this information had been transferred to computers. What disturbed Holt was that the police’s follow-up of the weapons leads almost exclusively concerned Smith & Wesson revolvers, even though right from the start it was clear that it was fully possible that the bullets could have been fired by half a dozen Magnum revolvers of different makes, and that the Ruger revolver was one of them.
The explanation seemed to be historical. As early as fourteen days after the first press conference, the investigation leadership decided to focus on Smith & Wesson revolvers, and what was a statistical estimate to start with turned into absolute truth and a direct order.
Holt was an excellent shot. She shot better than most of her fellow police officers. She could take apart and put together her service pistol blindfolded, but at the same time she was also completely uninterested in weapons and almost considered them a necessary evil that came with the job. Fortunately less and less often, in her line of work.
To be on the safe side she called a colleague she had met at a conference during the spring. He was a forensic technician and an even better shot than Holt. Weapons were his life’s interest and his livelihood, but he still had left room for other things. The only time they met each other they wound up in the same bed the first night of the conference, and it had been really nice. The silence that followed afterward she had first explained by the fact that he worked at the crime lab in Linköping and she in Stockholm. That he probably fiddled with his beloved weapons both day and night. That perhaps he didn’t dare call a colleague of such a high rank. Thoughts she had let go of rather quickly.
So I’ll have to ask for a little positive special treatment, thought Holt, dialing his number.
Nice of her to call. So why haven’t you called yourself? thought Holt.
Sure, the weapon that shot Palme could just as well be a Ruger of the model she described, as for example the corresponding model from Smith & Wesson. It wasn’t really the weapon that shot Palme that we’re after, but the person who used it, thought Holt.
Then she asked the decisive question.
“Assume that you found the right weapon. Would you then be able to link it to the bullets that were found on Sveavägen? With the certainty required in a courtroom?” she clarified.
“Well, assuming it’s in the same condition today, then it ought to be possible.”
“If we assume that,” said Holt. Stored in the lion’s own den and in excellent condition, she thought. At least according to the little fatso Bäckström. Or more correctly stated, according to the little fatso’s own anonymous, obviously completely trustworthy source.
“Today I believe that the probability with which you can testify is a little over ninety percent,” he answered. “If you had asked me five years ago, I would have said it was at maybe eighty percent, and that’s probably the bare minimum.”
“How’s that?” asked Holt.
“Both bullets are damaged. What’s messed them up the most is that they got a little bent and twisted around their own longitudinal axis, if you understand what I mean. But today we have access to software that means that someone like me can reconstruct them to almost original condition in my little computer. So with a little luck, then-”
“Can you link them together?” asked Holt. I recall that you were extremely handy, she thought.
“Excuse the question, but it’s not the case that-”
“Absolutely not. Forget that,” interrupted Holt. “My top boss has asked me to go through the Palme material, and as I read through the weapons part it struck me that they seem to have almost entirely disregarded all revolvers that didn’t come from Smith and Wesson.”
“Yes, that was sloppy of them,” he sighed. “In my job you have to be extremely meticulous.”
“Thanks for your help,” said Holt. Not only at work, she thought.
“If you happen to be in the area then perhaps we…”
“I promise to think about it,” said Holt. Besides, I seem to recall that you have my number, she thought.
Guys, she thought as she put down the receiver. What is it that’s actually wrong with them?
Bäckström was so wrong in all human respects that she couldn’t even hate him. Could barely manage to dislike him. Preferably avoided thinking about him. A fat little guy who had certainly been bullied by his classmates from the very first day at school. Who was sufficiently thick-skinned and good at fighting to be able to pay back in kind. Who had almost never been liked as the person he really was. Who to be on the safe side responded by disliking everything and everyone.
Then there was Lars Martin Johansson. Who could be as merciless as their fellow officer Berg maintained. Whom she herself could dislike intensely until he said something or did something that hit her right in the gut. Even though she had never loved, hated, or even feared him. Johansson, whom she mostly disapproved of nowadays. Because he affected her and because she thought about him far too often. Because of his gray eyes that assessed most of what came into his vicinity.
Her very temporary lover she had just been talking with. This handsome, physically fit, and handy man who couldn’t even manage to pick up the phone to call her. Who at the same time made no secret of the fact that he could imagine another encounter. Casual and without reservations. Just like all the firearms he took apart, put together again. And fired off.