In an American medical journal the doctor had happened upon an extremely interesting article about attempts in a private clinic in Arizona to use electroshock therapy on people like Bäckström. The doctor had applied for funding from the state authorities, had been given more than he had asked for, and had set off for the United States to spend several months studying how they managed to alter the behavior of people who were eating and drinking themselves to death.
It had been extremely interesting, and when he came home he brought with him a load of visual material. Including the DVD that he had shown Bäckström and told him to take home with him.
Bäckström had put the disc in the DVD player. He had taken three deep breaths, his heart thudding like a jackhammer in his chest, then had pressed play. He had already seen it once, of course, and if it got too bad he could always cover his eyes. Just like the time when he was four and his crazy dad, a sergeant in the Maria district of central Stockholm, had dragged him along to a matinee at one of the cinemas near their home on Södermalm, and the big bad wolf had spent a whole hour hunting and trying to eat the three little pigs. Little Evert had howled like a banshee the whole time, and it wasn’t until he wet himself that he was released from his torment.
‘This little crybaby will never make a decent officer,’ his dad had said when he returned his only begotten son to his gentle mother and her tender ministrations — hot chocolate with whipped cream and freshly baked cinnamon buns.
And now it was time. A thirty-minute report from a rehabilitation clinic in the Southwest for patients suffering from relatively mild strokes and blockages in their hearts and brains, where they were going to be brought back to life.
Most of them were very similar to Bäckström. Apart from the fact that they needed walkers to get around and had drooling mouths, dead eyes, and slurred speech. One of them — who was so like Bäckström that they could have been identical twins — was heading away from the camera when his already low-slung trousers slid down to his ankles to reveal the huge blue diaper that he was wearing underneath. Then he had turned to face the camera, smiling happily with wet lips, grabbed the diaper, and summarized what had happened to him.
‘No panties,’ the patient slurred, then the soft voice of the narrator took over and talked about this particular patient, who was apparently only forty-five in spite of the way he looked. He had abused high-cholesterol food for many years and had also drunk large quantities of beer and bourbon, out of some absurd notion that the latter counteracted the effects of the former. The patient had suffered a relatively benign stroke a couple months ago. That was the way it was, but Bäckström already had his eyes closed and had a good deal of trouble locating the off switch.
After that he had quickly pulled on an old tracksuit bearing the force’s logo. He had been given it when he attended a course together with all the Neanderthals because some bright spark in management had decided that they needed to learn to cooperate in case something really serious happened.
Who the fuck would turn to people like them? Bäckström thought, as he tied the laces on his freshly bought sneakers with some difficulty, fully intending to walk right round Kungsholmen.
Two hours later he was back, and just as he was putting the key in the lock he had a revelation.
I’ve worked it out, Bäckström thought. That bright spark in the white coat had got it all wrong, and if there was any justice in the world he ought to hang himself with his own intestines. Only drink, no grub. Then his blood vessels would get rinsed through like a mountain stream in spring, he thought. You didn’t have to be a doctor to work that out. Every single intelligent person knew perfectly well that alcohol was the best solvent that had ever been discovered.
No sooner said than done, and two minutes later he was knocking on his neighbor’s door, the former television executive.
‘I thought you were going on holiday, Bäckström,’ his neighbor slurred as he gestured defensively with a glass of Bäckström’s excellent malt whiskey.
‘I’ve had to postpone it for a few days,’ Bäckström lied, ‘so I was wondering if I could buy back some of the drink I sold you the other day. One bottle will do fine. Ideally some malt whiskey, if you’ve got any left,’ he said, glancing at the glass in the man’s hand.
‘You can’t go back on a deal,’ the television executive slurred, shaking his head. ‘You don’t get back what you’ve sold.’ And he had abruptly shut the door and turned the safety lock.
Bäckström had tried to make him see sense through his mail slot but only succeeded in getting his neighbor to slam the internal door as well.
At that point even Bäckström had been forced to give up. He had lumbered back to his own apartment. Showered once more, brushed his teeth, and took three of the pills that the crazy doctor had prescribed for him, one brown, one blue, and one pink. Then he had crept into bed. Turning out the light, with no intention of writing a farewell letter, he fell asleep as if someone had whacked him over the head with a saucepan lid.
When Bäckström woke up it was four o’clock in the morning. A merciless sun was shining in the clear blue sky, and he felt even more wretched than he had when he’d gone to bed the previous evening.
Bäckström had made some black coffee and drank three cups in quick succession, standing in the kitchen. He gulped down what remained of the vegetables and polished off another bottle of mineral water. Then he had set out and walked all the way to the Solna police station.
The same hellish weather as the day before, and the fact that the temperature wasn’t registering as more than twenty must be because it was still the middle of the night. He staggered into work just after six o’clock. Dizzy with tiredness and mad from the lack of sleep and food. Alone in the entire building, since all his lazy and incompetent colleagues were at home snoring in their beds.
I’ve got to find somewhere to sleep, Bäckström thought. In his aimless wandering he finally found his way down to the garage in the basement.
‘God, you look wide awake, Bäckström,’ the garage attendant said, clearly already at his post, as he rubbed his fingers on his overalls and held out a greasy palm.
‘Murder investigation,’ Bäckström snarled. ‘Haven’t had a wink of sleep in days.’
‘No problem, Bäckström,’ the garage attendant said. ‘You can borrow the mobile cabin I put together for the drug surveillance squad last winter.’
Then he had opened the doors to a perfectly ordinary blue transit van, and inside was everything that a man in Bäckström’s situation required. Among other things, a proper bed.
Two hours later he started to stir because he could smell freshly brewed coffee in his nostrils. As well as something else that had to be a hallucination. The smell of fresh rolls with cheese and butter.
‘Sorry to have to disturb you, Bäckström,’ the garage attendant said, as he put a large tray down on the floor and sat down on the chair opposite the bed, ‘but those eager little buggers in surveillance are saying they need their van. Apparently they’re going to sit and stare at some old junkies out in Rissne. I’ve brought you some coffee and some rolls in case you’re hungry.’