‘Are you sure I can’t offer to drop you off?’ Halfy Söderman asked, nodding toward the bottle of cognac standing on the kitchen table between him and Bäckström.
‘I’m fine,’ Bäckström said.
‘You’re not just quick on the draw,’ Söderman declared. ‘You’re a man of strong character too, Bäckström,’ he said, pouring a decent splash into his own coffee cup.
‘Ah, liqueur’s good,’ Söderman said, sighing with pleasure. ‘And good for you. One million alcoholics can’t be wrong.’
Maybe not all of them, Bäckström thought.
‘There’s something I wanted to ask you about,’ Bäckström said, pulling out Danielsson’s black pocket diary.
‘Well, because it’s you, just go ahead, Bäckström,’ Halfy said. ‘If it had been one of your so-called colleagues, I’d have got into a three-round scrap with them by now.’
‘Karl Danielsson’s pocket diary,’ Bäckström said. ‘There are some notes in here that I can’t quite get my head round.’
‘I can well imagine,’ Söderman grinned. ‘Kalle was a crafty bastard.’
‘There are certain notes that come up again and again. We think they mean that he was paying out money to three different people.’
‘I can believe that,’ Söderman said. ‘And without a stain on his character. What are their names?’
‘They’re abbreviations,’ Bäckström said. ‘Initials of their names, we think. Plus the amounts.
‘The initials are HA, AFS, and FI. All in capital letters, take a look,’ Bäckström said, holding the diary out to Söderman.
‘What are they supposed to mean, then? The abbreviations, I mean. What are the names?’
‘Hassan Talib, Afsan Ibrahim, and Farshad Ibrahim.’
‘They’re those fucking bastards who tried to kill you, Bäckström,’ Söderman said as he leafed through the diary.
‘Yes,’ Bäckström said. ‘Can you remember if Danielsson ever talked about them?’
‘He never talked about stuff like that. No matter how hammered he got. As to whether he was stashing money away for people like that? I can quite believe him doing it, but he wasn’t stupid enough to talk about it.’
‘No?’ Bäckström said.
‘No,’ Halfy Söderman said emphatically. ‘I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong, Superintendent. Mind you, I’d be happy to do my bit if it would help get those camel jockeys locked up for so long that they chuck the key in a lake. But I’m sorry to have to tell you that they’re probably innocent, I’m afraid.’
‘Really?’ Bäckström said.
‘Kalle Danielsson was a funny little shit,’ Halfy said. ‘These notes are about something completely different, not those date pickers from Fuckknowswhereistan.’
‘Tell me,’ Bäckström said.
‘It’s a good story,’ Halfy Söderman said, shaking his head and smiling happily at his guest.
‘Are you sitting comfortably, Bäckström?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ Bäckström said.
‘Then I’ll begin,’ Halfy said. ‘Hold onto your ears so they don’t drop off.’
87.
‘What have you been up to, Bäckström?’ Annika Carlsson asked when Bäckström returned to the office three hours later.
‘I’ve eaten a nutritious lunch and solved a double murder,’ Bäckström said. And bought some cough drops on the way, he thought.
‘What have you been up to, then?’ he asked.
‘I checked out what you asked me to,’ Annika said. ‘It seems to fit so far. I found the rental car you asked me to look for. Hired from the OK garage in Sundbyberg on Saturday, May seventeenth. Returned the next day.’
‘Really?’ Bäckström said. ‘So what’s the problem?’
‘Toivonen,’ Carlsson said. ‘I’m afraid you’re going to have to talk to him.’
‘If he wants to talk to me, he knows how to find me,’ Bäckström said.
‘Some advice, Bäckström,’ Annika Carlsson said. ‘If I were you, I’d go and talk to him, and keep a low profile when you do. I’ve seen him like this once before and it wasn’t pretty.’
‘Really?’ Bäckström said. So the fucking fox is throwing his weight around, he thought.
At least Toivonen wasn’t climbing the walls. On the contrary. When Bäckström came into his office he merely nodded amiably and asked him to sit down.
‘Good to see you, Bäckström,’ Toivonen said. ‘I’ve got some nice pictures I thought I might show you.’
What the hell is he sitting there saying? Bäckström thought.
‘I thought we could start with these,’ Toivonen said, handing over a bundle of surveillance pictures. ‘They’re from last Friday, when you were out on the town and met Tatiana Thorén. Before that I believe you had dinner with Juha Valentin Andersson-Snygg, or Gustaf Gustafsson Henning as he’s known these days. So I’m guessing he was responsible for the introductions.’
‘What the hell is this?’ Bäckström growled. ‘I’ve got an investigation that’s on its knees because I haven’t got enough bodies. And you waste surveillance staff harassing one of your own colleagues? I hope you’ve got a damn good explanation.’
‘You always have to exaggerate, Bäckström,’ Toivonen said. ‘We had surveillance following the Ibrahim brothers and Hassan Talib. They went off to Café Opera, and that’s where you and little Miss Thorén suddenly turn up in the story. Because Farshad seemed especially interested in you, we thought it might make sense to follow up that thread as well.’
‘I’ve never met the idiot. Not until he showed up in my flat and tried to kill me,’ Bäckström said.
‘Listen to what you’re saying,’ Toivonen said. ‘In part, I believe you. I think they turned up hoping to bribe you. Get hold of someone who could tell them what was going on in our armed robbery case. Presumably they were starting to feel the heat by then. Farshad’s a cunning bastard, and he clearly doesn’t lack money. And presumably Thorén got hold of the keys to your flat for them. You dropped your trousers pretty quickly, I gather.’
‘She didn’t get any keys from me.’
‘No,’ Toivonen said. ‘But as soon as you passed out she sorted out a copy. She’s a whore, by the way. One of the expensive ones.’
‘If you say so, Toivonen,’ Bäckström said, shrugging. ‘I didn’t have to pay a penny myself. How much did she charge you? Five hundred Finnish marks, or what?’
‘You can calm down, Bäckström,’ Toivonen said. ‘I’m not going to try to get you for breaking the law on the purchase of sexual services.
‘It’s worse than that, I’m afraid,’ Toivonen went on. ‘We took this set of pictures the same evening you had your little shooting frenzy at home in your flat. You’re sitting drinking in your local bar. Beer and a large whiskey before the food, more beer and a couple shots with the food, coffee and a large cognac after the food. A police officer, out in his free time, goes to a bar, gets intoxicated, carrying his service revolver. I understand precisely why you met our colleagues with a glass in your hand when you finally let them in. What do you think of the pictures, by the way? Damn good quality, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re talking about,’ Bäckström said, holding up the first picture. ‘On this one I’m sitting with a glass of low-alcohol beer with a glass of apple juice alongside. You should try it, by the way.’
‘Sure,’ Toivonen said with a grin. ‘And then you had some extra water in a shot glass to go with your next low-alcohol beer. And you finished off with another apple juice. In a cognac glass this time. You’re very funny, Bäckström, and if it wasn’t for the fact that I’ve already got hold of a copy of your bill, I’d probably give up and try to move on.’