“Okay then,” said Bäckström, leaning back in his chair and clasping his hands over his fat belly. “Then only two questions remain out of six. Who did it and what’s the motive. As far as the latter is concerned I already have my ideas, but there are a few things I’ve asked Wiijnbladh to check before I get back to that. We still have to flush out the perpetrator, and I don’t think that will take very long.” Bäckström looked shrewdly at those gathered.
Nice to hear, thought Jarnebring, for personally he had been part of more impressive detective teams than this one.
The smaller of the two conference rooms at the homicide squad held a total of nine individuals that morning, considerably fewer than would usually be at the first meeting of a new murder investigation: lead detective Bäckström and his little squire Wiijnbladh, who would take care of
the technical aspects; Jarnebring and Holt; one of Bäckström’s coworkers in the squad, whose name was Alm but who was generally known as Blockhead and was not considered a shining light; a female civilian office worker, Gunsan, who would take care of filing the preliminary investigation material; plus three younger talents who were on loan from the uniformed police. The idea was that they would do all the other things that weren’t very important but still had to be done, and because all of them were almost jumping with eagerness despite the fact that they were still sitting down, evidently none of them had figured out what had been planned.
“Okay then,” said Bäckström, closing his folder. “Any questions?”
“Should we work this weekend?” asked Jarnebring.
“I’m sorry,” said Bäckström, making a brave effort to look gloomy. “We’re still short on cash since they shot that socialist down on Sveavägen, so there’s no question of overtime.” In any case not so it extends to you, you incompetent bastards, thought Bäckström, having already filled out the overtime forms for the weekend on his own account. “So we’ll have to meet on Monday morning. Unless something comes up. Then I’ll be in touch.” You can forget about that, he thought.
“Yes?” Bäckström looked questioningly at Wiijnbladh, who had actually raised his hand. A careful little wave of his little handsy-pandsy, typical for that half-fairy, thought Bäckström.
“Are you coming to look when we undress the body, Bäckström?” Wiijnbladh asked. The question was not as strange as it sounded because it had been a tradition since old Dahlberg’s days that at least one of the squad’s heavy-duty murder investigators was there for the autopsy.
“Thanks for asking but I have to pass,” said Bäckström, who had other, more important matters in mind. “You and I can talk later.”
The survey of the victim’s personal characteristics is the very hub of the steadily rolling wheel of a murder investigation, and considering this particular victim’s appearance, Jarnebring and Holt had decided to start with his coworkers, without even needing to discuss the matter in more detail.
First they talked to the head of the department at the Central Bureau of Statistics where Eriksson had worked. Naturally he was shocked. The whole thing was inexplicable, for according to him, Eriksson had been not only an ideal colleague but also an extraordinary and generally well liked individual. Besides which he had been active in the union at work, with a strong, genuine commitment.
Who at the bureau had known him best? Was there anyone he socialized with outside of work?
Eriksson’s boss had given them two names. A woman and a man who sat next to Eriksson and were part of the same statistics-producing unit. But he couldn’t think of anyone else. And as far as things outside the workplace were concerned, perhaps it was best to ask his coworkers directly. Personally he had not seen Eriksson outside work. Had never even run into him in town, now that he thought about it.
Holt questioned the male colleague and Jarnebring the female one, and considering what they said about Eriksson it would have been enough to speak with either one of them.
Neither of them had anything bad to say about Eriksson. He had
done his job, even if his union obligations naturally occupied a good deal of his time. Neither of them had socialized with him privately. Neither of them had seen him at all outside of work, and they could not name anyone else who had either. Eriksson had always been correct, maintained a certain distance from his surroundings, was courteous of course but at the same time a man of high integrity.
You don’t say, thought Jarnebring.
You don’t say, thought Holt.
On the way out through the reception area, when it was time to return to police headquarters, they finally got a lead. A doorman in his fifties who was standing bent over a copy machine behind the counter in the lobby had given them that lingering gaze that every true detective learns to recognize early on.
Jarnebring slowed his pace, smiled and nodded amiably, giving the doorman the extra moment that such people always need. Medium height, slender build, with thin medium blond hair and forward-leaning body posture, Jarnebring noted without even thinking about it.
“I heard that Eriksson was killed,” the doorman said without looking at them, as he filled a carton with paper.
“You knew him,” said Jarnebring, and this was more a statement than a question.
“Hmm,” said the doorman, nodding.
“Should we meet down in the cafeteria in five minutes,” said Jarnebring, and this was more a suggestion than a question.
“There’s a café in the Radio and TV building,” said their prospective informant. “It’s quieter there. Give me ten minutes.”
Fifteen minutes later they were sitting by themselves in the most remote corner of the café, each with a cup of coffee. Holt started their conversation with a police-style scissors kick.
“With or without filters?” said Holt, smiling at their prospective interview victim even before he started digging in his pockets with his skinny, nicotine-stained fingers.
“Preferably with,” the doorman said, and Holt immediately conjured forth a pack of Marlboro Reds and a lighter. Then everything went like clockwork.
Holt doesn’t smoke, thought Jarnebring with surprise, and on that point he was almost certain.
What had Eriksson been like as a person?
“This stays completely between us, right?” the doorman asked, drawing his fingers through his thin hair.
Jarnebring nodded, Holt nodded, and the doorman took a deep, contemplative drag before he nodded too.
“What Eriksson was like as a person,” said their source. “Well … I don’t really know how I should put it.”
“Try,” said Jarnebring, smiling his famous wolf grin.
“You meet a lot of people over the years. I’ve worked at this place for almost thirty years now … and …” The doorman smiled wryly, shook his head, and tapped the ash off his cigarette, while both Jarnebring and Holt waited in silence. Oh well, thought Jarnebring while in his mind he watched the line running out from the reel.
“Kjell Eriksson,” said the doorman. “What was he like as a person? If I put it like this … Kjell Eriksson was probably the absolute smallest person I’ve met here—and the absolute biggest asshole.” He nodded with emphasis and looked at them, evidently delighted now. “That man was one exceptionally large asshole.”
“I’m interpreting this as meaning it wasn’t you who killed him,” said Jarnebring, grinning cheerfully.
“Oh no,” said the doorman, shaking his head. “Why would I do that? A child could see that someone was going to do it sooner or later, and the only thing that’s a little mysterious is why it took so long. He must have worked with us for ten years at least. Talk about living on borrowed time. Well, damn …” Eriksson’s former coworker looked at them with eyes shining with delight.
“What was it with him?” Holt asked.
Lazy-ass, wheeler-dealer, chicken, ass licker, stuck-up, bully, gossip, backbiter, thief, and just a bastard in general; he even had bad breath.
But he did not seem to have had any other faults. Not that the doorman could think of now in any case.
“Sounds like a nice guy,” said Jarnebring.
“Eriksson was a bad person,” said his former coworker seriously. “But he was no ordinary idiot. He was a shrewd bastard.”
Bäckström had held a press conference up at homicide. Not especially well attended, half a dozen journalists from the newspapers as well as some from radio, but none of the TV channels had done him the honor. That was a shame, because those few times he had appeared on screen it had immediately resulted in a number of odd jobs when he was at the bar showing the flag. Lazy and incompetent, thought Bäckström. They get to report the weather on the screen for a week, and then they think they
are
the weather.
He had not had much to say himself. Of course the investigators were covering a lot of ground without preconceived notions at the same time as a number of promising leads were being followed up, and conclusive evidence had of course been secured. If he were to say something off the record, it would only be that he was personally convinced that this would be cleared up soon.
“Can you tell us how he was murdered?” asked an older female reporter who was sitting in front.
“Not at the present time,” Bäckström said heavily. “This is the sort of thing I want to be able to confront the perpetrator with.”
“Do you know anything about the motive?” asked a middle-aged male journalist who was sitting farthest down by the door.
“I have my own definite ideas about that,” said Bäckström. “But even at this point it is too early to say anything.”
“Have I understood you correctly if I say that it’s exactly as usual at this point. That you’re fumbling around in total darkness?” A younger talent with an irritating smile who had not sat down but instead stood leaning against the wall moping.
Bäckström looked at him sourly.
“No comment,” said Bäckström. “We’ll leave it at that.” Fucking asshole, he thought. Those bastards ought to be boiled for glue.
“I don’t know about you, ladies and gentlemen,” he continued, “but personally I have a great deal of work to get down to, so if you have no more questions, then …” Bäckström had already stood up, nodded heavily at them all. None of them had any objections.
While Bäckström was holding his press conference, his colleague Alm was organizing the incoming tips.
As soon as the media had informed that Great Detective—the General Public—that citizen Eriksson had been murdered, ordinary people would start calling the police like crazy, because they always did, despite the fact that they almost never had anything sensible to say.
“Keep that in mind as you’re sitting there by the phone,” said Alm, nodding at his younger colleague with the uniformed police who had been given this responsible task. “Whatever you do, don’t start arguing with them, because you’ll never be finished. It’s only a lot of bag ladies and drunks and other riffraff.”
“Doesn’t anyone ever call with something important to say?” the borrowed police constable asked, looking at Alm with youthful seriousness.
“Not that I can recall,” said Alm. “It has never happened to me in my twenty years at homicide, so just keep it short so they don’t get a lot of ideas in their little heads. And as far as the two of you are concerned, you should complete the door-knocking from yesterday.” Alm nodded, looking like a general, at the two remaining younger colleagues from the uniformed police. Just as well to explain this so they won’t sit here moping, he thought.
“Yes, I’m wondering—” said one of them.
“Talk with Gunsan and you’ll get a list of names,” Alm interrupted.
“… if there’s anything in particular we should be bearing in mind?” the second one continued.
Who are they recruiting nowadays? Alm thought sourly, staring at them.
“Bearing in mind,” said Alm. “You can find the way to Rådmansgatan, can’t you?”
“I didn’t mean that,” the one who had asked the question persisted. “Is there anything special we should remember to ask them? When we knock on doors, that is.”
“Ask them if they’ve seen or heard anything,” said Alm. “Is that so hard to understand?”
Apparently not when it came down to it, for all three had immediately left his office.
Well now, thought Alm, leaning back in his chair and looking at the clock. Suppose one were to take the opportunity to get the trip to the liquor store over with before lunch, to avoid getting varicose veins by standing around half the afternoon along with all the welfare recipients who don’t have anything better to do.
As soon as Bäckström got rid of the journalistic mob he snuck out to a discreet lunch place in City where he met his own reporter from the major evening tabloid. He was a relatively normal character, considering his chosen profession, and he always entertained on the newspaper’s dime. After a few beers and a generous portion of roast pork with potatoes and lingonberries, Bäckström recovered his good mood and, as a thank-you for the meal, lifted the veil of police secrecy a bit.
“Just between the two of us, I’d say he was stabbed to death,” Bäckström said, nodding confidentially at his host.
“It wasn’t a pretty sight,” the reporter said expectantly.
An overturned coffee table, a little blood, and a stiff—that wasn’t such a big deal. He had seen considerably worse himself, though he couldn’t say that of course. You have to give the audience what it demands, thought Bäckström.
“Let me put it this way,” said Bäckström. “It didn’t look like your house or mine.” Which was completely true, he thought.
“A knife, you said,” the reporter said greedily. “So it was a real slaughterhouse then? Was it a big knife?”
“Between us …” Bäckström lowered his voice and leaned even closer. “It was a real machete … like a samurai sword almost.” Bäckström indicated this by stretching out his fat arm.
“You don’t think this might have any connection with the porno murders,” the reporter said with eyes shining.
“What do you mean?” asked Bäckström evasively. This may be going a little too fast, he thought.
“There’s a lunatic going around hacking up people with a big knife. There are at least three now. First that Negro on Söder, and then those other two who were jerking off in porno shops. One down in Vasastan and one outside the apartment where he lived. Hell, Bäckström … don’t you see we have a serial killer on the loose?”