About the Book
When gangster lawyer Thomas Eriksson, renowned defender of the guilty, is found brutally murdered in his own home the police face a rare problem. Finding a suspect isn’t difficult, but narrowing down the long list of people who wanted Eriksson dead might be . . .
High on the list is the celebrated Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström, in charge of the investigation. Unfortunately for him a high profile case really gets in the way of his routine, namely avoiding the office, keeping work to a minimum and steering well clear of his inept colleagues – aside from the attractive ones, of course.
Luckily, by virtue of his questionable contacts, Bäckström has an unequalled skill for having the guilty handed to him on a plate. All he has to do is break every rule in the book – and receive a healthy wad of cash for his trouble. But this time he’s in for a surprise because even Bäckström couldn’t have predicted where this trail would lead, or how far from comfortable he might be at its end.
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Foreword
Part I
Chapter 1
Part II
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Part III
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Part IV
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Part V
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Chapter 115
Chapter 116
Chapter 117
Part VI
Chapter 118
Chapter 119
Chapter 120
Chapter 121
Chapter 122
Chapter 123
Chapter 124
Chapter 125
Chapter 126
Chapter 127
Part VII
Chapter 128
Chapter 129
Chapter 130
Chapter 131
Chapter 132
Chapter 133
Chapter 134
Chapter 135
Chapter 136
Chapter 137
Chapter 138
Chapter 139
Chapter 140
Part VIII
Chapter 141
Chapter 142
Chapter 143
Chapter 144
Chapter 145
Chapter 146
Part IX
Chapter 147
Chapter 148
Chapter 149
Chapter 150
Chapter 151
Chapter 152
About the Author
Also by Leif G.W. Persson
Copyright
The Sword of Justice
Leif G.W. Persson
This is a wicked tale for grown-up children, and if it hadn’t been for the last tsar of Russia, Nicholas II, the British prime minister Sir Winston Churchill, the Russian president Vladimir Putin, and Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström of the Western District Police in Stockholm, these events would never have occurred.
In that sense, this is a story about the cumulative and final results of actions performed by four men over a period of more than a hundred years. Four men who never met one another, who lived their lives in different worlds, in which the eldest of them was murdered forty years before the youngest was even born.
As on so many previous occasions, and quite regardless of the company and circumstances he may have ended up in, it is Evert Bäckström who will bring the story to a close.
LEIF G.W. PERSSON
Professorsvillan, Elghammar Spring 2013
I
The best day of Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström’s life
1
It was Monday, 3 June, but even though it was a Monday and he had been woken in the middle of the night, Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström would always think of it as the best day of his life. His work mobile started to ring at exactly five o’clock in the morning, and because the person who was calling refused to give up he didn’t exactly have many options.
‘Yeees,’ Bäckström answered.
‘I’ve got a murder for you, Bäckström,’ the duty officer with Solna Police said.
‘At this time of day?’ Bäckström said. ‘So it’s either the king or the prime minister?’
‘Even better than that, actually.’ His colleague was barely able to hide his delight.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Thomas Eriksson,’ the duty officer replied.
‘The lawyer,’ Bäckström said, having difficulty concealing his surprise. It can’t be true, he thinks. It’s far too good to be true.
‘The very same. Considering all your past dealings, I wanted to be the first to pass on the good news. It was actually Niemi at Forensics who called and said I should wake you. So, since
re congratulations, Bäckström. Congratulations from all of us here at the station. You got the last laugh in the end.’
‘He’s quite sure it’s murder? And that it’s Eriksson?’
‘No question, Niemi’s one hundred per cent certain. Our poor victim looks pretty terrible, apparently, but it’s still him.’
‘I’ll try to find some way of dealing with my grief,’ Bäckström said.
This is the best day of my life, he thought as he ended the short conversation. He was also wide awake, his head clear as crystal, and on a day like today you had to make sure you made the most of every moment. Not miss a single second.
The first thing he did was put his dressing-gown on and go off to the toilet to ease the pressure. That was a routine he had picked up early in life and had been careful to maintain. Easing the pressure before he went to bed and as soon as he got up, regardless of whether or not it was necessary, and in marked contrast to what his prostate-tormented male colleagues seemed to devote most of their waking hours to.
A superb high-pressure jet, Bäckström thought contentedly as he stood there with the super-salami in the firm grip of his right hand and felt the water level sink in his well-proportioned nether regions. High time to restore a bit of balance, he reflected, concluding with a couple of sturdy tugs on the salami to squeeze out the last drops that had gathered there during the course of an entirely dreamless night.
Then he had gone straight to the kitchen to prepare a hearty breakfast. A proper stack of extra-thick slices of Danish bacon, four fried eggs, freshly squeezed orange juice and a large cup of strong coffee with warm milk. A murder investigation wasn’t the sort of thing you embarked upon on an empty stomach, and carrots and oatbran were almost certainly one contributing factor to why his malnourished and cretinous colleagues fucked up with such depressing regularity.
After that he had gone, happy and sated, into the bathroom and stood in the shower, where he carefully soaped himself in sections as the warm water coursed over his pleasantly rounded and harmoniously constructed frame. Then he dried himself thoroughly before shaving with the assistance of a proper, old-fashioned razor and generous quantities of shaving foam. Finally, he had brushed his teeth with his electric toothbrush and, just to be on the safe side, gargled with some refreshing mouthwash.
Eventually, with aftershave, deodorant and other pleasant smells carefully applied to all the strategic parts of his temple of a body, he had dressed with great care. A yellow linen suit, a blue linen shirt, black, handmade Italian shoes and a colourful silk handkerchief tucked into his breast pocket as a final fond greeting to his murder victim. On a day like this it was important not to be sloppy about details, which is why – in honour of the momentous occasion – he had swapped his usual Rolex for the one in white gold that he had been given as a Christmas present by a grateful acquaintance whom he had been able to help out of a minor inconvenience.
In front of the hall mirror he had conducted one final check: the gold note-clip, with a suitable amount of cash; the little crocodile-skin wallet containing all his cards (both of these in his left trouser pocket); his key-ring and mobile in the right pocket; his black notebook with the pen clipped to the spine in his left inside pocket; and his best friend, little Sigge, tucked securely in the ankle holster on the inside of his left leg.
Bäckström nodded with approval at the finished result. All that remained was the most important thing. A suitable dose of malt whisky from the crystal carafe on the hall table. Two throat sweets in his mouth the moment the delightful aftertaste had subsided and another handful in the side pocket of his jacket, just in case.
When he stepped out into the street the sun was shining in a cloudless sky, and even though it was only the beginning of June, the temperature had to be at least twenty degrees already. The first proper summer day, and just what you had the right to expect on a day like this.
The duty officer in Solna had sent a patrol car containing two young officers, skinny, spotty creatures, but the one who was driving had at least picked up the basics when it came to the authority’s management practices. He had both held the door open and moved his seat forward so that Bäckström could sit in the back seat without having to sit where suspects usually sat, or crease his neatly pressed trousers.
‘Good morning, boss,’ the driver said, with a polite nod. ‘Not a bad day.’
‘Yes, looks like it’s going to be a real scorcher,’ his partner agreed. ‘A pleasure to meet you, by the way, Superintendent.’
‘Ålstensgatan 127,’ Bäckström said with a curt nod. To fend off any further observations he demonstratively took out his black notebook and made his first note on the case. ‘Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström leaves his residence on Kungsholmen 0700 to visit the crime scene,’ he wrote, but the message evidently didn’t get through, because the youngsters started up again before the car had even pulled out on to Fridhemsgatan.
‘Odd business, this. The duty officer said that it looks like our murder victim is that lawyer, Thomas Eriksson.’
The driver nodded before carrying on.
‘That must be pretty unusual – someone murdering a lawyer, I mean.’
‘Yes, it hardly ever happens,’ his colleague agreed.
‘No, sadly,’ Bäckström said. ‘Unfortunately, it happens all too infrequently.’ Two more fuckwits, he thought. Where do they all come from? Why don’t we ever run out of them? Why do they all have to join the police?
‘Do you think he could have been mixed up in something dodgy, boss? He was a lawyer, after all, so there’s probably a risk of that sort of thing, if I can put it like that?’
The silly sod had turned round now as well. He was speaking directly to Bäckström.
‘That’s exactly what I was planning to think about,’ Bäckström said wearily. ‘While you gentlemen drive me to the crime scene in Ålstensgatan. In complete silence.’
At last, he thought. Ten minutes later they stopped outside a large, bright white modernist brick villa from the fifties, with its own mooring, boathouse and jetty straight on to Lake Mälaren. It must have cost its owner more than an ordinary cop would earn in a lifetime, before tax.
Not a bad crime scene. Wonder what the sod was doing here at this time of day.
Otherwise, things looked the way they usually did. The blue and white tape of the cordon surrounding both the property itself and a good portion of road on either side of the house. Two patrol cars and a mobile coordination unit, and at least three cars from the Crime Unit, far too many unoccupied officers just standing around with the others who had already gathered there. A few journalists with accompanying photographers, and at least one cameraman from one of the television channels, a dozen or so nosy neighbours, considerably better dressed than they usually were, and a striking number of them with one or more dogs, of varying sizes.
But the expression in their eyes was the same. An underlying hint of fear, but mostly anticipation and the hope that was nurtured by the suspicion that, if the worst had happened, at least it hadn’t happened to them. Compared to a whole life, what do all these days matter, apart from one? Bäckström thought. A whole life containing the single day that ended up being the best of your life.
Then he had got out of the car, nodded to his spotty-faced driver and his equally spotty colleague and contented himself with merely shaking his head at the vultures from the media as he set off towards the front door of the house that had, until just a few hours ago, been his latest murder victim’s home. Not the first walk of this sort that he had made in his life, and certainly not the last, but this time it was a welcome duty and, if he had been alone, he would have tap-danced up the steps to the victim’s house.
II
The week before the best day was an entirely ordinary week.
For good and bad
2
Monday, 27 May, a week before the Monday that was to be the best of his life, had been like Mondays usually were, possibly even slightly worse th
an an ordinary Monday, and it had begun in a way that challenged human comprehension even for a man as insightful and noble as Evert Bäckström.
In a purely literal sense, it involved two insane cases that, for unfathomable reasons, had ended up on his desk. The first concerned a maltreated rabbit that had been taken into care by the county council. The second involved a smart gentleman with connections to the royal court, who, according to an anonymous witness, had been assaulted with a sale catalogue from the renowned auction house of Sotheby’s in London. As if this weren’t bad enough, the crime was also supposed to have taken place in the car park at Drottningholm Palace, just a couple of hundred metres from the room in which His Majesty the King of Sweden, Carl XVI Gustaf, ordinarily enjoyed his nightly slumber.
Several years ago Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström had worked in the Western District of the Stockholm Police as boss of the department that was responsible for the investigation of serious violent crimes. It wasn’t a bad patch, and if it had been in the USA, where ordinary people get a say in things, Bäckström would obviously have been a shoo-in as their elected sheriff. Three hundred and fifty-five square kilometres of land and water between the large inland Lake Mälaren to the west and the Baltic Sea to the east. Between the old toll gates of central Stockholm to the south and Norra Järva, Jakobsberg and the outer archipelago to the north.
He used to think of it as his very own Bäckström County, with almost three hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. At the top of the pile were His Majesty the King and his family, residents of the Royal Palaces at Drottningholm and Haga. Besides them, there were a dozen billionaires and several hundred who were each good for a few million. At the other end there were several tens of thousands who didn’t have enough to feed themselves, who were forced to live on benefits or beg and commit crime to get from one day to the next. And then there were all the ordinary people, of course. All the people who minded their own business, took care of themselves and didn’t make a fuss about the lives they were living. At least, they rarely did anything that risked landing on Bäckström’s desk in the large police station in Solna.
But, unfortunately, not everyone who lived there was made that way. During the course of each year almost sixty thousand crimes were reported in the district. The majority of them, admittedly, were simple cases of theft, criminal damage and drugs offences, but there were also a few thousand violent crimes. If you looked at criminality in the Western District as a whole, it stretched right across the social spectrum. From a handful of gangsters in pinstripe suits who committed financial crimes worth hundreds of millions to the many thousands who stole everything from steak and sausage to make-up, beer and headache pills from the big supermarkets in the district’s shopping centres.