The Sword of Justice Read online




  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 47

  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

  Translated from the Swedish by Neil Smith

  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.