Stieg Larsson, My Friend - Kurdo Baksi [25]
“The worst thing of all,” said Stieg, taking a swig of coffee, “is that the murder of Björn Söderberg could have been averted as easy as pie. The security police were shadowing the murderers as well as a third individual until half an hour before the murder.”
Half an hour! We put that thought to the back of our minds. In other words, the security police were more or less on the spot when Björn Söderberg was shot dead.
Apart from being sad and upset about the murder, we had received a reminder of how dodgy our own situation was. It was obvious that we needed to do something. As usual, Stieg picked up his pen. After scribbling a few thoughts, he sat down at the computer.
A minute later, he had listed three points – or demands, as he called them.
· When the police discover a private individual on the hate list compiled by neo-Nazis, that person must be informed, no matter what.
· The police must be sensitive to the worry a threatened individual feels. He or she must be allocated a “mentor” from within the police.
· In extreme cases, the authorities must be willing to make a temporary safe house available to the people being threatened.
He handed me the printout to read. At the same time he opened his shoulder bag and produced a printout of an email.
“This came today,” he said.
I read it.
Fuck fuck hooray! A nigger lover and traitor has been shot. We shall celebrate that this weekend, and demonstrate our support for our Aryan brothers who carried out this heroic deed. The armed campaign against those who betray their race and their country is only just beginning. Bullets have been reserved with your name on them. You will die, you nigger-loving swine.
I let the sheet of paper float down on to the desk.
“Why are you so agitated about this?” I wondered. “We get stuff like this all the time, and it’s not even addressed to you personally.”
But we both knew why we were feeling the pressure. It had become increasingly clear that 1999 was the year of demons. The situation had deteriorated appreciably in a very short space of time.
“It’s about time we did something,” Stieg said, leaning forward in the armchair. “We need to put this latest murder threat in the proper context. Two police officers have been killed by out-and-out racists. Two former colleagues have been carbombed after investigating the racist music industry. A local councillor in Nybro has had his car blown up. The neo-Nazis have good contacts in the police force, which means that they often escape criminal proceedings. And now the syndicalist Björn Söderberg has been murdered in his own home.”
“You reckon we should link all those happenings with this latest threat?”
“Exactly. Söderberg was murdered despite the fact that he had police protection. There are lots of people like us who have received murder threats. I’ve been investigating neo-Nazis for over twenty years, and I can say without hesitation that the situation today is more serious than it has ever been. There are those who think I’m a conspiracy theorist, but I think it’s time to get to grips with the rotten eggs inside the Swedish police force.”
He was furious. I had never seen him so agitated and irritated. The murder of Björn Söderberg had hit him hard. One explanation might be that Söderberg had been active in the same union as Stieg’s mother, the Commerce Employees’ Association. Söderberg’s murder reminded Stieg of Vivianne, whom he had loved so much, so the cold-blooded execution became something personal.
“I think I get excellent help from the security police,” I said, but he dismissed that statement with a wave of the hand.
“That’s irrelevant. We must do something. Ring every journalist you know and tell them that the time has come when the government and the police must accept their responsibilities and act against racism. But just say that we and our colleagues are on the list, no more than that. I don’t want to attract too much attention. We mustn’t give the impression of being victims. It’s a question of influencing public opinion.