The Case of the Canned Fart Bomb - Fallet med pruttbomben på burk

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Introduction

Welcome to Malmö, where Sherlock Holmes still solves crimes by cold logic, where his liquorice pipe grows shorter with every step towards the solution, and where a severed big toe is merely the beginning of one of his most improbable adventures.

It begins when a seriously injured young engineer staggers into Dr Watson's surgery early one morning in Malmö. From that moment, however, the story soon departs from the well-trodden path. Within a matter of hours, Holmes has concluded that a late-night car journey never left the city, that a hydraulic press is being used for something entirely different from what its owner claimsand that the solution, quite remarkably, lies somewhere between fermented herring, durian, and the world's most revolting museum.

As always, Holmes is convinced that the relentless laws of logic govern everything. The only problem is that, this time, reality itself appears to have gone completely off the rails.

The story is framed unusually. Anita Ekberg and the photographer George Oddner return to Malmö to complete a fashion shoot interrupted in 1952 when Anita left for America. Outside the Central Station, their paths cross those of Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, who are quietly sweeping away the last traces of one of their strangest cases.

The Case of the Canned Fart Bomb is a loving tribute to Arthur Conan Doyle's immortal master detective, while also offering a cheerful satire of our own age, in which startups, cryptocurrencies, social media, and international museum gift shops often surpass the adventures of the nineteenth century in sheer absurdity.

The Ballad of the Canned Fart Bomb

When Baker Street found Swedish skies,
And Malmö's towers touched the dawn,
A wounded soul with frightened eyes
Came limping through the morning's yawn.

No hound was heard upon the moor,
No London fog concealed the clue;
Instead there lingered, strong and sure,
A scent no mortal ever knew.

A liquorice pipe, half-chewed with care,
Grew shorter as great minds explored;
For Holmes could always read the air
As others studied pen or sword.

"Element'ry," the master smiled,
"The truth is simpler than it seems.
A midnight journey never strayed
It only wandered through your dreams."

A severed toe, a hydraulic press,
A museum built on dreadful taste;
Fermented fish in purple dress,
Where reason never went to waste.

Surströmming met the shark's grim bite,
Durian crowned the foul bouquet;
And logic shone with dazzling light
Where common sense had fled away.

Poor Watson sighed, "I must confess,
Each answer breeds a stranger one."
Yet Holmes, unmoved by the grotesque,
Declared, "The game is nearly won."

So raise a glass in Malmö's square,
Where laughter walks with keenest art;
For genius often finds its trail
Inside a most unlikely fart.

And should you smell the sea once more,
With cabbage, fruit and ancient brine,
Remember Holmes, whose simple law
Made madness fall in perfect line.
Malmö, August 2026

PROLOGUE

Something magical happened during a fashion shoot outside Malmö Central Station. George and I had both come down from our respective stars to complete an assignment we had never had time to finish in 1952, before I left for America. Right in the middle of the photo session, a man appeared, brandishing a magnifying glass. Naturally, I recognised Sherlock Holmes, though I had no idea he lived in Malmö. That was explained by his constant companion, Dr Watson, who stepped forward to apologise for the great detective interrupting my photo shoot. They were busy covering the tracks of one of their most extraordinary adventures. Apparently, they had lost a tin of fermented herring that had somehow disappeared. If I happened to find such a tin near the station, would I please telephone him? Dr Watson handed me his calling card.

Being an incurably curious person, I could not resist asking how a tin of fermented herring had ended up outside the Central Station. While Holmes continued to examine every square inch of the little piazza, Dr Watson told me a most remarkable story.

"Among the many cases I have had the privilege of witnessing alongside Sherlock Holmes, there is one I have long hesitated to make public. Not because it lacks importance, but because it is so improbable that even my most charitable readers would suspect I had allowed my imagination to run wild. I can, nevertheless, assure you that every detail is true, no matter how repulsive it may seem."

Holmes used to say that a genuine mystery never begins with a corpse. It begins with a detail no one else finds remarkable. A patch of mud on a shoe. A misspelt word in a letter. An unusual tobacco tin.

He was almost always right.

This case began with a severed big toe and fermented herring."

Chapter 1: The Early Morning Visit at Malmö Central Station

It has often been claimed that my good friend Sherlock Holmes was a man of the past, an anachronism who needed London's pea-soup fogs and the pale glow of gas lamps for his intellect to function at its best. Yet after sharing his daily life for several years in our penthouse apartment in the Turning Torso, I can testify that his remarkable powers of deduction worked just as flawlessly in the digitalised Malmö of the twenty-first century. Indeed, he found the city's modern architecture, its multicultural pulse, and the perpetual chaos of its public transport an inexhaustible source of intellectual stimulation.

It was an early Monday morning in August 2026. The late-summer heat already hung heavily over the Western Harbour. Through the enormous panoramic windows of the Torso, one could see the Øresund Bridge stretching across the glittering water like a gigantic puzzle. As for me, I had by then become thoroughly frustrated. After leaving the public healthcare system, I had established a small private practice in a neighbourhood just beside Malmö Central Station. It was a strategic location, though one that often tested my patience to its limits. My days usually consisted of treating commuters who had sprained an ankle while making frantic dashes for cancelled Øresund trains, or stitching up tourists who had lost control of their rented electric scooters.

It was barely seven o'clock when the morning calm was shattered. I was in my examination room, sipping my first cup of coffee of the day, when a heavy, rhythmic pounding echoed through the clinic's front door. It was not the hesitant knock of a nervous patient, but the desperate hammering of someone in acute distress. I hurried to the reception area and pulled open the door. A deathly pale young man staggered in, visibly shaken and bleeding heavily from his foot.

"Doctor!" he gasped. "Someone chopped off my big toe with a bicycle chain!" He pointed to his right trainer, its toe cap missing.

The young man presented a pitiful sight. He could not have been more than twenty-five, dressed in a worn hoodie and a pair of filthy jeans. The trainer on his right foot had lost its toe cap and was soaked in blood. Yet what immediately caught my attention was his face. The poor fellow was so pale that he looked almost translucent, while his eyes darted wildly in every direction.

"Sit down in the chair," I ordered, helping the trembling youth. "What happened? An accident on the railway tracks?" The station was only a block away, so the assumption was hardly far-fetched.

"No... no..." the young man stammered, his teeth chattering uncontrollably. "It wasn't an accident. They... they tried to kill me."

I am accustomed to gruesome injuries from my years in emergency medicine, but when I had removed his ruined shoe and the blood-soaked sock, I caught my breath. The big toe was completely gone, and the wound was ragged, deep, and horribly mangled. It looked as though the toe had either been brutally chopped off or violently torn from its socket.

"Good heavens," I exclaimed as I quickly sterilised the wound and dressed the stump with a carbolised bandage. "This is a serious violent assault. What caused such an injury?"

"A bicycle chain... a sharpened bicycle chain," the man groaned, clenching his fists so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "He swung it at me as I jumped out of the window."

After I had applied the final pressure dressing and given him a strong cup of coffee laced with a few drops of medicinal ammonia, colour slowly returned to his cheeks. He introduced himself as Viktor, a newly established mechanical engineer specialising in advanced hydraulics and 3D printing, with a small workshop at the startup hub Minc on Anckargripsgatan.

"This is beyond the ordinary police, at least for the moment," I said firmly, glancing at my watch, which now showed twenty minutes to eight. "This is a mystery so bizarre and so violent that it calls for an entirely different sort of expertise. Can you walk, Viktor?"

"If you support me," he replied weakly.

I called for an Uber.

Leaning heavily on me, the young man limped out onto Djäknegatan and into the waiting car.

"Hurry!" I told the driver. "Take us to 221B Lilla Varvsgatan as fast as you can!"

At that address lived my good friend, the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, in a minimalist penthouse on the fifty-second floor of the Turning Torso. Holmes sat in his armchair, dressed in his dark blue dressing gown, sipping an oat-milk latte and absent-mindedly scrolling through his tablet in search of an interesting case. The only story making the news that morning concerned a lunatic who stole hubcapsbut only those attached to the left rear wheel.

"It's rather like collecting only left shoes," Holmes remarked with a grin. "What on earth would anyone do with them?"

He laid the tablet aside, studied the agitated Viktor, and rose to his feet.

"Ah, Watson! I see you've brought a patient whose morning has been considerably more eventful than mine. And judging by the smella mixture of seawater, industrial oil, and rotten fishand... wait a moment... is that dried blood on your hands? Fascinating."

Holmes had already assumed his familiar detective's pose. Since he no longer smoked, he now kept a liquorice pipe between his teeth. The shorter the pipe grew, the closer he knew he was to the solution.

"How may I be of service, young man?" Holmes asked.

With his customary powers of deduction, he had already concluded that we had not come on my account, his friend Watson. Besides, the fellow looked deeply distressed, which almost certainly meant he was in trouble. Most of the people I dragged into Holmes's sitting room usually were.

"Welcome, my dear sir," Holmes continued without waiting for a reply. His voice was courteous, yet charged with restless energy. "Please take a seat on the chaise longue over there. Have a glass of water."

Holmes poured a glass from a crystal carafe.

"And then tell us why you are abroad at such an unchristian hour."

To Holmes, anything before ten o'clock in the morning and five cups of coffee was still the middle of the night.

Chapter 2: The Colonel and the Minc Contract

Viktor gratefully sank into the deep chaise longue and accepted the glass of water. His hands were still trembling so violently that the glass rattled against his teeth as he drank. Holmes drew forward a severe Scandinavian-designed chair, sat directly opposite our visitor, and pressed his fingertips togetherthe familiar pose he adopted when concentrating hardest. I settled into the armchair he had just vacated.

"Well then, my dear sir," Holmes said, his voice vibrating with suppressed enthusiasm. "Take all the time you need, but omit no detail. In cases such as this, it is often the most insignificant aspect that proves to be the key to the mystery."

Viktor drew a deep breath, gazed out over the grey-blue waters of the Øresund, and began his account.

"As I told Dr Watson, I am a hydraulic engineer. I come from Kalix, though life somehow carried me to the opposite end of Sweden. After graduating from Lund University of Technology, I joined the Minc startup incubator nearly two years ago. I had visionsgood heavens, I truly believed the market would be clamouring for my bespoke, 3D-printed high-pressure components. The truth, however, is that life as an entrepreneur has been an economic nightmare."

He paused for a moment, lowering his gaze to his bandaged foot before continuing.

"My savings had all but vanished. Last Friday, I stayed at my desk until seven o'clock in the evening. I was desperate and seriously considering shutting down the business altogether. That was when he appeared. Without so much as knocking, he walked straight into my office."

"Describe him," Holmes interrupted, drawing hard on his liquorice pipe. "The smallest detail of his appearance may prove significant."

"He was one of the most remarkable men I have ever seen," Viktor replied. "He was rather tall, yet so thin that he looked almost like a walking skeleton. His face was narrow, with a sharp, hawk-like nose, and his skin was stretched taut over his cheekbones. Despite the late-summer warmth, he wore a fully buttoned waterproof suit from an expensive Scandinavian outdoor brand and steadfastly refused to remove his jet-black sunglasses, even though the room was quite dark. The moment he spoke, it was clear he was not from Scania. He spoke with a very distinct, rapid, and icy Stockholm accent."

"'Are you Viktor?' he asked," our visitor continued. "I confirmed I was. He told me he called himself 'Colonel Stark' and that I had been recommended to him because I was reputed to be highly skilled andwhich he emphasised no fewer than three timesabsolutely discreet."

"A colonel who hides his eyes and demands absolute secrecy," Holmes muttered grimly. Somehow, it sounded oddly familiar. "Please continue."

The liquorice pipe bobbed gently between his teeth.

"'Colonel' Stark pulled up a chair, sat alarmingly close to me, and offered me a contract," Viktor said. "He told me, 'I shall pay you fifty thousand kronor in cashor in cryptocurrency, if you preferfor a few hours' work in the middle of the night. We have a hydraulic press that has broken down. But you must not breathe a word to another living soul about having met me or about where you have been.'"

"Suddenly, the Colonel sprang to his feet, rushed to the door, flung it open, and checked whether any of the other entrepreneurs at Minc were standing outside, listening."

"And that naturally made you suspicious?" Holmes prompted.

"Of course it did," Viktor admitted. "The fee was absurdly high for such a straightforward assignment, so I asked him what this enormous press was actually for."

"'Well,' said the Colonel, leaning back with a chilly smile, 'the situation is this. Some investors and I have developed a new method for producing organic, locally sourced vegan falafel.'"

"'Falafel? Turkish food!'" Holmes snorted, his own culinary loyalties lying much closer to Italian cuisine. "Forgive me! Please continue."

"The Colonel explained that they compressed the chickpea mixture under such extraordinary pressure that it developed a unique, meat-like texture. According to him, the whole world was clamouring for their falafel. He claimed that was the reason for all the secrecy."

Holmes gave a brief, dry laugh.

"A mechanised falafel conspiracy in the very heart of Malmö. That is certainly an imaginative falsehood. Did you swallow the bait?"

"I was thinking about my unpaid bills, Mr Holmes," Viktor replied shamefacedly. "Fifty thousand kronor would save my company. Naturally, I accepted the assignment. Why should I have refused? I desperately needed the money. The Colonel instructed me to meet him behind the old Market Hall at Drottningtorget at midnight, when a car would collect me. He gave me ten thousand kronor in advance and then disappeared as silently as he had arrived."

Viktor fell silent and took another sip of water, while Holmes's eyes glowed with the thrill of the intellectual chase. Already a third of the liquorice pipe had vanished.

That meant his brain was working at full speed.

Chapter 3: A Nocturnal Tour in Circles

"I arrived on time, naturally, and waited behind the Market Hall on the Norra Vallgatan side. I stood there for at least fifteen minutes before a dark limousine pulled up beside me. Two men wearing eye masks leapt out, bundled me into the back seat, and pulled a hood over my head," Viktor continued. "The moment the hood was over my face, the car accelerated sharply. We drove and drove. I tried to count the turns, but it was impossible. We jolted over uneven cobblestones, swung sharply around tight street corners, and stopped and started at what felt like hundreds of traffic lights. Sometimes I heard the characteristic swish of passing cars close by; at other times there was complete silence. First we drove through the city, then out onto a motorway. After a while we turned off, and the roads became bumpy and winding."

Viktor shifted uneasily on the chaise longue, adjusting the bandage around his foot. Holmes drummed his fingertips together lightly.

"It felt as though we had driven for at least an hour, all the way out towards Torup and the Beech Forest, or somewhere in that direction. Then we turned around, and after a while we rejoined a motorway. Eventually it felt as though we had entered a city once more, and after countless twists and turns the car finally stopped. I was pushed out and led up a flight of stairs. I heard someone unlock a door, and then I was ushered into a room. From the echo of our footsteps, I could tell it was not very large. Someone ripped the hood from my head. I found myself in a dark, windowless industrial building."

"An hour, you say?" Holmes murmured, sitting with his eyes closed, gently rocking his head.

"Yes, at least an hour. When the car finally came to a halt, I was led out of the vehicle. I could smell salt-laden sea air and old seaweed. We walked a short distance across what felt like asphalt. I heard a door open. Something creaked, and then I caught a heavy, pungent odoura smell I thought I recognised. The blindfold was torn away."

"I was standing in a windowless industrial hall with bare concrete walls and a damp floor. The only illumination came from a single powerful halogen lamp mounted on a tripod."

"Along one wall stood what appeared to be a drying oven, the sort into which material is fed at one end and from which a powder emerges at the other. Against the opposite wall were stacks of cardboard boxes, while on the floor lay what looked like peat briquettes used to heat houses in northern Sweden. But they did not smell of peat. They smelled of something else."

"In a heap on the floor lay opened tins bearing a label I recognised instantly. No one from northern Sweden could fail to recognise a tin of fermented herring. Suddenly I understood what they were manufacturing, absurd though it seemed. They were drying the fish before compressing it into solid blocks."

"The entire industrial process became crystal clear to me."

"First came dehydration. The fermented, waterlogged herring was emptied from its tins and fed into the drying oven. There, eighty per cent of the moisture evaporated, which would normally make fermented herring impossible to compress. The volatile gases were extracted, while the proteins, fats, and aromatic compounds were baked together into a brittle, bone-dry powder."

"The highly concentrated fish powder was then shovelled into the massive hydraulic press I had been hired to repair. Without water to resist the pressure, every cell wall and air pocket collapsed instantly. The fish bones were ground into microscopic fragments, while the frictional heat melted the fish oils, which then acted as a natural adhesive."

"From the press emerged rock-hard, dark blocks, neatly stacked on the floor. The contents of hundreds of tins of fermented herring had been compressed to a fraction of their original volume. They looked exactly like peat briquettes, but in fact they were dormant bombs of concentrated northern delicacy. Another machine had evidently been used to cut the blocks down to matchbox size. A neat pile of them lay beside it."

"As an engineer, I immediately understood how it worked. Once vacuum-packed, the product would keep for between ten and thirty years."

"Only one thing was needed to bring it back to life: a splash of water. Capillary forces would tear the small block of fermented herring apart from the inside. The proteins would swell, and the trapped aromatic compoundshydrogen sulphide and butyric acidwould unleash an instant odour explosion. The matchbox-sized concentrate would expand to five or six times its original size, producing a perfect serving to accompany a beer and a couple of shots of schnapps."

"What an utterly insane idea."

"And the machine?" Holmes asked, opening one eye.

He had never tasted fermented herring, only heard stories about it, and food-processing techniques held little interest for him unless they solved mysteries. The smell that had permeated the young man's clothes certainly did nothing to spark curiosity about the delicacy.

"It stood in the middle of the room," Viktor replied. "A monstrous, custom-built hydraulic press, easily four metres high. It was connected to thick high-pressure hoses and a separate control console. The remarkable thing was that the entire machine was enclosed in a soundproof housing of heavy panels. A short, powerfully built man with a thick, unkempt beardwhom the Colonel introduced as his 'production manager'stood beside it."

'There's the fault,' said the Colonel, pointing to the central hydraulic cylinder. 'It loses pressure the moment we start feeding in the powder.'

"I unpacked my tools and began examining the hydraulics. For someone with my experience, it proved a relatively simple problem. One of the rubber seals in the main valve had ruptured under the enormous pressure, allowing hydraulic oil to leak back into the reservoir. I replaced the damaged seal with a high-quality spare part I always carried with me."

Viktor drew a deep breath, and his voice fell to a frightened whisper.

"It was as I prepared to test the cylinder that everything went horribly wrong. I stepped into the press chamber to ensure the ram travelled smoothly along its guides. As I bent down, I noticed the floor. There was not a trace of chickpeas, tahini, or falafel. Instead, the entire surface was covered with purple fermented-herring powder."

"And the stench... Good Lord! It smelt like a mixture of rotting fish, chemical waste, and fermenting refuse. It was so overpowering that my eyes began to sting. I have never been particularly fond of that speciality from my native region."

Holmes's expression suggested he already suspected what was coming.

"I straightened up and, without thinking, said, 'This isn't falafel, Colonel. What exactly are you people doing here? This is condensed fermented herring, for heaven's sake.'"

Holmes took another long draw on his liquorice pipe, wondering privately why young people never understood the importance of keeping their mouths shut.

"I should never have said that," Viktor sobbed. "The Colonel's face changed in an instant. That stiff, polite Stockholm manner vanished, and his eyes turned utterly insane."

"'You're far too curious for your own good, you damned northerner,' he hissed.

"Before I could react, he backed out of the chamber, slammed the heavy steel door shut, and locked it from the outside."

"I was trapped inside. I pounded on the walls and shouted, but there was complete silence beyond them. Then I heard ita deep mechanical hum, followed by the hiss of hydraulics building pressure. The enormous steel ceilingthe press rambegan to move slowly yet relentlessly towards me."

"I realised that within a minute I would be reduced to a shapeless mass on that stinking floor."

"How did you escape?" I asked, breaking into a cold sweat merely from hearing his terrifying account.

"It was sheer luck, Dr Watson! In my panic, I kicked and hammered at the walls. One of the rear wall panels sounded different from the others. It was made of damp-damaged plywood rather than steel. I seized my heaviest adjustable spanner and struck the wood with all my strength until it split. By then, the descending ram had already forced me to my knees. I could feel the piston pressing against my back. At the very last second, I squeezed through the narrow opening and tumbled onto the concrete floor outside."

"But you injured your foot," Holmes observed, sounding almost as though the case had already been solved.

"No. Unfortunately, the nightmare wasn't over," Viktor continued. "I had emerged behind the building, where a small window overlooked an abandoned yard. Just as I was climbing through the window frame, I heard footsteps behind me."

"It was Colonel Stark.

"He was screaming with rage, carrying a rusty bicycle chain sharpened to a deadly edge and swinging it like a whip. I let go to drop to the ground outside, but he lashed out with the chain in a wild blow. It struck my right foot with tremendous force. The pain was so intense that everything went black. I fell into a patch of thistles and stinging nettles and lost consciousness."

"Fortunately, I came round before they managed to get out into the yard. On the far side stood a gate that opened outwards. It was old and rickety, so a hard shove with my shoulder was all it took to force it open. When I reached the street, I recognised where I was."

"I wasn't far from the Central Station. That's how I found your sign, Dr Watson."

Viktor fell silent, burying his face in his hands. Holmes remained perfectly still, though his eyes glittered.

The mystery was now fully underway.

Chapter 4: Holmes Maps the Traffic of Malmö

After Viktor had finished his hair-raising account, the room fell into a heavy, almost magical silence. I looked at Holmes, who remained seated, eyes closed, fingertips pressed together. To an uninitiated observer, he might have appeared asleep, but I knew him far too well. His extraordinary mind was working at full capacity, sorting, categorising, and analysing every syllable of the young engineer's story.

Suddenly, he opened his eyes, rose with the agility of a young man despite his one hundred and sixty years, and waved his iPad in the air.

"A most stimulating problem, Watson," he declared, his voice carrying that familiar feverish excitement which always surfaced whenever prey was in sight. "Our Stockholm colonel has displayed an almost theatrical ingenuity, but he has committed the classic error of underestimating the local geography."

He turned towards Viktor, who still sat pale and shaken on the chaise longue.

"My dear fellow," Holmes said, rewarding him with one of his rare, roguish smiles. "You may breathe easily. The car never left Malmö. In fact, you were never more than a few kilometres from the Market Hall, where you were picked up."

I must confess that Holmes's emphatic statement bewildered me as much as it did our young visitor. Viktor sat frozen, staring open-mouthed at the great detective as though he had just claimed the Øresund Bridge led directly to Iceland.

"But that's impossible!" Viktor exclaimed in disbelief. "I was in that car for more than an hour! I felt the accelerations, the endless turns, and the constant stops. We must have driven for miles through the Scanian countryside!"

"My dear Viktor," Holmes replied, beginning to pace slowly across the parquet floor, "you have fallen victim to one of the oldest transport deceptions ever devised. A clever driver can easily convince a blindfolded passenger that he has crossed entire continents, when in reality he has done little more than circle the same district. And in Malmö during the summer of 2026, one scarcely needs a particularly gifted chauffeur to achieve such an effect."

Holmes tapped the illuminated street map of Malmö displayed on the screen with one long, slender finger.

"Now think carefully. You described a journey marked by constant stops, sharp turns, sudden accelerations, and the sensation of driving endlessly over speed humps and uneven surfaces. Let us compare that with the current traffic situation in Malmö. The city has introduced thirty-kilometre speed limits throughout almost the entire city centre. Add to that the extensive roadworks and district-heating excavations along Amiralsgatan and Nobelvägen, the blocked lanes around Möllevången, and the fact that Gamla Väster is little more than a minefield of cobblestones and one-way streets. A leisurely excursion up the West Coast Road and back via the Sjölunda Viaduct would easily convince any blindfolded passenger that he had reached the middle of nowhere."

Holmes drew a series of swift lines across the digital map using his stylus.

"If one places a hood over a man's head, seats him in a Tesla at Drottningtorget around midnight, drives him three laps through the one-way streets behind Caroli, weaves through the temporary traffic diversions, and then proceeds at thirty kilometres an hour between the speed humps of Norra Sorgenfri... well, a distance that measures barely two kilometres as the crow flies will quite naturally require well over an hour to traverse."

"It was nothing more than a nocturnal tour in circles, carefully designed to confuse you."

Holmes fell silent. He wandered slowly towards the panoramic windows and let his gaze rest on the waters of the Øresund. Thoughtfully, he shifted the liquorice pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other before biting off another small piece. At moments of intense concentration such as this, the pipe invariably grew shorter. I had witnessed the habit countless times. Whenever Holmes fell silent, it was never because he lacked ideas, but because he was arranging them. Neither Viktor nor I dared interrupt him.

"But the smell?" I objected, wrinkling my nose at the very thought of Viktor's description. "The sea air? Might they not simply have been operating out of some old fish-processing factory?"

Holmes slowly shook his head.

"No, Watson. Had it been a fish factory, Viktor would have recognised the smell instantly."

He turned once more towards the panoramic window and gazed across the strait.

"Elementary, my dear Watson. The scent of the sea is the simplest clue of all. It tells us that the final destination lay directly beside the water."

Holmes slowly raised a finger.

"No... there was a single word in your account to which you yourself attached no importance."

Viktor looked puzzled.

"The fruit. Combine that with the stench, and you obtain a distinctive signature. You described an odour of rotting fish, chemical waste, and fermenting fruita stench so corrosive that it made your eyes water."

Holmes remained silent for a long moment.

Then one eyebrow slowly rose.

"No..."

He slowly shook his head.

"Surely that cannot be possible..."

During all the years I had known Sherlock Holmes, I had heard him say Surely that cannot be possible on only two occasions. The first concerned Professor Moriarty, when he escaped the police in The Final Problem. The second concerned condensed fermented herring.

"There are only three industries in Malmö that employ hydraulic presses exceeding thirty tons, Watson. Two manufacture wind-turbine components, and the third compresses fermented fish."

Holmes paused briefly, examined what remained of his liquorice pipe, then shrugged, placed it back between his teeth, and said,

"Elementary."

I stared at him.

"Fermented fish?"

Holmes nodded calmly.

"To be more precise, the mixture comprises northern Swedish fermented herring, Icelandic hákarl, and Southeast Asian durian. The purple colouring comes from fermented red cabbage, used as a binding agent. The purpose is, naturally, purely aesthetic. They wish the product to appear more appetising."

Holmes resumed his slow pacing across the room, with only half his liquorice pipe left. In his own mind, he had already solved part of the mystery.

Viktor's eyes widened.

"My God... durian!"

Holmes nodded with satisfaction.

"Do you recognise the smell?"

"I ate it once during a student exchange in Singapore. At first, I thought someone had left a corpse in the student residence."

"My initial assumption was that someone had developed a novel food product. But that theory will not stand," Holmes said, coming to a sudden halt.

"Surely no one would willingly pay to eat something that smells like that," I remarked.

"Precisely, Watson. That is why the theory collapses."

He spun around and clapped his hands together with a sharp crack.

"They are not producing food for consumption in Möllevången, my dear Watson. They are manufacturing museum exhibits! There is only one place in the world where the industrial production of controlled foul odours could be profitable. The gang has been counterfeiting a rarity for the Disgusting Food Museum's gift shop by the old Slaughterhouse! The museum has become such a global success that there is now a desperate shortage of authentic, durable objects for its travelling international exhibitions. Colonel Stark has discovered a lucrativeif singularly revoltingmarket in concentrated stench."

"Now then, Watson, it is high time we contacted the police at the Justice Centre. If we hurry to the industrial district of Nyhamnen, just behind the old ferry terminal, where the smell of seaweed is strongest, I believe we may catch our worthy Colonel in the middle of his night shift."

Holmes picked up his telephone and quickly dialled a number.

"Inspector Sjöberga weary yet conscientious Scanian detective whom I have personally trained during my years in Malmö," Holmes explained, turning briefly towards Viktor.

After acquainting the inspector with the essentials of the case, he hailed a taxi.

With visible reluctance, Holmes reached for his Deerstalker hat, an article of clothing he thoroughly detested. In his opinion, its twin peaks, front and back, together with the earflaps tied over the crown, made him look hopelessly ridiculous. Yet he felt obliged to wear it.

Finally, Holmes produced a fresh liquorice pipe and placed it between his teeth.

Now he was ready.

Chapter 5: The Stinking Surprise

It took no more than twenty minutes before we arrived in Nyhamnens industrial district. Inspector Sjöberg met us there with two patrol cars. We parked discreetly behind a row of rusty shipping containers, in the shadow of the old ferry ramp. A sea breeze swept in from the Øresund. Yet as we drew closer to the anonymous, boarded-up brick building that Holmes had identified, the fresh scent of the sea was overwhelmed by an unmistakable, suffocating odour.

It smells like a chemical war zone, muttered Sjöberg, pulling his jacket collar over his nose. If Holmes's theory is correct, we ought to catch them red-handed.

Forward, gentlemen! whispered Holmes. His eyes blazed with the excitement of the hunt. This was the master detective at the height of his powers. But be careful. The Colonel is a desperate man who wields a bicycle chain with deadly precision.

The police officers drew their service weapons and took up positions on either side of the old gate. With a heavy crowbar, the lock was forced open, and the gate swung wide.

Hands up! Police! shouted Sjöberg as he rushed in, expecting to find a gang of armed criminals.

But there was no one there to obey the order. Finding the workshop on the far side of the courtyard required nothing more than following one's nose.

It took a moment for their eyes to adjust to the dim morning light filtering through the doorway to the little yard. The monstrous hydraulic press Viktor had described stood in the middle of the room. The stench inside was so overpowering that two of the younger police officers were immediately forced back into the fresh air to keep from vomiting.

Holmes hurried to the control panel and laid his hand on the machines casing. The cylinder is still warm, he observed, disappointed. They escaped at the very last second. That broken charging cable from an electric delivery van lying on the floor shows they left in a hurry. Someone in your department must be leaking information, Sjöberg. Holmes glared at the inspector. It was obvious he was thinking along the same lines.

Look here on the windowsill, I said, pointing in horror towards the broken plywood opening at the rear of the press. There, in the harsh light, lay a deeply macabre detail they had left behind. Viktor's big toe... They didn't even bother to conceal the evidence.

Inspector Sjöberg shone his torch over a stack of sturdy moving boxes piled in one corner. He lifted the lid of the top box and drew a sharp breath. Inside were hundreds of rock-hard, purple, vacuum-packed blocks. Each package bore a neat printed label reading: PROTOTYPE #04 SURI / DURIAN COMPACT FOR INTERNATIONAL TOUR. PROPERTY OF D.F.M. MALMÖ.

It is exactly as you predicted, Holmes, said Sjöberg, shaking his head in astonishment. Industrial, compressed replicas of the world's foulest-smelling delicacy. But why, on earth, all this?

Holmes picked up a discarded shipping manifest from the floor and skimmed it with a sardonic smile. He pointed with the stem of his liquorice pipe at the abbreviation on the recipient line DFM.

The forces of the marketplace, my dear Inspector! The black market of the twenty-first century is no longer concerned with printing counterfeit thousand-kronor notes or casting fake silver coins. There is no money in physical currency in a cashless Sweden. But the Disgusting Food Museum in Malmö has become a global phenomenon. They sell franchises and send travelling exhibitions to London, Paris, New York and Tokyo. Transporting genuine rotten delicacies across international borders is a logistical and customs nightmare. Colonel Stark realised that whoever could manufacture rock-hard, chemically stable and extraordinarily foul-smelling delicacies would be sitting on a gold mine. He has sold these stink bombs to unsuspecting museum curators around the world.

And the Colonel himself? I asked, looking out over the deserted industrial estate, where the tracks from the delivery van's tyres showed the direction he had taken.

He is far away by now, Watson. A man with his resources and a Tesla is probably already halfway across the Øresund Bridge. He has lost his press but kept his crypto millions. Holmes considered The Case of the Canned Fart Bomb finished and walked out into the yard, with Viktor and me following behind. Whether this was due to luck or calculation is hard to say, because fortune usually seemed to favour Holmes. That is probably why all his adventures ended to his advantage, even the one at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. The fact that not only Professor Moriarty but also Holmes's creator, Arthur Conan Doyle, wanted to rid himself of Holmes made no difference, because he never truly died.

Inspector Sjöberg wanted to impress his younger colleagues by explaining how everything worked. He started the press and turned the speed up to maximum to hasten the demonstration. Sjöberg had barely begun his lecture on the freeze-drying process when it happened.

As the massive steel ram descended at full speed, it met no resistance at first. Then it struck the tins. There was a brief metallic crackle as dozens of swollen, round cans were crushed and deformed under tons of hydraulic force. Inside the tins, already stretched almost to bursting point by years of accumulated fermentation gases, the pressure rose catastrophically within a fraction of a second.

Then the metal of the tins reached its breaking point.

To call it a bang would be a gross understatementit was a deafening detonation that tore the soundproof enclosure apart. The tins were ripped to pieces in a perfectly synchronised explosion as the hydraulic pressure transformed the trapped brine into an explosive weapon.

The highly pressurised liquid and fermented herring inside the tins had nowhere to escape except horizontally between the ram and the base plate. A furious cascade of greyish-brown brine and shredded fish flesh blasted out from the centre of the press. The pressure was so immense that the liquid atomised into an aerosola whipping mist of concentrated stench forced through the gaps in the sides, filling the entire room.

It was as though a biological weapon had detonated. The press's thunder drowned out the terrified coughing and retching of the officers as the chemical shockwave of hydrogen sulphide, ammonia and butyric acid struck them like a wall of stench.

Someone had placed several dozen unopened tins of fermented herring beneath the great hydraulic ram. Sjöberg could never have known this, because it was the Colonel's stink mine, his revenge for being forced to abandon his operation. Naturally, he could not be certain that anyone would press the button and, for good measure, turn the speed up to maximum. But he understood the nature of police officersparticularly certain ones.

Had it not been for Holmes's intellect, Viktor and I, like the police officers, would have been impregnated with fermented herring.

As the exploding tins atomised their contents into the air, the smell spread throughout the building. The aerosol permeated every corner of the ceiling, floor and wallsnot to mention its effect on the police force. Every pore, every ear, every nostril and every gaping mouth was filled with fermented herring.

In practice, the smell cannot be aired away. The entire building would have to be thoroughly decontaminated with powerful cleaning agents or by ozone treatment to remove the stench. Unfortunately, the same is true of human beings.

For the guardians of the law, decontamination would be no easy task. The hydrogen sulphide and butyric acid had chemically bonded to the proteins in their skin and hair. Every breath they took tasted of rotten herring, and the uniforms that had once represented the authority of the State had now been reduced to biological hazardous waste. They would spend weeks washing themselves with tomato juice and vinegar, yet the moment they grew warm or began to sweat, the northern nightmare would once again seep out through their pores.

Epilogue

Several hours later, Holmes and I were sitting on the sun-warmed terrace of a small pub on Lilla Torg. Viktor had been admitted to hospital, where the doctors had repaired his injured foot, and he was now completely out of danger.

I sipped my beer, watched the people passing by, and turned to my friend, who was thoughtfully studying the foam in his glass.

It must be a relief to be rid of the hat, Holmes, I said, knowing he wore it for superstitious reasons. He had once been persuaded to have his fortune told by the veiled woman in The Adventure of the Veiled Lodger. Eugenia Ronder had foretold that Holmes's powers of deduction would fail him if he ever investigated a case without that hat. But her prophecy carried an even darker warningshe had expressly declared that Holmes must never travel to Switzerland, for there his downfall awaited him. Holmes, of course, did not believe a word of her prediction. He wore the hat because it was practical. The front peak shielded his eyes from bright light whenever he examined something with his magnifying glass. The rear peak protected his neck from rain and wind, which in London are more the rule than the exception. He could lower the earflaps and tie them beneath his chin whenever the English weather became particularly unpleasant.

Years later, when Holmes ignored the warning, travelled to the Continent without his hat, and finally stood face to face with Moriarty at the Reichenbach Falls, he realised the fortune-teller had been right all along. His plunge over the cliffs into the roaring waters was the final confirmation of her words. After his miraculous survival and return to London, the matter was settled. Holmes could no longer dismiss Eugenia's prophecy as mere superstition. Every time he reluctantly fastened the chin strap, he knew the hat was what kept fate at bay. And the Colonel bore unmistakable similarities to Moriarty. Perhaps that Prince of Evil had also survived and moved to Stockholm.

Yes, and the blasted peak gets in the way of my glass of beer, said Holmes, rewarding me with one of his rare smiles.

It certainly was an absurd affair, Holmes, I said calmly. Our poor engineer lost a toe; he received only ten thousand of the promised fifty thousand kronor; and the villains escaped justice. What, in the end, has he gained from this adventure?

Experience, said Holmes with a quiet laugh. And indirectly, that may prove of great value to him, you see. All he has to do is put it into words the next time he is sitting in a bar here on Möllan or at Lilla Torg, and he will have the reputation of being exceptionally good company for the rest of his life. Besides, he did receive a small advance payment. Compensation for pain and suffering, I should say. Contentedly, he took a fresh liquorice pipe from his breast pocket.

Introduktion

Välkommen till ett Malmö där Sherlock Holmes fortfarande löser brott med kall logik, där lakritspipan blir allt kortare ju närmare lösningen han kommer och där en avhuggen stortå bara är början på ett av hans mest osannolika äventyr.

Det börjar med en svårt skadad ung ingenjör som stapplar in på doktor Watsons mottagning en tidig morgon i Malmö. Men därifrån lämnar berättelsen snart den vältrampade stigen. Inom några timmar har Holmes dragit slutsatsen att en nattlig biltur aldrig lämnat staden, att en hydraulpress används till något helt annat än vad ägaren påstår och att lösningen märkligt nog står att finna någonstans mellan surströmming, durian och världens mest motbjudande museum.

Som alltid är Holmes övertygad om att allt följer obevekliga logiska lagar. Problemet är bara att verkligheten den här gången tycks ha spårat ur totalt.

Berättelsen har en ovanlig inramning. Anita Ekberg och fotografen George Oddner återvänder till Malmö för att avsluta en modefotografering som avbröts 1952 när Anita reste till Amerika. Utanför Centralstationen korsas deras väg av Sherlock Holmes och doktor Watson, som sopar igen spåren efter ett av sina märkligaste fall.

Fallet med pruttbomben på burk är en kärleksfull hyllning till Arthur Conan Doyles odödliga mästerdetektiv, men samtidigt en gladlynt drift med vår egen tid, där startups, kryptovalutor, sociala medier och internationella museishopar ofta överträffar artonhundratalets äventyr.

PROLOG

Något magiskt inträffade under en modefotografering utanför Malmö centralstation. George och jag hade kommit ner från våra respektive stjärnor för att fullfölja ett jobb vi inte hann med 1952 innan jag åkte till Amerika. Mitt under fotograferingen dök en man upp med sitt förstoringsglas i högsta hugg. Givetvis kände jag igen Sherlock Holmes, men jag hade ingen aning om att han bodde i Malmö. Det berättade hans ständige följeslagare, Dr Watson, som kom fram och ursäktade att den store detektiven störde mitt fotojobb. De höll på att sopa igen spåren efter ett av sina märkligaste äventyr. Tydligen var de av med en burk surströmming som hade försvunnit. Om jag fann någon sådan i närheten av stationen, kunde jag ringa. Dr Watson gav mig sitt visitkort. Eftersom jag är en nyfiken person kunde jag inte låta bli att fråga hur en burk surströmming skulle kunna ha hamnat utanför centralstationen. Medan Holmes fortsatte att granska varenda kvadratcentimeter av den lilla piazzan, berättade Dr Watson en märklig historia.

Bland de många fall jag har haft förmånen att uppleva tillsammans med Sherlock Holmes finns ett som jag länge har tvekat att offentliggöra. Inte därför att det saknar betydelse, utan därför att det är så osannolikt att ens mina mest välvilliga läsare skulle misstänka att jag låtit fantasin löpa amok. Jag kan emellertid försäkra att varje detalj är sann, oavsett hur motbjudande den än må förefalla.

Holmes brukade säga att ett verkligt mysterium aldrig börjar med ett lik. Det börjar med en detalj som ingen annan finner märkvärdig. En lerfläck på en sko. En felstavning i ett brev. En ovanlig tobaksaska.

Han hade nästan alltid rätt.

Det här fallet började med en avhuggen stortå och kondenserad surströmming.

Kapitel 1: Morgonbesöket på Malmö C

Det har ofta påståtts att min gode vän Sherlock Holmes var en man som hörde hemma i det förflutna, en anakronism som krävde Londons ärtsoppatjocka dimmor och gaslyktornas bleka sken för att hans intellekt skulle fungera optimalt. Men efter att ha delat hans vardag under flera år i vår gemensamma takvåning i Turning Torso kan jag intyga att hans skarpsinniga slutledningsförmåga fungerade precis lika oklanderligt i det tjugoförsta århundradets digitaliserade Malmö. Faktum är att han fann stadens moderna arkitektur, dess mångkulturella puls och det ständigt pågående kaoset i kollektivtrafiken som en outsinlig källa till stimulans.

Det var en tidig måndagsmorgon i augusti 2026. Sensommarvärmen låg redan tung över Västra Hamnen, och genom de enorma panoramafönstren i Torson kunde man se Öresundsbron sträcka ut sig som ett monumentalt pussel över det glittrande vattnet. Själv var jag vid det här laget djupt frustrerad. Efter att ha lämnat den kollektiva sjukvården hade jag etablerat en mindre privatklinik i ett kvarter strax intill Malmö centralstation. Det var ett strategiskt men stundvis djupt tålamodsprövande läge. Mina dagar bestod oftast av att plåstra om pendlare som stukat foten i panikartade rusningar efter inställda Öresundståg eller att sy ihop turister som förlorat kontrollen över sina hyrda elsparkcyklar.

Klockan var knappt sju när lugnet splittrades. Jag satt i mitt undersökningsrum och drack dagens första kopp kaffe när en tung, rytmisk knackning bultade på klinikens ytterdörr. Det var inte den tveksamma knackningen från en nervös patient, utan det desperata dunkandet från någon i akut nöd. Jag skyndade mig ut till receptionen och drog upp dörren. In stapplade en likblek ung man, tydligt skakad och svårt blödande från foten.

Doktorn! flämtade han. Någon har huggit av min stortå med en cykelkedja! Han pekade på sin högra sneaker som saknade tåparti.

Den unge mannen var en beklagansvärd syn. Han var knappt tjugofem år gammal, klädd i en sliten huvtröja och ett par nedsmutsade jeans. Sneakern på hans högra fot saknade hättan och var dessutom blodig. Men det som omedelbart fångade min blick var hans ansikte. Stackaren var så blek att han nästan verkade genomskinlig och ögonen flackade vilt.

Sätt dig i stolen, beordrade jag och hjälpte den skälvande ynglingen. Vad har hänt? En olycka på spåren? Stationen låg ju bara ett kvarter bort, så associationen var inte långsökt.

Nej, nej, stammade den unge mannen, vars tänder hackade okontrollerat. Ingen olycka. De de försökte döda mig.

Jag är van vid brutala skador från min tid inom akutvården, men när jag fått av honom den trasiga skon och en bloddränkt strumpa, drog jag efter andan. Stortån saknades helt och såret var köttigt, trasigt och djupt det såg ut som att tån blivit brutalt avhuggen eller sliten från sitt fäste.

Gode Gud, utbrast jag medan jag snabbt började sterilisera och lägga om stumpen med ett karboliserat förband. Det här är ett grovt våldsbrott. Vad har orsakat detta?

En cykelkedja en skarpslipad cykelkedja, kved mannen och knöt sina händer så hårt att knogarna vitnade. Han högg efter mig med den när jag hoppade ut genom fönstret.

När jag hade lagt det sista tryckförbandet och gett honom en skvätt starkt kaffe med en skvätt medicinsk amoniak, började färgen långsamt återvända till hans kinder. Han presenterade sig som Viktor, en nystartad civilingenjör specialiserad på avancerad hydraulik och 3D-printning, med en liten arbetsplats på startup-huset Minc vid Anckargripsgatan.

Det här är inget för den vanliga ordningspolisen i första skedet, sa jag bestämt och tittade på min klocka som nu visade tjugo i åtta. Det här är en gåta så bisarr och våldsam att den kräver en helt annan sorts expertis. Kan du gå, Viktor?

Om du stöttar mig, sa han svagt. Jag ringde efter en Uber.

Den unge mannen haltade, stödd av mig, ut på Djäknegatan och den väntande bilen.

Det är bråttom! kommenderade jag chauffören. Kör till Lilla Varvsgatan 221B fortare än kvickt!

På adressen bodde min gode vän, privatdetektiven Sherlock Holmes, i en minimalistisk takvåning på 52:a våningen i Turning Torso. Holmes satt iklädd sin mörkblå morgonrock i sin fåtölj, drack havrelatte och skrollade håglöst på sin surfplatta efter intressanta fall. Det enda man skrev om den här dagen var om en dåre som snodde navkapslar, men bara sådana som satt på vänster bakhjul. Det är som att samla på bara vänsterskor. Vad fan ska man med de till?, skämtade Holmes. Han lade ifrån sig surfplattan, studerade den skärrade Viktor och reste sig.

Ah, Watson! Jag ser att du har med dig en patient vars morgon har varit mer dramatisk än min. Och av doften att döma en blandning av saltvatten, industriolja och rutten fisk, och vänta nu är det där torkat blod på dina händer? Fascinerande. Holmes har intagit den skarpsinniga deckarattityden och eftersom han inte röker längre stack han en lakritspipa i munnen. Ju kortare den blev, desto närmare var han lösningen.

Vad kan jag stå till tjänst med, unge man? frågade Holmes. Med sin vanliga slutledningsförmåga hade han kommit fram till att det inte var för Watsons skull de hade kommit. Dessutom såg mannen upprörd ut, så han hade säkert problem. De hade de flesta som jag kom dragande med.

Välkommen, min herre, sa Holmes utan att invänta något svar på sin fråga. Hans röst var både artig och fylld av febrig energi. Sätt er ner på schäslongen där. Drick lite vatten. Holmes hällde upp lite vatten ur en karaff. Och berätta sedan för oss varför du är uppe så här okristligt tidigt. Allt före klockan tio på förmiddagen och fem koppar kaffe var mitt i natten för Holmes.

Kapitel 2: Översten och Minc-kontraktet

Viktor sjönk tacksamt ner på den djupa schäslongen och tog emot glaset med vatten. Hans händer darrade fortfarande så mycket att glaset klirrade mot hans tänder när han drack. Holmes drog fram en strikt, skandinavisk designstol, satte sig rakt framför vår gäst och lade fingertopparna mot varandra hans välkända ställning när han koncentrerade sig som mest. Jag satte mig i fåtöljen som han nyss lämnat.

Nåväl, min herre, sa Holmes med en röst som vibrerade av undertryckt entusiasm. Ta god tid på dig, men utelämna inga detaljer. I fall som detta är det ofta det som verkar mest obetydligt som utgör nyckeln till gåtan.

Viktor tog ett djupt andetag, blickade ut över Öresunds gråblå yta och började sin berättelse:

Som jag nämnde för doktor Watson är jag hydraulikingenjör och kommer från Kalix, men hamnade i andra änden av Sverige. Efter att ha avslutat mina studier på LTH flyttade jag in på startup-huset Minc för knappt två år sedan. Jag hade visioner, herregud, jag trodde att marknaden skulle kasta sig över mina skräddarsydda, 3D-printade högtryckskomponenter. Men sanningen är att entreprenörslivet har varit en ekonomisk mardröm.

Han tystnade ett ögonblick och drog blicken mot sin förbundna fot innan han fortsatte:

Mina besparingar var i stort sett slut. I fredags satt jag kvar vid mitt skrivbord ända till klockan sju på kvällen. Jag var desperat och övervägde allvarligt att lägga ner hela verksamheten. Det var då han dök upp. Utan att knacka klev han rakt in på mitt kontor.

Beskriv honom, avbröt Holmes och sög extra hårt på lakritspipan. Minsta detalj i hans yttre kan vara av vikt.

Han var en av de mest särpräglade män jag någonsin sett, sa Viktor. Han var ganska lång, men så mager att han nästan såg ut som ett vandrande skelett. Ansiktet var smalt, med en skarp, falkliknande näsa och huden var hårt spänd över kindkotorna. Trots sensommarvärmen bar han ett knäppt regnställ från ett dyrt skandinaviskt friluftsmärke och vägrade konsekvent att ta av sig sina kolsvarta solglasögon, trots att det var mörkt i rummet. När han talade hördes det omedelbart att han inte var från Skåne; han talade en mycket distinkt, snabb och kylig stockholmska.

Är det du som är Viktor? frågade han, fortsatte vår gäst. Jag bekräftade detta. Han sa att han kallade sig Överste Stark och att han hade blivit rekommenderad att vända sig till mig eftersom jag var känd för att vara både skicklig och vilket han betonade tre gånger absolut diskret.

En överste som döljer sina ögon och söker absolut tystnad, mumlade Holmes bistert, för det lät på något sätt obehagligt bekant. Fortsätt, tack. Lakritspipan vippade i munnen.

Översten drog upp en stol, satte sig skrämmande nära mig och erbjöd mig ett kontrakt, sa Viktor. Han sa: Jag betalar dig 50 000 kronor kontant eller i kryptovaluta om du föredrar det, för några timmars arbete mitt i natten. Vi har en hydraulisk press som har hakat upp sig. Men du får inte säga ett ord till en levande själ om att du har träffat mig eller var du har varit. Plötsligt hoppade översten upp och sprang fram till dörren, ryckte upp den för att kontrollera att ingen av de andra entreprenörerna på Minc stod utanför och tjuvlyssnade.

Och det fick dig naturligtvis fundersam?, frågade Holmes ledande.

Det är klart att det väckte min misstänksamhet, erkände Viktor. Priset var ju orimligt högt för ett så enkelt uppdrag. Så jag frågade vad den här enorma pressen faktiskt användes till.

Jo, sa översten och lutade sig tillbaka med ett kyligt leende. Det är så här. Jag och några investerare har utvecklat en helt ny metod för att tillverka ekologisk närproducerad vegansk falafel.

Falafel? Turkmat! fnyste Holmes, som låg mer åt det italienska köket. Förlåt! Fortsätt!

Översten berättade att de pressar kikärtsmassan under ett så extremt tryck att den får en helt unik, köttliknande textur. Enligt honom ropade hela världen på deras falafel. Därav allt hemlighetsmakeri.

Holmes skrattade till, ett kort och torrt skratt. En mekaniserad falafelkonspiration i hjärtat av Malmö. Det låter sannerligen som en kreativ lögn. Och du svalde betet?

Jag tänkte på mina obetalda räkningar, Mr Holmes, sa Viktor skamset. Femtiotusen kronor skulle rädda mitt företag. Självfallet accepterade jag uppdraget. Varför skulle jag tacka nej? Jag behövde ju stålarna. Översten bad mig möta honom bakom den gamla Saluhallen på Drottningtorget vid midnatt, där en bil skulle hämta upp mig. Han gav mig tiotusen i förskott och försvann sedan lika tyst som han kom. Viktor tystnade och tog en klunk vatten, medan Holmes ögon glödde av den intellektuella jaktens upphetsning. Redan en tredjedel av lakritspipan var borta. Det betydde att hans hjärna arbetade på högvarv.

Kapitel 3: Nattlig rundtur i cirklar

Jag kom i tid, naturligtvis, och ställde mig på saluhallens baksida, mot Norra Vallgatan. Där stod jag i säkert en kvart innan en mörk limousin stannade bredvid mig. Ut rusade två män med masker för ögonen, kastade in mig i bilens baksäte och tryckte en luva över mitt huvud, fortsatte Viktor. Direkt efter att jag fått luvan över huvudet kände jag hur bilen accelererade kraftigt. Vi körde och körde. Jag försökte räkna svängarna, men det var omöjligt. Det guppade över ojämna kullerstenar, svängde tvärt i tvära gatuhörn och bilen stannade och startade vid vad som kändes som hundratals trafikljus. Ibland hörde jag det karakteristiska svischandet från andra bilar som passerade nära, ibland var det helt tyst. Först genom stan, men sedan ut på motorvägen. Efter ett tag svängde de av och vägarna blev guppiga och svängiga. Viktor skruvade besvärat på sig i schäslongen och justerade bandaget på foten. Holmes trummade fingrarna mot varandra.

Det kändes som om vi körde i minst en timme, ända ut till Bokskogen i Torup eller åt det hållet. Där vände man, och efter en stund körde vi ut på en motorväg igen. Efter ett tag kändes det som om vi körde i en stad igen, och efter många kringelikrokar stannade bilen. Jag knuffades ut och leddes uppför en trappa. Jag hörde hur man låste upp en dörr och sedan föstes jag in i ett rum. På ekot av stegen hörde jag att rummet inte var stort. Någon slet av mig luvan. Jag befann mig i en mörk, fönsterlös industrilokal.

En timme, sa du? mumlade Holmes, som satt med slutna ögon och vaggade lätt med huvudet.

Ja, minst en timme. När bilen till slut stannade, leddes jag ut ur fordonet. Jag kände doften av saltmättad havsluft och gammal tång. Vi gick en bit på något som kändes som asfalt. Jag hörde att de öppnade en dörr. Det gnisslade något och sedan kände jag en tung, stickande lukt. En stank som jag tyckte mig känna igen. Ögonbindeln slets av. Jag stod i en fönsterlös industrilokal med råa betongväggar och ett fuktigt betonggolv. Det enda ljuset kom från en ensam, stark halogenlampa på ett stativ.

Längs den ena väggen stod vad som såg ut att vara en torkugn, en sådan där man stoppar in något i ena änden och ut ur den andra kommer ett pulver. Vid den andra väggen stod kartonger och på golvet låg vad som såg ut som torvbriketter, sådana man värmer upp hus med i Norrland. Men det luktade inte torv utan något annat.
I en hög på golvet låg öppnade burkar med en etikett jag kände igen. Det finns ingen norrlänning som inte vet hur en surströmmingsburk ser ut. Nu förstod jag vad de tillverkade. Hur knäppt det än verkade. Man torkade fisken för att sedan komprimera den till kakor.

Hela den industriella processen blev plötsligt glasklar i mitt huvud:
Först dehydreringen. Den jästa, blöta surströmmingen tömdes ur sina burkar och matades in i torkugnen. Där förångades 80 procent av vattnet, vilket normalt gör surströmming omöjlig att komprimera. De flyktiga gaserna sögs ut, men proteinerna, fettet och aromämnena bakades samman till ett sprött, snustorrt pulver.

Det högkoncentrerade fiskpulvret skyfflades sedan över till den kraftiga hydrauliska pressen som jag skulle reparera. Utan vattnets motstånd krossades alla cellväggar och luftfickor på ett ögonblick. Fiskbenen maldes ner till mikroskopiska fragment under det enorma trycket, samtidigt som friktionsvärmen fick fiskfettet att smälta och fungera som ett naturligt lim.

Ut ur pressen kom stenhårda, mörka kakor som låg staplade på golvet. All surströmming från hundratals burkar hade komprimerats till en bråkdel av sin ursprungliga volym. De såg ut som torvbriketter, men var i själva verket slumrande bomber av koncentrerad norrländsk delikatess. Av en annan maskin förstod jag att briketterna sågades ner till storleken på en tändsticksask. Det låg en hög sådana staplade bredvid. Som civilingenjör hade jag lätt att förstå hur det fungerade. Efter vakuumförpackning håller produkten i tio till trettio år.

Det krävs bara en enda sak för att väcka dem till liv igen: en skvätt vatten. Då sliter kapillärkrafterna det lilla surströmmingsblocket i stycken inifrån, proteinerna sväller upp och de inkapslade aromerna svavelväte och smörsyra utlöser en omedelbar luktexplosion. Den tändsticksaskstora koncentrerade surströmmingen växer till fem, sex gånger sin storlek och blir en perfekt portion lagom till en öl och ett par snapsar. Vilken otroligt knasig idé.

Och maskinen? frågade Holmes och öppnade ena ögat. Han hade aldrig smakat surströmming, bara hört talas om den och var egentligen ointresserad av livsmedelsprocesser om de inte löste gåtor. Doften som hade satt sig i den unge mannens kläder gjorde heller inte att Holmes kände någon längtan efter att smaka.

Den stod mitt i rummet. En monstruös, specialbyggd hydraulisk press, säkert fyra meter hög. Den var kopplad till tjocka högtrycksslangar och en separat kontrollpanel. Det märkliga var att hela maskinen var inkapslad i en ljudisolerad box av tunga plattor. En kort, kraftig man med ett tjockt, ovårdat skägg som Översten presenterade som sin produktionschef stod bredvid.

Där är felet, sa översten och pekade på pressens centrala cylinder. Den tappar trycket så fort vi börjar mata in pulvret. Jag tog fram mina verktyg och började undersöka hydrauliken. Det var ett ganska enkelt fel för någon med min erfarenhet. En a