by Leif Persson
One of the experts consulted by the largest of the evening papers had detailed the clear connection between the emergence of serial killers and the temperature at the time of the crimes. According to his own research, the likelihood of multiple murders increased along with the temperature. The summer months were far more critical than winter, whether you were an Eskimo or an African. And it was no coincidence that the majority of known serial killers, in the US for instance, preferred to work in the southern states of California or Florida than in the mid-western or northern states. His conclusion: heat triggers violence, particularly in mentally ill, unstable or fragile criminals.
19
LIFE GOES ON. First I have to argue with a miserable bitch before lunch, then I have to eat with two complete idiots because Rogersson is evidently still listening to another bitch, Bäckström thought. And as if that wasn’t more than enough, they’re serving soggy pasta and some bastard fish sauce for lunch. What’s wrong with a bit of beef stew with beetroot? For God’s sake, this rural hell-hole was right next to Skåne, and they had decent food there.
Knutsson and Thorén were considerably more cheerful, and Knutsson was most cheerful of all, because he had decided to check the list of burglaries even before the neighbour had stepped forward and told her story to the paper.
‘Very far-sighted of you, Erik,’ Thorén said in admiration. ‘When I read what she said, I was convinced it was true. I think you’re on the right lines.’
‘Tell me,’ Bäckström said. Fucking idiots, he thought.
According to Thorén, it was very simple. ‘Typical behaviour for burglars. First they go to the top of a building, where there’s least chance of someone living lower down going past.’
Because at three o’clock in the morning in the middle of the holiday season that risk was pretty damn significant, Bäckström thought, nodding encouragingly at him.
‘Well, then he probably tried ringing on the door to see if anyone was home, and then the dogs started barking,’ Thorén went on.
‘Or he looked through the letterbox,’ Knutsson added helpfully.
‘So he left. Burglars hate dogs,’ Thorén explained.
And I can tell you’ve never worked in the drug squad, Bäckström thought, nodding. ‘So what was wrong with the floor below? There wasn’t anyone there at all,’ he said.
‘Far too close, considering he’d just woken up the upstairs neighbour,’ Knutsson said confidently.
‘The next floor, then?’ Bäckström asked.
‘The Pole was home,’ Thorén said. ‘But that’s not to say the burglar didn’t check his door too.’
‘I still think he went all the way to the ground floor,’ Knutsson said. ‘To be on the safe side, I mean.’
‘So that’s when he rings on Linda’s door?’ Bäckström asked. This is getting better and better.
‘Yes,’ Knutsson said. ‘And looks through the letterbox and everything they usually do. That’s the usual modus for people like that. Well. Their modus operandi, I mean.’
‘And Linda gets up and opens the door for him?’ Bäckström said.
‘Yes,’ Knutsson said. ‘Even if it sounds a bit strange. Of course she could have just forgotten to lock the door.’
‘She must have done, seeing as there were no signs of a break-in on the door,’ Thorén said. ‘Either opened the door, or forgotten to lock it, I mean.’
‘Hang on a moment,’ Bäckström said, raising his hands to stop them. ‘Just so I’m following your reasoning, gentlemen. At three o’clock in the morning a typical burglar comes along, your standard addict with needle-tracks, saliva hanging from the corner of his mouth and so on, and he rings on Linda’s door to see if the Ericson whose name is on the door is at home, or, preferably, isn’t. Meanwhile, the neighbour’s dogs up on the fourth floor are barking like mad. So our thief rings on the door, ring, ring, ring. Then he takes a quick look through the letterbox as well. And Linda, who’s left the club to go home and get some sleep, and who I believe was training to join the police, goes up to the door, looks through the peephole, and what does she see? A typical thief. Wired. Wow, I must let him in! Straight away. There’s lots here he can pinch. As long as he promises to take off his shoes and leave them in the shoe-rack in the hall, so he doesn’t make a mess. Is that it?’
Neither Thorén nor Knutsson said anything. Bäckström got up, put his tray on the trolley, then went and got a cup of coffee with plenty of milk and sugar, and took it with him back to his office, cursing silently the whole way.
When Rogersson and his fellow officer Salomonson rang on the door of the neighbour, Margareta Eriksson, she was already busy. She had invited in a reporter and photographer from the second largest evening paper, who had missed the scoop but hadn’t given up hope of getting a fresh angle. They were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee.
‘So it would suit me much better if you could come back later today,’ she explained.
‘Perhaps you’d rather do this down at the station, Mrs Eriksson,’ Rogersson said with an expressionless voice and a blank look in his eyes. ‘We can send a patrol car to pick you up. Just let us know when.’
Upon further consideration, right now turned out to be a very good time after all, and just a few minutes later Mrs Eriksson was sitting with Rogersson and Salomonson around the same kitchen table that the reporters had just vacated.
‘Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee?’ their hostess asked. She had evidently decided to draw a line and move on.
‘Yes, that would be great,’ Salomonson said before Rogersson had time to decline the offer.
‘Well, of course I understand that you’re wondering about that article in the paper,’ Mrs Eriksson said, and from the look on her face she wasn’t feeling entirely comfortable. ‘Why I didn’t say anything when I spoke to your colleagues, I mean.’
Rogersson made do with simply nodding at her, while Salomonson focused on stirring his coffee.
‘Of course you can’t believe everything they say in the papers,’ Mrs Eriksson said with a nervous smile. ‘Absolutely not, because I didn’t actually say everything that they printed. What I said was that I’d woken up in the middle of the night because my dogs were barking. But all the rest, about someone trying to break in, and that I heard someone running downstairs . . . I didn’t say any of that. If anything like that had happened, I’d certainly have called the police.’
‘Do your dogs often start barking when someone comes, Mrs Eriksson?’ Salomonson wondered.
Their owner said that it certainly happened sometimes. Occasionally they would bark when the neighbours came home, especially if it was late, or sometimes just when there was someone making a noise out in the road. ‘That awful Pole’ that she unfortunately had as a neighbour had even complained to the residents’ committee because of it. Without success, according to the dogs’ owner and chair of the committee. But certainly Peppe could be very sensitive.
‘He has a very gruff bark,’ Mrs Eriksson said proudly, patting the large Labrador that was resting its head in her lap. ‘And then little Pigge joins in to help his big brother.’
‘What did you do when the dogs started barking, Mrs Eriksson?’ Rogersson asked.
Because she was in bed asleep, and was woken by their barking, she had lain there listening. Then she had told them to stop, and when they did she had assumed that there was nothing wrong.
‘If someone had been standing out on the landing, obviously they would have carried on barking, even if he was quiet as a mouse,’ Mrs Eriksson explained.
‘So the dogs stopped barking,’ Rogersson said. ‘Then what did you do?’
First she had crept out into the hall and looked through the peephole, but she hadn’t heard or seen anything. Then she had gone back to bed again, and eventually went back to sleep. That was all, and she apologized once more for not thinking of it sooner when she was talking to the police. As to why the journalists had written what they did, she ‘honestly had no idea’.
Because you tried to make yourself sound interesting, Rogersson thought, but he didn’t say it. Instead they concluded the interview, thanked her for the coffee, and left. Rogersson hadn’t even bothered saying anything about the disclosure ban. Every proper police officer knew that they were just a bad joke.
On the way down the stairs they met two forensics officers who were on their way up to dust Mrs Eriksson’s door, and any other potentially interesting surfaces.
‘If you’re quick, you’ll get a cup of coffee,’ Salomonson said, whereas Rogersson made do with a nod and grunt.
Because they were passing, they rang Gross’s bell to see if he had noticed anyone outside his door early on Friday morning. Gross had refused to open the door. Through the letterbox he told them to stop harassing him.
‘I’ve got some reporters here. I’ve got witnesses in the flat. I’m warning you,’ Gross said. ‘Get lost, right now.’
‘Well, that was pretty much it,’ Rogersson said. He looked up at Bäckström and sighed.
‘So what do you think?’ Bäckström asked.
‘That the old bag woke up in the middle of the night because her dogs were barking,’ Rogersson said. ‘She doesn’t know when exactly. I’m guessing they bark all the time. They were barking like mad when we rang on the door.’
‘So why did she go and look through the peephole, then?’ Bäckström asked. ‘Does she do that every time the dogs bark?’
‘Not according to her, anyway,’ Rogersson said. ‘But if you want to know what I think?’ Bäckström nodded. ‘It was the middle of the night, it’s summer, she’s read in all the papers about break-ins and thieves running wild, pretty much all her neighbours are away on holiday. That’s enough to explain why she decided to take a look this time.’
‘But why were the dogs barking, then?’ Bäckström persisted.
‘Don’t ask me about dogs. Talk to someone in the dog unit. It would probably cheer them up. Their dogs are the only thing those poor bastards have in their tiny minds.’
‘Why did the dogs bark?’ Bäckström repeated.
‘The simple explanation is that they started to bark because they heard Linda come home. If we’re to believe their owner, they’ve got fucking brilliant hearing. See you at the hotel,’ Rogersson said.
‘Don’t forget to pick up supplies,’ Bäckström reminded him. ‘No need to get me anything; it’ll be fine if you just replace all the cans you’ve had off me.’
Before Bäckström left the police station he called Enoksson in forensics to ask how things were going with the examination of Mrs Eriksson’s door.
‘We examined everything under ultra-violet, and dusted it,’ Enoksson said. ‘The door, the handle, the letterbox, the frame, the walls on either side, the banister on the stairs up to her floor. We’ve already checked the lift, as you might remember.’
‘And?’ Bäckström said.
‘Nothing,’ Enoksson said. ‘Just her prints. She’s probably just lonely and wanted some company. And maybe exaggerated to make herself more interesting.’
When Bäckström returned to his room in the hotel, he found that his laundry had been returned. The neatly folded piles covered pretty much every available surface of the room. And they had written it up on the bill as ‘care of equipment’, as he had requested. Then Rogersson turned up with the crate of export-strength lager that he owed Bäckström. Christmas, Bäckström thought, instantly forgetting any thought of calling little Carin and telling her anything.
‘I’ve got some cold ones in the minibar,’ he said. ‘I suggest we deal with those before going to get something to eat.’
20
Växjö, Wednesday 9 July
THE DAY HAD begun with unusual promise. The second largest evening paper was refusing to give up the fight. They were out for revenge, and had managed to make more of Marian Gross’s story than even their editor could have hoped for. A double-page spread, with a big picture of the hero of the piece, librarian Marian Gross, 39, which perfectly matched the headline: HE SCARED OFF THE SERIAL KILLER. How the hell had the photographer managed that, Bäckström wondered. The little fucker does look almost scary. They must have shot him from below.
‘Listen to this,’ he said, and began to read from the article.
‘Hang on,’ Thorén said pedantically. ‘Isn’t he forty-six, not thirty-nine?’
‘Who cares,’ Bäckström said. ‘Just listen to this. Marian woke up in the middle of the night because someone was trying to break into his flat, and he ran out into the hall. Through the peephole in the door he saw a young man in his early twenties trying to pick the lock of his flat.’
‘Which one?’ Rogersson said sullenly. ‘He had three different locks on his door when I was there yesterday.’
‘Don’t get hung up on details,’ Bäckström said, and carried on reading. ‘I asked him what he was doing, Marian says, but before I had time to open the door and grab him he ran off down the stairs and disappeared.’
‘So does he give a description?’ Knutsson asked.
‘A very good one, actually,’ Bäckström said. ‘Although the perpetrator’s face was covered by the peak of a so-called baseball cap, our Polish friend saw that he had short hair, almost shaved, and looked typically Swedish. Like a football hooligan or a right-wing extremist, at any rate. Big and strong. About one metre eighty, about twenty years old. Wearing a green and brown camouflage jacket, and black trousers made of some sort of shiny material, stuffed into a pair of high boots.’
‘Interesting,’ Lewin said, sipping his coffee and at the same time running the big toe of his right foot along Eva Svanström’s left ankle and suntanned shin under the table. ‘The way he was dressed, considering it was about twenty degrees outside, I mean.’
‘There’s something here that doesn’t make sense,’ Knutsson said hesitantly, shaking his head.
‘Tell us,’ Bäckström said eagerly, putting the paper down and leaning forward so as not to miss a word.
‘Would the perpetrator really have run down to the ground floor and rung on Linda’s door?’ Thorén clarified, shaking his head again.
‘Perhaps he was finished with Linda,’ Bäckström suggested helpfully. ‘And he thought he’d work his way back up the building?’
‘So why didn’t he call the police?’ Knutsson said obligingly. ‘Gross, I mean.’
‘He’s already been asked that, actually,’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘Along with most of the other citizens of this country, Gross doesn’t have a lot of faith in the police.’
‘Thank heavens for that,’ Thorén said. ‘Considering what he’s been up to himself.’
‘I don’t believe any of this,’ Knutsson said, shaking his head firmly. ‘I think he’s made it all up. Although someone could have rung on his door, of course. Like the woman upstairs, I mean.’
‘I don’t think we’re going to get much further,’ Rogersson sighed, getting up from the table. ‘Do you want me to question him again?’ He was looking at Bäckström.
‘Does the Pope wear a turban? Does Superintendent Bäckström wear a uniform? Does Dolly Parton sleep on her stomach?’ Bäckström said, getting up as well.
21
THAT SAME MORNING the investigating team finally received the much anticipated forensic report, and everyone was present for the morning meeting. The atmosphere was charged as they heard that the results were conclusive. If they could only get hold of whoever left the DNA at the crime scene, Linda’s murder would be solved beyond any doubt. From the point of view of evidence, it was so overwhelming that anything the perpetrator might say after his arrest was completely irrelevant.
His DNA had been secured from seven different places. In the form of semen from the sofa in the living room. In the form of various bodily fluids on the dark blue Jockey shorts, size S, found under the same sofa. In the form of semen in the victim’s vagina and rectum. In the form of semen on the wall of the shower in the bathroom. In the form of blood on the windowsil
l. And finally from one other place that forensics hadn’t mentioned before. In the hall they had found a pair of trainers, size 42, Reeboks. The DNA that forensics managed to secure from these identified them as the perpetrator’s shoes.
‘We weren’t sure to start with,’ Enoksson explained. ‘That’s why we haven’t said anything before. But according to Linda’s mother, she’d never seen them before, so we sent them off to the National Lab, and it worked out.’
A pair of Jockey shorts and a pair of Reebok trainers. Worn by hundreds of thousands of men, and sold in their millions. Trying to track down whoever had bought them was out of the question. So they would have to rely on other leads, and according to Enoksson and his colleagues the nature of the traces that had been secured gave a good idea of the sequence of events.
The perpetrator comes in through the front door of the flat. Most of the evidence suggests that Linda lets him in. He takes off his shoes and puts them on the shoe-rack in the hall.
Then he and his victim end up on the sofa in the living room, where the perpetrator takes off his trousers and underwear and ejaculates on the sofa.
Then the action moves to the bedroom. The perpetrator ties Linda’s hands behind her back, gags her, and ties her ankles to the foot of the bed, probably in that order. Then he rapes her twice, first in the vagina, and then in the anus, and ejaculates both times. It seems probable that in conjunction with the second rape he makes the cuts on her lower back. Then, during or after this final assault, he strangles her.
Then he goes into the shower, washes, masturbates, and ejaculates once more.
‘And finally he escapes through the bedroom window,’ Enoksson said. ‘He goes out backwards, with his chest and stomach against the windowsill, to make the drop smaller. As he crawls out and lets go of the window-frame, he scratches himself on the edge of the windowsill, which is rusty and quite sharp.’