by Leif Persson
That evening, after the now customary dinner in the hotel restaurant, Bäckström and Rogersson returned to Bäckström’s room, to talk through the case in a relaxed setting, and work out how best to proceed now that young Löfgren had faded from the investigation. Eventually both the lager and the spirits had run out, and Bäckström was so far gone that he wasn’t in a fit state to accompany Rogersson down to the bar to round off the evening. He spent Saturday catching up on his sleep, and naturally the lazy and unreliable hotel staff took the opportunity to exploit his tardiness by not bothering to clean his room or replace his dirty towels.
39
DURING THE NIGHT between Saturday and Sunday, while Bäckström was lying asleep in his unmade bed in the Town Hotel, another woman was attacked, right in the centre of Växjö, and just a few hundred metres from the hotel. The victim was a nineteen-year-old woman who was walking home alone after a party. When she opened the door to the building she lived in on Norrgatan at about three o’clock in the morning, an unknown man attacked her from behind, shoved her into the lobby, knocked her to the floor and attempted to rape her. The victim screamed and fought for her life. Several neighbours were woken by the noise and the perpetrator ran from the scene.
Within fifteen minutes everything was in motion. The victim had been taken to hospital. The crime scene was cordoned off, duty officers and forensics experts were on the spot questioning witnesses and looking for evidence. Three patrol cars were driving round looking for anything suspicious in the neighbourhood, reinforcements were on their way, and the phones of the team investigating the Linda murder were starting to ring. Detective Superintendent Olsson had his phone glued to his ear out at his summer house as he tried to pull his trousers on with his free hand, while trying to remember where he had put his car keys. Detective Superintendent Bäckström was still sleeping soundly. He had learned from previous experience to switch off his mobile phone and unplug the telephone in the room at night.
When he came down to breakfast on Sunday morning and Rogersson told him what had happened, it was pretty much all over, and it was already apparent that some of the details were distinctly unclear.
‘I spoke to Sandberg a short while ago,’ Rogersson said.
‘What did she say?’ Bäckström asked.
‘That there was something funny about the victim,’ Rogersson said. ‘Sandberg thinks she might have made the whole thing up.’
Little Sandberg, bloody hell, Bäckström thought. It’s amazing, the things you hear, he thought.
That evening Bäckström called his very own radio reporter, but just like the previous weekend he only got through to her answer machine. Aged mother, Bäckström thought, and in the absence of any better options he ordered food and beer up to his room and lay there channel-surfing for half the night, until he finally fell asleep.
Jan Lewin had started dreaming again.
Sweden, the mid-1950s. The summer of Jan Lewin’s seventh birthday, before he started school that autumn, and when he got his first proper bicycle. A red Crescent Valiant.
Grandma and Grandpa’s summer cottage out on Blidö in the Stockholm archipelago. Mum, Dad, and him. The sun shining day after day in a cloud-free sky. A proper Indian summer, his dad says, and for once his dad’s summer holiday never seems to end.
‘Why’s it called an Indian summer, Daddy?’ Jan asks.
‘That’s just what it’s called,’ Daddy replies. ‘When it’s an unusually long, hot summer.’
‘But what’s that got to do with the Indians?’ Jan persists. ‘Why do people call it an Indian summer?’
‘I suppose they normally get better weather than us,’ Daddy replies, then he laughs and ruffles Jan’s hair, and it seems a good enough answer.
That summer his dad taught him to ride a bike. Gravel tracks, clumps of nettles, ditches. The smell of creosote. Daddy running behind him, holding on to the saddle while Jan clutches the handles in his sweaty little hands and pedals as fast as he can with his skinny, suntanned legs.
‘I’m going to let go now,’ Daddy shouts, and even though Jan knows that he has to pedal and steer at the same time, it just doesn’t work. Either he pedals or he steers, and sometimes Daddy isn’t in time to catch him. Scraped knees, bruised shins, burning nettles, sharp thistles and thorns.
‘Let’s try again, Jan,’ Daddy says, ruffling Jan’s hair, and off they go again.
Steer and pedal, steer and pedal, and Daddy lets go and again he doesn’t get there before Jan falls off. And when he turns round he doesn’t see his dad about to help him up. He sees his colleague Bäckström, standing there grinning at him.
‘How fucking stupid can anyone be, Lewin?’ Bäckström says. ‘For fuck’s sake, you can’t just stop pedalling because I’m not pushing you.’
Then he had woken up, padded out into the bathroom, and let the cold water run as he massaged his eyes and temples.
40
Växjö, Monday 28 July
AT THE WEEK’S first morning meeting of the investigative team, the head of the preliminary investigation, Detective Superintendent Bengt Olsson, was able to announce that they had set a new Swedish record. The Olssonian DNA-sampling offensive in Växjö and the surrounding district was rolling on unchecked, and during the weekend they had passed five hundred voluntary samples, not to mention a bloody paper handkerchief and an apple-core. Their future colleague, trainee police officer Löfgren, had been discounted from the investigation with the help of the usual cotton-bud, while their mentally troubled colleague Claesson had been dropped thanks to his own healthy eating habits, and without his having any idea of what had happened.
Unfortunately, Detective Superintendent Jan Lewin took the opportunity to tell them how the previous record had been set. He and National Crime had been involved on that occasion as well. Another murdered woman, up in Dalarna. Close to five hundred samples had been obtained in that case, but sadly the Petra murder was now several years old, still unsolved, and practically abandoned. Then Lewin had made the mistake of deciding to add a far too lengthy personal observation on the subject.
‘I remember my first murder investigation involving a young woman,’ he said, sounding as if he were talking out loud to himself. ‘It’s almost thirty years ago now, so a lot of you sitting here weren’t even born then. The Kataryna murder, as it was called in the papers. In those days we’d never even heard of DNA, and we all knew that if we were going to solve our cases we almost always had to do it the old-fashioned way, without a lot of forensic help and scientific methods. Forensics was something they did in court once us ordinary officers had found the man who did it.’
‘Sorry, Lewin,’ Bäckström interrupted, pointing at his watch. ‘What do you think about getting to the point before lunch? Because the rest of us have quite a bit to do.’
‘I’m getting to that,’ Lewin said, unconcerned. ‘In those days our clear-up rate for murder cases was over seventy per cent. Today we manage to solve less than half, in spite of all the new technology and all the new methods. I can’t believe that our cases today are that much more difficult than they used to be.’
‘So what do you think it depends on?’ Sandberg suddenly asked. ‘You must have given it some thought.’
‘Oh yes, I’ve certainly given it some thought,’ Lewin said. ‘Take this business of DNA, for instance. When it works, then obviously it’s a tremendous resource. If you find good DNA evidence, like in this case, and if you find the person who left the evidence.’
‘So what’s the problem?’ Sandberg persisted.
‘If it’s good DNA, then there’s a risk that you get so carried away that you neglect everything else. ‘All the good old-fashioned and systematic police work.’
‘You mean, to catch the person who did it you can’t just run about like headless chickens?’ Sandberg said with a smile.
‘Yes, that’s one way of putting it,’ Lewin said.
The final point on the programme that morning was Sandberg’s presentation
of what they now knew about the assault early on Sunday morning.
‘So many of the details are so vague that I can’t help feeling she might have made it all up,’ she said.
‘But why would she have done that?’ Olsson said. ‘That’s surely not the sort of thing anyone would make up?’
‘I’m getting to that,’ Sandberg said, suddenly sounding very like her twenty-years-older colleague, Detective Superintendent Jan Lewin.
There were no witnesses who saw either the attack inside the lobby of the building, or even a glimpse of the perpetrator. There was absolutely no forensic evidence, even though Enoksson and his colleagues had literally hoovered up everything from the alleged crime scene and in its immediate vicinity. All they had was the victim’s own story, about an assault that she managed to fend off by putting up fierce resistance. She claimed to have both bitten and scratched her assailant. There was also her description of the attacker.
‘There’s nothing wrong with the description,’ Olsson insisted. ‘I think it sounds very good. What is it she says? A single attacker, about twenty years old, well built and in good shape, approximately 180 centimetres tall, black baseball cap, black T-shirt, baggy black jogging trousers, a pair of those white running shoes, tattoos on both arms. Some design with curling black snakes or dragons on both upper arms, stretching down past the elbows almost to his wrists. And he threatened her in English, but with such a thick accent that she’s sure he wasn’t English or American. Probably eastern European or something like that. It’s no secret, at least not to those of us based here, that that’s often exactly what they look like. It’s actually starting to be quite a problem.’
‘Yes, it’s a fantastic description,’ Sandberg agreed. ‘Considering what she was going through at the time, she certainly made sure she got a good look.’
‘I agree with you, Anna,’ Bäckström grinned. ‘She seems to be a very alert young lady. And it matches the profile we got perfectly. And it looks like she’s also found the time to appear in both the evening papers and on television, to say how terrible it was. She’ll probably be presenting the weather on TV3 soon, or flashing her tits on that farm where they make that programme.’
‘Thanks, Bäckström,’ Sandberg said for some reason. ‘That’s one of the things that’s been bothering me. Normally girls who’ve been subjected to something like this can’t even bear to look at themselves in the mirror. They can hardly talk, even to those closest to them. They just want to be left in peace.’
Bäckström had risen from the ashes left by trainee police officer Löfgren, had already identified his next prey, and quickly jumped back into the flames again. Immediately after the meeting he took young Thorén aside to find out how he was getting on with committee member Karlsson.
‘You were absolutely right, Bäckström. Mr Karlsson doesn’t seem like a very nice person,’ Thorén said, before giving a quick outline of his findings.
‘We need a DNA sample from the bastard,’ Bäckström said keenly.
‘Already sorted,’ Thorén said, and explained about their colleagues’ previous efforts in Malmö.
‘Why the hell didn’t you tell me that before?’ Bäckström asked crossly. ‘Is it a secret or something?’ Running round like headless chickens, he thought.
‘Sit down, Lewin, sit down,’ Bäckström said warmly, gesturing towards the visitor’s chair in front of his desk. ‘How are things going with your own little constructions? Are you starting to make any sense of them?’
‘I’m sure they’ll work out,’ Lewin said neutrally.
He also had two concrete proposals that might offer a step in the right direction. First, to interview Linda’s mother again. The two interviews that had already been conducted hadn’t been sufficiently thorough, in Lewin’s opinion. If he wanted to be critical, they didn’t really provide anything that they wouldn’t have been able to find out without talking to her. And he also wanted them to have another go at trainee police officer Löfgren.
‘You know I always listen to you,’ Bäckström said generously. Even though you were on the point of fucking up half the force with that black bastard, he thought.
‘My suggestion is that we get Rogersson to interview Linda’s mother,’ Lewin said. ‘Rogersson’s extremely thorough when it comes to that sort of thing.’
‘Yes, it’s odd, isn’t it?’ Bäckström agreed. ‘Even if he drinks like a Russian and keeps running to the toilet.’
‘I’ve never noticed that,’ Lewin said curtly. ‘But you’re probably better informed than me on that point, Bäckström.’
‘There’s been some talk, if I can put it like that,’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘What about the black? Who’s going to deal with him?’
‘If you mean young Löfgren, I was actually thinking of talking to him myself,’ Lewin said. ‘I have a feeling he might be more willing to talk now that he’s no longer a suspect.’
‘Bound to be. It’ll be a breeze this time,’ Bäckström agreed. And you, Lewin, will probably end up getting the Nobel Prize sooner or later.
41
LINDA’S MOTHER WAS at her summer cottage out on Sirkön, in the middle of Lake Åsnen, some twenty kilometres south of Växjö. She had a female friend staying with her, and according to her Linda’s mother was concentrating on surviving from one day to the next. However, she understood that the police were keen to talk to her, and was willing to oblige as best she could.
‘Thank her from me,’ Rogersson said. ‘I’ll be there with one of my colleagues in about an hour.’
‘Do you need any directions?’ the friend asked.
‘I think we’ll be okay,’ Rogersson said. ‘If we get lost I can always call again. Do tell her how grateful I am that she’s prepared to talk to us.’
Bäckström had decided to keep his friend Rogersson company. He felt like getting out of town for a bit. Preferably in a comfortable, air-conditioned car, where he and Rogersson could talk crap in peace and quiet about all the non-present idiots who were otherwise ruining his life. Besides, he was also a bit curious about Linda’s mother.
‘Down there on the left is the lake,’ Rogersson said half an hour later, nodding towards the blue water shimmering between the birch trees in the sun. ‘It’s only another ten kilometres or so to Sirkön. Classic territory for people like you and me, Bäckström.’
‘I thought all the strong spirits were made in Skåne?’ Bäckström said, already feeling much brighter in spite of the undeserved slings and arrows that had struck him recently.
‘Swedish criminal history,’ Rogersson explained. ‘One of our most notorious disappearances of the past century. Up there with Viola Widegren from 1948. This was where little Alvar Larsson disappeared from his parents’ home on a cold and windy April morning in 1967.’ He sounded almost ceremonial. ‘I read an interesting article about the case in the Nordic Crime Chronicle a few years ago. Didn’t sound like a murder. He probably just tumbled into the lake and drowned while he was outside playing.’
‘I don’t believe that for a minute,’ Bäckström said. ‘Of course he was murdered. By one of those paedophiles. There must be loads of them down here. Sitting in their little red cottages downloading kiddie porn from the internet.’
‘But hardly in 1967,’ Rogersson said. ‘From the internet, I mean.’
‘Well, they’d have got up to some other shit back then,’ Bäckström said. ‘Sitting in their outside toilets wanking over a pile of old newspapers with pictures of Scouts skinny-dipping. How the fuck should I know?’
‘You seem to know almost everything, Bäckström,’ Rogersson said. ‘But I think what I appreciate most about you is your view of humanity. You’re a truly warm person, if I can put it like that.’
What the fuck’s got into Rogersson? Bäckström thought. He’s acting seriously hungover. I just hope Linda’s mum’s as generous with the beer as her dad was.
A little red cottage with white woodwork, an old guardian tree shading the little patch of g
ravel in front of the house where they parked the car, flagpole, lilac arbour, outside lavatory at one end, jetty, boathouse and sauna, and its own little strip of beach down by the lake. Neatly raked paths through the large garden, where two carefully placed boulders marked the edges of the trimmed lawn.
In short, the very picture of the Swedish summer idyll, and obviously they all sat outside, round the table in the lilac arbour. No beer, of course, but an equally unquestionable jug of homemade blackcurrant cordial with plenty of ice and tall stemmed glasses, probably from some local glassworks for a price that would buy several crates of ordinary export-strength lager. And if you and your eyes weren’t somewhere else entirely, you’d be a damn fine woman, Lotta Ericson, Bäckström thought. Forty-five years old, but under normal circumstances I’m sure you look considerably younger than that.
‘Just say if you find this is getting the least bit difficult for you,’ he said in his very gentlest voice.
‘I don’t think it’ll be a problem,’ Linda’s mother said, and if it hadn’t been for her eyes, he’d almost have said she sounded chirpy.
I wonder how much Valium they’ve stuffed into you since you woke up, you poor thing, Bäckström thought.
During the following three hours Detective Inspector Jan Rogersson gave convincing proof of the thoroughness that his colleague Lewin had attested to. First he had asked her about Linda. About her childhood and upbringing. About the years in the US, about the divorce and what it had been like when the two of them returned on their own to Sweden.
‘A happy, carefree little girl, who liked everyone, and everyone liked her, and I suppose it was always like that with Linda, even when she was older . . .