Linda - As In The Linda Murder

by Leif Persson

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With the proviso that Rogersson had only heard a description of the Kalmar case over the phone from officer Sandberg, he still thought it highly unlikely that the perpetrator was the same one as in the Linda case.’

  ‘Sounds like Lewin,’ Rogersson said. ‘On to something else entirely. What do you think about giving up on this and heading back to the hotel to squeeze a couple of cold beers before dinner?’

  ‘I think that’s an excellent proposal,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘Turn on the news on TV4,’ Rogersson said when they were sitting in Bäckström’s hotel room two hours and two cold beers later.

  ‘What for?’ Bäckström said in surprise, as he reached for the remote.

  ‘I thought I might check to see if my office is still in one piece,’ Rogersson said.

  ‘What a fucking story,’ Bäckström said five minutes later as he switched the television off. ‘The windows those crazy fuckers blew out were the ones to Chinny’s operations centre. Chinny must be mad if he agreed to an exercise like that.’

  ‘I spoke to the lads at work this afternoon,’ Rogersson said. ‘They thought the same as you. And that was where the shoe was chafing.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s it,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘What a fucking story,’ he repeated after another five minutes.

  ‘Supposed to have been just like the Grand Hotel in Lund,’ Rogersson said. ‘Seems he’s got a taste for bathroom mirrors.’

  ‘Or he got it all wrong. Maybe he’s just trying to commit suicide. With that fucking chin it can’t be easy for him, after all. Maybe he just can’t quite get it together.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Rogersson said.

  ‘Every time he looks in the mirror he fires a bullet at his forehead, only he keeps aiming at the mirror,’ Bäckström said.

  48

  THE DREAMS WERE coming more frequently now. About that summer almost fifty years ago when he got his first proper bicycle and his dad taught him to ride it. Although that night the dream hadn’t been about his red Crescent Valiant but about his dad and his mum.

  A strange summer when his dad’s holiday never seemed to end. Eventually he had asked him. ‘How long is your holiday, Daddy?’

  At first his dad had looked a bit odd, then he had laughed and ruffled Jan’s hair and everything was back to normal again. ‘As long as I need to teach you to ride your bike,’ Daddy had replied. ‘That’ll take as long as it takes, and I don’t suppose my job will run away from me.’ Then he had ruffled his hair again. Once more than usual.

  It really had been an Indian summer, because his dad became more and more like an Indian with every passing day. Thin, suntanned, his skin stretched tight over his face. ‘You look like a real Indian,’ Jan had said to him.

  ‘That’s not so strange,’ Daddy replied. ‘With all this lovely weather we’ve been having.’

  One night he had woken up. He must have heard a noise. He had padded slowly down the stairs and when he reached the hall he saw that his dad and mum were sitting on a chair in the kitchen. Mummy was sitting in Daddy’s lap, facing the other way with her arms round his neck, her head buried in his chest. His dad had one arm round her waist while he gently stroked her hair with the other. ‘It’ll be all right,’ he was muttering. ‘It’ll be all right.’

  And neither of them had noticed him, and he had crept back to his room in the attic and eventually fallen back to sleep.

  When they were having breakfast the following morning everything was back to normal again. ‘Are you ready, Jan?’ Daddy asked, putting his coffee cup down. ‘Shall we take a turn on the Valiant?’

  ‘Always ready, Daddy,’ Jan replied.

  And then he woke up.

  49

  Växjö, Tuesday 5 August

  THE FOURTEEN-YEAR-old rape victim from Kalmar had survived. Her condition was described as critical but stable, and the report indicated that she would have died if her sister and her friend hadn’t shown up at the last minute and frightened the perpetrator away. It was also confirmation of what the media had suspected from the very start. That a serial killer who raped young women was on the loose in Småland. Right in the middle of idyllic, summertime Sweden.

  First he had murdered Linda. A few weeks later he had attacked another woman, and the fact that he failed on that occasion was, according to the newspapers, the most likely explanation for why he had attacked a third victim just a week after that. The pressure inside him had built up to the point where the risk of getting caught was the least of his worries.

  A professor in criminal psychology from Stockholm University, described as the country’s leading expert on serial killers, was able to give numerous examples of the police’s inability to identify sequences of violent crimes at an early enough stage. The police lacked perspective, staring themselves blind on details, and there were failures in their internal communications. One hand ‘couldn’t see’ what the other was doing. They didn’t pick up the whole picture, the pattern, the most obvious signs.

  ‘They simply don’t see that the emperor isn’t wearing any clothes,’ the professor said on the sofa of TV4’s breakfast show.

  ‘How do you mean?’ the presenter asked.

  ‘Well, that he’s naked,’ the professor clarified.

  For the first time that summer the media were openly critical of the police, and the police in Växjö in particular. In spite of a wealth of evidence, they still hadn’t managed to solve the murder of Linda Wallin. Even worse: according to several anonymous police sources, they hadn’t managed to make any progress at all in the investigation. Even though a month had passed since the murder, the investigation was still stuck exactly where it had started.

  The nineteen-year-old woman the perpetrator had attempted to rape the weekend before also popped up again. The police had simply refused to take her story seriously. Instead of hunting for the perpetrator they had bullied his victim, and a fourteen-year-old girl had had to pay the price for that incompetence. The editorial columns of the papers were all talking about a scandal and the team investigating the Linda murder suddenly found themselves devoting most of their time to dealing with problems that the majority of them regarded as complete fantasies.

  The previous day, the county police commissioner in Kalmar had contacted his counterpart in Växjö and raised the idea of establishing a joint unit. One murder and two rapes within the space of a month, with the interruption of the most recent incident sadly suggesting that the perpetrator might well strike again soon. The county police commissioner in Växjö was dubious, but promised to raise the matter with the leader of the preliminary police investigation into the Linda murder and get back to him.

  Detective Superintendent Olsson raised the matter as the first item at the morning meeting on Tuesday, and declared himself willing to consider various options.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked, looking around those present. ‘Personally, I’m starting to lean strongly towards the possibility that the same man was involved in both rapes, since the descriptions given by the witnesses are almost identical.’

  ‘What about the Linda case, then?’ Bäckström asked grouchily. ‘Did he do that as well?’

  ‘The problem there is that we don’t have a description,’ Olsson said carefully.

  ‘Yes, but that’s pretty much the only thing we don’t have,’ Bäckström said. ‘And we’re soon going to find the man who did it. If there’s anyone here who seriously believes that Linda would have let that tattooed thug into her flat at three o’clock in the morning, would they please raise their hand?’

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Lewin said, clearing his throat carefully. ‘What about the latest victim? Did they find any traces of semen?’

  ‘Yes,’ Sandberg said.

  ‘In that case, it will soon be fairly obvious whether there’s a connection to Linda,’ Lewin pointed out.

  ‘Yes, it will,’ Sandberg agreed, already seeming a bit brighter.


  ‘As far as the two rapes are concerned, I don’t really see how we could help our colleagues in Kalmar, other than letting their witnesses look at the same photographs that we’ve shown our own victim. If they haven’t already done that, of course,’ Lewin said, clearing his throat again.

  ‘It’s already been arranged,’ Sandberg said, now even happier.

  ‘Well, then. That all sounds splendid,’ Lewin said. ‘Sounds like a textbook example of collaboration between different forces.’

  ‘But what do you think personally, Lewin?’ Olsson persisted. ‘About whether there’s any connection, I mean?’

  ‘I don’t usually like to give an opinion on things like that,’ Lewin said. ‘But, since you’re asking, I don’t think the man who murdered Linda is the same man who raped that poor girl in Kalmar, and that will be made clear when our colleagues in Kalmar get their DNA results. I don’t think we need concern ourselves with any other possible connections.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope so,’ Olsson said, shaking his head anxiously. ‘I sincerely hope that you’re right.’

  At the end of the meeting, he directed Sandberg, Salomonson, von Essen, Adolfsson and a couple of others to begin work at once, in collaboration with their colleagues in Kalmar, on finding out if there were any links between the Linda murder, the attempted rape in Växjö and the rape in Kalmar. And in the meantime he would contact the VICLAS unit and the CP group to make sure that they didn’t neglect the analytical angle.

  Once the afflicted had gone off to hunt for possible links and relative calm had descended again, Bäckström mustered his remaining troops.

  ‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘How are things going with the list of DNA samples? Have we got enough cotton-buds?’

  Lewin returned to his office, and was soon joined by Eva Svanström.

  ‘The information about the mother’s phone numbers will take a few days. I’ve spoken to Telia, and the files they’ve got immediate access to only go back a couple of years,’ Svanström said.

  ‘But the information’s there somewhere?’ Lewin asked, suddenly feeling the old anxiety again.

  ‘Of course,’ Svanström said. ‘But the person I spoke to said it would take a few days to dig it out.’

  ‘Oh, well,’ Lewin said. A few days isn’t the end of the world, and it’s probably completely irrelevant anyway, he thought. Like most shots in the dark.

  50

  Alnön, outside Sundsvall, Tuesday 5 August

  LARS MARTIN JOHANSSON was into the last week of the longest holiday of his life.

  For almost two years now he had been on leave from his post as operational head of the Security Police in order to lead one of the most secret investigations in Swedish history, and now that task was nearing its conclusion. What remained could be done perfectly well by his staff, and in the week before midsummer Johansson had left the motherland and headed off round Europe with his wife. His wife liked travelling – new people, new places, new impressions – whereas Johansson preferred a good book, a phone that never rang and proper mealtimes.

  Regardless of their different motivations, they usually returned to Sweden in the best of moods. In accordance with a promise made several years ago, which had since developed into something of a tradition, they were now spending the last week of their holiday with Johansson’s older brother on his farm on Alnön, an island outside Sundsvall. Peace and quiet, good food and decent drink, unfussy and generous hosts who really did mean what they said when they told you to make yourselves at home. And, most important of all, Johansson thought: was there any country on this planet that in any real and positive sense could possibly stand comparison with Sweden? Not anywhere, he thought, with a deep sigh of contentment, before promptly falling asleep in his chair.

  Johansson had three mobile phones these days. One private, one for his usual job, and one that was so secret that it was hardly ever used. For safety’s sake, it was also red, and Johansson himself had programmed the ringtone. Apart from the volume, it was the same siren that the police emergency vehicles used, and he was as proud as punch of it. After installing it he had demonstrated it to his wife by calling it, so that she had the opportunity to appreciate his technological abilities. But the first time she heard it ring properly, its installer carried on snoring gently in his chair.

  The Germans have probably made a cash offer for the whole of Småland, Johansson’s wife Pia thought. She worked in a bank as a fund-manager. She put down the book she was trying to read and answered the phone.

  ‘Hello?’ I don’t suppose I’m allowed to say what my name is, because I’d probably end up in prison, Pia thought.

  ‘Enchanté,’ a smooth voice said on the other end of the line. ‘I presume you’re the person I think you are,’ the voice went on. ‘However, no matter how much I might like to carry on this conversation, I’m afraid I must ask to speak to your dear husband.’

  ‘Who should I say is calling?’ Pia asked.

  ‘No name, I’m afraid,’ the smooth voice said. ‘Just tell your dear husband that Pilgrim’s old associate would like to exchange a few words with him.’

  ‘And if I ask what this is about, I suppose I end up in prison?’ Pia said.

  ‘If I were to answer that, I would end up in prison,’ Pilgrim’s old associate countered, in a tone that sounded almost affronted.

  ‘I’ll go and wake him up,’ Pia said. They’re like children, she thought.

  ‘Who was that?’ Pia asked curiously ten minutes later when her husband had concluded his muttered conversation, which for some reason he had conducted at the far end of the large terrace. He put the red mobile down and sank back on to his chair with a sigh.

  ‘An old acquaintance,’ Johansson replied vaguely.

  ‘One of those secret little rascals. With no name,’ Pia said.

  ‘More or less,’ Johansson said with a shrug. ‘He works in the cabinet office as a special adviser, helping the Prime Minister with odd bits and pieces, and his name’s Nilsson.’

  ‘Ah,’ Pia said. ‘Our very own grey eminence. The Swedish answer to Cardinal Richelieu.’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Johansson said. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘So what did he want?’ Pia asked.

  ‘Nothing much, just a chat,’ Johansson said.

  ‘And now you’ve got to go to Stockholm?’ Pia said, having been through all this before.

  ‘If you don’t mind. But I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  ‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ Pia said. ‘You can stop by the house and pick up a few things I need if we’re going to that party at the weekend.’

  ‘Of course.’ Johansson’s thoughts were already elsewhere and he didn’t want to get caught up in any lengthy discussions.

  ‘To begin with I almost thought he was drunk,’ Pia said. ‘That’s how he sounded.’

  ‘I dare say he was just in a good mood,’ Johansson said neutrally. ‘It’s only twelve o’clock, so he probably hasn’t had time for lunch yet.’

  ‘Yes, perhaps he was just happy. A nice, happy little fellow,’ Pia said.

  ‘I can’t quite picture that,’ Johansson said, shaking his head firmly. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked, looking at his watch. ‘About lunch, I mean?’

  51

  Stockholm, Tuesday 5 August

  JOHANSSON CHANGED INTO a linen suit and a dark blue cotton shirt, with his tie in the top jacket pocket for the time being, then took a taxi to the airport, where he caught the mid-afternoon plane from Sundsvall to Stockholm. His driver from the Security Police picked him up and drove him straight to the palatial home of the special adviser in Djursholm.

  ‘Welcome to my humble abode!’ the special adviser said, throwing his arms out in welcome as soon as Johansson stepped through the front door. ‘I hope you don’t mind sitting inside.’

  ‘The cooler the better,’ Johansson said, even though he was a devoted sauna enthusiast. So this is where you live, he thought as he glanced discreetly at the intricate pat
tern of the parquet floor, the dark wood panelling and the ornate plasterwork on the ceiling high above, careful not to miss a single Persian carpet, Dutch oil painting or Venetian chandelier on the way.

  To begin with they settled down in the library to deal with practical matters, so that they could dine in peace and quiet. Everything was sorted out within ten minutes.

  ‘When can you start?’ the special adviser asked.

  ‘On Monday,’ Johansson said.

  ‘That sounds quite splendid,’ the special adviser said, his round face beaming like the sun. ‘Well, at last we can get to more important matters. I haven’t eaten a bite since lunchtime.’

  ‘You have a very beautiful home,’ Johansson commented as they were walking to the dining room. ‘Was it your parents’?’

  ‘Are you crazy, Johansson? I come from extremely humble circumstances,’ the special adviser declared. ‘I’m an old Söder lad, born and bred on the hills of Södermalm. I bought this place from a poor chap for whom things weren’t going too well.’

  ‘But things seem to be going quite well for you,’ Johansson said.

  ‘Quite splendidly,’ the special adviser agreed happily. ‘And richly deserved, if you ask me.’

  It being the middle of the week, the special adviser hoped that his guest would excuse the fact that he was being fobbed off with such a simple meal. But of course they both earned their daily bread working for a left-wing government, so simple customs ought perhaps to be the order of the day, notwithstanding the fact that there was every reason to celebrate Johansson’s impending appointment, and perhaps no less reason for his employers to celebrate their wisdom in choosing Lars Martin Johansson.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do with my way of doing things,’ the special adviser said with a sigh. ‘Make the best of things, basically. Isn’t that what you policemen usually say?’

  In the world that the special adviser had lived in for almost his entire adult life, the most important thing was to meet other people halfway, and for both parties to be equally content as they carried on along their chosen path. Taking this existential motto as his basis, Johansson’s host hoped that he had found a solution which his guest might appreciate, and ought certainly to be able to reconcile himself with.