Linda - As In The Linda Murder

by Leif Persson

  ‘Okay, if you prefer to put it like that.’

  ‘Negative. I repeat: negative,’ Bäckström said loudly and switched off his phone, which he had learned was unquestionably the most effective way to finish a conversation, especially if you happened to be talking to someone like Jönsson. That’ll give the little worm something to think about, he thought.

  56

  THE FOLLOWING DAY the larger of the two main evening papers contained long reports about Linda’s funeral – GRIEVING FOR LINDA – and to judge by both the text and the pictures, they had had to rely on external sources for the underlying information. The text was sympathetic but fairly basic, and could have been written about almost any funeral. It was illustrated with grainy shots of a cemetery taken from a distance, showing what could have been any random group of mourners. Neither the reporter nor the photographer was familiar to the paper’s readers. They both had blandly anonymous names, and there were no by-line pictures of them alongside the article, which was unusual since it covered a whole page of the main news section.

  The big scoop was on the opposite page, and as a banner across the top of the front page – MURDER COPS WATCHED PORN ALL NIGHT. Although the article didn’t actually say so, any idle browser who didn’t read every word would none the less get a good idea of what had happened: while Linda’s family and closest friends, paralysed with grief, had been laying her to eternal rest, the officers from National Crime who were supposed to be catching her killer had been sitting in their hotel watching porn films.

  ‘I don’t understand a fucking thing about all this,’ Rogersson said as they got into their car to drive the half kilometre between the hotel and the police station. ‘Hell, I haven’t watched any porn.’

  ‘Well, never mind that,’ Bäckström said soothingly. ‘No one cares what those fucking muckrakers make up.’

  Bäckström’s memory had cleared considerably since the last time Rogersson mentioned the matter, and now he just had to maintain his story. Seeing as this was one of the things he was best at, he wasn’t particularly worried. Pretend to think about something else, shake his head if anyone asked, and if necessary get upset at all the crap people chose to dwell on if the person asking wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  Someone who evidently did care was Lars Martin Johansson. He had taken a copy of the evening paper into his room to read over morning coffee, and had quickly worked out what was really going on. For some reason he had Bäckström in mind when he summoned the chief superintendent responsible for the murder squad.

  ‘Sit,’ Johansson said, pointing first at the chief and then at a chair as the man slunk into his office. ‘A question. Who sent Bäckström to Växjö?’

  It was unclear, according to the other man. But he was sure of one thing. It hadn’t been him. He had been on holiday and if he hadn’t been on holiday Bäckström would have been the last person he would have picked to lead National Crime’s contingent down in Växjö. And he had, in fact, tried to guard against any such eventuality before he disappeared on leave.

  ‘He was supposed to be going through a number of cold cases,’ he said defensively.

  Johansson didn’t say anything. Instead he merely stared at his visitor, and the stare he used was very similar to the one that the county police commissioner in Växjö had had in mind the day before.

  ‘If you ask me, boss, I’m pretty sure it must have been Nylander himself who took the decision,’ the chief added, clearing his throat nervously.

  ‘Paper and pen,’ Johansson said, nodding towards his victim. ‘I want to know the following . . .’

  57

  BY MONDAY AFTERNOON the stolen car had been safely installed in the garage of the police station. Enoksson and his colleagues had set to work immediately, and just twenty-four hours later they were able to inform the investigating team of their initial findings. They had secured a number of fingerprints from inside the car. Two of these matched the most likely of the five sets of prints of unknown origin that had been found at the scene of the murder. They had also found some blue fibres on the driver’s seat. These had been sent to the National Forensics Lab, but according to their own preliminary evaluation – they had a comparison microscope in the forensics unit of Växjö Police – there were good grounds to believe that they were the same exclusive cashmere fibres that had been found at the crime scene.

  Then they had found all the other stuff as well. The stuff that you always found if you examined a suspicious vehicle closely enough. Sand, gravel, dust and fluff on the floor, masses of hairs and fabric fibres on the floor mats and seats, old receipts and other pieces of paper tucked away in the glove compartment and all sorts of other places. In the boot was a jack and the usual set of tools, a set of red children’s winter overalls, and an old child’s car seat. Outside the car, tossed into a thicket a few metres away, their colleagues in the Nybro police had found an empty ten-litre petrol can. But they hadn’t found any traces of blood, semen or other circumstantially interesting bodily fluids.

  The thief’s modus operandi was also fairly obvious. The screwdriver jammed into the ignition, the broken steering lock, the hand-rolled joint found in the ashtray, the attempt to set fire to the vehicle to destroy any evidence. All of this suggested a classic example of a car thief: a drug-user with a long criminal record and numerous run-ins with the police and the criminal justice system. Even the fact that he failed to burn the car because he didn’t have enough petrol fitted the theory, because they were almost always messy, dis-organized, and high.

  Two things spoiled this picture in the world that Enoksson inhabited, but he could live with the first of these. The blue fibres from the expensive top could be explained by the fact that the perpetrator had stolen it. Which left one fact that was hard to swallow – his fingerprints weren’t in the police database. If he was the person that all the other evidence suggested, then they should have been there, and even if he was the exception that proved the rule it had still taken almost thirty years for this exception to crop up in Enoksson’s police career.

  ‘You don’t think that could be a red herring?’ Olsson speculated. ‘I mean, apart from those blessed missing prints, he’s an almost perfect match for the profile we were given.’

  What the hell is he going on about? Enoksson thought in amazement. ‘I’m confident these are the perpetrator’s prints,’ he said. ‘What would be the point of giving us misleading evidence that doesn’t lead anywhere? Leaving aside the fact that neither I nor anyone else can imagine how on earth he might have gone about it in purely practical terms. He seems to be fairly familiar with the rest of the details in the profile provided by our colleagues in Stockholm.’

  ‘You don’t think that’s something he picked up along the way somewhere? That he’s only just moved here and isn’t in our register yet?’ Olsson suggested.

  ‘Possibly,’ Enoksson said, looking sceptical. ‘But why on earth would Linda let someone like that into her flat in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Assuming that she did,’ Olsson said, suddenly seeming quite pleased with himself. ‘We mustn’t forget that we don’t actually know how he got into the flat.’

  ‘That’s something I’ve given some thought to,’ Lewin put in slowly.

  ‘Oh?’ Olsson leaned forward.

  ‘Actually, no,’ Lewin said, shaking his head. ‘Forget it. I’ll get back to you. It was just an idea.’

  The interviews with the owner of the car and anyone else who might have anything interesting to contribute had just resulted in more question marks and the usual unclear details. The retired pilot who was listed as the car’s owner – Bengt Borg, sixty-seven years old, yet another Bengt in the Linda investigation’s database of characters – hadn’t used it since he had driven it back from the country approximately two years ago. He had another, considerably newer car that he used on a daily basis. After his retirement he and his wife had moved out to their summer cottage outside Växjö, and regardless of the time of year they
seldom used their flat in town. The old Saab had been left standing in the car park pretty much ever since.

  One of his grown-up daughters used to use it, but she had had a car of her own for the past few years. This daughter was thirty-five years old, worked in customer care at Växjö airport, and had a seven-year-old daughter who was due to start school that autumn. It was her overalls and car seat that had been found in the boot of the car, and if her grandfather were to hazard a guess, he thought these objects probably gave a good indication of when the child’s mother had last used the stolen car. The child’s car seat was for a very young child, and the label on the red overalls indicated that they were intended for children up to three years old. Four years ago fitted fairly well with his memory.

  The most obvious thing would have been to ask the daughter. The problem was that she, her husband and the daughter had gone to Australia to explore that exciting continent for two months. According to her father, the pilot, it wasn’t a bad idea, as Australia was in the southern hemisphere and its relatively cool winters were preferable to the almost tropical heat that had been tormenting him and other Smålanders for the past couple of months.

  ‘But if it’s important, I can try to get hold of her,’ he offered helpfully. ‘Otherwise she’ll be home next week. My grandchild’s starting school this autumn, of course.’

  Detective Inspector Salomonson had thanked him for the offer, but thought that they would manage. ‘There’s no one else you know of who might have borrowed it?’ he asked.

  No, according to the pilot. He did have another daughter, but she didn’t drive and had no licence. For the past few years she had been living in Kristianstad, where she worked as a lawyer. She didn’t visit her parents very often, and from her father’s description Salomonson understood that it was the airport worker rather than the lawyer who was his favourite.

  ‘And I don’t have any other children or grandchildren,’ he declared. ‘Not that I know of, anyway,’ he added, looking very pleased with himself.

  Why did he think that the car was stolen on the morning of 7 July, Salomonson wondered.

  To be honest, the car’s owner wasn’t altogether sure on that point. To begin with he hadn’t even registered that it wasn’t standing in its usual spot in the car park out in Högstorp when he had called to collect something from the flat. When he noticed that both sets of keys were hanging on their normal hooks in the cupboard in the hall, he had started to wonder. So he had gone back out into the car park to check once more, in case he had left it somewhere else and had simply forgotten. And it was while he was doing this that he had bumped into his next-door neighbour and had mentioned it to him. His neighbour was sure he had seen the car parked there over the weekend. Hadn’t he already explained all this when he reported the car missing? The simplest solution would be to talk directly to the neighbour, but he had gone hiking in the Lapland fells, and, from what he had said, wouldn’t be back for another fortnight.

  ‘There’s one thing I don’t understand,’ the pilot went on, looking curiously at Salomonson. ‘Why are you so incredibly interested in who stole that old wreck?’

  ‘It’s a new initiative we’re pushing here in Växjö,’ Salomonson said, trying to sound as believable as he could. ‘We’re trying to focus more on so-called everyday crimes.’

  ‘I would have thought you had more important things to be doing,’ the pilot said, shaking his head. ‘That’s the impression you get from the papers, anyway. Sometimes you can’t help wondering where this country’s heading.’

  In the absence of any better options, two days had been spent knocking on doors in the area. They started with people who overlooked the car park, then carried on through the rest of the block. Half of the doors they knocked on stayed closed. They all received notes through the letterbox, and at least a few of them contacted the police. Evidently one or more of them contacted someone other than the police, because a number of journalists began calling the police station, and even showed up in the area to conduct their own inquiries. The news that the police were looking for a stolen car in connection with the Linda murder had reached most of the media within the space of a few hours.

  One of the many neighbours who had been questioned did have some information for them, but in light of what she told them they would probably have been better off without her. Rogersson had set her aside when he looked through the reports that reached his desk, attaching a note to it with a paperclip: Confused old lady. No action. JR.

  It was Anna Sandberg who had questioned her. Mrs Brita Rudberg, ninety-two years old, a widowed pensioner living in the building closest to the car park. Her flat was on the first floor, with a balcony that offered an excellent view of said car park. Every morning that summer she had got into the habit of going and sitting on the balcony for a while until it became too hot to stay there, and she remembered that day very well. It was around six a.m. on Friday 4 July, which was when she usually woke up during the summer. When it got darker outside she usually slept a bit longer, but even in the middle of winter she never woke up any later than half past six.

  To begin with Sandberg had thought the witness was both charming and compos mentis, even though she was ninety-two and clearly had no idea about the murder that had taken place a month ago, still less that the car she was being questioned about had been stolen. How could she be so sure that it was Friday 4 July?

  ‘I remember it very well,’ Sandberg’s witness said, smiling at her. ‘That’s my birthday. I turned ninety-two,’ she added. ‘I had bought a slice of cake from the patisserie in town the day before to have something to celebrate with, and I remember that I sat and ate it with the cup of coffee I always have first thing. I even said hello to him. He was doing something to the car and I remember thinking that he was probably heading off to the country, seeing as he was up so early.’

  ‘Can you describe him, the man who was doing something to the car, the man you said hello to?’ Sandberg said, and without realizing it she started to get the same tingling that Bäckström felt every now and then, even though he was usually completely wrong.

  ‘I got it into my head that it was the son,’ Mrs Rudberg said. ‘At least it looked very like him. He’s very good-looking, you know. The way men used to look when I was young.’

  ‘The son?’ Sandberg asked.

  ‘Yes, that pilot’s son, the man whose car it is,’ Mrs Rudberg explained. ‘He’s got a son who’s very similar to the man I said hello to. Dark, handsome, slim as well.’

  ‘Did he say hello back?’ Sandberg asked. ‘When you said hello, I mean?’

  Now the witness seemed less certain. He might have nodded, but she wasn’t entirely sure. But she was fairly sure that he had looked at her. More than once, even.

  Did she remember what he was wearing? She wasn’t sure about that either. He was probably dressed the way most young men his age seemed to be when the weather was warm and they were going to the country.

  ‘Those casual trousers, and one of those casual shirts,’ she said, suddenly seeming very hesitant.

  ‘Short or long trousers?’ Sandberg persisted, trying to sound calm and friendly and not pushing for an answer.

  The witness would prefer not to have to say, but if she had to choose then she would say short, considering the heat if nothing else. She wasn’t sure of the colour either. Neither of the short, or possibly long, trousers, nor of the casual top. All she had was a notion that the trousers and top had been dark. They certainly weren’t white, because she would have remembered that.

  His shoes? Had she noticed them? Even more hesitant now. Shoes weren’t the sort of thing anyone looked at, were they? If there had been something peculiar about them, then she would have noticed. They were probably those rubber shoes that all the youngsters seemed to wear these days.

  Barefoot? Could he have been barefoot? No, definitely not. Because she would certainly have noticed that, and even though she had never learned to drive she did at least understand tha
t you should never drive a car barefoot.

  ‘Rubber shoes,’ Mrs Rudberg repeated, with a nod. ‘The sort youngsters always wear these days.’

  But she was absolutely sure of two things. First that it was her birthday, the day she turned ninety-two, Friday 4 July, at about six o’clock in the morning. And second, that he had spent about ten minutes fiddling with the car before getting in and driving away. And, considering the way he was dressed and the time of day, he was obviously heading out into the country to see his wife and children. She was also almost certain of a third thing. If it wasn’t the pilot’s son, then it was someone very like him. Dark, handsome, slim, good-looking in the way that men used to be.

  Did she remember anything else about that morning, Sandberg asked, hoping she would mention the cloudburst that had hit Växjö just after seven o’clock and lasted until almost eight o’clock.

  ‘Nooo. Such as what?’ Mrs Rudberg looked at her hesitantly.

  ‘Anything else that happened during the day?’ Anna prompted.

  Nothing, according to the witness. She didn’t read the papers, she seldom watched television or listened to the radio, and certainly not the news programmes. She hadn’t had many close friends for many years now, and most days in her life were almost identical.

  After another three attempts Sandberg had told her about the thirty millimetres of rain that had fallen in less than an hour, constituting the sum total of the precipitation that had fallen on Växjö in the past month.

  Mrs Rudberg had no memory of the cloudburst, or even of any rain at all. That was probably because she had already left the balcony to have a little lie down on her bed by the time it started. ‘Yes, because otherwise I’m sure I would have remembered. After all, it’s been so dry this summer.’

  58

  ‘IF YOU ASK me, the old woman’s completely dotty,’ Rogersson said the next day when the investigating team were discussing her testimony and that of the other people in the area.