Linda - As In The Linda Murder

by Leif Persson

  ‘He seems fairly keen on women, to put it mildly, so I’ll tell you what I think we should do,’ Adolfsson suggested. ‘It nearly always works with men like him.’

  While Bäckström and his colleagues planned the only properly masculine element left in their case, Lewin, as usual, had taken care of everything that needed to be done. First he had called Olsson and left a message on his answering machine saying that he should call Lewin on his mobile as soon as possible, and preferably at once. Then he had called the prosecutor, who had actually answered, and promised to be there within an hour at the latest.

  Then he had asked Anna Sandberg to take another officer with her and go to see Linda’s mother, so that she didn’t have to hear the news any other way, and certainly not via the media. And to make sure that she had someone with her who could help look after her. The same with Linda’s father, and that task he had entrusted with full confidence to his colleague Knutsson. He had suggested that Henning Wallin might most easily be contacted over the phone, and if he had any particular wishes, then they could probably be accommodated.

  While Lewin had been conscientiously organizing these pieces of police software and making sure that they all ended up in the right places, Bäckström and the others had been joined by a young female officer from the surveillance unit of the regional crime squad. She had introduced herself as ‘Caijsa with a C, and both an i and a j’, and two days before she had spoken to Månsson on the phone, pretending to be Houda Kassem, an immigrant from Iran who was interested in the theatre. As far as today’s activities were concerned, she was thinking of suggesting a different role, seeing as Månsson had no idea what Houda looked like.

  ‘I was thinking of going with the old market-research routine. Going round asking people what they think of the area. That always works with people like him.’ Caijsa smiled at Adolfsson as she held up an ID card from a market-research company which was hanging from a chain round her neck.

  ‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ Rogersson said before Bäckström had time to mess up something which was simple and obvious to any police officer with a brain.

  ‘Well, he’s up and moving now,’ von Essen said from his position by the window. ‘He’s in the kitchen, wearing just a pair of skimpy briefs, drinking water direct from the tap. I think you have to watch those boxes of white wine, actually.’

  ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Bäckström said, pulling in his stomach and puffing out his chest, sending waves through his Hawaiian shirt. ‘And for fuck’s sake make sure you get handcuffs on the bastard, so we don’t have a rerun of the hundred metres out in the street,’ he added, for some reason glaring at Adolfsson and von Essen.

  Caijsa had been absolutely right, and Månsson had even opened the door with a smile on his lips. The undramatic arrest that followed was over in fifteen seconds, from the moment von Essen stepped forward from one side holding his badge to the click of the handcuffs as Adolfsson quickly secured Månsson’s hands behind his back.

  ‘What’s this about? There must be some mistake,’ Månsson said, looking both upset and completely uncomprehending.

  ‘The bastard’s on his way in,’ Bäckström snapped over Lewin’s mobile phone. ‘Get those lazy fuckers in forensics to wake up so they can make a start on his flat. We’ve got two patrol cars out in the road already, so soon we’ll have a whole flock of vultures here.’

  ‘Our colleagues from forensics are on their way,’ Lewin said. ‘Did everything go well otherwise?’

  ‘He’s not so fucking cocky now,’ Bäckström said with a happy grunt.

  I wonder if he ever was, Lewin thought.

  79

  LEWIN ALSO HAD to take care of the practical details during the afternoon, and he started with the prosecutor.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you any of this until this morning,’ he said. ‘Before that, it was all rather vague hypotheses, and I didn’t want to bother you unnecessarily in case they turned out to be no more than that. I do hope you don’t object to having been kept in the dark.’

  The prosecutor had no objections at all. On the contrary. She was just very relieved, and as soon as she received the definitive results from the National Forensics Lab confirming that it was Månsson’s DNA in Linda’s flat, she would formally arrest him. Until then, he would be remanded in custody, and if Lewin felt like it he was very welcome to accompany her to the cells while she informed him of her decision. ‘And on a completely different matter: where’s Olsson?’

  ‘He’s on leave this weekend,’ Lewin said. ‘We’ve been trying to reach him by phone. With a bit of luck he’ll call us back.’ I can’t imagine what we might need him for, though, he thought.

  ‘I’m afraid he doesn’t look like much,’ he said as they entered the custody corridor. ‘Considering what he’s done, I mean.’

  ‘They don’t usually, do they?’ the prosecutor said. ‘Not the ones I’ve seen, anyway.’

  Månsson didn’t look like much. He was sitting on his bunk inside the cell, and seemed almost detached. Just like everyone else the first time they had their identity taken away from them in the most tangible way possible in a democracy. First they had taken off the handcuffs and checked him in. Then they had removed all his own clothes and given him a set of official clothing: underwear, socks, trousers and shirt. And a pair of felt slippers that he could wear if he wanted to. Then he had had to sign a receipt for his possessions.

  After a short wait a couple of forensics experts had arrived. Månsson had been photographed, his height and weight noted, and a set of fingerprints and palm-prints taken. The forensics experts had been joined by a doctor who had taken a blood sample, then taken samples of hair from his head, body and crotch, and finally examined him. All the samples had been put into small containers, labelled, sealed and signed. Just before he was left alone, for the first time he had said something without having been asked a question first.

  ‘Can somebody please tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘The prosecutor will be here shortly,’ one of the forensics experts had said. ‘I’m sure she’ll give you all the information she can.’

  ‘I’m not feeling very well,’ Månsson had said. ‘I’m on several medications and I didn’t have a chance to bring them with me. They’re at home. In the bathroom cabinet. For asthma and so on.’

  ‘We can deal with that a bit later,’ the doctor had said with a friendly smile. ‘Once we’re finished with all the rest of it.’

  ‘He’s very good-looking,’ the prosecutor said once she and Lewin had returned to the main office of the investigation. ‘You say he’s got no criminal record at all? Considering what’s happened, I mean.’

  ‘Looks the way film stars used to once upon a time,’ Lewin agreed. ‘No criminal record,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Mind you, he’s probably not feeling too great,’ she said, and it sounded as though she was thinking out loud. ‘Do you think he’s going to confess, then?’

  ‘I really don’t know,’ Lewin said, shaking his head. ‘I suppose we’ll find out.’ As if it will make any difference, considering the rest of the evidence, he thought.

  While all the others were rushing round like headless chickens, Bäckström took a turn around the police station to soak up all the congratulations he so richly deserved. They were all like happy young children suddenly. Even those two miserable fabric detectives who had been as sour as vinegar only last week started smiling and giggling when they caught sight of him.

  ‘Good to see you, Bäckström,’ one of them said cheerfully. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’

  ‘It’s such a shame you have to leave,’ the other one said. ‘Mind you, maybe we’ll get another chance? To get to know each other better, I mean.’

  There’s something not right here, Bäckström thought, but not knowing what it was he made do with a nod. Quick and manly. ‘Yes, I dare say you can finish this off without me now,’ he said. Backwoods cops and a load of women. It was more than time for a cold beer,
he thought.

  Rogersson was sitting in his office, looking rather miserable. ‘I was thinking of heading home,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘I’ll join you,’ Rogersson said. ‘I’ve just got to shift all the files and have a few words with Holt, then I’m ready to go.’

  ‘Holt?’ Bäckström said. ‘Is that bitter little cunt already here?’

  ‘I saw her in the corridor a while back,’ Rogersson confirmed. ‘Her and that little blonde who used to work for the Security Police, Mattei, I think her name was. Lisa Mattei. Her mum’s some sort of inspector for them. A right bitch, if you ask me. They were having a chat with our little prosecutor. All these women will be doing a Mexican wave next.’

  ‘See you in the hotel bar,’ Bäckström said, getting up quickly. ‘And make sure you stay sober, so you can drive.’

  He took his usual discreet way out to avoid bumping into Holt. Maybe I should call the victim’s father to tell him the happy news? he thought as he stepped into the street. But first things first.

  While he was sitting quietly in his hotel room sipping the chilled beer that he so richly deserved his phone rang. It was Linda’s father. Evidently that little sod Knutsson had already called him, trying to grab all the glory for himself.

  ‘I heard you’re heading back home,’ Henning Wallin said.

  ‘Things are a bit tricky right now,’ Bäckström said, without going into detail. ‘But I’ve personally put the man who killed your daughter behind bars, so you don’t have to worry about him any more. We’re going to make glue out of the bastard.’

  ‘I’d still like to meet you,’ Henning Wallin persisted. ‘If only to thank you in person.’

  ‘That might be a bit tricky, for purely practical reasons,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’ve already had a beer.’

  ‘I can send my man to pick you up,’ Wallin said.

  ‘Well, perhaps,’ Bäckström said, still slightly hesitant.

  ‘There’s something I want to give you,’ Wallin persisted.

  ‘Okay then,’ Bäckström said.

  An hour later Bäckström was sitting comfortably on the sofa in front of the open fireplace in Henning Wallin’s enormous living room out at the manor house. Out of courtesy to his grieving host he had changed out of his Hawaiian shirt and shorts into something more suitable. In his hand he had a glass of the finest malt whisky, and life could certainly have been worse. Even Wallin seemed considerably brighter than he had done the last time they met. Amongst other things, he seemed to have regained control of his right hand while he was shaving.

  ‘So who is he?’ he asked, leaning forward and looking hard at Bäckström.

  ‘Someone I’ve had my eye on for a while,’ Bäckström said, holding up his right hand and rubbing his fingers with his thumb. ‘You feel it in your fingertips. Nothing obvious, but because I’ve been in this game for a while now I thought he felt a bit odd right from the start, though I say it myself.’ He took a large sip from his glass.

  ‘So what’s his name?’ Wallin asked.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not supposed to tell you that,’ Bäckström said. ‘Not at this stage, anyway.’

  ‘It won’t go any further than this room,’ Wallin said.

  ‘Well, okay then,’ Bäckström said, holding out his glass.

  ‘He seems to have known most of the people in this town,’ Bäckström concluded. ‘Unfortunately he also seems to have been best friends with that damn idiot Bengt Olsson, so it was all a bit sensitive . . .’

  ‘And he’s also slept with my former wife,’ Wallin interrupted, his face suddenly deep red. ‘There’s something I was going to give you,’ he added, getting up.

  A short while later he returned with one of the many photo albums in which he had documented large parties and other occasions since he had bought the manor.

  ‘Here,’ he said, passing Bäckström a photograph from the book. ‘There are probably more if I look. That was taken on Midsummer Eve three years ago. Linda insisted on inviting her mother, and she brought her current boyfriend with her. Just one in what’s bound to be a fairly long list, if you ask me.’

  ‘I always suspected it was going to be something of this sort,’ Bäckström said.

  ‘You can keep it,’ Wallin said. ‘Just make sure you get that bitch. She and her so-called boyfriend have taken my only daughter from me.’

  ‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Bäckström said, putting the photograph in his inside pocket before his host had the chance to change his mind.

  ‘I’ll take that as a promise from the only person I can trust, evidently,’ Henning Wallin said.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Bäckström said. ‘Well, I’m afraid I should probably be thinking about getting going.’

  ‘My man will drive you back,’ Wallin said. ‘One for the road?’ he added in English, topping up Bäckström’s glass.

  While Bäckström was drinking expensive whisky, Rogersson had been handing over all his files and talking to Holt.

  ‘I was thinking of heading back with Bäckström,’ he said. ‘Make sure the fat little sod gets home safely.’

  ‘Well, I could certainly use you down here,’ Holt said. ‘For a few more days, at least.’

  ‘The overtime ceiling,’ Rogersson said, shrugging his shoulders apologetically.

  ‘I was thinking that there’s probably no need for overtime,’ Holt said.

  ‘Well, in that case I’m probably feeling a bit rough,’ Rogersson said. ‘I’ve been pushing things quite hard lately.’

  ‘Drive carefully,’ Holt said.

  Very handy, having a man to drive you, Bäckström thought as he and Wallin were standing in the hall saying their goodbyes.

  ‘This is for you,’ Wallin said, handing over a box containing a bottle of the malt they had been drinking.

  ‘I’m really not supposed to accept gifts,’ Bäckström said as he took the bottle.

  ‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,’ Wallin said with a wry smile. ‘And I think you must have dropped this,’ he added, pushing a thick brown envelope into the pocket of Bäckström’s jacket.

  Definitely no photos in that envelope, Bäckström thought as he sat in the back seat of Wallin’s large black Range Rover, feeling inside the envelope in his pocket as discreetly as he could. I can feel it in my fingertips, he thought. Definitely not photographs.

  ‘Can you stop at the police station on the way?’ he asked. ‘I need to pop in and pick up some things I forgot.’

  No problem at all, according to the driver. From what his employer had said, he was at Bäckström’s disposal for the rest of the evening. And probably longer than that if it proved necessary.

  Bäckström left the envelope and box containing the whisky on the back seat while he went into the office one last time to say goodbye to all his incompetent fellow officers who were still sitting there, trying to work out which direction they were facing. He had his battered copy of the Småland Post in his pocket, and was thinking of giving it to Holt. If nothing else, then to thank her for her efforts the last time they had met, when she had almost managed to sabotage one of his old murder cases fifteen years ago. He had needed all his experience, all his guile and all his fingertip feeling before he had finally made any sense of it. Anna Holt was a prize example of a real cow, even though she was so damn scrawny, Bäckström thought.

  But first he had dealt with that little poof Olsson. As a warm-up.

  ‘See you, Olsson,’ he said, with a broad grin. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I caught your perpetrator for you just before lunch.’

  ‘Yes, I really must—’

  ‘Bollocks to that, Olsson,’ Bäckström interrupted in his most sympathetic way. ‘Damn tragic story, seeing as it was one of your best mates, so you’ll understand that I have to be a bit careful here. Considering your own involvement, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t quite understand what you mean,’ Olsson replied, looking hurt but without any real anger. ‘If you’re ref
erring to Månsson, I think I should point out that we only ever had any dealings on a purely professional level, because of our work, and—’

  ‘Call it whatever you like, Olsson,’ Bäckström interrupted, smiling even more cheerily now. ‘But if I was creeping around in your shoes, I’d probably have a chat with my boss. To save him having to read about it in the papers, I mean.’

  He headed towards Lewin. High time for the next poof in line, he thought. The man was sitting there as usual, trying to hide behind a mass of paper.

  ‘Thanks for your help, Janne,’ Bäckström said loudly. He knew Lewin hated it when people called him Janne.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ Lewin said.

  ‘Okay. I won’t bother. But at least you did what you could, and I’m grateful for that.’

  Which left just the best, which of course he had saved till last. Anna Holt, who had had the nerve to take over his desk even though she’d only been in the building a couple of hours, timing her arrival carefully so that he had had time to make sure everything was already wrapped up.

  ‘Having trouble letting go, Bäckström?’ Holt said, giving him a neutral smile.

  ‘Well, I’ve certainly had a fair bit of trouble,’ Bäckström said. ‘I thought I might give you a bit of advice before I go. There are still a couple of outstanding details.’

  ‘And there was me thinking you weren’t even on duty any more,’ Holt said.

  ‘Really?’ Bäckström said amiably.

  ‘For some reason I got it into my head that you’d already started celebrating,’ she said with a shrug.

  ‘Ah, bollocks. But if I were you I’d be pretty damn wary about our so-called colleague Olsson.’ He handed her his copy of the Småland Post. ‘If you take a look at the front page you’ll see what I mean.’

  ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad,’ Holt said, merely glancing at the paper. ‘But thanks anyway. Your opinion is noted.’

  ‘One more thing,’ Bäckström said, having saved the very best till last. ‘How are you getting on with establishing a link between the victim and the perpetrator?’