Linda, As in the Linda Murder

16

When they got back to the police station, Bäckström asked young Adolfsson to write a report of their visit to Sankt Sigfrid, while he got to grips with the various piles that had built up on his desk. Nothing exciting, and none of the others in the room appeared to be in need of a kick up the backside to get something done. High time for the hotel and a little glass of beer, Bäckström decided after a quick glance at his watch. But of course that was when his mobile phone rang. It was the long-winded colleague from the VICLAS unit, wanting to hear how things had gone with Leo.

‘We met both him and Brundin,’ Bäckström said.

‘Is Brundin in charge of looking after him?’

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said, glancing at the time again. ‘He says hello, by the way.’

‘In that case there’s no need to worry,’ his colleague assured him. ‘Brundin’s the only person in that entire profession who’s completely normal. So how was Leo?’

‘Fine. Having a great time. He says hello too,’ Bäckström said, and ended the call.

On the way out he went past Rogersson’s room to see if he was done for the day, but the red light outside the interview room was still on. Six hours, plus six more, Bäckström thought. Oh well, he could always order a taxi. Who has the energy to walk in this sort of heat? He fished up his mobile from his pocket again, but before he had time to make the call the investigation’s very own crisis therapist popped up and almost threw herself at him even though she was skinny as a golf club and not much taller.

‘I’m so pleased I’ve found you, Superintendent,’ she said, smiling warmly and tilting her head to one side. ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’

‘What can I do to help you, Lo?’ Bäckström said, smiling just as warmly back. Probably makes sense to deal with the old cow while I’ve built up a head of steam, he thought.

Once they reached her room it took several minutes before Lo got to the point. But because Bäckström already knew exactly how he was going to handle this, it was a pleasure watching her put her scrawny neck in the noose he had set up for her. He leaned back comfortably in the armchair she kept for visitors, folded his hands over his protruding stomach and nodded encouragingly at her.

‘You’re practically the only person I haven’t spoken to, superintendent,’ she began.

‘Well, Lo, as I’m sure you appreciate, I’ve had quite a bit to do,’ Bäckström said, with a thoughtful nod. So much so that I haven’t had time to sit here babbling with a nagging old cow like you, he thought.

‘I certainly do appreciate that,’ Lo agreed, tilting her head a few more centimetres and flashing him an almost vertical smile.

‘That’s good to hear,’ Bäckström said tranquilly, simultaneously trying out the contemplative nod that he usually saved for just this sort of situation.

According to Lilian Olsson, Bäckström, because of his long experience as a murder detective with National Crime, must have been confronted with more misery than almost any other officer in the force.

‘How have you managed to handle all that?’ she asked. ‘You must be carrying around some terrible experiences.’

‘How do you mean?’ Never give them a millimetre, because then you’re fucked, Bäckström thought.

All the awful things he’d seen in the course of his duty? A lot of police officers, not to say most, or even all, ended up getting burned out because of the job. Marching in file towards the wall until they hit it, while they tried to struggle through to their next shift by abusing alcohol and sex.

‘And that’s probably the very worst way to try to deal with psychological problems,’ Lo said.

Fucking good fun though, Bäckström thought as he nodded in agreement. ‘It’s tragic,’ he said, shuddering with distaste. ‘Tragic,’ he repeated. Maybe I ought to tip her the wink about Lewin and little Svanström, he thought.

‘I’ve even come across young officers who developed eating disorders while they were still at police college,’ Lo went on.

‘Tragic,’ Bäckström repeated. ‘Young people too. Terrible.’ He sighed deeply. Considering the food they served there, the big mystery was how any of them managed to eat anything at all.

In Lo’s firm opinion, based on the many years she had spent working as a psychologist with the police, the problem was hidden within the culture of the police itself, in the spirit of ‘machismo, denial, silence and destructive behaviour patterns, all acting together’, which had for so long governed the working environment within the force, and handicapped the people who were forced to work within it. Even she could feel it flowing towards her, from the floor, walls and ceiling, each time she set foot inside a police station.

‘How do you deal with all these traumatic experiences, Bäckström?’ she repeated, bobbing her head encouragingly.

‘With the help of our Lord,’ Bäckström said, and raised his pious face towards the ceiling. Suck on that, bitch, he thought.

Lo smiled hesitantly. ‘Sorry, I don’t think I quite follow you, I’m afraid,’ she said.

‘Our Lord,’ Bäckström repeated in an inviting voice. ‘Our Almighty Lord, ruler of heaven and earth, and also my guide and salvation during my time on earth.’ Is that what someone looks like just before their ears and jaw drop off, he wondered.

‘I had no idea that you were born again, Bäckström,’ Lo said, looking at him weakly.

‘It’s not the sort of thing you go round talking about,’ Bäckström said, giving her a look of admonition and shaking his head. ‘It’s between me and my Lord.’

‘I understand that so well,’ Lo said. ‘But these things aren’t mutually exclusive, of course. You’ve never considered altern... well, trying other ways of achieving mental peace, I mean?’

‘Such as what?’ Bäckström said grimly, giving her his police stare. Time to turn the screw, he thought.

‘Well, like different forms of therapy, such as debriefing, which is itself actually a form of therapy,’ Lo said, smiling stiffly at him. ‘My door is always open, and I have a lot of ordinary believers...’

‘Thou shalt have no other gods before me!’ Bäckström thundered, pointing at her with his outstretched hand as he stood up from the armchair. ‘This arrogance that you and your colleagues exhibit by trying to put yourselves in the place of our Lord. Are you aware that you’re breaking the first commandment?’ Unless it was the second? Well, what the fuck.

‘I really didn’t mean to upset you—’

‘The deeds of men are mere fragments,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘Ecclesiastes twelve, fourteen,’ he went on, staring hard at her. A shot in the dark, and a bit of a gamble in Småland, of all places, but she didn’t seem the churchy type.

‘Well, I really do apologize if I’ve upset you at all,’ Lo said with a weak smile.

‘My door is always open,’ Bäckström said, as he opened hers as if to underline what he was saying. ‘Just think about one thing, Lilian,’ he said cajolingly. ‘We human beings... we are but fools... for our dear Lord rules.’

Gently, he closed the door behind him. And now to lock myself in the toilet and laugh until I give myself a hernia.

As soon as he reached his room he poured himself a cold lager. There must be something wrong with people who drink direct from the can. No damn better than monkeys, Bäckström thought, taking a few deep gulps and greedily licking the froth from his upper lip. Then he threw himself on to the bed, turned on the television and began looking through all the phone messages that had been left for him down in reception. There were quite a lot, mostly from little Carin from local radio. In one message, left just a couple of hours ago, she had even sworn that ‘we don’t have to talk about work’, and to show she meant it she had left her home number. ‘Can I offer to get you a bite to eat at a discreet little place?’ A woman in dire straits, Bäckström thought as he reached for the phone on the bedside table. She seems completely desperate.

The ‘discreet little place’ was a small inn with an outside terrace overlooking yet another Småland lake. It was a fair way out of town, but since his employer would be paying for the taxi he didn’t much care. Not a single damn journalist as far as my detective’s eye can see, he thought as he pulled out the chair for his companion.

‘Finally alone, superintendent. Hint, hint,’ Carin said, smiling with her mouth and eyes. ‘What would you like? My treat.’

‘Absolutely not.’ Bäckström had already decided in the taxi to award himself overtime for meeting another secret informant, and obviously he would need the receipt to prove that the meeting had taken place. ‘I want something nice,’ he went on, glancing at Carin’s tanned arms and legs. She was wearing a thin summer dress, and she must have forgotten to do up the top three buttons. Maybe a bit too easy, he told himself.

Very pleasant, he thought as he dropped her off three hours later. He had put a stop to all attempts to get him to talk about the Linda case. To keep the conversation going, and to tell her a bit about himself in an unforced way, he had offered her the usual police classics, and had concluded with a fat promise about the future.

‘Still, you have to appreciate how I feel,’ Carin had sighed, fingering her wine glass. ‘We’re sitting down here, and all the news keeps coming out in the Stockholm papers. That’s where you find out what’s going on. Even though it’s our murder. I mean, the girl who was killed did actually live here. One of our own, if you like.’

‘Most of what they print is rubbish, if that’s any consolation to you,’ Bäckström had said. Ah, the things I do for the poor wee souls, he thought.

‘Really?’ she said, with a glint of hope in her eyes.

‘Okay, this is what we do,’ Bäckström said, leaning forward and just happening to touch her arm. ‘When I’ve got the bastard and am convinced it’s him, I promise I’ll let you know ahead of all the others. Just you. No one else.’

‘You promise? You really mean it?’ she said, staring at him.

‘I really mean it,’ he lied, and left his hand touching her arm. ‘You, and only you.’ This is way too easy.

As soon as he got back to the hotel he headed straight for the bar. Only three beers throughout a whole meal, and he was as thirsty as a camel that had gone on a pilgrimage from Jerusalem to Mecca. And Rogersson was sitting towards the back of the bar with a huge glass in front of him, looking more than usually miserable even though there were plenty of empty tables around him. The two dozen reporters and other civilians in the room had for some reason chosen to sit as far away from him as possible.

‘I said I’d break the arm of the first vulture who tried to sit down, so everything’s okay,’ he explained. ‘What do you want? It’s my round.’

‘Beer, a large one,’ Bäckström said, waving over a waiter who for some reason looked reluctant. You’re always so diplomatic, Rogge, he thought.

‘So what have you been up to?’ Rogersson asked when Bäckström had got his beer and had had a chance to dull the worst of his thirst.

‘I had a long talk with our very own crisis therapist,’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘Then I had to go to the toilet. So that’ll make three times today.’

‘And I thought you were a normal person. What the fuck are you talking to someone like that for?’ Rogersson sighed, shaking his head.

‘Just listen,’ Bäckström said, and leaned over the table to tell Rogersson the whole story. Rogersson livened up considerably, and they sat there and drank their way through several more rounds of beer and chasers, which Bäckström told the staff to put on the bill for their rooms which, along with everything else, would be paid by their employer.

When it was time to go upstairs and get some sleep, the bar was practically empty. Rogersson was considerably happier, and had even said goodnight to the few reporters who were still sitting there, evidently determined to drink their heads off.

‘Go home, you stupid fuckers,’ he said.