Linda, As in the Linda Murder

20 Växjö, Wednesday 9 July

The day had begun with unusual promise. The second largest evening paper was refusing to give up the fight. They were out for revenge, and had managed to make more of Marian Gross’s story than even their editor could have hoped for. A double-page spread, with a big picture of the hero of the piece, librarian Marian Gross, 39, which perfectly matched the headline: HE SCARED OFF THE SERIAL KILLER. How the hell had the photographer managed that, Bäckström wondered. The little fucker does look almost scary. They must have shot him from below.

‘Listen to this,’ he said, and began to read from the article.

‘Hang on,’ Thorén said pedantically. ‘Isn’t he forty-six, not thirty-nine?’

‘Who cares,’ Bäckström said. ‘Just listen to this. Marian woke up in the middle of the night because someone was trying to break into his flat, and he ran out into the hall. Through the peephole in the door he saw a young man in his early twenties trying to pick the lock of his flat.’

‘Which one?’ Rogersson said sullenly. ‘He had three different locks on his door when I was there yesterday.’

‘Don’t get hung up on details,’ Bäckström said, and carried on reading. ‘I asked him what he was doing, Marian says, but before I had time to open the door and grab him he ran off down the stairs and disappeared.’

‘So does he give a description?’ Knutsson asked.

‘A very good one, actually,’ Bäckström said. ‘Although the perpetrator’s face was covered by the peak of a so-called baseball cap, our Polish friend saw that he had short hair, almost shaved, and looked typically Swedish. Like a football hooligan or a right-wing extremist, at any rate. Big and strong. About one metre eighty, about twenty years old. Wearing a green and brown camouflage jacket, and black trousers made of some sort of shiny material, stuffed into a pair of high boots.’

‘Interesting,’ Lewin said, sipping his coffee and at the same time running the big toe of his right foot along Eva Svanström’s left ankle and suntanned shin under the table. ‘The way he was dressed, considering it was about twenty degrees outside, I mean.’

‘There’s something here that doesn’t make sense,’ Knutsson said hesitantly, shaking his head.

‘Tell us,’ Bäckström said eagerly, putting the paper down and leaning forward so as not to miss a word.

‘Would the perpetrator really have run down to the ground floor and rung on Linda’s door?’ Thorén clarified, shaking his head again.

‘Perhaps he was finished with Linda,’ Bäckström suggested helpfully. ‘And he thought he’d work his way back up the building?’

‘So why didn’t he call the police?’ Knutsson said obligingly. ‘Gross, I mean.’

‘He’s already been asked that, actually,’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘Along with most of the other citizens of this country, Gross doesn’t have a lot of faith in the police.’

‘Thank heavens for that,’ Thorén said. ‘Considering what he’s been up to himself.’

‘I don’t believe any of this,’ Knutsson said, shaking his head firmly. ‘I think he’s made it all up. Although someone could have rung on his door, of course. Like the woman upstairs, I mean.’

‘I don’t think we’re going to get much further,’ Rogersson sighed, getting up from the table. ‘Do you want me to question him again?’ He was looking at Bäckström.

‘Does the Pope wear a turban? Does Superintendent Bäckström wear a uniform? Does Dolly Parton sleep on her stomach?’ Bäckström said, getting up as well.