Linda, As in the Linda Murder

24

At the morning meeting that day, Enoksson was able to report the first concrete surveillance results.

With the help of the perpetrator’s DNA, they had already been able to discount ten people from the inquiry. First in and first out was Linda’s former boyfriend, along with a couple of Linda’s fellow students who had met her at the club on the night of the murder, as well as half a dozen serious sexual offenders whose DNA profiles were already in the police database. Including Leo Baranski.

‘It’s like going out into the fields with a good sharp scythe,’ Enoksson said happily. ‘You take a couple of good swings and get rid of anything that’s got no business being there.’

‘Okay,’ Bäckström said. ‘You hear what Enok’s saying. Let’s swing that scythe. We need samples, samples, and more samples. Anyone with a clear conscience has nothing to fear, and every decent citizen wants to help the police, so there shouldn’t be any problems getting people to volunteer.’

‘What about if anyone doesn’t want to?’ one of the younger local officers said from the far end of the table.

‘Then things get really interesting,’ Bäckström said, smiling as warmly as the big bad wolf in the tale of the three little pigs. What the hell are they letting into the force these days?

Later that morning the head of the National Crime Unit, Sten Nylander, arrived in Växjö. Nylander came by helicopter together with his chief of staff and staff officer. The simpler members of the rapid-response unit, who would be responsible for the practical details, had travelled down in advance in two of the large American Hummer jeeps that the force had at its disposal.

When Nylander landed at Småland Airport, some ten kilometres outside Växjö, the welcoming committee was already in place, and the NRRU was making sure that the area was kept clear of anyone who shouldn’t be there. The county police commissioner had driven in from his place in the country, and had even changed out of his shorts and Hawaiian shirt into a grey suit and tie, even though it was almost thirty degrees outside. By his side stood Superintendent Bengt Olsson, in full uniform, and they were both sweating profusely already.

Nylander himself, in contrast, was both immaculately dressed and not showing the slightest sign of bodily fluids. In spite of the weather, he was wearing the same outfit as when he met Bäckström the previous week, plus a neatly peaked uniform cap that he put on the moment he stepped out of the helicopter. The ensemble was completed by a pair of dark frameless sunglasses, with reflecting glass, and a riding crop. This latter detail aroused a certain amount of local surprise, since no one had seen any trace of Brandklipparen.

First they ‘reconnoitred the operational terrain’ — Växjö and the surrounding area — in advance of the impending operation, partly to ‘get a feel’ for the district, partly to identify suitable locations where they could ‘disembark’ their forces, and partly to determine the ‘optimal point’ for the actual seizure of the perpetrator.

‘But can you really work all that out in advance?’ the county police commissioner said, as he sat squashed into the rear seat of the jeep surrounded by half a dozen silent figures in camouflage uniforms. ‘I mean... we don’t actually know who he is. Not yet, I mean,’ he added quickly.

‘Affirmative,’ Nylander said from his seat at the front, without even turning his head. ‘It’s all a question of planning.’

A couple of hours later they were finished. Nylander had declined a meeting in the county police commissioner’s office, the planned lunch, and other formalities. He had to fly on to Gothenburg on a similar mission, and his colleagues could sort out the practical details in Växjö with Olsson.

‘But I would like to say hello to my officers,’ HNC had said, and quarter of an hour later he was marching into the investigation’s main premises.

What the fuck’s going on, Bäckström had thought when he heard the commotion out in the corridor and caught a glimpse of the first camouflaged figure. Has war broken out, or what?

Nylander had stopped in the doorway and nodded towards everyone, like an oil tanker rising between two waves. Then he had taken Bäckström aside and even patted him on the shoulder.

‘I’m relying on you, Åström,’ HNC said. ‘Make sure you get him as soon as possible.’

‘Of course, boss,’ Bäckström said, nodding back towards his own reflection in his superior’s sunglasses. Cheers, Chinny.

‘You can go ahead and arrest him this weekend,’ Nylander said, when he and the county police commissioner were back at the airport. ‘The lads who are going to do the job are confined to barracks already.’

‘I’m afraid it may take a little longer than that,’ the county police commissioner yelled, because the helicopter’s engines were warming up and he could hardly hear his own voice. Why do they live in barracks, he wondered. Don’t they have homes of their own?

‘You got his DNA,’ Nylander said. ‘What are you waiting for?’

After lunch Bäckström wandered into Olsson’s office. It was high time someone knocked a bit of sense into the little cretin’s head. The red lamp was on, but Bäckström wasn’t in the mood and just knocked and went in.

Olsson had company in the form of three officers of the NRRU, with whom he didn’t seem entirely at ease. Wearing camouflage, and so similar that they were almost interchangeable, given that two of them were completely bald and the third clearly cropped his hair as closely as he could, none of the three moved a muscle when Bäckström walked in.

‘Ah, there you are, Bäckström,’ Olsson said, getting up quickly. ‘Excuse us a moment,’ he said, and pulled Bäckström out into the corridor.

‘What on earth have they sent us?’ Olsson said, shaking his head nervously as soon as he closed the door behind them. ‘What’s happening to the Swedish Police?’

‘The search,’ Bäckström said sternly. ‘High time to search her room at her father’s place.’

‘Of course,’ Olsson said with a pale smile. ‘I just haven’t got round to it, as I’m sure you understand, but if you could ask Enoksson to come and see me at once, we’ll get it sorted out.’

‘And I want us to interview her mother and father as well,’ said Bäckström, who wasn’t about to miss an open goal.

‘Of course,’ Olsson said again. ‘They should have got over the worst of the shock by now. Well, enough for there to be some point to it, I mean,’ he added in clarification. ‘So you’ve given up the idea that she was killed by a completely unknown madman?’

‘She was killed by someone she knew,’ Bäckström said curtly. ‘It remains to be seen just how mad he was.’

Olsson merely nodded. ‘Ask Enoksson to come and see me at once,’ he repeated, sounding almost imploring.

Enoksson was wearing a white lab coat and plastic gloves when Bäckström walked into the forensics lab, but as soon as he caught sight of Bäckström he pulled off the gloves and put them on the big laboratory table, then pushed a chair towards his visitor.

‘Welcome to our humble abode,’ he said with a smile. ‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Just had one,’ Bäckström said, ‘but thanks anyway.’

‘So what can I help you with, then?’ Enoksson said.

‘Drugs,’ Bäckström said. Olsson can sit there sweating for a bit longer, he thought. ‘My colleague, Lewin, has got an idea that he might have been high on something. How can we find that out?’

According to Enoksson, there was at least a decent chance. They had probably found enough blood on the windowsill to investigate the matter. He wasn’t sure about the perpetrator’s semen, but he would look into it. The strands of hair they had found were also a possibility. ‘If they came from the perpetrator’s head, the National Lab ought to be able to tell if he used cannabis, for instance. At least if he was a regular user.’

‘What if he only took something just before he attacked Linda?’

‘Doubtful,’ Enoksson said, shaking his head. ‘What drug have you got in mind?’

‘Amphetamine, or something like that.’

‘Ah. Yes, several of us were struck by that particular detail,’ he said, without being more precise about what he meant. ‘I promise we’ll look into it. As far as Linda herself is concerned, we actually got the results back from the lab this morning.’ He leafed through a pile of paper in front of him on the laboratory desk. ‘Here it is,’ he said, holding up the document.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Zero point ten parts per thousand in her blood, and zero point twenty in her urine, which in plain language means that she was at most mildly intoxicated when she was at the club, and pretty much sober when she died.’

‘Nothing else?’ Bäckström said. If I’m in luck, they took something together, he thought.

‘Nothing,’ Enoksson said, shaking his head. ‘The test for so-called prescription drugs in her blood has come back negative, and there were no traces of cannabis, amphetamines, opiates or cocaine metabolites in her urine. Linda seems to have been completely clean, if I can express myself the way our colleagues in the drug squad usually do.’

Oh well, you can’t have everything, Bäckström thought. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got a moment?’

‘Of course.’

‘Who is he?’ Take your time, Bäckström thought. Olsson’s absolutely fine where he is.

‘I thought that was your job, Bäckström,’ Enoksson said evasively. ‘You mean, the shoe-rack and all that? That it must be someone she knew?’

‘Yep.’

‘I see what you’re thinking, but he seems pretty crazy too. Would Linda really have known someone like that?’

‘Think about it,’ Bäckström said generously. They never learn, he thought.

‘Well,’ Enoksson said, suddenly looking extremely embarrassed. ‘This really is a terrible business. It’s really got to me, and I thought I’d seen almost everything.’

‘I know,’ Bäckström said happily. ‘Our mutual friend Lo must have a lot to do.’

‘I suppose I’m starting to get old, but if you can’t even bear to look at the pictures of a crime scene, then you probably shouldn’t apply to join forensics. You don’t get any decent pictures that way, and we’re still the ones who are supposed to take them.’

Who the fuck would want to work in forensics, Bäckström thought.

‘And I suppose only a very few among us are granted the blessing of our Lord’s guidance and solace.’

‘So you’ve heard, then,’ Bäckström said with a grin. ‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘Yes, it’s bad.’ Enoksson sighed. ‘What happened to the confidentiality of the confessional? The deeds of men may be fragmentary — and that’s not a direct biblical quote, by the way, but a play on the text of chapter thirteen of Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians, as any good Smålander could tell you — but do we police officers really have to hold all the fragments up for general view? Follow me, and you’ll see what I mean.’

He got up, went over to his computer and starting tapping at it as if he were a computer geek forty years younger. ‘This is one of our most popular internet newspapers,’ he said, showing Bäckström the screen. ‘And here you can read all the gruesome details that not even the evening papers dare to print. “Strangled by her dad’s tie.” That’s the headline, and the article contains pretty much everything we discussed at yesterday’s meeting. Including the shoes. But they seem to have missed the shoe-rack. Probably not interesting enough for them.’

You’re a proper little philosopher, you are, Enok, Bäckström thought.

‘Oh yes, one last thing,’ Bäckström said. ‘Olsson wanted to talk to you. I think it’s about the search of the victim’s father’s house.’

This is going like clockwork, Bäckström thought. He had gone straight down to his friend Rogge and told him it was high time to interview Linda’s parents, and that this should be done in the usual exhaustive way.

‘In that case I’d better do it myself,’ Rogersson said.

‘Then we have to sort out the people she knew. Drag in anyone who ever said hello to her and stick cotton-buds in their mouths. That way we won’t have to take samples from the whole town. Mum, dad, friends, fellow students, family friends and acquaintances, their neighbours, her teachers at college, people working here in the station, every single bastard in trousers at the club on Friday night. Even the ones who prefer skirts even though they’ve got something sticking out of the front. You know what I mean.’

‘I know,’ Rogersson said. ‘Mind you, we can forget about her mum, can’t we? As far as getting a sample goes, I mean? And no matter what, you’re probably going to have to give our colleague Sandberg some reinforcements.’

‘Any suggestions?’

‘Knutsson, Thorén, or both. Neither of them is likely to win the Nobel Prize, exactly, but at least they’re both fucking thorough.’

You take what you’re given, Bäckström thought. Wasn’t that what Jesus said when he shared out the fish and bread to his mates?

‘Have you got a moment?’ Anna Sandberg asked quarter of an hour later, looking enquiringly at Bäckström as he sat in majesty behind the piles of paper on his borrowed desk.

‘Of course,’ Bäckström said generously, gesturing towards the only unoccupied chair in the room. Who could say no to a pair of decent tits, he thought.

‘I understand I’m going to get some back-up,’ Anna said, sounding pretty much like her colleague and boss, Superintendent Olsson, a short while ago.

‘Exactly,’ Bäckström nodded. So can I possibly have a smile, please?

‘But you’re going to keep me in charge of the profiling of Linda and her acquaintances? You’re not thinking of replacing me, I mean?’

‘Of course not,’ Bäckström said. ‘You can borrow Thorén and Knutsson. Decent lads. Keep them on a short leash, and if they start causing trouble, just let me know and I’ll deal with them.’ Bloody hell, don’t tell me we’re going to have to have a debate on equality as well, he thought.

‘In that case I’m happy,’ Anna said, standing up. ‘You’ve completely dropped the idea that she was the victim of an ordinary madman?’

‘I don’t know about dropped,’ Bäckström said vaguely. ‘One more thing. That pocket diary you promised me. You haven’t forgotten?’

‘I’ll get it for you right away,’ Anna said as she left.

What the fuck’s she so miserable about?

A perfectly ordinary black pocket diary, in a slightly less ordinary red leather cover with the owner’s name, Linda Wallin, embossed in gold in the bottom right-hand corner. A present from her father, Bäckström thought, as he started to leaf through it in a hunt for male acquaintances.

Half an hour later he was finished. The calendar contained everything that ought to be there. Short notes about meetings, lessons, lectures and exercises out at her college. Some times referring to her shifts in the police station, starting on the weekend of midsummer. Regular visits to see her mum in town. Short entries made during a trip to Rome together with a friend and classmate, Kajsa, at the beginning of June. Nothing particularly private, definitely nothing revealing, and the man mentioned more than anyone else was her father, usually just ‘Dad’. After the trip to Rome he was ‘Papa’, but just a fortnight later he was back to ‘Dad’ again. Otherwise mainly her friends, and in particular her closest girlfriends, Jenny, Kajsa, Anki and Lotta.

The penultimate entry was for Thursday 3 July. A week old now, and Linda had written that she would be at work from 09.00 to 17.00, and that she and Jenny evidently had plans for the evening. Party? The last notes, which, judging by the handwriting and the pen used to make them, seemed to have been made at the same time as those for Thursday, gave the time of her shift on Friday, 13.00–22.00, then a line through Saturday and Sunday to indicate that she had the weekend off.

If only something hadn’t got in the way, Bäckström thought, suddenly feeling inexplicably gloomy. Pull yourself together, lad, he thought, and straightened up in his chair.

In January there were a total of four entries about someone called Noppe, but as Bäckström already knew that this was her nickname for her ex-boyfriend, who was already out of the investigation thanks to his DNA, he didn’t pay any particular attention to the fact that this Noppe had evidently incurred Linda’s wrath, because he was granted the only negative emotional comment in the entire book. Noppe’s always been a little shit! his ex-girlfriend declared on Monday 13 January.

Okay, Bäckström thought. Really there was just one thing he was wondering about. Not that it was particularly exciting, but it was probably just as well to deal with it before he stopped for the day and headed back to the hotel. Probably best if she comes to me. I am her boss, after all, he thought, reaching for the phone.

‘Thanks for lending it to me,’ Bäckström said amiably, passing the diary back to officer Sandberg.

‘Did you find anything interesting?’ she asked. ‘Anything I missed, I mean?’

What the fuck’s wrong with her? Still sulking, Bäckström thought. ‘There’s just one thing I’m wondering about.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Saturday 17 May. The Norwegians’ national day,’ Bäckström said, nodding towards the diary.

‘Right,’ Anna said hesitantly, and leafed through to the relevant page. ‘Ronaldo, Ronaldo, Ronaldo, magical name,’ she read.

‘Ronaldo exclamation mark, Ronaldo exclamation mark, Ronaldo exclamation mark. Magical name, question mark,’ Bäckström corrected. ‘Who’s Ronaldo?’

‘Ah, I get it,’ Anna said, suddenly smiling. ‘It must be that footballer. That Brazilian, the one who’s so good. I think he was playing in some Europa League final that day. I’m sure our colleagues in forensics have checked it out. I’m pretty sure he got three goals, if I’ve got it right. I think I said at our first meeting that Linda was one of the best players in the women’s football team at police college. The match was shown live on television. She must have watched it. I doubt if there’s any more to it than that.’

‘Hmm,’ Bäckström muttered. Bloody hell, you’re suddenly very talkative, aren’t you? Sadly, his next thought found its way out before he had time to stop it.

‘It couldn’t simply be that she was a dyke, could it?’ Bäckström said. Shit, he thought, but it was already too late.

‘Sorry?’ Anna said, looking at him with her eyes wide open. ‘That she was what? What did you call her?’

‘Pretty girl, no blokes, interested in football, loads of female friends. She couldn’t simply have been, well, a lesbian?’ Bäckström clarified. Or whatever the hell they call themselves, he thought.

‘Oh, come on, Bäckström,’ Anna said with feeling, and evidently without any regard to their relative status. ‘I play football as well. And I’ve also got a husband and two children. Whatever that’s got to do with anything,’ she said, looking at him angrily.

‘In cases like this, the victim’s sex life always has something to do with it,’ Bäckström said, and when he saw that she wasn’t going to back down he raised his hand in a defensive gesture. ‘Forget it, Anna. Just forget it.’

‘Yes, let’s hope we can,’ Anna said crossly. She picked up the diary and left.

There’s something that doesn’t make sense, Bäckström thought, pulling out a pen and a sheet of paper. Ronaldo! Ronaldo! Ronaldo! and then, immediately below, Magical name?

Fuck knows what, though, Bäckström thought, staring at what he’d just written. Besides, it was high time for him to make his way back to the hotel, have a little lie down before dinner, and maybe squeeze in a beer or two.

‘I found this in her diary,’ Bäckström said, shooting the note over to Rogersson a couple of hours and several beers later. ‘From 17 May this year.’

‘Ronaldo, Ronaldo, Ronaldo, magical name,’ Rogersson read. ‘Must be that football player, mustn’t it? Some match she saw on television. She was interested in football, wasn’t she? What are you wondering about?’

‘Oh, bollocks,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. Bollocks, he thought.