Linda, As in the Linda Murder

27

The next day they finally managed to get hold of a DNA sample from Linda’s neighbour, the librarian, Marian Gross. No one in the investigating team actually thought he could be the perpetrator, but this was a matter of principle. No one, and least of all someone like Gross, could be allowed to get away with anything just by kicking up a fuss. Detective Superintendent Jan Lewin had spoken to the prosecutor who was in charge of the existing inquiry into Gross. He had pointed out the legal openings that the old case still offered, and she hadn’t been the slightest bit difficult to persuade. On the contrary, she had expressed surprise that the matter hadn’t already been taken care of. So now it was simply a matter of going to pick him up, and if he didn’t want to provide a sample voluntarily they would take one anyway.

Von Essen and Adolfsson were given the task, and after the customary preparatory kick Gross had opened the door of his own accord, put on his shoes and accompanied them to the police station. And just like the last time, he hadn’t said a word all the way there.

‘Well, Gross,’ Lewin said, looking at him amiably. ‘The prosecutor has decided that we need a DNA sample from you. As far as I understand, we can do it two ways. Either you put this little cotton-bud in your mouth yourself and wipe it against the inside of your cheek, or we call a doctor who will come and stick a needle in your arm while my colleagues supervise the procedure.’

Gross hadn’t said anything. Merely glared at them sullenly.

‘I shall interpret your silence to mean the latter,’ Lewin said, still sounding just as amiable. ‘Okay, boys, take Dr Gross down to one of the cells while we’re waiting for the doctor to arrive.’

‘I demand to be allowed to do it myself,’ Gross shouted, reaching for the test-tube containing the cotton-bud on Lewin’s desk. When it was over, he declined Lewin’s offer of a lift home, and quickly left the police station.

A few hours later he sent a courier to hand in a complaint of gross judicial misconduct directed at the prosecutor, Detective Superintendent Olsson, Detective Superintendent Jan Lewin, acting Police Inspector von Essen and Police Constable Adolfsson. The receptionist had put it in the internal mail for onward passage to the police complaints office. Everything was pretty much back to normal.

Taken as a whole, the work of gathering DNA samples was going much better than expected. One of the younger members of the investigative team who was interested in statistics had pinned up a large chart on the notice board where they could follow developments. The total number of samples taken from residents of Växjö and the surrounding district was already over a hundred. Half of them had been checked by the National Forensics Lab and eliminated from the inquiry. No one except Gross had put up any serious resistance. A couple of local hooligans had even been in touch themselves to volunteer samples.

The only clouds in the forensic sky were their fellow officers.

The three who had been in the nightclub had refused at first. After individual meetings, two of them had fallen into line, while the third had contacted his union representative and was still refusing. And, if what he said was true, he was considering reporting Bäckström and his colleagues from National Crime to the judicial ombudsman, if only to force them to learn some of the legal basics. The trainee officer was more straightforward. In spite of several phone calls to both his home and his mobile, they simply hadn’t managed to get hold of him. They had left a number of messages, but he hadn’t got back to them yet.

Olsson was worried about the three officers Bäckström wanted to get DNA samples from because of their past behaviour. From his own personal point of view, Olsson had no problem with the officer who had hit his wife or the shooting instructor who had harassed his student with grubby suggestions. Not if he were speaking confidentially to Bäckström. ‘Just between us, I’d happily have seen them both dismissed from service,’ he said.

What the hell has that got to do with you and me? Bäckström thought.

But the former sports coach was an entirely different matter. Olsson knew him personally, and was prepared to vouch for him. He was innocent, the victim of a miscarriage of justice.

‘I don’t want his death on my conscience,’ Olsson explained. ‘He’s still seriously depressed, as I’m sure you can understand.’

‘Of course, who isn’t?’ Bäckström said. ‘But I thought it was common place for youngsters to lie about sexual abuse?’

Olsson was the first in line to agree with that. It was quite true, and the fact that his colleague and good friend had been accused even though he was innocent — assuming the girl had made everything up — simply proved the rule. However, in this instance it looked as though her parents were behind the whole business, which increased the seriousness of the whole affair. ‘I hope you appreciate that, Bäckström.’

‘Of course,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’m sure we all hope we can find a perpetrator that we’re happy with. Was there anything else?’ I wonder if we ought to get a sample from you as well, he thought.

Olsson did have something else on his mind: the maniac from Dalby who was still on the loose, even though the NRRU had cordoned off the area and was systematically conducting a thorough search, metre by metre.

‘You don’t think he could be our man?’ Olsson said, looking at Bäckström hopefully.

‘I saw that the same idea has occurred to our beloved evening papers,’ Bäckström said. ‘With reference to someone in a position of authority inside this building. If that’s what you’re asking, I’m not the one they spoke to.’

‘Of course not,’ Olsson assured him. ‘But what do you think about the hypothesis itself, I mean?’

‘I think that the person in a position of authority inside this building is as stupid as his friends in the press,’ Bäckström said.

That evening Carin called and asked why he hadn’t been in touch. She’d been away for the weekend, visiting her aged mother, but he could have left a message on her machine.

‘Things have been a bit busy lately,’ Bäckström said evasively. What does she mean, visiting her aged mother? Blimey, Bäckström thought.

‘Anything you’d care to tell me about?’ she asked, sounding just as she always did when she asked that question.

‘Well,’ Bäckström said, ‘it’s mainly a personal matter. My pet died. I asked a friend to look after him while I was on this case, but it didn’t go well.’

‘Oh, I am sorry,’ Carin said, sounding upset. ‘Was it a dog or a cat?’ What the fuck does she take me for, Bäckström thought. Only old women and poofs have cats.

‘A dog,’ Bäckström lied. ‘Quite a little character. Very lively. His name was Egon.’

‘That’s so sad,’ Carin said, and judging by the tone of her voice she was both fond of animals and a deeply empathetic person. ‘A little dog, and such a cute name. I appreciate how upset you must be. Can you bear to talk about it? About what happened, I mean?’

‘He drowned,’ Bäckström said. ‘If you’ll excuse me...’

‘I understand, you can’t talk about it,’ she said.

‘Let’s speak tomorrow,’ Bäckström suggested. ‘Call me if you feel like getting something to eat.’ Crazy women, he thought.

Bäckström had avoided Rogersson for a couple of days, since there was considerable evidence to suggest that he had murdered little Egon. Rogersson, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have noticed that Bäckström was avoiding him. He was his usual self. That’s what they’re like, real psychopaths, Bäckström thought. They don’t think of anyone but themselves. Although Rogersson did seem to be a slightly more complicated sort of murderer, seeing as he’d just knocked on Bäckström’s door. A very gentle knock for Rogersson, probably because of his guilty conscience, Bäckström thought. And as a conciliatory gesture he had brought a crate of cold beers and an almost full bottle of whisky.

‘So you’re sitting here moping,’ Rogersson declared, and since Bäckström wasn’t the sort to hold a grudge they had gradually and in the usual manner managed to normalize their relationship and restore the camaraderie that had always existed between them.

‘Here’s to Egon,’ Rogersson proposed.

‘Cheers, mate. Here’s to Egon,’ Bäckström said solemnly. And he stood up and raised his glass.

The day after his second wake for Egon, he finally caught a glimpse of a suspect worthy of the description. It’s almost enough to make you a bit religious, Bäckström had thought as he felt the familiar tingling.