Linda, As in the Linda Murder

29

After the meeting on Thursday morning everything was looking very promising. The business of collecting DNA samples in Växjö and the surrounding district was still going better than expected. Almost three hundred men had volunteered to provide samples, and about half of them had been discounted already. And the investigation into Linda’s classmate Erik ‘Ronaldo’ Löfgren had got going nicely. Adolfsson had already called Bäckström to say that he and von Essen had got hold of a fair amount of good information that they would present later that day. Even Hans and Fritz seemed to have made a bit of progress.

‘I think we’ve worked out that business of the football match,’ Knutsson said.

‘Not with anyone in this building, I hope?’ Bäckström said.

‘Absolutely not,’ Thorén said, looking almost shocked.

‘That would be stupid. We checked with one of our own experts,’ Knutsson explained. ‘With an officer we both know and trust.’

According to the officer in National Crime’s information division, 28-year-old living legend Ronaldo had acquitted himself with honour on Saturday 17 May when he and his teammates at Real Madrid played a La Liga match against their sworn arch-enemies, FC Barcelona. But he hadn’t scored three goals. He scored one, and set up another, and after the match he was picked by the international television audience as man of the match, as on so many occasions before.

‘But that’s not the real point,’ Knutsson said.

‘Everyone down here who thinks this is anything to do with him has got it all wrong,’ Thorén clarified.

‘So what is the point, then?’ Bäckström asked.

According to the analyst in the information division who had analysed the phrase, the most likely interpretation of the words Magical name? was that the person who had written the message had been asking a question, and that this question ought to be understood as rhetorical.

‘And what the fuck does that mean in everyday language?’ Bäckström wondered.

‘A question where the answer is obvious,’ Knutsson explained.

‘For instance, you know the old classic, Bäckström?’ Thorén said. ‘About the Pope. Does the Pope wear a pointed hat?’

‘I get it,’ Bäckström said. Are Hans and Fritz cretins? he thought.

And the rhetorical question didn’t only refer to the person known to the whole world as Ronaldo, or at least to the part of that world interested in football, but to a whole collective of people with the same name.

‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Bäckström said, throwing out his hands. Those bastard academics are going to be the death of the whole damn force, he thought.

‘More than one person called Ronaldo,’ Knutsson explained. ‘The football player Ronaldo, man of the match, and another Ronaldo who had accomplished something of similar quality, and who probably has some sort of connection to the match in question.’

‘Okay, now I get it,’ Bäckström said. ‘Why couldn’t you say that? Linda sat and watched the game featuring everybody’s favourite Ronaldo on television, while her very own Ronaldo was playing a game with her on the sofa they were both sitting on. Am I pushing my luck here, or am I to understand that he did it three times?’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Thorén said flatly.

‘According to the analyst we spoke to, that’s the most likely interpretation, yes,’ Knutsson said. ‘Although he might not have expressed himself in quite those terms.’

‘So send the bastard on a course so he learns to talk like normal people,’ Bäckström said. ‘Anyway, how are you getting on with any calls to and from his mobile?’

‘We’re making progress,’ Thorén said.

‘Although that sort of thing takes time, of course,’ Knutsson added.

‘When?’ Bäckström asked.

‘The weekend,’ Thorén replied.

‘Tomorrow at the earliest, Sunday at the latest,’ Knutsson clarified.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ Bäckström said, pointing to the door.

When Bäckström was sitting in the staff canteen eating lunch, officer Sandberg came over to him and asked if she could sit down.

‘Sure,’ Bäckström said, nodding to the empty chair. Soon she’ll look as saggy as all the other women, he thought.

‘Can I speak freely?’ Sandberg said, looking at him.

‘I always do,’ Bäckström said with a shrug.

‘Okay, then,’ Sandberg said, and took a deep breath.

‘I’m all ears,’ Bäckström said, ‘but I can’t hear anything.’

‘I don’t believe in this business of getting DNA samples from a load of fellow officers,’ Sandberg said in a rush.

‘I think it’s going very well. The two younger officers we’ve borrowed are proving to be very efficient.’

‘I didn’t think people like that existed before I became a police officer. At least I hoped not. Now I know I was wrong.’ Sandberg looked solemnly at Bäckström. ‘For me—’

‘You don’t become a police officer,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘You just are a police officer. Adolfsson and that Essen are police officers. There’s no more to it than that. Is there a particular officer you’re worried about?’ This is starting to be fun, he thought.

‘We’ve been able to discount all the officers we’ve had the results back for.’

‘Yes, it must be quite a relief for them,’ Bäckström said with a grin.

‘I just can’t go up to Claesson and ask him to volunteer a DNA sample. Not with everything he’s been through and the state he’s in.’ Sandberg shook her head.

‘Was there anything else?’ Bäckström said, looking pointedly at his watch.

‘Well, what do you think?’

‘That everything will sort itself out. I’ll ask Adolfsson or someone else to do it,’ Bäckström said, getting up from the table. Suck on that, you little bitch, he thought as he put his tray on the trolley.

‘How did you get him to agree to an interview?’ Bäckström said two hours later, as he was sitting in the car with Rogersson, on their way to see Linda’s father.

‘I called and asked if we could come out and talk to him,’ Rogersson said.

‘And there were no problems?’

‘No, not the slightest,’ Rogersson said, shaking his head.

The interview with Linda’s father took almost two hours. They sat in his office on the first floor of the manor house, Bäckström letting Rogersson direct the conversation and contenting himself with throwing in the occasional question. They talked about Linda’s interests, her social life, her friends, and whether there was anyone or anything that her father thought they ought to know about. They carefully avoided two subjects. The first was the question of whether or not she had left a journal or any other personal documents in the house, and the second was how her father himself was feeling.

After an hour or so he asked them if there was anything he could offer them. Coffee, or anything else?

‘If I weren’t on duty, I’d ask for a cold beer,’ Bäckström said with a faint smile. ‘Rogersson here will be happy with a soft drink, seeing as he’s got to drive us back.’

‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Linda’s father said, getting up from the sofa he was sitting in and opening an antique cabinet that stood in one corner of the office. ‘Not everything’s what it seems,’ he added when he saw Bäckström’s look of surprise.

The cabinet contained a large number of bottles and glasses of various sizes. And a small fridge containing ice, mineral water, soft drinks and beer.

‘I think I’ll have a beer,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I suggest that you gentlemen keep me company. If it comes to it, you can always walk back to Växjö. Or I can ask my man to drive you.’

‘Sounds good,’ Bäckström said. You’re going to get through this, he thought. Even though you look like an apple core that’s passed through someone’s bowels. And even though you took half your face off when you tried to shave this morning.

‘Do you recognize this man?’ he asked, passing Linda’s father the photograph of Erik Roland Löfgren. High time we got to the point, he thought.

Her father looked carefully at the picture. Then nodded.

‘They were in the same class, weren’t they? I think they call him Ronaldo.’

‘Did Linda know him well?’ Rogersson asked.

‘No, I don’t think so. She would have mentioned it if she did. I’ve only met him once.’

Rogersson nodded to him to go on.

‘He came out here some time in the spring,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I remember saying hello to him. I was going out to dinner in town. I seem to remember that they were going to watch some football match. Linda has... had... a huge number of channels on her television.’

‘But you definitely remember him?’ Rogersson asked.

‘Yes,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘He’s the sort of person you remember. At least if you’re the sort of dad I am,’ he added. ‘But I can see what you’re getting at. I’m pretty sure Linda didn’t have any sort of relationship with him. I’m not really bothered about anything else.’

‘You didn’t find him unpleasant or threatening or anything?’ Rogersson said.

‘No, if anything rather ingratiating,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘Not the sort of person I would have wanted as a son-in-law,’ he added, suddenly shaking his head and pressing his thumb and forefinger to his eyes.

‘I’m not going to ask how you’re feeling,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’ve also lost someone... someone close to me... the same way you lost Linda. So I do know how you feel.’

‘Have you?’ Linda’s father looked at Bäckström in surprise.

‘Yes,’ Bäckström said sombrely. ‘That’s why I won’t ask. Is it all right if we carry on?’

‘Yes,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I’m all right now. Before I forget: I’ve offered to put up a reward. Do you think that would be any help?’

‘No,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head.

‘Why not?’

‘Because I know we’re going to catch him anyway,’ Bäckström said, giving him his police look.

‘Good,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘Well, if it turns out that a reward would be useful, just let me know.’

‘I’ve got a list here, of people Linda knew or had met,’ Rogersson said. ‘Do you know any of them?’

Henning Wallin looked through the list of people Linda knew. He had nothing to add that they didn’t already know, and the only one he had much to say about was Marian Gross.

‘He’s that neighbour, isn’t he? I remember Linda talking about him. She said he was a particularly dirty old man. He must have moved in after my time.’

‘You lived there? In the building where it happened?’ Rogersson asked.

‘It belonged to me,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I gave it to Linda’s mother in the divorce. Then she turned it into a residents’ association. Money was always her main concern.’

‘But you never lived there yourself?’ Rogersson repeated.

‘No. One of my Swedish companies had an office there for a while, but I hardly ever set foot there after I bought it. You don’t think it could have been him? Gross, I mean?’

Rogersson shrugged. ‘We’re checking everyone we have reason to check,’ he said.

‘We’re not discounting anyone until we’re absolutely certain,’ Bäckström emphasized. ‘And whoever’s left will be going to prison. For life.’

‘When will that happen?’ Henning Wallin asked.

‘Soon,’ Bäckström said. ‘I couldn’t borrow your sh— your toilet before we go, could I? Beer in the afternoon is clearly too much for an old policeman,’ he lied.

‘You can use my bathroom,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘First door on the left.’

‘I think we’re almost done,’ Rogersson said when Bäckström had disappeared to ease the pressure. ‘There’s nothing on your mind that we haven’t discussed? Anything you’d like to add?’

‘Just get the bastard who did it,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I can sort out the rest myself.’

‘We’re working on it,’ Rogersson said.

‘You’re not too drunk to drive?’ Bäckström asked fifteen minutes later when they were on their way back towards Växjö.

‘No,’ Rogersson said. ‘I’m not usually after just one beer. Incidentally, I had no idea you had a daughter who was strangled.’

‘That’s not what I said,’ Bäckström retorted. ‘I said someone close to me.’

‘If it’s Egon you’re thinking of, then I didn’t strangle him. He looked like he’d drowned. Although I thought he was a goldfish.’

‘I was thinking of Gunilla,’ Bäckström said. I bet he did something to Egon, he thought. Why else would he keep talking about him?

‘What bloody Gunilla?’ Rogersson said, irritated.

‘You know, Gunilla. From the Gunilla murder,’ Bäckström explained. ‘She was strangled.’

‘What the hell... she was a prostitute, wasn’t she?’

‘She was a very nice girl,’ Bäckström said. ‘I met her a few times out on the street when she was looking for business and was still in one piece. Anyway, it worked. Didn’t you see how Linda’s old man perked up when he heard he had a fellow sufferer with him? By the way, have we got any evidence bags in the car?’

‘There’s everything in this damn car,’ Rogersson said. ‘In the glove compartment,’ he added.

‘Goody good,’ Bäckström said, opening one of the plastic bags and with some difficulty extracting a bloody paper handkerchief from his pocket.

‘So that’s why you wanted to go to the toilet,’ Rogersson said.

‘Yes, certainly not because I needed to,’ Bäckström said happily. ‘He’d thrown it in the bin in the bathroom.’

‘Do you know something, Bäckström?’ Rogersson said. ‘You’re crazy. One day the devil’s going to get you. And he’ll turn up in person to pick you up.’