Linda, As in the Linda Murder

37 Växjö, Thursday 24 July

As soon as Rogersson had told him about the massacre in the Grand Hotel, Lund, Superintendent Åström had whispered confidentially in the ears of three different journalists. In spite of that, not a single line had appeared in the papers about that unsettling event. Those bloody vultures can’t be trusted to look after anything, Superintendent Bäckström thought angrily.

Instead the first evening papers of the day, as well as the normal morning papers, were full of the usual. The mass-murderer from Dalby had been relegated to the inside columns once they had polished off the teary interviews with the survivors. The Linda murder was back in the lead, and the crush around the breakfast buffet at the Town Hotel in Växjö had swollen considerably.

At the morning meeting they were able to announce more than four hundred DNA samples taken, and another fifty of the volunteers had been discounted from the investigation. One of these was Linda’s neighbour, Marian Gross, and his departure was mourned by no one, least of all Bäckström, who already had a far better perpetrator up his sleeve. Besides, Superintendent Olsson had had an idea that boded well for their work.

Taking the CP group’s profile as his starting point, Olsson had made a number of demographic calculations, and had come up with the idea that they wouldn’t need to take DNA samples from any more than five hundred people in Växjö and the surrounding district to cover everyone who fitted the profile. And once he had spoken to a statistician from the town council, he had realized it was actually even better than that.

‘He told me about something called mathematical expectation,’ Olsson explained. ‘That’s some sort of numerical hocus-pocus, but if I’ve got it right, then we should only have to take samples from about half the five hundred, if we were to do it entirely randomly, that is.’

What the hell is he going on about? Bäckström thought. In his book, it would be enough to get a sample from just one person. ‘If you’ll accept an honest tip from an old policeman, might I suggest that you restrict yourself to so-called outsiders,’ he said.

‘Don’t you worry, my dear Bäckström,’ Olsson said, apparently in an excellent mood. ‘I’ve been around a while, and know a bit about Pappenheimer bodies. Ich kenne auch meine Pappenheimer,’ he added proudly in his best schoolboy German, acquired on the open university course he and his wife had been studying since they went on a wine-lovers’ tour of the Rhine Valley the previous summer. ‘Don’t forget that you promised to come along to our meeting.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Bäckström said. What the hell has Pappenheimer got to do with anything?

After the meeting Detective Superintendent Jan Lewin spoke to both the prosecutor and the head of the preliminary investigation, Superintendent Olsson. Bäckström was conspicuous by his absence, however, which didn’t appear to bother Lewin at all.

‘So there’s something not quite right about this young man,’ Lewin concluded when he had outlined the case.

‘Enough to call him in without prior warning?’ the prosecutor asked.

‘Yes,’ Lewin said. ‘But if he still refuses, I’d like to get a sample anyway. If nothing else, then to rule him out.’

‘If he carries on lying and behaving in this childish way, I’ll remand him in custody. And while he’s sitting there in his cell thinking things over, we can get both fingerprints and a blood sample,’ the prosecutor said. ‘This is a murder investigation, after all, and I’m not the least bit amused by what he seems to be up to.’

‘But is that really necessary?’ Olsson suggested, squirming in his seat. ‘I mean, he’s still one of our own trainees, and he’s not remotely like the perpetrator identified by the CP group in their analysis. I’d much rather—’

‘In that case, it’s probably just as well that it’s my decision,’ the prosecutor interrupted. ‘The CP group,’ she snorted. ‘That’s usually nothing but complete fantasy. As far as I know, they’ve never helped solve a single case. Certainly never any of mine.’

In the afternoon Bäckström kept his promise and attended the meeting of the newly formed committee of Växjö Men Against Violence to Women. He was given coffee, carrot cake and biscuits, and the chair of the committee, psychologist and psychotherapist Lilian Olsson, had begun by warmly welcoming him.

‘Well, you already know me and your colleague Bengt Olsson,’ Lo said. ‘Bengt has also agreed to be a deputy member of our little committee. But you haven’t met the others before, so I thought perhaps that as our guest you could start by introducing yourself to the rest of the committee members: Moa Hjärtén; our second Bengt, Bengt Karlsson,’ she said, smiling at a lanky blond fellow who smiled back just as warmly, ‘and our third Bengt, Bengt Axel Månsson.’ She gave a friendly nod towards a short, thin, swarthy man at the far end of the table.

‘Thank you, Lo, for inviting me,’ Bäckström said, folding his hands over his bulging stomach and smiling extra piously towards the three people who had just been named. Two poofs in trousers, and someone in a sort of pink shift. How practical that all the poofs seem to be called Bengt, he thought.

‘Well, my name is Evert Bäckström... although my friends call me Evie,’ Bäckström lied. He hadn’t had a proper friend in his whole life, and had been known as Bäckström even when he was in primary school. ‘What else can I tell you? Well... I work as a detective superintendent in the murder squad of the National Crime Unit... and, as so often before in my life, I have been brought here by extremely tragic circumstances.’ Bäckström nodded sombrely and sighed. A little something for the poofs to suck on, he thought.

‘Thank you, Evie,’ Lo said, with warmth in her voice. ‘Well... perhaps we should carry on with our other fellow menfolk. Please, Bengt,’ Lo said, nodding towards the short, thin, swarthy man who was cowering behind his coffee cup and carrot cake at the far end of the table.

‘Thank you, Lo,’ Bengt said, then cleared his throat nervously. ‘Well... my name is Bengt Månsson, and I work with cultural matters at the council here, where I have responsibility for what we call special projects, and our new foundation will be part of that work as a subsidiary project.’

Quite a little sweetie, and bloody similar to that equalities bloke in the government. The one whose mother must have been with a horse, whatever the hell his name is, Bäckström thought. He tried not to overload his brain with names that didn’t belong to crooks, bandits and decent fellow officers. ‘Yes, that can’t be an easy job,’ he said. ‘All those projects, I mean,’ he added.

‘No,’ Månsson agreed, instantly looking a bit happier. ‘There’s a lot involved in it, and I spend a lot of time managing the costs so that they don’t—’

‘Well, perhaps we should move on to our second Bengt,’ Lo interrupted, for some reason evidently reluctant to go into detail on that point, and nodding instead to the rudely truncated Bengt’s colleague, who was blond and blue-eyed, twice the height of little Bengt, and in some peculiar way seemed to hang across both his chair and the table, whilst simultaneously beaming with warmth and empathy.

‘My name’s Bengt Karlsson, and I manage the men’s helpline here in town,’ big Bengt said. ‘We offer advice and counselling, and even behavioural therapy for abusing men here in Växjö. Abusing, not abused,’ he emphasized, ‘and, as I’m sure you can imagine, I’m not short of work.’

I can imagine, given the number of crazy women around. Anyway, you used to be a thug, Bäckström thought, because when it came to that sort of diagnosis he was just as confident as a country doctor distinguishing patients with mumps from those who just had swollen adenoids.

‘Just little me left, then,’ twittered the woman in the pink shift.

You’re not that fucking little, Bäckström thought. You’re three times the size of little Lo, if that’s any comfort.

‘Well, my name’s Moa, Moa Hjärtén. And I’m sure you’re wondering what someone like me does, Evie?’

You’re in charge of the women’s helpline, the victims of crime helpline, and all the other bastard bleeding heart helplines in the world, Bäckström thought, nodding encouragingly at her to go on.

‘Well, I’m in charge of the women’s helpline here in town, and chair of the crime-victims’ helpline... and let’s see, what else...’

Was I right or was I right?

‘Well,’ Moa went on, ‘I also run a private home where we offer sheltered accommodation for women who’ve been raped and abused. And beyond that I don’t really have too much time.’

Congratulations, Bäckström thought. If you’re running it privately, you can’t be entirely stupid.

Then the newly founded association was granted the opportunity to enjoy Superintendent Bäckström’s expertise as one of the country’s foremost experts in really violent crime. As his colleague Olsson had explained to him before, there were two things that the group was particularly concerned about: that they would be regarded as vigilantes, and that they would attract men with frivolous, unclear or possibly even criminal motives.

Bäckström did his best to reassure them.

‘To summarize what I have already said, I don’t think you need to worry about that,’ he concluded. Although he was a Spiritual Man, he might have started to sound a touch pompous towards the end. ‘And as far as the second matter is concerned, I have no doubt that you are already sufficiently good judges of character to be able to separate the wheat from the chaff.’ And you, my dear fellow, I shall personally ensure that we take a good look at, he thought, smiling in a specially friendly way at committee member Bengt Karlsson.

After the meeting the committee met representatives of the media, but Bäckström had declined, pleading the National Crime Unit’s policy on such matters.

‘However much I might want to participate, I’m afraid I simply can’t,’ he said, still wearing the same pious smile as two hours earlier at the start of the whole thing.

Lo and her friends were full of understanding, and Bäckström returned to the investigation’s main office to make his own small contribution.

‘Can you have a look at this bastard,’ he said, handing over a note with Bengt Karlsson’s name and description.

‘Of course,’ Thorén said, surprised. ‘Pardon me for asking, but why do you want to look him up? Isn’t that...’

‘Very hush hush,’ Bäckström grinned, holding his right index finger to his lips.

As soon as he had got the go-ahead from the prosecutor, Lewin had sent von Essen and Adolfsson to Öland to pick up aspiring police officer Löfgren. Going by the most recent call he had made on his mobile, he was in all likelihood still at his parents’ summer house outside Mörbylånga. Because Adolfsson was going, Bäckström had lent them his car. And given them a couple of pieces of advice.

‘If you type in the address in the computer the bastard car finds its own way there,’ Bäckström said. ‘And if you have to hit the fucker, make sure you do it outside the car to save getting blood on the seats.’

‘A new record,’ Adolfsson said one and a half hours and 170 kilometres later, as he pulled up at the entrance to the Löfgren family’s place in the country. A large wooden house, painted yellow, rather grand, with crunching gravel paths, large shady trees and a splendid view of the Kalmar Sound. And, on the lawn in front of the house, the very person they had come to pick up. Wearing running shoes, shorts and a sleeveless T-shirt, and busy stretching his long, muscular legs.

‘What can I help you gentlemen with?’ Löfgren asked amiably.

‘We’d like to talk to you,’ Adolfsson said, equally amiably.

‘It’ll have to be tomorrow. I’m about to go for my daily run,’ Löfgren said, and set off with a wave in completely the wrong direction for Växjö.

Von Essen set off after him out of reflex, and to his credit managed to keep Löfgren within sight for several hundred metres before the student was swallowed up by the undergrowth and his pursuer was left standing there, doubled over and gasping for breath.

‘Twenty-five degrees in the shade, and still you can’t stop yourself from trying to keep up with a black man,’ Adolfsson said, leaning back comfortably in one of the garden chairs when his partner returned to the house.

‘Have you spoken to the parents?’ von Essen asked, nodding towards the house.

‘Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.’

‘Let’s call Lewin,’ von Essen decided.

‘What do you mean, ran off?’ Lewin said over the phone five minutes later.

‘What do you mean, ran off?’ Olsson repeated another ten minutes later.

‘Ran off. So he just ran off?’ the prosecutor asked on her mobile after another fifteen minutes.

‘He just ran off,’ Lewin confirmed. ‘So what do we do now?’

‘What do we do now?’ Olsson repeated when Lewin called him for the second time in half an hour.

‘The prosecutor decided that we should sleep on the matter, and if we don’t get hold of him tomorrow she’s going to issue a formal arrest warrant,’ Lewin said.

‘So why the hell didn’t you run after the fucker and beat him to death?’ Bäckström roared. He was just as red in the face as von Essen had been two hours earlier, even though Bäckström hadn’t got out of his chair all afternoon.

‘We didn’t actually have the chance, if you see what I mean, boss,’ Adolfsson said.

‘You don’t really want to jeopardize any future interview by shooting someone just like that,’ von Essen suggested in the conciliatory tone of voice that was part of his noble birthright.

Watch yourself, you fucking poof, Bäckström thought, glaring slyly at his aristocratic colleague. Personally, he wouldn’t have had a moment’s hesitation in calling out the dogs and the helicopters, and closing off the damn bridge to that island, he thought.