Linda, As in the Linda Murder

4 Stockholm, Friday 4 July

Even though it was only ten o’clock in the morning — during this remarkable summer that had begun in May and didn’t seem to want to end — one of the great legends of the National Crime Unit’s murder squad had already arrived at work. Unlike most of his colleagues, Detective Superintendent Evert Bäckström hadn’t gone off to the country to battle with gnats, a cross wife and whining kids. Not to mention all the crazy neighbours, stinking outdoor toilets, barbecues that smelled of petrol, and warm lager.

Bäckström was short, fat and primitive, but when necessary he could be both sly and slow to forget things. He regarded himself as a wise man in the prime of life, an unfettered free spirit who preferred the quiet life of the city, and since a sufficient number of appetizing and scantily clad ladies seemed to share the same view, he had no reason at all for complaint.

Summer holidays were a source of pleasure for people who didn’t know any better, a device used excessively by almost all his colleagues, and thus a very good reason to stay at work: you finally got the opportunity to govern your own time. Last in and first out, and no one around to make any comments. And that was the whole point. Plenty of time for various errands outside police headquarters, and if any remaining boss should happen to look into his office, he was well prepared.

The day before his immediate superior went on holiday Bäckström had announced that as well as looking after practical matters if the worst should happen, he intended to fill any spare time by going back through old cases which had now gone cold. His boss hadn’t made any objection, largely because he just wanted to get away from police headquarters on Kungsholmen, and partly because the last thing he wanted to do was talk to Bäckström. So Bäckström’s desk was now covered by a mountain of unsolved murders which his less mentally blessed colleagues had messed up for no good reason.

The first thing he did when he arrived at work was to rearrange the piles of paper, in case anyone happened to poke about in there. After planning the rest of his day from the not inconsiderable comfort of the office chair behind his overburdened desk, he clicked on his telephone to activate a suitable reason for his absence. There were several to choose from, and to avoid any suspicious pattern he threw a dice to let fate decide if he would be spending the rest of the day ‘in a meeting’, ‘out of the office on official business’, ‘temporarily out of the office’, ‘on external business’, or possibly even ‘away on business’. By the time this recurring task had been dealt with, it was usually high time to continue the trials and tribulations of the day by having ‘lunch’. A fundamental human requirement, a right enshrined in employment legislation, and naturally an absence worthy of its own code in the police telephone system. He didn’t even need to throw the dice.

The only practical problem was that there was a distinct shortage of overtime and other small pecuniary advantages, because, as so many times before, he was suffering from a slight shortage of funds even though it was only a week since payday. Something will turn up, Bäckström thought. There’s always the weather, and all the half-naked ladies in the city. Soon enough a lunatic will beat some poor bastard to death in some three-star destination worthy of a trip in its own right, and then there’ll be overtime, expenses and all the other tax-deductible advantages for a simple police officer. And while he was in the middle of these encouraging thoughts his phone had suddenly rung.

The head of the National Crime Unit, Sten Nylander — or HNC as he was usually known among his eight hundred fellow officers — had also been deep in thought when the county police commissioner had called him from Växjö. Elevated thoughts about an intricate operational problem he’d set out on the vast planning desk in his own control room, or op-centre as he preferred to call it, principally about how best to deploy his rapid-response unit, in case international terrorists should hit upon the foolish notion of trying to hijack a plane out at Arlanda.

His colleague down in Växjö evidently didn’t have the same ability to differentiate between large and small concerns, and in order to prevent half his day from being wasted he had promised to send down some people from the murder squad at once. The worst that could happen, in the event that they were busy, was that they would have to rearrange their priorities, he thought as he hung up and asked his secretary to ‘get hold of that little fat bastard from National Crime, the one whose name I can never remember’. Then he had returned to more important matters.

‘HNC seems to have a lot on, even though it’s the height of the holiday season,’ Bäckström said, as he smiled his most ingratiating smile at his boss’s secretary and nodded towards the closed door behind her back. Op-centre, HNC, yeah, right! he thought.

‘Yes, he’s certainly very busy,’ the secretary said in a measured tone, without looking up from her papers. ‘No matter what time of year it is,’ she added.

Naturally, Bäckström thought. Or else he’s been on a course and learned that people like him should always make people like me sit and wait for quarter of an hour while he reads the editorial in Svenska Dagbladet.

‘Yes, we live in troubled times,’ he lamented.

‘Indeed,’ the secretary said, giving him a stern look.

Unless you’re HNC, of course, Bäckström thought. The bastard had a nice title as well. HNC sounded military, as well as macho. Definitely better than being National Police Chief, the biggest bird in the farmyard, and being called NPC. Who the hell wants to be NPC? Sounds like something you pick up if you’ve been out with the wrong sort of woman.

‘HNC is free now,’ the secretary said, nodding towards the closed door.

‘Humble thanks,’ Bäckström said, bowing slightly from where he sat. Exactly quarter of an hour. Even a child could have worked that out. Even you, you nice little attack-dyke, he thought, smiling cheerily towards the secretary. She didn’t respond, and just glared suspiciously at him.

Bäckström’s most senior boss seemed to be lost in his own thoughts. He was still stroking his manly and well-defined chin with his right thumb and index finger, and when Bäckström came into the room he hadn’t said a word, merely given him a curt nod.

Odd character, Bäckström thought. And what ridiculous clothes, when it’s thirty degrees outside.

The Head of National Crime was, as usual, dressed in an impeccable uniform, and for that day this consisted of a pair of black riding boots, the blue trousers of the police horse unit, and a blindingly white uniform shirt with epaulettes bearing four gold bars and an oak leaf topped by a regal crown. On the left side of his chest was a four-barred ribbon, and on the right the two crossed golden sabres that for some reason had become the emblem of the National Crime Unit. A tie, naturally, fixed at exactly the right angle with the help of the police service’s own tiepin for senior commanders. Back straight as a poker, stomach pulled in and chest puffed out, as if it were trying to compete with his most prominent physical feature.

What a fucking chin! He looks like a bloody oil tanker, Bäckström thought.

‘If you’re wondering about the way I’m dressed,’ HNC said without gracing him with so much as a glance or taking his fingers from the part of his face that was occupying Bäckström’s thoughts, ‘I’m planning to go riding on Brandklipparen later on.’

No flies on him. Better be careful, Bäckström thought.

‘A regal name for a noble steed,’ HNC added.

‘That’s what Charlie the Twelfth’s nag was called, isn’t it?’ Bäckström said obsequiously, even though he had skived off most of his history lessons.

‘Both Charles XI and Charles XII,’ HNC said. ‘The same name, but naturally not the same horse. Do you know what this is?’ he added, nodding towards the intricate model set out on the vast planning desk.

Considering all the terminals, hangars and aeroplanes, it probably isn’t the battle of Poltava, Bäckström thought.

‘Arlanda,’ he guessed. What on earth did Arlanda look like from above?

‘Exactly,’ HNC said. ‘But that’s not why I wanted to see you.’

‘I’m listening, boss,’ Bäckström said, trying to look like the cleverest pupil in class.

‘Växjö,’ HNC said emphatically. ‘A murder inquiry, a young woman, found strangled in her home this morning. Probably raped as well. I promised them our help. So put a team together and set off at once. You can sort out the details with Växjö. If anyone here has any objections, refer them to me.’

Excellent, Bäckström thought. Damn, this was even better than the age of the three musketeers, which was one book he had actually read. When he was playing truant from school.

‘No problem, boss,’ Bäckström said. Växjö, he thought. Wasn’t that by the sea somewhere, down in Småland? It must be crawling with women at this time of year.

‘And one more thing,’ the Head of National Crime said. ‘Before I forget. There’s a slight complication. The identity of the victim.’

Let’s see, said the blind man, Bäckström thought, as he sat at his desk half an hour later, busy arranging the practical details. First of all, a serious injection of liquid assets in the form of a postal order he had managed to pick up from accounts even though it was a Friday at the height of the holiday season. This he had reinforced with a few thousand-kronor notes from the gratuities box of the violent crime unit. There was always something there in case of urgent, unexpected expenses, and Bäckström always kept a close eye on it, because no matter how malnourished his own bank account might look, he had no intention of ever suffering any form of deprivation.

He had also managed to scrape together all of five colleagues, four of whom were proper police officers and only one a woman. But, on the other hand, she was a civilian employee and would mostly be busy trying to keep the paperwork in order, so he could probably live with that. And one of his colleagues would appreciate her being there, seeing as he usually jumped on her whenever he had the chance, at a sufficient distance from his miserable wife. Maybe it wasn’t the absolute elite, Bäckström thought as he looked over the list of his team, but good enough considering how many people were on holiday. Besides, he was going to be there as well.

Which left transport for the trip down to Växjö, as well as while they were there. For some reason there were plenty of cars, and Bäckström laid claim to the three best. For himself he picked the largest four-wheel drive Volvo they had, with the biggest engine and so much extra equipment that the boys in the technical section must have been on a high when they fitted it out.

That’s pretty much it, Bäckström thought, ticking off his little list. All that remained was his own packing, but when he started thinking of that he suddenly began to feel uneasy. Drink wasn’t a problem. For once he had a hell of a lot of booze at home. One of his younger colleagues had been on a big shopping trip to Tallinn over the weekend and Bäckström had bought a considerable proportion of the booty: whisky, vodka and two crates of export-strength lager that was absolute dynamite.

But what the hell am I going to wear? In his mind’s eye he could see his broken washing machine, the overflowing linen basket and the piles of dirty laundry that had been growing in the bedroom and bathroom for almost a month now. Only that morning before he set off for work he had run into problems. Freshly showered and sparkling clean he had stood there, for once not the slightest bit hungover, and he’d had a devil of a job before finally sniffing his way to a shirt and a pair of underpants that wouldn’t make people think of a Danish cheese-shop if he had to talk to them. It’ll sort itself out, Bäckström thought, suddenly struck by a brilliant idea. First a quick detour past the shopping centre on Sankt Eriksgatan to get something nice and new. He wasn’t short of cash any more, and — on further reflection — he could simply take the dirty laundry from home with him and hand it in at the hotel down in Växjö. Brilliant, Bäckström thought. But first a bit of lunch, because it would be a serious dereliction of duty to embark upon a murder case with an empty stomach.

Bäckström had eaten a decent lunch at a Spanish restaurant in the vicinity, with a lot of tapas and other suitably summery delights. Because he had decided that his employers could foot the bill for this, he added a not entirely present informer to the receipt. This informant had had the good sense to drink two large glasses of beer. Bäckström himself, because he was on duty, had made do with a simple mineral water, and when he emerged, replete and fortified, on to the street again he felt better than he had in ages. The sun’s shining and life is looking up, he thought, setting off towards his own flat. He didn’t even need to take a taxi, because for the past few years he had lived in a nice little flat on Inedalsgatan, just a couple of minutes’ walk from police headquarters close to Kronoberg Park.

He had got the flat from an old colleague who had retired some years ago, someone he had got to know during his time in the violent crime division in Stockholm. His former colleague had moved out to his summer cottage, out in the archipelago, where he could drink himself to death in peace and quiet, doing a bit of fishing while he was at it. As a result, he no longer had any need of his flat in the city, and had transferred the contract to Bäckström.

Bäckström himself had sold his own flat to a younger colleague in regional crime who had been kicked out of his place because he’d had an affair with a uniformed officer, but because she was already married to a third colleague who worked in the rapid-response unit and could be a mean bastard at times couldn’t move in with her. So instead he had bought Bäckström’s flat. Cash, no tax, and an affordable price, in return for helping Bäckström move his things to his new place on Kungsholmen. Two rooms, kitchen and bathroom, on the second floor in a block tucked inside a courtyard. Reasonable rent, mostly elderly neighbours who never made any noise and had no idea that he was in the police, so things couldn’t be better.

The only problem was that he had to get hold of a woman who would do his cleaning and washing in return for a few good seeings-to in Bäckström’s sturdy pine bed from Ikea. Because right now it looked like shit, Bäckström thought as he packed his dirty washing in a suitably large sports bag for onward transportation to the Town Hotel in Växjö.

It would have been best if he could have taken his whole flat with him and handed it in at reception, he thought. What the hell, it’ll sort itself out. Bäckström fetched a cold beer from the fridge. Once he’d packed a second bag with everything else he needed, he was suddenly struck by a terrible thought. It was as if someone had grabbed him from behind by the collar and shaken him: in recent years, this had happened rather too often. What the hell am I going to do with Egon?

Egon was named after the retired colleague who had sorted the flat for him, but otherwise they weren’t terribly similar, because Bäckström’s Egon was a goldfish of the most common variety whereas the man whose name he bore was an almost seventy-year-old former police officer.

Bäckström had been given Egon and his aquarium by a woman he had met six months ago. He had replied to a contact advert he had seen on the internet. What had prompted him to reply was partly the advertiser’s description of herself, but mainly the way she signed off: uniform a plus. Bäckström might have been careful to avoid wearing a uniform since he became big enough in the force to defend himself, but who cared about details like that?

To start with it had worked very well. Her description of herself as a liberated and broad-minded woman hadn’t been entirely without foundation. Not to start with, only after a while, when she turned out to be remarkably similar to all the other whining women who had passed through his life. And things had turned out the way they usually did, with the exception of Egon, because he was still there. Things had now got so bad that Bäckström had started to feel attached to him.

The emotional breakthrough in Egon and Bäckström’s relationship had happened a couple of months before, when Bäckström had been forced to go off into the country for a week on a murder case, and consequently had no opportunity to feed a goldfish each day.

First he had called the woman who had lumbered him with his little swimming dilemma, but she had just shouted at him and hung up. Oh well, if it works, it works, Bäckström thought, and in spite of the warning on the side of the container he had tipped half a pot of food into the aquarium before he set off. That’s the advantage of having a goldfish, he thought as he sat in the car on the way to the murder investigation. You can’t flush a dog down the lavatory if it croaks, and he could probably get a few hundred for the aquarium if he put an advert online.

When he returned ten days later it turned out that Egon was still alive. Admittedly, he had seemed considerably brighter before Bäckström had set off, and he had spent a few days swimming at an odd angle, but after that he had been his usual self again.

Bäckström was impressed and had even mentioned Egon in the staffroom at work — ‘an unusually tenacious little bastard’ — and that was more or less when he started to get attached to him. Sometimes he even found himself sitting there in the evenings, sipping a well-earned drink after a long, trying day at work, just looking at him. Watching how Egon swam back and forth and up and down, apparently not the slightest bit bothered that there were no little fishy ladies in the vicinity. You’ve got it worked out, lad, Bäckström would think. Compared to all the useless nature documentaries on television, Egon was a clear winner.

I’ll just have to make sure the case doesn’t take too long, Bäckström thought, feeling slightly guilty as he measured out a hefty dose of food with his thumb and tipped it into his silent little friend’s aquarium. And if things looked likely to drag on, he’d simply have to call work and ask one of his colleagues to take over the daily routine.

‘Take care, lad,’ Bäckström said. ‘Daddy’s got to go away and do some work. See you soon.’

Quarter of an hour later he was sitting in the car on the way to Växjö together with two of his colleagues from the murder squad.