Linda, As in the Linda Murder

44

Work on the investigation was still going according to plan. With regard to the DNA sampling of potential perpetrators, things were going so well that the only thing spoiling this forensic party was perhaps Bengt Karlsson’s test results. They had been sent back by return of fax from the National Forensics Lab, and an overworked and sullen technician had attached a question, wondering whether the team working on the investigation were having trouble reading these days: As has already been made clear in previous notifications from the National Forensics Lab, the DNA tested in this sample does not match the DNA profile of the perpetrator in this case.

Unfortunately Olsson happened to be standing by the fax machine when this message appeared, and he had passed it on to Adolfsson with the instruction that it be added to the computer database along with the other results.

‘I see that the name has been concealed. Adolfsson, do you have any idea who this might be?’ Olsson wondered curiously, his own secret effort with Claesson’s apple-core still fresh in his mind.

‘It’s that walking disaster, Bengt Karlsson. The one from that association,’ Adolfsson replied.

‘Who in the name of God decided to drag him into this?’ Olsson asked heatedly.

‘Talk to Bäckström. He’s bound to know,’ Adolfsson said with a shrug.

Olsson had gone directly to see Bäckström and asked him how on earth anyone could have come up with the idea of investigating Bengt Karlsson’s DNA. According to Bäckström, there was a very simple answer to that question. A quick glance at their own records ought to be enough for even an ordinary civilian to realize that it would be a dereliction of duty not to check someone like Karlsson. Bäckström was in one of his most diplomatic moods, hence the conscious decision to avoid the phrase ‘backwoods police’, about which backwoods police were a little sensitive, even though a backwoods police officer like Olsson ought to have realized that ordinary civilians, unlike ordinary backwoods police officers, were fortunately unable to get in the way of the activities of proper police officers.

According to Olsson, Karlsson’s case was an entirely irrelevant subject under current circumstances. After his most recent conviction, Bengt Karlsson had, voluntarily and entirely on his own initiative, participated in a very successful project organized by the outpatient department at Sankt Sigfrid’s. They had used the most recent scientific developments in behavioural modification to try to break the pattern of criminal behaviour in those who were persistent abusers of women, and Karlsson had been their most successful case ever. He was a completely different person now, through and through. He had gone from being a clenched fist to an open embrace, and for many years now he had been one of the most active advocates of efforts to help abusing men to find their way back to a normal, functional life.

‘I appreciate that you have trouble accepting this, Bäckström, but Bengt Karlsson is now one of the kindest men there is. He just wants to embrace the whole world,’ Olsson concluded.

Maybe, although it looks like he missed Linda, Bäckström thought.

‘I want to know what you think, Bäckström,’ Olsson said seriously. ‘What do you think, deep down?’

‘A leopard never changes its spots,’ Bäckström said with a grin.

Sadly, even his colleague Lewin had started to behave more and more oddly, even though he worked for the murder squad and ought to have known better. He had begun to go round asking his colleagues peculiar questions, which obviously illustrated the dangers of ending up in a mess of structural worries, Bäckström thought.

First Lewin had had a long conversation with Rogersson, mostly about Linda’s mother rather than the victim herself and querying a load of strange details, such as where mother and daughter had actually lived since they got back from the USA after the divorce some ten years before.

‘According to what she’s said in interview, she’s lived at the same address the whole time,’ Rogersson said. What was so odd about that?

‘I’ll check with Svanström,’ Lewin said. He was very discreet about his private life, and would never dream of calling her Eva in front of other men when she herself wasn’t present.

‘You do that, Lewin,’ Rogersson said, grinning for some reason. ‘Go and have a word with little Svanström. Was there anything else?’ he added, making a show of glancing at his wristwatch.

There was one more thing, Lewin said. Would Rogersson mind calling Linda’s mother and asking one more question? ‘I think it would best if you do it, seeing as you’ve already met her.’

‘The question,’ Rogersson prompted. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘If you could call and ask if she’s ever had a dog,’ Lewin said.

‘A dog,’ Rogersson said. ‘You want to know if she’s ever had a dog? Any particular sort of dog, or will any old dog do?’

‘Just something that occurred to me,’ Lewin said evasively. ‘Just call her and ask if she’s ever had a dog.’

‘I wonder why he wants to know that?’ Bäckström said when he and his friend were sitting in his hotel room and had just embarked upon their usual preparations for the weekend. ‘You don’t think he’s just hit the wall? Lewin’s always been a weird bastard. I’ve hardly ever seen him with a proper beer in his hand, not in all these years.’ There was something about some bastard dog, Bäckström thought. Oh, what the hell.

‘He’s probably just hit his head against the wall while he’s been banging little Svanström,’ Rogersson grinned, shaking his head.

‘So has she ever had a dog?’ Bäckström asked, still thinking about this little detail. ‘Linda’s mum, I mean?’

‘No,’ Rogersson said bluntly. ‘She’s never had a dog. She doesn’t like dogs. Nor cats either, for that matter. Linda used to have a horse, apparently, but that was out at her dad’s. We didn’t get any further than that.’

In spite of backwoods policemen sticking their oar in, in spite of Jan Lewin’s peculiarities, and in spite of the fact that the notorious wife-beater Bengt Karlsson had evidently managed to find a simple way of pulling the wool over the eyes of people like Olsson nine years ago, Bäckström was in an excellent mood all weekend. And when he was standing in the shower on Monday morning, he even burst into song.

‘I’m going to test the whole world’s DNA... I’m going to keep on testing DNA all day,’ he sang as the cold water splashed over his fat body and he carefully scrubbed under his arms and in other nooks and crannies to prevent any unpleasant odours later in the day.

Police hunk of the year, he thought as he inspected the end result in the mirror. Watch out, ladies.