Linda, As in the Linda Murder

5

Two of the younger talents in the unit, Detective Inspectors Erik Knutsson and Peter Thorén weren’t particularly bright sparks but at least they usually did what Bäckström told them. At work they were known as Hans and Fritz, after the old cartoon characters, and apart from the fact that Hans was fair and Fritz had dark hair they were easily mixed up. They almost always appeared together, they talked more or less incessantly over each other, and if you closed your eyes it was actually impossible to work out which of them was speaking.

Knutsson was driving while Thorén sat alongside reading out loud from a tourist guide to Växjö that he had downloaded from the internet. Bäckström himself had spread out across the back seat in order to be able to think about the case in peace and quiet, accompanied by another cold beer.

‘Sorry, Bäckström,’ Thorén said. ‘Växjö’s not on the coast. It’s about a hundred kilometres from the Baltic. It’s got a cathedral, a county governor and a university. You must be thinking of Västervik. Or Kalmar, maybe. Kalmar and Västervik are both on the coast. In Småland. You know, Astrid Lindgren and all that. Looks like there are about seventy-five thousand people in the town. In Växjö, I mean. How many available women does that work out at? Any idea, Erik?’

‘Is it too much to hope that we might hear something about the case?’ Knutsson asked crossly. ‘Probably a couple of thousand, at least,’ he added, sounding much happier all of a sudden.

‘Our colleagues in Växjö are going to fax the details through as soon as they’ve put something together,’ Bäckström said, nodding towards the instrument panel between the seats.

‘They must know something by now,’ Knutsson persisted.

Moan, moan, moan, Bäckström thought with a sigh.

‘This morning they found a young woman murdered in her flat. Strangled. If you can believe what the local sheriffs say, it seems to have been about sex. Perpetrator unknown, and all that. If we’re lucky, they’re wrong and we can go and pick up her boyfriend straight away.’

‘And that’s all we know?’ Knutsson said sceptically. ‘So did she have a boyfriend, then?’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Bäckström said hesitantly. ‘There’s also a minor complication. She’s one of our own.’

‘What?’ Knutsson exclaimed. ‘A police officer?’

‘That’s bad,’ Thorén said. ‘A police officer. That doesn’t happen every day. Not if it’s a sex crime, I mean.’

‘Almost a police officer,’ Bäckström clarified. ‘She was training in Växjö. Was due to finish next year. Looks like she was spending the summer working in Växjö police station. Behind the reception desk.’

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Knutsson wondered, shaking his head. ‘What sort of moron kills a trainee police officer for sex?’

‘If it’s someone she knows, there’s a fair chance it’s another officer,’ Bäckström said. ‘Mind you, it might not be as bad as that,’ he added when he saw the hostile look in Knutsson’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.

‘Looking on the bright side, it ought to be easier than your average prostitute murder,’ Thorén said encouragingly. ‘I mean, at least we won’t have to deal with all the weird clients and criminal contacts and all that.’

That’s hardly likely to be the big problem this time, lad, so you can forget about that, Bäckström thought. ‘Let’s hope so,’ he said. ‘Let’s hope so.’

They were just passing Norrköping when their colleagues down in Växjö sent the fax, but considering what they sent they might as well not have bothered. First a map of Växjö with the scene of the murder marked by a circle, and the way to the hotel marked with arrows. Completely unnecessary, since Thorén had already found the same map on the internet and the first thing Knutsson had done was type in the address of the hotel on the car’s sat-nav.

Then came a short message from the head of the local investigating team, welcoming them and informing them that the investigation had started and was being conducted according to routine, that further information would follow as soon as he had anything to send, and that the first meeting of the team was due to take place at nine o’clock the following morning in the police station in Växjö.

‘DS Bengt Olsson from regional crime in Växjö is evidently going to head up the preliminary investigation,’ said Thorén, who was sitting closest to the fax machine and had both hands free. ‘Anyone you know, Bäckström?’

‘I’ve met him,’ Bäckström said, swallowing the last drops from the can. Slightly retarded, so things couldn’t be better, he thought. At least not for him, seeing as he had already worked out how he was going to manage this.

‘So what’s he like?’ Knutsson asked.

‘He’s the sympathetic type,’ Bäckström said.

‘Does he know anything about murder, then?’ Knutsson persisted.

‘I doubt it,’ Bäckström said. ‘But I dare say he’s been on lots of courses about violence against women and children and incest and debriefing and all that sort of thing.’

‘But he must have led at least one murder investigation?’ Thorén suggested.

‘A few years ago he made a big deal out of the ritual killing of a young immigrant girl that was supposed to have taken place in Småland some years back. He had some crazy informant who claimed she was there at the time.’

‘So what happened?’ Knutsson asked. ‘It was all fine. They sent the case up to us and we wrapped it up the following day. Then we sent them a letter explaining that the murder in question never actually took place. We thanked them for their concern and asked them to get back in touch if they had any more old ghost stories in their files.’

‘I think I remember that,’ Thorén said. ‘It was before my time, but isn’t he the one, Bengt Olsson, I mean, who’s known as the Ritual Killer detective among our older colleagues?’

‘That’s him,’ Bäckström said. ‘That’s his speciality. Ghosts and creepy old blokes and incense and sharpened canine teeth, capes and so on, then a nice debriefing before the officer staggers home from work.’ What do you mean, older colleagues? he thought. Fucking age-fascists.

‘What on earth’s happening to the force? Where are we heading?’ Thorén moaned.

‘I thought I just said that,’ Bäckström said. ‘So if you two gentlemen would be so kind as to shut up for a while, I’ll try to rest my weary head.’ Off he goes as well, he thought. Two idiots sitting in the front of the car.

The rest of the journey passed in relative silence. No more faxed messages. Knutsson and Thorén had carried on chatting to each other but at lower volume and without trying to draw Bäckström into the conversation. When they reached the Town Hotel in Växjö it was five o’clock in the afternoon, and because Bäckström was still feeling a little drowsy he decided to stretch out on his bed for a couple of hours before they met for dinner. Besides, their other colleagues hadn’t shown up yet.

He had been smart and called the hotel before they arrived so they could sneak straight up to their rooms without having to fight their way through the vultures from the fourth estate who had already started to gather in the lobby. He had also taken the opportunity to share out some work. After all, he was in charge. He told Knutsson to get in touch with the local force and pass on a message that he was otherwise engaged at the moment but would contact them as soon as possible, and would be there for the big meeting the following morning. Thorén had promised to organize Bäckström’s laundry, and would then take a trip out to the scene of the crime. He himself intended to take a well-deserved little nap.

‘After all, I’ve been on the go since first thing this morning,’ he said, already stretched out across the bed in his room. ‘And don’t forget to book a discreet table down in the restaurant for eight o’clock.’ At last, he thought when Thorén closed the door behind them. Then he adjusted the pillow and fell asleep more or less instantly.