Linda, As in the Linda Murder

50 Alnön, outside Sundsvall, Tuesday 5 August

Lars Martin Johansson was into the last week of the longest holiday of his life.

For almost two years now he had been on leave from his post as operational head of the Security Police in order to lead one of the most secret investigations in Swedish history, and now that task was nearing its conclusion. What remained could be done perfectly well by his staff, and in the week before midsummer Johansson had left the motherland and headed off round Europe with his wife. His wife liked travelling — new people, new places, new impressions — whereas Johansson preferred a good book, a phone that never rang and proper mealtimes.

Regardless of their different motivations, they usually returned to Sweden in the best of moods. In accordance with a promise made several years ago, which had since developed into something of a tradition, they were now spending the last week of their holiday with Johansson’s older brother on his farm on Alnön, an island outside Sundsvall. Peace and quiet, good food and decent drink, unfussy and generous hosts who really did mean what they said when they told you to make yourselves at home. And, most important of all, Johansson thought: was there any country on this planet that in any real and positive sense could possibly stand comparison with Sweden? Not anywhere, he thought, with a deep sigh of contentment, before promptly falling asleep in his chair.

Johansson had three mobile phones these days. One private, one for his usual job, and one that was so secret that it was hardly ever used. For safety’s sake, it was also red, and Johansson himself had programmed the ringtone. Apart from the volume, it was the same siren that the police emergency vehicles used, and he was as proud as punch of it. After installing it he had demonstrated it to his wife by calling it, so that she had the opportunity to appreciate his technological abilities. But the first time she heard it ring properly, its installer carried on snoring gently in his chair.

The Germans have probably made a cash offer for the whole of Småland, Johansson’s wife Pia thought. She worked in a bank as a fund-manager. She put down the book she was trying to read and answered the phone.

‘Hello?’ I don’t suppose I’m allowed to say what my name is, because I’d probably end up in prison, Pia thought.

‘Enchanté,’ a smooth voice said on the other end of the line. ‘I presume you’re the person I think you are,’ the voice went on. ‘However, no matter how much I might like to carry on this conversation, I’m afraid I must ask to speak to your dear husband.’

‘Who should I say is calling?’ Pia asked.

‘No name, I’m afraid,’ the smooth voice said. ‘Just tell your dear husband that Pilgrim’s old associate would like to exchange a few words with him.’

‘And if I ask what this is about, I suppose I end up in prison?’ Pia said.

‘If I were to answer that, I would end up in prison,’ Pilgrim’s old associate countered, in a tone that sounded almost affronted.

‘I’ll go and wake him up,’ Pia said. They’re like children, she thought.

‘Who was that?’ Pia asked curiously ten minutes later when her husband had concluded his muttered conversation, which for some reason he had conducted at the far end of the large terrace. He put the red mobile down and sank back on to his chair with a sigh.

‘An old acquaintance,’ Johansson replied vaguely.

‘One of those secret little rascals. With no name,’ Pia said.

‘More or less,’ Johansson said with a shrug. ‘He works in the cabinet office as a special adviser, helping the Prime Minister with odd bits and pieces, and his name’s Nilsson.’

‘Ah,’ Pia said. ‘Our very own grey eminence. The Swedish answer to Cardinal Richelieu.’

‘Pretty much,’ Johansson said. ‘Something like that.’

‘So what did he want?’ Pia asked.

‘Nothing much, just a chat,’ Johansson said.

‘And now you’ve got to go to Stockholm?’ Pia said, having been through all this before.

‘If you don’t mind. But I’ll be back tomorrow.’

‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ Pia said. ‘You can stop by the house and pick up a few things I need if we’re going to that party at the weekend.’

‘Of course.’ Johansson’s thoughts were already elsewhere and he didn’t want to get caught up in any lengthy discussions.

‘To begin with I almost thought he was drunk,’ Pia said. ‘That’s how he sounded.’

‘I dare say he was just in a good mood,’ Johansson said neutrally. ‘It’s only twelve o’clock, so he probably hasn’t had time for lunch yet.’

‘Yes, perhaps he was just happy. A nice, happy little fellow,’ Pia said.

‘I can’t quite picture that,’ Johansson said, shaking his head firmly. ‘So what do you think?’ he asked, looking at his watch. ‘About lunch, I mean?’