Linda, As in the Linda Murder

56

The following day the larger of the two main evening papers contained long reports about Linda’s funeral — GRIEVING FOR LINDA — and to judge by both the text and the pictures, they had had to rely on external sources for the underlying information. The text was sympathetic but fairly basic, and could have been written about almost any funeral. It was illustrated with grainy shots of a cemetery taken from a distance, showing what could have been any random group of mourners. Neither the reporter nor the photographer was familiar to the paper’s readers. They both had blandly anonymous names, and there were no by-line pictures of them alongside the article, which was unusual since it covered a whole page of the main news section.

The big scoop was on the opposite page, and as a banner across the top of the front page — MURDER COPS WATCHED PORN ALL NIGHT. Although the article didn’t actually say so, any idle browser who didn’t read every word would none the less get a good idea of what had happened: while Linda’s family and closest friends, paralysed with grief, had been laying her to eternal rest, the officers from National Crime who were supposed to be catching her killer had been sitting in their hotel watching porn films.

‘I don’t understand a fucking thing about all this,’ Rogersson said as they got into their car to drive the half kilometre between the hotel and the police station. ‘Hell, I haven’t watched any porn.’

‘Well, never mind that,’ Bäckström said soothingly. ‘No one cares what those fucking muckrakers make up.’

Bäckström’s memory had cleared considerably since the last time Rogersson mentioned the matter, and now he just had to maintain his story. Seeing as this was one of the things he was best at, he wasn’t particularly worried. Pretend to think about something else, shake his head if anyone asked, and if necessary get upset at all the crap people chose to dwell on if the person asking wouldn’t take no for an answer.

Someone who evidently did care was Lars Martin Johansson. He had taken a copy of the evening paper into his room to read over morning coffee, and had quickly worked out what was really going on. For some reason he had Bäckström in mind when he summoned the chief superintendent responsible for the murder squad.

‘Sit,’ Johansson said, pointing first at the chief and then at a chair as the man slunk into his office. ‘A question. Who sent Bäckström to Växjö?’

It was unclear, according to the other man. But he was sure of one thing. It hadn’t been him. He had been on holiday and if he hadn’t been on holiday Bäckström would have been the last person he would have picked to lead National Crime’s contingent down in Växjö. And he had, in fact, tried to guard against any such eventuality before he disappeared on leave.

‘He was supposed to be going through a number of cold cases,’ he said defensively.

Johansson didn’t say anything. Instead he merely stared at his visitor, and the stare he used was very similar to the one that the county police commissioner in Växjö had had in mind the day before.

‘If you ask me, boss, I’m pretty sure it must have been Nylander himself who took the decision,’ the chief added, clearing his throat nervously.

‘Paper and pen,’ Johansson said, nodding towards his victim. ‘I want to know the following...’