Linda, As in the Linda Murder

75

Bäckström had evidently decided to hold out until the very last minute, and under those circumstances Lewin felt he had no choice. Regardless of anything else, he had to inform him. Now that their witness had identified Månsson, it was no longer a question of random shots in the dark, or improbable coincidences. And, since Lewin had these days somehow ended up wandering the same nocturnal paths as his colleague Bäckström, he chose to tell him before breakfast on Friday morning, just the two of them, in Bäckström’s room.

Bäckström was fresh from the shower, pink as a little piglet, his eyes only slightly bloodshot, and in an excellent mood.

‘Sit yourself down while I get my trousers on,’ he said. ‘If you fancy a morning beer, there’s one in the minibar,’ he added generously.

Lewin declined the offer and instead gave him a brief summary of the situation. Bäckström immediately started firing on all cylinders, and even forgot about putting on his trousers.

‘Fuck, Lewin,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve struck gold here.’

Who’s this ‘we’? Lewin thought, sighing deep inside. Then he suggested that they talk to the prosecutor as soon as they had put together a file about Månsson and his involvement in the murder inquiry. Everything suggested that this could be done that afternoon, and that they might even be able to go and pick Månsson up without any prior warning as soon as the prosecutor had taken the decision. The stolen car and the fact that their witness had picked him out ought to be sufficient grounds. Not least considering what this was actually about.

‘He’s supposed to be at work today, so the easiest thing would probably be to pick him up when he’s leaving.’

‘Not a chance!’ Bäckström said, shaking his head. ‘This bastard’s mine, and this is what we’re going to do...’

I wonder how he became yours? Lewin wondered as he headed downstairs shortly afterwards to get some breakfast.

As soon as Bäckström reached the police station he summoned the faithful to his room and allocated the jobs. Lewin, Knutsson, Thorén and Svanström, reinforced by Sandberg, would check out their suspect, Bengt Månsson. Not a stone was to be left unturned. Rogersson would take care of various unspecified tasks under the direct leadership of Bäckström, whilst Bäckström himself would manage and delegate the work, as well as obviously providing them with encouragement and support. And of course they were given a few words of advice to help them on their way.

‘This has to be kept quiet. Not a word to anyone outside this room. Don’t forget what I said about little Olsson being best mates with Månsson. I’m damn sure Olsson’s mixed up in this one way or another, and if we so much as whisper anything about this to him he’ll scuttle off and tell Månsson, and I don’t even want to think what that bastard might do.’

‘I was under the impression that you were going home to Stockholm, Bäckström?’ Lewin said. And what a fine way with words you’ve got, he thought.

‘Forget it,’ Bäckström said. ‘No one’s leaving this ship until we’ve made it to shore.’

‘It would still be interesting to know what you were thinking of doing yourself,’ Lewin persisted.

‘I’m going to arrange a bit of discreet surveillance of our perpetrator,’ Bäckström said. ‘So he doesn’t disappear and kill anyone else. Tell Adolfsson and that stuck-up toff that I want to talk to them right away.’

‘Of course, Bäckström,’ Lewin said. Not a word to anyone outside this room, he thought.

‘Månsson, Bengt Axel,’ acting Police Inspector and Baron Gustaf von Essen said a short while later when he and Adolfsson were standing in Bäckström’s office. ‘Isn’t he one of the town’s beloved Fellow Menfolk?’

‘Exactly,’ Bäckström agreed. ‘Crazed sex pests, the lot of them.’ So the stuck-up little twerp’s not completely stupid after all, he thought.

‘In that case he was the one who got blood all over your uniform, Adolf. I remember taking his name along with everyone else’s,’ von Essen said, with a nod to his partner.

‘So you’ve already beaten up the little fellow?’ Bäckström said cheerily, fixing his gaze on Adolfsson. Was I right about this lad or what? he thought.

‘Well, it wasn’t quite like that,’ Adolfsson said, and explained to Bäckström about his intervention in the brawl outside McDonald’s on Storgatan about three weeks before.

‘So what the fuck did you do with the uniform?’ Bäckström snarled, staring at Adolfsson with unusually narrow eyes, even taking into account the fact that they happened to be in Bäckström’s head.

‘I wiped off the worst of it and hung it back up,’ Adolfsson said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Haven’t had time to hand it in. He didn’t seem to be your average junkie, so it ended up back in my locker.’

‘So what the fuck are we waiting for?’ Bäckström said excitedly, jumping up from his chair, and five minutes later he was standing in front of Enoksson in the forensics unit, clutching the jacket of Adolfsson’s uniform. First he made Enoksson swear to keep quiet, then he explained what it was all about. According to Bäckström, informing Olsson was out of the question. Unfortunately there were a number of mysterious circumstances which indicated that Olsson was at best to be regarded as a clear security risk, but it was probably considerably worse than that.

‘With all due respect, Bäckström, I doubt things are quite that bad,’ Enoksson said as he examined Adolfsson’s jacket under a high-strength lamp.

‘Well, bollocks to that right now, Enok,’ Bäckström said in his usual polite way. ‘Is there enough blood left on there?’

Assuming that it was Månsson’s blood on the jacket, and that it hadn’t been contaminated with anything that Enoksson couldn’t see — but he didn’t want to risk damaging it by subjecting it to further examination at the moment — there was more than enough blood for a DNA analysis and anything else that might prove to be of interest given the context.

‘When can we have the results, then?’ Bäckström asked.

At the start of the following week, according to Enoksson, assuming that there were no legal hindrances of the sort that had been top of the agenda for the past few weeks.

‘Forget it,’ Bäckström said. ‘Do you think I’m prepared to risk him slaughtering half of Växjö while we wait?’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Enoksson sighed. ‘From a purely technical point of view, they ought to be able to come up with a preliminary analysis within twenty-four hours, assuming there’s nothing wrong with the material we send them. But we mustn’t forget that it’s the weekend, as well. Anyway, weren’t you supposed to be going back to Stockholm?’

‘Weekend? We’re not talking weekends, Enok, we’re talking murderers!’ Bäckström blustered. And no one’s going anywhere, he thought.

‘I’ll be in touch in an hour or so,’ Enoksson sighed.

As soon as Bäckström had grabbed Adolfsson’s jacket and taken it off to Enoksson, von Essen and Adolfsson had begun the surveillance of their subject, Bengt Månsson. First they got a young female colleague from the surveillance unit of Växjö Police to make a call to Månsson at his office in the culture department, to find out if there was any chance of getting some funding for a theatre project for young immigrant women. While the conversation was going on, they parked their unmarked car a discreet distance away, from where they had a good view of the entrance to the premises of the culture department. Quarter of an hour later their female colleague called von Essen on his mobile to give a report. Not only was Månsson at his desk, he also sounded ‘really nice’, and had been ‘really interested’ in the project. He had even suggested that they meet up soon to discuss the idea in person.

‘So what kind of impression did you get of him?’ von Essen asked.

‘Horny,’ the female colleague declared. ‘Really horny. I think he wanted to check first to make sure I’m as nice as I sound. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do to help,’ she said, and giggled.

‘So what did little Caijsa have to say, then?’ Adolfsson said as soon as his partner had ended the call.

‘She seems quite taken with Månsson,’ von Essen said.

‘She’s quite taken with everyone,’ Adolfsson said, suddenly sounding rather cross for some reason.

‘Not quite everyone, surely?’ von Essen retorted innocently. He had been at the same staff party as Adolfsson a couple of months earlier.

Enoksson had done his best, and in the end one of his old contacts in the National Forensics Lab had given in and promised to help. She had to work that weekend anyway, so with a bit of luck she’d be able to find time to do what Enoksson wanted. But he could forget all about twenty-four hours. Assuming she got the material within the next few hours, and assuming it was usable, and assuming nothing unexpected happened, the earliest he could have the report was Sunday morning.

After some more persuasion, and the promise of both overtime and time off in lieu, he had also managed to find a young colleague who was prepared to act as a courier to Linköping, a round trip of four hundred kilometres, even though it was already Friday afternoon. Once Adolfsson’s jacket was safely on its way to the lab, Enoksson took several deep breaths and called Bäckström. Let’s hope this means we can actually get rid of the fat little bastard some time soon, Enoksson thought, even though he was renowned, with good reason, as being a gentle soul.

‘Sunday morning,’ Bäckström groaned. ‘So what the hell are they so busy with up there? Am I the only person doing any work in this fucking police force?’

‘Sunday morning at the earliest,’ Enoksson repeated.

‘I’m not deaf,’ Bäckström said, and hung up.

What’s wrong with just saying thank you? Enoksson thought, as he called his colleague Olsson to explain what was going on. Olsson, after all, was still head of the preliminary police investigation. But, as on so many previous occasions, Enoksson had to make do with leaving a message on his answering machine. ‘Yes, hello Olsson. Enoksson here. I didn’t want anything in particular, but if you feel like it, call me on the usual number. Otherwise, have a good weekend.’ Enoksson didn’t actually have any more faith in Adolfsson’s jacket than he had in the rest of Bäckström’s theories. Mainly he just wanted to get home to his beloved wife and their domestic bliss out in the Småland countryside.