Linda, As in the Linda Murder

76

Adolfsson and von Essen had spent the rest of Friday watching Månsson, which like all surveillance jobs had mainly meant sitting and waiting for something to happen. Because they were both keen hunters there was nothing particularly difficult about this. Hunting was all about the ability to wait. The fact that Månsson had met them three weeks before didn’t worry them much either. The idea, of course, was to see without being seen, and they estimated that the risk of Månsson’s seeing them before they saw him was fairly negligible. Not that it would matter much in a town the size of Växjö, where people were always bumping into each other.

At about four o’clock on Friday afternoon Månsson had emerged from his place of work in the council offices on Västergatan, just along from the concert hall, in the company of a few other people who, to judge by their appearance and manner and the way they were dressed, were probably his work colleagues. Adolfsson had taken a few discreet pictures from a safe distance, and noted the time and place in their surveillance log. There was nothing whatsoever to suggest that their subject was remotely like the serial killer Bäckström had warned them about.

First Månsson and the others had sat down at an outdoor terrace on Storgatan, a few blocks away from their offices. There they had drunk beer, eaten fried chicken wings and chatted. Then the company had broken up, disappearing in different directions, each of them most likely just going home. Månsson had headed east on Shanks’s pony, towards his home on Frövägen, and because that was a couple of kilometres away and he was obviously planning to walk, Adolfsson and von Essen decided to split up. Von Essen had followed him on foot, while Adolfsson took the car.

In spite of what the profile said about the killer, Månsson lived more than two kilometres from the place where he was supposed to have murdered Linda seven weeks earlier. But apart from that, the fact that he lived where he did was quite splendid, because one of their fellow officers from the traffic division happened to live in the building on the other side of the road. Månsson’s flat was on the third floor, and their colleague’s on the fourth floor of the building opposite, so things couldn’t be better for anyone wanting to see what Månsson got up to. They had managed to get hold of their colleague before they left the police station, as soon as Thorén had given them a list of addresses associated with Månsson. The officer had been seconded to Öland for the weekend, but he had nothing against letting them borrow his flat as soon as they told him what it was about. Nothing special, just a bit of extra overtime helping the drugs unit, von Essen had explained. ‘Great, let those junkies have it!’ their colleague had said as he handed over the keys. Von Essen and Adolfsson were to make themselves at home: everything was where they might expect in the home of a 39-year-old bachelor who worked for the traffic division of Kronoberg District.

When Månsson disappeared through the door of the building he lived in Adolfsson was already in position in the flat opposite, and by the time Adolfsson saw Månsson’s feet and legs come in through the front door of his flat von Essen had joined him.

‘He hasn’t got any curtains, either,’ von Essen said happily.

‘Culture vultures like him never have curtains,’ Adolfsson explained, as he followed Månsson through his personal pair of Zeiss binoculars, enlarged twenty times.

As von Essen and Adolfsson were settling into their new abode, Bäckström called them to find out how things were going. The subject was at home in his flat, on his own, and right now he was watching the seven thirty news on television, Adolfsson told him.

‘So he’s not doing anything he shouldn’t be?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Not apart from watching the news,’ Adolfsson said.

‘Call me if anything happens,’ Bäckström said.

‘Understood, boss,’ Adolfsson said.

‘I wonder what he’s really doing?’ Bäckström said, looking at Rogersson, who was dealing with their empty beer glasses.

‘So what was he really not doing just then?’ Rogersson asked.

‘Watching television,’ Bäckström said. ‘Who the fuck watches television at this time of day?’

‘Maybe he hasn’t got anything better to do,’ Rogersson suggested.

‘I bet you he’s got something new on the go,’ Bäckström said.

Månsson sat and watched television for about two hours, and the longer he sat there, the more often he zapped between channels. Like most other people, he seemed to have twenty or so to choose from. Just after half past nine he spoke to someone on the phone for a few minutes. Then he went into the kitchen and lifted some side plates down from the cupboard above the sink, took various things out of the fridge, sliced a baguette and put it all on a tray, which he carried through and placed on the coffee table in front of the sofa in the living room. Then he went back into the kitchen.

‘Things are heating up,’ Adolfsson said to von Essen, who was lying on the sofa watching a film on their colleague’s television.

‘Has he rigged up a block and tackle from the ceiling?’ von Essen asked, changing to TV4 so as not to miss the latest news.

‘He’s opening a bottle of wine,’ Adolfsson said. ‘And now he’s fetched two glasses.’

‘Aha!’ von Essen said. ‘Mark my words, Adolf, he’s expecting female company.’

At ten o’clock a blonde woman in her thirties pulled up in a small Renault and disappeared in through the front door of Månsson’s building. She had a large handbag hanging from her shoulder, and in her left hand a plastic bag which looked as if it contained a large wine box. Two minutes later she had reached Månsson’s flat, and at ten past ten they were sitting on the sofa pulling each other’s clothes off. After another five minutes they were having sex. Adolfsson took the opportunity to complement the surveillance log with numerous excellent photographs, and used the spare time to note the registration number and model of the visitor’s car.

The sexual activities on the sofa continued until just after midnight, with some short breaks for food and drink. After an hour Bäckström called to ask what was happening, and Adolfsson gave him a quick update.

‘He’s got a girl there. They’re hard at it on the sofa, although right now they’re taking a break for some food,’ he said.

‘Has he tied her up yet?’ Bäckström said eagerly.

‘No, just the usual,’ Adolfsson said.

‘What do you mean, the usual?’ Bäckström said suspiciously. ‘No neckties, no knives?’

‘Just normal sex. So far they haven’t done anything I haven’t done myself,’ Adolfsson said. ‘Mind you, Månsson seems fairly energetic for his age,’ he added. He himself was ten years younger.

At fifteen minutes past midnight things calmed down. Månsson and his guest finished the plate of food. They drank the last of the bottle. His guest went into the kitchen and returned with a three-litre box of white wine while her host selected a film on one of his many film channels. Nothing remarkable, an ordinary romantic comedy, Adolfsson noted after a quick glance at the television section in the evening paper. At half past two they left the living room, heading for the bedroom which faced the other side of the building.

Adolfsson woke von Essen, who was lying on top of their colleague’s bed snoring. Von Essen went outside to take a discreet look, and returned to confirm that the subject had evidently gone to bed. Then he took over from Adolfsson, who lay down on the same bed and fell asleep at once. Everything had been carefully noted, and the name and date of birth of the car’s registered owner seemed to match Månsson’s guest. Even if it didn’t, they had numerous photographs of her in case there was ever any problem with identification.

For once, Bäckström was having trouble sleeping. First he and Rogersson had sat in his room talking, and when he finally managed to get rid of his parasitic colleague it was already two o’clock in the morning. Three hours later he woke up, and only after another little drink was he able to settle down and get back to sleep. But by seven o’clock he was awake again, and in the absence of any better options he wandered down to the dining room to get some well-deserved nutrition after a hard and trying night.

First he piled up his plate as usual with headache pills, anchovy fillets, scrambled egg and sausages, and after washing down the first of these with several large gulps of orange juice he finally started to feel like a human being again, and set about the sausages with some vigour. He also managed to grunt in the direction of Lewin, who nodded politely and even deigned to lower his morning paper a fraction, while little Svanström for some reason got an attack of the giggles that only got worse and worse until, red-eyed, streaming with tears and holding a napkin over her mouth, she got up from the table and rushed out towards the ladies’ room.

What the fuck’s got into her? Bäckström thought suspiciously as he crammed another little sausage into his mouth. ‘What the fuck’s got into her?’ he asked, peering at Lewin, who didn’t seem to have noticed that an hysterical woman had just left them.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ Lewin lied, even though he had worked out the day before that Bäckström was probably the only person in the entire police station who hadn’t read the report of the interview with Carin Ågren. And who was he to ruin the day for a fellow officer so early in the morning, notwithstanding the officer in question’s personal failings and other human shortcomings?

Lewin excused himself and got up from the table, to make sure that Eva Svanström was kept at a safe distance from Bäckström for the rest of the day.