Linda, As in the Linda Murder

78 Växjö, Sunday 24 August

Half an hour earlier, Enoksson’s phone had rung. Because he was a morning person, he had already read the paper and made breakfast, which he was about to serve to his wife, who was rather less of a morning person.

‘Enoksson,’ Enoksson said.

‘Are you sitting down?’ his contact at the National Forensics Lab asked, and at that moment he knew what she was going to say.

‘Bloody hell,’ he said two minutes later when she had finished. The age of miracles is not yet past, he thought, even though in his mind’s eye all he could see was a little fat officer from National Crime in Stockholm.

‘Has something happened?’ von Essen asked.

‘We’re going to crucify the bastard and dunk him in boiling oil,’ Bäckström snarled at the other end of the line, and at that moment von Essen knew that his waiting time was over. For this case, at least.

Bäckström and Rogersson joined the surveillance team within the space of half an hour, parking their car at the back of the building and behaving as surreptitiously as possible. Bäckström was wearing shorts, a Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses, sandals and socks, and could easily have been an extra in an old spy film set in the Caribbean. Rogersson, in contrast, looked the same as usual, but because he had entered the building sixty seconds after Bäckström he might as well have been invisible.

Von Essen quickly updated them on the current position. Månsson seemed to be in bed still. Probably asleep. Assuming he didn’t jump from the balcony or either of the two small windows at the back of his flat, that left the main door to the building and the entrance to the cellar, which was also at the front.

‘Okay, let’s go up and get the bastard,’ Bäckström said eagerly. ‘Can anyone lend me a pair of handcuffs? I managed to leave mine behind.’

‘With all due respect, boss, I wonder if this is such a good idea,’ Adolfsson said.

‘You’re thinking about calling the rapid-response unit?’ Bäckström asked. Typical. It’s always the least likely ones who wimp out at the last minute. And this lad could have gone far, he thought.

Adolfsson hadn’t had any notion of calling the rapid-response unit. But he did have some practical operational thoughts. Månsson would probably recognize all of them, with the exception of Rogersson. He certainly ought to recognize Bäckström, considering they had spent a couple of hours together in the same room, and Rogersson’s irredeemably cop-like appearance didn’t work in his favour in this sort of situation. Besides, Månsson had a peephole in his door, and if they just showed up and rang the bell in the hope that he’d open up he would have plenty of time either to cut his throat with a bread knife or to jump from the third floor.

‘I’ve seen both of those happen before,’ von Essen added. ‘It was an extradition. First he cut his throat, then he jumped from the balcony. Probably wanted to cover his bets. Sad business. Here in town, too, of all places.’

‘I’m still waiting for suggestions,’ Bäckström said, glaring at his team.

‘He seems fairly keen on women, to put it mildly, so I’ll tell you what I think we should do,’ Adolfsson suggested. ‘It nearly always works with men like him.’

While Bäckström and his colleagues planned the only properly masculine element left in their case, Lewin, as usual, had taken care of everything that needed to be done. First he had called Olsson and left a message on his answering machine saying that he should call Lewin on his mobile as soon as possible, and preferably at once. Then he had called the prosecutor, who had actually answered, and promised to be there within an hour at the latest.

Then he had asked Anna Sandberg to take another officer with her and go to see Linda’s mother, so that she didn’t have to hear the news any other way, and certainly not via the media. And to make sure that she had someone with her who could help look after her. The same with Linda’s father, and that task he had entrusted with full confidence to his colleague Knutsson. He had suggested that Henning Wallin might most easily be contacted over the phone, and if he had any particular wishes, then they could probably be accommodated.

While Lewin had been conscientiously organizing these pieces of police software and making sure that they all ended up in the right places, Bäckström and the others had been joined by a young female officer from the surveillance unit of the regional crime squad. She had introduced herself as ‘Caijsa with a C, and both an i and a j’, and two days before she had spoken to Månsson on the phone, pretending to be Houda Kassem, an immigrant from Iran who was interested in the theatre. As far as today’s activities were concerned, she was thinking of suggesting a different role, seeing as Månsson had no idea what Houda looked like.

‘I was thinking of going with the old market-research routine. Going round asking people what they think of the area. That always works with people like him.’ Caijsa smiled at Adolfsson as she held up an ID card from a market-research company which was hanging from a chain round her neck.

‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ Rogersson said before Bäckström had time to mess up something which was simple and obvious to any police officer with a brain.

‘Well, he’s up and moving now,’ von Essen said from his position by the window. ‘He’s in the kitchen, wearing just a pair of skimpy briefs, drinking water direct from the tap. I think you have to watch those boxes of white wine, actually.’

‘Okay, let’s do it,’ Bäckström said, pulling in his stomach and puffing out his chest, sending waves through his Hawaiian shirt. ‘And for fuck’s sake make sure you get handcuffs on the bastard, so we don’t have a rerun of the hundred metres out in the street,’ he added, for some reason glaring at Adolfsson and von Essen.

Caijsa had been absolutely right, and Månsson had even opened the door with a smile on his lips. The undramatic arrest that followed was over in fifteen seconds, from the moment von Essen stepped forward from one side holding his badge to the click of the handcuffs as Adolfsson quickly secured Månsson’s hands behind his back.

‘What’s this about? There must be some mistake,’ Månsson said, looking both upset and completely uncomprehending.

‘The bastard’s on his way in,’ Bäckström snapped over Lewin’s mobile phone. ‘Get those lazy fuckers in forensics to wake up so they can make a start on his flat. We’ve got two patrol cars out in the road already, so soon we’ll have a whole flock of vultures here.’

‘Our colleagues from forensics are on their way,’ Lewin said. ‘Did everything go well otherwise?’

‘He’s not so fucking cocky now,’ Bäckström said with a happy grunt.

I wonder if he ever was, Lewin thought.