8 Växjö, Saturday 5 July

Was I right, or was I right? Bäckström thought when he came down to the hotel reception for breakfast on Saturday morning. The evening papers had already arrived. Even though it was only quarter past eight in the morning, they were displayed in a stand by the reception desk. Bäckström grabbed a copy of each and headed towards the breakfast room and his colleagues. If this is just a small complication, we must sincerely hope we don’t encounter anything larger, he thought.

The whole of the front page and a great deal of the rest of the papers were full of his murder, and the angle was precisely what he had expected: POLICE OFFICER KILLED IN SEX ATTACK, screamed the larger of the two, while its slightly smaller competitor tried to roar even louder: YOUNG FEMALE POLICE OFFICER MURDERED... Strangled, raped, tortured. Bäckström tucked the papers under his arm, picked up a tray and started loading it with his breakfast. No one could run a murder investigation on an empty stomach, he thought as he helped himself to liberal portions of scrambled egg, bacon and sausage.

‘Have you seen the evening papers, Bäckström?’ Lewin asked as he sat down at the table where the others were sitting. ‘Wonder how her family will feel when they see that?’

Are you stupid, or what? Bäckström thought, leafing through the papers with his left hand while he shovelled in scrambled egg and sausages with the right.

‘It’s just... bloody vile,’ Thorén, who almost never swore, agreed.

Another one, Bäckström thought. He grunted between mouthfuls and went on reading.

‘Why don’t the police ever do anything about them?’ Knutsson said. ‘There should be legislation covering this sort of thing. Abuse like this is just as bad as... well... as what the victim went through.’

Yes, imagine. Why don’t the politicians do something? Stop the editors from publishing a load of crap, Bäckström thought as he continued to eat, still glancing through the papers.

They carried on like this for a good five minutes while Bäckström let his food stop him talking, and finished both his breakfast and his reading. The only one who hadn’t said a word was Rogersson. But then he usually didn’t say much at this time of day.

But at least there’s one of them who’s got the sense to keep quiet, Bäckström was thinking as the first representative of the fourth estate came over and introduced himself and wondered if he could ask a few questions. Then Rogersson finally opened his mouth.

‘No,’ he said, and together with the look in his eyes, this was clearly an exhaustive reply, because the man who had asked disappeared instantly.

Rogge’s good, Bäckström thought. He hadn’t even had to growl and bare his teeth, which was usually what he was best at.

‘There’s something else worrying me more,’ Bäckström said. ‘But we can deal with that when we’re alone.’


The first opportunity for that didn’t arise until they were all standing in the car park behind the closed gates of the police compound.

‘I presume you’ve all had time to read the evening papers,’ Bäckström said.

‘I took a look at breakfast television, and that wasn’t much better,’ Lewin said.

‘Not to mince words, this is just bloody vile,’ Thorén repeated. He was evidently learning to overcome his reluctance to use at least the milder oaths.

‘What worries me,’ Bäckström said, ‘is that everything we talked about yesterday evening is already in the papers. Never mind about the hypotheticals and all the fucking speculation, just concentrate on the facts in there. The only reasonable conclusion is that this ship is already leaking like a sieve.’ He nodded towards the police station that was about to become their base for the foreseeable future. ‘If we can’t sort that out, we’re going to end up far deeper in the shit than we deserve.’

None of the others contradicted him.


First Bäckström had met the county police commissioner and the officer from Växjö who was going to be the lead detective in the preliminary investigation, and thus his immediate superior. At least in theory, Bäckström thought. It always happened whenever he and his colleagues from National Crime went around the country trying to mop up the mess made by the local sheriffs.

‘In spite of the tragic circumstances, I’m still pleased and relieved that you and your colleagues are able to be here to assist us. As soon as I realized what had happened, I called HNC Nylander and asked for help... we’ve known each other since we studied together... so if I’ve cried wolf for no reason, I apologize. Thank you for coming, detective superintendent. Thank you very much.’

Bäckström nodded. What a fucking moron, he thought. Take two Valiums and go home to your little wife, and nice Uncle Bäckström will skin the wolf for you.

‘I can only agree unreservedly with my boss,’ Olsson concurred. ‘You and your colleagues are very welcome, and your arrival keenly anticipated.’

Another one, Bäckström thought. Where do they all come from?

‘Thanks,’ he said. Two little poofs sitting on the same branch twittering in tandem, he thought. Now how about trying to get a bit of work done?

Before they could get to work, the division of labour had to be agreed, as well as the formal set-up for the investigation.

‘We’ll be doing it all according to the book, as usual,’ Bäckström said. Because I presume you know how to read, he thought.

‘Unless you have any objections, Bäckström, I thought I might look after external communication... contact with the media and so on, plus personnel issues and other administrative details. There’ll be quite a few of us. Six of you, and about twenty from our side. We’ve brought in some people from Jönköping and Kalmar, so in total there’ll be something like thirty of us on the case. You don’t have any objections?’

‘None at all,’ Bäckström said. Not as long as they do as I say, he thought.

‘Then there’s one practical problem as well,’ Olsson went on, exchanging a glance with the commissioner. ‘Do you want me to take it, boss?’

‘Go ahead, Bengt,’ his boss said.

‘This is a terrible event, a real tragedy, and it’s the height of the holiday season and a lot of the officers we’ve called in are younger and perhaps not so experienced... So the commissioner and I decided yesterday that we should have a dedicated crisis therapist attached to the investigating team, so that anyone working on the case can have the opportunity to get professional advice at all times, to help them deal with the whole business... debriefing, basically,’ Olsson concluded, sighing deeply, as though he were already in need of this particular service.

Christ, this can’t be happening, Bäckström thought. But he managed not to say so out loud.

‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?’ he asked, in a brave attempt to appear as sympathetic as the others in the room.

‘A very experienced female psychologist who’s worked for us before, who also runs the modules on debriefing on the police training course here in Växjö. She’s also worked for the council for a number of years. And she’s greatly admired as a speaker.’

‘What’s her name?’ Bäckström asked.

‘Lilian... Lilian Olsson, known as Lo,’ Olsson said.

‘No relation.’ No, you’re just bloody similar, Bäckström thought. And wouldn’t it be practical if all morons could have the same surname?

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ he said. ‘I presume that she won’t be part of the investigative team itself?’ Just as well to get that clear from the start.

‘No, of course not,’ the county police commissioner said. ‘But she thought she might sit in on your preliminary meeting and introduce herself, so that everyone knows how they can get in touch with her and so on. We’ve organized a room for her here in the building.’


Well, that wasn’t so bad, Bäckström thought once the meeting with the police commissioner was finally over. All his colleagues were in the positions that really mattered. Lewin would be directly subordinate to him, checking all the material relating to the case as it came in. Separating the wheat from the chaff, picking out the important details. Making sure anything that looked promising was followed up, and relegating all the nonsense to the files at the far end of the shelves.

Rogersson would be in charge of interviews, while Knutsson and Thorén would get to stick together looking after internal and external surveillance. He had even managed to sort something out for little Svanström. Because of her great practical experience of the documentation involved in a murder investigation, she was going to be in charge of the local civilian employees, with responsibility for registering the paperwork that was already threatening to overwhelm the investigation.

And, most important of all: Bäckström was in charge. Not bad, he thought, as he walked into the large meeting room where they were going to be based from now on, where most of his colleagues were already sitting and waiting. Not bad at all, in spite of the fact that yet another madwoman was going to be poking her nose into his and his colleagues’ business even though she shouldn’t have been allowed to set foot inside the building. Not in my book, anyway, Bäckström thought.


It had begun the usual way, with each of them telling everyone else what their name was and what they did. Because there were thirty-four people in the room, this had taken a fair bit of time, but even Bäckström could put up with that seeing as he was going to get rid of two of them as soon as the introductions were finished. The female press officer for Växjö Police, and the investigation’s own spiritual adviser. Practically enough, these two were the last to introduce themselves, and the press officer had been surprisingly concise and clear: she, and she alone, would manage all contact with the media, after consultation with those in charge of the investigation.

‘I was a police officer for almost twenty years before I took this job,’ she said. ‘I know most of the people in this room, and those of you who know me as well know better than to mess with me. After reading today’s evening papers, it appears that I must issue a sharp reminder to everyone here about the confidentiality that is essential in this case. If it’s slipped anyone’s mind, you’ve got some revising to do. But best of all would be to keep your mouths shut and only talk about the case with people working on it, or when there’s a reason to talk. Any questions?’

No one had any questions, so she simply nodded to them and walked out. She had a fair amount to do, after all. Bloody hell, Bäckström thought. I wonder what she was like when she was a police officer? Quite good-looking too. But at the top of the age range. Must be almost forty-five, poor old thing, thought Bäckström, who was himself ten years older.

Their very own crisis therapist, trained psychologist and psychotherapist Lilian Olsson, had, unsurprisingly, required rather more time. Seeing as she matched Bäckström’s expectations down to a T, a small, skinny blonde who must have seen at least fifty rainy autumns, he wasn’t the least bit surprised.

‘Well, my name’s Lilian Olsson... but everyone who knows me just calls me Lo, so I hope you will as well... Well, I’m a trained psychologist and psychotherapist... and a lot of you are probably asking yourselves what one of those does. As I said, I’m a psychologist... a therapist... I give lectures and run courses... I work as a consultant... and in my free time... voluntary work for a lot of different charities... the women’s helpline... the men’s helpline... the crime victims’ helpline... and I’m writing a book as well... and most of the people sitting here... it’s okay to feel upset... a lot of us seem sensitive, confused, badly affected by crises... whereas others take refuge in macho attitudes and denial, not saying anything and... some people abuse alcohol and sex... themselves and those around them... a lot of us have eating disorders... we’re all human... we have to affirm... we have to raise our consciousness... we have to take the step... free ourselves from all the heavy baggage that holds us back... we have to dare to show our weaknesses... dare to cry for help... dare to step outside all this... this is what it’s all about, really... the liberation process, to put it simply... it’s really no more than that... so really it’s all fairly simple and straightforward. And my door is always open to you,’ Lo concluded, letting her gentle smile embrace each and every person in the room.

Blah, blah, blah... blablah. Bäckström adjusted his position and snuck a glance at his watch. More than ten minutes of the investigation’s limited and valuable time had already gone up in smoke because yet another in the endless parade of morons needed almost quarter of an hour to let everyone know that she had a door and that it was wide open, he thought.

‘Well, then,’ he said as soon as she’d shut the door behind her. ‘Maybe the rest of us should think about getting something done. We’ve got a madman on the loose, and we need to get him locked up. The sooner the better.’ And ideally we’d boil him down to make glue, he thought but didn’t say. Every proper police officer knew that anyway. They didn’t need to have it spelled out under their noses, and during Ms Crisis Therapist’s performance he had already checked out a couple of the younger officers who, to judge by the looks on their faces, seemed very promising. Maybe there was even a future Bäckström in the room, Bäckström thought. However incredible that might seem.

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