Linda, As in the Linda Murder

80 Stockholm, Monday 25 August

On the way home Rogersson had sat behind the wheel taking care of the simple, manual tasks while Bäckström lay stretched out on the back seat, having drunk his beers while they were still chilled and then gone on to sample the fine malt whisky. Every so often he put his hand inside his jacket pocket and let his fingertips play over the contents of the brown envelope while he daydreamed about the newspaper headlines he could see in front of him. The man who solved the Linda murder, Bäckström thought with a deep sigh of contentment. Just before Nyköping he had switched to dreaming properly, enjoying the Warrior’s Well-Deserved Rest until Rogersson pulled up outside the door of the building he lived in on Kungsholmen in Stockholm. As he had done so many times before after completing a mission, Detective Superintendent Bäckström of the National Crime Unit had returned home in triumph.

As a result, the following morning it was a good while before he realized that the bastard Lapp on the other side of the desk had entirely other ideas. No flowers, no cake, not even a basic cup of coffee, even though it was only eight o’clock in the morning and he had had to get up in the middle of the night to have time to shower, brush his teeth, buy throat sweets and prepare a suitable response to his supreme leader’s heartfelt thanks for his efforts. What the hell’s going on? What on earth is this police force coming to? he thought.

Johansson was entirely uninterested in the case. The murder of Linda Wallin and how Bäckström had managed to get all the pieces to slot into place, against all the odds, by using a tried and tested combination of routine, hard work, fingertip sensitivity and guile. Instead he had banged on about a load of mysterious expenses, cash withdrawals, porn films added to the bill for Rogersson’s room, excessive overtime and all manner of irrelevancies which all the so-called experts around him had messed up, misunderstood and laid the blame for on him.

‘You’ll have to deal with this directly with the finance office,’ Johansson concluded with a stormy expression. ‘If you have a word with my secretary, she’s arranged a time for you to see them straight away.’

‘With all due respect, boss, I’m actually a policeman, not some number-cruncher,’ Bäckström objected. ‘And all those things that other people—’

‘I was just getting to that,’ Johansson interrupted, opening the next file on his vast desk. ‘It’s about the complaint that was filed against you last week.’

‘Do you mean the complaint with no complainant, boss?’ Bäckström said cunningly.

‘I wasn’t aware that there was more than one complaint,’ Johansson said dryly. ‘The case I’m thinking of concerns sexual harassment, and the complainant’s name is Carin Ågren. She filed the complaint herself. It was received on Thursday, and an interview was conducted with her that same day.’

‘So how come I haven’t seen it?’ Bäckström said in an aggrieved tone.

‘The simple explanation is probably that they haven’t had time. There’s no need to worry, Bäckström. I’ve spoken to them, and they’ve promised to get in touch with you some time today.’

‘So what does she say?’ Bäckström asked, glowering coldly at Johansson and the report he was holding in his hand.

‘According to her, you’re supposed to have waggled your little sausage at her. You can go through it in more detail with the internal investigation unit.’

What the hell’s the man saying? Bäckström thought. What little sausage?

Apart from that, there wasn’t much to add, according to Johansson. The finance department would talk to Bäckström about the expenses, their lawyer would talk to him about the legal aspects, the complaint against him would be dealt with in the usual manner, and Bäckström’s immediate superior would take care of the practical details. As far as Bäckström himself was concerned, just one decision remained: whether or not he would prefer to be on holiday, on sick leave, or on leave of absence during the investigation into his conduct.

‘Sick leave?’ Bäckström said hotly. ‘I’m not the slightest bit sick. I’ve never felt better. This sounds like something I should talk to the union about.’

‘Good luck, Bäckström,’ Johansson said.