Linda, As in the Linda Murder

82

‘Tell me about the second time you met Linda.’ It was the start of the second interview with Månsson. As Holt asked the question she leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table, with an interested smile, curious eyes...

‘Well, the first time was at that midsummer party out at her dad’s, when I was—’

‘I know. You told me yesterday,’ Holt interrupted. ‘But what about the second time?’

The second time had been a complete coincidence, according to Månsson. It was a month later. They had bumped into each other in town. Not unusual if you lived in Växjö. They had started talking, and went to have a cup of coffee. Before they split up he had given Linda his phone number.

‘What did you talk about?’

All the usual things you talk about when you bump into someone that way, if you’d only ever met once before. A nice, cheerful girl, funny too, with a slightly unusual sense of humour. A lot of understatement, a lot of one-liners, which Månsson had liked because in his experience that was unusual in women. Still, it was really Linda’s mother that he knew, and that had obviously affected the substance of their first conversation alone.

It was the opening Holt had been waiting for. ‘So you talked about her as well?’

According to Månsson, it was Linda herself who had raised the subject, and he could still remember exactly what she had said. ‘So tell me about my dear mother. Are you two still love’s great dream, or what?’

At that point Månsson had chosen to be equally direct and honest. He had explained to Linda that there had never been any question of love’s great dream. Naturally, he liked Linda’s mother very much, she was a beautiful and talented woman. But definitely not love’s great dream. Not on his side, nor on hers. Besides, they didn’t have much in common. Lotta Ericson was considerably older than him, and lived a completely different, more middle-class life than his. Because they had both realized this without even having to talk about it, they had seen less and less of each other, and in recent weeks — since the midsummer party where he had met Linda — they had only spoken over the phone. The day before Lotta had gone abroad on holiday he had called to wish her a good trip. She had been fairly abrupt with him, so, if there had ever been anything between them, it was over now. That was certainly the impression he got from their last phone conversation.

‘How did Linda react?’ Anna Holt asked, still unswervingly curious.

In her usual straightforward, articulate way, which again was probably why he remembered it almost word for word. ‘She said something like, “Lucky you. Mum’s actually a right bitch.” In English. She lived in the States when she was little, of course.’

On Tuesday two of Lewin’s question marks resolved themselves in a way that a grizzled police officer such as himself could nowadays only dream of. First, a 27-year-old nurse from Kalmar called the Växjö Police to tell them things about the murder of Linda Wallin that she had only realized that morning when she read Dagens Nyheter at work and saw who Linda’s killer was. After the usual preliminaries with the operator, Thorén took the call, and as soon as it was over he and Knutsson got in a car and headed off to Kalmar to question her.

On the morning of Friday 4 July, Bengt Månsson had called her on her mobile. He was in Kalmar, and was wondering if they could meet. All very spur of the moment, because he was going to the Gyllene Tider concert at Borgholm, over on Öland, that evening. After various practical details had been sorted out, including her having to cancel another date, Månsson had turned up at her home and within the space of ten minutes they were having sex. They had carried on with this pretty much all afternoon, and everything had been much the same as it had been on the three previous occasions she had met Månsson.

The first time was in the middle of May, when she and a group of friends from work had been to the theatre in Växjö, and Månsson had been their guide. After the performance, as soon as she managed to get away from her friends, they had gone to his flat and had sex, and to save time they had started the foreplay in the taxi on the way.

This time, though, things hadn’t ended quite so well. That afternoon, during a pause in their sexual activities, Månsson had asked if he could borrow her washing machine to wash a sweater he was wearing. An expensive, pale blue sweater which he had managed to get rust stains on the previous day. He had been helping a neighbour repair his car, and had got his sweater dirty when he was lying under the engine. He had evidently also scratched his stomach as well, but when she pointed it out he had shrugged it off. Just a scratch.

She had explained to him that the sweater needed to be hand-washed, in as cold water as possible. Especially if he had managed to get blood on it. At any rate, the washing machine was out of the question, as any girl could have told him, but far too few men, unfortunately. Then she had washed it by hand for him and spread it out to dry while she got back to what she had been doing with its owner. That evening they had gone to the concert. The sweater was still damp, but that was no problem seeing as Månsson had a sports bag with him containing some clean clothes. Besides, that evening it had been about twenty degrees outside.

After the concert she had bumped into some old friends from Västervik, and while she was standing chatting to them Månsson had suddenly disappeared. Admittedly, there had been a lot of people milling about, but it was like he’d gone up in smoke. She had spent half an hour looking for him until she met a friend she worked with, someone who had actually been with her when she first met Månsson at the theatre in Växjö. Her friend told her she had seen Månsson quarter of an hour earlier, leaving the park with a young woman.

‘So I dare say you weren’t too happy?’ Detective Inspector Thorén said in his most sympathetic voice.

Not too happy didn’t even come close, but that wasn’t actually what annoyed her most. Månsson wasn’t exactly husband material, but he suited her purposes while she was waiting for Mr Right to turn up in her life. Since he presumably had the same purposes in mind, neither of them had anything to complain about on that score. What had made her most annoyed, ‘completely fucking livid, actually’, was the fact that he had got her to wash his sweater.

So the first thing she had done when she got home that night was grab his sweater, stuff it into the bag he had left behind, and throw the whole thing in the bin. She had spent the next few days hoping that he’d get in touch so she could tell him, but he never did. And she certainly wasn’t going to call him.

‘So you threw it all in the bin?’ Thorén asked.

The sweater, a pair of worn underpants, maybe something else that she’d forgotten, as well as the bag they were in. They had all gone in the bin, but the bins of the building she lived in were emptied once a week and she didn’t hold out much hope of anyone’s finding them now.

‘I’m sure it will be enough that we’ve spoken to you about it,’ Thorén assured her, preferring to avoid the word testimony wherever possible. ‘When you were with him that time, you mentioned that you noticed he’d scratched his stomach. You don’t happen to remember what it looked like?’

Nothing special, according to the witness. Just an ordinary scratch. Ten centimetres or so above his navel.

How deep? Inflamed? Infected? How long? How old?

Not very deep, looked okay, ten or fifteen centimetres long, maybe a day old, just as he had said. It looked like he’d scratched himself on something sharp, and perhaps the easiest thing would be for Thorén to pull his shirt up so she could show him what she meant. Considering her profession, it would hardly be that unusual, she said.

‘Thanks for the offer,’ Thorén said with a smile. ‘How about I draw a sketch on a piece of paper while you tell me what to draw?’

‘That’s it,’ the witness said five minutes later, nodding at the sketch Thorén had just drawn. ‘You never thought of becoming an artist instead of a policeman?’

‘Actually no.’ Thorén smiled. ‘But I’ve always liked drawing.’ A horizontal scratch about ten centimetres in length, and about ten centimetres above his navel, then some smaller scratches up towards his chest. And that was what it had looked like?

No doubt at all, according to the witness. And, as long as it didn’t go any further than the three of them in the room, the reason she was so sure was that she had kissed it several times. She had suggested a bit of antiseptic, and then kissing it better. Månsson had declined the antiseptic, but she had kissed it better anyway.

‘What a delightful young woman,’ Thorén sighed happily once they were sitting in the car on their way back to Växjö.

‘So why didn’t you show her your washboard stomach?’ Knutsson said, suddenly sounding rather cross.

‘I was worried you might get embarrassed.’

‘Little Månsson seems to have been pretty busy,’ Knutsson said, to change the subject.

‘Lucky for him he wasn’t alive in Zorn’s day,’ Thorén said. Even though he was a police officer, he still had a genuine interest in art.

‘Well, despite the minor disaster with the rubbish bin, I think we can be fairly pleased regardless,’ Lewin declared a couple of hours later once he had heard what their witness had said. ‘What did you mean about Zorn?’

Månsson’s interest in women, Thorén explained. It was starting to look as though he’d slept with every girl in Småland. Or almost, anyway. Just like the artist Anders Zorn, who according to the stories managed to father fifty-five acknowledged but illegitimate children during the hours he didn’t devote to painting.

‘Fifty-five of them, in just two parishes, Orsa and Gagnef. So Månsson’s lucky most girls are on the pill these days. Looks like he’s only slipped up once.’