Linda, As in the Linda Murder

88

Anna Holt’s fifth interview with Bengt Månsson lasted almost the whole day. The witness was Lisa Mattei, and as before she had hardly opened her mouth. She just sat there listening with her gentle smile and kind eyes. As usual, Holt had begun with a different subject from the one Månsson was expecting. The truth was, there was no longer any great urgency regarding what they had discussed the day before. On the contrary, it was an excellent idea to let him have the whole weekend, all alone, to think about his contact with Linda Wallin.

‘Tell me about yourself, Bengt,’ she began, leaning forward on her elbows, smiling to show how interested she was.

‘About myself?’ Månsson said in surprise. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

‘What were things like when you were growing up?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Start at the beginning,’ Holt suggested. ‘Tell me about your very first memories.’

According to Bengt Månsson, his earliest childhood memories were from when he was seven, once he’d started school. Before that he didn’t remember much. His mother and her family had often told him things he was supposed to have said and done when he was younger, but his own head was a blank.

His memories from the time he started school were nothing remarkable. Ordinary memories. Some good, and almost all of those uninteresting. Some less good, which he would rather not talk about. Besides, he didn’t understand the question. What did his childhood memories have to do with his current situation?

Nor did he want to talk about his parents. They had been dead for years now, and he had no intention of going into what had happened between him and them before that. But there was one thing that was worth pointing out. He only acknowledged one parent, his mother. He had no idea who his real father was, and he had realized early in life that there was no point asking his mother about that. He had had an adoptive father, but he didn’t want to talk about him, and was trying hard to wipe him from his memory.

‘You don’t visit their graves?’ Holt asked.

‘My mum’s grave, you mean,’ Månsson corrected her.

‘Your mum’s grave?’

‘Never.’

What about his adoptive father’s grave, then?

‘You mean I could have gone there to ease the pressure?’ Månsson asked with a crooked smile.

‘What do you mean by that?’ Holt asked.

‘To piss on his grave.’

‘Tell me why you’d want to do a thing like that,’ Holt said. ‘Did he treat you that badly?’

Månsson had no intention of talking about that. Not to Holt, nor to anyone else either.

‘Don’t say that,’ Holt said. ‘Maybe I can help you.’

How could Holt help Månsson with his adoptive father? After all, he was already dead. What could Holt do to him? She could hardly lock him up, could she? He realized that Holt and her colleagues could tear him apart, but surely they had no jurisdiction over people who were already dead?

Anna Holt made three attempts. Approaching the subject from different angles. Taking her time. With the same result each time. Either he didn’t have any memories, or he didn’t want to talk.

‘When you say that, I get the distinct impression that there’s something you don’t want to tell me about your parents, and your adoptive father in particular. Can I suggest that you give the matter some thought?’ Holt said, and called the guard to take him back to his cell. ‘So what did we get out of that?’ she asked Mattei as soon as he had gone.

‘He’s using you to try out the story he’s going to tell other people,’ Mattei said, and went on to explain that after Holt’s first question and Månsson’s first answer, she had worked out what he would say three hours later when he was asked the last question.

‘Good to know,’ Anna Holt said. ‘Maybe I should stick to talking to you from now on.’

‘If I were you I’d be flattered,’ Mattei said. ‘Why would he risk you pulling it apart now? Better to save it for the men in white coats. He won’t have to worry about them running round asking people who may have been there at the time if what he’s saying is true.’

‘You don’t think you’re crediting him with being more devious than he actually is?’

‘He’s not especially devious,’ Mattei said. ‘But he knows exactly how to lie to women. How to sell himself to a sceptical customer. That’s what he’s best at.’

‘And I’m just an ordinary bimbo,’ Holt said with a smile.

‘Not to Bengt Månsson,’ Mattei said, shaking her head. ‘For him you’re a smart bimbo. A dangerous bimbo.’

‘But he’s still going to get between my legs.’

‘Don’t say that, Anna,’ Mattei said. ‘You’re way too good for that. What I mean is just that deep down he’s absolutely convinced that he’s eventually going to sweep you off your feet. Metaphorically, I mean.’

‘So that’s what he thinks, is it?’

‘How could he think anything else?’

That afternoon Bengt Månsson sent Anna Holt a message via the custody officer. He had to talk to her again. It was important. Within fifteen minutes of receiving the message Holt was sitting in his cell. Månsson was feeling terrible. And he didn’t understand why. Suddenly he felt a terrible angst, and he didn’t understand what was going on inside his head. In the lavatory in the custody section just before Holt arrived, he had felt giddy and fallen over.

‘I’ll make sure a doctor comes to see you,’ Holt said.

‘Could you?’ Månsson said.

On the way out Holt looked questioningly at the custody officer. ‘How is Månsson, really?’

‘What have you been doing to him?’ the guard said with a broad grin. ‘When he was going to the toilet just now he seemed completely gone. He was on the floor before I had time to grab him.’

‘What do you think’s happening, then?’

‘He’s better than anything I’ve seen before. Rule number one — feel bloody awful. Defend yourself with an Oscar for best male lead.’

Later, when she was about to head home to the hotel, she spotted something on the notice board which really had nothing to do with her investigation.

It was a page from the interview with the female journalist who had filed a complaint against Bäckström for sexual harassment.

The Växjö officer who had interviewed the complainant appeared to have handled similar cases before. Amongst other things, he seemed to be very aware of the significance that prosecutors and courts usually applied to the difference between careless or simply partial clothing, and the nakedness which could only be caused by sexual and indecent behaviour.

‘Did you notice if he had an erection when he removed the towel?’ the interviewer had asked.

She wasn’t sure. She hadn’t looked that closely. And she had been shouting at him to pull himself together.

‘But you must have seen something?’ the questioner persisted, aware that this was of decisive significance if he was to be able to manoeuvre this case through the eye of the needle that led to a courtroom.

‘It looked like a little sausage,’ the complainant said. ‘An angry little sausage.’

Lucky Bäckström, Anna Holt thought, as she crumpled the sheet and tossed it in the bin for things that needed to be shredded.

‘Serves him right,’ Mattei giggled when she and Anna Holt were sitting in the hotel bar with a glass of wine each, talking over the week that had just ended.

‘Yes,’ Holt said with a sigh. ‘Sometimes I wonder what’s wrong with me. I actually felt a bit sorry for him. Imagine that, Lisa. I felt sorry for Bäckström.’

‘You can get help for that sort of thing, Anna,’ Mattei said, looking at her sternly. ‘If you like, I could put the note back up again. If you give them so much as a millimetre, they’ve got you.’

‘But not Johansson,’ Holt said.

‘Never my Lars Martin,’ Mattei agreed.