Linda, As in the Linda Murder

90

A never-ending summer. A landscape with as many lakes to swim in as stars in the Nordic night sky. That Sunday Anna Holt and Lisa Mattei packed a basket and headed out to one of them to recharge their batteries before the working week ahead.

First Anna had caught up on her neglected exercise regime. As soon as she had changed, she did her stretching exercises, then ran round the lake. No sooner had she got back, approximately ten kilometres and an hour later, than she had kicked off her running shoes and swum across the lake and back again. Then she had done two hundred sit-ups and the same number of push-ups. She finished by doing more stretches, slightly flushed, and caught her breath in the twenty-five-degree heat.

Lisa had found a spot in the shade to lie down and reread one of her favourite books from childhood, Emil and the Detectives, by Erich Kästner. The part where little Emil uses forensic evidence to catch the slimy crook — the holes made in the six stolen banknotes by a pin — in particular had left a lifelong impression on her soul, and even elevated Emil above master detective Ture Sventon with his more intuitive investigative technique. Lisa had been interested in forensics ever since she was a little girl.

After she had finished exercising, Anna had joined her in the shade to do some reading. With the help of telephone records, witness statements and various forensic information, Lewin had constructed a timeline covering the perpetrator’s movements during the twenty-four hours in which he raped and strangled Linda Wallin. Anna needed it for her impending interviews, and she intended to learn every single time and every tiny detail by heart.

From about 18.00 on Thursday 3 July, Månsson had been at home in his flat on Frövägen in the district of Öster, approximately one kilometre from the centre of Växjö. Just after 22.00 he had been visited by their witness, who had refused to have sex. She had left him at half past ten in the evening, and as soon as she had walked out of the door Månsson had started making phone calls.

Between half past ten and midnight he had made a total of eleven calls from the landline in his flat. All of them to female acquaintances. Nine of them hadn’t been home, and he didn’t seem to have left any messages on any answering machines. One had spoken to him but couldn’t see him because she was already busy. Another had answered but had slammed the phone down when she realized who it was.

Månsson had headed into town, and because the documentation of the next two hours was based upon various witness statements it was far from as solid and precise as the details gained from an ordinary landline, or even a mobile phone. Soon after midnight Månsson had said hello to one of the most common sort of witness at that time of day, a neighbour who was on his way back into the building after walking his dog. The witness was certain of the date, time and person in question. And that Månsson had been heading towards the centre of town on foot. Anna couldn’t know it, but Lewin had sighed as he noted what the witness had said in his report.

After that there were two statements which indicated that Månsson had visited at least one pub in Växjö. The bartender who had served him a beer at about half past twelve, and again one and a half hours later, had recognized him from previous visits, and on this particular occasion he had noted that Månsson had no female company, and that he appeared ‘agitated and wound up’. Lewin had sighed twice, and then noted the witness’s information in his report. The next witness claimed to have observed Månsson at another watering-hole in the vicinity of the first some time between one o’clock and two o’clock in the morning. Because he had recognized Månsson in the pictures he had seen in the paper — ‘I’m absolutely certain it was him’ — Lewin had given an extra sigh this time.

At quarter past two things improved significantly. That was when Månsson had called Lotta Ericson’s old number on his mobile from somewhere in the centre of Växjö. And because Lewin had both met and listened to the witness, and had seen the printout listing the calls with his own eyes, he hadn’t needed to sigh at all.

Just after three o’clock in the morning, according to their own analysis of the murder of Linda Wallin, he had appeared at the building where Linda’s mother lived. Linda’s car was parked outside, and he must have recognized it. Månsson had probably acted on impulse and gone inside the building in the hope of being able to see Linda. Nothing odd about that, seeing as the coded lock had been broken for the past couple of days.

Then he had probably gone wrong, for the same reason as he rang the wrong number, and gone to the door of Linda’s mother’s old flat at the top of the building. He went downstairs again when the dogs started to bark, and carefully checked the list of occupants in the entrance hall. There he saw an L. Ericson, with the right initial and the right spelling, took a chance, rang the bell, and was let in by Linda, who had just got home.

The latter parts of this were all speculation, but seeing as they were Lewin’s own speculations he had no problems with their credibility. On the contrary, his assumptions provided the basis for further conclusions which he had inserted into the log as notes. That Månsson hadn’t visited Linda’s mother since she had moved, three years before. That she probably hadn’t informed him of that fact. That Linda didn’t seem to have told him either, and that his visit to see Linda was spontaneous, not premeditated.

Between approximately quarter past three and five o’clock that morning Månsson had been with his victim at the scene of the crime. At approximately five o’clock he had jumped out of the bedroom window, and in all likelihood walked home on foot. He ought to have been back home before half past five.

Then he had packed a few essentials in a sports bag and decided to leave Växjö. Exactly why remained unclear. He already had tickets to see the Gyllene Tider concert on Öland that evening, but a great deal had happened since he got hold of them. A half-hearted attempt to flee? An attempt to get himself an alibi?

That was probably when he decided to steal the pilot’s old Saab, Lewin thought. Taking the bus at such a sensitive time didn’t seem terribly advisable. Better to travel independently.

So he sets off on foot from his home on Frövägen to the car park on Högtorpsvägen, one kilometre from his flat. At some time around six in the morning he is observed by the 92-year-old witness, steals the car and drives off. All entirely possible, since a brisk walk would get him from his flat to the car park in time.

At approximately quarter past six he sets off towards Kalmar, and some ten kilometres from the town he decides to get rid of the car. By then it ought to have been just before eight o’clock, assuming he stuck to the speed limit, Lewin thought.

Getting rid of the car shouldn’t have taken long, and then he must have made his way to Kalmar on foot. No one had seen him catch a bus or said they had given him a lift. Then he spent the rest of Friday either in Kalmar with the nurse or on Öland at the concert, until midnight or just after. They hadn’t managed to trace the young woman with whom he was believed to have left the concert, despite appeals in the media for her to contact them.

Where he spent the rest of the weekend was unclear. But on Monday morning he was back at work in Växjö.

‘Jan Lewin is a very thorough man,’ Anna declared once she had finished reading.

‘A bit too long-winded for my taste,’ Lisa retorted. ‘And he has a terrible angsty way of conveying facts as well. I think he uses facts as a way of combating his own angst.’

‘Unlike Johansson, with all his stories of his own triumphs and everyone else’s idiotic failures?’ Anna said, looking curiously at Lisa.

Not according to Lisa. Lars Martin Johansson wasn’t remotely like Jan Lewin, even though they were a similar age. Quite the contrary. Lars Martin Johansson’s stories had taught her more about police work than almost anything else she had done, read, seen or heard. Besides, he was extremely entertaining, and there was always a pedagogical point to the stories he told.

‘And of course they’re all true as well,’ Anna said, smiling in delight.

Completely true, according to Lisa, and quite remarkable, in the sense that Lars Martin Johansson was one of the few people who had realized that there was a way of seeking the truth by conducting an internal dialogue with yourself. Something which Skinner, of all people, had developed in his scientific essays about introspection as a way of finding the truth and the light. And which didn’t have anything in common with our mundane and dull view of the difference between truth and lies.

‘Because Johansson never lies, of course,’ Anna teased.

‘Not in the usual way,’ Lisa said. ‘He’s not the sort. Johansson never lies to other people.’

‘What sort is he, then?’

‘Maybe he lies to himself,’ Lisa said, her voice suddenly sounding rather abrupt.

‘I can’t think why you don’t marry him, Lisa,’ Anna said.

‘He’s already married. Besides, I don’t think I’m his type,’ Lisa concluded with a sigh.