by Leif Persson
‘But that’s not the real point,’ Knutsson said.
‘Everyone down here who thinks this is anything to do with him has got it all wrong,’ Thorén clarified.
‘So what is the point, then?’ Bäckström asked.
According to the analyst in the information division who had analysed the phrase, the most likely interpretation of the words Magical name? was that the person who had written the message had been asking a question, and that this question ought to be understood as rhetorical.
‘And what the fuck does that mean in everyday language?’ Bäckström wondered.
‘A question where the answer is obvious,’ Knutsson explained.
‘For instance, you know the old classic, Bäckström?’ Thorén said. ‘About the Pope. Does the Pope wear a pointed hat?’
‘I get it,’ Bäckström said. Are Hans and Fritz cretins? he thought.
And the rhetorical question didn’t only refer to the person known to the whole world as Ronaldo, or at least to the part of that world interested in football, but to a whole collective of people with the same name.
‘What the fuck does that mean?’ Bäckström said, throwing out his hands. Those bastard academics are going to be the death of the whole damn force, he thought.
‘More than one person called Ronaldo,’ Knutsson explained. ‘The football player Ronaldo, man of the match, and another Ronaldo who had accomplished something of similar quality, and who probably has some sort of connection to the match in question.’
‘Okay, now I get it,’ Bäckström said. ‘Why couldn’t you say that? Linda sat and watched the game featuring everybody’s favourite Ronaldo on television, while her very own Ronaldo was playing a game with her on the sofa they were both sitting on. Am I pushing my luck here, or am I to understand that he did it three times?’
‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Thorén said flatly.
‘According to the analyst we spoke to, that’s the most likely interpretation, yes,’ Knutsson said. ‘Although he might not have expressed himself in quite those terms.’
‘So send the bastard on a course so he learns to talk like normal people,’ Bäckström said. ‘Anyway, how are you getting on with any calls to and from his mobile?’
‘We’re making progress,’ Thorén said.
‘Although that sort of thing takes time, of course,’ Knutsson added.
‘When?’ Bäckström asked.
‘The weekend,’ Thorén replied.
‘Tomorrow at the earliest, Sunday at the latest,’ Knutsson clarified.
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Bäckström said, pointing to the door.
When Bäckström was sitting in the staff canteen eating lunch, officer Sandberg came over to him and asked if she could sit down.
‘Sure,’ Bäckström said, nodding to the empty chair. Soon she’ll look as saggy as all the other women, he thought.
‘Can I speak freely?’ Sandberg said, looking at him.
‘I always do,’ Bäckström said with a shrug.
‘Okay, then,’ Sandberg said, and took a deep breath.
‘I’m all ears,’ Bäckström said, ‘but I can’t hear anything.’
‘I don’t believe in this business of getting DNA samples from a load of fellow officers,’ Sandberg said in a rush.
‘I think it’s going very well. The two younger officers we’ve borrowed are proving to be very efficient.’
‘I didn’t think people like that existed before I became a police officer. At least I hoped not. Now I know I was wrong.’ Sandberg looked solemnly at Bäckström. ‘For me—’
‘You don’t become a police officer,’ Bäckström interrupted. ‘You just are a police officer. Adolfsson and that Essen are police officers. There’s no more to it than that. Is there a particular officer you’re worried about?’ This is starting to be fun, he thought.
‘We’ve been able to discount all the officers we’ve had the results back for.’
‘Yes, it must be quite a relief for them,’ Bäckström said with a grin.
‘I just can’t go up to Claesson and ask him to volunteer a DNA sample. Not with everything he’s been through and the state he’s in.’ Sandberg shook her head.
‘Was there anything else?’ Bäckström said, looking pointedly at his watch.
‘Well, what do you think?’
‘That everything will sort itself out. I’ll ask Adolfsson or someone else to do it,’ Bäckström said, getting up from the table. Suck on that, you little bitch, he thought as he put his tray on the trolley.
‘How did you get him to agree to an interview?’ Bäckström said two hours later, as he was sitting in the car with Rogersson, on their way to see Linda’s father.
‘I called and asked if we could come out and talk to him,’ Rogersson said.
‘And there were no problems?’
‘No, not the slightest,’ Rogersson said, shaking his head.
The interview with Linda’s father took almost two hours. They sat in his office on the first floor of the manor house, Bäckström letting Rogersson direct the conversation and contenting himself with throwing in the occasional question. They talked about Linda’s interests, her social life, her friends, and whether there was anyone or anything that her father thought they ought to know about. They carefully avoided two subjects. The first was the question of whether or not she had left a journal or any other personal documents in the house, and the second was how her father himself was feeling.
After an hour or so he asked them if there was anything he could offer them. Coffee, or anything else?
‘If I weren’t on duty, I’d ask for a cold beer,’ Bäckström said with a faint smile. ‘Rogersson here will be happy with a soft drink, seeing as he’s got to drive us back.’
‘I’m sure that can be arranged,’ Linda’s father said, getting up from the sofa he was sitting in and opening an antique cabinet that stood in one corner of the office. ‘Not everything’s what it seems,’ he added when he saw Bäckström’s look of surprise.
The cabinet contained a large number of bottles and glasses of various sizes. And a small fridge containing ice, mineral water, soft drinks and beer.
‘I think I’ll have a beer,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I suggest that you gentlemen keep me company. If it comes to it, you can always walk back to Växjö. Or I can ask my man to drive you.’
‘Sounds good,’ Bäckström said. You’re going to get through this, he thought. Even though you look like an apple core that’s passed through someone’s bowels. And even though you took half your face off when you tried to shave this morning.
‘Do you recognize this man?’ he asked, passing Linda’s father the photograph of Erik Roland Löfgren. High time we got to the point, he thought.
Her father looked carefully at the picture. Then nodded.
‘They were in the same class, weren’t they? I think they call him Ronaldo.’
‘Did Linda know him well?’ Rogersson asked.
‘No, I don’t think so. She would have mentioned it if she did. I’ve only met him once.’
Rogersson nodded to him to go on.
‘He came out here some time in the spring,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I remember saying hello to him. I was going out to dinner in town. I seem to remember that they were going to watch some football match. Linda has . . . had . . . a huge number of channels on her television.’
‘But you definitely remember him?’ Rogersson asked.
‘Yes,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘He’s the sort of person you remember. At least if you’re the sort of dad I am,’ he added. ‘But I can see what you’re getting at. I’m pretty sure Linda didn’t have any sort of relationship with him. I’m not really bothered about anything else.’
‘You didn’t find him unpleasant or threatening or anything?’ Rogersson said.
‘No, if anything rather ingratiating,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘Not the sort of person I would have wanted as a son-in-law,’ he added, suddenly shaking his head and pre
ssing his thumb and forefinger to his eyes.
‘I’m not going to ask how you’re feeling,’ Bäckström said. ‘I’ve also lost someone . . . someone close to me . . . the same way you lost Linda. So I do know how you feel.’
‘Have you?’ Linda’s father looked at Bäckström in surprise.
‘Yes,’ Bäckström said sombrely. ‘That’s why I won’t ask. Is it all right if we carry on?’
‘Yes,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I’m all right now. Before I forget: I’ve offered to put up a reward. Do you think that would be any help?’
‘No,’ Bäckström said, shaking his head.
‘Why not?’
‘Because I know we’re going to catch him anyway,’ Bäckström said, giving him his police look.
‘Good,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘Well, if it turns out that a reward would be useful, just let me know.’
‘I’ve got a list here, of people Linda knew or had met,’ Rogersson said. ‘Do you know any of them?’
Henning Wallin looked through the list of people Linda knew. He had nothing to add that they didn’t already know, and the only one he had much to say about was Marian Gross.
‘He’s that neighbour, isn’t he? I remember Linda talking about him. She said he was a particularly dirty old man. He must have moved in after my time.’
‘You lived there? In the building where it happened?’ Rogersson asked.
‘It belonged to me,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I gave it to Linda’s mother in the divorce. Then she turned it into a residents’ association. Money was always her main concern.’
‘But you never lived there yourself ?’ Rogersson repeated.
‘No. One of my Swedish companies had an office there for a while, but I hardly ever set foot there after I bought it. You don’t think it could have been him? Gross, I mean?’
Rogersson shrugged. ‘We’re checking everyone we have reason to check,’ he said.
‘We’re not discounting anyone until we’re absolutely certain,’ Bäckström emphasized. ‘And whoever’s left will be going to prison. For life.’
‘When will that happen?’ Henning Wallin asked.
‘Soon,’ Bäckström said. ‘I couldn’t borrow your sh— your toilet before we go, could I? Beer in the afternoon is clearly too much for an old policeman,’ he lied.
‘You can use my bathroom,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘First door on the left.’
‘I think we’re almost done,’ Rogersson said when Bäckström had disappeared to ease the pressure. ‘There’s nothing on your mind that we haven’t discussed? Anything you’d like to add?’
‘Just get the bastard who did it,’ Henning Wallin said. ‘I can sort out the rest myself.’
‘We’re working on it,’ Rogersson said.
‘You’re not too drunk to drive?’ Bäckström asked fifteen minutes later when they were on their way back towards Växjö.
‘No,’ Rogersson said. ‘I’m not usually after just one beer. Incidentally, I had no idea you had a daughter who was strangled.’
‘That’s not what I said,’ Bäckström retorted. ‘I said someone close to me.’
‘If it’s Egon you’re thinking of, then I didn’t strangle him. He looked like he’d drowned. Although I thought he was a goldfish.’
‘I was thinking of Gunilla,’ Bäckström said. I bet he did something to Egon, he thought. Why else would he keep talking about him?
‘What bloody Gunilla?’ Rogersson said, irritated.
‘You know, Gunilla. From the Gunilla murder,’ Bäckström explained. ‘She was strangled.’
‘What the hell . . . she was a prostitute, wasn’t she?’
‘She was a very nice girl,’ Bäckström said. ‘I met her a few times out on the street when she was looking for business and was still in one piece. Anyway, it worked. Didn’t you see how Linda’s old man perked up when he heard he had a fellow sufferer with him? By the way, have we got any evidence bags in the car?’
‘There’s everything in this damn car,’ Rogersson said. ‘In the glove compartment,’ he added.
‘Goody good,’ Bäckström said, opening one of the plastic bags and with some difficulty extracting a bloody paper handkerchief from his pocket.
‘So that’s why you wanted to go to the toilet,’ Rogersson said.
‘Yes, certainly not because I needed to,’ Bäckström said happily. ‘He’d thrown it in the bin in the bathroom.’
‘Do you know something, Bäckström?’ Rogersson said. ‘You’re crazy. One day the devil’s going to get you. And he’ll turn up in person to pick you up.’
30
ADOLFSSON AND VON Essen were waiting in Bäckström’s office when he got back to the police station. Adolfsson flew up from his chair when Bäckström walked in. His partner made do with a polite twist of his head and torso to indicate a generally benevolent attitude.
‘I hope you don’t mind, but we let ourselves in and sat down, boss,’ Adolfsson said. ‘We didn’t want to stand in the corridor where anyone could see us.’
‘Sit down, Adolf, it’s okay,’ Bäckström said cheerily, sitting down himself and putting his feet up on the desk. This lad’s going to go very far indeed, he thought.
Erik Roland Löfgren had been questioned on Friday evening, the day Linda was murdered. The interview had been conducted over the phone, and the officer who had called him on his mobile was Anna Sandberg. According to the report, the interview lasted twenty minutes. It had focused upon three related questions, and the summary of what was said covered just two pages.
‘Löfgren says he and Linda were in the same class at police college here in Växjö, but they didn’t see each other privately. If they did meet outside college, it was in conjunction with various social events linked to the college, apart from a few occasions when they bumped into each other at restaurants and in other social settings in Växjö.
‘He goes on to say that he didn’t know Linda very well, but he thought her a nice, cheerful girl, interested in sport and well regarded by everyone on the course. As far as he knows, she never had a relationship with anyone from the college or with anyone he knew. According to Löfgren, she seemed to spend most of her time with girlfriends.
‘About the night in question Löfgren says he arrived at the club at ten o’clock on Thursday evening in the company of two friends from police college, and left at approximately quarter to four on Friday morning. He walked straight home and went to bed, because he had promised to visit his parents at their summer house on Öland that weekend and he needed to get some sleep before the drive. While he was at the Town Hotel he noticed that Linda was there, but they only said hello very briefly as he was with a group of his friends. There were a lot of people in the club and Löfgren doesn’t remember seeing anything of interest during the evening. He also says that he is extremely shocked at what has happened to his classmate. And that’s the summary of what he had to say,’ von Essen finished, nodding to Bäckström.
‘There’s also an appendix to the report,’ Adolfsson said.
‘I’m getting to that,’ von Essen said calmly, ‘I’m getting to that. The interviewer, officer Sandberg, added an appendix to the report. She writes the following, and I quote: “The undersigned was also at the nightclub of the Town Hotel on the evening in question . . . I informed the head of the preliminary investigation, Detective Superintendent Bengt Olsson, of this fact at 1500 hours today . . . I can confirm that Löfgren approached me and my party during the evening, and that he said goodbye just before four o’clock in the morning, when he said he was going to go home and sleep because he intended to visit his parents at their summer house that weekend. I have also met Löfgren previously, when I gave a lecture on domestic violence at the police college as part of my duties. Signed, Anna Sandberg.” ’
‘So what do we think about this, then?’ Bäckström asked them.
‘Well, the bit about him hardly knowing her isn’t true, sadly,’ Adolfsson said.
‘Never mind,’ von E
ssen said, patting him lightly on the arm. ‘You can’t win them all, and if you do lose one there are a thousand more fish in the sea. Adolf here was rather keen on our victim,’ he explained. ‘He used to flirt with her when she was in reception.’
Bäckström chuckled. ‘Maybe we should get a sample of your DNA as well, Adolf ?’
‘I’ve already dealt with that with Enoksson,’ Adolfsson said, sounding rather abrupt for once.
‘What for?’ Bäckström asked curiously. What for? he thought.
‘Because I was the one who found her. I was at the crime scene, in various rooms. Not that I was standing there drooling over her, but I did touch her to check if she was dead,’ Adolfsson said. ‘So I suggested to Enoksson that he take a sample. Voluntarily.’
‘And he did as you said?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wise man,’ Bäckström said. ‘But to get back to the subject. How well did our little Ronaldo know the victim, then?’
‘According to what he told a couple of his friends, he’d slept with her,’ Adolfsson said. ‘I’m afraid it’s probably true. Do you want the details, boss?’
‘Well,’ Bäckström said, ‘never mind the details. All women are crazy. Actually, while we’re on the subject of women, our colleague, Sandberg. What’s she like?’
‘She’s not one of my favourites,’ Adolfsson said. ‘And I don’t regard her as my colleague either, seeing as you’re asking, boss. She’s married to another officer, and I’d prefer not to say what I think of him. He works in the neighbourhood team in Kalmar, which probably says it all.’
‘The fact that we’re both a touch reserved about our colleague Sandberg is possibly because she reported us both for using excessive force in the course of our duties,’ von Essen explained. ‘She said we’d assaulted one of her little charges during an arrest. Some time back in the spring.’
