by Leif Persson
‘Just stop it,’ Adolfsson had said, ‘and the rest of you stand still until my partner’s booked you all.’
After another fifteen minutes’ discussion, and after getting the names of all six immigrant youths and four Menfolk, Adolfsson had raised his hand and dismissed the gathering.
‘You go that way,’ he said to the youngsters, pointing north towards Dalbo, which was the best bet, being Växjö’s own little ghetto.
‘And you go that way,’ von Essen said to the Växjö Menfolk, pointing towards the hospital.
‘But we’re supposed to be patrolling the centre of town,’ one of the Menfolk protested. ‘Why would we want to be going south?’
‘I suggest you take the long way round,’ von Essen said diplomatically. ‘How’s your nose, by the way?’
The visible, physical injuries to all involved were fortunately restricted to one of the Menfolk, whose nose was bleeding after being punched by one of the men he was trying to help. Regrettably, in the heat of the fight, he had also ended up in Adolfsson’s clutches, and immediately found himself flat on the ground with a very sore back and neck.
‘If you like we can drive you to the hospital, or take you home if you’d prefer,’ Adolfsson said. ‘Or we’ve got a first aid kit in the car. Just lean your head back and take some deep breaths.’
‘It isn’t easy, as I’m sure you can appreciate,’ von Essen said in a conciliatory tone, handing a compress to the injured Manfolk, ‘telling the difference between the good guys and the bad when they’re all brawling in a heap, if you see what I mean.’
The injured Manfolk understood exactly. He didn’t have any complaints at all. He’d never dream of pressing charges against the teenager who had happened to punch him on the nose, and he had no intention of making a complaint against Police Constable Adolfsson, who was only trying to help him.
‘A nosebleed isn’t the end of the world,’ he said with a brave smile. ‘It was just an unfortunate misunderstanding.’
44
WORK ON THE investigation was still going according to plan. With regard to the DNA sampling of potential perpetrators, things were going so well that the only thing spoiling this forensic party was perhaps Bengt Karlsson’s test results. They had been sent back by return of fax from the National Forensics Lab, and an overworked and sullen technician had attached a question, wondering whether the team working on the investigation were having trouble reading these days: As has already been made clear in previous notifications from the National Forensics Lab, the DNA tested in this sample does not match the DNA profile of the perpetrator in this case.
Unfortunately Olsson happened to be standing by the fax machine when this message appeared, and he had passed it on to Adolfsson with the instruction that it be added to the computer database along with the other results.
‘I see that the name has been concealed. Adolfsson, do you have any idea who this might be?’ Olsson wondered curiously, his own secret effort with Claesson’s apple-core still fresh in his mind.
‘It’s that walking disaster, Bengt Karlsson. The one from that association,’ Adolfsson replied.
‘Who in the name of God decided to drag him into this?’ Olsson asked heatedly.
‘Talk to Bäckström. He’s bound to know,’ Adolfsson said with a shrug.
Olsson had gone directly to see Bäckström and asked him how on earth anyone could have come up with the idea of investigating Bengt Karlsson’s DNA. According to Bäckström, there was a very simple answer to that question. A quick glance at their own records ought to be enough for even an ordinary civilian to realize that it would be a dereliction of duty not to check someone like Karlsson. Bäckström was in one of his most diplomatic moods, hence the conscious decision to avoid the phrase ‘backwoods police’, about which backwoods police were a little sensitive, even though a backwoods police officer like Olsson ought to have realized that ordinary civilians, unlike ordinary backwoods police officers, were fortunately unable to get in the way of the activities of proper police officers.
According to Olsson, Karlsson’s case was an entirely irrelevant subject under current circumstances. After his most recent conviction, Bengt Karlsson had, voluntarily and entirely on his own initiative, participated in a very successful project organized by the outpatient department at Sankt Sigfrid’s. They had used the most recent scientific developments in behavioural modification to try to break the pattern of criminal behaviour in those who were persistent abusers of women, and Karlsson had been their most successful case ever. He was a completely different person now, through and through. He had gone from being a clenched fist to an open embrace, and for many years now he had been one of the most active advocates of efforts to help abusing men to find their way back to a normal, functional life.
‘I appreciate that you have trouble accepting this, Bäckström, but Bengt Karlsson is now one of the kindest men there is. He just wants to embrace the whole world,’ Olsson concluded.
Maybe, although it looks like he missed Linda, Bäckström thought.
‘I want to know what you think, Bäckström,’ Olsson said seriously. ‘What do you think, deep down?’
‘A leopard never changes its spots,’ Bäckström said with a grin.
Sadly, even his colleague Lewin had started to behave more and more oddly, even though he worked for the murder squad and ought to have known better. He had begun to go round asking his colleagues peculiar questions, which obviously illustrated the dangers of ending up in a mess of structural worries, Bäckström thought.
First Lewin had had a long conversation with Rogersson, mostly about Linda’s mother rather than the victim herself and querying a load of strange details, such as where mother and daughter had actually lived since they got back from the USA after the divorce some ten years before.
‘According to what she’s said in interview, she’s lived at the same address the whole time,’ Rogersson said. What was so odd about that?
‘I’ll check with Svanström,’ Lewin said. He was very discreet about his private life, and would never dream of calling her Eva in front of other men when she herself wasn’t present.
‘You do that, Lewin,’ Rogersson said, grinning for some reason. ‘Go and have a word with little Svanström. Was there anything else?’ he added, making a show of glancing at his wristwatch.
There was one more thing, Lewin said. Would Rogersson mind calling Linda’s mother and asking one more question? ‘I think it would best if you do it, seeing as you’ve already met her.’
‘The question,’ Rogersson prompted. ‘What do you want to know?’
‘If you could call and ask if she’s ever had a dog,’ Lewin said.
‘A dog,’ Rogersson said. ‘You want to know if she’s ever had a dog? Any particular sort of dog, or will any old dog do?’
‘Just something that occurred to me,’ Lewin said evasively. ‘Just call her and ask if she’s ever had a dog.’
‘I wonder why he wants to know that?’ Bäckström said when he and his friend were sitting in his hotel room and had just embarked upon their usual preparations for the weekend. ‘You don’t think he’s just hit the wall? Lewin’s always been a weird bastard. I’ve hardly ever seen him with a proper beer in his hand, not in all these years.’ There was something about some bastard dog, Bäckström thought. Oh, what the hell.
‘He’s probably just hit his head against the wall while he’s been banging little Svanström,’ Rogersson grinned, shaking his head.
‘So has she ever had a dog?’ Bäckström asked, still thinking about this little detail. ‘Linda’s mum, I mean?’
‘No,’ Rogersson said bluntly. ‘She’s never had a dog. She doesn’t like dogs. Nor cats either, for that matter. Linda used to have a horse, apparently, but that was out at her dad’s. We didn’t get any further than that.’
In spite of backwoods policemen sticking their oar in, in spite of Jan Lewin’s peculiarities, and in spite of the fact that the notorious wife-beater Bengt Kar
lsson had evidently managed to find a simple way of pulling the wool over the eyes of people like Olsson nine years ago, Bäckström was in an excellent mood all weekend. And when he was standing in the shower on Monday morning, he even burst into song.
‘I’m going to test the whole world’s DNA . . . I’m going to keep on testing DNA all day,’ he sang as the cold water splashed over his fat body and he carefully scrubbed under his arms and in other nooks and crannies to prevent any unpleasant odours later in the day.
Police hunk of the year, he thought as he inspected the end result in the mirror. Watch out, ladies.
45
Stockholm, Monday 4 August
ON MONDAY MORNING the National Rapid-Response Unit conducted a major exercise around the Kronoberg block that contained police headquarters on Kungsholmen in Stockholm. Neighbouring blocks were cordoned off, but ‘for practical reasons and out of consideration for the people living there’ local residents and people already in the area weren’t evacuated. So there were plenty of spectators to watch what was happening, and within just a few minutes the first camera teams from the usual television channels were in place.
In total, four members of the unit, wearing black overalls and black face masks and with the usual weapons, abseiled down from the roof of the block closest to the road. When they reached the ninth floor they – to judge by the muffled explosions – set off small explosive devices around the windows, knocked them out and clambered into the building. The phones in the national police headquarters were extremely busy, a special press officer was already in place, and the representatives of the media were told that this was an entirely normal exercise within the frame of the so-called 11 September Project.
The National Rapid-Response Unit was practising in case there was ever a coup aimed at the top leadership of the Swedish Police, but more detailed information could not be revealed for obvious reasons, because further disclosure would have negated the whole point of the exercise.
The media were apparently happy with this explanation. All the television channels showed footage of the exercise, but mainly because they were good images in a time of news drought. A representative of the rapid-response unit was interviewed, and explained in general terms what they were doing.
‘We conduct exercises all the time,’ he said. ‘And it’s in the nature of the beast that some of our exercises involve people and targets that mean they can’t always be concealed from the general public. Unfortunately this is unavoidable, and naturally we can only apologize if we alarmed anyone unnecessarily. We did consider evacuating local residents, but because that’s a different sort of exercise, and one that is principally the domain of the regular police, we decided against it.’
And with this the matter was put to bed. People from the highways agency, overseen by uniformed police officers, cleaned up fragments of glass from the lawn and street in front of police headquarters, the uniformed officers removed the cordons with the help of the highways agency, and everything returned to normal. The weather had been just the same as it had been throughout this remarkable summer. Between twenty and thirty degrees in the shade, from early morning to late in the evening.
46
Växjö, Monday 4 August
FOR THE INVESTIGATING team, the week began peacefully, in an almost academic atmosphere. During the morning meeting Enoksson ran through the latest forensic results from the National Forensics Lab and the other experts they had approached.
The fingerprints that had been secured at the crime scene had now been examined. Five of them belonged to people who hadn’t yet been identified. One of these sets ought reasonably to belong to the perpetrator, and they also had an idea of which set was the most interesting. But because they weren’t entirely sure, they had run all of the prints through the national police fingerprint register, without getting any matches. Of course this could simply mean that none of the prints belonged to the perpetrator and that he was still in the register.
Ten pubic hairs, two strands of body hair, and several strands of head hair belonged to the perpetrator. The DNA results left no room for doubt on that point. Other forensic tests on the hairs, blood and sperm had contributed additional information about the perpetrator they were trying to find.
‘That idea that he may have dabbled in various drugs turns out to be pretty accurate,’ Enoksson said. The head hairs had contained traces of cannabis. Because it looked as though the killer hadn’t cut his hair for a couple of months – medium length dark blond hair with no trace of grey, and possibly the most common cut for Växjö men who weren’t too old – they were able to hazard a guess at his pattern of consumption.
‘He doesn’t seem to have been a particularly frequent user. According to the expert I spoke to at the National Lab, maybe once every two or three weeks, something like that. Definitely not a heavy user.’ Enoksson shrugged his shoulders. ‘Besides, it looks like he had rather more strings to his bow. Tests have found traces of stimulants in the blood he left behind, even though there wasn’t much of it. In this sort of context, I mean. So that’s really not bad.’
‘So, someone who smokes hash now and then, and also uses amphetamines, if I’ve understood correctly,’ Lewin said.
‘Yes,’ Enoksson said. ‘Although I’d prefer to say that he uses both, because there are various ways of taking hash and amphetamines. Administering the dose, as medical doctors usually say. In other words, we’ve got someone who consumes cannabis between once a month and once a week, and he probably does so by smoking hash and/or marijuana. That’s the most common method of consumption, especially among infrequent users, but of course there are other ways, as I’m sure many of you are aware.’
‘What about the amphetamines?’ Lewin prompted.
‘Same reservations there,’ Enoksson said. ‘Amphetamine or some other general stimulant. There are a number of closely related products on the market. He could have injected it, eaten it, or even drunk it. According to the lab, he doesn’t seem to have been a frequent user of that either. If our friends in Linköping had to hazard a guess, they reckon he consumes this sort of thing in roughly the same way he consumes cannabis. Every now and then, in which case the most usual method would be either eating the tablets or crushing them up in liquid and drinking it.’
‘Doesn’t sound like your usual junkie,’ Bäckström declared contentedly. ‘He’s never had to give his fingerprints to the friendly local police, he only takes drugs now and then, and he’s got the same sort of haircut that normal men have.’
‘Doubtless, Bäckström, doubtless,’ Enoksson said. ‘But on the other hand, he does seem to use both cannabis and general stimulants. As far as his fingerprints are concerned, we can’t rule out the possibility that we haven’t found his, although I personally doubt that. And then there’s the biggest problem: what he did to Linda. So I don’t think we can say that he’s that normal.’
‘Fish or fowl. That’s the question,’ Olsson said, nodding solemnly.
‘Neither, if you ask me,’ Enoksson said drily. ‘I’ve actually saved the most interesting thing till last. Oh, yes.’ He was evidently delighted when he saw the looks on the faces of his audience. ‘This’ll give you something to get stuck into.’
On the sill and frame of the window they had found traces of fibre. A pale-blue fabric which, according to the experts at the National Lab, probably came from a thin sweater. The structure of the fibre, its thickness and other properties, indicated the sort of sweater that was thin enough for someone to wear at least during the evening in the sort of weather that currently prevailed in Växjö and much of the rest of Sweden without getting heatstroke. And it was far from a common sort of fabric.
‘This is no ordinary sweater,’ Enoksson said. ‘The fibres we’re talking about are a blend, fifty per cent cashmere and fifty per cent another highly exclusive variety of wool. According to the lab, we’re talking about a top that would cost several thousand kronor in the shops. Maybe more than that if it was a particular
ly exclusive brand.’
‘That almost sounds like the sort of thing Linda could have been given by her father,’ Sandberg said hesitantly. ‘That couldn’t be how they got there? Your fibres, I mean.’
‘That she could have hung it out to dry, or to air?’ Enoksson said.
‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Sandberg said. ‘Typical female thinking. Ever think of that, lads?’ she asked, looking at her colleagues round the table.
‘Well, the top wasn’t found in the flat,’ Enoksson said. ‘And there were also traces of blood on a couple of the fibres we found on the windowsill. It remains to be seen if the perpetrator borrowed it from Linda or her mother, and in that case what he did with his own top, assuming he wasn’t bare-chested to start with. Elementary, my dear Watson.’ Enoksson nodded towards Olsson.
‘We ought to be able to find that out,’ Bäckström said, nodding in turn towards Rogersson. ‘And if it’s his own sweater, it sounds like the sort of thing it might be possible to track down.’
‘If he actually bought it,’ Olsson said doubtfully. ‘If we’re talking about the sort of person described by your colleagues in the CP group in their profile, then he probably stole it from somewhere.’
‘Precisely, Olsson,’ Bäckström said. ‘I quite agree with you. If he didn’t steal it, or just grab it from a washing line somewhere, he probably found it on the beach when he was on holiday in Thailand. When you’re dealing with a proper murder case, you have to make the best of things.’
