Dead coach walking

The scent of liniment and decades of sweat hung heavy in the Växjö Vikings’ locker room. It was a smell Inspector Mats Lundström associated with disappointed ambition, a far cry from the polished halls of the university where his son, Johan, was studying economics. Lundström, a solid man in his mid-fifties with a face that had seen too much Swedish gloom, stood over the body and felt a profound sense of waste.

Coach Magnus "Mackan" Andersson lay sprawled on the damp concrete floor, a legend brought low. He was a bull of a man, even in death, his face frozen in an expression of profound surprise. The cause of that surprise was grotesquely obvious: an old, rust-streaked football cleat was embedded in his temple. It stood upright, a grim, metallic parody of Excalibur.

“Not a pretty sight, Mats,” said Constable Pettersson, a young man who still believed in procedure.

“Death seldom is,” Lundström replied, his voice a low rumble. He noted the details. The cleat was antique, a relic from the sixties, not like the modern blades the team used. The locker room was in disarray, but it was the organised chaos of a post-game frenzy. Towels were strewn, benches overturned in celebration or frustration. The Vikings had won their derby match against Kalmar just an hour before.

Lundström’s first interviews were with the team captain, a handsome, serious boy named Viktor, and the star striker, the volatile and talented Tommi.

“Everyone loved Coach,” Viktor insisted, his eyes red-rimmed. “He was like a father.”

“Was he?” Lundström asked, his gaze drifting to Tommi, who was scowling at his expensive boots. “I heard he benched you for the first half, Tommi. For missing a curfew.”

Tommi’s head snapped up. “So? We won, didn’t we? It was a tactical thing. He was tough, but fair.”

The words sounded rehearsed. Lundström filed them away.

The trail led him away from the bright lights of the stadium into the quiet, leafy suburbs of Växjö, where secrets were buried under well-tended lawns. He learned that the beloved Coach Andersson was a man of contradictions. He ran a charity for underprivileged youth, but there were whispers about the charity’s finances. He was a family man, photographed with a smiling wife and two daughters, but Lundström’s source at a local bar mentioned a recent, heated argument with a woman who was not his wife.

The woman was Elsa, the wife of the team’s ageing, alcoholic groundsman, Stig. Lundström found Stig in his potting shed, the air thick with the smell of peat and cheap whiskey. The cleat, Stig confirmed with a trembling hand, was from his own playing days, a trophy he kept on a shelf. He hadn’t even noticed it was missing.

“He was destroying her, you know,” Stig slurred, his eyes bleary with drink and tears. “Magnus. Promised her the world. Just like he promised me a job for life. Liars, the both of them.”

It was a strong motive, but Stig had a cast-iron alibi, he’d been passed out in this very shed during the match, witnessed by half the neighbourhood.

The case seemed to be sinking into the familiar mud of domestic tragedy when Lundström received a call from the forensics lab. There were traces of a rare, high-performance adhesive on the cleat’s rusted studs. It was the same adhesive used to repair modern football boots.

Lundström returned to the locker room, now silent and forensically cleansed. He stood where Andersson had fallen, picturing the scene. The celebratory chaos. The cleat, heavy and sharp. It wasn’t a weapon of passion grabbed in the moment; it was a prop, planted. The rust was a disguise. The murder was premeditated.

He gathered the key players in the school’s trophy room, a hall of echoes and tarnished silver. Viktor, the captain. Tommi, the striker. The stern, efficient chair of the school board, Birgitta, who was also Magnus’s wife. And Elsa, the groundsman’s wife, her face pale with anxiety.

“We’ve been looking at this the wrong way,” Lundström began, his hands clasped behind his back, pacing slowly like a lecturer. “We thought it was a crime of passion. A sudden, violent argument. But the cleat was brought here deliberately. The rust was meant to point us to the past, to an old grudge. To Stig.”

He stopped in front of Birgitta Andersson. “You argued with your husband recently, didn’t you? About money. The charity funds were drying up, and he was getting reckless. He was going to leave you, for Elsa here. A scandal that would have ruined his legacy and your social standing.”

Birgitta’s face was a mask of cold contempt. “This is insulting.”

Lundström turned to Tommi. “And you. You didn’t just miss a curfew. Coach found out you’d taken a bribe to throw the first half. He was going to the board. Your career would be over before it began.”

Tommi looked at the floor, his shoulders slumping.

“And you, Viktor,” Lundström continued, his tone softer. “You knew. You’re a moral young man. You admired the coach, but you were loyal to your team. You were trapped.”

He turned to face them all. “But only one of you had the knowledge to use that specific adhesive. Only one of you had access to the repair kit, and a reason to make this look like a crime from the past, to muddy the waters.”

His eyes settled on the star striker. “Tommi. You’re a craftsman with those boots. You’re always fixing them, customising them. The adhesive is yours. You saw your future crumbling. You took the cleat from Stig’s shed, knowing it would point to him. After the game, in the confusion, you lured Coach to the storage cupboard. You argued. And you killed him. You thought the rust and the old scandal would cover your tracks. But you made one mistake. You’re too good at your job. You fixed the weapon too well.”

Tommi’s defiance collapsed. “He was going to destroy everything!” he cried out, his voice cracking. “It was just a stupid bet! He didn’t have to end me for it!”

As Pettersson led the sobbing boy away, the trophy room fell silent. The legacy of Magnus Andersson was secure, but at a terrible cost.

Later that evening, Lundström sat in his quiet apartment, the silence pressing in. He picked up his phone and dialled the number in England.

“Johan? … It’s your father. … Yes, I’m fine. Just… just wanted to hear your voice. How are your studies?”
The case was closed, but the emptiness remained. Another puzzle solved, another glimpse into the darkness that lay beneath the surface of his quiet Swedish town. He poured a single malt, the peat smoke a welcome ghost in the room, and waited for the night to pass.

End