THE BEDROOM WAS WELL LIT. ‘Don’t cry’ by Guns N’ Roses was playing at full volume in the living room. Kim had just stepped out of the shower and was standing in front of the open closet with a skirt in one hand and a dress in the other. Humming softly and moving to the music they looked over at a pile of assorted clothes on the bed. As usual, Kim didn’t know what to wear. It was always the same problem. They held the dress against their body. The person reflected in the mirror appeared to be in their thirties with an attractive feminine figure, short, jet-black hair and a delicate oval face with gentle clear blue eyes that didn’t miss a thing. The white towel wrapped around their body fell to the floor. As they slipped on their underwear – red briefs and a matching corset that pushed up their breasts – they wiggled their bottom in time to the music
“Not too bad!”
Kim leaned into the mirror. The anguish was etched onto their face and they looked older than their actual age of twenty-five.
“Who the hell are you? I don’t recognize you.”
Kim shrugged their shoulders nonchalantly.
There was no time for more anxiety attacks and self-reproach. Enough was enough. God knows, too many tears had already been spilled.
Kim would be leaving in a few minutes and, despite what the evening held in store, they felt calm. Singing and dancing in circles they spun towards the elegant antique vanity table, inherited from their Grandmother. On top was a wigstand with three hairpieces as well as the spilled contents of an empty wash bag, including make-up, nail polish and hair brushes. . Kim inspected their false nails and smiled. There was no hurry. Everything must be exactly right. They ran their hand through their short, cropped hair and contemplated the wigs.
Copper red would have been perfect but they used that one last time and it had already been disposed of.
One of the most important rules, and one which must never be broken, was to get rid of the clothes and accessories used during the killings. The only exception was the equipment, which was placed into secure storage after being thoroughly cleaned.
Three uneventful months had passed since the last murder, but from now on events were scheduled to proceed at a faster pace.
The murder on Ingarö had aroused such a storm of media attention that the men must surely be on the defensive by now. However, worrying about that was just a waste of energy. Far better to let events take their natural course. It was crucial to be unrecognizable, even to their mother.
Kim turned up the volume on the stereo and listened to the sound of ‘Paradise City’ by Guns N’ Roses thundering through the room.
They reached for the blond wig.
Perfect.
Kim rummaged inside a drawer and selected a pair of black stay ups, then perched on the end of the bed and admired their smooth long legs before slipping on the stockings, making sure that the vertices were positioned correctly on their thigh.
Damn it! One of their nails pierced the fabric and a huge ladder appeared. Kim removed the stockings and threw them onto the floor in frustration.
Eventually, although it was hard to squeeze into, Kim decided on a tight black dress.
They stood in front of the mirror and admired themselves.
Something wasn’t right. Kim tore off the wig.
Long hair – that was the problem. It could get tangled. They decided on the other blond wig instead.
After the extended period of time spent surveying Subject number 6 Kim was well in control of the situation. He was a creature of habit and always followed the same routine. On Mondays he went home directly after work; on Tuesdays he went to the gym and stayed there for two hours before going home; on Wednesdays he worked late into the evening and then went straight to a pub in Vasastan.
The pattern never altered. He usually left the pub at around two in the morning and if he hadn’t managed to persuade some woman to follow him home he would head off towards Malmskillnadsgatan to find a prostitute.
But tonight his routine was going to change. This time it was Kim who was going to run the show.
Still swaying to the music they looked in the mirror and smiled seductively. They glanced at the clock. Time to get moving, or he might meet somebody else and the plan would be ruined. Kim glanced hurriedly inside the fashionable black rucksack. Everything was there, including the Taser – an electric shock pistol, which, according to the product description, was capable of discharging more than 100,000 volts.
Kim slung the rucksack over their shoulder and made their way down the stairs, carefully locking the security gate and front door behind them.
Half way down the stairs they turned around and ran back upstairs. They let themselves into the apartment again to retrieve an old mobile and SIM card from the desk in the bedroom.
WHEN KIM ARRIVED at the pub the time was twelve fifteen. It was a warm autumn night and the full moon shone brightly overhead. A group of smokers stood outside; some were chatting among themselves while others gazed at their phone screens. Kim scanned the crowd and zoomed in on one particular man who was standing alone and just about to light up.
A smile flickered across Kim’s lips. They patted their hair coquettishly and pushed their way through the crowd.
Showtime!
They placed a cigarette between their lips. Another man who was standing nearby pulled out a lighter.
“Thanks but I’ve changed my mind…” said Kim, smiling politely but finding it difficult to disguise their irritation over the unwelcome intrusion. They quickly turned their attention back to their target – the man they planned to spend the rest of the night with.
Kim began to sidle towards him. At that moment his phone rang. While he was speaking he became noticeably agitated. After hanging up he switched off his phone, lit a cigarette and took a long puff then stubbed it out and walked off.
Bastard! Over to Plan B.
KIM SKULKED IN A DOORWAY opposite Subject number 6’s apartment building and stared up at his window. Although it was three thirty in the morning and he had returned home ages ago, his lights were still on. Kim planned to stick it out. After visiting the pub he usually took his time before going to bed.
Suddenly, there was the sound of thumping music and a car full of rowdy men screeched to a halt in front of the doorway.
“Hey babe! Do you want to join us?” shouted one of the men.
Kim glowered at him.
“I’m built like a horse if you’re in the mood,” boasted another man, leaning out of the window.
Kim fished out the Taser and waved it at them. “Watch out, I’ve got a very short fuse!”
“Oh fuck, I’m so scared!” he said. The group shrieked with laughter and sped away.
Kim’s face went ashen. Shaking, they took long, deep breaths and tried to regain their composure. The seeds of doubt had taken root again. They glanced at their watch, then up at the man’s window. His lights had been out for more than fifteen minutes. Kim decided to wait a bit longer.
After a few minutes, Kim crossed the road, making sure nobody was following them. They picked the front door lock and climbed up the stairs to the top floor. The building was quiet. Kim paused outside the man’s door and knocked gently.
No answer.
They knocked again. Nothing. Kim picked the lock and crept in, clutching the Taser. They peered behind the door. The coast was clear. After removing their shoes they continued into the bedroom.
The man lay on the bed snoring loudly.
Kim aimed the Taser and fired. His body jerked upwards then slumped down again.
Suddenly, there was the sound of whispering and laughter in the stairwell. Kim froze. They scanned the room for a place to hide, first opening a closet door then bending down to look under the bed. The last option was the bathroom. Kim glanced at the door nervously – what was going on?
Each second felt like several minutes.
Kim could hear the sound of heavy breathing and giggling outside the front door. Time was ticking past and Subject 6 could regain consciousness at any moment.
It definitely wasn’t Kim’s day. They couldn’t just stand there waiting for the pair to decide whether or not to come in. Through the peephole Kim could see a man and a woman making out; he had his hand between the woman’s legs and she was pulling up her skirt and moaning and clasping her legs around his hips.
Goddamn it! Were they going to fuck in the hallway?
Kim returned to the bedroom. Subject 6 was still out of it. To hell with the normal routine. The couple outside appeared to be in a state of oblivion but Kim couldn’t risk arousing the curiosity of potential witnesses.
Kim lifted one of the pillows from under the man’s head and pressed it over his face.
He thrashed his arms and legs wildly, frantically rocking his body back and forth. Where on earth did he find the strength to retaliate? Just a moment ago he had been completely unconscious.
Kim bore down heavily with the pillow, eventually managing to restrain the man by sitting astride him. He was still inebriated and unable to struggle for long.
Sweating profusely, both from exhaustion and because the wig had slipped off and was hanging over their face, Kim continued to bear downwards until his body went limp and they were sure he had stopped breathing.
Kim flopped onto the edge of the bed. It felt as if their heart had jumped up into their throat.
The man lay lifeless.
It was eerily silent. The couple outside must have gone by now but Kim needed time to recover from the exertion. The bed looked like a battlefield and there were blonde hairs strewn all over the sheets.
For the first time, Kim had been tempted to call it off. They put the wig back on, took a deep breath and started to collect the loose hair strands.
Half an hour later Kim was finally ready to continue according to the normal routine. They pulled off the duvet cover and discovered that he was naked already “Good, at least I don’t need to undress you. But I’m still going to insert a little message into your cock. We mustn’t forget that, must we?”
Afterwards, Kim stood back and contemplated their work then covered him again with the bedclothes.
They could almost imagine Subject 6 was sleeping peacefully without a care in the world.
The night had been full of unwelcome surprises and Kim had been forced to deviate from the standard routine. At least they had only used essential equipment.
Gentle rays of sunlight burst through the window into the bedroom. The street outside was quiet and calm. Kim returned to the hallway and looked through the peephole. To be on the safe side they waited another minute or two, listening carefully, before opening the door and leaving the building unseen.
THE MUSIC WAS PLAYING AT FULL VOLUME and the melancholic soprano tones filled the room. Sanna was listening to ‘Dido’s lament – when I am laid in earth’, a track from one of her favourite albums, ‘Opera to Die For’. The boxing bag swung back and forth pendulously as she punched it and kicked it. The air was clammy and perspiration trickled down her forehead, neck and breasts. She grimaced and bent down to catch her breath. It had been an intensive one-hour workout. She gulped down the contents of a water bottle and wiped off the sweat with a towel, which was already damp after the long training session.
Sanna’s mobile rang. It was the only phone she had at the moment. Following a litany of complaints from friends who could never get hold of her, she had discontinued her fixed line subscription. She glanced at the screen. It was an unknown number. She decided not to answer.
Sanna rarely had the opportunity to enjoy a quiet evening in. She took off her boxing gloves, stretched her arms into the air with the palms of her hands turned upwards and went to the bathroom to run herself a long hot bath.
The new apartment was roomier than her old one and suited her better. As well as a balcony she now also had the bathtub she had always longed for.
Sanna turned on the tap and poured in some bath salts and a little bath oil as well as a few drops of her favourite perfume. After lighting some candles and selecting one of her favourite songs on Spotify, she lowered herself into the tub. She closed her eyes and dozed off almost immediately, delighting in the sensual pleasure of the warm water against her skin.
Half an hour later Sanna slipped into a flannel bathrobe and walked over to the living room window. She looked up at the star-studded sky, humming a melody to herself. She was in a great mood. After preparing herself a chai latte she carried it outside onto the balcony, which faced the inner courtyard. She adjusted the chair into a reclining position, sat down and leaned back.
Autumn was coming to an end and there was an unusual stillness to the evening. Sanna was surprised to see that her flowers were bravely trying to bloom again. She held the hot drink in her hands and sipped it carefully. The aroma of cinnamon and cloves filled the air. She put on her headphones and raised the volume on her iPhone to listen to Carmina Burana’s ‘Sors immanis’.
She was in the middle of a bewildering investigation and needed to rest and clear her head. Occasions like this when she could steal time for herself were rare and she was determined to savour the moment. She lifted her legs onto the table and took a few deep breaths of the clear night air, then closed her eyes and dozed off to the sound of the soothing music.
Suddenly, the door to the courtyard opened and four barking dogs charged outside followed by their master. Sanna opened her eyes and sat up. She lowered the volume on her phone.
Her thoughts drifted back to work. Throughout the entire investigation so far she had forced herself to keep an open mind. It was easy to get fixated on a particular theory and subconsciously try to shape each new piece of information to fit. Even though it was hard to get her head around the possibility of the killer being a woman she wanted to thoroughly re-examine the material to make sure her assumptions weren’t misguided.
Sanna absentmindedly sipped her lukewarm chai latte.
She brooded over the ritualistic nature of the murders. There were clear signature components and the modus operandi was always the same. Obviously, the killer was keen to ensure that their actions were not confused with those of another murderer. It was hard to keep an open mind. Although nothing in criminology linked this type of approach to a particular gender, she couldn’t ignore the glaring statistics affirming that sexual serial killers were seldom, if ever women.
Why do you always leave a hair strand at the crime scene? Sanna stared into her mug as if the answer was hidden inside. What if you’re trying to tell us that you are, in fact, a woman? Or a cross-dresser? Or maybe you’re taunting us, safe in the knowledge that we’ll never find you since you never show us the real you when you’re on your killing sprees.
She was bombarded by unanswered questions.
What did they do to you? Why do you disinfect your victims’ penises and insert letters inside?
Sanna sighed. She still couldn’t help concluding that the killer was a man.
She went back inside to fetch a notebook and pen and returned to the balcony and began to write:
– Sexual abuse?
– Revenge?
The answer must lie with the members of the group. They must know what was going on and why.
– Question all the members of the shooting club.
A wilted, white clematis blossom floated onto the floor of the balcony. She bent down to pick it up and her thoughts turned to her sister, Malin. One day, long ago, Sanna had plucked the first three white blossoms of the season to give to her. Remembering Malin was still painful.
She leaned back on the chair, raised the volume on her iPhone and closed her eyes to the sound of Sarah Brightman singing: Anytime, anywhere.
THE LIGHT GLOWED IN THE SECRET ROOM. Kim was reviewing the plans again. This time they needed to be better prepared. It was always hard to foresee what might happen – that was part of the game. Nevertheless, every detail would have to be examined and re-examined. On the whiteboard, Kim moved some of the post-it notes around, changing the order of the remaining Subjects. Afterwards, she reached for a black file on the bookshelf and opened the section headed: “Completed Subjects”.
They crossed out number 6.
Recently Kim had been feeling less and less guilty. They were single-minded in their determination to achieve their immediate goal, which was to move on to the next Subject and complete the entire project.
AS SHE LISTENED TO Allan Jonsson talk about his home life, Cecile Thorén’s good mood evaporated. Although she had suspected something was wrong it was a shock to hear that things were this bad.
“Why do you stay?”
As he struggled to contain his emotions he found it hard to keep focus on the road ahead.
“You must document your injuries. Have you done that?”
No answer.
A stream of cars overtook them, flashing their lights in irritation as they sped past.
“Pull over and I’ll drive!” said Thorén.
“No!”
“Yes! Stop the car. I’ll drive,” insisted Thorén.
He finally relented.
She was furious, sad too. She couldn’t just close her eyes and continue as if everything was normal. This wasn’t the first time she had heard stories of men being subject to domestic abuse but it was the first time it had involved one of her friends. In the short time they had been working together they had developed a close friendship and now she found herself in a dilemma. She couldn’t tell anyone about Allan’s situation. She could only do her best to be there for him and provide emotional support.
Allan pulled over onto a slip road.
He looked downcast. Thorén walked around the car and jumped into the driver’s seat.
Her head was spinning. She didn’t know how to begin to make sense of the situation. If only he would open up and tell her everything. It was hard to imagine that a well built, physically fit man who also happened to be a police officer could be a victim of abuse.
“Allan, I just want you to know that I’m here for you. Remember, you can always talk to me,” she said.
He nodded and ran his fingers through his closely cropped hair, forcing a smile.
SAMIR MOHAMED ENTERED Sanna Johansson’s office and handed her a piece of paper. Judging from his expression, it was important.
She read the message.
“… Anonymous. When did this arrive?”
“In the morning post. It looks like internal correspondence. There’s no stamp. I asked the receptionist who delivered the letter but she was pretty sure that the envelope was lying on the counter when she came back from the toilet. Since there was no address she opened it and sent it to me for registration and further handling.”
Sanna looked at the message again. It was made up of words and letters in different colours cut from different newspapers.
‘You’ve got the wrong man! The Ingarö victim died on 7th August at 3 o’clock in the morning. I’ll give you more details… later.’
Sanna’s face drained of colour.
“Who the hell is this?”
“The killer,” replied Mohamed hesitantly. “Don’t you see? He tried to call you but you didn’t answer.”
‘Rang Johansson but she didn’t pick up… pity…’
Sanna was speechless.
“Damn! Somebody rang this weekend from an unknown number … I never answer those calls.”
“Same here.”
“Damn, damn, damn! I can’t believe I missed it!”
The message confirmed her suspicions. She already had a gut feeling that they were holding the wrong man. All she could do was wait and hope the killer would contact her again.
“Look at the surveillance camera recordings from yesterday and today. There must be footage of the person who delivered the letter.”
She picked up the phone.
“Thorén, let the thirty-two year old man go. He’s not our guy.”
“Okay then,” replied Thorén, hesitatingly.
“Wait, don’t let him go yet!” exclaimed Javier as he burst into Sanna’s office. “I just found out that he threatened Berg.”
IT DIDN’T TAKE LONG BEFORE the press began to speculate.
‘The Police are reticent to disclose details about the man who has been arrested. He is suspected of involvement in the series of brutal homosexual murders that have occurred over the last few years. According to our sources the charge is manslaughter or murder.’