ASTRID TUVESSON WALKED AS quickly as she could through the hospital corridor, wishing that the doctor, who was following her like an annoying fly, would be paged and forced to leave her alone.
“This really isn’t a good idea,” he said for the umpteenth time. “Especially considering what happened yesterday.”
“I promise to take it slow.”
“Okay, but in my opinion she’s not strong enough. It is therefore my duty to —”
Tuvesson stopped and turned to face the doctor. “I don’t know how you could have missed this fact, but we are in the middle of an investigation, which has bodies piling up one after the other. For the first time, we have a survivor and if we can help jog her memory then that is my goddamn duty.”
“But why can’t it wait until she —”
“Because another victim could turn up at the morgue, any time. Maybe you’d like to take responsibility if that happens?”
The doctor sighed. “I want to ask her if she’s comfortable with you coming in and questioning her. If she doesn’t want to, it’s a no, okay?”
Tuvesson chose not to respond and kept walking down the corridor. Her patience was gone, and she was bone-tired despite having managed a few hours of sleep while Klippan and Lilja made sure that everyone from the class who claimed to be out of town really had been. All but one of them had been able to provide proof that they were out of the country. According to information given to her team, Seth Kårheden was supposed to be in Spain, but thus far he hadn’t answered his cell. He was also divorced and a bit of a recluse. It was too early to tell whether this meant he was their guy, but either way, he was a suspect.
Tuvesson stopped by the two uniformed cops who were sitting on either side of the entrance. She nodded at them, and one stood up and opened the door to the hospital room where Ingela Ploghed was sitting up in bed, flipping through Hemmets Journal.
“Hi, Ingela, do you remember me? We met yesterday.”
Ingela nodded without looking up from her magazine. Tuvesson took a seat on the chair next to the bed.
“You look like you’re feeling much better today.”
Ingela shrugged.
“Do you remember what we talked about last time I was here?”
Ingela nodded.
“You told me that you were out with some friends, having drinks on the S/S Swea, and all of a sudden you felt like you were under the influence of something other than alcohol. Has anything else come back to you?”
Ingela shook her head but didn’t move her eyes from the knitting pattern in the magazine.
“How would you feel about coming along for a ride in my car? It might help jog your memory.”
Ingela looked up and met Tuvesson’s gaze. “I don’t know.” Her eyes moved to the doctor and back again.
“Ingela, right now you are our best, if not only, chance of identifying and apprehending the man who subjected you to this terrible cruelty.”
“Is it the same person who killed the other people from the class?”
“We don’t know yet. There’s a lot to suggest it’s all one person’s doing, but there are also some things that indicate otherwise. Perhaps with your help, we can get an answer.”
Ingela Ploghed looked down and appeared to vanish back into the world of knitting. Then she closed the magazine and looked up.
*
TUVESSON TURNED ONTO KUNGSTORGET and found an empty spot right in front of the S/S Swea, which was moored broadside to the quay. Ingela Ploghed sat in the passenger seat and looked out at the boat with an expressionless look.
“Are you okay?”
Ingela nodded. Tuvesson climbed out of the car, lifted a wheelchair out of the trunk, unfolded it, and helped Ingela get seated.
“I’ve never been here. Is it a nice place?”
“Sure, I guess it’s... fine.”
“Do you come here often?”
“No, only when I’m out with the girls. It’s sort of become our place.”
Tuvesson pushed the wheelchair across the gangway and into the restaurant. They were met by a man in chef’s uniform, who informed them that the place was closed. She showed him her police badge and explained that they just wanted to look around. The man muttered something about making it quick and vanished into the kitchen.
Ingela pushed herself about in her chair as she looked around the room, which had walls panelled in mahogany and round, shiny brass portholes. Coloured spotlights and speakers were mounted on the ceiling: they were on the dance floor. There was a bar containing rows of liquor bottles along one wall, and a covered blackjack table stood in a corner. This place is shabby and sad, Tuvesson thought, like all nightclubs in daylight.
“Can you tell me a bit about what you remember from the night you were here?”
“I told you everything I remember.”
“Okay, but maybe you can tell me again.”
“We ordered some drinks, and after a while I felt weird and dizzy.”
“Nothing else has come back to you now that we’re here? It doesn’t matter how small. Any little detail can help. Sometimes the tiniest thing is enough to jog all the rest of your memories. What were you wearing, for example?”
”Black jeans and a white blouse, the kind that you sort of tie around your waist.”
“How about your shoes — high heels?”
“I never wear heels. I don’t even know how to walk in them. I was wearing my regular old sandals, like I always do,” Ingela said as she continued to look around.
Tuvesson studied her from a distance. Risk had said Ingela was one of the most well-liked students in his class, and the only one who had stood up for Claes, which must have taken courage and quite a lot of spunk — an image that didn’t fit with the person sitting before her in the least. Aside from the effects of the recent attack, there was something heavy and grey about her entire personality. She looked okay, but her stringy, mousy hair, unfashionable shoes, and makeup-free face suggested that this was a person who had given up.
“Did you have fun? Before things went wrong, I mean.”
“I don’t know if I would call it fun.” Ingela shrugged. “I mostly just go along with whatever my friends want. You have to hold on to the few you have left, after all.”
“Have you lost many friends?”
“Not lost, exactly. But you know how it is: you drift apart, live different lives, and before you know what’s happened it’s been too long to just call and say hi.”
Tuvesson nodded. She was familiar with the problem; she knew exactly what Ingela was talking about. The difference was that new friends showed up in most people’s lives.
“We might as well go. I don’t remember anything else anyway.” Ingela rolled toward the door and Tuvesson helped her across the gangway.
“Do you remember anything about when you left?”
“No, I told you I... hold on...” She stopped the wheelchair in the middle of the gangway and looked down at the water. “It felt like I was going to fall into the water so I held on to the railing with both hands.”
“Like this?” Tuvesson grasped the railing and Ingela nodded. “And then what? What happened next?”
Ingela considerd the question before speaking. “It was blue. The car was blue. A little darker than that one.” She pointed at a blue car driving by.
“So a blue car stopped outside here?”
“No, it was already parked and someone came and helped me. At first he felt strong and safe because I was so scared of falling in the water, but then I got scared of him.”
“Why were you scared?”
“He was holding me so tight. I tried to get away, but he was too powerful and he shoved me into the car.”
“Can you describe him?”
“I never saw his face.”
“What about his body? Tall, fat, or —”
“I don’t know. Normal.”
“His age?”
Ingela thought about it. “Middle-aged, or... I don’t know. But I remember the blue car.”
“You don’t remember the model?”
“No — all cars look the same these days.”
Tuvesson took out her phone and pulled up a relatively recent picture of Seth Kårheden that Klippan had found online, and showed it to Ingela. “Was this him?”
“That’s Seth Kårheden.”
“Yes, I know, but was he the one who helped you into the car?”
“How should I know? I never saw him.”
Tuvesson gave up and wheeled Ingela back to her car. It was time for their next stop.