Sunday Morning

Sjöberg discovered, to his disappointment, that the paperboy had failed to show up that morning. He had to be content with yesterday’s Aftonbladet, which he had not had time to read. He sat at the kitchen table trying to read the paper while he ate his own breakfast and helped his twin sons to swallow their little sandwiches and yogurt without too much catastrophe. The other children were sitting in front of the TV watching a rerun of last night’s children’s programme, while Åsa was in the shower. During half a minute of peace, while both boys were chewing their liverwurst sandwiches at the same time and in silence, he was able to skim an article inside the paper, which on the placards had been marketed with the headline ‘Party-Going Friend Brutally Murdered’:

‘A forty-four-year-old woman, Carina Ahonen Gustavsson, was found on Friday evening murdered in her home, a remote estate in the Sigtuna area. The woman was discovered at ten o’clock by her husband when he returned from a trip abroad. She had been brutally assaulted and killed with a knife. The time of the crime has not yet been established, and the police have made no statement concerning a possible perpetrator.’

The majority of the story was taken up, however, by an interview with an old acquaintance and B-list celebrity, who told about her friendship with the murdered woman twenty years earlier.

Christoffer put an elbow in his bowl and yogurt splashed in all directions. Jonathan laughed encouragingly at his brother, and Sjöberg gave up his attempt to read the newspaper and devoted his attention to the children instead. He felt a nagging worry taking hold in his gut, but had neither time nor energy to figure out what it was that disturbed his otherwise good Sunday mood. He finished breakfast as quickly as he could and went to shave.

As he was standing in front of the mirror with the razor against his cheek, he noticed that his hand was still not completely steady. Once again he had woken up in the small hours, damp with sweat, heart pounding, and made his way to the bathroom to shake off the horrid dream. Or was it so horrid … ? The dream itself was not terrible per se, but that was how he experienced it. And as it went on, it had become horrid in more ways than one. Since the woman in the window had assumed Margit Olofsson’s form, he had started to doubt his reason. Good Lord, he was living with the world’s most marvellous woman, and nothing could get him to leave Åsa. No woman in the world could compete with her and he loved her with all his heart.

But yet … the dream now felt almost erotic, and he caught himself again and again feeling a kind of longing for that dream figure. Margit. Olofsson. It was sick. She was quite nice-looking though. She had amazingly beautiful hair, that was undeniable, but she was rather heavy and much older than Åsa. She had grown-up children, even grandchildren. A charming and open manner, of course, but he had barely spoken to her. In terms of appearance, Åsa beat her by several lengths. Yet this woman aroused something inside him that he could not put his finger on. Something enticing and warm, but which still made him shudder with discomfort.

Hamad was almost euphoric when Sjöberg called and told him about his discovery.

‘That’s just what we said!’ he exclaimed. ‘We knew it the whole time! How’d you figure it out?’

‘The dialect,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I noticed that Gun Vannerberg had the same accent as a policeman I heard being interviewed on TV the other day. About that murder in Katrineholm, you know. There was a woman who was drowned in a tub of water.’

‘And?’

‘It struck me that Katrineholm was not a city that had been mentioned in the investigation in any way. On the other hand, the name Österåker had come up. I found Katrineholm on a map and there it was – Österåker! A small village, or township or whatever, about twenty miles outside Katrineholm. Ingrid Olsson lived in the small community of Österåker outside Katrineholm, not the Österåker outside Stockholm. Hans Vannerberg had her as a preschool teacher in Katrineholm, and Gun Vannerberg has now confirmed that. The reason she didn’t mention the city before was that she grew up there, so it was not a place she had moved to, but simply from. It fell between the cracks, so to speak. I went to see Pia Vannerberg too. She pointed out Hans on one of the pictures.’

‘Oh, hell. Have you talked with Ingrid Olsson about it?’

‘No, she’s been on a Finland cruise with Margit Olofsson and her family, so I haven’t been able to reach her. She’s moving back home today, so I thought we could have a chat with her now. If you feel like dragging yourself in, even though it’s Sunday?’

‘Of course. It will be a pleasure.’

His colleague’s youthful enthusiasm was a relief, but Sjöberg could still not quite get rid of an irritating sense of discomfort.

Yesterday’s fresh breeze had died down, but in return the temporary sunshine had once again disappeared behind a thick mantle of threatening clouds. Sjöberg took a detour to pick up Hamad, outside his apartment in one of the buildings on Ymsenvägen in Årsta, before they made their way to the familiar old wooden house in Gamla Enskede.

It was Margit Olofsson who opened the door. Sjöberg was quite unprepared for this and reacted with an embarrassed smile that he felt was unbecoming. She greeted them happily and beckoned them in. Sjöberg felt that she could read him like an open book, but convinced himself that he most likely had the mental advantage. He adopted a preoccupied expression and tossed out, as though in passing, some words of praise about her concern for her former patient. Margit Olofsson sparkled back and informed them that Ingrid Olsson herself was upstairs unpacking her bag. The two policemen made their way up the narrow stairway and, to their surprise, found the elderly woman perched on a chair in the bedroom. They saw no sign of a crutch and Sjöberg drew the reassuring conclusion that Ingrid Olsson had been in good hands during her rehabilitation. They did not expect a smile, but she greeted them courteously and got down from the chair when they entered the room. They sat down on her bed and Sjöberg explained that there were a few questions they needed answers to.

‘For one thing,’ he said, ‘I wonder whether the Österåker where you told us you lived before you moved here is the Österåker in Södermanland, outside Katrineholm?’

‘Of course,’ she said, sounding surprised. ‘Was there anything unclear about that?’

‘No,’ said Sjöberg, a little embarrassed, ‘I guess it was more that, as a Stockholmer, I assumed you came from the Österåker just outside the city. That was careless of me, I admit, but it’s good to get that cleared up at last.’

‘Does that have any significance –?’

Sjöberg interrupted her with yet another question.

‘If I’ve understood things correctly, you worked as a teacher at a preschool in Katrineholm?’

‘That’s right. Forest Hill was its name.’

Sjöberg removed the envelope with photos from his jacket pocket and searched for the picture from 1968/’69.

‘Do you recognize anyone in this picture?’ asked Sjöberg.

Ingrid Olsson took the photo and held it so far from her that her arms were almost straight.

‘No. Good Lord, this must be forty years old. Well, I recognize myself naturally, but there is no way I would recognize any of the children.’

‘No?’ Sjöberg asked doubtfully.

‘No, never.’

She turned over the picture and confirmed her assumption about the age of the photograph.

‘1968. That wasn’t exactly yesterday.’

Her eyes swept over the black-and-white picture and stopped on one of the children.

‘But this girl I actually do remember,’ she corrected herself, pointing at the smiling little girl with light-blonde braids and a neat dress in the upper right-hand corner. ‘I’m quite sure her name was Carina Ahonen.’

Something clicked for Sjöberg and he tried feverishly to recall where he recognized that name from, but without success.

‘A real little jewel,’ Ingrid Olsson continued, and Sjöberg noticed that, for the first time, the old woman was almost showing emotion. ‘She had a very lovely singing voice, I recall, and she was so sweet and nice.’

‘No one else?’ Sjöberg coaxed, feeling a vague sense of unease.

‘No, no one else.’

‘This is Hans Vannerberg,’ said Sjöberg, pointing at the little boy in the middle of the picture. ‘He was the man you found murdered in your kitchen.’

He watched her face, trying to read her reaction. Hamad too looked at her with tense expectation.

‘No, I don’t recognize him,’ she answered, shaking her head. ‘He looks like a real little scamp, and I didn’t have much patience for them, I can tell you that,’ she said, pursing her lips.

After trying unsuccessfully to get Ingrid Olsson to recognize any of the other children in the picture, or even to remember anything concerning this particular class, they felt compelled to leave her. Their theory had been completely confirmed, even though Ingrid Olsson’s surprising lack of any memory of these children made their work more difficult.

When they came back downstairs, Hamad stuck his head into the kitchen and called out a cheerful ‘Thanks’ to Margit Olofsson. Sjöberg, half-hidden by his colleague, shuddered all over and mumbled something inaudible in farewell, without looking in her direction.

‘What do we do now?’ Hamad asked in the car, as they were leaving Åkerbärsvägen and turning on to one of the equally idyllic small cross streets.

‘We have to find out the names of these children. Look them up and see whether there’s anyone who remembers anything. What do you think about Ingrid Olsson?’

‘Strange woman,’ said Hamad. ‘It doesn’t seem to bother her particularly that a person was murdered in her home. One of her old pupils, at that. The only thing she had to say about him was that he looked like a scamp and she clearly didn’t like that. More or less as if it served him right to be murdered, because he looked mischievous in a picture from 1968. Remembers nothing. Well, besides Carina Ahonen, of course. She was apparently teacher’s pet. What do you think?’

‘One got that impression,’ Sjöberg muttered, trying once again to remember in what context he had heard that name before.

Then his mobile rang. It was twelve o’clock and just as Sjöberg answered, the heavens opened and it started to snow heavily, but neither of them noticed that. It was Mia on the phone, Sjöberg’s sister-in-law.

‘Thanks for the other night!’ said Sjöberg. ‘It was a heavy but pleasant evening. And then winning that game to top it off.’

‘It’s called hospitality,’ Mia said jokingly, but her voice had a tinge of seriousness and she quickly changed the subject. ‘Listen, Conny, I don’t know if this has any significance, but I thought I should call you right away, to be on the safe side.’

‘Yes?’

Sjöberg listened intently to his sister-in-law’s somewhat incoherent description of her realization.

‘You asked me last Friday if I knew anything about that woman in Katrineholm. You know, the one who was murdered earlier in the week, Lise-Lott Nilsson.’

‘Yes, what about her?’

‘Well, I didn’t recognize her at all, as you no doubt recall. Did she have anything to do with your investigation?’

‘No,’ said Sjöberg impatiently. ‘I was just curious in general. What about it?’

‘Well, you see now … I don’t want you to think I’m silly or sensationalist.’

‘Out with it. What is this all about?’

Sjöberg could feel, without knowing why, the tension churning inside him, and his heart started beating faster.

‘There was a woman murdered on Friday too.’

‘Yes?’

‘And I recognized her. A forty-four-year-old woman from … it wasn’t in the paper. There it said she was from Sigtuna, but I know that originally she was from Katrineholm. Her name was Carina Ahonen.’

Sjöberg braked abruptly, without bothering to check in the rearview mirror first. Fortunately, there was no one behind him. He felt as if his heart had stopped, and he just sat gaping with the phone in his hand for several moments. Hamad stared at him excitedly, not understanding a word of what was being said on the phone.

‘Hello?’ said Mia. ‘Are you still there?’

‘Thanks, Mia,’ said Sjöberg when he had caught his breath. ‘That was incredibly important information. I’ll call you later.’

He ended the call and put the phone back in his inside pocket. Hamad was still looking at him, wide-eyed.

‘What’s this all about?’ he said at last.

‘I don’t know,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I have to think.’

‘You’re in the middle of the road,’ Hamad informed him.

‘I know. Wait a little.’

‘Come on now! Who was that?’

‘It was my sister-in-law, Mia. She said that Carina Ahonen was murdered …’

‘Carina Ahonen? But that was her, damn it – the teacher’s pet!’ Hamad exclaimed. ‘How did she know that?’

‘I knew it too. I just didn’t make the connection. It’s been gnawing at me all morning.’

Sjöberg seemed clearer now and his voice was controlled, but eager.

‘Hans Vannerberg, aged forty-four, from Katrineholm is murdered two weeks ago in the house of his preschool teacher, Ingrid Olsson. Yesterday, another of her old preschool students from the same group was murdered, Carina Ahonen. The other day, another forty-four-year-old woman from Katrineholm, Lise-Lott Nilsson, was murdered – the one drowned in the tub of water, as I mentioned. I’d lay odds she’s somewhere in that picture, too. And perhaps there are even more. Three murdered forty-four-year-olds in two weeks, all from Katrineholm. Jamal,’ said Sjöberg, emphasizing each syllable, ‘I think we’re on the trail of a serial killer.’

‘You’re joking,’ said Hamad, without thinking for a moment that he was. ‘A serial murderer? You’re out of your mind! How many of those have there been in Sweden?’

‘Not many, but we have one here, I’m convinced of it.’

Were there other victims? He remembered something he’d read, but he could not think what it was. Would there be more? Now it was crucial to act quickly. He retrieved his phone from his inside pocket again and entered Sandén’s number; at the same time he ordered a perplexed Hamad to call Petra Westman and Einar Eriksson. Hamad did as he was told while Sandén answered Sjöberg’s call.

‘Hi, Jens, it’s Conny. Be at the office in half an hour; something has turned up.’

He ended the call immediately, then phoned Hadar Rosén and left the same brief message. Then he started the car again and drove quickly back to the police station, while Hamad informed Eriksson and Westman about the hastily summoned meeting.