“NO LUCK SO far. A helicopter equipped with a thermal imaging camera has been searching the area all afternoon, but it hasn’t spotted a thing. No break-ins have been reported in the holiday village. We’ve found no trace whatsoever of the missing boys, but the dog teams are still out there searching. Our theory is that they’ve got another vehicle, but no cars have been reported stolen in the local area in the past twenty-four hours.”
Detective Inspector Erik Lind, head of the search unit, was bouncing gently up and down on the soles of his sturdy boots. He had taken off the thick winter snowsuit he’d been wearing out in Delsjö all day, and he was now facing the Violent Crimes Unit team in full uniform, hands behind his back: a habit from his time spent patrolling the streets of Östra Nordstan a quarter of a century ago. With his cropped grey hair and his sharp pale blue eyes, he looked like the Hollywood template of a Nazi officer. This was far removed from the reality; he was a very likable individual who inspired great trust among his colleagues. If Lind and his team couldn’t find the hit-and-run drivers, no one could.
“Could they have had a getaway car nearby?” Tommy Persson suggested.
Erik Lind considered the possibility for a moment before replying. “It’s not out of the question, but taking the BMW seems to have been an opportunistic crime.”
“Or they were actually looking around Stampen for a car to steal so they could get to the other car. But that seems a bit … far-fetched,” Tommy admitted.
“If they really wanted to get to this hypothetical getaway car, they could have gone by tram,” Birgitta Moberg-Rauhala pointed out.
Which was perfectly true. And Tommy was right: his suggestion was far-fetched. According to his theory, the thieves would have stolen the car on Stampgatan, then run down and killed a pedestrian outside the TV studios on Delsjövägen, shattering the windshield in the collision and making the car virtually unusable. By pure chance they must have had another car in the area where the accident happened; it had to have been parked close by so they could reach it on foot. After that they had managed to continue their flight and disappear without a trace. The theory didn’t hold water, but at the same time it could explain why they had chosen Delsjövägen as their escape route. At the moment they couldn’t afford to rule out any hypothesis completely, Irene realized.
“According to CSI, conditions around the side road and the root cellar are extremely challenging. They’ve found a whole bunch of tire tracks on the road, but it’s difficult to identify them. The ground is frozen solid, and there’s no snow. And a large number of police officers and dogs trampled around the place where the girl’s body was found. It’s fair to say that CSI isn’t happy,” Lind stated dryly.
“No trace of the killer?” Superintendent Andersson asked.
“Not that I’ve heard.”
Hannu Rauhala slipped in through the door and sat down on the empty chair next to Irene. He reached into his pocket and fished out a key ring from the depths of his padded jacket.
“They fit,” he whispered so that only she could hear.
Irene felt her heart give an extra beat. Their suspicions were now confirmed: the victim of the hit-and-run was Torleif Sandberg. A colleague whom many people in the room had met and gotten to know. The hunt for these two car thieves would be intense. You don’t get away with killing a cop. They would soon realize that.
“I’ll let you know if I have any news,” Erik Lind said, marching toward the door.
It very nearly smacked him in the face. Professor Yvonne Stridner rushed into the room as Erik Lind was leaving at the same high velocity. The collision was as violent as it was inevitable. Neither of the parties involved was the type to go for lengthy apologies, so the atmosphere by the door was a little tense until Lind managed to extricate himself. Professor Stridner’s face was bright red by the time she reached Superintendent Andersson. No one dared smile. You just didn’t smile at the Professor of Forensic Medicine.
“So rude! Crashing into people …!” Stridner broke off her indignant tirade and took a deep breath. “As I have to catch a train to Stockholm from Central Station in an hour, I thought I might as well swing by to give you my preliminary report on the murder victim. My colleague, Dr. Amirez, will be conducting the autopsy on the girl tomorrow afternoon. So far we have carried out only a visual examination, but I felt it was important to let you know what I have seen.
“First of all, she looks much younger than she probably is. Her exact height is one hundred and thirty-six centimeters, and her weight is twenty-eight kilos, or just over sixty-one pounds. A skinny little girl with small breasts and sparse pubic hair. Cracks at the corners of the mouth and lesions in and around the mouth indicate malnutrition and a lack of vitamins and minerals. Poor dental hygiene and several examples of untreated cavities. However, the development of the teeth suggests she is around thirteen years old. The forensic dentist was in the department on another matter, and I asked him to take a look. He noticed that her molars had come through. Tomorrow he will take X-rays of her teeth, and we will also X-ray the skeleton in order to establish her age.”
The professor paused for breath and pushed up her luxuriant red hair with her fingertips. The short, light brown suede jacket looked elegant with the black pencil skirt. As usual she was wearing sky-high heels; this time it was a pair of designer leather boots in exactly the same shade as the jacket. Yvonne Stridner always dressed to make herself look taller and slimmer than she was.
“Her vagina is in a very bad state. There are clear signs of old injuries, and she was suffering from a serious infection that caused a strong odor. I’ve sent off samples to try to find out what kind of bacteria is involved. There is also scar tissue and severe damage around the anus. This girl has been subjected to sexual abuse over a long period. She has puncture marks of varying ages on both arms; the oldest are from several months ago. There are also puncture marks between her toes and on her inner thighs.”
You could have heard a pin drop in the room as she paused once more. For a brief moment a weary, anguished expression passed across the professor’s beautifully made-up face.
“I can only report on the physical abuse she has suffered. No autopsy in the world can reveal her mental torment.”
With that closing statement she marched over to the door and yanked it open with the same force as when she had entered just a few minutes earlier. It seemed only logical when Detective Inspector Erik Lind stumbled in from the opposite direction. His right hand fumbled in the air for the door handle, which was no longer where it was supposed to be.
“What the hell—” he snapped, but he straightened up when he saw Stridner holding the handle on the other side.
Two steely expressions crossed like rapiers in midair.
Then something totally unexpected happened.
The corners of the professor’s mouth began to twitch. Erik Lind’s eyes narrowed, and he broke into a broad smile. They started to laugh, at first with a certain amount of reserve, then loud and long. Some of the other officers joined in, albeit more quietly.
Yvonne Stridner gave Erik Lind a final beaming smile before passing him in the doorway, her hips swaying. They could hear her laughter mixed with the clicking of her high heels as she headed down the corridor.
Erik Lind was still chuckling to himself as he turned to face his colleagues. He composed himself and spoke in a formal tone of voice, “I’ve just had a call. They’ve found another body.”
The room fell silent. Lind realized that he needed to be more precise. “This one is old. Several months. The body is in an inaccessible rocky area. One of the dogs found it.”
“What … who?” Andersson said in confusion. Irene could hear that he was starting to wheeze.
“Don’t know. The preliminary report says that we are dealing with a body that has been dead for quite some time, judging by the condition.”
“Is it a child?” Irene asked quickly.
“No. Probably an adult male, although the gender hasn’t been confirmed; they’re going by what was left of the clothing. Heavy boots and a Helly Hansen jacket.”
That definitely sounded like a male, Irene thought with relief.
“Who’s coming with me?” Lind asked.
Fredrik Stridh and Tommy Persson got to their feet and followed Lind out of the room.
Irene reported back on her efforts to establish the identity of the car thieves.
“So there are three possible suspects among the boys who are on the run right now: Daniel Lindgren, Billy Kjellgren and Niklas Ström. If it turns out that none of them is involved, then … Well, then we’ll just have to hope for a stroke of luck,” she said.
“I think we’re going to need a hell of a lot of luck if we’re going to sort out the mess that has piled up over the last twenty-four hours,” Jonny Blom muttered.
For once, Irene agreed with him.
Hannu Rauhala explained that he had picked up the bunch of keys from forensics, and that one of the keys fit Torleif Sandberg’s front door.
“I had a quick look through the apartment. No one there. I’ve also traced his family. His ex-wife has moved to Stockholm, and his son lives in Umeå. I’ll contact them once the identification is confirmed.”
“By the forensic dentist?” Irene asked.
Hannu nodded. “Yes. We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”
Superintendent Andersson was frowning. There had been immense pressure on the department since yesterday evening. Journalists had virtually jammed the HQ phone lines. Andersson had promised them a press conference the following morning at ten o’clock. He had said there would be no point in holding one any earlier because they had not yet identified the girl. But tabloid journalists are full of ideas, and in the absence of information they simply use their imagination. As a consequence, the largest of the evening papers was dominated by the headline KILLER MOWED DOWN INNOCENT MAN immediately below GIRL MURDERED?
The question mark could probably be regarded as rhetorical under the circumstances. The article consisted of big photos of the side road with the barrier down, the cordoned-off root cellar, police dogs sniffing around in the undergrowth and, for further clarification, a half-page photo of a police helicopter. Since a lilac bush in full bloom could be seen in the background, it was safe to assume that the reporters had been rummaging around in the archives. There was very little text, and it contained nothing that had not already been said in the morning news reports. Apart from the reporter’s own conclusion, which was that the killer had been in a hurry after murdering the girl. That was why, according to a witness, he had been driving along Delsjövägen like a bat out of hell, and had been unable to avoid the pedestrian crossing the street.
The newspaper had been lying open on Andersson’s desk when they got back to the department. He pointed at the pictures and grunted something inaudible. Irene had sighed.
“For a start, the direction the car was traveling in is wrong. The BMW was heading away from town. If the driver had been involved in the murder, the car would have been going the other way. And secondly, the time doesn’t fit. The girl was already dead,” she’d said.
“Exactly. The two are completely unconnected,” Andersson said firmly.
He had felt a certain satisfaction when he made that statement. And now they had another body on their hands. The only consolation was that it wasn’t a fresh one. This body probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the murdered girl or the death of Torleif Sandberg, but it would tie up the unit’s resources. Too many major investigations going on at the same time.
“I’m intending to release the information about the girl’s age this afternoon,” Birgitta said. “That she is probably thirteen or fourteen, and not eleven or twelve as we first thought. So far there has been no report of a missing girl who might match her description. The girls who are missing at the moment are all older, and look their age.”
Irene had only seen pictures of the murder victim lying naked on the pathologist’s steel table: small, skinny, with spindly arms and legs and her hair fanned out around her head. Irene’s first impression was of a small, defenseless child.
The superintendent nodded, looking grim. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. Then the noise stopped, and he slapped the palm of his hand down with sudden resolve.
“We need to regroup. Fredrik and Tommy will take this new case, the old body the dogs just found. Irene and Hannu will carry on with Torleif’s death in the hit-and-run, and Birgitta and Jonny will stick with the murdered girl.”
“ARE YOU COMING to take a look around Torleif’s apartment?”
They were standing in the elevator. It was almost half past six, and Irene really wanted to go home. But there was something in Hannu’s voice that made her brighten up.
“Strictly speaking, we’re not allowed to go inside the apartment,” she pointed out, mostly for form’s sake.
“Strictly speaking,” Hannu repeated with a smile.
They traveled in their own cars so they would be able to go straight home after. Birgitta had already left in the Moberg-Rauhala family’s other car in order to pick up little Timo from daycare.
The rush hour traffic had started to ease off. It took little more than fifteen minutes to reach Torleif’s address on Anders Zornsgatan. When they had parked their cars and met up on the sidewalk, Irene nodded toward the TV studios and said, “He was on his way home. He was only a few hundred meters from his front door.”
“Strange place to get run down,” Hannu said.
“Strange? The BMW was coming too fast. He didn’t have time to—”
“There’s a clear view in all directions. He should have seen it.”
Irene had to admit he was right, but there had to be some reason Torleif Sandberg had misjudged the distance from the speeding car.
“But it was dark. He was pretty old. Maybe he had problems with his eyesight. Cataracts or something,” she suggested.
“In that case, why was he out running in the dark?” Hannu countered immediately.
Irene had no comeback, and they headed toward Torleif’s apartment block.
The three-story brick building had been erected in the middle of the last century. The entire area was bright and pleasant, with tall trees and lawns between the blocks. Irene knew the flowerbeds were a riot of color during the spring and summer, but right now it looked as if the frost would keep the plants underground forever. Even though it felt like a distant dream in the biting cold, she knew that winter would eventually be forced to retreat. The spring rain would soften the deep frost, and once again it would loosen its grip on bulbs and roots.
Hannu unlocked the outside door, and they walked into the warmth of the entrance hall. On the board just inside listing the names of the tenant, Irene saw that T SANDBERG lived on the top floor. The walls of the stairwell were freshly painted in a soft, creamy yellow shade, with a border of dark green oak leaves halfway up. They set off up the spotlessly clean stairs. On the top floor they were faced with two doors with Torleif’s name on one of them.
Hannu put the key in the lock and turned it, waving Irene in ahead of him.
“He’s lived here for twenty-five years,” she heard Hannu’s voice behind her.
“Ever since the divorce?”
“Yes.”
Irene found the switch and turned on the light in the hallway. It was narrow, with space for no more than a hat stand hanging on one wall, a shoe rack and a small closet. She glanced inside and saw that it contained outdoor clothes. Straight ahead lay the bathroom. It was half-tiled in pale green. Several of the grey tiles on the floor were cracked, and the enamel coating on both the bath and hand basin was damaged.
“Time for some renovation,” Irene remarked.
“Wait till you see the kitchen,” Hannu said dryly.
The bathroom and hallway might have been less than spacious, but the kitchen was almost claustrophobic. It had been the fashion to build compact kitchens in the 1950s, but this was the tiniest space imaginable. There was hardly room to boil an egg. The stove and refrigerator looked as if they were the originals. The curtains had faded slightly from the sun, but seemed to have been ironed. The forest-green stripes perfectly complemented the painted cupboard doors. Two wooden chairs and a small table covered in a green and white checked wax cloth stood by one wall; there was no room for any more. An old poster showing a healthy eating pyramid for vegetarians hung above the table. It had seeds and legumes at the top instead of meat, fish and poultry. Irene recognized it from Jenny’s diet. It’s important to take in enough protein when you’re vegetarian.
In the larder they found boxes of dried beans and peas, bags of various kinds of flour, and—of course—several packets of Dr. Kruska’s oat muesli. On one shelf a number of jars containing dried fruit were neatly arranged. The refrigerator was almost empty; the only thing inside was an open carton of soy milk and two foil trays of something unidentifiable.
They went back through the hallway and into the living room, which was surprisingly airy. A large picture window and a glass door overlooked the balcony. This room must have been lovely and light when the sun was shining. The television seemed to be the only recent purchase. Above it hung a framed poster of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains. The sofa, armchairs, curtains, carpet and not least the combined bookcase and display cabinet clearly bore the marks of 1970s style. The bookcase housed a few paperbacks and several porcelain figurines, while the display cabinet was filled with an impressive collection of cups and trophies.
“He was very good at orienteering, and he was a fast long-distance runner. He must have won these when he was a member of the Police Sports Association,” Irene said. She walked over to the cabinet. There was a small switch beside it, and when she pressed it several tiny lamps lit up inside the glass doors, the light glinting off the trophies.
“He kept them polished,” Hannu stated.
Irene looked around. “Yes. He kept the whole place clean and tidy,” she said.
Hannu went over to a door that was standing ajar. Cautiously he nudged it open with his foot.
The bedroom was also pretty spacious. One wall consisted of a built-in closet, and the single bed against the opposite wall was neatly made up with a pale blue coverlet. There was a colorful rag rug on the floor that looked reasonably new. The tall display cabinet at the foot of the bed had glass shelves and doors, and to Irene’s surprise it was full of toy cars. The smallest was only a little bigger than a sugar lump, while the biggest was around thirty centimeters long. They were all cop cars, from every corner of the world. The largest was a blue and white 1950s model with a sheriff’s star on the doors.
Next to the closed laptop on the desk lay a book entitled Researching Your Family Tree: A Beginner’s Guide. There was also a framed photograph of a little blond-haired boy aged about three. Irene pointed to the picture and said, “That must be his son. They look alike.”
Irene opened the closet; the clothes were all on hangers. In the linen cupboard, sheets and towels were folded neatly. “He lived alone. There’s no sign of anyone else living here,” she said.
Hannu didn’t reply, but looked around the room. His gaze lingered on the bed. “Lonely,” he said eventually.
The word was on the money. The entire apartment was suffused with loneliness. Perhaps they were getting completely the wrong impression. Perhaps Muesli had had a wide circle of friends in the Sports Association and pensioners’ club. Irene tried to remember what he had been like when he was working with them. She hadn’t really known him, but of course she had been aware of who he was. Torleif had never made much of an impression other than with his peculiar eating habits. Unremarkable appearance, although he had kept himself fit right up to retirement—he had been passionate about personal fitness. How long had it been since he had retired? Irene thought about it and realized she didn’t know for sure. Somewhere between five and seven years, maybe.
“Did you know him?” she asked Hannu.
“No. I knew who he was, but I never spoke to him.”
“I knew him slightly. He was a desk sergeant with the third district the last year I was working there, then he came over to HQ when the third was amalgamated with another area. But by then I’d joined the Violent Crimes Unit, and I didn’t have much to do with him.”
“So what was he like?” Hannu asked.
“Pretty inoffensive. The only time I saw him get excited about something was when he started talking about the importance of exercise. And eating the right food. Vegetarian, of course.”
“And what was he like as a cop?”
Irene hesitated before answering. “Actually, he was … a bit weak. He was scared of making decisions, always had to get the nod from above. We found him quite irritating sometimes. He wasn’t an outstanding colleague, but then again he wasn’t the worst I’ve ever come across either.”
“Sociable?”
“I don’t know … not exactly. But he wasn’t antisocial either. He wasn’t bad-tempered or miserable, as far as I remember. There were plenty who were worse than him.”
Irene could hear how evasive she sounded. She tried to sharpen up. “To tell the truth, I guess I didn’t really know him at all. He was just there. One colleague among all the rest who you don’t have anything in common with.”
Hannu nodded, staring at the single bed. It was impossible to work out what he was thinking. The ice-blue gaze swept the room one last time before he turned on his heel and went back to the living room.
Irene found him in front of the display cabinet. The interior lights were still on.
“A collector. Trophies and cop cars,” Hannu stated.
Irene had at least as many cups and trophies at home; she had won them for jiujitsu during her active years among the elite in Sweden and throughout Europe. They were tucked away on the top shelf of a closet. Undeniably a sharp contrast to the beautifully polished collection shining behind the spotless glass door of the display cabinet.
“And he was interested in his family tree, judging by the book. I suppose that’s also a form of collecting. You collect members of your family as you go back through the years,” Irene mused.
Hannu looked at her and gave one of his rare, fleeting smiles.
“You could be right,” he said.