FREDRIK POKED HIS head around the door to Irene and Tommy’s shared office.
“Irene, there’s a guy who wants to speak to the person responsible for investigating the murder of the little Russian,” he said.
At the moment Irene was the only one still working actively on the case, so there weren’t many officers to choose from.
“Okay. Put him through,” she answered distractedly. Her attention was focused on the computer screen as she laboriously tried to summarize what had happened in Tenerife. Even if she kept it brief, the report still gave the impression that she spent at least a week on the island. And made up most of the events.
“He’s not on the phone. He’s here.”
“Oh, right … I just want to …”
Before she had time to finish the sentence, Fredrik had shown the man into the room. Or perhaps he had pushed his way in. He was dressed in a thick, dark blue sailing jacket with a hood, which was a practical choice given the freezing rain that was hammering against the windowpane.
“Good afternoon. My name is Martin Wallström. I have some important information regarding the place where you found the girl.”
His whole attitude made it clear he was a man who was accustomed to being listened to. Irene guessed that he was around forty-five years old. The hair on top of his head was thinning, but at the sides it was dark and cut very short. He looked like he was in good shape. His features were sharply defined, his expression alert and intelligent behind the rimless glasses.
Irene introduced herself and asked him to sit down opposite her. Martin Wallström slipped off the expensive jacket and hung it over the back of the chair. Underneath he was wearing a thin pale grey woolen sweater over a dark grey polo shirt. Together with his black chinos and sturdy black shoes, his clothing made a sober but relaxed impression.
However, what made him interesting was the fact that he seemed to have information regarding the investigation into the death of the little Russian. No one else had come forward since they started looking into Tanya’s murder.
“I’d appreciate hearing what you have to say,” she said with an encouraging smile.
He nodded, then gazed at her appraisingly. He said abruptly, “You have to understand that this is rather … delicate.”
Irene nodded in return, as if she understood completely, but wondering what the hell this was all about. She said nothing, just waited.
“The evening when that little girl was killed … I was in the spot where she was found. Not in the cellar, of course, but on the narrow road leading to the canoe club. I parked a little way along that road.”
Irene could feel her pulse rate increasing. This could be very interesting. She made an effort not to show how hopeful she was. “What time did you get there?” she asked calmly.
“Half past eight—I think that’s pretty accurate. Possibly a few minutes later,” he answered promptly.
“What kind of car do you have?”
“A dark blue Volvo S80. Last year’s model.”
That could be the car that had screeched up Töpelsgatan at high speed. The time and the model of the car fit with the witness reports. Which would mean that Martin Wallström hadn’t been alone in the car. According to the man with the dog that had almost been run over, there had been a woman in the car as well.
“Why did you go up there? I mean, it was late at night and extremely cold …”
Irene left the sentence hanging in the air, hoping he would latch onto it and keep talking.
“We needed a place where we could talk without being disturbed. I knew the road because I often go jogging in the area. I live in Örgryte.”
You don’t say, Irene thought sarcastically as she nodded encouragement.
“I wasn’t alone in the car. There was a woman with me. We had … important matters to discuss.” He fell silent and took a deep breath as if to gather strength before he went on. “We’ve been involved for several months. Neither of us expected this to happen, but … the situation was starting to become untenable, so we drove up toward the canoe club to talk about what we were going to do. Should we end the relationship, or should we leave our respective partners? Another problem is we live practically next door to each other. People had started … talking. Some of the neighbors had seen us.”
Martin Wallström looked troubled as he finished speaking. Irene wondered which he thought was worse: the fact that he was screwing the neighbor’s wife or the knowledge that people were beginning to gossip.
“As you will understand, we were talking about some very critical issues. It was cold, and we left the engine running so we wouldn’t freeze. I should think we were there for almost an hour. Longer than forty-five minutes, at any rate. Then we had to leave because it was getting late. We still hadn’t reached a final decision. Neither of us wanted to end things, but we both have children. Hers are younger than mine … it’s complicated.”
For the first time he looked away and gazed at the rainspattered window. He swallowed hard several times.
“What I wanted to tell you is that all the time we were sitting in the car, there was another car parked a short distance away. A little closer to the barrier.”
And the root cellar, Irene thought. “Was there anyone in the car?”
“No, it was empty. I think. I mean, it was very dark; some of the nearby street lamps were out. But I didn’t notice anything to suggest that there was anyone around.”
“What kind of car was it?”
“I don’t know. I think it was a pale color, and a pretty big model. I don’t know what make it was. It was parked facing toward us.”
Martin Wallström fell silent and stared almost defiantly at Irene. When he didn’t show any signs of continuing, she asked, “Why didn’t you contact us until now?”
He shuffled uncomfortably. “I should think that’s obvious,” he snapped.
“No. Please explain,” Irene said politely.
“We hadn’t decided what to do about the future and … everything. But now my wife has found out about us. From a friend who had seen us. So there’s no turning back. We’re both going to get a divorce and try to build a new life together.”
Irene almost asked whether he had actually discussed this with his new woman, but she managed to stop herself. Instead she said, “But you must have realized that what you had seen was important.”
“Well, yes. But for the reasons I’ve already given, I didn’t want to speak to you. There was a risk that our respective partners would find out that we’d been sitting there in the car … they’d want to know what we’d been doing and why … you understand what I mean.”
Irene decided to let it go, in spite of her annoyance. “So you didn’t see anyone in the vicinity of the light-colored car?”
“No. But when we were driving back down Delsjövägen, we heard a siren in the distance. It was coming from the direction of the city, and we could see the flashing blue lights. We didn’t want to be held up, so we turned onto Bögatan and headed down to Sankt Sigfridsplan. Then we drove straight home along Sankt Sigfridsgatan,” Wallström explained.
The siren they had heard was probably the police car pursuing the stolen BMW. Wallström and his squeeze had missed the accident in which Torleif Sandberg was killed by just a few seconds. Or maybe they just hadn’t noticed it.
“You didn’t see a car coming along Delsjövägen from the opposite direction? I’m thinking about the vehicle the police were pursuing,” Irene said.
“No. I’ve tried to think, but I don’t remember a car coming the other way. Although of course I was upset … as I said, we’d been talking about some life-changing stuff … I probably wasn’t paying much attention. My only thought when I saw the blue lights and heard the siren was that I didn’t want to get stuck. We had to get home before it got too late.”
Irene nodded to show she understood. “I’ll need to speak to the woman who was with you,” she said.
He glanced over at the window again. “It’s not that simple. Her husband has taken this very badly. She’s moved back home to her parents’. Only temporarily, until we can move into the new house I’ve bought. The children are still with him, but that’s probably not such a good …” His voice tailed away, and he looked tormented.
“Does she have a name?”
The question sounded more acidic than Irene had intended.
“What? Who? Oh … sure. Marika. Marika Lager.” He took out a business card and scribbled something on the back before handing it to Irene. “That’s her cell number. She’s out sick from work at the moment. My number is on the card as well. It’s best to call my cell.”
He got to his feet, suddenly looking as energetic and decisive as he had when he walked in.
“You’ll have to excuse me, but I need to get back to work. I have a meeting.”
He held out his hand and pumped Irene’s hand up and down several times, then quickly left the room.
“I CALLED MARIKA Lager and she confirmed what Martin Wallström said. She didn’t have anything to add; quite the reverse, in fact. She recalled seeing the parked car, but nothing else. She couldn’t even remember whether it was a dark or light color.”
Andersson nodded and folded his hands over his belly. “So the only thing we know for sure is that there was a car parked up by the barrier,” he said.
“Yes. Just below the slope where the root cellar is,” Irene confirmed.
“The bastard could have been hiding in the car. He might have already stowed the little Russian in the cellar, but didn’t have time to get away before Wallström and his girlfriend turned up. Or maybe he dumped her in there as fast as he could once the turtledoves had left,” Jonny said.
“We don’t even know if it was the killer’s car, but I think we can safely assume that it was since the driver hasn’t come forward,” Irene said.
“Even if he dumped the body quickly after they’d left, he didn’t have much time to play with. If Wallström drove off at around half past nine, that means the murderer had something like ten minutes to carry the little Russian up the slope to the cellar, break open the door and put the body inside. And he must have gotten away before the BMW arrived, otherwise it would have blocked him in,” Fredrik said.
“What if he didn’t get away? What if our two little hit-and-run drivers actually arrived before he had time to get away?” Tommy said thoughtfully.
Irene considered what he had just said, and realized where he was going with this.
“You mean in that case they know who he is, or at least what he looks like,” she said.
“Yep.”
Everyone turned to Jonny. “Okay, I’ll try the little shits again. And that particular spot seems to be a popular spot for lovers,” he said with a smirk.
“Although there wasn’t a lot of lovemaking going on in this case,” Irene said sharply.
“Enough! Get back to the interviews,” Andersson said in a voice that brooked no contradictions.
“YEP!” TOMMY SAID with the phone pressed to his ear. He grinned at Irene and gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You’ll email it to me right away? Great!”
He put down the phone with a flourish. He was still smiling as he said, “I think you and Fredrik have the ammunition you need against Anders Pettersson.” He paused dramatically, his eyes twinkling teasingly as he made her wait.
“Out with it!” she said impatiently, since that was clearly what was expected of her.
“The lab has compared the DNA from the semen we found on Tanya with Pettersson’s DNA profile. And they’ve found a match!”
Irene stared at him, lost for words. “In her hair … and the skin fragments under her nails?” she managed eventually.
“No. Not the killer’s DNA. But one of the stains on her jacket!”
The grubby pink jacket had had several semen stains that pre-dated the murder. And one of them matched Pettersson’s DNA. Slowly Irene began to see the opportunities this presented.
“So one of the semen stains comes from our good friend Pettersson. We can prove it, and he can’t get away from that fact. We know it’s not the killer’s DNA. But Pettersson has no idea that we know that,” she said, her smile as broad as Tommy’s.
“Exactly.” He got up and headed for the door, but stopped halfway and turned back to Irene. “And Svante said we forgot to cancel the DNA comparison between Andres and Leili Tamm. It confirms what we already knew: they’re not related.”
ANDERS PETTERSSON HAD been deeply shaken when he was re-arrested, this time on suspicion of murder. His lawyer, Joar Svanér, had shown up right away, insisting that his client be released immediately. However, when faced with the fact that Pettersson’s DNA had been found on the dead girl’s jacket, even Svanér had realized the gravity of the situation. He had demanded and been granted time alone with his client; immediately following their meeting, Svanér informed the police that Anders Pettersson was prepared to talk.
Irene and Fredrik were already waiting in the interview room. As on the previous occasion, Pettersson was accompanied by two custody officers. This time the escort also included Svanér.
Irene had always thought he looked more like a superannuated disco dancer than a lawyer. The mid-length hair was colored dark brown and slicked back with generous amounts of gel. Today he was wearing a black leather jacket over a pink shirt with no tie. A wide black belt with a shiny silver buckle rested on his hips. Given the size of the buckle, it was a wonder it wasn’t weighing down the elegantly tailored black pants rather than holding them up. In spite of the current fashion for drainpipes, there was definitely the hint of a flare at the bottom. On his feet he was wearing heeled cowboy boots, which were every bit as impractical in the pouring rain as the brown suede coat he was carrying over one arm. He hung the coat over the back of a chair in the interview room. It would have been easy to dismiss Joar Svanér as over the top and foolish had it not been for the look in the eyes behind the yellow-tinted glasses.
Irene had once seen a nature program about the role of scavengers in the wild. The cameraman had filmed a huge Egyptian vulture as it sat watching the death throes of an injured goat. From time to time the vulture lifted its wings threateningly to scare off smaller birds and other predators. Otherwise it sat there motionless, its gaze fixed on its prospective meal. Only the indifferent eyes moved when it became necessary to monitor some approaching competitor. Irene remembered that look: it registered everything and missed nothing. It revealed no emotion whatsoever.
Joar Svanér had exactly the same look in his eyes.
“My client is prepared to tell the truth about his association with the homicide victim,” Sanér stated without preamble.
“Good. Start talking,” Irene said, nodding to Anders Pettersson.
He looked haggard, and had made no attempt to hide it. His expensive designer top stank of sweat, and his baggy jeans were filthy. The stubble on his chin was slightly longer than the emerging hairs on his shaven head. His bloodshot eyes peered out from his puffy face. He looked like a mental and physical wreck. His dealings had finally caught up with him. This was probably what he had feared most: the discovery that he had been associated with Heinz Becker and his shady dealings.
Narcotics offenses attract severe sentencing. Human trafficking has also caught the attention of the media in recent times, but the sentences handed down are still relatively lenient compared with those for drug crimes. Pettersson’s activities were mainly drug-related, and he was acutely aware of the lengthy jail sentence that awaited him if he was convicted.
“I … I had a … I’m not sure how to put this … I had contact with the girl.”
Pettersson fell silent and stared down at the table. His face was beaded with sweat even though the room wasn’t especially warm. He was confessing to a crime as far as the law regarding prostitution was concerned, but it wasn’t going to land him behind bars. However, he was noticeably tense and uncomfortable.
“Start from the beginning. How did you get in touch with Heinz Becker?” Irene asked.
“I called when I saw the advertisement. The one about the girls.”
“And where did you see this advertisement?”
“In … in a newspaper,” he answered evasively.
“Which newspaper?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What did the ad look like?”
Pettersson looked completely bewildered. “What kind of a stupid fucking question is—”
“It’s important for our investigation,” Irene interrupted.
Not least because he had already come out with the first lie. Heinz Becker had advertised only on the Internet. Pettersson had no reason to know this since Becker had probably contacted him directly for narcotics and aphrodisiacs.
“I don’t remember,” Pettersson replied truculently.
“So you had never had any contact with Heinz Becker in the past?”
“No.”
“So why did he get in touch with you now?”
“You misunderstand, Detective Inspector,” Joar Svanér interjected. “My client called a telephone number that was given in an advertisement for willing girls.”
“That’s right.” Pettersson nodded.
Irene pretended she hadn’t heard, and carried on. “When was this?”
“I’ve already fucking told you! The Saturday before … before you picked me up for drunk driving! I mean the Saturday of the week before. That’s what I mean.”
So you remember the first interview, Irene thought. And you remember the date when you met Tanya. Not bad, considering how much of a drug-induced fog you’ve been in over the past few weeks. Irene suspected that Anders Pettersson and Joar Svanér had carefully worked out exactly what he was going to say. And what he was definitely not going to say.
“So you called the number in the ad,” Irene said.
“Yes. If you’re horny, you’re horny!” He was trying to act like his usual bumptious self, but even he could hear how ridiculous it sounded. Irene gave him an icy stare. His attempt to play the ordinary john who just happened to end up in the brothel in Biskopsgården was utterly pathetic.
“Then what happened?”
“When I got there he said … Becker … that the little whore had an infected pussy. She’d caught something disgusting, so she was only doing blow jobs. There were guys already waiting for the other hooker, so I said what the hell, let’s go for the blow job.”
He sounded a little more sure of himself, and Irene had a feeling that he was suddenly telling the truth.
“How did Tanya seem when you met her?”
“How did she … I don’t … she was cold, so she kept that fucking jacket on. That’s how she got my spunk on her. And I had nothing to do with her death, for fuck’s sake!”
It was probably true that Pettersson had had oral sex with Tanya, and Saturday could well fit in with what they already knew. Forensics had already established that the stains on the jacket were a couple of days older than the semen in her hair, so Pettersson was probably telling the truth about his encounter with Tanya.
“So Tanya kept her jacket on. Weren’t you indoors?” Irene asked.
“Yes.”
“Where were you?”
“In … in Biskopsgården.”
“And did you think it was cold in the apartment?”
“No. But she must have thought it was fucking freezing.”
“Why do you say she must have thought it was freezing?”
Both Pettersson and his lawyer looked confused. Even Fredrik gave her a sideways glance as he wondered where she was going with this.
“How the fuck should I know?” Pettersson exploded.
“How was Tanya feeling?”
“How was … Why should I have a fucking clue?” He glanced uncertainly at her with his bloodshot eyes, but immediately looked away. Perhaps he was beginning to sense where this was heading.
“Did she seem healthy?”
“May I point out that my client is not a medical practitioner,” Svanér protested. “It is impossible for him to ascertain whether a person he has only just met is healthy or not.”
“But he can answer a simple question as to whether this person he had only just met looked healthy and behaved like a healthy individual,” Irene said coldly.
Pettersson’s gaze flicked from Irene to Svanér and back again. With a final sideways look at his lawyer, he said uncertainly, “Maybe she wasn’t a hundred per cent. I mean … she seemed really … listless. How else can I put it … yes, really listless.”
“So you forced a seriously ill underage girl to perform oral sex on you,” Irene stated.
He swallowed several times before answering. “Forced … no fucking way … it was business. She got paid.”
“Did you give the money to her?”
“Sure I did!” Pettersson said with a grin.
They both knew that wasn’t what had happened, but Irene couldn’t prove it.
“How come Heinz Becker had your cell number in his phone?”
“He said he’d contact me when the little whore’s pussy was better,” Pettersson replied, his face expressionless.
He and Svanér must have spent a while polishing up that lie. They had known the question would come. They knew the police already had evidence that Pettersson and Becker had been in touch with each other via their cell phones, and Pettersson certainly had no intention of revealing that they had been discussing the supply of drugs and other items.
During the rest of the interview Irene tried several times to get him to admit that he had had dealings with Heinz Becker in the past, but he remained unshakeable. He was definitely following his lawyer’s strict instructions to the letter; he would not confirm any link to Heinz Becker beyond the transaction involving Tanya.
“We’ve traced a number of calls between your cell and Heinz Becker’s. You called each other several times during the week he was here with the girls. How do you explain that?”
“He was keeping me informed. About the progress of the little pussy,” Pettersson said with a scornful grin.
“Is that why he called you when they needed a ride from Ringön? To tell you about the progress of the little pussy?”
Pettersson once again glanced at his lawyer, but answered quickly, “I was very surprised, but I was happy to help out. They paid me well because they had a plane to catch from Kastrup.”
“That guy and the other girl.”
“Did you ask what had happened to Tanya?”
Pettersson remained silent for a long time. “Yes. They said she’d already left.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Who was she with?”
“With … some guy called Sergei.”
He obviously remembered that he had mentioned Sergei’s name during his first interview, and in order to make himself appear more trustworthy, he had decided to mention it again. Perhaps he knew about the disastrous events in Tenerife. That wasn’t out of the question, if he really was involved in human trafficking. His gang had their dirty fingers in that pie as well, and in every other criminal activity that generated money.
“When you picked up Heinz Becker and Leili, there was another man with them. Do you know who he was?”
“No, they just said he was taking that girl—Leili, is that what you called her?—to Tenerife.”
“So she was going to Tenerife as well?”
“Yes. That’s what Heinz told me.”
“Were she and Tanya going to the same place?”
“How the fuck should I know? I just drove them to the parking lot at Heden. I had nothing to do with their fucking travel arrangements!”
I’m sure you know more than you’re prepared to tell me, Irene thought. However, she also realized that there was no point in pushing him any further.
Instead she went on. “So you asked Becker where Tanya was. What did he say?”
“I’ve already told you! He said she’d gone on ahead. With that Sergei guy.”
“Did he say anything about her illness?”
Pettersson rubbed his hands several times over his stubbly scalp, as if he was trying to stimulate some kind of internal activity through massage. Suddenly he lowered his hands and looked Irene straight in the eye.
“They said some guy had taken her to the doctor. And she got better—well enough to travel to Tenerife.”
The immovable eye of the vulture blinked so fast that Irene only just registered it. For a fraction of a second Joar Svanér’s inscrutable façade cracked. In that nanosecond Irene could see that he was completely unprepared for Pettersson’s revelation.
“Who took her to the doctor?” Irene asked immediately.
“Don’t know. Some fucking john.”
Now it was Irene’s turn to almost let the mask slip. This could be important, if it was true. And right now it did seem as if Pettersson had decided to tell the truth. The explanation was probably very simple: he wanted to divert the interest of the police and point them in a completely different direction.
“What makes you think it was a john?”
“He said something in the car … what was it … something about a john he trusted.”
“You don’t remember exactly what he said?”
“For fuck’s sake! It’s a long time ago! You can’t expect me to …”
A glance at his lawyer shut him up. Svanér had also realized that the tactic of introducing a new angle that led away from Pettersson’s activities might be quite useful. Particularly as the police seemed to be interested in what he had to say.
“Jesus Christ … Becker’s English was crap. But he said he ‘trusted this man,’” Pettersson said, switching to English to quote Becker, “and that he was a ‘good customer.’” Pettersson’s English pronunciation was surprisingly good.
According to what Pettersson was trying to get them to believe, a trusted client had been asked to take Tanya to the doctor. Instead of driving her to the surgery, he had forced her to perform oral sex on him. His semen was in her hair when her body was found several hours later.
Therefore, this unknown, trusted customer was in all probability her killer.
Bearing in mind what the police knew and Pettersson didn’t, what he had just told them could very well be true.
AS SOON AS the interview was over, Irene went to her office and called the hospital. The duty nurse on the orthopedic ward informed her that Gerd was still in recovery. She would probably be brought up to the ward toward evening if there was no cause for concern. But Gerd had undergone major surgery, so Irene shouldn’t worry if they decided to keep her under observation overnight. The nurse asked Irene to call back after five o’clock, by which time they would know what the situation was.
With a sigh Irene went back to her report on the events in Tenerife. She found it difficult to concentrate, and her progress was slow.