Log In
Or create an account ->
Imperial Library
Home
About
News
Upload
Forum
Help
Login/SignUp
Index
Elof Persson had to die. The only possible course of action was to get rid of him. In spite of the fact that he was a member of the General Security Service, a secret intelligence organization, the idiot didn’t understand what a dangerous game he was playing. He was arrogant and overconfident. His aggression had been frightening the first time he got in touch just over two months ago, and his physical strength, terrifying. He had taken pleasure in showing off his prowess, grabbing the other man so viciously by the throat that the tender red mark had taken twenty-four hours to fade.
It seemed sad, somehow. When this demolition project was done, only one wooden building would remain standing on Korsvägen. It had been renovated and now housed several small companies and a part of the university’s administration. It was protected as a cultural landmark, of course. The wooden palace was situated a little way up the hill, with its extensive glass veranda facing the traffic down below. Everyone passed it on the way to the university library or Näckrosdammen. It was good that at least one building remained, but it was a pity that this one had been so badly damaged by fire that it was going to have to be demolished.
The witness who called the police at 9:14 a.m. had been right. There was a dead body at the water’s edge. The technicians had quickly gone out to Nötsund to secure the scene. After two hours’ intensive work they were done, and the corpse could be removed and placed in a body bag.
It was a Labrador that discovered her. He was young and playful, and at first he was delighted to find a friend who had hidden herself so cleverly. A second later his sensitive nose registered a strange smell. Exciting, acrid, and a little bit frightening. He began to bark agitatedly, sticking his rump in the air as he circled the interesting odor, gradually getting closer. When his master called him—“Elroy! Elroy! Here, boy!”—he grabbed a scrap of fabric that was lying on the ground and proudly scampered back with it in his mouth. There was a brief struggle, but eventually Elroy let go of his trophy. The man shuddered when he looked down at the torn, bloodied black lace thong in his hands. The word sunday was embroidered on the small triangle at the front, surrounded by a border of red rosebuds.
“You didn’t give Efva much room to maneuver,” Tommy Persson remarked.
“Jonny and I are heading out to Torslanda,” Irene said, tugging on her jacket.
Irene couldn’t get used to the silence that met her when she opened the front door.
“The forensic pathologist is going to look at the mummy today; we’ll have a preliminary report sometime after three o’clock at the earliest. The body was lying on a rug, which forensics is analyzing now. At the moment I don’t know if it has anything to do with his death,” Efva Thylqvist announced as she opened morning prayer. Everyone nodded as they tried to fortify themselves with the contents of their coffee cups. It was going to be a hard day.
The entire apartment reeked of cat piss and cigarette smoke. After only a few minutes Irene was starting to feel slightly nauseated. A ginger cat hissed at her and slid under the tattered sofa in the living room. Perhaps it just didn’t like mornings. We grow similar to those we live with; neither Bettan Hansson nor her son seemed to be morning people.
As usual, Krister’s spaghetti Bolognese was a triumph. Jar sauce was banned from his cooking, of course. He made the sauce using ripe beef tomatoes, garlic, basil, a decent slug of red wine and freshly ground beef, which he bought in the market hall on Kungstorget. “I want to see the piece of meat before they grind it,” he often said. He had always felt the same, even before it came to light that the stores were re-labeling old ground beef. Food wasn’t only his profession, it was also his main interest in his leisure time. He was a master chef in one of Göteborg’s most famous gourmet restaurants, with one star in the Guide Rouge.
“They got the Hulk,” Fredrik informed the team before anyone else had time to speak at morning prayer.
“We’ve got an ID on the mummy!” Tommy announced triumphantly.
Irene and Krister had promised to visit Irene’s mother at around ten o’clock on Saturday morning. It was time to give her apartment a good cleaning, including the windows. The home care service didn’t do that kind of thing. They cleaned the living room, bedroom, kitchen and bathroom once a fortnight. According to the Gerd’s instructions, they weren’t even allowed to touch the little bedroom off the kitchen with the vacuum cleaner, so Irene or Krister would spend a few minutes on it from time to time. It had been Irene’s room for the first eighteen years of her life; it was now Gerd’s spare room and hadn’t been used for several years.
Over the weekend the evening papers had gone for thick black banner headlines: “killer lurks online!” “Do you know who your child is chatting to online?” “the internet—an el dorado for pedophiles!” and so on. They ran interviews with experts from the police, Save the Children and ECPAT. They offered advice to parents on how to talk to their children about the dangers associated with being contacted by someone online. Irene thought it was good that Efva Thylqvist—because it must have been her decision—had spoken to the media. There was no suggestion anywhere that Alexandra and Moa’s killer had contacted the girls online, which was also good. It was an advantage if he didn’t know they were onto him.
“It’s Jens. Have you got a minute?”
The following day, Linda Holm arrived in Irene’s office immediately after morning prayer.
The team worked through the list of convicted sex offenders associated with extreme violence. Some had no alibi for one of the murders, but none lacked an alibi for both. Tobias Hansson’s story was still doubtful because his only witness was his overprotective mother. In spite of the fact that they had brought him in twice, they couldn’t get him to change a thing: he had been at home with his mom, and she confirmed every word he said. And there was no real evidence against him; he didn’t even have a driver’s license.
Irene had a headache, which was unusual for her. If the storm would only break, the pressure behind her eyes would surely ease. She was sticky with sweat. Her short-sleeved cotton blouse was plastered to her back. Only two days to go until her vacation. It felt like an eternity. Not that she was short of something to do; the work was piling up on her desk. She just hoped nothing else would happen; neither she nor the department would be able to cope with that.
It was Monday, August 4. Over the past few days it had finally gotten a little warmer; otherwise the summer weather had been pretty bad on the west coast, which was unfortunate for those who had taken their vacations in June and July. Even though this applied to Irene and Krister, they had spent a lovely week in England and a decent fortnight in the cottage in Värmland. Irene hadn’t felt fully rested until the last week, and would have liked a few more days before she went back to work.
The atmosphere was gloomy in the Cold Cases Unit’s office. Sven Andersson and Leif Fryxender had just been informed that their colleague Pelle Svensson needed a heart bypass. The angioplasty had revealed that his condition was worse than the consultant had first thought, and the operation was scheduled for the beginning of September. Needless to say, he wouldn’t be returning to work in the meantime.
The two remaining members of the Cold Cases Unit had each armed themselves with a mug of coffee and a wrapped pastry from the canteen. Andersson’s pastry was sugar-free; it looked both smaller and drier than his colleague’s. Leif Fryxender pressed play on the small cassette player, and Tommy Persson’s voice filled the room:
On June 22, 1941, German forces launched an offensive against the Soviet Union: Operation Barbarossa. Finland saw an opportunity to regain the territory they had lost to the Soviet Union, and allied themselves with Germany in what came to be known as the Continuation War. Germany requested permission to send the Engelbrecht Division, consisting of almost fifteen thousand fully equipped troops, through neutral Sweden. The Swedish parliament was deeply divided on the issue; the heated debate went on for four days and was later dubbed the Midsummer Crisis. Prime Minister Per Albin Hansson then stated that King Gustaf V was threatening to abdicate if Germany was not allowed to transport troops through Sweden, and faced with this threat parliament acceded to the request, opening up a transit route from Norway to Finland via Sweden.
“I’ve made contact with him.”
There had been no difficulty in getting a hold of Oscar Leutnerwall; he was in the phone book. Both Andersson and Fryxender had been surprised to find him there. The name listed above was Astrid Leutnerwall, with the same address on one of the streets above Näckrosdammen, but a different telephone number.
As usual it was difficult to find a parking spot in Nedre Johanneberg. After driving around the area for a while Andersson eventually found a space on Lennart Torstenssonsgata. The rain lashed their faces as they struggled along into a strong headwind. All the wet leaves torn down from the imposing trees made the sidewalks treacherous.
“Can anyone swap shifts with me this weekend?” Fredrik Stridh asked during the afternoon coffee break on Wednesday.
“Yesterday he used the Fujitsu. The palmtop. So we can rule out the two laptops, which leaves us with eight names of interest,” Jens said.
Sven Andersson and Leif Fryxender had spent many hours trying to track down the residents of the building on Korsvägen in 1983. They had eventually come up with a list of names: Signe Kjellberg, Staffan Molander, the Workers’ Educational Association—known as Arbetarnas Bildningsförbund or ABF—and Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. ABF had rented the offices on the ground floor from 1978 to 1985. A call to ABF produced the names of five women who worked on the admin side of the organization. Three of these women had since passed away, and the remaining two were both over eighty years old.
By Thursday morning the weekend’s optimism had faded significantly in the department. None of the men who had been using computers on the train had a travel pattern that synced with Mr. Groomer’s activities. The only individuals with a criminal record were a notorious speed freak who had lost his driver’s license two months earlier and another guy who had lost his due to drunk driving. All the men were commuting for work, which was why they had been on the train a week earlier.
Sven Andersson called Staffan Molander and explained that he had a few more questions. Molander was unavailable after work because he already had plans, so they arranged to meet in the hospital café at three o’clock.
Irene was clutching the steering wheel so tightly her knuckles had gone white. She had to make a concerted effort to stop herself from flooring the accelerator in the old Volvo. It would be pointless anyway because the traffic was already building up throughout the city. The monotonous squeak of the windshield wipers normally made her feel sleepy, but not this morning. Right now the sound was slicing through her brain and stabbing at her nerve endings. And then there was the rain, lashing against the windshield, and the hum of the engine. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the wheel as the car ground to a halt for the hundredth time. The traffic lights on the hill leading up to the hospital were probably the reason, but it could be something else. If she was really unlucky, there might have been an accident. Please God, don’t let it be that! Let me just get there!
Tommy was sitting at one of the small round imitation- marble tables outside Café Expresso, with a cappuccino and a bagel in front of him. He had swapped his usual polo shirt for a dazzling white shirt with a jacket and tie. He was wearing his own reading glasses, and was absorbed in Industry Today. With a few simple tricks, Åsa had managed to turn him into a businessman.
Her mother was dead.
Irene had spoken to Tommy on Sunday and told him that Gerd was dead. He had known Gerd and expressed his sorrow and his condolences. He had also understood that she couldn’t concentrate on her account of what had happened out in the forest, but Irene had promised that it would be on his desk by Wednesday at the latest.
There was an air of tense excitement in the department. Irene could feel the vibrations in the air as soon as she walked in. She went into her office and took off her jacket; Åsa had obviously been in over the weekend because all the bags were gone. For once Irene was early, and she strolled along to the coffee machine and decided to pour herself two cups right away; it was that kind of morning.
The morning paper had also published Mattias Eriksson’s picture. The article stated that he was definitely guilty; video film found in Eriksson’s van showed the murders of Alexandra and Moa.
In a week’s time the Cold Cases Unit would have its reinforcements: one man and one woman. However, right now the team consisted of only two active investigators, so they had to make the best use of their limited resources, as Leif Fryxender put it. He and Sven Andersson had discussed at length how best to proceed, and eventually they had decided to speak to Oscar Leutnerwall again. He was the only remaining link with the past, and if anyone knew what had gone on, it was likely to be the former diplomat. The only question was whether he would be prepared to tell them what he knew.
Several officers had interviewed every employee who had been working on the X2000 train on which Irene had traveled from Göteborg to Malmö. One of them had sent Viktor Jacobsson to police HQ, having decided that the young man had interesting information.
The washed-out morning light created a perfect working atmosphere for the two detectives in the Cold Cases Unit.
My thanks to:
← Prev
Back
Next →
← Prev
Back
Next →