He showed her the first sheet.
'Look, this is what the murderer is leaving behind on the site.'
It was a black and white picture of a crucifix made of dark wood with the figure of Christ apparently made of a silver-like metal. The measurements were listed with millimetre accuracy.
The next picture was a black and white photo of a wall with flowery wallpaper above an unmade bed. The bed linen had large dark stains. There was a line of carefully printed text just above the bed.
ACCURSED ARE THOSE WHO ROB THE INNOCENTS OF THEIR RIGHTS. Sibylla.
She looked up at him. He quickly handed her the last of the sheets. It was a picture of a pair of transparent plastic gloves. The text said Nutex size 8.
'They use these in hospitals and things.'
Really? That solves the case then.
'That's all I had time to look at. Anyway, we've got their names now.'
'Exactly what can we do with them?'
He twisted round to face her, apparently choosing his words with care.
'Do you know what I think?' Not a clue.
'I think you seem to have packed it in. You aren't really keen to work on finding the solution. Like, you don't give a shit.' 'And is that so strange?'
'I guess not but when I do that sort of thing my Dad always says I mustn't sit there feeling sorry for myself. I must try and fix whatever instead. Do something.'
Yes. Good luck to your Dad.
'Yesterday you kept going on about how misunderstood the homeless were, and people like that. How you haven't got a chance and you on your own and all that. But you have a chance and you aren't fucking well taking it.'
He was getting worked up. She was looking at him with real interest. She wasn't sure if what he said was more insulting than enlightening, but it was certainly justified. She rose.
'You're right, boss. OK, let's go. What should we do, do you think?'
'Let's go to Vastervik.'
'You're joking!'
'No. I've checked out the bus-times already. There is one leaving Stockholm in half an hour. Four hundred and sixty kronor return. I'll lend you the money. We'll arrive at four forty and that will give us two hours and twenty minutes before catching the bus back.'
'You ARE crazy.'
'We'll be back at quarter past eleven.'
She reached for the last straw.
'You're meant to be back home before ten.'
'Nope. I'm going to a movie, I've already phoned Dad.'
The landscape was rushing past the bus windows. She spent most of the time looking out. Sodertalje. Nykoping. Norrkoping. Soderkoping. Patrik kept studying the police computer printouts apparently hoping to find a hidden clue if only he examined the pictures closely enough.
She had paid for their tickets. In the seclusion of the Ladies she had taken a thousand-crown note from her savings. When she met up with Patrik afterwards, he had bought two bags of crisps and a two-litre bottle of Coke. His eyes grew round with surprise when she got the tickets, but asked no questions. She liked that.
'Why are you getting involved in all this, really?' He shrugged, it freaks me out.'
She wasn't going to let him get off so easily. 'Seriously, though. Have you nothing better to do than hang out with an old hag of thirty-two?' He grinned at her. 'You only thirty-two?'
Pointless question. He must have read her age hundreds of times in the newspapers. She kept looking at him until finally he folded his bits of paper and put them away in an inside pocket.
‘I just don't get it, I mean this thing about always joining some gang. Mum and Dad go on about it non-stop. I can't help if I don't fancy arsing about playing hockey or football and whatever. Happens I don't give a shit who gets into the Premier League. So what?'
She nodded apologetically.
'Fine. I just wondered.'
She started staring out the window again and he returned to his bits of paper.
The Vastervik murder victim had been a Soren Stromberg, ID 36 02 07-4639. They were going to find his nearest and dearest. She remembered well how she had travelled to see Lena Grundberg, full of courage and hope.
How differently she felt now.
The bus was on time. She kept in the background while Patrik asked the girl in the bus terminal shop for directions to Siver Street, Stromberg's address.
It wasn't far to go. By the time they were nearly there, she was feeling very uneasy. Patrik was hurrying ahead, unworried and enthusiastic, as if on his way to good party.
It was a two-storey house with a mansard-roof. Someone had chosen a long since discredited fashion and covered the walls with cladding tiles. Presumably the same person had built a porch in corrugated green plastic round the front door. It was the final insult to the house, which now looked totally charmless.
Stopping at the gate, they looked at each other and Sibylla shook her head sadly, to show what a lousy idea she thought all this. That decided Patrik, who at once started strolling along the garden path.
Sighing, she followed him. She couldn't just stand there, after all.
'What are you going to say?'
Before he had time to answer, a window was opened in the neighbouring house and a middle-aged woman popped her head out.
'Is it Gunvor you're looking for?'
They exchanged a quick glance.
'Yes,' they chorused.
'She's gone to the cottage. It's in Segersvik. Shall I tell her you called?'
Patrik went up to hedge separating the two properties, is it far to Segersvik?'
'Twenty-odd kilometres, I suppose. Are you driving?' Patrik showed no hesitation. 'Yes, we are.'
'Right. Take the old road towards Gamleby, past Piperkarr and then carry on for another ten kilometres or so. I think there's a sign to Segersvik.'
'Thanks a lot.'
He turned, dispelling any other questions the woman might have wanted to ask. They walked down the path and heard her close the window. He spoke very quietly.
'That's where he was killed. The news stories say he was killed while staying in his summer cottage.'
They kept walking until they were outside the range of the woman next door. Sibylla stopped at the end of the street.
'Now what do we do? If we set out walking, we won't get back in time for the bus.'
'Sure. We'll take a taxi. I've got money.'
This sounded worrying.
'How come you've got such a lot? I mean, at your age one usually doesn't. Or have times changed?'
He said nothing, just kept his eyes fixed on the street.
'For fuck's sake, Patrik – you haven't lifted the dosh, have you?'
'No, I haven't. Borrowed some, though.' 'Who lent you money?'
There was a taxi rank at the bus terminal and he started walking back. Sibylla didn't move.
I won't take one single step until you tell me where you got the money.'
I borrowed some. Back home, from the household kitty. Relax, I'll pay it back before anyone notices.'
'Will you? With what, exactly?'
'I don't know. I mean, I'll think of something.'
He walked on but she still didn't move from the spot. Turning, he shouted irritably at her.
'What's wrong, do you just want to stand here bullshitting? Or?'
'How much did you take?' He hesitated. 'One grand.'
She took another sacred thousand-crown note from her purse. 'Here, take it. And if you ever nick one single thing again, I'll leave. I mean it.' He nodded, looking surprised. 'Do you get that?' 'YES.'
He grabbed the note.
She set out for the bus station and when she turned her head, he was still standing there.
'Hey! What do you want, more bullshitting? Come on!'
He hesitated for another second and then, unwillingly, started running after her.'
She was appalled when the metre clocked up more than two hundred kronor. Going places by taxi was grossly wasteful. Simply unheard of.
They had left P
iperskarr far behind. The tarmac road had turned into a narrow gravel track through forest, now and then interrupted by farms and fields. The land was hilly, even rocky at times. They didn't speak. The driver luckily was a silent man and Patrik seemed to have withdrawn after being told off.
It made her feel better, because now she was back in charge.
Then they reached the lakeside. There was a small marina. The jetty was empty and the boats hauled up on land, resting under tarpaulins and waiting for the spring. Afterwards, the road went through more forest until the landscape opened up toward the lake again. The sun was sinking, colouring the western sky an intense pink.
'Do you want the farm?'
The driver nodded his head in the direction of a group of buildings just ahead. Sibylla glanced at Patrik, who sat turned away and looking out through the window. He wasn't going to help, that much was clear. She leaned forward.
'I'm not really sure. We're visiting someone called Gunvor Stromberg. She's staying in a cottage somewhere near here.'
The driver sounded sour.
'You've got to do better than that. Don't you have her address?'
He drove on slowly, past the gate of small red house on a sharp right-hand bend. The metre had clicked on to two hundred and sixty kronor. Sibylla swallowed and produced another note from her purse. Patrik glared at her but she avoided his eyes.
'We'll get off here.'
The taxi pulled in as far as possible on the narrow road. She paid but did not tip, so he made no move to help her lift her rucksack from the boot. The taxi turned at a meeting-place a bit further along and disappeared in the direction of town. It struck her that they hadn't planned the return journey. She sighed and heaved the rucksack onto her back.
The gate was open and the gap was wide enough to let a car through. There was a green tin letterbox with a name-tag. STROMBERG.
She turned towards Patrik.
'This is it. The cottage is by the water's edge.'
'Yeah.'
He sounded indifferent.
'How long are you going to sulk for?'
He didn't answer but walked along with her. The path leading to the house ran sharply downwards but after a short walk they could see the roof of a house. The rest of it was hidden behind a large shrubbery. Sibylla walked on, followed by Patrik. Once they'd turned the corner of the shrubbery the lake spread out in front of them. A jetty ran out into the water.
The view was stunningly beautiful. How could anyone be murdered in such a place as this? 'Are you looking for someone?'
Sibylla turned quickly. A woman was standing above them on the slope, next to a veranda on the lakeside of the house. She had to think of something to say, because it was obvious that she was on her own now. Patrik was drifting off in the general direction of the jetty.
The woman, who could have been in her mid-sixties, had been tidying the lawn but she put the rake away. She was limping a little as she took a few steps to meet Sibylla. They met in silence and Sibylla could feel a pulse beating at her temple. What next?
'Have you come to look at the cottage? I'm afraid the estate agent didn't say.'
Of course! They were prospective buyers. Sibylla smiled gratefully.
'Yes, we are. If you don't mind?' The woman smiled in response.
I see. I'm sorry if I sounded a little cross, but… you see, lots of people came here just because they're… curious. Anyway, lucky I was here.'
She cleared her throat, pulled off her gardening gloves and held out her hand.
'Pleased to meet you. My name is Stromberg. Gunvor Stromberg.' Sibylla took a fraction too long to answer. 'Sorry we were unexpected. I'm Margareta Lundgren.' They shook hands. Gunvor Stromberg's hand was warm and a little damp after wearing the glove, is that your son?'
They both looked towards Patrik's back. Sibylla laughed nervously.
'Absolutely. Yes.'
Patrik was throwing stones into the water. Sibylla's heart was beating too fast. He was so demonstratively unhelpful. How upset was he? Would he actually try to punish her?
'The jetty doesn't come with house, but we do have right of use. That's in the deeds. Actually, we use it more than anybody else.'
She fell silent, looking out over the water. Then she pulled herself together.
'I suppose you'd like to start indoors?'
Sibylla smiled.
'Please. Thank you.'
'What about the young man?'
Patrik was still throwing stones.
'Patrik, come along! We're going to look at the cottage.'
He didn't come at first. After throwing another stone, he started ambling back up from the jetty. Gunvor Stromberg smiled at Sibylla.
'Oh dear, it's such a difficult age, isn't it? I always felt that all you could do was let them get on with life on their own.'
Sibylla tried a smile of complicity. Damn his special age, whatever it was, she'd tell him a thing or two as soon as they were on their own.
Gunvor was walking ahead towards the house while Sibylla waited until Patrik joined her. When he was at whispering distance, she hissed at him.
'Get your fucking act together! She thinks we want to buy the place.'
He raised his eyebrows.
'Why don't you? You've got plenty stashed away, seemingly.'
He passed her on the path. This was the second time in one week that her money had angered and disappointed someone. Why did they take it out on her?
Gunvor was waiting for them and Sibylla hurried along. Meanwhile Patrik had introduced himself politely.
'Why don't you have a look around on your own? I'll be out here if you want me.'
After exchanging a quick glance, they climbed the stone steps to the front door.
'It's quite small but quite well equipped, I think you'll agree. The immersion heater is a little old though.'
Sibylla nodded and they stepped inside. The murderer must have come in this way once. After crossing a lobby, they were in a small kitchen. Everything was neat and well looked after. The atmosphere was cosy, familiar. Scruffy patches on the floor showed where kitchen chairs had been pulled up to and away from the table. The enamelled handle on the oven door had been partly worn away after years of use by hungry hands.
There was a faint odour of paint in the air.
Patrik had gone on to open the door of a closed room. In the doorway, he stopped and signalled to her. She came to stand next to him. The room was unfurnished and freshly painted white. Patrik produced one of his pieces of paper. Pointing, he spoke in a whisper.
'That's the wall.'
Sibylla looked at the bloodstained bed and read once more the killer's message, signed by her name. She wanted to get out, now.
Gunvor Stromberg had walked down to the jetty and stood there with her back to the house, staring out over the calm water of the lake. Sibylla felt she shouldn't disturb her. Patrik came alongside her.
'Go talk to her. I mean, it's not as if we've figured anything new yet. I'll stay here, just checking it out a bit more.'
He was right. Of course they couldn't just leave now.
Gunvor Stromberg did not acknowledge Sibylla's presence in any way. Only when Sibylla cleared her throat noisily did her companion take her eyes away from the lake and raise a hand to wipe her face.
Still Gunvor did not turn round.
'It's a very nice place, this.'
No reply. For a while they stood together without speaking. Sibylla thought that sooner or later the silence would force the other woman to say something.
Looking at the wonderful view, Sibylla realised that this was the place she had always dreamt of. The quiet seclusion, the lovely natural setting. Not that she would ever be able to afford something like this. Besides, soon she wouldn't be able to buy anything at all. Suddenly Gunvor spoke, turning towards Sibylla.
I suppose I'd better tell you myself, you'd only hear the rumours if I don't. You are not from round here, are you?' 'No, we're not.' 'I thought so.'
'Six days ago, my husband was murdered in this house.'
Unobserved, Sibylla still acted out a silent reaction of surprise.
'The murderer wasn't local, if you're worrying about that.'
Sibylla had glimpsed enough of her face to see the tears flowing down Gunvor's cheeks.
'Is that why you want to sell your cottage?'
Gunvor sobbed, shaking her head at the same time.
'No, no. We'd planned to sell, but maybe in the spring when the prices are better.'
She sheltered her face behind her right hand, as if to hide her crying from Sibylla.
'Soren had been ill for quite a long time. Cancer of the liver. Just over a year ago he had major surgery and it went better than we dared hope. They gave him a forty-four per cent chance of surviving.'
She was shaking her head now.
'I suppose I'd started hoping again. He was taking his medicines and had regular check-ups. Things seemed all right. Well, he was often tired, no wonder, but he didn't like not being able to do what he used to. We thought keeping the cottage might become too much and anyway, we could go travelling together with the money. After all, he mightn't… have that much time left.'
She stopped and Sibylla put her hand on Gunvor's shoulder Gunvor started sobbing again when she felt the light touch.
'We spent as much time here as we could. Drove here the moment we were free.'
'Maybe you prefer not to sell immediately?'
Gunvor shook her head.
'I don't want to stay here any more. I don't like going into that house.'
Suddenly the silence was shattered by a flourish on a trumpet. Sibylla took her hand away and looked around in bewilderment.
'That Magnusson, a neighbour. When he's here, he plays reveille every morning and lights-out every night. It's from sheer joy at being here, he says.'
Gunvor had to smile a little, despite her grief. Sibylla closed her eyes, briefly dreaming of living in this place. Imagine having a neighbour, at a safe distance, who announced his presence with tunes on a trumpet, played from happiness. The dream of being happy.
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