Behind Blue Eyes

by C S Duffy

  She nodded. ‘Yes of course. I found some documents relating to their bunker, in fact.’

  ‘Wow, he’ll be thrilled to hear that.’

  A frown flickered across Corinna’s face and I guessed that Krister hadn’t been as appreciative of her hard work as he might have been. I could just picture his patronising little smirk. I heard Liv shout, a joking protest, and I glanced over to see her mock shoving Johan as he raised his hands in surrender.

  ‘Do you know them?’ asked Corinna, following my gaze.

  ‘Not really,’ I said.

  Just then a cheer went up as Mia stood up to make a little speech that I wouldn’t have understood even if I could hear it properly from the other end of the table. Magnus or Kalle or Sven handed me a shot and a chorus of skåls rang around the table. I raised my glass and downed my shot, grimacing as it just about melted my throat.

  ‘Anyway, it is so fascinating to meet a real life investigator, I feel quite starstruck,’ Corinna smiled. ‘I don’t know what makes me so interested in true crime, but I do love it.’

  I smiled. ‘I think for a lot of people it’s because it could happen to any of us. Not just being the victim either. I once interviewed a Detective Chief Inspector of the Met Police in London, and I asked him if anyone could potentially become a murderer, or was it something you were either born with or not. He said yes, pretty much anyone was theoretically capable given the right circumstances.’

  ‘I agree with that,’ Corinna nodded. ‘I think I could.’ She smiled. ‘I hope I don’t ever have to, but if I was threatened, or my family, my nieces or nephews maybe? I don’t even think I would find it so hard. Perhaps that is the true fascination,’ she added, thinking it over. ‘We all imagine we are so cosy and safe and protected, with the police and army to keep that sort of pain and tragedy far away from us. We think we are so far away from the darkest parts of human nature, that things like murder only happen in Hollywood films.’

  I nodded. ‘Exactly. But it’s closer than we think.’

  ‘There was a woman I used to work with who believed her husband was murdered,’ Corinna said. She lowered her voice, leaned in a bit more. ‘Everyone said she was crazy, that it was just grief talking. But sometimes I wonder.’

  ‘How did he die?’ I asked.

  ‘He took an overdose,’ she said. ‘If I remember correctly, he had some sort of chronic pain condition. Something to do with his spine, I think, but it was under control. He did a lot of yoga, which also helped, and I met him at classes two or three times. I liked him a lot. He was warm, easy to talk to. And they seemed a really great couple. Sometimes — I don’t know if you’re single, but sometimes for me the hardest thing is that I don’t envy so many of my friends’ relationships. I want to,’ she added with a wry grin. ‘I wish I could say I want that, but so much of the time I am thinking more — shit, what is the English phrase?’

  ‘Rather you than me?’ I supplied.

  ‘Yes! Exactly.’ She laughed and made a face. ‘But Björne and Tove, they were one couple I envied. There was something about them that was just —’ She shrugged. ‘They fit. He was quiet, while she could be wild and funny, but they were so comfortable together.

  ‘Anyway, one Saturday morning she went out for a run. He was still asleep when she left, and when she got back he was slumped on their kitchen table, an empty bottle of his pain medication in his hand.’

  ‘That’s awful.’

  ‘It was terrible. I hardly knew them, but I felt almost as though I grieved too. It was such a tragedy. And Tove —’ Corina shook her head. ‘She has never been the same. It was more than grief. She is convinced that he did not do it, and became obsessed by proving it was murder. Most people believe that she just cannot bring herself to accept that he would leave her, but sometimes I am not so sure. Nobody knew him better than she did. Sometimes I feel that people dismiss her because the thought of murder is just so huge, so horrifying, that it’s like crossing a line to even consider the possibility.’

  ‘Does she have any reason beyond her gut feeling to suspect someone else was involved?’ I asked. My mind was racing. Björne. Björne Svensson? Overdose on Åsögatan.

  ‘She claims she is certain she locked the door behind her when she left, because he was still asleep, and that when she got back it was open. She said that they normally didn’t bother to lock the door when they are home, but why would he have unlocked it? It could only be that he opened the door to let someone in.’

  ‘She told the police all this, I take it?’

  Corinna nodded. ‘Many times. She once said to me that she knew they thought she was nuts but she didn’t care any more. She hoped that, at least, they might do something about it, even if just to get her to stop bothering them. I believe she finally persuaded them to test the pill bottle for fingerprints, but they found only his.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with her?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to her in a while. She left her job maybe six months ago, and I keep meaning to call or text.’ Corinna shrugged, with a guilty smile. ‘You know what it’s like. I will call her tomorrow though.’

  ‘If you do, do you think you could ask her if she would speak to me?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  30

  There was no Svensson listed on the buzzer outside the building where Björne and Tove Svensson lived on Åsögatan. I hadn’t heard from Corinna, but a bit of Googling had revealed their address, so I decided to take a chance with some good old fashioned doorstopping. Surely if Tove was determined to prove her husband’s death was murder, she would be happy to speak to me.

  I didn’t know the code for the door, but there was a fancy restaurant just next door, so I hung about pretending to read the menu for a while. Finally, a young dad with a toddler on his shoulders came out, and I grabbed the door before it shut behind him.

  There was a lovely smell in the lobby, some kind of polishing oil, I guessed. Next to the little concertina-doored lift was a gleaming brass plaque listing all the residents. Svensson — 3tr.

  Bingo, I thought, taking the stairs two at a time to reach the third floor.

  There were two flats on each little landing, but all the way up the stairs I couldn’t hear a peep from anyone inside. It was eerily silent, as though the building itself was asleep. Although I was still in a communal area, I already felt as though I were intruding and I hesitated in front of Tove Svensson’s front door, trying to decide whether disturbing her would be a mistake. Maybe I should wait until Corinna had sounded her out first. I was just toying with trying to message Corinna again when the door across the landing opened and I jumped a mile.

  A middle aged guy emerged, handsome in a weatherbeaten sort of way. He looked exhausted, deep crevices around his eyes and he barely glanced in my direction, as though his mouth didn’t have the energy to smile. He carried a laundry basket, and from somewhere inside his flat I could hear a baby wail as he shut the door behind him.

  ‘I just realised how early it is,’ I blurted. He looked at me, startled. I nodded towards Tove Svensson’s front door. ‘I don’t want to disturb her.’

  ‘They are on vacation,’ he said, a bit haltingly, as though his English was rarely used.

  ‘They?’ I frowned. She couldn’t have met someone else, surely? That didn’t sound likely, from what Corinna had said about her. Maybe she had a flatmate.

  ‘Visiting her family, I think. In Estonia.’ The guy’s expression hardened, suddenly, as though it had just occurred to him to be suspicious. ‘Are you a friend?’

  ‘I — perhaps I got the wrong flat. I’m looking for Tove Svensson?’

  He shook his head. ‘It is Hampus and Kaisa Svensson who live there.’ He smiled briefly. ‘Svensson is quite a common name.’

  ‘Shit, there must have been two listed and I didn’t realise. Sorry. Thanks for letting me know.’

  I turned to head down the stairs, then something in his expression caught my eye.

  ‘Tove Sve
nsson?’ he said. ‘Who was married to Björne Svensson?’

  I nodded.

  ‘They did live here, over in the gårdhus.’

  ‘Did? Did she move?’ I said, my heart sinking. ‘This was the only address for her I could find.’

  ‘What do you want with her?’ he asked, a steely edge to his voice.

  I hesitated. ‘I want to talk to her about her husband’s death,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to bother her, I want to help.’

  ‘Well you are too late,’ he said. ‘Tove Svensson is dead.’

  31

  Tove Svensson was dead because she wouldn’t stop asking questions about her husband, I thought. It was a gorgeous late summer day, the sky a startling blue, sun glinting off the brightly coloured apartment buildings all around me. There was a display of flower bouquets outside the 7-Eleven on the corner and a group of friends laughed as they headed in to the yoga studio across the road.

  I made my way to the little coffee shop I loved, where Liv had blanked me all those weeks ago. It was rammed with Sunday morning brunchers, clamouring for tables in the sunshine, but I managed to nab the last tiny one. As I stared blindly at the fountain glistening in the sun in the little park where Gustav Lindström died, I could feel a tremor, deep within me. Forcing myself to steady my breathing, I took out my phone and toyed with it a moment, trying to work up the courage to start searching.

  A group of kids screamed as they splashed in the fountain.

  A baby cried at the table next to me.

  People screamed and laughed as the wind changed, splattering the fountain over some picnickers.

  Finally I forced myself to open my phone.

  Car crash.

  I understood the photo of the wrecked car, half submerged in a ditch, surrounded by crime scene tape, guarded by a grim faced police officer, even before the translation app did its magic. Tove Svensson died when her car plunged off an icy verge on the E4 motorway just beyond Sollentuna. She had taken two sleeping pills and dozed off at the wheel.

  My heart started to pound. A guy approached, gestured to the second chair at my table, presumably asked if he could take it. I jumped and stared at him with such horror that he backed away with an apologetic smile, holding up his hands in surrender.

  The packet of sleeping pills was found in Tove’s handbag under the passenger seat. It was a simple, over-the-counter sleep aid, the kind loads of people take the night before a big presentation, or to manage jet lag. A packet of the same brand’s painkiller was also found in the bag, and the verdict suggested she had confused the two and taken the sleeping pill before driving by mistake.

  Except she hadn’t, I thought, little tingles of horror breaking out over me. Another tragic accident to add to the list. I looked around the square. There were young couples snuggling together on the grass. Families heading for the swings. People reading alone in the sunshine on the cobblestoned lane, cycling past waving to friends, moseying at the rack of vintage clothes outside the second hand shop.

  Any one of them could meet a tragic accident at any moment.

  I opened up my phone again and messaged Corinna. I didn’t want to break the news of her friend’s death in a text, so I just asked her to get in touch with me urgently. When I checked the message a few minutes later, I saw it had been read, but she never answered.

  32

  ‘I don’t know babe, it sounds a bit — I mean, fuck, a serial killer?’ Maddie glanced over at Lena, her eyes worried. Lena’s expression remained impassive as she thought it over. We were sitting on their teensy balcony, the sun beating down. In the yard below someone was barbequing, the smell reminding me I’d clean forgotten breakfast and lunch.

  ‘Well what are the chances?’ I said. ‘Sanna took pills and died, Björne took pills and died, Tove took pills and died. I don’t believe in that many coincidences.’

  ‘Tove took pills and died after almost two years of being out of her mind with grief,’ Maddie said gently. ‘It might not be a coincidence, but that doesn’t make it murder.’

  ‘What about Gustav?’ I persisted. ‘He was injected with something. Someone must have done that for a reason.’

  ‘For all we know, he was dealing steroids, or had who-knows-what going on in his life,’ Maddie said gently. ‘We told the police what time you got here that night and I got the impression it ruled you out, but they won’t thank you for sticking your nose in. I’m worried it won’t look good for you, whether you’re on to something or not.’

  ‘I think I agree with Ellie,’ Lena spoke up finally. ‘Accidents and tragedies do happen, but I agree that for so many people in such a small area to have been careless with medication —’ She shrugged. ‘It is worrying. But Maddie is right that you must be very careful.’

  ‘Well thanks judge and jury,’ Maddie grinned, leaning over to kiss Lena. ‘Glad I’m right about some things.’

  ‘But you do think it’s possible someone has been doing this?’

  ‘Yes,’ Lena said simply. ‘At least, I think it must be investigated.’

  ‘The thought of somebody quietly killing for years like this is chilling,’ Maddie said. ‘Like, they’re not doing it for revenge or to make some kind of sick point, but just to kill— it’s so cold. I read somewhere that serial killers get off on all the fear and pandemonium they cause. It’s often the killer himself who calls in tips to media, just to enjoy the uproar. They even get involved in the investigation sometimes, pretending to be a witness, playing this high stakes game with the police. But this person doesn’t need any of that. They’re just killing for their own private satisfaction.’

  ‘They weren’t controlled about Gustav,’ I pointed out. ‘That was the first time they’ve left behind any hint another person was involved at all.’

  ‘That’s what frightens me babe. If they’re starting to lose control —’ Maddie cut herself off, squeezed my hand.

  ‘I spoke to a friend who works in the lab about the case,’ Lena said. ‘The tox screening on Gustav Lindström’s body came back completely clean.’

  ‘What? How could it be clean when he was injected?’ Maddie asked.

  Lena shrugged. ‘He must have been injected with something that was undetectable just a few hours later.’

  ‘How is that possible?’

  ‘I don’t know enough about chemistry to say, I just know there are some drugs that do not show up, at least not on the standard tests.’

  ‘So if it wasn’t for the puncture wound and the blood on his collar, it would have looked like a natural heart attack,’ I said. ‘Albeit an unlikely one.’

  Lena nodded.

  ‘There was another heart attack on the list of possible victims I made. Another young guy, thirty-four I think. He was dancing at some club and started to fit. People around him thought he was having a bad reaction to alcohol or drugs, but he was found to have been almost sober, no drugs in his system.’ I pulled out my phone and opened the notebook where I’d saved all the links, found the one I wanted and passed it to Lena.

  ‘The drug acted very fast on Gustav Lindström, there was only minutes between you leaving and his death,’ she muttered, skimming the article. ‘So this guy, Sigge Åstrand, must have been injected when he was already at Kvarnen.’

  I’d been to Kvarnen once, with Johan, for dinner. It was like an old fashioned beer tavern upstairs, and a sweaty club downstairs. ‘If you are, like, twenty-two and you haven’t found someone to go home with by midnight on a Friday,’ Johan had grinned when he caught me watching the teenagers streaming downstairs, ‘you head down there and take what’s left. It is a wonderful system. Everybody is happy.’

  ‘Could it have happened in the gents’?’ I said.

  ‘A guy bashing into another guy in the men’s room would get his head kicked in pretty quick-smart where I come from,’ Maddie said sourly. ‘Maybe some Swedes are more evolved, but it would be pretty risky if you ask me.’

  ‘If this drug works that fast he might not have had time to reac
t. Or maybe it happened on the dance floor. If it was crowded then it’s possible that no one would have seen the injection.’

  ‘Still risky, I reckon.’ Maddie shook her head.

  ‘I don’t disagree,’ I said, ‘but this person has been literally getting away with murder for years. He knows what he’s doing and he’s as confident as fuck.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they have CCTV at this bar?’ asked Maddie.

  ‘They probably have some system,’ Lena said, ‘it might have even been checked at the time, but it is two years later. Any footage will be long gone.’

  I sighed in frustration. ‘This bastard is too good at this,’ I said. ‘Maddie’s right. It’s chilling. Generally, there’s a bit of a connection between lack of control, lack of problem solving skills and criminality, right? That’s why the vast majority get caught sooner or later. The famous unsolved cases, like Jack the Ripper or whoever, they’re legendary because it’s not normal to escape justice. But if all these people have been murdered by the same person, then this killer has been at large for years and years. They’re a bloody maestro at it.’

  ‘When was the earliest of these accidental deaths you could find?’ asked Lena.

  ‘2007,’ I said. ‘More than a decade ago. And there might well be more, my search probably wasn’t exhaustive.’

  ‘There is one more you should perhaps look at,’ Lena said, squinting against the sinking sun as she thought. ‘I went to high school on Söder. My father lived at Hornstull. When we were in the final year, there was a ski trip, and someone died. Karin Söderström. She had epilepsy. We all knew it, a nurse had come in to school to teach us all what to do if she had a fit. But during the trip, she snuck out of the cabin one evening, and went skiing. She never told anyone she was going. She was very quiet, wasn’t unliked but also wasn’t exactly a part of the group, you know?

  ‘Earlier that day, some of us had been discussing going for a moonlight ski, but when it came to evening and it was warm around the fire, the idea did not seem like so much fun any more. But I guess Karin still thought it was, because she went out. The following day she was found on one of the trails behind the cabin. She had had an attack and fell unconscious, then the cold killed her. She was sixteen.’