The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Who called the police?’ the prosecutor asked.

  Sjöberg glanced at the slip of paper he had in his hand.

  ‘One of the neighbours did, a Bertil Schwartz. Catherine Larsson had reserved the laundry room this morning, but she didn’t show up. Schwartz rang her doorbell to ask if he could take her time, but no one answered. He wrote her a message, and when he opened the letterbox to put the note through he noticed an unpleasant smell, so he peeked in through the slot and thought he saw blood on the floor. Then he called the police. You’ll have to check that the thing about the laundry room tallies.’

  The latter was directed at Hamad and Westman. To Sandén he said, ‘You’ll take the children’s preschool too. But first we’ll go and see Christer Larsson. Let’s start like that, and then meet again here tomorrow at the same time.’

  * * *

  To spare his back he lay on his side in the semi-darkness. A ray of late-winter light made its way in through the window opening above the dirty heavy-laundry sink. If he looked towards the light, everything else in the room turned black. He preferred to see the objects that surrounded him, so he fixed his gaze on a few cans on a shelf. He looked, but still did not see. In his mind it was May, a radiant spring day long ago. He stood with his arm around his wife’s waist by the living-room window on the third floor and looked down at the neighbours’ boys playing in the communal garden. A ventilation window was open and the breeze fanned the white curtain beside them. Was it white, though, or was it perhaps the case that all memories from that day were shrouded in a kind of milky haze?

  They could have sat out on the balcony if it hadn’t been for the planting project in progress out there. Both of the chairs and the table were neatly folded up, leaning against the wall, and the concrete floor was covered with newspapers. A sack of soil was half spilled out on the layer of newspaper, and around it stood a dozen pots in piles and a couple of cartons of plants. The aroma of earth from the balcony was mixed with the odour of freshly cut grass from down in the garden.

  It was Saturday and a few older children had occupied all the swings, so the two little boys had to be content with the sandpit for the time being. They each dug absent-mindedly with a little shovel in the dry sand and cast furtive glances towards the swings. But they did not dare approach the bigger children, even though their mother was sitting right next to them on a bench, browsing through a magazine.

  ‘Would you like to have a couple of those?’ he said, letting his hand wander up her spine until it reached the soft hairs on the back of her neck.

  ‘No, I want a couple of these,’ she answered, turning towards him and pinching him on the cheek. ‘Although smaller,’ she added with a laugh.

  He put his arms around her and pressed her against him. They stood that way for a while without saying anything. His gaze stopped once again at the two little boys in the sandpit, so he noticed when both of them suddenly stood up and ran off towards something outside his field of vision. After a few seconds they came back, dragging their father by each hand. The mother stood up and said something to him. She rolled up her magazine and started walking away from them. The last he saw of her was when she called something to the boys. He saw her calling something every day, unsentimental, over her shoulder before she disappeared from them, and they from her. He thought – not now, but later – that she didn’t hug them, that she didn’t kiss their rosy cheeks before she left, that she didn’t stroke their hair and tell them how much she loved them. Then he thought, of course, it’s almost ten o’clock, she has to go to her job at the beauty salon.

  ‘Your stomach is growling,’ his wife said, releasing herself from his arms. ‘Come on, let’s make breakfast.’

  She fried eggs and bacon while he set the kitchen table. Through the window he saw the older children finally leave the swings, and the little boys’ lightning-quick rush to take them over. Another man had joined their father on the bench, and they were conversing, their body language showing that they already knew each other.

  When they’d finished their breakfast they let the dishes be and crept back into bed for a while. It was twelve-thirty before they got dressed, cleaned up in the kitchen and put on the gardening gloves to resume the planting project on the balcony.

  Then the doorbell rang.

  * * *

  Without speaking much, they walked side by side back towards Trålgränd, to question the neighbours. Hamad made a few awkward attempts at conversation, but Petra was not in the mood to play-act, to behave as if nothing had happened. He did not exist for her, not as a person. As a police officer, yes. Sjöberg persisted in constantly pairing them up, putting them on the same assignment, and Petra was professional. She would never let her emotions carry over into her job. But it could never be like before. It was not possible to just whitewash over what he had done to her. And to the other women on the video recordings from Peder Fryhk’s basement.

  It was as good as proven that it was Hamad who had been holding the camera. He was the one who convinced her to go along to Clarion’s bar and sent her right into the arms of the rapist Fryhk. And it was Hamad who had taken her pass card, lured her to the Pelican where he poured a lot of beer into her, then made his way into the police station with her card and sent an erotic email to the police commissioner. From her email address and her computer, whose password only she and the rapist could have known. And the image that was sent to Roland Brandt she had also found on Hamad’s own computer.

  And if that weren’t enough evidence, at any time she could get her suspicions confirmed in black and white. Håkan Carlberg at the national forensics lab in Linköping had both fingerprints and DNA from the Other Man, as she had called him before he got a name. The Other Man – the one holding the camera when Peder Fryhk raped drugged, unconscious women, the one who also raped but never let himself be filmed, never left any memories with the victims.

  But she hadn’t. She had not sent Hamad’s fingerprints to Linköping. Because it wasn’t necessary; she already knew. And because it felt too late to bring it to court, she had decided once and for all not to report the crime. And perhaps it was also the case that there was a kind of security in the situation as it was right now. Because how would she react if the forensic evidence definitively established that it was Jamal Hamad, her close friend and confidant, who was the Other Man? Or even worse: if after all this time it turned out that he was innocent. Either way, her world – which she had worked so hard to rebuild after these events – would come crashing down … No, she could not handle these questions.

  So Petra kept Hamad at arm’s length, tried to behave neutrally and matter-of-factly towards him and gave him no opportunities to feel triumphant or injure her. Because that was what he was after; Sjöberg had confirmed that when she had revealed some of the details of the rape to him. Power and revenge – that was what was motivating the Other Man. Power because that was what rape was really about, and revenge because she had seen to it that Peder Fryhk was behind bars. Sending the porno image to Brandt was an attempt – which had been a hair’s breadth from succeeding – to get her fired. Revenge. Power.

  He had been ingenious, that Hamad. Before, when he had the chance, he had made sure to always be around her. A rock in her existence. He had gladly touched her, put his arm around her, looked her deep in the eyes, interested her. But never more than that. No passes, no violations. And she would not have needed any pressing. He was smart, good-looking, warm and charming – what more could you ask for? He was recently separated besides. But the whole time he had been interested in only one thing: doing whatever he wanted with her, against her will. That was all it was about; she had been only a plaything for him, a wet dream.

  But exult? He would not get to do that. She had never shown herself weak to him. She had recovered quickly, got back on her feet almost immediately. Her interest in men had been rather non-existent since the rape, almost a year and a half ago, but now she was back on track there too. How on earth had that happene
d? She smiled at the absurdity of the situation. There would never be anything, never could be anything more, but it had been nice. Good for her self-confidence. A one-night stand with a mature man in his prime. A family man. It had never been her intention when they met a week or so earlier, while she was out partying with some friends. At first she had been properly unapproachable, but he had driven such a well-placed wedge in her armour, had had such interesting things to say that at last she let herself be talked into a cup of tea at her place. And one thing led to another. But she did not regret a thing, was completely sensible about the situation and had no hopes for the future – on the contrary. And the same seemed to apply to him. They had spoken in passing a couple of times, in a mature way and without denying anything. Like proper grown-ups.

  Once on Trålgränd Petra and Hamad called on Bertil Schwartz, a single man in his sixties who knew nothing about the dead woman and her children. He claimed never to have even noticed them, and Hamad and Westman found nothing about him that gave them reason to suspect otherwise. The list in the laundry room confirmed for them that Catherine Larsson really had reserved a morning slot on Tuesday.

  Her nearest neighbours – the ones on her floor – did not have much to add either. Neither of them had a close relationship with the Larsson family, but everyone in the building was in agreement that they were quiet, that the children were sweet and that their mother was always friendly.

  It had been noticed that a man of Swedish appearance figured in her life, but no one knew whether it was Mr Larsson or somebody else. The man was taciturn, although he greeted those he met on the stairwell. Possibly he stayed the night there sometimes, though there was no one who knew for sure how things stood with that. He was much older, which perhaps argued against them being lovers, but on the other hand it was quite impossible that he was her father. Occasionally this man had been seen going out or coming home with the two children.

  Catherine Larsson was also visited from time to time by a woman her own age, also of Asian appearance. None of the neighbours had ever noticed either quarrels or loud voices from the Larsson family’s apartment. At the time of the murder, which had now been established by forensic investigation to have occurred at some time between Saturday evening and Sunday morning, no one in the building had noticed anything unusual, or noted either that Catherine Larsson had a visitor.

  In the neighbouring building, where Bertil Schwartz also lived, the two detectives questioned a young woman aged about twenty-five, Elin Lange. She was rather small, with short blonde hair, and looked energetic and athletic in tight jeans and a T-shirt in the Brazilian colours. It turned out that Elin had run into Catherine Larsson once in the laundry room. Because she had recently been travelling in Asia, Elin had asked Catherine out of pure curiosity about her origins and found that she had grown up on an island in the Philippines that Elin herself had visited during her trip, Negros. Negros was, according to Elin Lange, a very poor part of the Philippines, so it seemed natural to her that Catherine had gone to work in the tourist industry on another island, Mindoro. There, by and by, she had met a Swedish man with whom she fell in love and followed him to Sweden, where they got married and had children. Catherine had revealed to Elin that the couple had separated, but told her that the children were rooted in Sweden and that she herself was also happy among the friendly Swedes. But deep down, Elin thought, she probably would have wanted to move home again, if it hadn’t been for the children.

  ‘The tourist industry … ?’ said Westman.

  Elin Lange looked at her from under her fringe before hesitantly giving expression to her thoughts.

  ‘Well, that is … We didn’t go into any details, it was just nice to talk to her. Filipinos are an amazingly gracious people and you can’t help loving them. But, yeah … If you’ve visited the tourist district on Mindoro, then perhaps hotel receptionist is not the first thing you think of … But it’s not everyone who … And you shouldn’t be prejudiced … Uh, I really have no idea.’

  Westman nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘Anything else you were thinking about? You are actually the only person we’ve talked to so far who has exchanged so much as a word with Catherine Larsson, besides hello.’

  ‘She was really nice,’ Elin Lange replied. ‘As they always are. But she was homesick and I can understand that. Cold and miserable and isolated … The only thing this country has to offer if love ends is our social security system.’

  After a few seconds of silence she added, ‘How could anyone take the lives of two small children?’

  ‘If you think of anything you’ve forgotten to tell us, we’d like you to call us,’ said Hamad, handing her his card.

  ‘Sure, I’ll do that,’ she said, giving the card a quick glance and putting it in the back pocket of her jeans.

  ‘Don’t forget that next time you’re in the laundry room.’ Hamad winked at her, and she laughed in gratitude because he had lightened up the depressed atmosphere.

  Westman smiled guardedly.

  * * *

  Christer Larsson was almost sixty, but even with his greying hair he looked considerably younger. He was tall and rangy, well built with rough hands, and had a slightly absent look in his brown, sorrowful eyes.

  Showing no surprise, he invited them into his apartment, which was located on the fifth floor of a high-rise in Fredhäll. Despite the small scale of the little studio it was neat and tidy and smelled clean. On the windowsill were a couple of flowerpots with thriving plants and there were some framed photographs and posters hanging on the walls. Along one wall stood a relatively large bookcase, full of books and nothing else. As they passed the kitchen on their way in, Sjöberg noted that it was also clean with things put neatly away.

  The two police officers sat down on the couch, which Sjöberg figured out also served as a bed at night. Larsson sat down in an armchair, leaning forward with his legs spread, his big hands hanging between his knees. His gaze was directed down at the rug.

  ‘You are married to Catherine Larsson?’ Sjöberg began.

  ‘Yes,’ Christer Larsson answered, without raising his eyes.

  ‘But you no longer live together?’

  ‘No, she moved out.’

  He spoke very slowly and Sjöberg suspected that he was under the influence.

  ‘Are you sober?’ he asked.

  Christer Larsson did not look surprised now either, but gave them a searching look.

  ‘Yes,’ he said simply.

  ‘Do you take any medication?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ he replied drily. ‘Was there something you wanted to know?’

  ‘But you still see Catherine?’ Sjöberg continued on his original track.

  ‘No, not really. She’s been here a few times with the kids.’

  ‘A few times? When most recently?’

  ‘Twice, I think. About a year since the last time.’

  ‘You are the father of the children, aren’t you?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘So haven’t you visited them?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘But you know where they live?’

  ‘I’m sure I’ve got the address, but I don’t know where I put it.’

  Sandén, who was not known for his patience, felt some frustration at the slow pace of the conversation and interrupted.

  ‘So you weren’t there, for example, on Saturday evening?’

  ‘No, I’ve never visited Catherine and the kids at home.’

  Larsson met Sandén’s gaze with a hint of defiance in his tired eyes. Sjöberg made a calming gesture at Sandén with his hand and took a deep breath before he started speaking again.

  ‘We’re sorry to have to tell you, Christer, that Catherine and the children … are deceased.’

  A doubtful smile swept across Larsson’s face.

  ‘Are you pulling my leg?’

  ‘Unfortunately no,’ Sjöberg answered seriously. ‘They were found dead in their apartment this morning.’

/>   ‘Accident?’

  Sjöberg shook his head.

  ‘No, we suspect they were murdered.’

  ‘But by who?’

  Christer Larsson’s tone of voice was unchanged, but his gaze looked somewhat sharper now.

  ‘We don’t know. We thought perhaps you could help us.’

  ‘You think of course that it was me?’

  ‘We would like to rule that out, but we need your help. What were you doing between, let’s say, six o’clock on Saturday evening and six o’clock on Sunday morning?’

  ‘I wasn’t doing anything that anyone can confirm. I was at home and ate and watched TV and slept. I did go down to buy something for dinner, but that’s probably not something anyone will remember.’

  ‘Where did you do that?’

  ‘At ICA down on Stagneliusvägen.’

  ‘Did you pay with a credit card?’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure I did.’

  ‘Good, then we can verify that at least.’

  ‘Do you have anything against me taking a look in your bathroom?’ Sandén interjected.

  Larsson shook his head.

  ‘And rooting in your laundry a little?’

  ‘Do what you have to,’ Christer Larsson answered, without looking up.

  Sandén got up from the sofa bed, went over to the little hall and disappeared through the bathroom door.

  ‘Can you tell me a little about your relationship with Catherine?’ asked Sjöberg. ‘How you met, why it ended, how it happens that you no longer see each other, your relationship with the children, and so on.’

  After a heavy sigh and a moment of silence, Christer Larsson started his story. Sjöberg decided to let it take the time it took, without interrupting or pressing.

  ‘Someone at work had been to the Philippines and came back really positive about it. I wasn’t that interested then, I had never been on any long trips, but a few years later I got the idea that I should pull myself together and do something different, so I decided to go there. And I did: bought a guidebook and just went there. Travelled around to a few different places and on Mindoro I met Catherine. I hadn’t been with a woman for ages and I guess I wasn’t particularly interested then either, but she was rather forward, you might say, and it was like she didn’t give up. I didn’t get what she wanted with an old bore like me, but she was persistent. And gradually I took a liking to her too. She brought life back to the old man. It’s a bit like being born again.’