by Will Dean
‘If he did do this, why do you think he did it? What was his motive, do you think?’
‘See, I’m not so sure about this one. I’ve seen films about it and such, documentaries, real good ones that you can learn things from, you know the kind. I’d say, and I’m no expert, but I’d say he was envious of Freddy and this other fella they just found. Always got the feeling Davey had no friends or family, so I suppose he slaughtered those boys out of envy. It’s as green as poison ivy, that’s what I always say, but twice as deadly.’
‘Why do you think the victims are all male?’ I ask. ‘Why do you think the perpetrator attacked middle-aged men?’
‘You mean Davey Holmqvist?’
The guy to my right nods, something his camera won’t pick up.
‘I can’t say, to be honest, maybe he was jealous of these good family men, you know, like I said. Freddy had a wife and a boy and a proper job. He went to work every day up at the school, not just staying at home all day writing ghost stories in his bedroom. Freddy was a Christian man and I’ll bet you the other man they found was, too. Ghost stories, I ask you.’
The interview winds up and I drive back to the office with my recording. When I get inside I see Lena and Lars watching TV with the sound turned up. I slip my boots off and angle my neck up to see the picture. It’s the ICA Maxi checkout girl again, the pretty one. I reckon without her looks she’d be forgotten about by now, but here she is taking her second fifteen minutes of fame. She’s being interviewed with the supermarket sign in the background, must be standing facing Tammy’s takeout van. She’s next to an older woman with short white hair and a butterfly brooch on her uniform.
‘Like I told the paper,’ the pretty girl says. ‘He’d come in and buy just the weirdest stuff. I seen him buy pigs’ snouts he specially ordered, like their actual noses. I seen him buy tails and trotters and one time he even ordered in . . .’ she stops for a moment, either for effect or to rethink, ‘testicles. Don’t know if they were bull or pig or what, but they sure were big and I had to pick ’em up in their little Styrofoam packet and bleep them through my till. Eurgh, I still shiver just thinking about them bull balls.’
The other woman with the brooch starts talking as soon as the younger one finishes, keen to get her voice on TV.
‘There’s a rumour in this town,’ she says, looking at the younger girl for a split second before turning back to camera, ‘I don’t know if it’s true so don’t quote me, but I heard David Holmqvist came on real strong to a girl at the school when he was studying there back in the day. Now, I’m not one to spread gossip, Lord no, but I heard on pretty good authority that he was trying to romance a girl in the year above him who was a little bit slow, poor lamb,’ she points to her own head. ‘Not retarded or nothing, she was in the normal school and now she’s moved away with her parents to Spain or someplace hot, but I heard from an authority figure, that’s all I can say about him, that Holmqvist tried to court her and she’d wanted none of it. Poor lamb, the school had to intervene or so I heard, they had to bring his parents in and all sorts.’
‘Was any crime committed to your knowledge?’
‘Well, let’s see, you’d better ask a judge or lawyer or somesuch about all the technicalities, but in the eyes of the Lord, I’d say yes, a hundred per cent, yes a crime was committed I’d say.’
The younger girl sniffs.
‘All I got is facts, what I seen with my own two eyes. He’d come in every Saturday like clockwork, sometime around two in the afternoon. He’d visit the meat counter but rarely the fish counter. He’d come to me even if I had the longest queue, and he’d have a pretty full trolley and most of it was meats. And a lot of teabags, all sorts of like fancy herbal types. He’d have a coupon most weeks, one cut out of the Posten, or one from a letter. He’d be very particular about the way he’d put items on the conveyer belt, I never seen anyone do it quite like him. He’d have to have them all fit together, the boxes and packs, like a game of Tetris or something, all one layer thick, no single item on top of another one. Always took him a while. Lots of heavy-duty cleaning products. And he never bought our bags, always brought his own ones made from some kind of brown sackcloth or something. He’d pack pretty slow so we offered him help a couple of times, but he’d shake his head and mumble something. Then he’d pay at my till and to tell you the truth I’d always get the shivers when he came up that close. He’d like pay and he’d always have this little pocket knife attached to his wallet and he’d get out his card and he was one of them who clamps his hands around the machine so nobody else could see his code, you know the type. And he’d be sweating by then and I reckon he was looking at me, I don’t know what he was thinking but he usually had one hand in his trouser pocket and I don’t know but I didn’t like it, I didn’t feel comfortable one bit. Then he’d like go and come back the next Saturday, same time.’
Every resident of Toytown has a story about this guy.
About ten minutes before I decide to leave for the day, I see a newsflash on the base of my screen. David Holmqvist has been arrested for the murder of Freddy Malmström. No mention of the other murder.
I call Thord and the line’s engaged so I redial and redial and redial.
‘It’s me.’
‘Hi, Tuva.’
‘Well?’
I hear him sigh on the other end of the line.
‘Press conference tomorrow. I’ll reserve your seat for you. Gotta go.’
My hearing aid beeps, battery low, final warning. I pop it out from behind my ear and pull off a piece of fluff from the earpiece. I pop open the tiny compartment and the battery springs out. I push it off the desk into the recycling box and open my key fob container and peel off the sticker from a new one and wait for a minute and then I push it into place.
I head over to Tammy. I need dinner but really I need to talk to a person, an actual person. I need her. She’s serving a couple in matching coats as I arrive so I wait in line.
‘Hej!’ she says when I get to the front of the queue, a dimpled smile all over her face. She leans forward and gives me an awkward half-hug out of the serving window. ‘You look tired.’
I nod and breathe in the spicy lemongrass steam. Smells good. My belly rumbles.
‘Let me feed you, I got something good over here, pad thai, the genuine real deal legit one hundred per cent authentic.’
I smile and nod enthusiastically.
She’s really something. I watch her work in her cramped van, the van her mum converted years ago, and it’s impressive how she keeps it so clean and organised, small containers of chilli and coriander and shallots and finely-chopped spring onion all ready to garnish. She takes a long pair of chef’s tweezers and picks up a steaming clump of shrimp noodles, glossy with oil and sparkling with tiny gems of chilli and garlic. She pushes it into a shallow plastic box and sprinkles herbs and peanuts on top, then sticks a wooden fork in.
‘You know you could open a restaurant in Karlstad one day and you’d make an absolute killing, millions. Your food is that good.’
‘I’m an engineer,’ she says, leaning from her serving window, her weight on her elbows. ‘Or at least I will be in two more years. You think I want to serve food to ungrateful white people for the rest of my life? I’m gonna move south and design bridges.’
Another customer, someone who’s phoned in an order, arrives, says hi, takes his plastic bag full of boxes of rice and Thai red curry, extra mild, and pays Tammy. I stand back while this takes place and finish my box of noodles.
‘Asshole,’ she says as the customer walks out of earshot.
‘What did that guy do wrong?’
‘He’s a skinny ratshit,’ she says.
I gesture for her to elaborate.
‘Typical Swedish crap, no offence. Dude orders from me twice a week, sometimes more, always the mild, creamy stuff. It’s about as Thai as you are but they want it so I cook it. He comes down here one time last year and we start chatting and he’s seems okay.
But then he starts talking about cooking and asks if I eat proper food when I’m at home.’ Tammy does quotation mark fingers when she says ‘proper food’. ‘He asks if, when I’m not working, do I cook, y’know, meat and potatoes and sauce, that’s what he called proper food.’
‘My parents used to say the same about pasta.’
‘Well your parents are different; this guy’s an acorn-dick if I ever saw one. So I confronted him and told him that this and food similar to this was proper food for millions more people, tens of millions more people than his version of proper food. Gets pretty hot behind here in summer, and I was fuming that time. He told me it’s junk food, but don’t get him wrong, it tastes good, he buys it doesn’t he. All this veiled racist bullshit. Skinny ratshit. He looks at me with his watery eyes and talks down to me. So I tell him if he thinks it’s junk he should stay home and cook his cod and boiled-egg sauce. He didn’t come back for a few months after that. Then one night he turns up all snooty-faced and thin-lipped and orders a fucking green curry easy on the chilli. Ratshit asshole.’
23
The police press conference starts at ten and it’s the same people as before. Some are staying in the town hotel and they look restless and tired, like they’re ready to quit Toytown and head back to reality somewhere south of here. The police have identified the latest body, the one found in Badger Hollow, as a mill worker called Rikard Spritzik. Björn confirms that Spritzik’s injuries are similar to those of Freddy Malmström. Someone removed his eyes. The victim was found with a large amount of cash on his person, around five thousand kronor.
The Chief takes his glasses off and lets them dangle around his neck.
‘Any questions?’
Everyone in the room seems to lunge forward, arms raised. Me included.
He looks at me and says nothing. Time slows down. Everyone’s waiting for him to say something and I’m getting hot in my boots and this feels like some kind of unspoken warning. He blinks.
‘Tuva.’
‘Chief Andersson, are you connecting the murders of Fredrik Malmström and Rikard Spritzik with the three Utgard murders of the 1990s?’
Björn doesn’t look at Thord, he just swallows and widens his stance like he’s been expecting this question and rehearsing for it.
‘We are keeping an open mind at this time and would urge members of the public to come forward with any information no matter how insignificant it may seem.’
A guy with a centre parting asks, ‘Has anyone been charged yet for the murder of Fredrik Malmström?’
‘Not at this time.’
‘Is David Holmqvist still being questioned?’ asks a woman behind me with a Danish accent.
‘Mr Homlqvist is assisting us with our enquiries.’
Centre parting perks up again. ‘Is it safe to go into the woods?’
The Chief scratches his chin. ‘Residents and visitors should be vigilant at all times. I would urge—’
A voice cuts off Chief Björn’s answer. It’s a guy with a bow tie and patent leather shoes, I don’t recognise his face, but he has a nasal Stockholm dialect.
‘Is there a serial killer in this town and if so how long before he kills again?’
Flashbulbs light up the Chief. He pulls the two halves of his glasses apart and holds them by his neck. He glares at Bow-tie man and then he nods and smiles. ‘Thank you, that’s all I have to say at this time,’ he says.
I leave and get into my truck and drive up the E16 to the strip club. If there’s one place local guys might let their guard slip and reveal something, it’s here. I’ve got an appointment at noon before the place opens for business.
The day’s as cold as wet socks in January and the rain’s falling in squalls. It’s falling against my driver’s side window like someone’s spraying a hose at me, and as I walk from my truck to the strip club entrance I have to cover my aids with my hands.
The door’s locked. There’s no bell or knocker so I thump on it. It opens and I find a woman older than my mum, maybe seventy or so, in a floral dress with bright white collar, and patent leather shoes.
‘Are you Tuva?’
I nod and smile with my hands still cupped by my temples.
‘Come in, dear, come in, you’ll catch your death out there.’
I walk in and the place looks completely different. Ceiling spotlights are buzzing and lighting the main room in a bright, forensic glare. The pipe of a vacuum cleaner coils on the floor, but the business end stands erect like a cobra’s head. We sit at one of the tables by the stage, nearest the gleaming poles, me and a woman who looks like the goddam Queen of England.
It’s the same scarred barman as before, the one with the tan. He’s shuffling a deck of cards and he doesn’t seem to recognise me.
‘What are you drinking, dear? It’s all on the house,’ says the old lady.
‘Just a water please, I’m driving.’
‘Two negronis if you don’t mind, Lucas.’ She turns to me. ‘Water’s for rodents, that’s what my grandmother used to say.’
I smile and tell myself to take a sip, a micro-sip, and that’s all.
The room’s faded and worn. The seats and the carpet are frayed, the stage pock-marked with dried chewing-gum patches like lichen on tree bark. But the punters won’t ever notice, they don’t come here for the furnishings.
‘Can I ask you about your clientele, please?’
‘You can ask me anything you like, dear.’
‘Is Hannes Carlsson a regular client, and if so, who’s his favourite girl?’
‘Oh, not specifics, dear. I’m afraid. I’m in the business of discretion, have been for over forty years.’
‘Has this place been open for forty years?’
‘Goodness me, no. Before this, I used to manage a rather exclusive pampering house for local gentlemen. The paper mill employed three times as many men as it does now, did you know that? And they paid very well, too. Many of those gentlemen engineers and technicians came from far afield, from the south, the north, the west, from all over. They needed some attention after a long day working pulp at the mill and so I managed a very professional, dedicated team to do just that.’
‘What happened? The mill downsized so you shut up shop and turned it into this?’
‘Well, it’s a little more complicated than all that, dear. You remember the dreadful business in the early 1990s? The three unfortunate incidents?’
‘The Medusa murders?’
She takes a long slurp of her negroni and straightens the hem of her dress.
‘It just so happens that those three were mill workers, well two of them at least, I think it was two, anyhow, they were members of my establishment.’
‘Did it have a name? Was it a members-only club?’
‘No and yes, to those two questions, my dear. No and yes. I moved to Spain once the pampering house closed down, lots of Swedes down there, lots of ex-pats, some real characters.’ She looks at the barman. ‘That’s where I found Lucas. But now I’m happy to be back in Sweden.’
She jiggles in her black leather armchair and puts down her drink. She takes her manicured hand with its blood-red nails, and probes the side of her seat. I have visions of her pulling out a pink thong, but no. She brings her hand up to her eyes.
‘Five hundred,’ she says, holding up the banknote and admiring it. Then she opens her stiff, leather handbag and takes out a matching stiff leather purse and slides the note inside.
‘Was Rikard Spritzik, the most recent victim, a regular here?’
‘Couldn’t possibly comment, dear.’
‘He’s dead,’ I say. ‘He’s no longer a client.’
I see her gesture to the barman, then down the remainder of her negroni.
Savanah walks in from the back room in jeans and a thick wool jumper. She’s not wearing any make-up and her hair’s swept up in a ponytail and she looks magazine-beautiful.
‘Savanah, darling, do you know a Richard Spritchdick?’
‘Sprit
zik,’ I correct, and offer a little wave to Savanah to say hi.
‘Why you asking?’
‘The body they found in Utgard forest two days ago has been identified as him,’ I say. ‘The police confirmed it this morning.’
I look at her face change. Savanah knew him.
‘Was he a regular gentleman client, darling?’ asks the old lady.
Savanah straightens her back and drags her palms over her scalp as if pulling off a wig.
‘He was pretty regular, yeah. Nice guy. What,’ she steps closer to me and lowers her voice to little over a whisper. ‘What the hell is going on around here? First Freddy, now Rik? Why is this happening?’
I shake my head and look at the old lady. Neither of us has an answer.
‘It’s guys getting shot,’ Savanah says. ‘I know it’s just guys dying, not us, but I don’t feel safe no more.’
‘You’re safe while you’re inside my four walls, my dear, I can guarantee you of that. You know we’re safe here, we’ve got protection, there’s nothing bad happening to any of my girls, that’s for certain.’
‘Poor Rik,’ Savanah says, still standing over us. ‘I think he’s got kids. This ain’t supposed to happen to people like him.’ She looks at the old lady. ‘I think I’m gonna skip my shift today, I feel kinda sick after all this. That okay with you?’
‘Of course it is, dear,’ says the old lady. ‘Still gotta pay your appearance fee though, them’s the rules.’
Savanah looks at the old lady and the old lady looks back at Savanah.
‘Fine, I’ll work.’
This place feels like the spider at the centre of the web. Maybe the killer’s a jealous ex of one of the dancers, or maybe I’m joining up the wrong dots and it’s just that most Shitsville guys drop in here from time to time.
I give the old lady my card and thank her for the drink I hardly touched. I leave and it’s a relief to get back out into the rain. I sprint back to the truck with my hands over my ears and get in and turn the heating up high. It’s damp, but not cold. I unhook my hearing aids and place them near the fan so they can dry out a little, I can’t afford for them to malfunction.