And many years had passed. Many years of letting the past remain where it was, of rethinking, of tidying away, burying, reconciling, defying the uncomfortable thoughts and making them bearable. As you do. There was a great deal from those days that had disappeared - people, memories - rationalised away in the agony of a hangover.
* * *
Chapter 15
Tell poured himself another cup of coffee from the Thermos Bärneflod had produced from the depths of the police station. An old-fashioned red candlestick had been brought back into use for Advent and was burning beneath the fluorescent lights. Tell closed the window without giving a thought to the fact that Beckman had opened it five minutes earlier. Outside Ullevi a gang of people had gathered after a car hit a cyclist travelling in the cycle lane. Karlberg had established that it was serious; the ambulance and a patrol car had been there for almost an hour.
So far, the morning meeting had mainly been devoted to gathering information. The various facts that had come to light the previous day had been presented. Tell had informed them that over the next few days - nobody mentioned the fact that Christmas was fast approaching - all other ongoing investigations would be put to one side, and every member of the team would work on the murder in Björsared. They all knew that the first few days were critical in solving a case - or not.
The technicians had sent in a verbal report with Magnus Johansson, who had obviously interrupted his holiday to be there. He had informed them that according to SKL, the national forensic lab, the bullet in the victim came from a 9mm Browning HP.
A call from forensic pathologist Ingemar Stromberg was put on speakerphone.
'I don't think I've got anything particularly startling to tell you,' said Stromberg apologetically once he had got his headset sorted out. 'Lars Waltz died of a gunshot wound to the head, and death was probably instantaneous. He collapsed at the moment of death, most likely falling forward and on to one side, and then someone ran over the body.'
'When and in what?' asked Karlberg.
'Some time during the evening or early that night. After seven, but before midnight. You'll have to wait for more exact details until after Christmas. As for your second question, all I can say is that it's a vehicle of some kind, heavier than an ordinary car. A four-by-four, for example.'
Johansson nodded in agreement. 'Judging by the tyre tracks…'
'… which crushed the hips and the chest, that would be about right.' When nobody spoke, Stromberg went on: 'The body fell on to its back as it was rammed, then it was driven over again as the perpetrator reversed over it. Perhaps in the madness of the moment he didn't look in the rear-view mirror, but simply slammed the car into reverse and floored the accelerator, with the result that only the lower parts of the body were affected: the kneecaps, shins and feet. Well, they were splintered really… Hmm. I'm putting quotation marks around the word only.'
He sounded embarrassed, as if the intellectualised brutality of the job had suddenly caught up with him.
'You mean the main damage happened the first time the vehicle drove over him. When the perpetrator reversed over the body, he just drove over the feet,' Tell clarified.
'Exactly. Which might perhaps be regarded as a very minor mitigating circumstance, bearing in mind that he was already dead.'
Johansson nodded tentatively.
'Before I forget,' said Stromberg. 'There was a small amount of alcohol in the victim's body, the equivalent of a couple of glasses of wine. Nothing remarkable, but still…'
Silence fell across the room once the pathologist had signed off, as everyone considered what they had been told. Magnus Johansson returned to his handwritten crib sheet, which he intended to hand over to Tell unofficially before he left.
'We found some fresh footprints from the victim's own trainers, size 9. But even if there had been other prints that were equally clear, they could have come from just about anybody who had brought in or collected a car over the past few days.'
He scratched his head.
'No sign of a struggle between victim and perpetrator, either on the man's clothes or his body, or in the surrounding area. We did find blue fibres on the gravel next to the victim, but they turned out to have come from the pullover he was wearing.'
'OK, what else?'
'Well… the blood at the scene of the crime came exclusively from the murdered man. A chewing-gum wrapper in front of the veranda was covered in lots of different fingerprints, so I don't think we can get anything from that.'
When Johansson had left and Tell clapped his hands to quieten the chatter that arose, Gonzales put forward the theory that the perpetrator hadn't even got out of his car while carrying out the murder. That he had simply pulled into the yard, somehow got Waltz to come over to the car, then shot him in the head.
'He's a cold bastard, in that case,' commented Karlberg, before exploding in a sneeze that made the glass in the pictures rattle. 'And clever.'
There wasn't anything particularly clever about getting a car mechanic to leave his workshop for a minute. The perpetrator could have sounded his horn and wound down the window, and Waltz would have assumed he was just an ordinary customer.
'Something wrong with the car, of course,' Beckman suggested. 'He asked Waltz to come over and listen to the engine while he sat in the car and pressed the accelerator, and then, when the victim was close enough, he simply grabbed hold of him and put the gun to his head.'
'Which suggests that the murderer wasn't known to the victim,' Bärneflod pointed out. 'I mean, otherwise he wouldn't have bought the idea of there being something wrong with the engine, and he wouldn't have gone over to the murderer's car.'
'What do you mean?' Gonzales exclaimed. 'He could have known the murderer really well, he just didn't expect him to put a bullet through his skull. Doesn't it suggest that it was an acquaintance, sitting in the car and sounding his horn rather than parking and going inside to look for the mechanic, like a normal person would? Wouldn't Waltz be suspicious if-'
Without managing to conceal his impatience, Tell cut short the discussion. 'Can we move on? We don't know if he was suspicious; we don't even know if that's how it happened.'
He regretted his reaction at once. An open discussion and speculation might be a way of moving the investigation forward. In addition,
Tell ought to be encouraging Bärneflod to keep hold of the team leader's baton.
Beckman had spoken to Lise-Lott Edell at her sister's house in Sjovik the previous day. She reported briefly on the meeting, which had gone on for two long hours, including several pauses for tears and lost threads, due to the strong tranquillisers with which Angelika Rundström had supplied her sister.
The interview had resulted in a grief-stricken portrait of Lars Waltz. Lise-Lott had also agreed to write down the names of some of her husband's acquaintances. Beckman suggested they compile a priority list for these interviews; the key was to get a picture of who Waltz was, and what would make someone want to see him dead.
'I'd also recommend another chat with Lise-Lott later on, when she's more alert. She needed to talk about Lars in her own way yesterday, and it was difficult to steer the conversation. And of course we mustn't underestimate the therapeutic effect of these interviews,' said Beckman.
Tell bit his tongue in order to avoid saying what he really thought, namely that Beckman's job wasn't to act as some kind of therapist, but to ask the questions that could help them find the murderer as quickly as possible. Instead he merely nodded, but out of the corner of his eye he glimpsed a meaningful look from Bärneflod, who was less discreet.
For some reason Bärneflod often sought his collusion when it came to new-fangled ideas versus good old honest police work. Tell had no idea why, and to be perfectly honest it frightened the life out of him. He was only forty-four. In his eyes Bärneflod was a comfortable old fogey who was more interested in the past than the present, on top of which he was capable of demonstrating a clear lack of intelligence in many situations. De
spite the fact that Tell could easily get annoyed at Beckman's way of breezily relating most things to issues of gender, and despite the fact that he was sceptical about all this talk of quotas and the advantages of bringing a female way of thinking into the police service, Bärneflod's jokes about 'bluestockings' and 'man-haters' made him feel depressed. He didn't want to find himself in agreement with someone like Bärneflod. For that reason he gave Beckman a word of encouragement. But, to be honest, he also thought it would be a strategic move in the long term.
It had come to his attention that Beckman had had a series of discussions with Ostergren the previous year, regarding the macho atmosphere at the station. At first this had perplexed him. Was he a male chauvinist pig without even knowing it?
'I've never perceived the language used in the station as particularly male,' he had responded, with a slightly defensive air, 'even if it's a bit rough at times. It's more to do with the job. Police jargon, that's all.'
He felt perfectly at home with it after twenty years in the job and was tempted to say that if someone didn't feel comfortable in the corridors of the police station, perhaps they should consider a change of profession.
'There's nothing to say that macho jargon within the police service is constructive, or has anything to do with actual work,' Ostergren had pointed out brusquely.
He chose to remain silent.
'I'm glad Karin Beckman brings such competence to the job and is not afraid to say what she thinks,' she went on, 'just as I'm glad we have Michael, who is young and green and brings a fresh pair of eyes. As well as Bengt, who is older and has a different perspective. In the same way, I'm glad you have such drive, and Andreas is more reflective.'
She tilted her head to one side. Tell had the unpleasant feeling that she wanted something from him that he didn't understand. He pulled himself together and muttered a few words that could be interpreted as agreement. Of course he would keep an eye on the team and smooth the way for both the male and female perspective. It seemed eminently sensible, he just had no idea how to go about it.
After giving their conversation a great deal of thought, he had gone to see Ostergren the following week and said that he too was pleased to have Karin Beckman in the team, but that he had never regarded her primarily as a woman, or even a woman police officer, but quite simply as a police officer.
'And a bloody good one, when it comes down to it.'
Ostergren's expression, which had been tense and concentrated as she prepared the annual statistical report, softened and she broke into a smile.
'Thank you, Christian,' she said. 'That's what I wanted to hear.'
Tell had gone back to his office with the feeling that he'd been given top marks for behaviour by his teacher without really understanding how it had happened.
He was brought back to reality as Beckman rapped the whiteboard with her knuckles. In the centre was a Polaroid photograph of the dead Lars Waltz.
'I've found out a few things about his background… Born in Gothenburg in 1961, in Majorna to be precise. Parents separated when he was about ten, limited contact with his father subsequently. The family didn't have much money. Mother worked nights at the Sahlgren hospital as a nurse. One older brother…'
She moved her glasses down her nose and leafed through her papers.
'That's it. Sten Roger Waltz, known as Sten. He's seven years older and evidently lives in Malmo. Unmarried, no children. The brothers didn't have much to do with each another.'
'Who's going to contact Sten?' asked Tell.
'I've already spoken to him. They hardly had any contact, but of course he was still very shocked. Off the top of his head he couldn't think of anyone who might want his brother dead. But he also said he didn't really know him any longer.'
'Well done, Karin. We'll follow another angle, then we can decide if we need to go to Malmo later. What about his mother - does she still live in Gothenburg?'
'No. She died a couple of years ago.'
'Carry on.'
'He attended the Karl Johan School, then the Schiller Grammar School. Took a gap year and stayed on some sheep station in Australia. Since his twenties he's worked on all kinds of different things, including car repairs and… well, just about anything you can think of. He's done a few courses in marketing, something to do with art, and a one- year photographic course. Developed an allergy to computer monitors when he was thirty after a couple of years as an art director, and was signed off sick for eighteen months.'
Beckman drew a somewhat sloping line on the whiteboard and filled in years and headings to represent the different phases in the life of Lars Waltz.
'And then he met Lise-Lott Edell,' Bärneflod concluded, throwing his pen down on the desk as if he'd been busy making notes up to that point.
'Well, sort of. He'd actually been married before. Lise-Lott wasn't sure about dates and so on. She's only known Lars for six or seven years. He published a book of photographs at the beginning of the 90s and was evidently working on a new one; it was going to be about the decline of the agricultural area around their farm, from some kind of environmental perspective. Anyway, he ran the car workshop part time to provide an income so that he could carry on with his photography. He got work from the district council in Lerum from time to time, information leaflets, that kind of thing.'
A sweeping movement with her arm. She jotted Lerum District Council next to the resulting circle and 2000-2006 inside it.
'Is this what they call mind-mapping?' said Bärneflod sarcastically, picking up his pen to carry on with his own notes. Nobody bothered to reply.
'It seems there was some kind of conflict between Waltz and the person at the town hall who gave him work,' Tell added.
Beckman nodded. 'Yes. But Lise-Lott didn't really know anything. She thought it had all been sorted out.'
'Bengt, you talk to him,' said Tell, waving his hand in Bärneflod's direction. Bärneflod responded by pointing meaningfully at his watch, but Tell made it clear that he had no intention of stopping for a coffee break just because it was ten o'clock.
'What else? There was an ex-wife and kids.'
'An ex-wife and two boys in their late teens.'
'I'll take them,' Tell decided.
Gonzales sprawled across the desk to reach the whiteboard, groaning with the effort, and wrote M. G. - Reino Edell.
'He's our most interesting character, as I see it,' he said, rapping on the table with the board marker. 'He's the younger brother of Lise- Lott's ex-husband and has been involved in a well-documented quarrel with Lise-Lott. I've checked it out, and there are shelves full of legal proceedings to choose from. Well, there are some at least. He thinks Lise-Lott has stolen his inheritance. He's bloody furious, and most people who murder other people are bloody furious.'
'Sure, but not everybody who's furious goes off and commits murder,' said Bärneflod smugly. 'Besides, I can't see what Edell would get out of murdering Waltz - he doesn't have any legal right to the farm.'
'No, he doesn't, but he's got a grudge against them as a couple. Mainly Lise-Lott, he's bloody livid with her for clinging on to the farm like a leech. Then all of a sudden Waltz turns up, waltzes in (no pun intended), takes the place of his beloved late brother and seems quite happy to stay on the farm and let the agricultural side go to rack and ruin. Instead he spends all his time screwing Thomas Edell's wife and taking photographs of rusty old ploughs. So of course Reino Edell is going to be angry with this guy. And perhaps he was intending to get rid of Lise-Lott, but instead it's Waltz who's coming towards him and…'
'To be honest, I'm more interested in the ex-wife,' Bärneflod persisted. 'I mean, Waltz just clears off after twenty years of marriage and immediately moves in with a new woman. That's got to hurt, and we already know she was volatile after the divorce. And isn't this a particularly female way of murdering someone? Shooting the guy and then running over him? It doesn't require any strength, just a decent car.'
Bärneflod paused for breath.
> 'Of course we need to check on the vehicles of anyone who crops up in the investigation, and compare them with the scene of the crime,' said Tell. 'We'll leave that to the Angered boys.'
Karlberg accidentally nudged Beckman, who spilled coffee on the old overhead projector. A fuse blew, and the electric Advent candle in the window went out.
Tell sighed. 'OK. We'll leave it there for today.'
* * *
Chapter 16
The passageway between the garage and the outside door sloped gently and was well gritted. As Seja passed the dining-room window she sensed movement. She had been spotted. But she still had to wait while Kristina carefully slid the cover off the spyhole. Seja waved a little wearily.
The lock clicked and the door opened.
'This is really kind of you, Seja. Åke's in town changing a part for some drill or other that wasn't working properly. And I was just about to have a cup of coffee when I realised we're completely out of sugar.'
'No problem.'
Seja handed the bag of sugar to Kristina, who moved away from the door and waved her inside.
'Come on in. It's all ready; I just needed the sugar.'
Seja suppressed a sigh. She had thought it was a bit odd, given that Åke had finished work and therefore had all the time in the world to go shopping. Now she realised the sugar was just a ruse.
'I've got quite a bit to do, Kristina.'
Which was actually true. She ought to be studying, ought to be writing the kind of things that would generate some income. Ought to change the rotten plank in the wall of Lukas's box, change the washer in the constantly running shower, which had caused a minor flood behind the house.
But Kristina was already on her way into the kitchen. Seja kicked off her boots, promising herself she wouldn't stay long, wouldn't allow herself to be drawn into anything. Because she had an idea of where this was going.
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