'Look at that,' he said eventually, sounding disappointed. 'This is no use to the police. In fact it's no bloody use at all.' He gave his assistant an encouraging look. 'I'm sure you can fill in the details, Anki?'
But that was the problem. For the next half-hour Tell and Gonzales sat there in the shabby little room asking the same questions over and over again. What did he look like - can you remember any details, anything at all? Clothes, accent, voice, wallet, age. How did he pay? Cash, of course. Did he buy anything apart from petrol? Did he seem nervous? Hair colour, height?
In the end Ann-Cathrine Hogberg put her head in her hands. The more they asked, the less she seemed to remember. Tell and Gonzales exchanged a crestfallen glance; if they carried on behaving as if they would walk over burning coals for even the smallest scrap of information, the girl would soon be making up a description to satisfy them.
They backed off, dissatisfied in spite of the fact they had assured the owner that the video technicians could often work wonders with the most unpromising material.
Ann-Cathrine too seemed very disappointed at her inability to remember much. Back out in the shop she leaned absent-mindedly against the snack display, causing a minor avalanche of crisps, cheese puffs, chilli nuts and nachos. Kurt rolled his eyes at Tell, who was putting the tape into his bag.
'We'll take care of this,' he said idiotically, as if he thought the police were going to clear up the mess before they left.
Ann-Cathrin smiled bravely, her eyes shining with unshed tears. Gonzales placed his card in front of her on the counter.
'Get in touch if you think of anything, if you remember anything else, I mean. You might be called in to describe the man to one of our forensic artists. Thanks for getting in touch.'
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the sweet display in front of her.
They were just on their way out when she called, 'He bought Lakerol.'
They stopped in the doorway and turned back.
'He bought a box of Lakerol sweets,' she said. 'And a sandwich.'
She was still staring at the throat sweets in front of her, as if they might conjure up the picture of the man who had bought them.
She closed her eyes and seemed to be visualising that evening. Her striped uniform shirt and that slightly tired smile. Her hands on the till. And there he was: blonde hair and a baseball cap.
'I don't remember if the cap had any kind of logo on it, but I think it was black. His eyes were quite deep-set, and he had dark shadows underneath, as if he hadn't slept for a long time. His lips seemed too red, as if he was wearing make-up. I think he was quite short, or maybe medium height. Some kind of padded jacket, or maybe a windcheater. Although it was really cold that night.'
Tell and Gonzales drove along in silence, both thinking the same thing. There was absolutely no guarantee that the man Ann-Cathrine had just described was the murderer, but it was definitely the nearest thing they had to a clue.
Although it was rush hour, the main road between Borås and Ulrice- hamn wasn't particularly busy. Tell was driving well over the speed limit, and it struck Gonzales, as it had done so many times since he joined the force, that police officers were the worst offenders when it came to traffic regulations.
He switched on the radio and caught the latest news bulletin. So far the media hadn't paid any attention to the murder of Olof Bart. As long as they didn't get wind of the connection between Bart and Waltz, they were unlikely to make a fuss. And that was probably for the best: as long as the murderer didn't know that they had linked the two deaths, they had an advantage.
It was dusk, and as always during the Swedish winter the darkness came quickly. By the time they drove into Ulricehamn, it had settled over the town.
'I don't know about you,' said Tell as he pulled into the car park of the first pizzeria he spotted, 'but I'm bloody starving.'
Gonzales nodded gratefully. His stomach had been grumbling for quite some time about the ridiculously low-calorie canteen lunch he had bolted down before they left.
Just as they were about to take the four steps in two strides, the door was opened from the inside by a stout man in his forties.
'I'm just closing,' he said, rattling his bunch of keys. 'Excuse me.'
He stood patiently on the top step as Tell blocked his way.
'What do you mean?' He was unable to hide his agitation. 'When do you think people actually eat pizza - for breakfast? What kind of bloody pizzeria closes before six o'clock in the evening?'
'A lunch pizzeria,' said the man tersely. He moved Tell firmly to one side and marched down the steps.
Tell was therefore in a particularly bad mood when they eventually found Johansson Johansson. The car rental company was located on a small industrial estate on the way out of town, directly opposite a paint shop and a locked warehouse. Light from the sparse street lamps was reflected in puddles of petrol and melted snow. They parked outside the entrance and Tell took a quick drag on his cigarette, sniffing the air like a tracker dog. A smell like burnt plastic pervaded the whole area.
Berit Johansson had obviously been waiting for them: there was a pot of coffee and a plate of cakes and biscuits on the desk.
'I'll close up,' she said. She locked the door then went and sat opposite Tell and Gonzales, who had already helped themselves to cakes.
'Help yourselves,' she said ironically.
'You rented out a Grand Cherokee during the period we're interested in,' said Tell, his mouth full of Swiss roll. He was far too tired and hungry to bother with small talk.
'Yes,' said the woman, opening out a sheet of paper she had been keeping in the breast pocket of her shirt. She put on her glasses and began to read.
'He was here between five thirty and six on the Wednesday. I stay open until seven on Wednesdays. And I open between Christmas and New Year - that's always a good time for us. Lots of people hire a car to visit friends and relatives over the holiday.'
Tell nodded pensively. If this was their man, it meant he had hired the car the day before he went to see Olof Bart. He thought about what this might mean. That he lived in the Ulricehamn area? On the other hand, would he have been so stupid as to hire a car from a local firm? Tell wouldn't have done that if he was about to go and murder somebody.
'Go on.'
'He was medium height and he had blue eyes. Light-coloured hair, I think. He kept his hat on. Indoors as well.'
She looked up from the sheet of paper.
'I made a note of all the details I could remember after I spoke to you on the telephone, herr Gonzales.'
Gonzales nodded to her to continue.
'He was quite untidily dressed. I think he was wearing some kind of dark tracksuit.'
'How did he get here?' asked Tell.
'Er… I don't know. On foot, I think. Sometimes clients leave their own vehicle in our car park, for example if they're hiring a bigger car, but I know the car park was empty at the time. So he must have come on foot.'
'Is there a bus that comes out this way?' asked Gonzales.
She nodded. 'There's a bus stop about a kilometre from here, Majga-tan, the number 12. It doesn't run all that often though.'
Bus/driver no. 12 wrote Gonzales on his pad, followed by Door to door in area. But first they needed to find out the name used to hire the car.
'I assume you keep a record of rentals,' Tell went on, biting into another ginger biscuit despite the fact that he was beginning to feel quite ill.
Berit Johansson had obviously been waiting for this question, because she produced the receipt showing that a certain Mark Sjodin, born 18 July 1972, had hired a Jeep Grand Cherokee between Christmas and New Year.
'He had ID of course. We always insist on that. And I did try to contact him afterwards with regard to the insurance, because there was some damage to the front of the car when it was returned. He just left it in the car park with the keys in the ignition, but I never managed to get hold of him.'
She passed the A4 sheet to Tell. Th
e receipt was signed by both Berit Johansson and the man who claimed to be Mark Sjodin. Unless of course this was a perfectly genuine Mark Sjodin who had nothing whatsoever to do with the murders.
The signature was printed in small, disjointed letters. Written by someone who wasn't used to that name? But of course that was just speculation; Mark Sjodin could easily be dyslexic.
'Is the car here? Good. We'd like to take a look at it, if you don't mind.'
Berit Johansson looked unsure of herself.
'It's been hired out since, I mean… We didn't know… It's been cleaned, several times. And it had been thoroughly washed when the client returned it - it was shining, in fact.'
'We'd still like to see it,' said Tell.
He stood up and dusted the crumbs off his jacket.
'No problem. This way, gentlemen.'
As radio station P3 played 'Have I Told You Lately That I Love You' by Van Morrison just outside Bollebygd, Gonzales fell asleep. He didn't even wake up when Bärneflod called Tell's mobile to report on his visit to the car hire firm on Molndalsvagen. He informed Tell that a Ralf Stenmark had rented a Jeep from them between Christmas and New Year. The description provided by the staff was in direct contrast to those given by Berit Johansson and Ann-Cathrine Hogberg, since everyone who had been working on the afternoon in question had stated that Stenmark was tall and slim, dark, and wearing a suit.
Tell ended the conversation and thought about what it all meant.
The Jeep Berit Johansson showed them had certainly been thoroughly cleaned. Two clients had had it after Sjodin, so it had been vacuumed inside three times, which had probably reduced their chances of finding decent fingerprints to zero. And of course any murderer would have wiped the steering wheel and instrument panel before returning the car. According to Berit Johansson, the car had never been so clean.
They had walked around the vehicle several times and made a note of the damage Berit Johansson had mentioned, a dent in the side of the bonnet. Berit was sure the dent had not been there before the car was signed over to Sjodin.
They told her the car had to remain where it was until they decided whether to have it brought in for forensic examination. Tell reassured her that if Mark Sjodin did exist and could give a reasonable explanation as to why he had hired the Jeep, along with a valid alibi for the night of the murder, then Johansson Johansson would immediately be given the go-ahead to start renting out the car once again. It was clear that from a financial point of view the company needed to have all its vehicles available. However, if Sjodin did not exist, that was another matter altogether. The car would then be regarded as a probable source of evidence, and would be examined meticulously, along with the area around Johansson Johansson.
Tell tried Karlberg's extension in the hope that he would be in the office, which he was.
'Will you be there for a while?'
'I should think so.'
'Mark Sjodin and Ralf Stenmark. See what you can find.'
'Is this from the car hire companies?'
'Yes, Ulricehamn and Molndalsvagen.'
Beside him, Gonzales shifted position, allowing his chin to fall heavily on to his chest. He started to snore.
It was late by the time Tell pulled in behind the Co-op in Ham- markulletorget and parked across two spaces. Gonzales jumped at the sound of Tell's hands clapping rapidly.
'Time to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Bloody good job I didn't let you drive.'
He winked at Gonzales' bewildered expression.
'This is where you live, isn't it?'
Gonzales nodded in some confusion, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't believe he'd fallen asleep - it must have been lack of food that had made him so tired.
'I'm not used to skipping meals,' he apologised, and started gathering his things from the back seat.
Tell stretched awkwardly and rubbed his aching back. Gonzales felt guilty that he hadn't offered to drive back, particularly since Tell had been kind enough to drive him to his door. Tell seemed to know what he was thinking.
'It's OK. As a punishment I'll come in with you for a couple of minutes. I've been needing a pee ever since Borås.'
In the darkness the huge buildings seemed to lean over the square, as if the windows and satellite dishes were eyes and ears, watching and listening. Gonzales said hello to a group of young lads who, despite the late hour, were hanging around outside Maria's Café in the community centre. In accordance with the dictates of fashion, they were all displaying the brand name of their underpants in the gap between their short jackets and their jeans, the crotch of the jeans hanging somewhere down by their knees. The cafe was closed, but the kids were taking advantage of the lights inside, which were left on around the clock. The roof extending out over the main entrance provided shelter if it rained. Unfortunately there wasn't much they could do about the cold, thought Tell, other than go home to their bedrooms and play with their train sets. That's what he'd done at their age.
Every one of them had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
'What makes young lads hang about in the cold at this time of night? Are they planning to mug a few pensioners?' Tell mumbled. A series of muggings had recently been carried out by a gang of small boys, and because of the brutality involved, the attacks had attracted a certain amount of media attention. He glanced at the gang, now ambling across the square towards a hot-dog stand. 'Haven't they got anywhere to go?'
Gonzales laughed.
'That lot? They wouldn't dare mug a squirrel. Sweet as lambs, every last one of them. It's the kids over in Biskopsgarden who are mugging old ladies. There are only well-behaved blacks here.'
'For God's sake, that's not what I meant,' said Tell, put out.
Oil
Gonzales chortled again.
'I know.'
When they met a group of noisy young men on their way out of the Somali club, which was in a small cellar bar on Bredfjallsgatan, Gonzales couldn't help whispering, 'Hold on to your wallet, Grandad.'
There was a smell of food and a hint of dampness on the landing outside the Gonzales family apartment on the eighth floor. The hallway was cluttered with furniture. On a battered pink corduroy sofa a note from the landlord threatened dire consequences if the furniture wasn't removed within a week. The bass beat of Latino pop poured out through the letter box, filling the stairwell when Gonzales opened the door.
He stepped through a rattling beaded curtain.
'Mum! You promised to move all the crap from the landing today!'
A woman in a long dress appeared, her frizzy chocolate-brown hair like a cloud around her shining face.
'Michael.'
She examined Tell from head to toe without a hint of embarrassment, making him feel like a ten-year-old visiting a classmate for the first time, although he didn't think this woman was much older than him.
'And you've brought a friend with you.'
Gonzales rolled his eyes.
'This is my mother, Francesca. This is a colleague, Mum. Christian. He just needs to pop to the toilet.'
After this elegant introduction, Tell felt it was time to take command of the situation. With his hand outstretched he took a couple of steps towards Francesca Gonzales, who backed away in horror, pointing at his feet.
'Shoes, please.'
Tell stopped short.
'But I just wanted to pop to the toilet.'
'Bathroom there.' She tapped on a door with a ceramic heart on it. 'Then dinner. Been ready since six.'
'Mum,' pleaded Gonzales in embarrassment. 'Christian's got other things to do.'
She vanished into the kitchen without listening to a word he said.
'Perhaps I should… you know.' Tell gestured towards the front door. He couldn't remember when he'd last visited someone's mother.
Gonzales grinned.
'Do a runner? You try telling her that.'
His mother's generous frame once again filled the kitchen doorway. She wiped the sweat off her forehead and slapped Gonzales o
n the backside.
'Michael, what is the matter with you? Show your friend round. Pastel de choclo ready in three minutes.'
Tell opened his arms in a vague gesture. He was hungry, after all.
Apart from Michael and his mother, the Gonzales family consisted of his father Jose - a skinny taciturn man who smiled and shook his head when Tell spoke to him - and Eva, who at twenty-four was the oldest girl, and so beautiful that Tell dropped his fork on his plate when she directed her dark brown eyes at him. She explained politely that her father wasn't very talkative.
'Isn't that right, Dad?'
Gabriella, the middle sister, was a typical sulky seventeen-year-old. When she had finished eating she shut herself in her room and turned the volume on MTV up so high that Francesca had to hammer on the door and yell at her to turn it down.
The youngest was Maria, an eleven-year-old whirlwind whose idol was Elena Paparizou. When the table was cleared and Tell once again started to mutter about making a move, she made him sit on the sofa and put on a performance, miming into a can of hairspray and practising her dance moves.
Francesca, who was drying the dishes with Eva, shook her head and said something in Spanish, but Jose Gonzales just laughed at his youngest daughter's antics, lit his pipe, and after inhaling the cherry- scented smoke got up and went over to a dark brown cupboard with a pattern of frosted flowers on its glass door. He took out a bottle of brandy and poured measures into three red and green glasses. When he had silently served Tell, his son and himself, he nodded seriously and knocked back his drink. Then he put the glass to one side and closed his eyes. After a while he started snoring.
The heat spread through Tell's spine. Gonzales picked up the bottle with an enquiring expression, but Tell shook his head.
'No, I've got to get home.' Tell could feel how tired he was. 'It's getting late. We ought to get some sleep. It was a good day's work.'
'So what do you make of it?'
'Of what? The day's work? We'll have to see. But there's one thing about this whole case that I really don't like.'
Frozen Moment Page 25