Irene had to agree with him. The entire package was held together by long strips of brown electrical tape. She knew from past experience that there was no point in trying to trace the tape; it was sold in vast quantities all over the country. All over the world, in fact. Their only hope was that the perpetrator had left traces of himself on the packaging or on the body.
‘I’ve spoken to the lab, and they’re happy for us to unwrap the body there,” Svante said.
“In that case we’ll come with you,” Irene decided.
Irene and Fredrik gave the recently appointed CSI Matti Berggren a ride to the lab. He told them he’d spent two years working at the National Forensics Laboratory in Linköping. Irene guessed he was around twenty-five, but he was probably a few years older than he looked. Fredrik had been about the same age when he joined the unit. That was ten years ago, and he had developed into an excellent investigator. It was just a shame that the Organized Crime Unit had also spotted his potential.
“Why are you sighing?” Fredrik asked.
“Am I? I guess I was thinking about a cozy evening on the sofa with a glass of wine and something delicious to eat. An early night. That kind of thing. It is my weekend off, you know.”
“In another life, Irene. In another life,” Fredrik countered, his tone serious.
The complaint was really for young Matti’s benefit, but he didn’t seem particularly impressed. Instead he gazed out of the window with interest as they drove past the Scandinavium Arena. The evening’s event was over, and thousands of people were pouring out of the building.
They were in luck, partly because the forensic pathology lab was pretty quiet and partly because Morten Jensen was on duty. Irene and Fredrik knew him well; he had worked there for several years.
He seemed more than happy to have some company.
“Things can get a little dead around here on a Saturday night,” he said.
Matti Berggren raised one eyebrow a fraction but smiled politely. Presumably he wasn’t too sure whether the pathologist was joking. Irene always found dealing with Morten Jensen quite liberating. He was much more easygoing than his boss, Professor Yvonne Stridner. Then again, so were most people, in Irene’s opinion. The overwhelming majority of police officers in Göteborg would agree with her. Fortunately the risk of running into Yvonne Stridner this evening was minimal. Professors are never on call overnight, and they certainly don’t work weekends. Morten Jensen wouldn’t normally have been around either, but there was a terrible shortage of doctors in forensic pathology.
Matti took samples from the outside of the plastic, paying particular attention to a dark brown patch about the size of the palm of a hand they saw when they turned the body over. There were similar patches in other places, too, though they were smaller.
“Some kind of thin oil . . . probably engine oil,” he murmured to himself. He looked satisfied as he pushed the cotton bud into the sterile sample bottle. He then carefully removed each piece of tape, placing them in separate glass containers. “Tape can carry a great deal of information; traces the perp would never have thought of can adhere to it.”
He appeared to be highly competent and conscientious. There was some talk of Svante Malm retiring next year; this young man could well prove a worthy successor.
Matti gently began to open up the plastic covering the body.
“There’s a lot of water on the inside,” he noted.
When the victim was fully exposed, they could see that they were dealing with a middle-aged woman. The entire body was wet. The moisture had remained inside the plastic rather than evaporating, thanks to the perpetrator’s meticulous use of tape. The shoulder-length hair lay plastered to the skull, but it was possible to see that it was bleached blonde. The woman was short and plump.
“Strangled,” Jensen said.
His voice had lost any hint of humor. He pointed to a nasty dark purple mark around the victim’s neck. The noose had been pulled so tight that only the ends were visible at the nape, knotted into large loops to provide a better grip. Irene recognized the material; it was exactly the same as her blue nylon clothesline at home.
Jensen measured the woman’s height: five foot two. He checked the temperature of the body, and made a note of the hypostasis and the degree of rigor mortis.
He then entered the data, along with the outdoor temperature for the past twenty-four hours, into his computer and made a rapid mental calculation before stating that she had been dead for a maximum of forty-eight hours. And she had probably died a bit more recently than that, but no more than five hours.
“So she was killed between forty-three and forty-eight hours ago—between five o’clock and ten o’clock on Thursday evening,” Irene said after glancing up at the clock. “That’s quite a big window.”
“I know, but I can’t be any more specific. There are still too many unknown factors. The hypostasis indicates her position was changed four to twelve hours after death, from lying on her stomach to lying on her back. The hypostasis on the front of the body has faded. Tomorrow I’ll do a more detailed examination and send off a range of samples. I’m afraid it will be a few days before we get around to the actual autopsy,” Jensen said apologetically.
Irene realized she would have to be satisfied with that. At least they had been given some useful information; the main priority now was to establish the woman’s identity. Fredrik would open a missing persons report in the system right away, and they would meet on Sunday. It was important to maintain momentum in the early stages of an investigation.
Fredrik had found her almost right away. Ingela Svensson, forty-six years old, divorced, lived alone. The florist’s store at Frölunda torg had contacted the police when she didn’t turn up for work on Friday morning. Ingela was a dedicated florist, and she had had a lot of orders for a funeral on Saturday. The woman who owned the store had been beside herself with worry when she called. According to her, Ingela was reliable; she never took time off without good reason, and certainly wouldn’t disappear without a word.
Ingela Svensson’s sister in Kungälv was contacted on Friday afternoon, while they were still thinking in terms of a missing person. She had said exactly the same thing: Ingela wouldn’t just disappear. Besides, she had just met a new man—a guy from Borås who seemed to be good for her. The sister had been delighted; apparently Ingela’s marriage had been nothing to cheer about.
New and ex-partners are always of interest in a disappearance or a homicide investigation. A quick check on Ingela’s former husband revealed that he had remarried two years ago, and could be eliminated from their inquiries right away since the family lived in Marbella, Spain, where he had set up a business selling property to sun-seeking Scandinavians.
It was with a heavy heart that Irene called Ingela’s sister in Kungälv early on Sunday morning. The woman broke down when she realized it was probably Ingela who had been found murdered in the churchyard the previous evening.
A few hours later her husband drove her to Göteborg, and she was able to carry out the formal identification. Irene asked the couple to accompany her to police HQ for a preliminary interview.
Ingela Svensson’s sister, Christina Mogren, gave them the name of the guy in Borås: Leif Karlberg. The Mogrens had been introduced to him the previous weekend, when Ingela had invited them over to meet the new man in her life. He had made a very good impression on both of them. According to Christina, her sister had met Karlberg on a weekend trip to Prague three months earlier, and love had begun to blossom soon after. When Ingela got home she had dared to hope that something might come of the relationship, even though she had sworn she was done with men. She had visited him several times in Borås, and he had been to stay with her in Göteborg. Everything seemed to be going very well, and for the first time since her divorce, it looked as though Ingela was head over heels in love.
“It can’t be him. He and Ingela we
re crazy about each other. He seemed so . . . nice!” Christina said.
Over the years Irene had met quite a few killers who had been described in similar terms by those around them, but she didn’t mention this to Ingela’s sister. Suddenly Christina’s husband spoke up.
“Did she ever find out where that flower came from?”
Christina thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. Well, not as far as I know.”
“Did someone send Ingela flowers?” Irene asked.
“One flower. A big white chrysanthemum, and an envelope with something written on it that didn’t make any sense.”
“Can you remember what it said?”
“No, but she did say there was no name on the envelope, just a few scribbled numbers and letters.”
“It seems a bit strange to send a flower to someone who works in a florist’s,” Irene said.
“That’s exactly what Ingela said.”
“When did she receive this flower?”
Christina and her husband tried to work it out.
“We usually call each other on Mondays or Tuesdays, and sometimes toward the end of the week. We’ve done that ever since we left home. We’ve always been very close.” Christina’s eyes filled with tears as she realized what she had said. She wiped her eyes with a tissue and swallowed hard. “She must have called me last Tuesday. We couldn’t talk for long, because I had to take Tobbe to his hockey game. She told me a flower had been hanging on her apartment door when she got home from work the previous evening—so that would have been on Monday. When she unwrapped it there was just the single chrysanthemum and a crumpled envelope. At first she thought it was Leif, but when she called and thanked him for the flower, he had no idea what she was talking about.”
Irene wondered whether this flower was important. Experience told her that any deviation from the norm was usually relevant.
“So this flower hadn’t been delivered by a store or a courier?” she asked, just to clarify things.
“No, Ingela said it was wrapped in newspaper.”
“Do you know what she did with it?”
“What she did with . . . well, I suppose she put it in water. Although I don’t know for sure—we didn’t have time to discuss it.”
“Have you brought the keys to her apartment?”
“Yes. I guess we’re not allowed to go there until you’ve . . .”
“Yes. We need to take a look around first. I’ll make sure the keys are returned to you as soon as possible,” Irene said, getting to her feet to indicate that the conversation was over.
The run-down former workers’ quarter of Majorna used to be a disgrace, but a regeneration program had transformed the area into a very attractive place to live. The inner courtyards of the apartment blocks were particularly appealing, lending a cozy charm all of their own.
Ingela Svensson had a two-room apartment on Såggatan. Before they went inside, the officers put on latex gloves, along with protective shoe covers and caps. Even though it was on the ground floor, the place was light and airy. The traffic on Karl Johansgatan and Oscarsleden hummed faintly. The living room faced the street, while the kitchen and bedroom overlooked the small courtyard. It was idyllic, with a beautiful chestnut tree and beds containing a variety of roses that were still in bloom.
There were no signs of a struggle in Ingela’s home. A double closet contained her shoes and outerwear, along with a smart purse in which Irene found Ingela’s cell phone, wallet and makeup items. There were no keys in the purse, nor in the pockets of any of her coats, which suggested she had taken them with her when she went out and encountered her killer. Why take just the keys and not the purse? Presumably she hadn’t thought she was going to be out for long.
A door off the hallway led to a compact bathroom, recently renovated, from the look of it, with black and white tiles. The living room had a personal feel, with older pieces of furniture mixed with IKEA’s standard offering. Next to an open copy of Amelia magazine stood a wineglass with a little drop of red still shimmering in the bottom.
The bedroom was quite small, with a white shaggy rug and fine, delicate curtains. The pale grey walls and closet doors provided an air of serenity. Irene was interrupted by the sound of Fredrik’s voice from the kitchen.
“Come and take a look at this.”
He was standing just inside the door, pointing to the cupboard under the sink, which was wide open.
“Empty. No trash can,” Irene said immediately. She looked around the kitchen, with its smooth, shiny cupboard doors. There was a table and four chairs over by the window. The place could do with an upgrade, but everything was spotless. The only jarring note came from the open door and the empty cupboard.
“She took out the trash,” Irene concluded.
“Where? And where’s the trash can?” Fredrik wondered.
“Let’s take a look.”
They removed their protective clothing before leaving the apartment. A short flight of steps led down to the back door, and through the glass they could see the imposing trunk of the majestic chestnut tree and its lower branches swaying gently in the breeze. The hinges squeaked as they pushed open the door and emerged into the cobbled courtyard. They walked over to the passageway and saw a row of garbage cans.
“Let’s see if she threw anything away,” Fredrik said.
They lifted the lids to check if there was a trash can among the garbage, then they searched the whole area, but they couldn’t find a thing that seemed to be connected to Ingela Svensson.
“So where is it?” Irene asked.
Fredrik pointed up at the wall, where a large handwritten notice informed them: Glass, wood, plastic, chemicals and other items that cannot be placed in these garbage cans must be placed in the appropriate containers at the recycling station. There was a map showing the location of the nearest station.
“Maybe she went there,” he said.
The recycling station was located in a corner of a large parking lot. It looked and smelled the way most of those places do. They started searching. People had dumped stuff if they didn’t know what to do with it: there were a couple of old bedside lamps, a broken food mixer, a kitchen chair in pieces, and a few sodden banana boxes. Peering into the containers to see if anything might have belonged to Ingela Svensson was a far from pleasant task. Irene felt like giving up and leaving it to forensics.
“This is depressing.” She sighed.
“Sure, but we are kind of in luck—according to the notice the containers won’t be emptied until Tuesday,” Fredrik pointed out.
They called CSI, who promised to come out as soon as possible. While they were waiting, Irene and Fredrik continued to search, but there was no sign of a trash can.
“It’s probably buried under tons of crap. If it’s here at all,” Irene said.
Fredrik didn’t reply; he was gazing pensively at a row of plastic igloos designated for glass in one corner of the recycling station. He searched all around them but came up with nothing more than an empty paper carrier bag. Then he crossed to the other side of the fence surrounding the containers, and peered into the lilac bushes growing close beside it. He lifted up the lowest branches and shone his flashlight into the undergrowth.
“Yes!” he shouted.
Irene hurried over as he triumphantly lifted the branches higher. Buried in the vegetation lay a grey bucket.
“There are some wine bottles in it. She’d had a party over the weekend, remember? That’s why she came here: to get rid of the empties.” Fredrik looked around, assessing the location. “This could well be the scene of the murder. He followed her and strangled her here, then threw the bucket into the bushes. Presumably he was too stressed to think about hiding it properly. The important thing was to move the body before someone turned up.”
He couldn’t suppress the excitement in his voice. Finding the s
cene of the crime usually means a breakthrough in a homicide investigation. This time they had been lucky; they were still at an early stage.
“Yes, she finished work at six, so she wouldn’t have gotten here much earlier than seven,” Irene speculated out loud.
She was carefully walking around one of the igloos when suddenly a faint glimmer caught her eye over by the fence. As she moved closer, she could see it was a bunch of keys, with the initials is on the enameled key ring. She didn’t touch it but pointed it out to Fredrik.
“That makes it even more likely that she was killed here!” he exclaimed.
“The killer must have had a vehicle in order to move the body. It would be easy to drive nearly all the way to this spot,” Irene went on.
“No chance of any tire tracks,” Fredrik said.
He was right; the whole area was covered in tarmac. Their hopes were pinned on the bushes where the bucket had been hidden, and on the area around the igloos where the attack had presumably taken place.
Irene went back to Ingela’s apartment, leaving Fredrik to keep an eye on the scene until the CSIs arrived. They didn’t want people trampling around until they had secured all possible evidence.
She put on her protective gear once more. Even if the killer had attacked Ingela at the recycling station, there could be other clues in the apartment.
It was worth noting that one thing was definitely missing: the white chrysanthemum. Ingela had probably thrown away both the flower and the envelope with its incomprehensible combination of numbers and letters. It was a shame, but it just meant they would have to go through the trash cans in the passageway more carefully. Irene hoped they hadn’t been emptied since last Tuesday either.
Ingela Svensson had kept a tidy home. Everything was neatly arranged in cupboards and drawers, and nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. In the pantry Irene found three unopened boxes of white wine and a box of red. There was also half a bottle of Grönstedts cognac, plus several bottles of medium-priced red wine. Nothing strange about that, apart from the fact that it seemed like rather a lot of wine for a woman on her own.
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