Fate had dealt Tobias a rough hand. His father was in a coma, and his mother had been murdered. No siblings, no close relatives: unusual for one so young. It was fortunate that he had friends.
Irene impulsively went over and sat down in the armchair next to the sofa. She took his hand and said, “I really am very sorry for your loss. It’s terrible to lose your mother. I know that from my own experience. But for her to fall victim to a murderer as well . . . It’s just dreadful. I understand if you don’t feel up to talking right now. We can wait.”
He turned his head and looked at her. The naked pain in his eyes tore at her heart. He didn’t withdraw his hand; Irene could feel it trembling.
“I want to . . . I have to . . . to talk. I’m going crazy!”
The last few words came out like a sob. Irene squeezed his hand.
“Okay, let’s take it slowly. I can assure you that we’re doing everything in our power to catch the person who killed your mother, but we don’t have very much to go on—we need more information. That’s why I need to ask you a few questions. Is that all right?”
He nodded and wiped his eyes with his free arm, not letting go of Irene’s hand. She gave him an encouraging smile, and it was as if he suddenly became aware that they were holding hands. He pulled away and sat up straight. His bony knees were visible through his ripped jeans.
From past experience Irene knew that the best way to get someone to relax was to ask them to talk about themselves.
“What are you studying in Umeå?” she began.
“Psychology.”
“Were you back in Göteborg over the summer break?”
“Yes, I’ve got a summer job down here. I worked there before I went to college.”
“Doing what?”
“I help out in an assisted-living facility.”
“Did you stay with your mother in the summer?”
“No, I stayed here with Ville. It’s closer to work, and . . . well, Linnéstan is always Linnéstan, if you know what I mean.”
“When did you go back up to Umeå?”
“Last Saturday evening. I flew because it takes, like, a whole day on the train. I worked on Saturday morning and caught the flight a few hours later.”
Some of the tension had left his thin shoulders, but he was clenching his fists, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
The next question was a sensitive one, but it had to be asked.
“Do you know whether your mother had met anyone new—a boyfriend?”
“She hadn’t.”
There wasn’t a trace of doubt in his voice.
“Nothing happened in the summer to suggest that might be the case?”
“No.”
“Would she have told you if she was seeing someone?”
“Absolutely. We were very close . . . She was . . . fantastic.” His voice was far from steady, but he tried to hide it by clearing his throat and straightening his shoulders. He was doing his best to help.
“Did she give any indication that someone might be following her, or watching her?”
Tobias started to shake his head, then stopped. A glimmer of uncertainty appeared in his sad eyes. “Not in the summer, but when we spoke on the phone . . . It was Monday . . . The day when she . . . the day when . . .”
His voice gave way and he swallowed hard. After a few seconds he was ready to go on. “She said someone had given her flowers. Or maybe it was one flower . . . Yes, it was one flower, and there was a photograph with it—a picture of Mom and me. How weird is that?”
“Did she say how the flower was delivered?”
“It was hanging on the front door when she got home after driving me to the airport on Saturday.”
Which suggested that the killer had been watching Elisabeth over the weekend, and had seen her leave. The perpetrator seemed to be a person who had all the time in the world, and a great deal of patience. Sara had mentioned a stalker; maybe she was right.
“What time did you speak to your mother on Monday?”
“Just after seven-thirty. I called to tell her everything was fine with my new student apartment. The news had just started on TV, and she asked me to wait while she turned down the sound. Although I think she switched it off. She was going to go shopping before she started work, and she was in a hurry.”
“How long did you talk?”
“Three or four minutes.”
“And she said she was going shopping?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know why she hadn’t done her shopping earlier in the day?”
He shrugged his bony shoulders. “Maybe she had a slot booked in the laundry room or something . . . No, I remember! She’d been to the hairdresser’s!”
Irene recalled the pretty red streaks glowing in Elisabeth’s brown hair. They had shown up even though her hair was wet.
They carried on talking for a while, but it was as if all the air had gone out of Tobias, which was completely understandable. Irene thought he had been incredibly strong, and he had given her some very useful information. She had found out when the white flower had been delivered, Tobias had confirmed that there was no new man on the horizon and that his mother had left the apartment after seven-thirty to go shopping. Now it was time to see if the neighbor who had called in about the couple hugging in the parking lot could help to establish the time of the murder.
The witness’s name was Tove Josefsson, and she lived in the apartment above Elisabeth Lindberg. A couple of seconds after Irene had rung the bell, the door was flung wide open to reveal a smiling woman in her early forties. She was plump and looked like she had been hibernating since the 1970s: she was wearing a hand-dyed wine-red undershirt with a matching scarf wound around her frizzy blonde hair, and wide, dark purple pants made of a soft fabric. A blue stone glittered in her nose, and she wore red Crocs, which seemed to be the only item of her clothing dating from this century.
“Good afternoon—DI Irene Huss. Are you Tove Josefsson?”
“Oh . . . yes. I thought it would be the guy who was here earlier . . .”
The woman couldn’t hide her disappointment. Her warm smile disappeared. Admittedly Lars Holmberg was a fine figure of a man, but Irene could have told Tove that he was married with three kids.
“May I come in?”
“Of course, forgive me. Would you like a coffee? I’ve just made some.”
But not with me in mind, Irene thought. Tove Josefsson stepped aside to let her in. The apartment was identical to Elisabeth Lindberg’s, although the style was very different. It was clear that Tove was a fan of Eastern decor. Candles in small colored glass bowls were everywhere, on low tables and shelves. The scent of incense was strong. As far as Irene was concerned, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee was much more appealing. Tove led the way into the living room, and a small mobile made of shells made a faint tinkling sound as they walked by.
“Please sit down,” Tove said, pointing to a low divan covered in some kind of green brocade. Irene’s knees complained as she crouched, but once she was settled she realized the divan was very comfortable, with well-stuffed cushions supporting her back. She took the opportunity to look around. The walls were adorned with photographs of exotic locations: a sunrise over a desert landscape, the interior of a Japanese temple, snow plains sparkling in the sunshine, an old, scarred lion yawning at the camera . . . The pictures were beautiful.
“Did you take all these photos?” Irene asked.
“Most of them. They were all taken on my travels, but sometimes I had a photographer with me. I travel a great deal.”
“I believe that’s why you didn’t know what had happened to Elisabeth Lindberg.”
“That’s right. It’s just dreadful! Poor Elisabeth—not to mention her son.”
Tove’s eyes widened, and Irene caught a glimpse of pure fear. She also
noticed the shudder that ran down the journalist’s spine. Was she worried about her own safety? She was the right age, after all, and single.
A strand of hair had escaped from Tove’s scarf, and she tucked it back in place.
“You’re right; it’s a terrible crime. Can you tell me what happened and what you saw on Monday evening?” Irene said.
“Of course. Hasse, the photographer, and I had just come back from South Africa. We were doing a piece on wine for a food magazine, and our plane landed at about seven. It took a while to load everything into the car, and it was pouring. I drove Hasse home, then came back here.”
She paused for breath before continuing:
“My parking space is at the far end of the lot, so it’s a pretty long walk. I had quite a lot of heavy luggage, so I decided to drive up to the main door. You’re allowed to pick up and drop off, but not to park. As I drove past the parking lot I glanced over at my space for some reason—I have no idea why. I caught a glimpse of a man holding a woman. It was hard to see properly in the rain and the darkness, but it looked as if he was giving her a hug from behind—holding her in his arms and kind of . . . rocking her.”
“Rocking her?”
“Yes . . . moving her gently from side to side. A tender moment, maybe.”
Gooseflesh covered Irene’s arms. She thought she knew the answer to her next question, but she needed to hear it from Tove herself.
“Was the woman moving? Did she seem to be trying to defend herself?”
“No—I might have reacted if that had been the case, but she seemed perfectly calm. Just kind of letting it happen.”
Which meant that Elisabeth was already dead when Tove drove past, or at least unconscious.
As if she had read Irene’s mind, Tove asked, “I’ve been wondering . . . Do you think I could have saved Elisabeth if I’d parked in my usual space?”
“Probably not. Can you tell me what time it was?”
“About eight-thirty.”
“And how do you know it was Elisabeth you saw?”
“I don’t know for sure, but I know where she parks her car, and this couple were standing right next to it. I helped her change a tire a few weeks ago; she had a puncture on the passenger side at the front.” Tove smiled sadly at the memory.
“Did you know each other well?”
“No, not at all. She moved here last year, and I’m hardly ever home. We usually say hi if we meet on the way in or out. It was pure chance that I happened to be passing when she was about to change the tire. Her son was working and she needed the car, so I gave her a hand.”
“Did you see anything of the man who was holding the woman?”
“Not really. As I said, it was hard to see in the dark and the rain, but he wasn’t much taller than Elisabeth, and he was wearing a dark jacket and dark pants. Work clothes . . . that’s it! He had reflective bands around the bottom of his sleeves and the legs of his pants. I remember seeing them catch the light—that’s why I made the association with work clothes.”
“Any idea of his hair color?”
Tove chewed her lower lip, concentrating hard. Eventually she said, “No—he had something on his head. A hat, maybe.”
“Was he wearing glasses? Is there anything else you can remember?”
“I don’t know. I only saw him from behind, but I got the impression he was strong.” She held her hands apart to show that he was broad-shouldered.
“You mean fit?”
“Kind of . . . He was no flyweight, if I can put it like that. But he wasn’t fat. Powerfully built, I’d say.”
This could mean that the man was muscular thanks to a physically demanding job; he could be active within a particular sport, or he might just have a naturally athletic figure. He was probably very strong, given that Elisabeth had been pretty fit. Had she had time to offer any resistance? Perhaps the autopsy would tell them.
“How tall would you say he was?”
“Hmm . . . between five eight and six foot.”
“Did you form any impression of his age?”
“I’d say he wasn’t old, but he wasn’t a teenager either. Between twenty and forty, maybe.”
The killer was strong, average height, dressed in work clothes and a cap. Aged somewhere between twenty and forty. And he must have had a car in order to remove both bodies.
“Do you remember seeing a vehicle you didn’t recognize anywhere near the spot where Elisabeth and this guy were standing?”
Tove shook her head slowly. “There are several spaces for visitors opposite where Elisabeth parks. If he’d left his car there, he would only need to carry her a few meters. I don’t remember seeing an unfamiliar car, but I guess it must have been there. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been able to take her away and . . . do what he did to her.”
Irene saw the color drain from Tove’s face.
“Is there a crazy person running around here? I mean . . . are the women who live here in danger?” she asked, looking Irene straight in the eye.
Irene did her best to sound reassuring. “Probably not, but we don’t know very much at this stage. As you might be aware, we found a woman a few days ago who had fallen victim to the same perpetrator. She lived on Såggatan in Majorna, which is quite a way from here.”
Tove nodded. “I went to London on Tuesday to discuss a major project, but I read about it online. She was found in the western churchyard, wrapped in plastic—just like Elisabeth. It’s horrible!”
Irene merely nodded in response.
“How did he kill them?” Tove asked, her voice far from steady.
“We haven’t even had the autopsy report on the first victim yet. It will be a few days before we know for sure.”
They had deliberately kept the fact that the killer had strangled his victims with a length of thin nylon twine from the media. So far nothing had leaked out, but it was only a matter of time.
Irene got up, her knees creaking in protest once more. She gave Tove her card, just in case anything else came back to her.
Irene’s car was in one of the visitors’ spaces. Elisabeth’s red Golf had been parked directly opposite. It had been taken to a workshop where a forensic examination would be carried out. Irene didn’t expect anything to be found inside the car, but you never knew. The killer might have touched something.
Suddenly she realized how tired she was. She shuddered; the deserted parking lot was dark and creepy. Was he somewhere nearby? Was he watching her right now? The thought came from nowhere, but that didn’t make it any less frightening. She got into her car as quickly as she could, and drove away.
“Package Killer brings terror to west side of city!” That’s what the newspapers said today. Package Killer? They don’t know what they’re talking about! It is the only way. Our agreement is clear: I shall show goodness to thousands when you love Me and keep My commandments. When My commandments are broken, I must become the Punisher. Let Thy will be done.
9.
Krister was already home, standing at the stove. The wonderful aroma of fresh herbs and saffron filled the air. As usual when he was cooking, he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt. Irene loved to see the movement of the muscles in his back and shoulders as he juggled pots and pans. Silently she crept up behind him, then she stood on tiptoe and kissed the back of his neck. She put her arms around him and slipped in front of him, kissed his throat, nibbled his earlobe and caressed his chest and stomach. Right now she thought he was the sexiest man on earth.
“Not now, okay?” he said curtly.
She immediately took a step back and stared at him. She was hurt, to say the least.
With an angry movement Krister threw the spoon into the pan of fish soup he had been stirring, splattering the golden yellow liquid all over the stove.
“Sorry, but I’m so fucking furious!” he snapped.
Ir
ene’s reaction changed to one of surprise. Krister was usually a model of even temperament, probably because he was conflict averse and kept his frustrations bottled up inside. There is a reason why people end up suffering from depression as a result of exhaustion. Irene had thought about this many times when Krister had been diagnosed with burnout, but over the past twelve months everything had seemed so much better. Admittedly he had said several times that he was sick of his job and wanted to leave, but he hadn’t mentioned it for a while.
“What’s happened?”
“Some bastard broke into my locker and stole my wallet!” Krister said, waving the soup spoon around.
Irene fetched the paper-towel roll and started wiping splashes of soup off the cupboards and the stove. “When?” she asked.
“I don’t know. During the day. I found the locker broken open when I was about to go home just after five. I was on the short day shift today.”
“Have you blocked your cards?”
“Yes, I did that right away. But of course I don’t know how long the thief had access to them before I found out they were gone. Shit!”
With a loud plop the spoon landed back in the pan. Irene sighed, tore off another sheet of paper towel and wiped down the stove once more.
10.
The following morning dawned clear and bright, and Irene felt as if the sunlight gave her a fresh burst of energy. She certainly needed it. Krister had been so angry about the theft of his wallet. Fortunately he had been carrying only the card for their household account. The bank had confirmed that the account had been emptied: a total of 8,950 kronor. He had reported the incident to the police, of course, but got the impression they weren’t very interested. Krister was particularly upset at the thought that the thief could be someone who worked at the restaurant. He had asked around, but no one had seen anything unusual.
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