Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  The kitchen staff’s changing room was directly opposite the kitchen, which meant that not just anyone could walk in. Between the restaurant kitchen and the changing room was a hallway with a door that led to the back of the restaurant. Delivery vehicles parked in the loading bay outside the door, which wasn’t always locked during the day, but there were usually people in the kitchen who would be aware of anyone coming or going.

  Krister decided the best way to get in without being noticed was during the lunchtime rush, between twelve and one, when everyone was working flat out. It was possible that an outsider could slip into the changing room without being seen.

  That was probably what had happened. The strange thing was that none of the other lockers had been broken into—only Krister’s. They were basic metal cubbies with simple locks. The owner’s last name was on a piece of card slipped into a little holder on the door.

  “It’s a shame no one stuffed a body in my locker, because then I could have called you and something might have been done,” Krister had said as they were eating the delicious fish soup.

  He dipped his spoon in half-heartedly, with little appetite.

  11.

  Hannu had gotten a hold of two images from the CCTV cameras at the ICA store in Frölunda torg, both showing Elisabeth Lindberg. The first was taken at 7:57 p.m., and showed her entering the store pushing a cart. In the second she was at the deli counter; it was 8:06. She was wearing jeans and a light-colored trench coat. Over her shoulder was a large purse, which looked both expensive and new. Irene knew she hadn’t seen it in the apartment. Presumably it was in the same place as Elisabeth Lindberg’s and Ingela Svensson’s clothes.

  When Irene arrived in her office and switched on her computer, she found an email from Matti Berggren. She opened it and read:

  Subject: cat (dead)

  Appears to have been killed by a car as there are clearly visible tire marks on the head and upper body. No other signs of violence. A comparison of hairs from the subject and the cat hairs found on the tape used to secure the plastic around the two murder victims shows no match. The subject is a long-haired breed, but the hairs on the tape are from an ordinary black-and-white short-haired domestic cat. 2 white and 6 black hairs were found on the tape.

  Sara came in just as Irene finished reading.

  “Hi. We’ve found a case that could be his first,” she said.

  “His first?” Irene echoed.

  “His first victim. Who is still alive.”

  Sara put down several sheets of paper in front of Irene and left the room. She certainly doesn’t waste time on small talk, Irene thought.

  The heading was attempted homicide, the date Monday, March 2. Almost exactly six months ago. A woman named Marie Carlsson had been found on the step of her terraced house. She had managed to set off her attack alarm, and a neighbor had heard it. His shouts scared off the perpetrator, and he called the police and an ambulance when he found Marie Carlsson unconscious. A noose was tightly drawn around her neck, but the neighbor managed to loosen it. Marie had forced one hand under the twine, which was probably what had saved her life. According to forensics it was a type of nylon twine often used for washing lines. However, there had been no loops at the ends. That was something he came up with before the two later attacks, Irene thought.

  The notes included a transcript of an interview with the victim the following day. Marie Carlsson had gotten home late from work. She was a section manager at the ICA Maxi store in Frölunda torg.

  Irene gave a start when she read where Marie worked. There it was again, that same ICA store. A remarkable coincidence, but she decided it didn’t necessarily mean anything at this stage. She continued reading.

  That day had been particularly difficult, because several members of the staff were out sick. The store closed at 9:00, but it had been getting on to 10:45 by the time Marie got home and put her key in the lock. Before she could open the door, she was attacked.

  Marie Carlsson was forty-five years old and single. She lived in Högsbohöjd.

  Though the attack had been investigated by another team, Irene remembered it, and knew how seriously the incident had been taken. So far they had gotten nowhere; the attacker had disappeared without a trace, apart from the noose with which he had tried to strangle Marie. But it was just ordinary nylon twine and therefore impossible to track down.

  Irene jumped as the intercom crackled and she heard Sara’s voice: “I’ve asked Matti to compare the noose around Marie Carlsson’s neck with the ones from our two murder victims.”

  “Thanks,” Irene said, but the intercom had already disconnected.

  Irene stared at the sun-bleached print of Monet’s Impression, soleil levant without really seeing it. It had been hanging on the wall when she started with the Unit, and it had blended into its surroundings with time. Even if it had been a new, more colorful work of art, she wouldn’t have noticed it right now.

  A victim who had survived.

  This could be a breakthrough in the hunt for the Package Killer.

  Irene and Sara got out of the car and set off toward the house where Marie Carlsson lived.

  “Check out the windows. No more than four feet off the ground,” Sara said.

  They went through the little gate and walked up to the front door. Before Irene had time to ring the bell, they heard the sound of loud barking. That’s a big dog, and it seems to be doing its job, she thought.

  Irene pressed the bell firmly, which made the dog bark even louder. Then they heard a woman’s voice give a brief command. The barking stopped, but Irene could hear the dog moving around just behind the door, emitting a low growl. When the door opened both Sara and Irene looked down at the woman’s knees instead of at her face. She had a firm grip on the collar of the German shepherd who was responsible for all the noise.

  “Inside, Hanko!” She gestured with her hand and let go of the collar.

  The dog let out one more rumble from deep in his throat, but after a final appraising glance at the two officers, he turned and trotted away. He stopped in the kitchen doorway; from his body language Irene could see that he was alert but not aggressive. Sara seemed a little nervous of the large dog.

  “Hi. Marie Carlsson,” the woman said, holding out her hand.

  Irene introduced herself and Sara, and Marie stepped back to let them in.

  As she took their coats Marie said apologetically, “I’m sorry if Hanko scared you; he’s actually very gentle, but he’s a trained guard dog.”

  “Have you had him long?” Irene asked.

  An expression that was difficult to interpret flitted across Marie’s face.

  “No,” she said curtly. She led the way into the living room and asked them to sit down. On the table was a tray laid out with coffee cups and a plate of muffins.

  “Coffee?”

  “Tea, please,” Sara said before Irene had time to answer.

  It seemed as if she never drank coffee. A cop who drank only tea! That girl is going to have problems, Irene thought as she nodded and smiled to indicate that coffee was exactly what she wanted.

  Marie Carlsson reminded her of Elisabeth Lindberg to a certain extent. She was almost as tall, slim, and her dark hair was cut into a bob with a few lighter streaks. Her makeup was subtle, but brought out her nut-brown eyes. She was wearing a boat-necked embroidered white tunic and skinny jeans. Around her neck was a pale blue scarf. She looked fit without being too muscular.

  Marie smiled at Sara. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

  She went off into the kitchen, and Irene glanced around the living room. Modern but simple. Nothing that looked old or inherited. The color palette was red and grey, with the odd splash of cornflower blue. On the walls hung beautifully framed prints by Bengt Lindström. Irene had learned to recognize his distinct colors and contorted faces during a case many years earlier. In fact, on
e of his paintings had helped to solve the murder of one of the richest men in Göteborg.

  Marie returned with a pot of coffee in one hand and a steaming mug in the other. She put the mug in front of Sara and said, “I’m sorry, I’ve only got tea bags.”

  “No problem,” Sara replied as Marie poured two cups of coffee.

  Hanko had settled down under the table, his head resting on Irene’s feet. He must have been comfortable, because after a little while he started snoring. It was a restful sound; homicide and attempted homicide seemed far away.

  “How long have you had Hanko?” Irene tried again.

  There was a wariness in Marie’s eyes, just as when Irene had asked her almost the same question a few minutes ago.

  “Since the end of March. Almost six months.”

  “He’s lovely. And you said he’s trained as a guard dog?”

  Marie sighed. “I know why you’re here. The Package Killer. Two women about the same age as me. I presume they were strangled?” she said.

  The fact that the killer carefully wrapped his victims had leaked out to the press, hence the Package Killer. Far too many people had seen the bodies; the security breach was inevitable. However, it wasn’t public knowledge that both women had been strangled with a length of twine. Irene’s expression gave nothing away.

  “We’re trying to gather as much material as we can, and we think it’s possible that you were his first victim,” she said.

  Marie got to her feet, wrapping her arms tightly around her. Slowly she walked to the window overlooking the terrace and stared out. With her back to them she said, “The same thought occurred to me. And I have to tell you it doesn’t feel good.”

  “I can understand that, but we would very much appreciate it if you could help us catch this guy.”

  Marie spun around. “You didn’t get very far when it happened to me,” she said bitterly.

  “No. But now we have more leads, and we think we might be able to track him down, with your help.”

  Her arms still tightly wrapped around her body, Marie went back to the sofa and sank down, her expression resigned. She unwound her scarf to reveal an angry dark pink scar running around her neck, with a gap of about three inches at the front.

  She pointed to the scar. “You have to understand how terrible this has been. Months have passed, and nothing has happened. I’m constantly wondering if he’ll come back and finish . . . what he failed to accomplish last time.”

  Hanko was woken by his mistress’s voice. He tilted his head to one side and looked inquiringly at her, then at the two visitors, before relaxing and resting his head on his comfortable cushion once more. Irene’s feet were starting to go to sleep, but she didn’t want to move them. Being around a dog again felt reassuring and familiar.

  “You’re a dog person,” Marie said, looking at Irene.

  “Yes. I’ve had dogs all my life, but we had to have Sammie, our last, put to sleep two years ago.”

  “It must be awful having to make the decision to . . .” Marie fell silent, then cleared her throat. “After the attack I got scared. I’ve always been so confident, so sure I could take care of myself, but suddenly I didn’t dare sleep in my own house. I stayed with my sister or various friends at first, but then someone told me about Hanko. Since then I’ve had no problem sleeping here. The problem is I can’t take him everywhere. That’s when I get scared again. Sometimes I almost have a panic attack. I’ve never had a dog before; we’re going to obedience classes to help us bond. To be honest I’m the one that needs training; Hanko already knows everything.”

  A little smile played around Marie’s lips as she gazed proudly at her beloved dog. Irene decided it was time to broach the questions they had come to ask.

  “Did you ever get the feeling that you were being watched in the period leading up to the attack?”

  Marie shook her head.

  “I was asked that before. No, I can’t say I did.”

  Her voice was steady, but her eyes flickered. Irene had a feeling she wasn’t telling the whole truth.

  “No strange phone calls? Nobody sent you flowers or written messages?”

  “No.”

  The answer was calm and confident; obviously nothing of that nature had happened. Irene decided to take a chance. After all, they had found two photographs taken through the victims’ windows.

  “There is evidence to suggest that the Package Killer’s victims noticed someone watching them through the window at some stage before they were killed,” she said.

  She could feel Sara’s surprise. Irene didn’t look at her colleague; instead she kept her eyes fixed on Marie, who gave a start and looked terrified.

  “Something like that might . . . might have happened. Once,” she admitted after a while.

  She fell silent, then appeared to make a decision.

  “I mean, people are always passing by on the sidewalk outside the kitchen, and that’s fine. I’m used to it. The backyard is next to a piece of land that was too small to build on. It’s separated from my plot by a dense cypress hedge. One Saturday night . . . I remember it was February twenty-first . . . I had a friend here. She was sitting in the living room, and I was in the kitchen fixing us something to eat. Suddenly she called out: ‘There’s someone in your garden!’ I rushed in here, but I couldn’t see anything. I always have the outside light on when it’s dark; I opened the door, and I could hear someone moving behind the hedge. I ran over there, but there was no sign of anyone.”

  “Did your friend notice what this person looked like?”

  “No, she just saw a dark figure standing there.”

  “We need to talk to her. Could we have her name and address?” Irene asked.

  Marie suddenly looked nervous and hesitant again, but then her resolve returned.

  “She’s my girlfriend. But she’s married with two young kids. She’s not ready to leave him yet. That’s fine by me. I work long hours, and I don’t like kids. Then again, I thought I didn’t like dogs,” she said, looking down at her sleeping companion.

  “We really do need to speak to her,” Irene said.

  “Believe me, she won’t want to speak to you. And she said she just saw a dark figure on the edge of the pool of light.”

  Marie’s mouth set in a stubborn line, and Irene realized there was no point in trying to pressure her. Instead she asked, “Have you seen anyone in the garden since then?”

  “No.”

  There was a brief silence, broken by Sara. “You said your girlfriend is married with children. How long had you been seeing each other before that evening?”

  “We got together at the end of December last year, so about two months. That evening . . . It was actually the first time we’d met properly. She finds it difficult to get away, but she managed it somehow,” Marie said with a wan smile.

  “When you say properly, do you mean that’s the first time you were intimate?” Sara went on.

  “Yes.”

  “Could the man in the garden have seen you?”

  “I guess so. We made love before dinner, maybe an hour before she saw him. And we . . . we started here in the living room before we went up to the bedroom. So yes, he might well have seen a few things.”

  The look she gave Sara and Irene was defiant, but at the same time she looked slightly amused. Perhaps she thought they were shocked.

  “You didn’t receive a photograph in the post later?” Sara continued, completely unmoved.

  Marie looked genuinely surprised and glanced over at the window. She shook her head. “No—no photograph, or anything else. I’d almost forgotten our Peeping Tom. I didn’t even think about him after the attack. I didn’t connect it with . . .”

  She fell silent and looked down at her hands, which seemed to be clenching and unclenching on their own accord.

  Irene and Sara
asked a few more questions about the attack itself, but nothing new emerged. Marie confirmed that her assailant had been very strong. She trained at the gym twice a week, but she had had no chance of escaping his grasp.

  After being flatly refused contact details for Marie’s girlfriend again, Irene decided to leave that aside for a while. “Is it okay if we take a look in the garden?”

  “Sure,” Marie said, getting to her feet.

  With some difficulty she managed to open the door leading to the terrace and let them out, although she didn’t accompany them. Hanko had woken up when everyone started moving, and he took the opportunity to slip outside. He went over to the cypress hedge and cocked his leg. Marie called him and he dashed back inside, happily wagging his tail.

  “He’s not usually allowed to pee in the garden, but sometimes . . .” Marie said apologetically.

  Irene gave her an understanding smile. She had occasionally let Sammie go in the garden on the odd morning when nobody really felt like taking him for a walk.

  Anyone could see that Marie Carlsson wasn’t much of a gardener. The dense hedge and a sickly fruit tree were the only living things in sight. On the small stone terrace, two attractive blue ceramic pots contained something shriveled and unidentifiable.

  “So where was this person standing?” Sara asked.

  “Kind of in the middle of the garden, but a little to the left. Closer to the hedge. The outside light doesn’t reach that far.”

  As it was midafternoon it was impossible to see where the pool of light would end, but it was easy to work out why the watcher had stuck to that side of the garden. There was a little gap at the end of the hedge. If he was seen he could slip back through to the small lot on the other side.

  But was this person the Package Killer? They couldn’t be certain. Marie hadn’t received a photograph or a flower from the perpetrator before the attack. Were they looking at two different people? Then again, the noose around her neck had been exactly the same as the twine used to strangle both homicide victims.