Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  When Irene took his details it emerged that he was engaged but didn’t live with his partner. He was in a rented apartment in a two-family house on Kungsladugårdsgatan. He had been there for five years, ever since he moved to Göteborg. Before that he had worked in Växjö.

  “Why did you leave Växjö?” Irene asked.

  “It’s boring. I was born in a little village just outside the town. I wanted to see something new,” he said with a shrug.

  He couldn’t quite meet Irene’s gaze, and she instinctively felt he was hiding something. Maybe I should take a closer look at you after all, she thought.

  “As I already explained, you’re here because someone told us you bore a resemblance to the facial composite we published in the media. It’s the picture of a man seen by a witness close to at least one of the locations where a homicide victim was found. So I hope you understand that I need to ask you a few questions,” Irene said.

  Hüppe merely nodded without speaking. He wiped the beads of sweat off his forehead.

  “Can you tell me where you were on the evening of March second this year?”

  “Absolutely!”

  He reached into his jacket pocket and took out a small diary. He leafed through the pages. His face brightened and the hint of a smile played around his lips as he found what he was looking for.

  “I landed at Landvetter at eleven-thirty that night. My brother lives in Florida. I’d been to visit him and his family.”

  So when Marie Carlsson was attacked, Ants Hüppe had been on a plane thirty thousand feet in the air somewhere over Denmark. He was able to supply Irene with his ticket number, the name of the airline and precise flight details. Something told Irene this was an alibi she wasn’t going to be able to crack. Suddenly she was struck by a thought: something didn’t fit.

  “How come you were able to go to Florida in the middle of term?” she asked.

  Hüppe’s smug expression immediately disappeared, to be replaced by that evasive look. “I was due some leave. And it was only a week.”

  “Isn’t it rather difficult for a specialist teacher to take time off in the middle of term?” Irene persisted.

  There was something there, she could feel it. But what? She realized it almost certainly had nothing to do with the Package Killer, but she couldn’t let it go. Ants Hüppe was sweating profusely once more. He dug a pack of tissues out of his pocket and managed with some difficulty to extract one. He wiped his brow and shoved the used tissue back in his pocket, clearly embarrassed. He took a deep breath; his eyes slid across Irene’s face, then settled on a fixed point somewhere over her left shoulder.

  “I . . . I was signed off sick. Burnt out. But I felt a bit better, so the doctor gave me permission to go over and see my brother. I’ve got a medical certificate,” he said quietly.

  It was that simple. Irene realized there was no point in taking up any more of his time. Before she went home she would just check his details so that she could eliminate him from their inquiries.

  It took less than half an hour to confirm Ants Hüppe’s alibi, which left just two names on the list she and Jonny were working through. She hadn’t heard anything from Sara and Hannu, and she would have done if anything of interest had come up. Perhaps the fair-haired Al Capone was just a red herring. The smelly nut job had turned up by sheer coincidence at the ICA store a few weeks before the attack, and asked Marie Carlsson weird questions . . . Irene stopped herself. The man who had attacked Marie had also stunk. Her reaction had been very strong when she remembered the stench, and that wasn’t only down to the red wine she had drunk. Irene had a feeling that the man with eyes like a cod probably had something to do with the case. All they had to do now was track him down and find the evidence to prove that her gut was right.

  She logged out and shut down the computer. She was tired; it was time to go home. A hot meal and an early night seemed like the perfect plan for the evening. She suppressed a yawn and stood up just as Sara appeared in the doorway.

  “I can’t get ahold of Ann-Britt Söderström.”

  “Who?” Irene wasn’t really interested.

  “The woman who found Ingela Svensson’s body. You were there, weren’t you?”

  It might have been her imagination, but Irene thought there was a faint air of reproach in Sara’s tone of voice. A vague recollection of a stocky woman in her sixties popped into her head. Irene hadn’t spoken to her personally, but she suddenly remembered that it was the woman’s dog that had found the first victim in the churchyard. It felt like a long time ago, but it was just over a week.

  “Oh, that Ann-Britt Söderström. Why are you trying to contact her?”

  “Thylqvist told us to talk to the people who found the bodies again, just in case they’ve thought of something that didn’t occur to them at the time. Hannu’s spoken to the paperboy who found Elisabeth Lindberg—nothing new there. But as I said, I can’t get ahold of Söderström.”

  Irene had completely forgotten Thylqvist’s directive, but she had no intention of telling Sara that.

  “I expect she’s gone away,” she said airily.

  “No. I’ve just spoken to her daughter, who lives in Stockholm. She says her mother has heart problems, and doesn’t really like going out. That’s why the daughter gave her Egon for Christmas.”

  “Egon?”

  “The dog. So that her mother would have to take him for walks. Apparently it wasn’t working too well.”

  “So how long have you been trying to contact Söderström?” Irene asked with a sigh.

  “Since yesterday afternoon.”

  A woman with heart problems had been unreachable for over twenty-four hours. According to her daughter, the woman didn’t move around much, and never went out for long periods of time. There was only one thing to do.

  “Okay, let’s get over there, check things out,” Irene said with an encouraging smile. The relieved expression on Sara’s face told her that was exactly the response her young colleague had been hoping for.

  Ann-Britt Söderström lived in a renovated governor’s house with a view over Gröna vallen. It was no more than five hundred meters from the spot where she—or rather Egon—had found the first homicide victim, and Ann-Britt had driven there, if Irene remembered correctly. Her daughter was probably right; the dog walking wasn’t working out quite the way she had hoped.

  “Second floor, no elevator,” Sara said as she read the list of residents’ names next to the main door.

  They pressed the button next to Ann-Britt’s name, but there was no answer. After a while a young woman came out of the building. Irene and Sara showed their ID and asked her to let them in. She complied.

  They could hear him from the ground floor. A faint whimpering, almost like a sob. A few seconds’ silence, then it came again.

  “Egon is crying,” Irene said.

  “Crying? Can dogs cry?” Sara asked in surprise.

  “Of course. All animals can cry. And I recognize that sound. That’s one very unhappy dog.”

  “I’m not used to dogs . . . but it sounds desperately sad.”

  When they reached the second floor, it was obvious that the dog was sitting right behind the door. They rang the bell, and he started barking and scratching.

  “He sounds hoarse,” Irene said.

  She pushed open the mail slot, which made Egon hurl himself at the door. Then he stopped and looked straight into her eyes through the gap. Scared and unhappy, Irene concluded. She was starting to get worried. She couldn’t hear anything to suggest that Ann-Britt was on her way. In fact she couldn’t hear anything at all, apart from the dog’s frantic barking.

  “I’ll call the locksmith,” Irene said, taking out her cell phone.

  Egon leapt into Irene’s arms, whimpering and shivering, when they opened the door. Instinctively he pressed himself against her. Nothing in the world wa
s going to persuade him to get down on the floor.

  “He’s terrified,” Irene said, unzipping her jacket.

  She tucked the dog inside, and held him close, with only his head sticking out. The long-haired dachshund was very small and didn’t weigh much. Irene could feel his body shaking, his little heart pounding. Poor baby, she thought. What’s made you so scared?

  The apartment was furnished in a style well-suited to its era, the 1920s. Irene glanced into the bright kitchen with its yellow cupboard doors, and saw an old table with four chairs. They could have been there since the place was built. Beneath the table were a large puddle and a little pile of dog crap. Poor Egon had had to do his business indoors. Irene also noticed two empty dog bowls in the corner.

  “Irene,” Sara called quietly.

  Irene went through the neat little living room and over to the doorway where Sara was standing. Irene looked over her shoulder into a bedroom. Ann-Britt Söderström was lying on the bed. It was obvious that she was dead.

  “The door was closed,” Sara said.

  Good, that meant Egon hadn’t been able to get in. Over the years Irene had been in a number of places where one or more dogs had had access to the dead bodies. It was never a pretty sight.

  Irene and Sara stayed until reinforcements arrived. There was no sign of external violence; all the indications were that Ann-Britt had died in her sleep. Irene found the dog leash hanging on a hook in the hallway and took Egon for a short walk while Sara called the local police in the Stockholm suburb where Ann-Britt’s daughter lived. She explained the situation, and her colleagues promised to deliver the sad news in person. They also promised to pass on contact details for Irene and Sara.

  “She’s bound to wonder what’s happened to Egon. Ask them to let her know I’m taking him home tonight, and I’ll try to find somewhere for him tomorrow,” Irene said before she went out.

  The dog still refused to leave the safety of her arms, so she had to carry him down the stairs. Once they reached the inner courtyard he happily jumped down onto the cobblestones and ran straight over to a rug-beating rack in the middle. He cocked his leg and stood there for a long time. It was obvious he had done it before; no doubt Ann-Britt had sneaked down here in the evenings instead of taking him for a walk.

  “You poor little soul,” Irene said quietly.

  Back in the apartment she gathered up Egon’s bowls. She found a bag of dry food in the pantry, and his basket was in the hallway; that might come in handy. She couldn’t see any toys. Strange—he was only a puppy. She put the bowls and food in the basket and tucked it under her arm, then set off down the stairs once more, with Egon trotting happily along beside her on the leash. Sara stayed behind to report to the CSIs.

  “So we’re dog owners again,” Krister said with a contented smile.

  He was sitting with Egon on his lap, scratching him behind the ear. The dog belched discreetly. He had gobbled up his dry food, mixed with a little liver pâté and the remains of the previous day’s stew.

  “Not owners. Foster parents,” Irene corrected him.

  “Pity. He’s a sweet little guy. But he needs a bath,” Krister said.

  Egon knew they were talking about him and wagged his tail with enthusiasm. Lovingly he licked Krister’s chin. Irene got up to sort out his basket. She put it in the corner of their bedroom, where Sammie used to lie on a little soft rug. He had never been interested in a basket; he had always preferred his master and mistress’s bed. In spite of the fact that they had agreed that he would never be allowed on the bed, that was where he had spent virtually every night of his fifteen years. Irene hadn’t thought she would miss him rooting around at the foot of the bed, but she did. She even missed his snoring.

  Egon obediently clambered into his basket when Krister and Irene got into bed, but just a few minutes after Irene had switched off the light, she heard the patter of little claws on the floor. The impact was hardly noticeable as Egon landed at the foot of the bed. He turned around a few times, then settled down with a contented sigh. Irene could feel the warmth of his small body through the covers. She smiled into the darkness and fell asleep straightaway.

  16.

  “Whose dog is that?”

  Superintendent Thylqvist was standing in the corridor, looking at Egon with distaste. He was sitting on the floor, looking up at her expectantly as his tail swished to and fro across the floor. In his mouth was a little ball Irene had found—one of Sammie’s old toys. It was great fun when someone threw the ball down the corridor for him to run after, but he was beginning to realize that the woman with the powerful smell and the harsh voice wasn’t about to join in with the game. On the contrary, she seemed cross. Egon was confused. He dropped the ball and sneezed a couple of times before rushing into Irene’s room. She was on her way out and nearly tripped over him.

  “Oh, there you are,” she said, picking him up.

  She had heard Thylqvist’s question, and went up to her boss.

  “This is Egon. His owner was found dead on Friday evening: Ann-Britt Söderström. She’s the person who stumbled across Ingela Svensson’s body. In fact it was Egon who made the discovery,” she said.

  Irene smiled at Thylqvist and held out the dog so that she could stroke him. Irene was quietly congratulating herself on having spent Saturday giving him a bath and clipping his claws. He hadn’t been too keen but had gone along with it. Now he smelled good, and his russet coat was shining. Neither she nor Krister had been working over the weekend, and had taken Egon for several long walks. Irene had even taken Monday off and had urged Krister to do the same. It felt good to have a dog in the house again.

  Thylqvist reached out and tentatively stroked the puppy’s head. Irene felt him press closer against her body, but thank God he didn’t start growling. He did, however, sneeze loudly once more. He obviously couldn’t cope with Thylqvist’s perfume.

  “Sweet. But why have you brought him here?”

  “It was late in the evening when Sara and I found Ann-Britt Söderström, so I took him home for the night. I couldn’t find anywhere for him to go over the weekend, so he stayed with me. I’ll contact Ann-Britt’s daughter today to see what she wants me to do with Egon. The plan was for him to spend the day in my office, but he sneaked out with the ball, and . . . he’s been having a lot of fun in the corridor.”

  “He goes like a rocket when you throw the ball. Maybe he’s going to be a racing dog? Are you going to be a racing dog and earn lots of money for Uncle Jonny?”

  To Irene’s astonishment, Jonny had fallen head over heels for Egon. He came up to the dog babbling baby talk, seemingly oblivious to his colleagues standing nearby. He took Egon out of Irene’s arms and put him down on the floor, then he picked up the ball and threw it down the corridor. Egon raced after his new toy, claws scrabbling on the floor.

  “Would you look at that!” Jonny said with a grin.

  “This is not doggy day care. Keep him in your room,” Thylqvist said, turning on her heel and marching to her office.

  At least she didn’t tell me to get rid of him right away, Irene thought. She called Egon, and without any fuss he settled down in his basket, with the ball beside him. He’d probably had more stimulation in the last hour than he’d had in weeks. He looked utterly contented as he closed his eyes. Irene paused for a second to listen to his steady breathing before she left the room.

  Hannu and Sara had one name left on their list of the men who could be Cod Eyes, as they had started to call the man in the facial composite. They hadn’t managed to track him down, but that was their priority today. Irene and Jonny had two left, and were planning to take one each.

  The preliminary report from the pathologist indicated that there was no reason to suspect that Ann-Britt Söderström had died of anything but natural causes. The autopsy would take place in a few days.

  Sara gave Irene the contact details for A
nn-Britt’s daughter in Stockholm, Anna Hallin. A faint voice answered after the phone had rung several times.

  “My name is Detective Inspector Irene Huss from Göteborg. First of all, my condolences on the loss of your mother. DI Sara Persson and I were the ones who found her.”

  “Thank you . . . thank you. It wasn’t entirely unexpected. Mom had been having problems with her heart for a few years, but I thought . . . I thought she’d be okay for a while longer,” Anna Hallin said, clearly on the verge of tears.

  “All the indications are that she passed away in her sleep. She was in bed, and she looked very peaceful when we found her.”

  “It’s good to know that . . . but she died alone. My father passed away several years ago, and I’m an only child.”

  Irene knew that already, but made sympathetic noises before asking:

  “We have a little problem: Egon. What would you like us to do with him?”

  “Oh, I’d forgotten about him! Egon . . . I don’t know . . .”

  “He spent the last few days with me. My husband and I are used to dogs, so it was no problem. Can you come down to Göteborg to collect him?”

  Anna Hallin took a deep breath. “Oh no, that’s out of the question! My daughter is extremely allergic; we can’t have any pets. We didn’t know that when we bought Egon. My son really wanted a dog, but fortunately we found out about his little sister’s allergy just before we went to pick up Egon. That’s why I gave him to Mom. I thought he’d be company for her, and give her a reason to go out every day . . . but I’m not sure it was working out too well recently.”