Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  “Obviously I’m worried about you. You’re the only member of the family who hasn’t been affected so far. I want you to be extra careful. Don’t take any risks. Don’t go out on your own after dark. That kind of stuff.”

  Irene could hear how ridiculous she sounded. Katarina trained in capoeira two or three evenings a week. She usually cycled to and from training with Felipe, but not always. Plus she had lots of friends she met up with in the evenings and at weekends. Irene just had to accept that Katarina’s entire social life took place after dark.

  There was a pause before Katarina answered. To Irene’s surprise, there was a palpable tension in her daughter’s voice.

  “Actually . . . I think something has happened to me. I’ve got huge Band-Aids on both knees and on the palms of my hands. They’re badly grazed.”

  Irene tightened her grip on the receiver. “How come?”

  “The brakes on my bike didn’t work—neither the handbrake nor the foot brake. I was late, and I was racing down the hill from Redbergsplatsen. A car pulled in toward the sidewalk. I tried to brake, but nothing happened, so I had to hurl myself to the sidewalk. I went one way, the bike went the other. My new jeans are ruined—so annoying!”

  “But you . . . you were just grazed?” Irene asked anxiously.

  “Yes. Fortunately Felipe was home, so I called him, and he came out to help me. But the bike is toast. He said someone must have sabotaged the brakes. They’d been bent outward, so they didn’t make contact with the wheel rims when I tried to slow down. I didn’t notice until it was too late!”

  The lump in Irene’s throat grew bigger, but she swallowed several times to force it down. Eventually she managed to speak. “When did this happen?”

  “This morning. I had to miss a couple of lectures, but I managed to go in this afternoon.”

  “Katarina, tell Felipe not to touch the bike. The police will pick it up tomorrow. We need to examine it to find out if it is sabotage, or if there’s some other explanation for the damage to the brakes,” Irene said, her eyes fixed on Lars Holmberg.

  She ended the call and quickly explained the situation. Before Holmberg went back downstairs he promised to contact Katarina and to make sure the bike was collected.

  Irene sat down on the bed. Concentrating on her breathing was no longer helping. Her entire body was shaking, and her heart was racing. Only when Egon crept onto her knee and settled down did she begin to feel calmer. She sat there for a long time, stroking his soft, silky fur.

  She could deal with being exposed to danger herself. Sometimes that went with the job. But she had no intention of passively accepting the threat to her nearest and dearest. An idea began to form within her. She wasn’t about to run away and hide. She was going to become the hunter.

  “Watch out, you bastard,” she said quietly.

  They had been given a very pleasant double room at the Heden Hotel. Krister arrived just after midnight; to his relief the doctor had said there was no serious damage to the sinew and the wound should heal within a week. He had needed sutures to stitch some large blood vessels, and a specialist hand surgeon had been called in to carry out the procedure. The surgeon had given Krister a shot to prevent cramps, and antibiotics since the cut was so deep. The worst thing for Krister was that he was going to have to take some time off work, which he insisted was impossible. However, the doctor refused to be swayed, and signed him off sick with strict orders to do nothing for at least a week. Muttering darkly to himself, Krister had been forced to agree.

  When Irene told him about Katarina, Krister was distraught. His first reaction was that they should go and pick up both Katarina and Felipe and bring them to the hotel, but he soon realized that wasn’t necessary. Their daughter and her partner were both adults who had spent eight months living in Brazil, almost as far away from Mommy and Daddy as it was possible to be, and they had coped perfectly well. They were aware of the danger, and they could take care of themselves.

  Irene had forgotten their toothbrushes and toothpaste, but they were able to buy what they needed at the reception desk. After showering they slid between the clean, fresh sheets, but neither of them could sleep. Egon had no such problems, and sighed contentedly at the foot of the bed. Irene and Krister quietly talked over the evening’s events. Who wanted to hurt them? Why? And how serious was the death threat? It was frustrating to conclude that they didn’t know the answers to any of their questions. Krister fell asleep in the small hours while Irene lay there listening to his snores, accompanied by Egon’s gentle snuffles. She didn’t sleep a wink that night.

  In the morning Irene managed a cheese roll and several cups of coffee in the hotel’s breakfast room. Krister had ordered room service so Egon wouldn’t be left alone, then he would go home to Fiskebäck to take care of all the practicalities, such as contacting the insurance company to report the damage to the house, and the injuries he and Irene had sustained. Irene would be home in a few hours; she wasn’t planning on staying at work for very long.

  She walked the short distance to police HQ. The air was chilly and damp, but the sky seemed to be clearing in the west. Heden’s football pitches were deserted, although on the field closest to Södra vägen, several brightly painted trucks were being unloaded. Apparently the circus had come to town. Life goes on as usual for most people, but not for the Huss family, Irene thought gloomily. Our sense of security has been shaken to its foundations.

  Whoever had thrown the urn through Irene’s kitchen window, it couldn’t have been Daniel Börjesson. He had spent the evening at the station being interviewed.

  “That guy is seriously weird,” Jonny stated.

  “Do you want me to have a go?” Irene asked.

  “Good luck,” Jonny snorted, slurping his sweetened coffee.

  Superintendent Thylqvist entered the room. “Good morning! Has our suspect confessed yet?” was her first question.

  Lack of sleep meant Irene wasn’t in the best of moods, and she thought Thylqvist was being ridiculous. As if they could pressure someone like Börjesson into a confession! She pulled herself together and realized that maybe coming into work hadn’t been such a good idea. However, she had a strong feeling that the investigation into both homicides had entered an important phase, and she wanted to be there.

  “Daniel Börjesson was interviewed for three hours late yesterday evening,” Jonny began. “He barely answers our questions, and when he does say anything, it’s fucking crap. He’s a nut job, but we can’t eliminate him from our inquiries.” He stared morosely into his empty cup, as if the resolution to the case might be written in the coffee dregs. But there were only a few soggy cookie crumbs, which didn’t provide much in the way of clues.

  “Why not?” Thylqvist wanted to know.

  Jonny took a moment before he responded. “He sits there saying nothing and . . . just glaring. But I get the feeling he knows exactly what he’s doing, and exactly what we’re after. He’s a slippery bastard.”

  “Has he admitted to anything?”

  “Depends what you mean. He admits that he sometimes shops at ICA Maxi in the Frölunda torg mall. He thinks he might have been in the flower store once or twice. And it’s possible that he might have seen Marie Carlsson at ICA and Ingela Svensson in the florist’s. And of course he’s been to the ER at Sahlgrenska Hospital; it’s not impossible that he met Elisabeth Lindberg there. Apparently he was at the ER several times with his grandmother when the old lady was dying. But he doesn’t remember any of the women specifically, and can’t say he’s spoken to any of them. And yes, of course he’s been to both churchyards—many times, in fact. He works there sometimes. God help us!”

  Jonny looked every bit as frustrated as he sounded. Thylqvist didn’t seem to notice.

  “So he won’t admit to having made contact with any of the women?”

  “No. He just keeps quiet, or flatly denies it. I can’t find
anything that we can hold him on.”

  “Have you asked him what he was doing on the evenings when Ingela Svensson and Elisabeth Lindberg were killed?”

  “Of course. He just says he can’t remember exactly; he was probably home watching TV.”

  The look on Jonny’s face said it all.

  “Can we get a warrant to search his apartment?” Irene asked.

  “I’ll speak to the prosecutor. Obviously a search would be helpful, but what we have at the moment isn’t sufficient grounds—even with the dish soap in Börjesson’s apartment. Yes is a common brand,” Thylqvist said.

  “Let Marie Carlsson take a look at him,” Hannu suggested.

  In a lineup, Marie would have the opportunity to state whether or not it was Daniel Börjesson who had been in the ICA Maxi store at the beginning of the year. Irene thought for a moment.

  “That’s not enough for an arrest. It would just prove that he asked Marie some weird questions. That’s not against the law. And he’s never denied being in the store. We need solid evidence. DNA, fingerprints, strands of hair . . . and I didn’t see any sign of a cat in his apartment. I looked specially,” she said.

  “In that case, carry on questioning him,” Thylqvist said, getting to her feet. “Report back to me this afternoon.” With that she swept out of the room.

  There was a brief silence, then Jonny said, “I need another coffee before I start the next round with Mr. Looney Tunes.”

  “It’s probably best if you all get yourselves a coffee. I’ve got something to tell you,” Irene said.

  She went through the dramatic events of the previous evening, and informed them that she would be going home after lunch to take care of her damaged house and her injured husband.

  “And what about you?” Sara said quietly. “How are you feeling?”

  It was the first time she’d spoken all morning. What was Irene supposed to say? She tried a reassuring smile, but she knew exactly how strained it must look. Sara didn’t look too convinced either.

  “That explains the marks on your face. I wondered if you’d cut yourself shaving again,” Jonny said with a grin.

  Irene stuck out her tongue at him, the others laughed, and the atmosphere in the room lightened somewhat.

  “I’d really like to speak to Daniel Börjesson. I had a good look around his apartment, and I’d be interested to hear his explanations for certain things. And they’d better be convincing,” Irene said.

  She was doing her best to sound feistier than she was feeling. She would go straight home after the interview with Börjesson, she promised herself.

  Daniel Börjesson looked exactly the same as he had done the previous evening. Yesterday’s questioning didn’t seem to have affected him at all. He was wearing the same clothes, and his face was just as expressionless. He was surrounded by a miasma of stale sweat, and Irene thought she could also detect a faint whiff of dish soap.

  Before Jonny and Irene could begin the interview, Thylqvist came into the room. She looked very smart in her impeccable uniform, which sat perfectly over her hips and shoulders. She always wore it for official events; presumably she had put it on in readiness for the afternoon’s press conference. Daniel gazed at her, then looked away. He knew who would be conducting the interview and focused on Irene. The superintendent stared at him for a moment before turning to Jonny, who had positioned himself by the wall, just out of Börjesson’s line of sight. He wanted to make it clear that Irene was running the show.

  “I think you’ve got the keys to one of the cars,” Thylqvist said, holding out her hand.

  Jonny patted his pockets and handed over the keys with a mumbled apology. Thylqvist smiled sweetly, turned on her heel and left the room.

  Irene decided to start by playing the good cop.

  “Hi Daniel—we meet again! We just need to clear up one or two things; it shouldn’t take long.”

  She gave him an encouraging smile, but that blank face made her heart sink. She didn’t feel comfortable with him, probably because she couldn’t interpret his reactions—for the simple reason that he didn’t show any.

  “I know you’re a park operative, but I’m wondering where you’re working at the moment,” she began.

  For a long time he stared her straight in the eye without blinking. I’m not going to look away, Irene thought. Just as she was beginning to feel she couldn’t hold out any longer, he shifted his focus to a point on the wall behind her head.

  “On benefits,” he replied.

  His voice sounded just as scratchy as it had the previous day, and once again it struck Irene that he wasn’t accustomed to using it.

  “How long have you been on benefits?”

  He remained silent for some time, his gaze fixed on the wall. Irene was convinced he wasn’t going to answer, when suddenly he mumbled.

  “January.”

  It seemed a little odd for a park operative to be out of work during the spring and summer. What was that all about?

  “So you didn’t have any work through the spring and summer?” she said, keeping her tone casual.

  “No.”

  “How come?”

  He merely shrugged; he clearly had no intention of explaining. Irene made a mental note to ask Hannu to check on the reasons behind such a long period of unemployment.

  “So you haven’t worked since January . . . Was that when your grandmother died?”

  For the first time, Irene saw something that could be described as a reaction. He glanced at her, then down at the table. His hands twitched, and something flickered across his face. The expression was too vague for Irene to be able to interpret it; when he gave a brief nod, the mask was back in place.

  “What date did she pass away?”

  “January seventh.”

  He answered without hesitation, and raised his head to look her in the eye again. Irene pretended she hadn’t noticed.

  “When was the funeral?”

  “Thirty-first.”

  “January thirty-first?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you buy the funeral flowers from the florist’s in the Frölunda torg mall?”

  Not a blink, not a movement, but intuitively Irene felt him stiffen. After a while he gave a brief nod.

  “How often do you shop there?” she went on.

  He shook his head.

  “Yesterday you admitted you’d shopped there.”

  “Funeral,” he stated implacably.

  “So you’ve never been in there at any other time, either before or since?”

  A firm shake of the head.

  “Do you remember when you ordered the flowers?”

  He was about to shake his head yet again, but stopped himself.

  “Eight or nine days after she died,” he muttered.

  Around January sixteenth. According to Marie Carlsson, she had noticed the smelly customer some time after the thirteenth, when she and her colleague were taking down the Christmas decorations in the ICA Maxi store. They had produced the facial composite with her help, and now two callers had suggested that Daniel Börjesson was that man. Daniel had just supplied them with an approximate date when he might have met Ingela Svensson. The florist’s was bound to have the order form for the funeral flowers, and would be able to confirm exactly when Daniel had been in there. They would also know whether Ingela Svensson had been working that day. She probably had, but of course all that proved was that she might have taken the order. They weren’t going to get any further with Ingela, so Irene decided to see how he reacted to questions relating to Marie Carlsson.

  “I believe you often shop in the ICA Maxi store in Frölunda torg.”

  “Sometimes,” he corrected her.

  “Okay, sometimes. How often?”

  He shrugged but didn’t speak.

  “Once a week?
Twice?” Irene pushed him.

  Another shrug. The mall was within walking distance from Daniel’s apartment, so it was hardly surprising if he shopped there. It was going to be difficult to trip him up where Marie Carlsson was concerned, too, so Irene quickly decided to try a different tack.

  “I saw a big bottle of Yes in your bathroom yesterday, and you actually smelled of Yes, too. Do you use a lot of that particular soap?”

  She could see that the question was totally unexpected. Once again that fleeting and almost imperceptible change flickered across his face. He knows it’s a sensitive point, Irene thought.

  “I favor Yes,” he said.

  “Favor” was an odd, old-fashioned word for a man in his thirties. “Use” would have sounded more natural. But there were a lot of contradictions about Daniel Börjesson. Irene decided to press on.

  “For most things? As a soap? As a shower gel?”

  He nodded, then turned his head and fixed his cod eyes on Jonny. Maybe he was beginning to realize that the bad cop hadn’t been quite as dangerous as the woman sitting opposite him.

  “You haven’t developed any skin problems from using it in the shower?” Irene continued in a neutral tone, as if there was nothing remotely strange about the idea of washing in dish soap.

  “Functional.”

  Functional. Weird answer.

  “So you use Yes for all your cleaning?”

  A shrug that could have meant yes or no.

  “Did someone recommend it to you?”

  A shake of the head.

  “No one told you that Yes was the best dish soap?”

  “Commercials.” Yet another shrug.

  Irene realized he wasn’t about to walk into her trap. His body language really was contradictory.

  “So no one told you to use Yes because it’s the best product on the market?” she tried again.