Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  This time the shrug was no more than a twitch. She made an effort to suppress a deep sigh. Get a grip, she told herself.

  “Do you ever ask anyone who works at the ICA store for advice?”

  “Sometimes,” he said immediately.

  “Do you find it difficult to shop for food and cleaning products?”

  “My grandmother did all the shopping.”

  “In that case I can understand that it must have been hard to get used to dealing with all the everyday stuff after her death,” Irene said sympathetically.

  The faintest of nods in response. Once more Irene had the feeling that he was more switched on than he was showing.

  “Do you remember who you asked for advice in the store?”

  Shrug.

  “Does the name Marie mean anything to you?”

  “Mother.”

  “Mother?”

  “Mother,” Daniel repeated with an emphatic nod.

  “Your mother’s name was Marie?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your father?”

  “Per.”

  “So your mother was Marie Börjesson. What was your father’s surname?”

  Daniel frowned; for the first time it looked as if he was actually making an effort to think.

  “Don’t know,” he said eventually.

  Strange, but they could soon find out.

  “When did your parents die?”

  “When I was a baby,” he said tonelessly.

  “So you don’t remember them?”

  He shook his head.

  “I believe they died in an accident?”

  “My father. A motorcycle accident. My mother died of a burst gastric ulcer,” he replied in a monotone.

  So both parents had died suddenly and dramatically. At an unusually young age. Another point that needed checking out.

  “I understand your grandmother was ill for some years before she died. What did she suffer from?”

  “Heart.”

  “How many times did you visit the ER at Sahlgrenska Hospital with her?”

  Börjesson stared at Irene with his pale eyes until her flesh began to crawl. Something was stirring in the depths of those eyes. She couldn’t interpret it, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know what it meant.

  “Three times,” he said eventually.

  “Do you remember when?”

  He remained silent for a long time, scrutinizing her in detail. Irene realized sweat was trickling down her back and from her armpits. In spite of the fact that she was leading the interview, he was making her nervous. Ridiculous—he’s just another suspect, she tried to tell herself, but without success. Discreetly she wiped her damp palms on her jeans under the cover of the desk, but she could see that he had noticed. I must be incredibly tired to let him affect me like this, she thought.

  “November. Heart attack. Then she was well. We went back again in an ambulance on Christmas Day. Then she was well. Pain in her chest on January seventh. They said she was dead.”

  “They?”

  “The hospital.”

  That was the longest speech he had made during the entire interview. His rasping voice was completely without intonation, as if he were deaf. And the way he expressed himself was odd: twice he had said “then she was well,” which sounded childish. And he used words like “functional” and “favor.” Irene couldn’t get a handle on him at all.

  “Did you go with her in the ambulance?”

  A faint nod.

  “Do you miss her?”

  Once again that strange shrug that could mean anything at all.

  Suddenly Irene was overcome with exhaustion. She couldn’t think of one more sensible question to ask. She had established that Börjesson had been in contact with the florist in the middle of January, he had admitted that he shopped at the ICA Maxi store, and that he sometimes approached the staff for advice. This suggested that he could be the man who had asked Marie Carlsson strange questions on two occasions. He had also stated that he had visited the ER where Elisabeth Lindberg had worked. He used Yes for all types of cleaning, because it was “functional.” That would have to do. To tell the truth, she hadn’t added a great deal to the information her colleagues had gotten out of him the previous evening. She turned to Jonny.

  “Is there anything you’d like to ask Daniel?”

  Jonny got up and came over to the desk. He gazed at Börjesson for a long time before he spoke:

  “You hold a driver’s license, but you don’t have a car—is that correct?”

  Nod.

  “But you used to have a car?”

  Another nod.

  “According to our records, you unregistered the vehicle almost two years ago. What happened to it?”

  Daniel looked as if he hadn’t heard the question. He fixed his eyes on a point above Jonny’s head; just as Jonny was about to try again, he spoke.

  “Sold it.”

  “So you sold the car. Who to?”

  Shrug.

  “Why is there no information about the person who bought the car? It simply shows up as being unregistered.”

  Daniel slowly turned his head and looked at the mirror on the wall.

  “The engine was shot. The car was worthless. It went for scrap,” he informed his reflection.

  “Who bought it?”

  A shake of the head at the mirror was the only response.

  “What make was it?”

  He must have known that if he’d tracked down the records, but Irene realized Jonny was after something.

  “Express,” Daniel rasped after the obligatory pause.

  “Exactly. A 1990 Renault Express. A handy little hatchback. Perfect for someone who travels around doing a variety of jobs. They stopped making it at the end of the nineties, and replaced it with the Kangoo. Why didn’t you buy a new car, something along the same lines?”

  So that was what Jonny was after. A car. The killer must have had a vehicle in order to transport the bodies to the location where he wrapped them in plastic, and then to the churchyards where they were found.

  “Too expensive.”

  “But that meant you had to stop working for yourself, because you couldn’t carry your tools around. Why didn’t you buy a new car?”

  Daniel’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t even appear to have heard the question.

  “How do you get to work?”

  “I don’t take any jobs that are far away.”

  “Okay—so how do you get to the jobs you do take?”

  “Moped. Tram. Bus.”

  Jonny had come up with a really interesting question: Why didn’t Daniel have a car? Was it important? Maybe the explanation really was as straightforward as he claimed—he couldn’t afford it. Irene was too tired to work out whether it was significant or not. She couldn’t do this anymore. It was high time she went home.

  Just as she was putting on her coat, Sara came into her office waving a bundle of papers.

  “I told you I had experience with stalking. Here’s a case I was involved in last year, when we were called to the scene of a homicide. Do you remember the Emma murder?”

  Irene searched her memory. Her weary brain felt as if it was stuffed with cotton wool, but eventually she realized what Sara was talking about.

  “The bride-to-be who was murdered by her ex the day before the wedding,” she said.

  “Exactly. He stabbed her to death as she left her apartment block to go to the beauty salon. It eventually emerged that he’d been stalking her ever since they split up—three years. Both in real life and online, according to Emma’s fiancé. The Americans call it cyberstalking. It’s absolutely snowballing. We found the killer’s blog, and the contents were terrifying. If you didn’t know the truth, you’d think he was the one that was
being stalked! He was sent to a secure psychiatric unit, but of course anyone who reads his blog won’t necessarily know that. Stalker blogs are becoming more and more common, and whatever they choose to write stays online forever, purporting to be the truth. Nothing we can do about it.” Sara held out the papers.

  “What’s this?” Irene asked.

  “Your stalker’s blog.”

  Irene simply stared at her colleague. “My stalker?”

  “Yes. I looked you up on the Internet, and there it was. You’re being cyberstalked.”

  The papers in Irene’s hand suddenly felt red hot, and her first impulse was to drop them on the floor. Then her professional side took over. A faint glimmer of hope began to glow inside her. At last, a clue to whoever was hassling her family. She glanced at the first page. It was an extract from a blog with the heading: persecuted by the cops! The subheading read: our kids are in danger! the cops are harassing them to death!

  Irene sank down on her chair and started reading. The blogger called herself Angie, which meant nothing to Irene. However, the photograph next to the heading was a different matter. An attractive face with high cheekbones, almond-shaped brown eyes, and shiny dark hair cut into a flattering bob. The glossy lips were full of promise as she smiled into the camera. A face that had been the downfall of many a man.

  “Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson!” she exclaimed.

  “You know who she is?” Sara was clearly surprised.

  “I certainly do. But it’s an old story.”

  The flattering picture of Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson was at least twenty-five years old. They had met six years earlier, and Angelika had looked significantly younger than she was, with her neat, toned body. She must be fifty by now, Irene thought.

  “Feel like telling me about her?” Sara asked.

  “Sure. Of course.”

  Irene really wanted to read through the blog, but at the same time she was reluctant to do so. She had an idea of what she was going to find, and she didn’t want to be confronted by it. Perhaps it was just as well to postpone that moment, and tell Sara the story of Angelika and her unfortunate children. Irene summed up the details of the case. She could almost smell the acrid smoke in her nostrils from the fire that had left Angelika’s husband dead. She and her colleague in the patrol car had been there at the cottage and seen the whole thing.

  “At an early stage in the investigation, suspicion fell on Angelika’s daughter, Sophie. It was thought that she could have started the fire before she left for her ballet class. She’d never gotten along with her stepfather.”

  “There was no chance that she could have been involved?” Sara asked.

  “No chance whatsoever. She was teaching a class when the fire broke out.” Irene paused, thinking back on the case that had long haunted her. “In January 1990,” she continued, “I moved to the Violent Crimes Unit, and that was the first case I worked on. Needless to say, I failed completely. Sophie simply sat there as stiff as a poker, refusing to respond to any questions. It was only fifteen years later that we finally found out the truth.”

  “So you never found out the truth from Sophie?”

  “No. She was referred to the child psych team, and the case was put on ice. Fifteen years later, the body of a young woman was found after a fire in an old storage shed out in the Högsbo industrial zone. It was Sophie.”

  Irene stopped, picturing a little heart-shaped face with unfathomable brown eyes gazing into hers. She had been eleven years old. Poor little Sophie. If only I had understood back then, Irene thought.

  “Sophie was suspected of starting the fire in which Magnus Eriksson died, when in fact her brother did it.”

  “Her brother set fire to the cottage?” Sara exclaimed.

  “Yes, Frej. Angelika told the truth in the end.”

  The room fell silent. Heavy raindrops started hammering on the windowpane. Why does it have to start raining just when I’m about to go home? Irene thought.

  “What happened to him?” Sara asked.

  “He was charged with manslaughter and causing death by arson, but before the trial he broke down and was taken into psychiatric care. My daughter’s partner Felipe is an old friend of Frej’s, and tried to keep in touch with him, but that hasn’t worked out too well over the past few years. And back in the spring, Frej took his own life. I don’t actually know how he died.”

  “He hanged himself five months ago. And according to Angelika’s blog, that’s on you.”

  Irene looked down at the bundle of papers. So Angelika had written about her son’s suicide. Both her children were now dead, and she believed everything was Irene’s fault. For a second the room spun around her. I’m not going to read it until tomorrow, she decided.

  Krister came to pick her up. It was one fifteen, and she hadn’t had any lunch. Krister said he would fix that when they got home, and he promised her a delicious spinach omelet with fresh chanterelles sautéed in butter. He had found the mushrooms during his morning walk with Egon. He also told her they had something to celebrate, although he refused to say what until they got home. Irene found it very hard to imagine there was much cause for celebration. She had failed professionally: she hadn’t found anything that would enable them to hold or arrest Daniel Börjesson. In the worst-case scenario, they had just released a dangerous killer. Her family was being persecuted by a crazy woman, they had been physically attacked in their own home and now she had been hung out to dry on the Internet with no opportunity to defend herself. She told Krister who was behind the recent incidents, and about Angelika’s blog.

  Even the weather seemed to match her state of mind. It was pouring, and the wind was shaking the car. Yellow leaves stuck to the windshield, and the wipers had to work hard to push them aside.

  “Looks as if the first storm of the fall is here,” Krister said. “Although it’s supposed to ease off tonight, according to the forecast.”

  He seemed remarkably positive. Was he just putting on a show in order to cheer her up? Hardly—he really was in a good mood. Everything would become clear when they got home.

  Egon came racing down the stairs as soon as they opened the door. He was delighted to see them, and showered them with enthusiastic displays of affection. A warm glow spread through Irene’s chest. It was wonderful to be welcomed by a happy dog. She had missed that more than she had been prepared to admit.

  “Sit down, honey, and I’ll fix us some lunch.”

  Krister had already set the table. The kitchen was spotless. He quickly wilted some spinach, diced an onion and whisked the eggs. His injured hand didn’t seem to be holding him back. He sautéed the chanterelles in a small frying pan and seasoned them with a little thyme. The kitchen was filled with a delicious combination of aromas, and for the first time since the previous evening, Irene actually felt hungry.

  “I can offer you a beer with lunch, but we only have low-alcohol,” Krister said after checking the refrigerator.

  “Fine by me—I think even that will knock me out,” Irene said with a laugh.

  She put together a simple tomato salad with a vinaigrette just to make herself feel useful. Having something to do prevented her from falling asleep with her head on the kitchen table.

  “How’s your hand?” she asked.

  “Better, but I realize it’s a good idea to take things easy for a few days.”

  Krister didn’t sound at all upset at the prospect of this enforced leisure. The incident clearly hadn’t affected his mood adversely. Irene decided to put it out of her mind. Right now the important thing was saving a life. Her own. She felt as if she was on the point of starving to death. She tried to exercise some control, but the food disappeared in no time. It was delicious. When they had finished Krister made coffee and produced a box of dark chocolates. Then he cleared his throat.

  “I have something to tell you. Our family is about to increase
.”

  His tone was ceremonial, as if he were making an important announcement. Irene didn’t get it. Was one of their daughters . . .

  “I’ve spoken to Anna Hallin,” he went on.

  “Who?”

  The name sounded familiar, but she couldn’t place it.

  “Anna Hallin. The daughter of the woman who owned Egon,” Krister explained patiently.

  The penny dropped, and Irene nodded.

  “She called this morning, wondering if we might be able to keep Egon. I said yes, provisionally. What do you think?”

  At first Irene didn’t know what to say. As if he realized they were talking about him, Egon scampered into the kitchen with the blue ball in his mouth and went straight up to Irene. He dropped it at her feet and looked up at her, his bright little eyes full of expectation. His tail was wagging furiously, and he couldn’t keep still. Irene had to laugh. She picked up the ball and bounced it across the kitchen floor and into the hallway. Egon set off after his favorite toy, yapping ecstatically and sending the hall rug skidding into the living room.

  “Of course we’ll keep him. I think we’re ready for another dog now. How much does she want for him?” she asked.

  “She said we could have him for free, but I said that if he’s going to be ours, then we want to pay. No less than a thousand kronor, I told her. It’s only fair.”

  “Absolutely, I couldn’t agree more. I want to feel as if he’s really ours. Although we do have a problem.”

  “We do?”

  “My boss doesn’t like me taking Egon into work. ‘This is not doggy day care,’ according to her.”

  Irene adopted a particularly snooty tone as she imitated Superintendent Thylqvist. Perhaps that wasn’t entirely fair—after all, police HQ was definitely not doggy day care—but it made her feel better.

  “It’s fine—I’ll take him to work with me,” Krister said.

  Had he completely lost it? A dog in a restaurant kitchen? No chance. Environmental Health would be there in seconds, and they would close the place down. Irene was about to share these vital insights with him, but he got there first.

  “I’m changing jobs,” he said with a grin.