Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  Irene had very clear memories of her two encounters with eleven-year-old Sophie. She had been tall for her age, but incredibly thin. She hadn’t uttered a single word. She had never been interviewed by any officer without the presence of both her mother and the child psych team. There were regulations governing the questioning of minors. Sophie had certainly never been confronted with “several cops at the same time, all by herself.”

  And Magnus Eriksson was described as “my beloved husband Magnus.” Angelika had had several lovers during her marriage to the drunken journalist, and during an interview in connection with Sophie’s death fifteen years later, she had admitted to a long and passionate relationship with Marcelo, a young Brazilian. As handsome as a Greek god, and well aware of it. Irene had even been a reluctant witness to a “romantic” encounter between the two of them. Marcelo rented a room from Sophie in her large house in Änggården. Mother and daughter were rivals for the attentions of the young man, but it was Angelika who claimed him. At the same time, she was planning to marry a rich company director who was getting on for sixty years old. Obviously he must have gotten cold feet, as Angelika was back at her former address. What had happened to the house in Änggården? Admittedly it would have been a major renovation project, but it was in a beautiful location, close to the Botanic Gardens in the city. Had she sold it?

  And what had happened to all the money Angelika had inherited from her daughter—something in the region of one and a half million kronor?

  Perhaps the rest of the blog would provide some clues.

  2009-05-05

  My body is sticky with the heat. It is coming from inside. My brain is boiling! All these memories make me want to throw up! Particularly when I think of that evil bitch Irene Huss! I feel sick when I think about the way she and those other cops treated my children. I want vengance! Surely that’s a natural reaction for a mother who has lost her babies. I’ve written to the Chief of Police several times telling him how my kids were treated, but he hasn’t even bothered to answer my letters. Not once! Me and my kids will never get justice! I want vengance! My hands are shaking, I can’t write any more! Your Angie.

  Vengance. Angelika had spelled vengeance incorrectly twice in her blog. The same spelling mistake had been on the note inside the urn that smashed Irene’s kitchen window. YOU ARE GOING TO DIE! MY VENGANCE IS COMING! it had said.

  As was the case with the previous entries, all the comments expressed their sympathy for the blogger and her two dead children. Irene also felt sympathetic toward Sophie and Frej, but for completely different reasons. If they’d had a mother who loved her kids and looked after them, they both would have been alive today.

  She gritted her teeth and carried on reading. She noticed there was a big gap before the next entry. Had Sara omitted the intervening entries because they didn’t mention Irene, or had Angelika stopped blogging for a while? Something to check on tomorrow.

  2009-07-15

  Sophie also died in a fire in a tragic accident five years ago. Freja tried to save her, but failed. Irene Huss turned up and started destroying our lives again! She spied on both Frej and me, trying to get us to admit that Frej had killed poor Sophie! Frej idolized his sister! Irene Huss hated him and Sophie! They were beautiful and successful, unlike her own kids. She was determined to eradicate Sophie and Frej! As if Frej hadn’t suffered enough, losing his beloved father in a fire when he was only eight years old! Irene Huss started hounding him, day and night! Her persacution, together with his grief over the loss of his father and his sister, was all too much for my sensitive, artistic, gifted son, and he developed severe problems with his nerves. He was admitted to a psychiatric unit for treatment several times, but in the end he couldn’t cope anymore. The staff found him hanged in the shower. I am living in a black hole, there is no justice! Vengance! I want vengance for my ruined life, for my dead children! Is that so hard to understand? Your utterly broken Angie.

  This entry had attracted over fifty comments, once again all sympathizing with poor Angie. They varied between expressing fury at the cops in general and Irene Huss in particular, and they all agreed that it wasn’t at all hard to understand why Angie felt so abandoned, so desperate for justice. One person said: You have to take matters into your own hands! We all know how the cops cover for one another! Kill that bitch Irene Huss! It’s the same everywhere in this fucking society—the little man doesn’t have a chance!

  People seemed surprisingly willing to accept what was written in the blog as truth. Irene thought that was weird, given that any nut job could start a blog.

  It wasn’t the first time she had wondered whether the Internet really was a blessing for humanity. It’s an El Dorado for pedophiles and other sex offenders, as well as for various financial scammers. Over the years Irene and her colleagues had investigated a number of cases where killers and rapists had made contact with their victims through some website. She also thought the Internet contributed to a general softening and dumbing down when it came to facts and news reporting. Anyone could put false information online, and it was impossible to check whether such information was true or not, unless you knew more than the person who posted it. Which wasn’t usually the case . . . And society was becoming more and more dependent on the Internet. Not least the police, Irene thought with a sigh.

  She went back to the blog. In several places Angelika attacked “the sick psychiatrist Dr. Eskil Itkonen,” and wrote about the “banks that con people out of their money to secure their own fat bonuses.” She wrote that the worst place was Nordea on Axel Dahlström Square where Tony Barkén, a personal banking advisor, “systematically fleeces people.” Irene looked more closely, and realized that Angelika had sued her bank for “poor investments.” She was obviously blaming the bank for the fact that her money was gone. Irene knew the truth, and concluded that Angelika had either left a hell of a lot out of her story, or had simply adapted it to suit her own ends.

  Irene realized there was nothing she could do. There was no point in trying to counter Angelika’s accusations online. The people who read her blog were on her side, and wanted to believe what she wrote. Irene didn’t usually look at blogs, but she knew that bloggers survived on the basis that what they wrote needn’t necessarily be true, as long as it was sensational and titillating. That was the way to keep the readers coming back for more.

  Irene couldn’t take in anymore, and put the blog down on the floor. Her name was being sullied, and she was receiving death threats online. Oh, Mom, what would you have said if you’d read such things about your daughter? And what would Jenny and Katarina say? They had been around during the investigation into Sophie’s death, and knew the truth. Katarina and Felipe had actually met back then, through Frej. All three had been training in capoeira, which was how Katarina had developed an interest in the Brazilian combination of dance and martial arts, moving away from jiujitsu. Irene still felt a little stab of pain in her heart when she thought about it, but Katarina had been right when she said: “Jiujitsu was your thing, not mine.”

  Children grow up and go their own way. We stay put, wanting everything to remain the same. But the truth is that everything changes, all the time. Did she really think life would go back to just how it used to be if she moved back to this apartment, where she had grown up? No, this was simply a new phase in their lives. And it was going to be a positive change for her and Krister. And Egon, she decided as the little dog jumped on her knee. It was definitely time for bed.

  Irene lay there for an eternity, staring out into the darkness. Whenever she closed her eyes she could see those words once more: “Kill that bitch Irene Huss!” and “Vengance! I want vengance for my ruined life, for my dead children!”

  For God’s sake, how do I deal with this? she thought over and over again.

  You were so close. We could almost have touched each other. But I can’t cope with dogs. I hate animals! They are unclean, the spawn of the dev
il. Our love is not pure, I realize that. Thou shall not commit adultery. But you are the sinner, not me, because you are tempting me. You are an evil temptress. You are trying to lead me astray, lead me into temptation. You want me to break the holy commandment. My conscience is troubling me. You are a danger to my state of beatitude. My pure love could become tarnished. Your unclean soul must be saved.

  You must die.

  19.

  Irene was woken by the sound of Egon whimpering; he obviously needed to go out. She had no choice but to drag herself out of bed. Krister was fast asleep in the other bed. Every time he moved, it squeaked alarmingly. The aches and pains in Irene’s back and shoulders told her that moving their proper beds over here was the number one priority. The mattresses on the folding beds were too thin. However, that would have to wait until Angelika had been tracked down. Irene yawned and stretched her protesting limbs. Her eyelids were fluttering. If she gave in and allowed them to close, she knew she would go straight back to sleep. Resolutely she swung her legs over the side of the bed and headed for the bathroom.

  She sloshed her face with cold water and pulled on her clothes. That’s one disadvantage of living in the city: you can’t stagger out of the door in your robe and slippers when you’re walking the dog, not even first thing in the morning. Not that she’d done that very often in the past, but it had been done.

  The rain had moved east during the night. The air was still damp and cold, but the sky was clear, with a pale sun shining on the yellow brick walls of the Konsum store across the street. There were lawns between the apartment blocks and plenty of well-established greenery. The odd hill had been left when the area was planned in the 1950s, and at the back of the building the sense of a proximity to nature was even more tangible. There were tall trees growing close together, and the occasional fallen tree that had been left to rot. The paths were asphalt, and Irene didn’t feel as if she was in a park because there were no neatly planted flowerbeds or carefully pruned shrubs. But the aroma of rotting leaves and damp earth reinforced the impression of a forest walk.

  She turned up her collar against the morning chill and set off toward Doktor Fries Square. In spite of the fact that she had known the area all her life, she felt as if she was seeing it with fresh eyes. Not much had changed since her childhood, apart from the fact that the trees had grown into venerable giants. They had aged several decades, just as she had. The trams down in Wavrinsky Square squealed as they struggled up the hills toward the junction. She had stood there so many times as a teenager when she couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way down into town. She decided she was suffering from a bad case of nostalgia.

  Suddenly she smelled freshly baked bread. Her nose led her to the convenience store on the corner, and with a copy of the morning paper and warm rolls in a plastic bag in one hand, and Egon trotting along on his leash in the other, Irene slowly made her way back up the hill to the apartment.

  The aroma of coffee filled her nostrils as soon as she opened the door. Thank goodness they had remember to pack the percolator, which was bubbling away. She could hear the sound of rushing water from the shower.

  After several cups of coffee and two cheese rolls, Irene felt ready to face a new day. She decided to begin by calling her colleagues.

  “We put her apartment under surveillance yesterday. She got home at midnight, but she was in such poor shape that we had to take her straight to the emergency psych unit,” Sara said calmly, reporting on the latest developments regarding Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson.

  “What does ‘poor shape’ mean?” Irene asked.

  “Completely out of it. Close to an overdose of just about anything you can think of, according to the duty doctor. That lady sure doesn’t feel too good, let me tell you.”

  Irene was surprised to hear that Angelika was on drugs. The dancer had been very proud of her beautiful, youthful appearance; it had been a key element in her social career, which had always depended on men. Irene could still remember Tommy’s reaction when Angelika had made her entrance in a bright red sweater that reached down to her thighs, teamed with black leggings and black, high-heeled boots. His tongue had been hanging out. At the age of forty-five, Angelika still had her supple dancer’s body, and could easily have passed for fifteen years younger. Admittedly she had partied pretty hard during the period when Irene had known her, but heavy substance abuse . . . it sounded as if something had triggered a sea change.

  “How long are they keeping her?”

  Irene was impatient; she wanted to talk to Angelika, find out exactly what had happened and why.

  “I have no idea. I guess it depends on how quickly she recovers. They know her well; she’s been in and out several times. Mixed substance abuse and some psychiatric disorder—I don’t remember exactly what they said.”

  “Were you there when she was picked up?”

  “No—Mathiesen and Asp took her in.”

  “Okay. Just one more thing while I remember: there’s a gap of over two months between some of her blog entries. Did you skip some of the entries because they didn’t involve me, or is that all there was?”

  “That was it. She didn’t write anything from the beginning of May until the middle of July, when she returned in fine form.”

  “You got that right.” Irene laughed

  She was trying to sound more relaxed than she felt. What had happened during Angelika’s silent period? Suddenly she was struck by a thought; perhaps the explanation was very simple.

  “Sara, do you think she could have been in the psychiatric unit then?”

  “That sounds like a strong possibility. I’ll check it out.”

  Irene felt much better when she ended the call. At least Angelika was under lock and key, for the time being at least. She passed on the good news to Krister, who looked relieved, but remained silent for a little while before he spoke.

  “That’s fantastic, but I still think we should move in here right away. The profit we make on the house will more than cover any renovations to the apartment, and we should have something left over to invest in the summer cottage. We can sell one of the cars, too; we won’t make much money on that, but it will be one less thing to worry about.”

  Irene opened her mouth to protest but thought better of it. This was all happening a little too fast; after all, they had said they would carry out any renovations before moving into the apartment. Then again, it was probably best to stop talking and get on with it. They’d been discussing the issue for twelve months now. It was time to make up their minds.

  “Okay, although I would suggest that we handle the bedroom first, so we don’t have to sleep with the smell of paint,” she said.

  “In that case let’s go and buy some wallpaper and paint,” Krister suggested, getting to his feet.

  Egon thought that was a terrific idea, and scampered toward the door, barking enthusiastically.

  Irene felt pleased with herself as she walked into the department on Monday morning. She had managed to fit in plenty of exercise on Saturday, which had relieved her inner tension considerably. In addition, she and Krister had painted the bedroom ceiling and all the woodwork over the weekend. He was still in some pain when he moved his hand but thought it was getting better. They were planning to do the wallpapering over the next few days. Krister couldn’t manage it on his own, particularly with only one hand working properly, but they figured they could fit it in during the evenings.

  Next weekend they were going to lay laminate flooring. They’d never done it before, but it looked easy in the commercials and the DIY programs on TV. Felipe had promised to help out. He was pretty good at that kind of thing, and had made the once run-down apartment he shared with Katarina look ten times better than they ever would have dreamed possible.

  Irene’s train of thought was interrupted when she saw Sara coming toward her.

  “You were right. Angelika was in the
secure psychiatric unit during the period when there were no blog entries,” Sara said by way of greeting.

  “That explains the silence. Have you heard how she is?”

  “She’s totally lost it. Insists that you and the mafia have a contract out on her. You’re in cahoots and have decided to kill her. She refuses to see any cops, because every cop is controlled by you and the mafia. Talk about paranoid! But according to Mathiesen and Asp, when she was sitting in the car she was babbling about how pleased she was that she’d made life difficult for you and your family. Apparently there was a lot of talk about revenge. She was particularly delighted by how scared you were when she smashed the window. So at least she’s admitted that.”

  It felt good to have confirmation that Angelika had been behind the events of the last few weeks. The harassment had escalated fast. How far had she been prepared to go?

  “In that case we can focus on the Package Killer again. What’s the situation with Daniel Börjesson?” Irene asked.

  “We’ve had him under surveillance, but he hasn’t left his apartment. Creepy guy if you ask me. Unfortunately we can’t lock him up for that,” Sara said.

  Morning prayer was led by Tommy. Superintendent Thylqvist had gone to Stockholm for a series of meetings with the National CID, and would be away for a few days. Irene nourished the vain hope that they would keep her this time.