Tommy cleared his throat. “Good morning—hope you’ve all had a good weekend. Although I believe you’ve had a few problems, Irene,” he said kindly.
Did he really care, or was he just saying that because it was expected of him? Irene immediately regretted her suspicion but couldn’t entirely shake it off.
“You could say that. We had to move to my mother’s apartment in Guldheden while you were looking for Angelika. It’s a little basic, but we’ve decided to make it a permanent move. We’re going to sell the house and become city dwellers.”
“Exciting. A new chapter for you and Krister,” Tommy said with a smile.
He sounded as if he really meant it, and Irene was slightly ashamed of her earlier thoughts.
“Anyway, Angelika is safely locked away in the secure unit now,” Tommy went on. “She’s in a pretty bad way, and we won’t be able to question her for some time.”
He picked up the piece of paper lying on the table in front of him.
“We’ve just received the autopsy report on Ingela Svensson. It doesn’t tell us much that we didn’t already know. The cause of death was strangulation with a length of twine, of course. What is slightly surprising is that there are no signs of any kind of sexual interference. No penetration of any orifice. No semen anywhere. The body was washed using dish soap and water, and was carefully wrapped in plastic. No fibers on the body. No traces of skin under the fingernails. However, some of Ingela Svensson’s nails were broken: four, to be exact, which could indicate that she tried to scratch the perpetrator. There were also scratch marks on her throat where she tried to loosen the twine; it was deeply embedded in the skin, and the pathologist believes the attacker was very strong. We’ll have the report on Elisabeth Lindberg tomorrow.”
Tommy put down the sheet of paper and looked at his colleagues over the top of his glasses. He sighed, then continued. “So it’s back to square one. All we can prove as far as Daniel Börjesson is concerned is that he’s been in the ICA Maxi store in the Frölunda torg mall and has asked Marie Carlsson a couple of weird questions. That’s not against the law, and it doesn’t make him a killer.”
“He’s creepy,” Sara said.
“That’s not a crime either,” Tommy said with a little smile.
A fatherly pat on the head, Irene thought crossly.
“I think Sara’s right. We have to rely on our gut feeling. Instinct is one of our most important assets when it comes to solving crimes,” she said.
“We can’t start locking up all the nut jobs we come across during the course of an investigation. Otherwise Angelika would be right when she says we persecute the innocent,” Jonny pointed out with a delighted grin.
He never missed an opportunity to fan the flames. Before Irene had time to come up with a suitably cutting response, Tommy jumped in.
“You’re both right. We need to proceed with caution. There’s nothing to link Daniel Börjesson to the crime scenes, or to either of the victims. However, I suggest that Irene and Sara carry on digging into his background. The rest of us will go through all the case notes and all the witness statements one more time. I want everyone to pay special attention to any vehicles seen in the vicinity of the churchyards at the relevant times.”
He got to his feet, signaling that the meeting was over, but Irene hadn’t finished.
“There’s one more thing we need to prioritize: the premises.”
“The premises?” Tommy sat down again.
“Yes. The killer must have access to premises of some kind. We know that he kept the bodies somewhere for several hours before he put them in the churchyards, washed them clean and wrapped them in plastic. That takes time, and it has to be a place where he wouldn’t be disturbed. So where is it?”
“You’re right, of course. Although if we find the vehicle, we might also find his hideaway,” Tommy said.
“Very likely. It’s infuriating that we don’t have enough on Börjesson to ask for a search warrant,” Irene added.
“There’s no point in going to the prosecutor until we have something that links him to one of the victims or the scene of one of the crimes,” Tommy stated firmly.
Irene knew that perfectly well, but she still felt frustrated. Then again, she hadn’t seen anything suspicious in Daniel’s apartment. No plastic, no brown tape, no blue twine, no possessions or items of clothing belonging to either of the women who had been murdered. Nothing. The only thing that had seemed a little strange—apart from Daniel himself—was that bottle of soap on the side of the bath, which was hardly evidence that would hold up in court.
Hardly enough to persuade the prosecutor to give them a search warrant.
20.
By lunchtime the following day, Irene and Sara had a pretty clear picture of Daniel Börjesson’s background. They had gathered their information from various archives in the tax office, and Signe Börjesson’s older sister had put more flesh on the bones. Irene managed to track her down because she had never married and still shared Signe’s maiden name. There were only two people named Rapp living in Veddige, and Alice was one of them. The other was the widow of Alice and Signe’s brother. Signe and Alice had met only once or twice a year, when Signe was visiting her relatives. Alice Rapp had lived in Veddige all her life.
Irene had called her that morning and said something vague about one or two questions regarding who Daniel’s father was and the issue of the boy’s care. Daniel himself had been unable to provide the answers, so Irene wondered if she could come down and . . .
She was more than welcome, came the response. Irene knew what to expect: an under-stimulated and over-chatty old woman who wanted to chase away the loneliness for an hour or so. Nothing wrong with that. Many crimes had been solved through such conversations over the years.
Irene took the freeway along the Halland coastline and reached Veddige in just over thirty minutes. She had no problem finding Alice Rapp’s rented apartment in a small complex in the center of the town. Alice turned out to be a plump lady in her eighties. Her perm was growing out, so she had back-combed her hair to add volume, and the thin white strands stuck out all around her head, not unlike a downy dandelion. A pair of bright blue eyes sparkled behind the thick lenses of her glasses. She welcomed Irene with a surprisingly firm handshake and drew her into the hallway. There was a promising aroma of coffee, and Irene allowed herself to be led into the small, over-furnished living room, which had crocheted mats on every surface. The curtains and cushion covers were crocheted, as was the rug in front of the TV. Irene suspected that Alice was responsible for the bedspread and curtains in the clean, undisturbed bedroom in Daniel Börjesson’s apartment.
Alice had set out a plate of buns and cookies on the low coffee table. Next to the fine porcelain cups stood a thermos flask of the type that was known as a TV-thermos during Irene’s childhood. An old-fashioned pendulum clock ticked reassuringly on the wall. It was ten-thirty—definitely time for morning coffee.
“Please sit down,” Alice said, gesturing toward the sofa before flopping down in an armchair with a wedge-shaped seat. She obviously had a problem with one of her hips; Irene had noticed a limp when she walked.
“I know why you’re here. I always buy Göteborgs-Tidningen at the weekend, and I saw the drawing. My first thought was that it was Daniel. He looks so much like his grandfather. Signe and Daniel used to come and visit during the summer. I’ve watched him grow up. Is he suspected of these murders?”
Alice’s Halland accent was broad, but easy to understand. Those bright eyes were observing Irene with interest. The old lady’s curiosity was palpable, and Irene felt a little uncomfortable. She didn’t seem in the least concerned at the thought that a close relative might be a suspect in a criminal investigation.
“No, but we’ve spoken to him because someone saw him in the vicinity of the scene of one of the murders. We think Daniel could be an important wi
tness, but our interview with him didn’t go too well. He’s a little . . . different.”
Alice gave her a sharp look. “Different? He’s crazy. Although Signe always said he was perfectly normal and intelligent, he just couldn’t talk. She claimed he was painfully shy. I don’t believe a word of it. Have a bun. They’ve been frozen, but they’re homemade,” the old lady said with a beaming smile.
I mustn’t let myself be fooled by her appearance, Irene thought. But she seems very clearheaded and eager to chat.
“That’s the thing, he won’t talk . . .” Irene paused to take a tempting cinnamon bun from the proffered plate before she went on. “He wouldn’t answer our questions. He refused to tell us his father’s surname, for example . . .”
“He couldn’t have told you that even if he’d wanted to. Marie never said who his father was. She probably didn’t know.” Alice snorted.
“But Daniel said his father’s name was Per, and that he’d died in a motorcycle . . .”
“Nonsense! He’s made that up. Or maybe it’s what Signe told him. Marie fell pregnant when she was fifteen, and gave birth to Daniel just after her sixteenth birthday. She stayed at home with her parents for a week or so, then she took off, leaving Daniel behind. Two months later she was found dead in a house where a whole crowd of junkies lived.”
“Was Marie an addict?”
“Yes. She started running away from home when she was fourteen. Ivar—her father—was too strict with her. I never liked him. A sanctimonious bully. And Signe was too nice. I have no doubt that Ivar carefully chose a gentle, compliant wife whom he could dominate. Both he and Signe were religious, so that was one thing they had in common. She never stood up to him when he came down too hard on Marie, and of course the girl rebelled. She played hooky and would disappear for several days. She became one of those hippies with flowers in her hair, taking all kinds of drugs. Her parents tried. They locked her in, they beat her, they threatened her . . . nothing helped. Have some more cake,” Alice said.
Irene obediently reached out and took a slice of feather-light sponge cake.
“The last year before Marie died, Signe said she was feeling more optimistic about the girl because she’d joined some group called the Jesus People. Apparently they were hippies who’d been saved. They lived in a commune outside town. That kind of thing was trendy back then . . . Marie certainly needed saving, but it didn’t do any good in the long run. After a few months she turned up at home, heavily pregnant. Daniel was born in the hospital, and the doctors wanted to send Marie to a rehab clinic to get clean, but it never happened. She disappeared before then. Signe was inconsolable, but she looked after Daniel very well. She’d always wanted a big family, but both she and Marie almost died when the girl was born, so the doctors told her she couldn’t have any more children.”
Alice needed several sips of coffee after her lengthy account, which gave Irene the chance to ask a question.
“What did Marie die of?”
“Sepsis and a heroin overdose. Apparently she hadn’t healed properly after giving birth to Daniel, and had developed some kind of infection. Perhaps she was taking heroin to ease the pain, but she was out of practice and took too much. Or maybe she killed herself. It was a few days before they found her. Signe was devastated, but Ivar was a hard man. Did I say I never liked him? He said the girl had brought it all on herself. God’s punishment and all that crap. I wonder what he thought about God’s punishment when he got sick. He died of cancer in the early nineties; it was very quick. At least Signe and the boy had seventeen or eighteen years without him,” Alice said, making no attempt to hide the satisfaction in her voice.
Alice certainly had a sharp tongue, Irene thought, but she was very informative. Ivar Börjesson had died in 1992, at the age of fifty-eight. He had been seven years older than Signe. Irene also knew that he had been born on the island of Donsö in Göteborg’s southern archipelago, the fourth in a family of nine children. The siblings had obviously been raised to fear the Lord. Presumably Ivar had tried to do the same with his daughter, but without success.
“So Daniel’s care was handed over to Signe and Ivar,” Irene said, hoping that Alice had more to tell her.
“Yes. There wasn’t anybody else, and Signe was only thirty-five when Marie died. Ivar was over forty, of course. But sometimes I wondered . . .” Alice fell silent. She seemed to be assessing Irene. Evidently she liked what she saw, because she cleared her throat and continued. “Sometimes I wondered why Marie started running away. Certain things that both Signe and Marie let slip made me think . . . I’ve never spoken to anyone about my suspicions, but let me put it like this: Daniel is very similar to his grandfather. I think Ivar did things to the girl. Things a father shouldn’t do. Things that are wrong.”
For the first time during their conversation the expression in the old woman’s eyes was deadly serious. Gone was the glint of curiosity.
“I recognized the signs,” Alice said quietly. She looked down at her chubby hands, clasped in her lap. Then she took a deep breath. “So much for his hypocritical cant and his doomsday preaching!”
Irene got the distinct impression that Alice might not be talking about Ivar, but she decided not to dig too deep. Instead she changed tack. “Did Daniel have a good relationship with his grandfather?”
“No. Ivar referred to him as a whore’s bastard and made sure Daniel heard, and he never had a kind word for the boy. But I don’t know whether it had any effect on Daniel. He was never quite all there, somehow. It was impossible to establish any kind of real contact with him. He never played with other kids. As he got older, Daniel spent a lot of time with Ivar, tinkering with his bicycle and later with his moped. Maybe they got a little closer then. In many ways I think Daniel should have avoided Ivar, but he just took whatever his grandfather threw at him. Needless to say he couldn’t cope with school either, but I think they put him in a special class for the last couple of years. He didn’t get any qualifications. When he was a little boy Signe hoped he would become a priest, but as time went by even she realized that was never going to happen. She idolized him, though; she protected him and mollycoddled him. Even when he was an adult she waited on him hand and foot. She bought him a car with the insurance payout after Ivar’s death, in spite of the fact that she wasn’t exactly rich. She said he needed it for work, but he’s never had a permanent job, as far as I know.”
Alice pursed her lips, disapproval etched in every line of her face. She didn’t even try to hide what she thought of Daniel. Before Irene had time to ask another question, Alice continued.
“Neither of them seemed particularly grief stricken when Ivar passed away, but it must have been a blow for Daniel when he lost Signe. As usual he didn’t show any emotion, of course.”
“Did you see him after Signe’s death?”
“Yes, at the funeral. He looked dirty and scruffy, and he hadn’t organized any kind of wake. We had to go straight home after the burial.”
“Were there many people there?”
“No—Daniel, me and my sister-in-law. She has a car, so we went together. And then there were three of Signe’s former colleagues from work.”
Alice smiled and offered Irene more cake, but this time Irene declined. Her jeans had been feeling a little tight around the waist, after all.
“Just one more question: What was Ivar’s job?” she asked.
“He used to work in one of the shipyards, but when it closed down he started repairing bicycles. He had a little workshop. He was pretty good with bikes and mopeds.”
“Wasn’t Daniel interested in taking over the business?”
“He wouldn’t have been capable of doing that,” Alice said dismissively.
“So he wasn’t as skilled as his grandfather?”
“No. But he seems to be okay when it comes to gardening. Then again, I guess he’s mostly involved in stuff like felling tre
es. He’s had quite a lot of work in the area where he lives—pruning trees and bushes, that kind of thing. I remember Signe saying he uses one of those big sit-down mowers sometimes.”
Irene decided it was time to leave. She stood up and thanked Alice for being so helpful.
In the doorway the old lady gripped Irene’s hand, looked her straight in the eye and said, “I’m sure you think I’m terrible, talking this way about my own family. But the thing is, little Irene . . . although you’re not all that little . . . it’s important that the truth comes out. At my age I’m no longer afraid of the truth.”
With those words she let go of Irene’s hand and closed the door.
21.
According to her birth certificate Angelika Malmborg-Eriksson had just turned fifty, but in the recently taken photograph she looked like she was well into her sixties. Her hair was greasy and greying, with traces of a darker color on the ends. Her face had lost its contours, there were bags under her eyes and her mouth was sunken. Had her teeth fallen out along the way? She must have put on a lot of weight, too. Angelika had managed to hold onto her youthful beauty for many years, but now age had not only caught up with her, it had overtaken her. Irene stared at the photo. How could she have deteriorated so much in five years?
“I tried to speak to the psychiatrist she attacks in her blog, Dr. Eskil Itkonen. As I expected he referred to patient confidentiality, but he did say that she’s had periods of severe illness over the past few years,” Sara said.
“Just as we thought. Did you manage to get a hold of the guy at the bank?” Irene asked.
“Yes. He can see you this afternoon. I’m going over to the dance school where she taught. The principal has promised to talk to me. Apparently there were certain incidents that led to Angelika’s departure.” Sara raised her eyebrows.
“Incidents? What kind of incidents?” Irene couldn’t help feeling curious.
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