Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  “We’ve sent off samples of the soap used to wash the victims, and we think it could well be dish soap,” Matti interrupted her.

  “You’re right, so maybe that’s not a point in his favor. But certain facts remain. The odor Marie Carlsson talked about just isn’t there. He doesn’t have a cat, and there’s nothing in his apartment to suggest he’s ever owned one,” Irene went on.

  “That doesn’t let him off the hook. We know that the killer parceled up the bodies in a location where there’s grit, oil, swarf and cat hairs on the floor, so the cat could be in that place rather than where he lives.”

  This time it was Sara’s turn to interrupt. The youngsters were certainly on the ball today, Irene thought irritably. However, she had to admit they were right.

  “Absolutely. The problem is that we can’t prove anything. All we have are the conclusions we’ve drawn, plus a couple of educated guesses. The fact is that he doesn’t have a cat. Nor does he have a car, which is essential for our killer. And he doesn’t have a place where he can parcel up the victims undisturbed. In spite of what we said when we issued the facial composite, no one has seen him anywhere near the specific churchyards where the bodies were found, though we know he’s worked in others. So we can’t ask for a search warrant for his apartment.”

  Silence fell as everyone considered the situation.

  “Does he really need a separate place to wrap up the victims? Couldn’t he have done it in his bathroom?” Matti asked.

  “No, for two reasons. Firstly, there was nothing to suggest that anything had happened in his bathroom, or anywhere else in his apartment. No trace of the victims’ belongings, no plastic, no tape. And secondly, and more importantly, he lives in a huge high-rise block. Hundreds of people live there, if not thousands, and it’s surrounded by identical blocks, which means even more people. There’s no chance he moved a dead body from a vehicle to his apartment without anyone seeing him. The risk of discovery would have been way too high. Imagine standing in the elevator with a body slung over your shoulder when it stops just before your floor because someone has pressed the button. What do you say when the doors open?” Irene said, raising her eyebrows.

  “Hi, how’s it hanging?” Jonny suggested.

  “My point is it’s too risky, and what speaks against Daniel being our killer is that he would have a whole lot of practical problems doing what the Package Killer does.”

  Silence fell once more, broken eventually by Tommy. “I think we’ll put Daniel Börjesson under discreet surveillance for a few days, see what he gets up to. However, we can’t invest too many resources in him because the case against him is so weak. We need to keep our options open, look for other possible perpetrators.”

  “There aren’t any,” Hannu announced laconically.

  Tommy gave him an irritated glance and repeated, “We need to keep our options open, carry on looking for other possible perpetrators. There’s a risk that we’ve focused too much on the facial composite. It could well be Daniel Börjesson, but the problem is, as Irene pointed out, it’s not a crime to ask strange questions or to smell bad in an ICA store. And those are the only things we can be sure that the man in question has done. What if he isn’t the Package Killer?”

  No one said anything, because everyone in the room realized that Tommy was right.

  •••

  They went through every interview one more time. Hannu volunteered to search every database of possible perpetrators, and to check on old cases. By Friday afternoon it was clear that nothing new had emerged. The investigation had reached a phase where they were merely treading water. During the briefing, Superintendent Thylqvist was informed of the situation.

  “So no new ideas. Just that oddball Börjesson.”

  The displeasure in the superintendent’s tone didn’t escape anyone in the room.

  “What about the surveillance?” she continued.

  Tommy had requested the surveillance, so he felt it was up to him to respond.

  “Nothing. He hardly ever goes out. On Thursday he went to the Frölunda torg mall and bought groceries. Not to ICA, but to the Co-op, please note. So far he hasn’t been out in the evening at all.”

  “Is it worth wasting any more money on such a pathetic guy?” Thylqvist snapped.

  Irene saw the muscles in Tommy’s jaw tense. A little vein at his temple started to throb, and she realized this had nothing to do with whether or not to continue the surveillance on Daniel Börjesson. This was about Tommy Persson and Efva Thylqvist.

  “As long as we don’t have any other names, I think we should keep watching him,” Tommy said.

  “That’s not a valid reason. Names come and go in every investigation. Do we really have grounds to believe he’s the Package Killer? Do we have any solid evidence against him?”

  After a brief silence Tommy said, “Circumstantial evidence.”

  “So no solid evidence. Just vague circumstantial evidence, if that. Call off the surveillance. It’s costing money and resources that could be better used elsewhere.”

  The superintendent’s tone made it perfectly clear that there was no point arguing. Finances were always the strongest argument in any discussion.

  “I’ll be in a meeting for the rest of the afternoon. Have a nice weekend,” Thylqvist said as she swept out of the room.

  “I think she’s wrong,” Sara said stubbornly, breaking the silence that had enveloped the room.

  I suspect we all do, Irene thought. But none of us was prepared to tell her that.

  Late on Friday evening they put up the last piece of wallpaper in the bedroom. It looked good, they concluded with satisfaction. The faint lime green stripes on a pale grey background made the room fresh and light. Felipe turned up and inspected the result of their labors and nodded with approval, which pleased them enormously. Methodically he measured the floor in the bedroom and the hallway. The parquet in the living room was in pretty good condition. He would only need to polish and varnish it before they decorated.

  “We’ll go to the DIY store first thing tomorrow morning; we’ll be waiting when they unlock the doors. Laminate flooring here we come!” Krister said.

  His cheerful good humor had lasted all week. Sometimes Irene thought he was more excited about the move than she was. Perhaps it had something to do with age: Krister was almost ten years older. It hardly ever crossed her mind. He was pretty handy, but during recent years he had mentioned that maintaining the house was becoming more of a burden. A full-time job and general household tasks took up most of his waking hours.

  The enforced absence from work over the past few days seemed to have done him good. He had spent the days with Egon, strolling around in the beautiful autumn weather and simply enjoying himself. In the evenings Irene and Krister had worked on the decorating, although she had noticed that his hand was causing him pain from time to time, which was why she now said firmly:

  “Okay, but I’m going to be Felipe’s assistant when we’re laying the floor. You need to be careful with your hand. What did the doctor say, by the way?”

  Krister had been back to see the hand specialist earlier that day, and Irene had forgotten to ask him how things had gone.

  “It’s not quite right; he decided not to remove the stitches until Wednesday. As far as work goes, he wants me to finish taking the course of penicillin and to do some physical therapy before I go back, so he’s signed me off for the whole of next week, too.”

  Krister didn’t exactly look depressed as he passed on the information.

  “Perfect. After that you’ll be starting your new job, and you can take Egon with you,” Irene said happily.

  “Exactly. Since I’m free next weekend, I thought I’d go up to the cottage and turn off the water. Do a couple of little jobs around the place. See if there are any mushrooms left in the forest.”

  “I doubt it—they’ve
already had frost up there.”

  Irene knew this because she had looked at the weather report for Värmland a couple of days earlier. The days had been sunny and pretty warm, but the nights had been frosty, which was fairly common at this time of year.

  “I’ll come with you,” she decided. “The cottage needs cleaning, and I don’t want you to do that with your hand the way it is.”

  “Fantastic. Although I might leave on Thursday, go via Säffle and visit my sisters. It’s been a while.”

  “If you two are off to the forest next weekend I can polish the living room floor,” Felipe said. “That will give me time to apply two coats of varnish, which should be enough.”

  “You’re a mother-in-law’s dream!” Irene exclaimed, giving him a hug.

  Felipe smiled and looked pleased.

  Jenny called on Saturday and told them she was planning on coming home on December 17 and staying until January 8. She had managed to find a cheap flight online and knew her old employer at the Grodden Restaurant would welcome her with open arms whenever she wanted to work. A student has to grab every opportunity to make some extra money. The loan wasn’t enough to live on, and Amsterdam was an expensive city.

  The Academy in Amsterdam was one of the places that trained gourmet chefs in the field of vegetarian cuisine. There were similar establishments in Sweden and in other European countries, but the Academy was widely regarded as being in a class of its own. The course lasted a year and was highly prestigious.

  “Are you staying in that run-down apartment?” Irene asked.

  “Yes. And crazy Sharon is still here. She hasn’t had one single sober day since she got here! Nineteen years old, but you wouldn’t believe how childish she is. She’s supposed to be studying photography at the Academy of Arts, but there hasn’t been much in the way of studying going on. Not so far, anyway.”

  Jenny sounded like a responsible adult. Which she was, of course, Irene reminded herself.

  “One of the girls on my course is renting a big apartment very close to the Academy; she shares with two others, and one guy is going back to Hamburg at the end of October. I can move in when he leaves if I want to, and I think I probably will. This place is a bit of a dump,” Jenny went on.

  “Sounds like a good idea,” Irene said.

  When they had ended the call she sat for a while by the phone. Her daughters really were something else: mature, independent individuals. But somewhere deep inside a treacherous little voice whispered: “They don’t need you anymore!”

  At that moment Egon came padding into the room. He yelped with joy when he saw Irene, and scampered over to her. She picked him up and cuddled with him for a while. It was nice to know that there was someone other than Krister who needed her care and attention.

  23.

  She really needed this exercise session. Twice a week was her absolute minimum. It was important to get all the frustrations of everyday life out of her body. Sweating it out was the only way; lying on a couch talking to some shrink wasn’t her thing. Building up the body’s physical strength automatically increased mental strength. A healthy mind in a healthy body, as they used to say. There was also another key aspect of exercise: it kept her body youthful. Feeling attractive was important to her. She knew that men—and women, too, to be honest—admired her body. Desired it. And that mattered to her.

  Her job wasn’t necessarily physically demanding, but it was extremely stressful. She was responsible for the well-being of others. She often had to make snap decisions. If she got them wrong, there could be dire consequences for many people, and in certain cases lives could even be at risk. If that happened, who would take the blame? She would, of course. The top bosses made sure they watched their own backs.

  She often felt alone. Passed over. Other women were jealous of her. The men around her calmly climbed the career ladder—almost automatically, while she had to use all her cunning and prove herself. But she would get there. So far things had gone pretty well, although success hadn’t come for free. Nothing was free in this life. That was a lesson she had learned during her childhood in the suburbs. None of her colleagues had any idea about her background, and she had never given anything away. She had had to pay, but she had gotten what she wanted. The new apartment, for example.

  The area was so quiet. It was almost ten o’clock, and there was hardly a sound to be heard. Darkness had fallen over the quaysides and the buildings. A damp breeze was blowing in off the water, carrying the smells of diesel and the sea. The throbbing engines of an approaching Stena line ferry were growing steadily louder; to her surprise, it was a sound she had quickly gotten used to.

  She looked up at her balcony. It wasn’t very big, but the view was stunning. There was no denying that the apartment had been a bargain. The financial downturn had its advantages, such as falling house prices and low interest rates.

  She pressed the button on the ignition key. The click as all the doors locked themselves echoed in the surrounding silence.

  A second later she became aware of his presence. He was standing right behind her. It was that terrible stench. When he put his arm across her chest and pulled her toward him, she dropped her workout bag with the police logo on it. She started struggling furiously, desperate to free herself, while screaming at the top of her voice. She could hear him hissing “Shut up! Shut up!” but she carried on yelling. Desperately he put his hands around her neck in a stranglehold, determined to make her stop. Her windpipe was compressed, and she couldn’t breathe. Is this the end? No way in hell! she thought. She tried to dig her nails into his hands, but she realized he was wearing rubber gloves that were too thick for her to tear. The only result was that her carefully filed nails broke. She tried to scratch his wrists, but failed; the bulky nylon jacket had long, close-fitting knitted cuffs, with the gloves tucked underneath. Rubber gloves. Fucking dish-washing gloves, she suddenly thought.

  A couple appeared in the pool of light beneath a street lamp, with a little black poodle on a leash.

  “Hey, what are you doing? Let go of her! I said let go of her!” the man shouted. He ran toward the parking lot to help her; the woman screamed, and the poodle started barking excitedly.

  All at once it was over. Her legs gave way and she sank to the ground. A car started up right next to her; she could smell the exhaust fumes. It screeched away, gravel spraying up around the tires and peppering her face. Strange, she still couldn’t breathe. Her throat. There was something wrong with her throat. Then everything went dark.

  24.

  “Okay, so now the shit really has hit the fan!” Jonny bellowed down the phone.

  Irene had just dropped off to sleep, and was only half awake when she answered. She and Krister had gone to bed early after a hard day at the apartment in Guldheden. Her knees were aching from laying the floor, and her index finger was sore from getting it trapped between two planks earlier. She glanced at the clock: just after ten-thirty.

  “What do you want?” she asked with a sigh.

  “Thylqvist has been attacked! Attempted homicide! And guess who by?”

  Irene was wide awake now. Before she had time to say a word, Jonny was in her ear again:

  “The Package Killer!”

  “The Package . . . How do you know that?” She had already swung her legs over the side of the bed and her feet were feeling for her slippers.

  “We found the twine—it was lying on the ground. Blue washing line, knotted into a loop at either end. He was disturbed, and dropped it. Tried to strangle her with his bare hands.”

  “Disturbed? So someone saw the whole thing?”

  Irene’s hopes of a decent witness testimony were crushed by Jonny’s reply:

  “Kind of—a couple was out walking their dog, but they were too far away. They only saw what we already know: a powerfully built guy dressed in working clothes and a baseball cap. He jumped in a car and sh
ot away. Neither of them noticed the make of the car.”

  “They might remember when the shock has subsided,” Irene said in an attempt to hide her disappointment. All at once she realized she had forgotten the most important question. “How’s Efva?” she asked, feeling slightly embarrassed.

  “She was unconscious when the ambulance arrived. The guy who saved her knew some First Aid, and gave her CPR until the paramedics could take over. They’d all left by the time I reached the scene.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Still at the scene of the crime.”

  “Which is where?”

  “Sannegård Harbor. Barken Beatrices gata—that’s where Thylqvist lives.”

  Irene was suddenly struck by a thought: the surveillance on Daniel Börjesson’s apartment on Basungatan had been pulled on Friday, on Thylqvist’s orders.

  “Has anyone checked where Daniel Börjesson is?”

  “What? No. We were instructed not to watch him anymore.”

  “Can we check his cell phone?”

  “That weirdo doesn’t have a cell! At least he doesn’t have a carrier,” Jonny said.

  “So does he have a landline in his apartment?”

  “I’ve no idea. But we can try it. Then again, if it was him he’s probably had time to get home. There isn’t much traffic at this hour, and it’s been at least forty minutes since the attack.”

  Irene thought frantically. “Find out Daniel’s number and call him right away. I’ll drive over to Basungatan and see if he’s there. I also want to check and see if I can spot a car he could have used. If he’s back home the car should be in the parking lot.”

  “Okay, but don’t go up to his apartment on your own. I’ll call the station in Frölunda and get them to contact you. A well-built cop on either side of you should make you feel secure if it is him.”

  Irene was quite touched by Jonny’s concern for her safety.

  Jonny called back a few minutes later to tell her that Daniel had answered on the eighth ring. Jonny had simply said: “Sorry, wrong number,” and hung up.