Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  Fifteen minutes after Jonny’s original call, Irene was in the car heading toward Västra Frölunda.

  Ten minutes later she pulled up outside Daniel Börjesson’s apartment block. She got out and felt the hood of every car in the visitors’ lot. None of them was warm; in fact they were all ice cold. If Daniel had driven a vehicle during the course of the evening, it wasn’t here. Did he still have the parking space that belonged to the apartment? Presumably not. Why would he carry on paying for it when he didn’t own a car? In which case there was probably no point in checking every vehicle for a warm hood; there were hundreds in the residents’ lot.

  A small lamp glowed in his living room window on the fourth floor, the light seeping out through the half-closed Venetian blinds. The kitchen window was in darkness. Irene walked around the back of the building. There was no light in the bedrooms either. Was he already asleep? As she returned to the front of the block, a patrol car was just arriving. She walked over and introduced herself. The two young colleagues in the car—a man and a woman—were definitely well-built. When the woman got out of the car Irene discovered that her colleague was in fact a couple of inches taller than she was. Her uniform jacket clung to her powerful shoulders; her sculptured features were discreetly made up, and could have belonged to a model. There was an air of calm authority about her that was slightly surprising, in view of her age. Some people have it from the get-go, while others never manage to acquire it, Irene thought.

  She quickly explained what had happened, then rang the bell next to s. börjesson. It was a long time before there was any response. Irene was about to try again when the intercom crackled into life. She paused with her finger in the air, inches away from the button.

  “Yes?” Daniel rasped.

  “Daniel Börjesson? This is Detective Inspector Irene Huss. Could I come in and have a word with you?”

  The ensuing silence lasted almost a full minute. Eventually the reply came:

  “No.”

  Click.

  Irene felt stupid, and the two young officers were finding it difficult to hide their smiles. She put her finger on the button and kept it there.

  “Stop that,” Daniel’s hoarse voice said at last.

  “Let me in. Otherwise I’ll call for backup and smash down the door. Just like on TV,” Irene said, her voice ice cold.

  Her colleagues exchanged a surprised glance, but neither of them said anything. After another long silence, they heard a buzzing noise. Daniel had thought better of his refusal.

  No one spoke in the elevator, and Irene’s colleagues avoided looking at her. Threatening to smash down the door “just like on TV” might not have been the best idea, but it had worked.

  They had to ring the doorbell and wait for a considerable time before Daniel condescended to answer. The door opened a couple of inches; Irene could just see one pale eye in the narrow gap.

  “Daniel. I’m here on the orders of the Chief of Police,” she said brusquely.

  She had to improvise fast. She’d gotten the impression that Daniel reacted to direct orders and prestige-laden words; reasoning was a waste of time. Once again the two uniformed cops exchanged a surprised glance. The Chief of Police?

  “Why?”

  “Something happened this evening, and he wants me to talk to you.”

  The door opened a fraction wider.

  “Cops,” Daniel hissed.

  “They drove me over here,” Irene said, thinking on her feet.

  “Why?”

  “Because . . . the Chief of Police decided that was the best thing to do!” She didn’t even bother looking at the others. She just added firmly, “Let us in, Daniel—let’s get this over and done with!”

  Irene heard a door open softly on the floor above, but no footsteps came down the stairs. The neighbors were listening to the loud voices, needless to say.

  Slowly Daniel’s door opened a few inches; Daniel stood there staring at them with those expressionless eyes. Irene stared right back. She was angry, and she had no intention of backing down. Daniel met her gaze without blinking. Enough, Irene thought.

  “Okay, let’s go inside and talk. The sooner we get in, the sooner we’ll be done. Then we’ll leave.”

  “Leave now,” Daniel muttered.

  It was obvious that he didn’t want them in the apartment. Did he have something to hide? On the other hand, perhaps it was understandable that he wasn’t too keen on a visit from the cops late on a Sunday evening. Irene simply yanked at the door. Her colleagues walked in, and she followed them. Daniel had no choice but to back away.

  Irene went straight to the bathroom. Everything was the same, apart from the bottle of dish soap on the side of the bath. It was gone, but the smell of Yes still hovered in the air. There was a pair of dirty underpants and several socks on the floor.

  They steered Daniel into the living room. On the way Irene took the opportunity to glance into each room as they passed by. The kitchen was still a filthy mess, as was Daniel’s bedroom. Nothing had changed in what had presumably been his grandmother’s bedroom, or in the living room.

  There was no sign whatsoever of preparations for putting together a new “package.” If Daniel had attacked Efva Thylqvist and had planned to kill her, then surely he ought to have had the plastic sheeting and the tape ready in advance, but there was no trace of anything like that in Daniel’s apartment.

  “Where have you been this evening?” she asked, keeping her tone as neutral as possible.

  After a truculent silence, Daniel replied, “Nowhere.”

  “Nowhere? You haven’t been out?”

  He shook his head.

  “So you’ve been here all evening?”

  A brief nod, and that weird shrug.

  “So what have you been doing?” Irene could hear the resignation in her voice.

  “That,” Daniel said, pointing to the coffee table and a half-finished game of solitaire.

  Irene asked a few more questions, which Daniel answered with a monosyllable or not at all. He was unshakeable. He had been at home playing solitaire all evening, and Irene couldn’t find anything to contradict his assertion.

  The three police officers were just as silent in the elevator going down as they had been on the way up.

  25.

  Irene took a wrong turn at one of the new traffic islands and had to retrace her route a short distance. The last time she had been in this area that particular island hadn’t existed. It wasn’t easy finding her way around a part of the city that was constantly growing. However, Norra Älvstranden was no ordinary concrete suburb, but one of Göteborg’s most exclusive developments. Above all, it was the newest. Ten years ago there had hardly been a single house around here. The closed-down shipyards and docks stood silent and deserted. Today it was flourishing, with around fifteen thousand inhabitants and plenty of offices, schools, colleges affiliated with the university, shops and restaurants. All these people traveled to and from the city center by car, bus and ferry.

  Efva Thylqvist lived at the bottom of Barken Beatrices gata, as close to the water as it was possible to get. Irene parked the car and walked down to the cordoned-off zone. The CSIs were crawling around on the ground, securing any possible evidence. Thylqvist’s brand-new silver Audi sparkled in the powerful spotlights. A few neighbors were still standing on their balconies, looking down on the scene of the crime. Jonny emerged from the shadows. He nodded to Irene, and a car screeched to a halt not far away and Tommy Persson leapt out. He ran over to Jonny and Irene.

  “Have you got him?” he shouted from several meters away. He sounded out of breath, as if he had covered a long distance.

  “No. The first roadblocks went up after around twenty minutes, but he was already gone. And to be honest there were plenty of holes in the net that our Package Killer could have slipped through. It was the changeover from one sh
ift to the next, so it took a while before all the roadblocks were in place,” Jonny explained.

  Tommy merely nodded. His face looked lined and weary. We’re approaching fifty faster than we like to admit, Irene thought gloomily. Her only consolation was that Tommy was a year older, and would pass that particular milestone first. She straightened up and said:

  “I’ve been to see Daniel Börjesson. He says he’s been playing solitaire all evening, and there was no car with a warm hood in the visitors’ parking lot. I went into his apartment with two uniformed colleagues; we couldn’t see any indication that he’d been out this evening, or anything to suggest that he was planning to parcel up a new victim.”

  Tommy nervously jangled his keys in his pocket but seemed unaware that he was doing it. He turned to Jonny. “What do the witnesses say?”

  “Nothing that we don’t already know. They’re an elderly couple who were out walking their dog. The man doesn’t see too well, and his wife just remembers that it was a dark-colored car.”

  “If he doesn’t see too well, how did he know Efva was being attacked?” Tommy wondered with a frown.

  “She was screaming.”

  Tommy looked pensive. “Is anyone with Efva at the hospital?”

  “At the hospital . . . No, I don’t think so.”

  “In that case I’d like you to get over there right away. Talk to her as soon as she comes round. She might be able to tell you something about the perp.”

  “Okay,” Jonny muttered reluctantly. He ambled over to his car and drove off.

  Irene and Tommy stood in silence, watching his taillights disappear in the darkness.

  In the glow of the street lamp Irene could see that Tommy was pressing his lips together. He looked tormented, but she sensed that this wasn’t just about the vague witness statements. It was obvious that he had been affected on a deeply personal level: another hint that Thylqvist had been more than just his boss.

  As if reading her mind, Tommy took out his keys and pulled one from the bunch. “I have a key to Efva’s apartment.”

  Irene turned away a fraction so he couldn’t see her expression; she had no idea how to handle this confidence. Tommy and Efva Thylqvist were a couple. They had keys to each other’s homes. Did they live together? Probably not, as he had arrived in his car, presumably from his house in Jonsered.

  “We ought to go up and see if there are any traces of the Package Killer . . . Check if he’s contacted her,” Tommy went on. He didn’t look at Irene; he just turned on his heel and headed for the door. He unlocked it and chivalrously held it open for her. “Do come in,” he said, forcing a smile.

  Irene made a brave attempt to return it, but she couldn’t manage much more than a grimace. This is difficult for both of us, she thought, and it’s brave of him to open up like this. He’s showing a great deal of trust in me. There must be something left of our old friendship after all.

  They took the elevator up to the second floor in silence. When they stepped out, both of them stopped dead.

  On one of the doors was an engraved silver-colored nameplate that said e. thylqvist.

  Hanging upside down from the handle was a flower wrapped in newspaper. They could see the petals of a large white chrysanthemum protruding from the bottom. A length of blue twine they both recognized was tied around the newspaper. Both ends were knotted into a loop.

  Tommy immediately called up the CSIs. He told them the outside door hadn’t been properly closed, which was how he and Irene had gotten in. They photographed and dusted the door, looking for any possible prints.

  “We’ll have to leave the apartment until later,” Tommy whispered to Irene.

  She merely nodded. Her surprise at his sudden decision to confide in her meant that she was finding it hard to come up with the right thing to say. Actually, she didn’t have anything to say—just a strong feeling of being completely taken aback.

  Irene and Tommy spoke to all the neighbors; none of them had gone to bed yet. There had been far too much going on outside the apartment block this evening, and several of them were terrified.

  On the top floor they met an elderly man with a very distinguished appearance, thanks to his thick white hair and his monogrammed dark-blue silk robe. His face was bright red, and he kept wagging his forefinger under Irene’s nose. She could smell the whiskey on his breath as he sounded off:

  “I’ve paid a fortune for a quiet, carefree life in the autumn of my years! I find it very disturbing that the place is suddenly full of cops asking stupid questions!”

  Before Irene could respond, Tommy spoke behind her.

  “You should be grateful. If you were living in Hammarkullen, there’s every possibility that no one would have turned up.”

  It was a surprising comment; Tommy was usual pretty servile in his dealings with the public. He was clearly upset. The color of the man’s face deepened, but he didn’t make a sound. His mouth opened and closed as if he were a fish in an aquarium.

  Irene seized the opportunity to take the initiative in the conversation, asking the same question she had put to everyone else. “As I’m sure you’re aware, a woman has been attacked outside this apartment block. We have evidence to suggest the perpetrator has also been inside the building, probably this evening. I’d like to know if you’ve seen or heard anything that could be connected to what’s happened.”

  The man glared at her with his bloodshot eyes before he answered, “Maybe.” He clamped his lips together, seemingly unwilling to expand.

  Irene managed to dredge up the minuscule amount of patience she had left. “What was it that you saw or heard?” she asked in a pleasant tone of voice.

  The pursed lips softened a fraction. “I heard the bell ring downstairs, and someone said something into the entry phone. I couldn’t make out who it was, but I thought it was Carl—my son. So I pressed the button, but Carl never arrived, so I guess it wasn’t him.”

  “No, I guess not. What time was this?”

  The man frowned, and seemed to be making a genuine effort. “I was watching the news.”

  “Which channel?”

  “One or two. I never watch any of the other channels. They just show crap, with all these stupid Z-list so-called celebrities and . . .”

  “Was it the six o’clock news, or seven-thirty? Or could it have been Aktuellt at nine?” Irene broke in.

  “Not the six o’clock—I have dinner then. It must have been seven-thirty.”

  His face brightened as he remembered. No doubt his blood alcohol level had already been steadily rising by then, Irene thought.

  “Was it at the beginning of the bulletin, or the end?” she asked.

  The satisfied expression disappeared, to be replaced by a frown of concentration once more. After a moment he straightened up and looked Irene in the eye.

  “I’d say it was in the middle. Definitely in the middle!”

  So around seven forty-five. That could fit. The bag Thylqvist had dropped contained gym clothes. If she got home just before ten, she could have left her apartment at around seven-thirty.

  The Package Killer had probably arrived just after that. Had he rung her bell? Unlikely, because he wouldn’t want to be seen. The woman was supposed to find the flower hanging on her door when she got back; that’s what had happened with his previous victims. But why had he attacked Thylqvist before she had had the chance to go upstairs and discover the flower? Had he been watching the building and seen her set off for the gym? Had he been standing out there under cover of darkness? If so, why?

  They went back down to the second floor; forensics had just finished. Åhlén held up a large paper bag containing the wrapped flower.

  “I’ll drop this off at the lab, then they can open it up tomorrow,” he said, his eyes twinkling through those round-framed glasses with lenses like milk-bottle bottoms.

  He was a
veteran on the forensics team and had worked almost as long as Svante Malm.

  “I don’t suppose anyone could take a look at it tonight?” Tommy ventured.

  “No. We’re not quite done out there in the parking lot, and we’ve just had a call about a body in Kortedala. Apparently it’s lying in the bath with slit wrists, so it’s probably suicide, but we need to get over there as soon as possible.”

  His tone made it clear that there was no room for negotiation.

  Once the technicians had left, Tommy took out his keys and unlocked the door, giving Irene a quick glance before he entered the apartment. We shouldn’t be doing this, she thought. But they had done a lot of things together over the years that hadn’t been strictly by the book, and after all he was her boss, and therefore responsible for their actions. She followed him inside and closed the door.

  The hallway was airy, with an unusually high ceiling and pale grey granite tiles. One wall consisted of closets with mirrored sliding doors. Straight ahead lay the kitchen, and in the other direction a generous living room, which was where Irene headed after slipping off her shoes. The flooring was pale polished oak parquet. Two large oil paintings hung on the white walls. One was abstract: white patches on a dark blue background. The other was a stylized representation of a sailboat on a stormy sea. Various shades of blue dominated both pictures, and the white leather sofa and chairs stood on a beautiful blue rug. There was also an enormous flat-screen TV, several shelves of DVDs and a Bang & Olufsen CD player.

  Irene went over and picked out a few of the films. Most were well-loved old comedies and action movies; one or two seemed to be slightly more erotic. The few books were bestselling paperbacks.

  She took a good look around the room. Modern. Attractive. Expensive. But a little impersonal. There was nothing that looked like a memento or an heirloom. Nothing that gave the slightest clue about Efva Thylqvist as a person. Or maybe there was, and Irene just couldn’t interpret the signs. She went over to the balcony and opened the door. It was a corner apartment; the balcony wasn’t large, but the view was magnificent.