Who Watcheth

by Helene Tursten

  The ground floor of the building was occupied by small businesses, which meant that even the apartments on the lower floor were quite high up. The city lights were reflected in the black surface of the water down below in a constantly changing, sparkling display. On the other side of the Göta River Irene could see the silhouette of the city, with the illuminated façade of the Masthugg church dominating the skyline. The long span of Älvsborg Bridge stretched out toward the sea, cutting across her field of vision. However, it wasn’t possible to see the end of the bridge on the Hisingen side, because there was a rocky outcrop in the way. It was almost directly in the west, and no doubt provided useful protection from the wind when the storms came rolling in from the sea. It was a shame that it spoiled the view from the balconies on the lower floors, but then you can’t have everything. Irene’s feet were starting to feel cold, as she didn’t have her shoes on. With a last glance out across the water, she went back inside.

  The kitchen was ultramodern, with all the appliances in brushed steel. The cupboard doors were solid oak, providing an attractive contrast to the black granite worktops and the pale grey tiled floor. A large dining table and six chairs stood by the tall window. Did Thylqvist often have friends over for dinner? What friends? Irene had never heard her mention anyone.

  She found Tommy in Thylqvist’s bedroom. The double bed was covered in a white quilt, adorned with several bright pink cushions. The rugs on either side of the bed matched perfectly. Two large framed posters showed a naked woman and a naked man. Perhaps this is more of a clue to Thylqvist’s personality, Irene thought. Tommy was standing with his back to her, gazing out of the window into the compact darkness.

  “Talk to me,” Irene said.

  He didn’t move. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Just as Irene was about to repeat her request, she realized he was crying. She heard a sob and saw his shoulders shaking. Clearly she wasn’t the only one who felt lonely sometimes. She went over and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “Tommy. Come and sit down. Let’s talk.”

  He offered no resistance as she guided him into the living room. He slumped down in one of the elegant leather armchairs. Irene found a tissue in one of her pockets and gave it to him.

  “Thanks,” he mumbled, and blew his nose.

  “Can I get you something to drink?”

  He shook his head. Irene sat down opposite him and waited for him to start, but he didn’t seem to have the strength to say a word. She decided to try to get him going.

  “So how close were you and Efva?” she asked, getting straight to the point.

  He raised his head and gazed at her, his eyes still shiny with tears. She had never seen him cry, not once in the twenty-six years they had known each other.

  “We . . . we’ve been together since the end of last year.”

  “So why haven’t you gone public?”

  He gave her a quick appraising glance, but she gave no indication that she had had her suspicions for a long time.

  “Efva . . . Efva didn’t want to. She thought it would lead to a lot of unnecessary gossip.”

  “And what did you think?”

  “The same, I guess.” He took a deep breath. “I might as well tell you right away: We split up. It’s over.”

  That didn’t come as much of a surprise either, but Irene managed to adopt a suitably sympathetic expression. “When?”

  “Two weeks ago.”

  “Are you very upset about that?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes . . . but when it’s over, it’s over.”

  The words sounded sensible, but his voice was far from steady. He had obviously taken it very hard. She was so pleased he had decided to confide in her; she hadn’t expected it at all. Was it Thylqvist who had ended the relationship? Did he still love her? Two questions she definitely couldn’t ask. Instead she said:

  “So why did the Package Killer attack Efva? She fits the age profile, but she doesn’t live in the western part of the city, and she doesn’t have any link with the Frölunda torg mall. Or does she sometimes shop there?”

  “Not as far as I know. But he could have seen her on TV—she was on Most Wanted back in August. The Hindås homicide.”

  Irene remembered the case, but she hadn’t been involved. A sixty-year-old woman was found murdered in the forest just a few hundred meters from her cottage in Hindås at the end of July. The house was in a pretty remote location, so no one had seen anything. There had been no leads at all, so in the end the police had decided to try an appeal on Most Wanted on TV3. There was a chance that some visitor or tourist had seen something. The usual press officer had been on vacation, so Efva Thylqvist had been only too happy to take on the task of informing the public about the murder. Irene had seen the program, and remembered that the superintendent had looked good in her smart uniform, with her recently acquired suntan. None of the calls that had come in had been of any use, and the case remained unsolved.

  “She took the press conference after we found Ingela Svensson and Elisabeth Lindberg; she’s also been in the papers, and was interviewed for the local news on TV-Four,” Tommy went on.

  “He might have seen her in the media. He probably collects cuttings about the case and follows the news coverage; they usually do,” Irene said, hiding a yawn behind her hand.

  Tommy noticed and straightened up.

  “Time we went home,” he said.

  He got to his feet and headed for the hallway. Before he opened the door he turned and looked back at Irene. “Tomorrow’s going to be a hell of a day,” he said grimly.

  The following morning both Irene and Tommy were there when the white chrysanthemum was unwrapped. Matti Berggren quickly took all the samples he needed from the outside of the newspaper and the blue twine. Carefully he removed the pages taken from a copy of Göteborgs-Posten, noting that they were from September 20. Just as they had expected, there was an envelope stuck to the stem of the flower with ordinary tape. On the front of the envelope someone had written in thick black felt-tip: 2 Ex. 20:5.

  “Exodus, chapter twenty, verse five.” Irene said. Isn’t that what it said on the envelope Ingela Svensson received? Something about visiting the sins of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations? I’ll ask Sara to check it out.”

  She called Sara’s cell and got an answer right away. Irene explained the situation, and Sara promised to call back as soon as she had found the quotation. As Irene ended the call she saw that Matti was removing the tape with a pair of tweezers. He’s very skilled, almost on par with an eye surgeon, she thought. Personally it was all she could do to balance her coffee mug so that she didn’t spill the contents.

  “Tape!” Matti said, licking his lips. His brown eyes sparkled as he carefully slid the tape into a sterile container.

  Jesus, he’s so cheerful you could almost hate him, Irene mused. “I know, you love tape because a whole load of stuff always sticks to it, and the person who put it there has no idea,” she said in an attempt to make up for her churlish reaction. She sipped her coffee and tried to wake up. Four hours of sleep had been nowhere near enough. She was exhausted.

  Tommy looked as if he hadn’t slept at all. He’d swung by the hospital early in the morning to check on Thylqvist, and had been informed that she had undergone surgery during the night. The damage to her windpipe was serious, and she was now on a respirator.

  Using the tweezers once again, Matti drew a photograph out of the white envelope.

  Suddenly Irene was firing on all cylinders. She hadn’t expected this. She glanced at Tommy; all the color had drained from his face. He was ashen, and looked as if he was about to faint. Instinctively she placed a hand on his arm, but he shook it off impatiently. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down several times before he managed to speak:

  “Interviewing this guy could be a little embarrassing.”

 
Irene merely nodded. She couldn’t take her eyes off the picture on the table, illuminated by the harsh glare of the laboratory lamp.

  Efva Thylqvist could be seen in profile. She was lying on the leather sofa, naked from the waist up. A man was sitting beside her facing the window, caressing one of her breasts. It was Chief Superintendent Thomas Englund.

  The photograph had been taken with a zoom lens, and was of considerably better quality than those the Package Killer had sent to his previous intended victims. According to the date in the corner, it had been taken four days earlier.

  “Last Thursday. She goes to the gym on Thursdays . . . unless she’s away,” Tommy said in a voice thick with emotion.

  Irene could hear Jonny’s voice inside her head: “Well, I suppose it’s one form of exercise . . . ha ha.” She was very glad he didn’t know about this yet. It was lucky that Tommy had sent him off to the hospital the previous evening, otherwise Tommy probably wouldn’t have confided in Irene about his relationship with Efva Thylqvist and the fact that it was now over.

  But what had actually happened there? She had only heard Tommy’s version. The woman in the picture was definitely Thylqvist, but the guy certainly wasn’t Tommy. Thomas Englund was one of the most senior officers on the force.

  Tommy had a hell of a lot of explaining to do. There was no getting around the fact that he was a suspect. Jealousy is a powerful and common motive when it came to homicide, and if anyone could carry out a perfect copycat crime, it was an investigating officer.

  Right now he was in charge of the whole case.

  The photographer had stood on the rocky outcrop and taken the picture through the window as usual. But was this the Package Killer? The quality didn’t fit with the other two shots.

  Irene’s train of thought was interrupted by a call from Sara, confirming that the Bible reference on Efva Thylqvist’s envelope was the same as the one on Ingela Svensson’s.

  “I am a jealous God, and I will visit the sins of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations etcetera etcetera,” Tommy said with a sigh.

  “She didn’t do what he wanted. She had someone else, so she had to be punished,” Irene said.

  She observed Tommy closely to see if he reacted to the insinuation. He just nodded wearily; he seemed to be totally worn out. Seeing him in this state, she found it difficult to imagine that he could have had anything to do with the attack. Or was he tormented by darker feelings? Was he fretting because he hadn’t managed to kill Thylqvist? Was he scared that she would remember something when she regained consciousness? Maybe confiding in Irene had been a smart move, just in case the truth about his relationship with Thylqvist came out?

  Irene realized that at the moment she was the only one who knew he had a motive for murder. At this stage she had no intention of sharing her suspicions with anyone, least of all Tommy. If it did turn out to be a copycat attack, that would put things in an entirely different light, and she would have to confront Tommy.

  As they left the lab, she said, “I’m happy to have an initial conversation with Thomas Englund. You’re needed back in the department; you’re in charge while Efva’s away.”

  “Fine—it’s probably best if I don’t see Englund for a few days. This has come as a real shock.” He was speaking so quietly she could barely make out the words.

  “You had no idea there was . . . someone else?”

  “No. She said she wanted a break. When I asked her why, she said she felt suffocated. She didn’t want a long-term relationship. We . . . we argued for a few days, then we broke up.”

  Irene could see how much it cost him to talk about this. Rejected. Humiliated. Jealous. Powerful emotions that could trigger violence. Even murder. Thinking along those lines didn’t make Irene feel any better. As a professional investigator, she had to keep them in the back of her mind. She had knowledge that was relevant to the case. Right now, that seemed like a heavy burden to bear.

  She spoke quietly. “Tommy, where were you last night?”

  He stopped dead and looked at her in surprise. When he realized why she had asked the question, his expression hardened. “I was at home. All three kids were with me for Sunday dinner, but they went back to Agneta’s at about eight. Although Martin went to Johanneberg, of course. After they left I watched TV until the phone rang, then I drove over to Sannegård. The rest you know,” he replied coldly.

  Tommy’s eldest son Martin was Irene’s godson. She had hardly seen him over the past few years; he was now in his second year of a journalism program. He had just moved into a student apartment in the city center after living in a series of sublets. Tommy’s two daughters were in the first and third years in high school. It must be quite a feat to get all three of them together for dinner, Irene thought. All at once she knew the reason for the gathering.

  “Of course . . . happy birthday for yesterday,” she said, overcome with embarrassment.

  They went up to the department in silence.

  Chief Superintendent Thomas Englund was able to see Irene after lunch. She knocked on his door at exactly one o’clock, as arranged. He shouted “Come in!” and she entered his office to find him on the phone. He waved and gestured toward a chair on the opposite side of the desk.

  As he talked Irene watched him discreetly. She had always thought he was a good-looking guy. He was around fifty years old; he was tall, and gave the impression that he worked out. His short dark hair was peppered with grey, and his face was still tan from a summer spent sailing. The wall behind him was adorned with several framed pictures of large sailboats; Englund was at the helm in at least three of them. One was a close-up, taken in the well of a boat. Englund had both hands on the wheel, and beside him stood a blonde woman and two teenage boys. They were all wearing sailing gear and smiling into the camera, the wind ruffling their hair. The epitome of a happy family.

  After a few polite phrases, the chief superintendent ended the call.

  “Irene. How can I help you?” he said, smiling warmly.

  He leaned forward over the desk, palms flat, supporting himself on his elbows. Irene glanced at his left hand and saw a wide gold band. He obviously wasn’t divorced. Not yet, anyway.

  “Good afternoon. It’s about the investigation into the attack on Superintendent Efva Thylqvist.”

  The warm smile stiffened and began to look somewhat strained.

  “I heard this morning; it’s a terrible thing. Everyone’s talking about it.”

  His gaze wasn’t quite steady. No doubt he was worried, wondering why Irene wanted to talk to him about Thylqvist.

  “Tommy Persson and I went to her apartment after the attack. We found a photograph that I’d like to show you.”

  Irene opened the folder she was carrying and removed a plastic pocket. She shook out the picture and let it fall onto the desk in front of the chief superintendent.

  Instantly every trace of a smile disappeared from his face. He took several deep breaths and stared at the photograph.

  “This is a copy of a photo the perpetrator sent to Efva. It’s part of his MO; he does this before he attacks his victims. He wants to point out their sins, so they will know why he kills them,” Irene explained.

  “Is it . . . is it the Package Killer?” Englund’s voice was strained.

  “Yes. There are several aspects of the attempted murder of Efva Thylqvist that match his previous attacks.”

  Irene observed the man opposite; he had clasped his hands together to hide the fact that they were shaking.

  “Clearly we’d like to know more about your relationship with Efva,” she went on calmly.

  “Of course. Of course. I do realize that. But . . .”

  He broke off, and Irene could see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “It’s . . . it’s . . . a sensitive matter.”

  You should have thought of that
before, Irene said to herself. It would be difficult to keep this under wraps. Police HQ leaked like a sieve, and gossip spread like wildfire. Thomas Englund knew that just as well as she did, so there was no need to point it out. Instead she nodded toward the photograph on the desk.

  “Does your wife know about this?”

  “No . . . no.”

  He managed to tear his gaze away from the image and looked up at Irene.

  “I’m sure you understand . . . this meant nothing. We only . . . it was just . . . once or twice . . .”

  The word guilty was written in capital letters above his head. He was a terrible liar, which suggested he didn’t do this kind of thing on a regular basis. That made Irene feel slightly more kindly disposed toward him; his wife might well take a different view.

  “How long have you and Efva been in a relationship?”

  Englund buried his head in his hands and sighed. “Oh God . . . a relationship! What a word . . . Since August. After my vacation. We were at a seminar, and . . . it just happened.”

  “You embarked on a sexual relationship.”

  Englund nodded, still with his head in his hands. Slowly he looked up at Irene. “I’m not proud of this, but I realize I’m in trouble. I’ll be as honest as possible.”

  “Thank you,” Irene replied with an encouraging nod.

  The chief superintendent took a deep breath. “It was a two-day seminar. There was a special dinner on the first night, and I ended up sitting next to Efva. We . . . There was a spark. We’ve been seeing each other ever since. Not very often, because . . . my family . . . but Thursdays suit us both. Late in the evening. I play tennis, and Efva goes to the gym. My wife plays bridge on Thursdays, and she doesn’t get home until midnight. We met at Efva’s apartment, of course. Which is when that bastard took the photograph.”

  “When was this seminar?”

  He checked his desk diary.

  “August twelfth and thirteenth.”

  Six weeks ago. Had Tommy suspected anything? According to him, he and Thylqvist had split up two weeks ago, which meant she had had two lovers for a whole month.