“Where were you last night?” Irene asked.
He recoiled and gave her a sharp look. “What’s that got to do with . . . Surely you don’t have to ask me . . . ! Do you really think I had anything to do with the attack on Efva?” His tanned cheeks flushed red; he was indignation personified, but his hands were still shaking.
“You know just as well as I do that we always look at those who are close to the victim. The main suspects are always those with whom the victim is having, or has had, a sexual relationship. From a purely statistical point of view, that’s where we find the killer in ninety percent of cases. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t ask the question,” Irene replied.
Englund looked at her for a long time, then shifted his gaze to the window. The sun was shining between the wispy clouds, and you could easily be fooled into thinking it was a warm summer’s day out there. But the thermometer was showing nine degrees, and there was a biting wind. However, it seemed unlikely that he was thinking about the weather.
Eventually he said, “The boys and I were sailing in the last heat of the September Cup. We finished at five-oh-eight. We came in second overall; you can check the results table online—it’s on the Göteborg Royal Sailing Club’s homepage. By the time we’d sorted out the boat, it was almost eight o’clock. We went home and had dinner, and celebrated, of course. We went to bed around eleven.”
Playing happy family, in other words. But you’re ready to smash all that to pieces. Perhaps those photographs on the wall show nothing more than a façade, Irene thought.
Englund tried to force a smile, then adopted a more intimate tone. “Listen, Irene, I’d really appreciate it if you could lie low with this photograph for the time being. There’s always so much talk, and that wouldn’t do either of us any good—me or Efva.”
At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. Irene wasn’t exactly surprised, but she was a little disappointed. Just as pathetic as the rest of them, she thought.
“That’s not possible, I’m afraid. There were several officers at the scene when the photograph was discovered, so it’s already been seen by a number of people. We’ll keep it from the media, of course, as we’ve managed to do with the previous photographs of the victims. However, I do have to share it with the rest of the investigating team,” she said firmly.
Englund nodded. “But you will do your best to make sure it doesn’t leak out? I didn’t have anything to do with the attack. On the contrary, I . . .” His voice betrayed the fact that he didn’t have much hope of his relationship remaining a secret. Nice try, as Irene’s girls would have said.
The chief superintendent slumped back in his chair. His tan complexion had taken on a noticeably greyer tone. Irene took her leave; he didn’t respond, but continued to stare blankly at the photograph on the desk in front of him. He still hadn’t touched it.
26.
Matti Berggren turned up just in time for coffee on Tuesday afternoon. He sat down and accepted a cup and a cookie. Irene could see that he had something to tell them.
“Have you found anything interesting, Matti?” Tommy asked. He still looked as if he hadn’t slept a wink since Sunday.
“Absolutely! We found two cat hairs on Thylqvist’s jacket—the same type as we found on the plastic sheeting. We also found blue fibers from a fleece top or something similar. The hairs and the fibers were on the back of the jacket, so they got there when the perp attacked Thylqvist from behind and pulled her toward him. There’s also a small stain that could well be engine oil—we haven’t quite finished the analysis yet.”
Irene felt a great wave of relief. This indicated that they weren’t looking at a copycat. She could remove both Tommy Persson and Thomas Englund from her list of suspects. They could quite easily have arranged the oil and the nylon fibers, but exactly the same cat hairs as forensics had found on the tape securing the plastic wrapped around the two homicide victims . . . no.
“And the noose?” Tommy asked.
“The same type as in the previous attacks. Blue twine, a loop at either end, same knots. I’m guessing he didn’t have time to slip it around her neck before she started screaming, because it doesn’t look as if it’s been used. It was lying on the ground, so presumably he dropped it.”
“Any news on what kind of dish soap was used in the previous cases?” Irene asked
“No, but we should hear very soon. I sent a sample of Yes to the lab so they can make a direct comparison, see if it’s the same product.”
Smart guy, Irene thought.
According to the hospital, Efva Thylqvist’s condition was improving, but she was still on a respirator. She hadn’t regained consciousness, and the doctors had refused to allow visitors or any attempt to communicate with her.
On Thursday Thylqvist was taken off the respirator for a few hours. She was now fully conscious, and the doctors had said a brief visit was permissible. Tommy decided it would be best if Irene and Sara went to see her.
They were equipped with protective gowns, along with shoe protectors and masks. Through the glass Irene could see various monitors and drips, and the outline of Thylqvist’s body beneath a yellow blanket. The smell of disinfectant struck them as they opened the door and went in. Only then did Irene see Thylqvist’s face.
She was lying with her eyes closed. To be honest, she could have been dead. Her lips were as colorless as her pale skin. She looked fragile and vulnerable. The respirator was at the side of the bed, and a large dressing covered the cannula in her throat.
A nurse moved across to the bed and said quietly, “Efva. Some of your colleagues would like to speak to you.”
Efva Thylqvist opened her eyes and stared at Irene and Sara. To her relief, Irene saw that the blue gaze was just as intense as ever.
“Hi Efva—it’s Irene and Sara hiding behind these masks! Good to see you’re feeling better. We’d like to talk to you about the attack. Do you remember anything?” Irene began.
A brief nod from Thylqvist made Irene’s heart beat faster with anticipation. The nurse helped to block the cannula so that Thylqvist could speak.
“Smell . . . smell . . .”
“You mean the man who attacked you smelled?”
Another nod.
“Did he smell good?”
A shake of the head.
“Did he smell bad?”
Nod.
“Was it the same smell as Marie Carlsson described? A revolting stench?”
Nod.
It had to be the same man. The Package Killer.
Thylqvist gesticulated to the nurse, who covered the cannula with a practiced hand once more.
“Old . . . oil.”
Old oil. He smelled of old, presumably rancid oil. There had been oil on Thylqvist’s jacket. The Package Killer had oil on his clothes, which could have transferred to his victims’ clothing. Was that why he had stripped the two women he had killed? There was no oil on the actual bodies, although of course he had washed them thoroughly, perhaps to dissolve any possible traces.
“Did you see him?” Irene asked.
A shake of the head. This was disappointing, but not entirely unexpected; after all, he had attacked her from behind.
“Did you see his car?”
Another shake.
The nurse cleared her throat. “I think that’s enough for now. Efva’s tired.”
The look Thylqvist gave the nurse was poisonous, but Irene realized she was right. Thylqvist was even paler than when they had arrived, and there were blue-black shadows under her eyes. Rather ineptly, Irene patted her boss’s hand, which was lying on top of the covers.
“Get well soon. Everyone sends their love. We weren’t allowed to bring flowers, but as soon as they move you to the regular ward . . .”
Irene broke off, overcome with embarrassment. Thylqvist’s eyes were filled with tears.
27.
After a restless night, Irene had made up her mind. Before morning prayer she knocked on Tommy’s door and walked straight in.
“Hi. You look like shit,” she said.
“Thanks. Right back at you.”
They both knew the other person was right. Suddenly Irene started to giggle, and soon they were both laughing. For a moment it felt just like before, when they were the best of friends and supported each other in everything. It was high time they tried to restore that friendship, but it was probably best to proceed with caution under the circumstances, Irene thought.
“Tommy, I’ve been thinking all night. We need to get the investigation out of this deadlock. Right now.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Do you have any constructive suggestions?”
“I think so. I feel as if we’ve missed something important, something hiding in plain sight. Something to do with Daniel Börjesson.”
“But we’ve checked him out so many times—there’s no concrete proof. He doesn’t have a car. He was at home when Jonny called him after the attack on Efva. There’s no sign of a cat in his apartment, etcetera etcetera. The facial composite could be him, but the only thing it proves is that he asked Marie Carlsson a couple of strange questions, and . . .”
“I know, I know—we’ve gone over it again and again. But somewhere . . . it’s something I heard, although I can’t quite get a hold of it. I want to spend the day digging into Daniel’s life. Drive to Basungatan, sound out the terrain. Efva told us to drop him, but now you’re in charge—it’s your decision.”
She smiled, but Tommy didn’t smile back. The silence went on and on, but Irene was determined not to break it.
At long last Tommy spoke. “Okay. I respect your gut feeling, but you only have today.”
“Thanks. That’s enough.”
“You should take someone with you.”
“There’s no need. I have no intention of talking to Daniel. This is something else.”
Irene was the first customer of the morning in the convenience store. Theo Papadopoulos was busy setting out packed boxes of fruit when she arrived. He greeted her with pleasure, as if she was a loyal and valued customer.
“Hello again—can you spare a few minutes?” she asked.
“Of course. It’s quiet at this time of day.”
He showed her into the break room, where there was a wonderful aroma of fresh coffee. Theo went back into the store and picked up two cinnamon buns, still warm from the oven.
“I’m not surprised you’ve come back,” he said as he poured the coffee.
“No?”
“No. Both my daughter Melina and I think Daniel has been behaving even more oddly since Signe died. Melina’s scared. She says he has the evil eye. That comes from her Greek background. People believe in the evil eye in my former homeland. You must avoid those who give you the evil eye, and if worst comes to the worst, you must kill them!” The last comment was accompanied by a big smile.
“In what way has he been behaving more oddly?”
“He’s always been a loner, of course—he’s never really had any friends. But these days we hardly ever see him. Occasionally he comes in just as we’re about to close, and he doesn’t even say hi. He used to work, but he doesn’t seem to do that anymore. When he didn’t have anything else he would help out by pruning the trees and shrubs around here, and he did a good job, but according to Kenneth, who’s in charge of the maintenance service, nowadays Daniel just says no if he asks him. Daniel claims he’s on sick leave. I don’t know if that’s true, but Kenneth says that’s been the case ever since Signe died. So how can he afford that apartment?”
Theo ran his hands over his cardigan pockets. He fished out a packet of Marlboros and put it on the table, then took a yellow plastic lighter out of another pocket.
“Are the rents high around here?” Irene asked.
“Maybe not as high as they are in the city center, but he’s paying for a three-room apartment on his own.”
Theo got up and offered Irene a cigarette. She smiled and shook her head. As he moved toward the back door, Melina came in and said hello to Irene.
“Good. You can talk to Irene while I go for a smoke,” Theo said.
Melina didn’t look too keen, but she took off her jacket and sat down at the old Formica table. She yawned and poured herself a cup of coffee, then looked at Irene. Melina’s sea-green eyes were heavily made up, accentuating their unusual color.
“Is this about Daniel?” she asked.
“What makes you think that?” Irene replied, keeping her tone neutral.
“You asked about him last time. And he’s kind of . . . creepy,” Melina said with a shudder.
“Is that why you called and left an anonymous message about the picture in the newspaper?”
Melina gave a start. Her eyes appeared unnaturally large in her pretty face as they widened. She pushed back a honey-colored strand of hair and attempted to tuck it behind her ear, but it was too thick and immediately fell forward once more.
“How . . . how do you know it was me?”
“I worked it out. Has something happened recently to make you feel he’s even stranger than he was before?”
Melina twirled the strand of hair nervously around her finger.
“I don’t know . . . It’s just a feeling, really. He . . . stares. Even Mom has noticed. She doesn’t want to be alone with him in the store.”
“Has he said anything, made any kind of approach?”
“No, never. But it’s just horrible. I don’t even walk past the garage anymore, even though it’s the shortest route to the tram.”
Irene pricked up her ears. “The garage?”
“An old place. It’s over there,” Melina said, pointing.
“That must be . . . west. Do you mean in Ruddalen?”
“Yes. He sometimes hangs out there.”
“Doing what?”
Melina shrugged as her father returned from his cigarette break, carrying with him the smell of fruit and tobacco. He smiled, showing his nicotine-yellowed teeth.
“What are you two talking about?”
“Daniel. Melina’s just told me he sometimes hangs out in an old garage not far from here,” Irene explained.
“Yes, he used to spend a lot of time at the garage, but I don’t think he goes there nowadays.”
“What did he do there?”
“It was his grandfather’s bicycle repair shop; Daniel used to help out.”
“But it’s been a long time since his grandfather died—eighteen years. Are you saying that Daniel carried on renting the place after his death?” Irene asked.
Theo frowned, thinking hard, then he said slowly, “Daniel used to tinker with his own bikes, then with his moped. When his grandfather died, an old friend took over the repair business, but I don’t know how well it worked out. His name was Stig; he was a drinker. People said he lived in the garage with his cats for the last year before he died. I saw Daniel with him occasionally. Daniel used to have an old car, and he would go over and work on it with Stig. But Stig died a year or so ago. I don’t think anyone uses the garage now.”
Irene thought he was wrong, and by way of confirmation, Melina jumped in.
“I saw Daniel there in the summer. That’s when I stopped taking that route with Lukas.”
“Lukas is our dog—an old golden retriever. He’s so sweet some people might describe him as stupid,” Theo explained.
“Dad!”
Theo laughed and winked at Irene. She smiled back, and couldn’t help saying:
“I’ve got a dog, too, a little dachshund.”
“He’s probably a better guard dog than Lukas—he loves everybody. Even Daniel.” Theo chuckled.
“It’s true.” Melina sighed.
“So where exactly i
s this garage?”
“Go along Basungatan,” Theo said. “You’ll come to a small parking lot. Go straight across it, and in the far left-hand corner there’s a narrow path leading into the forest. I guess it was asphalt once upon a time, but it’s a mess these days. The garage is twenty or thirty meters down the path, but you can’t see it from the parking lot. It’s hidden by the trees.”
It took no more than a minute to walk from the convenience store to the dilapidated garage. Theo was right: it couldn’t be seen from the parking lot. It was a small grey concrete building with a rusty corrugated metal roof. The windows were barred, and the door looked solid. A painted sign hung above the door, and it was just about possible to work out that the faded letters said börjesson’s cycle repair shop. Trees and bushes were growing right up against the walls. Only the area in front of the door was accessible, mainly because it had been paved at some point in the past. Small trees and weeds had sprung up through the cracks, tangible proof of the power of nature. There was garbage everywhere, left behind by generations of teenagers. This wasn’t a nice place, but for kids who wanted to hide out, it was perfect.
Irene walked over to the metal sliding door. She grabbed the handle and tried to open it, but it was locked. A long piece of wood lay in the grass, painted the same color as the door, which made her think it served as an additional security measure. There were heavy metal sockets on either side of the door into which the beam could be inserted. It was obviously meant to be fastened with a padlock, but there was no sign of anything like that in the grass. There was dog crap everywhere.
Irene picked her way over to the window. The glass was filthy with years of ingrained dirt, and the thick iron bars meant she couldn’t get right up to the window itself. She shaded her eyes with her hand and tried to peer in. It was a while before she realized it was boarded up on the inside. She walked around the garage. Same story with the window on the opposite side. Her heart flipped over as something touched her leg. The cat that had brushed against her was equally scared when Irene let out a scream; it slipped into the undergrowth and disappeared.
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