by Karin Nordin
Kjeld hated that.
‘Good to see you, too, Liam,’ Kjeld said. He tried to offer a polite smile, but his teeth gritted too hard, making it more of a crooked scowl. Which better reflected his intentions because Kjeld didn’t mean to be overwhelmingly civil. He glanced inside the SUV at the young girl with the curly red hair. ‘Come on, Tove. Get your things. You’re coming with me.’
‘It’s not your week, Kjeld. You’ve got your wires crossed.’
‘No, I haven’t. I had it written down on the calendar.’
‘Then you wrote it down wrong.’
‘And I’m supposed to take your word for that? As if I don’t already know how much joy you took out of the last time I mixed up the dates.’ Kjeld knew he sounded embittered and he was, but it was a struggle not to let Liam grate on him. Liam, whether consciously or otherwise, tested the limits of what little patience Kjeld had.
A light drizzle of rain began coating the ground as Kjeld helped tuck Tove’s wild red curls back into the hood of her jacket. His phone rang in his pocket.
‘Where’s your backpack, Tove?’
‘Here.’ Liam reached into the front passenger seat for a bright blue and white-star decorated backpack. It was a new one that Kjeld hadn’t seen before.
Kjeld snatched it out of his hands with a grumble.
His phone rang again.
‘Do you need to answer that?’
‘No.’
Tove jumped in a puddle, splashing water all over Kjeld’s other leg. It soaked through to the skin. His phone continued ringing.
‘Goddammit.’ He took his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. It was his partner at the Gothenburg City Police, Detective Sergeant Esme Jansson.
‘Are you working this week?’ Liam asked.
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘That’s none of your business.’
‘Actually, it is. Regardless of whether or not it’s your week – it’s not by the way – if you’re too busy working then Tove shouldn’t be going with you.’
Kjeld fixed Liam with a hard stare. ‘I don’t need you sticking your nose into me and my family’s business.’
‘They live with me, Kjeld. That makes it my business.’
The rain began to fall harder. Within seconds Kjeld’s hair was matted down on top of his head. Liam, always prepared, took out an umbrella from inside the car and opened it up to keep himself and the half-open car door dry. Tove jumped in another puddle, laughing as she tried to increase the height of the splashes. Kjeld’s phone continued ringing.
‘Well, if you have a problem with it then you can take it up with Bengt.’
‘Take what up with me?’
Kjeld turned on his heel. Heading towards them from the school’s main entrance was his ex-husband and proof that Liam was probably right. Kjeld must have had the wrong week.
Bengt Olander walked briskly through the rain, a large umbrella protecting him from the sudden downpour. He wasn’t normally the kind of man who commanded attention. At five foot seven inches he was a good deal shorter than Kjeld. He had dark brown hair with a streak of grey that started at his left temple near his parting and swept over to the right like a wave. His eyes were dark blue, not unlike a winter sky at twilight, which he hid behind a pair of black vintage-styled horn-rimmed glasses that made him look more unassuming than he actually was. As always, Bengt was clean-shaven and immaculately dressed. He had a penchant for form-fitting sweaters beneath fashionable blazers and occasional pin-striped vests, which he paired against jeans, somehow managing to be both unquestionably formal and respectfully casual.
Kjeld used to poke fun at Bengt’s meticulousness when it came to his outward appearance. Now he just eyed him enviably, wishing he had the right to that kind of lover’s banter. Bengt was a slim man, but he’d put on a healthy amount of weight since he’d been with Kjeld. Kjeld thought it suited him. Especially in the face, which is where he noticed it first. After the hair, that is. Kjeld always breathed a silent sigh of relief when he saw Bengt’s hair. That meant he was still “in the clear”.
‘Tove left these in her classroom.’ Bengt tossed a pair of pink mittens in the car before glancing at Kjeld. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Kjeld’s got his wires crossed again,’ Liam interrupted. ‘He says it’s his week.’
‘It is.’ Kjeld looked to Bengt. ‘You texted me yourself.’
Bengt raised a brow, confused. ‘No, I texted to remind you that next week is yours. Starting on Friday. Besides, today is Monday.’
Kjeld swore under his breath.
‘Daddy, can we go now? It’s cold!’
‘Hop back into the car, Tove,’ Liam said. ‘Your daddy is confused. We’re going home now.’
Tove pouted and stomped back to the SUV. Kjeld felt like a heel. Worse, his mistake only made Liam appear more responsible. Which wasn’t entirely untrue.
Kjeld lifted Tove back into the back seat, setting her backpack on the floor in front of her.
‘But I want to go home with you and play with Oskar,’ she said. The rain dripped down her face like tears.
‘I know, sweetheart. But you can come over next weekend and we can do whatever you want. How does that sound?’
‘Can we have a dance party and watch movies and order pizza?’
‘Sure. Whatever you want.’
‘No pizza,’ Bengt said. ‘And no ice cream either. It gives her an upset stomach. We’re going to have her checked to see if she’s lactose intolerant.’
Tove pouted.
‘Maybe we can make pizza without cheese then,’ Kjeld said, trying not to show his irritation. ‘And sorbet doesn’t have milk in it.’
Tove’s face brightened.
Kjeld gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before closing the door.
‘You know it’s really difficult for her when you mess up like this,’ Liam said, rigidly defensive. ‘You need to get a better grip on your schedule.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t want to disappoint you now, would I?’
‘I’m not the one you’ll be disappointing.’ Liam closed up the umbrella, shook it off, and made his way around to the driver’s side of the vehicle.
Tove pressed her face against the tinted glass, smashing her nose until she looked like a pig. Then she started laughing. Kjeld cracked a small smile. When he turned his attention back to Bengt he was met with a disapproving sulk.
‘I really wish you wouldn’t rile Liam up like that. He’s a good man, Kjeld. He just wants what’s best for Tove.’
‘So do I,’ Kjeld said. ‘I’m doing my best. I try not to let him get to me, but he’s just so damn insufferable. I don’t know what you see in him.’
Bengt frowned. ‘I’m not having this conversation with you right now. You’re drenched. Go home before you catch pneumonia or something. And don’t forget about this weekend.’
Bengt pulled open the passenger side door of the SUV and climbed inside, slamming it shut behind him. Then he rolled down the window and peeked his head out. ‘You know about Tove’s dance recital, too, right?’
‘Of course,’ Kjeld hedged. ‘It’s on—’
‘Thursday.’
‘Right, Thursday.’ Kjeld paused. ‘Wait. This Thursday?’
Bengt withheld a sigh. ‘It was rescheduled from last month after the instructor’s grandmother passed away. Don’t you remember?’
Kjeld didn’t, but he nodded anyway.
‘Anyway. Try to be there.’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for anything.’
But it was clear from Bengt’s stony glare that he would believe it when he saw it.
‘I’ll be there,’ Kjeld insisted. To this Bengt merely rolled up the window.
Kjeld stood in the rain, watching as Liam drove out of the parking space. Then he took a pen out of his pocket and quickly wrote a note on the side of his hand. Thursday Dance Recital. He wouldn’t forget about it. Nor would he forget to pick up Tove from schoo
l next Friday. He couldn’t. He wanted to be there for Tove. And to do that he had to prove he was capable of keeping his promises.
The SUV stopped at the next intersection, waiting for oncoming traffic to pass before turning. Kjeld watched as Tove craned her head backwards and waved at him.
His phone buzzed twice. Two text messages from Esme.
Potential homicide in Örgryte. On my way there.
Will send you the address.
A moment later she sent the address. He stared at it, wiping the rain off the screen to make sure he’d read it correctly. That couldn’t be right. He recognised that address. He hurried back to his car and called her the moment he was inside.
The rain came down in buckets against his windscreen, nearly drowning out the sound of Esme’s voice when she answered.
‘I just got your messages,’ Kjeld said. ‘Are you sure that’s the right address?’
Chapter 3
The address belonged to a small two-storey grey house at the end of Norströmsgatan in the Örgryte neighbourhood on the western side of Gothenburg. The house sat back from the road, which ended in a bicycle path that led to a children’s playground in full view of the house’s back garden. Örgryte was normally an upper middle class neighbourhood, but the lack of maintenance on the grey house defied the professional upkeep of its neighbours. The exterior paint was peeling and the hedges had grown wildly, concealing half of the house from view.
When Kjeld pulled his car up alongside the park he could see the boarded-up windows on the second floor and his heart began to race. A fire truck and two police patrol cars blocked neighbourhood traffic on the nearest side street, lights still flashing. Although it was difficult to see from his position, the back half of the house appeared blackened and burned out. An anxious dread crept through Kjeld’s body as he watched the scene through the rain-blurred windscreen. He sat in the car with the engine running for a full two minutes, fingers clenched around the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white, before he turned off the car and climbed out.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Esme’s sporty green Volvo 66 DL parked on the side road, but she wasn’t in it. The wind swooped the rain sideways, smacking him in the face and soaking his entire front before he made it to the police cordon and crossed the tape. The muggy odour of dampened smoke hovered in the air. Forensic specialists were already on the scene and had set up a tent on the bicycle path adjacent to the side yard. Kjeld followed their lead to the tent in order to suit up in protective gear before entering the house.
An oppressive sense of terror came over him as he stepped through the front door. The floor was wet from the firehose, but the scent of burning lingered. He turned to the side, allowing a crime-scene technician to pass, before making his way further into the house. There was no furniture and the walls were bare, streaked in scorch marks where the fire had torn through the rooms. The wallpaper, what was left of it, was ripped and curled near the ceiling. Someone had spray-painted profanities on the living room wall, but they were illegible from the damage caused by the flames.
The sounds around him faded into white noise as he passed through the corridor towards the kitchen. The fire damage was worse there. The walls were coated in a layer of crusty black that almost looked like tar dripping down to the wooden floor. The cabinets remained, but the once-white paint was marred black. Even through his mask he could taste the choking odour of smoke. Kjeld clenched his teeth and swallowed back a thick lump in his throat. Then he made his way to the door at the far end of the kitchen. No one told him where to go. He just knew. He’d been there before.
The cellar door was open and a surge of panic gripped him, his head pounding. Kjeld was halfway down the steps, remembering the last time he’d walked those creaking stairs, when Esme’s voice cut through his thoughts, jolting him back to the present.
‘That was fast,’ she said, looking up at him from the bottom of the steps. Her small physique was framed in musty yellow light cast from a temporary lamp one of the technicians had fixed to the wall behind her. Her protective suit was at least a size too big for her. She’d rolled it up at the sleeves and the ankles, but she still looked like she was drowning in it.
‘I was in the city centre,’ he replied as he made his way down to the bottom of the steps. The fire damage on the walls became worse the further he went and he was surprised the stairs didn’t collapse beneath his weight. ‘Have we identified the body?’
‘Not yet. Sixten was first on the scene. And we’re still waiting for pathology, but …’
‘But what?’
‘It’s a bad one.’
Kjeld steadied himself and followed Esme further into the cellar. At the bottom of the stairs was a large open space, but at the back of the far wall was another door leading to a smaller room. A room Kjeld remembered vividly.
‘Kjeld!’ an enthusiastic voice called out. ‘Did the chief finally put you back in the field? I thought you were still on desk duty.’
Kjeld turned his head to see Sixten Andersson-Sund waving the two of them over from the doorway to the second room. Sixten was the newest member of their team in the Violent Crimes Division. Like Esme had been when she first arrived in Gothenburg, Sixten was fast-tracked to detective because of an exemplary service record working alongside members of the local drug enforcement team. He had one of those optimistic, go-getter personalities that always made Kjeld feel a little uncomfortable. He was the type of man to slap a colleague on the back for a job well done. But he was honest and he offered a pleasant contrast to Kjeld’s sombre cynicism. He was also determined to prove himself to his new teammates, which meant he never shirked extra work. And in the last few months there’d been more than enough to go around.
‘I’ve been cleared for a few weeks now,’ Kjeld said, choosing not to elaborate. The Special Investigations Department hadn’t been able to find any solid evidence connecting him to the Kattegat Killings. Nor could they prove that he’d had any foreknowledge of the crimes committed by his former police partner, Nils Hedin. As a result, the investigation into Kjeld’s potential involvement had been dropped. But the stigma still stood.
Outside the wind battered the rain against the house. The howling echo resounded down the stairs from above.
‘Where’s the body?’ Kjeld asked.
‘Over here.’ Sixten nodded towards the far corner of the room.
Kjeld ducked under the doorway, which was at least a foot lower than the cellar’s ceiling, as he followed Sixten into the small room. A technician who had been setting up numbered placards along the wall left the room in order to make more space for the three detectives. From the scorch marks on the ceiling and the evenness of the burn residue on the walls, this room had been the obvious source of the fire.
Kjeld stepped around Sixten to get a better look at the scene. The body was curled up against the wall in a foetal position, face partially covered by a raised arm and pushed into a floor drain where the grate had been removed. The distinct discolouring on the limbs and torso were clearly the result of a fire. The body’s flesh was charred black and crispy like a piece of meat forgotten on a grill; a charring that matched many of the scorch marks on the walls and floor.
Kjeld stepped closer and crouched down for a better look. A thick heavy chain had been clasped around the victim’s ankle and bolted to the foundational portion of the cellar wall. Kjeld thought he saw remnants of nail marks in the concrete.
Christ. They’d tried to scratch the bolt free.
‘Who found the body?’ Esme asked.
‘A neighbour saw smoke and called the fire department,’ Sixten said. ‘The fire department called us. I was in the neighbourhood when the call came in. I only live a few blocks away.’
‘All of this water will have contaminated the scene.’
Sixten nodded. ‘Once they realised what they had on their hands they tried to limit their focus to the fire. Sadly, this room was the source and as you can tell from the smell, there was
definitely an accelerant used. Possibly some kind of oil. The fire chief said it’s a miracle the house is still standing. Might not be if the neighbour hadn’t called as quickly as they did. But whoever started it didn’t do a great job of arson. When I spoke with the fire chief earlier his initial estimate was that it looks like they only covered the basement floor in accelerant. Otherwise you’d see more damage upstairs. Back of the house took a beating though. He said that was probably from the fire taking the path of least resistance through the house and maybe some accidental drip from the accelerant.’
‘You don’t think they intended to burn the house down with her in it?’ Esme raised a brow.
Sixten shrugged. ‘I think if someone wanted to go to the trouble of covering their tracks they could have done a much better job of burning down the house. This is an old wooden construction. It wouldn’t have taken much effort.’
‘Maybe the killer wanted her to be found.’ Esme paused thoughtfully. ‘Any identification on the victim?’
Sixten shook his head. ‘Not yet. But we’re still searching the house. We’ll know more once Frisk gets here.’
Kjeld canted his head to the side, peering down at the victim’s face between their raised forearms. Someone, possibly one of the firefighters, had turned the body enough to expose the part of the face that had been pushed into the drain. It was hard to look away from the contorted mass of burned flesh and muscle. The eyes were gone, melted in the heat. But even without them, Kjeld imagined the terror that must have been in their eyes. He thought of that fearful awareness they must have experienced in their last moments, knowing the end was near. And the sheer horror of realising their last thoughts would be of excruciating pain. God, he hoped they hadn’t been alive when the fire was set. But the position of the body, curled up in self-protection told him otherwise.
It was a harsh reminder of how cruel and fleeting life could be. That was something Kjeld had been thinking about a lot, ever since he returned from Varsund. Ever since he’d learned the truth about his father. Facing his family’s secrets and trying to navigate his relationship with those who were left had made him very conscious of the fact that life was short. And his father’s dementia gave Kjeld a whole new meaning to the phrase “a fate worse than death”. He’d never before considered the possibility of death being a reprieve, but now he wondered.