She could in other words not have been captured on an image in a surveillance camera on Fårö fifty-one minutes later.
“Have you got hold of Agnes Lind?” asked Sara.
“Yes,” said Fredrik. “She was at the Cadier Bar at the Grand Hotel together with two girlfriends sipping a drink for a hundred and fifty-six kronor.”
“Did she say that? What it cost?”
“Yes. Perhaps she thought it seemed more convincing.”
“Good memory.”
“I think I would remember that price, too. In any case, both of the girlfriends confirmed it.”
Like so many times before, he could have commented that people took being suspected of murder much more lightly than being asked about who they had slept with.
“So the hotels were a blank,” said Sara.
“Looks like it.”
* * *
When Fredrik came back to his office a message was waiting from Eva Karlén. The words in the subject line made him quickly click it open: Coop, IP addresses.
It was a tidy list with five columns. At the far left the date and time when the comment was made, then the blog comment itself, after that the IP number and Internet operator, and then finally the name and address of the person who was concealed behind the number. Or more correctly, the one who had signed an agreement with the Internet service provider. Eva had sorted the list by mailing address.
Fredrik started with A and scrolled farther down. Approximately half of the senders had written from an address that belonged to a company or institution.
Was that the kind of thing people did on their coffee breaks nowadays? Wrote hateful posts to someone who with every good intention had suggested what they might have for dinner?
Many comments came from Gotland, not completely surprising. A good number from computers at the library. Did this mean that people who wrote hateful blog comments were bitter people who could not afford their own computer and Internet connection, or were they students who eased up the pressures of studying by sending off a few sexist comments? Or were they simply careful not to be identifiable? If he himself, for some obscure reason, were to get the idea to write vulgarities on the Internet he would definitely not do it from his home computer, that much was certain.
He searched further. There was one comment he was particularly curious about, but because the list was arranged by addresses and could not be re-sorted he had to go through everything. “Tonight it’s me and Henrik.”
He scrolled further. Hemse, Jönköping … And there it was. “Tonight I’m the one he wants. I want you to know that.”
The comment was made at 5:18 P.M. on November 16 of last year. The IP number belonged to Hotel St. Petri in Copenhagen.
Fredrik reached out a finger and followed the row from left to right across the screen to be certain that he had not jumped between the rows. Same result. Hotel St. Petri in Copenhagen.
“I’ll be damned,” he whispered toward the screen.
Then he pushed print, got up, and looked for the folder with the guest lists from the hotels. He pulled out the ones that concerned St. Petri and quickly browsed through them. The first trip, October 4–7. He set them aside. The second trip, not that one, either, it was also October. But there, the third trip, November 16–18. The comment had been written when Henrik was checked into the hotel. Likewise Marte Astrup and Agnes Lind.
Who had written it?
Agnes Lind? The one who had been sitting at the Cadier Bar having drinks for a hundred fifty-six kronor when someone was taking a hammer to the heads of Malin and Axel Andersson? Fredrik felt how his energy drained away. It could be that simple. This did not need to have anything at all to do with the murders.
He tried to pull himself together. There was no reason to lose heart. Wasn’t it time for a little lift now? It could be another guest at the hotel, or someone who worked there.
He scrolled to Agnes Lind’s number in the telephone’s log and called.
“Hi, this is Fredrik Broman, who just called, excuse me for disturbing you again.”
“It’s no problem. Was there something else?”
She sounded more curious than anything.
“Yes, I have a question that concerns the time period November 16 to 18, the third time you were with Henrik Kjellander in Copenhagen last fall.”
“Yes?”
“Did you write a post on Malin Andersson’s food blog from the hotel computer on the sixteenth?”
“No,” she said, chirping out a laugh.
“Why is that so funny?”
“No, I guess it’s not. But I don’t do blog comments. I’m on Facebook and that, but … It’s probably just teenagers and mental cases who write blog comments.”
“Really?”
“Mainly.”
“Are you quite sure you didn’t? It’s extremely important that I find out if that’s the case. It may have significance for this investigation, but if you were the one who wrote it … well, then we can eliminate that.”
“What does that comment say actually?” said Agnes.
“Do I need to tell you that for you to know whether or not you wrote it?”
“I haven’t written anything on Malin’s blog,” she said adamantly. “I was just wondering.”
“Is there anyone else who was at the hotel you can imagine may have written a post on Malin’s blog that day?”
“No idea. But that depends on what it says.”
“I can’t reveal that, but it was not a friendly comment, if I may say so, on the contrary.”
“Hmm, no, no idea.”
Fredrik thought a moment. It was not certain that what was in the comment was true, but the one who wrote it must have known that Henrik was at the hotel and written it for the purpose of making Malin feel bad or to sow discord between Malin and Henrik.
“Was there anything else?” Agnes Lind asked.
She no longer sounded curious.
“Was there anyone else with you at the hotel that day? Besides Marte Astrup.”
Agnes was forced to think a moment.
“No, not on the sixteenth. Then it was just the three of us. The day after, two Danish models were with us and had a drink, but they left early.”
“You’re quite certain that they weren’t along on the sixteenth?”
“Yes, because we didn’t shoot anything then. We were just prepping.”
“Prepping?”
“Setting things up.”
“Okay.”
He probably wouldn’t get any further with this. The receiver felt warm against his ear. He changed hands.
“What was it like on the two previous occasions? Were there others in your party then? Or did you meet anyone at the hotel?”
“Don’t think so,” said Agnes hesitantly. “Or yes, the first time we met a girl in the bar. We started talking and then she moved with us when we sat down at a table.”
“You and her started talking?”
“No, it was probably more all of us. I don’t know.”
“Who was it who suggested that she should join you?”
“I think it was Henrik, but it was more something that just happened, even if maybe he was the one who said something like…”
She paused.
“I don’t really know how it went.”
“Was it the first evening you were at the hotel, or was it later?”
“Uh … it was probably the first. Yes, it was.”
“Do you remember her name?”
Agnes hesitated slightly before answering.
“No, I actually have no idea.”
Fredrik concealed his disappointment. The strange woman in the hotel bar seemed to be about to disappear before she even got a name.
“Did she tell anything about herself?” he asked.
“I think she said she was a journalist. At Sydsvenskan, it must have been. She was writing about something in Copenhagen. That was why she was there.”
“And you’re sure about Sydsven
skan?”
“Yes.”
It immediately looked better. If it was true that she worked at Sydsvenska Dagbladet it shouldn’t be that hard to track her down.
“What did she look like?” he asked.
“Well, that was almost a year ago … She was blond, I remember that much, medium height, maybe a little shorter. She was slender, good-looking.”
“Medium height, what does that mean to you?”
“About five-foot-five, maybe a little more.”
“And her hairstyle? You said blond, but…”
“Yes, blond hair approximately to her shoulders, as I recall it anyway. Straight, simple.”
“How did she talk? Did you notice any dialect?”
“No, nothing in particular.”
“If you were to guess her age?”
“Thirty. About that.”
“Thanks, I think that’s enough,” said Fredrik. “But it is possible that I’ll call again.”
“Sure, no problem,” said Agnes.
He hung up.
The question was whether he should start with the newspaper or with Henrik Kjellander. Henrik might know the woman’s name, even if Agnes did not. But why hadn’t he already mentioned her, in that case?
Fredrik decided on the newspaper. After being transferred several times and waiting on the line for a while he got an answer.
“Hannes Wiklander.” Someone answered who sounded as if he had just been chased up to the phone.
“My name is Fredrik Broman and I’m calling from the police in Visby,” said Fredrik. “I have a few questions about a person who I believe may have worked for you.”
“I see, who is that?”
“The problem is that I don’t have a name. But I have a description and know a little about what she worked on.”
“What does this concern?” asked Wiklander.
“This person showed up peripherally in an investigation. I just need to check off a few details.”
“So, what investigation?” said Hannes Wiklander.
“Unfortunately I can’t answer that,” said Fredrik.
“Does this have to do with the Fårö murders?”
Fredrik remained silent.
“Yes, I was just guessing,” said Wiklander.
“Can we take my questions now?” said Fredrik.
“Yes, of course. Go ahead.”
“So this concerns a woman, about thirty, blond shoulder-length hair, medium height.”
“That’s a very general description.”
“She was in Copenhagen on the fourth of October working on an assignment. About what, I don’t know.”
“Okay, that makes it a little easier.”
“If you’re uncertain you can give me several names, then I’ll have to investigate it further.”
“So far I don’t have any names at all,” said Wiklander. “But if you can wait a little I’ll check. Or can I call you?”
“That will be fine.”
Fredrik gave him the number.
“But it’s important, so I would be grateful if you can do it as soon as possible.”
“I’ll do it as soon as I’ve hung up,” Wiklander assured him.
“Thanks.”
Fredrik hung up and imagined how someone at the newspaper editorial office immediately demanded Wiklander’s attention. He was dragged into a discussion of some type, whatever it might be, the kind of thing you discuss at newspaper editorial offices, and the nameless employee who had been in Copenhagen was soon forgotten.
The unknown journalist was obviously someone Henrik Kjellander had not wanted to tell about. Or possibly forgotten. But the blog comment? That was made six weeks later. Who had made it?
He looked at the phone, silent on the table. Should he speak with Henrik anyway? See how he reacted to the date. November sixteenth. He could call from his cell phone so that he didn’t block the line for Wiklander. He got no further before Göran was standing in the doorway.
“Kjellander is moving back to Fårö,” he said.
“I see. When is that?”
“Now.”
“Can we protect him there?”
“He doesn’t want any protection.”
Göran looked at him almost expectantly, as if he wanted something in return. Surprise? A conclusion?
“But it’s not even sanitized there. He can’t—”
Then the phone rang. Göran showed with a gesture that Fredrik should take it.
“Just so you know,” he said and disappeared into the corridor.
Fredrik answered. It was Wiklander.
“Listen, I’ve checked and it must have been Katja Nyberg. She was the only one doing a job in Copenhagen on October fourth and she matches your description well. I’ve taken out her folder. She left at the end of January.”
“Why did she leave?”
“She had a temporary position.”
Hannes Wiklander coughed. Fredrik could hear the sound of a ringing telephone that no one answered.
“Did Katja Nyberg cover Copenhagen?” he asked.
“Cover is saying a lot. But she did a number of jobs there. We get a lot from Copenhagen, as you understand.”
“Yes.”
Fredrik had not reflected on that before, but of course that’s how it must be.
“Can you fax over the contents of that personnel file?” he said.
“Of course. Anything else I can do?”
“What was she like as a person? Could you try to describe her?”
“Well, she was…”
Wiklander had to think a moment.
“She was pleasant, a bit serious, but still easy to make contact with. I think she was appreciated by her colleagues. Actually you would probably get a better answer from one of them. As boss you have a certain distance.”
“How was she as a journalist?”
“I guess she was…”
He continued.
“She was capable, that I can say, but no star. She was a little uneven.”
“From day to day, or how so?” asked Fredrik.
“No. She started extremely ambitiously during the summer and fall, but then it was as if she went soft. There were several temporary positions that ran out at the end of January. A few we needed to extend until April and I had Katja as a conceivable name, but then … I don’t know what happened, but there was something.”
“But it was nothing specific?” said Fredrik.
“No. She seemed tired, not really on the ball. Maybe there was something in her personal life, or something mental. I really don’t know.”
* * *
Three minutes later Fredrik held the fax in his hand. Pity that not everyone he dealt with was as efficient as Hannes Wiklander.
The fax consisted of four pages. The first was a form from the newspaper human resources department with Katja Nyberg’s personal information. The other three pages were the application to the temporary position with attached CV.
In 2005 she had earned her degree from the journalism school in Gothenburg.
77.
“Here she is, Katja Nyberg.”
Fredrik set the passport photo on Sara’s desk.
The woman in the picture had shoulder-length blond hair, sad eyes, and a broad mouth with full lips.
“No chapped skin on the cheek,” said Sara.
“The passport is three years old.”
For the moment there were things that interested him more than skin complaints.
“She was born in Gävle in 1978. She moves to Uppsala with her parents in 1993 and then to Gothenburg in 2001 to study. And finally to Malmö where she now lives. Uppsala, Gothenburg, and then the hotel in Copenhagen. Where she demonstrably has met Henrik Kjellander.”
Fredrik was trying to keep a cool head, but there was too much that matched. This could really be something.
“Look here.”
He unfolded the map of Gothenburg he had brought with him and set it down on the desk.
“Here is the
journalism school, or JMG as it seems to be called now,” he said and pointed.
He moved his finger to a different part of the city.
“Katja Nyberg lived here on Kommendörsgatan while she was studying in Gothenburg. Say that she took the streetcar to the university, got off here at Kaptensgatan, that’s the nearest stop.”
Fredrik follows the streetcar line with his index finger.
“In that case every day she went past…”
He let his finger come down on the map with a tapping sound.
“Prinsgatan 8!”
“The last tenant in Kalbjerga,” said Sara and looked up from the map. “The fake address.”
She let her eyes glide over the map again.
“But she also passes thirty or more other streets.”
“I know. I would have been more satisfied, too, if it was in the neighboring block. But this is not chance,” he said, throwing out his hand toward the map.
“There seems to be one coincidence too many, I agree with that, but…”
Sara took her eyes off the map, not looking really convinced.
“These are big cities, a lot of people could fit this.”
“She was at St. Petri. She met Henrik in the bar.”
“Take it easy, I just mean that it would be good to have something more.”
“Look at this,” said Fredrik impatiently.
He set out the information from the tax authorities and the insurance office.
“She has had extremely uneven income, even after her education. Besides the temporary position at Sydsvenska Dagbladet she has only had one other journalist job. Otherwise she has worked for a staffing agency. Maybe not so strange in itself, but she has also had several longer medical leaves. After the second year at JMG she interrupted her studies for six months.”
“Maybe the interruption in studies coincides with the sick leave,” said Sara.
She started looking through the papers from the insurance office.
“Yes, look at this!”
She turned the paper so that Fredrik could read it and pointed at one of the lines.
“She was on sick leave two months during the year she had a break in her studies.”
“You see,” he said.
“Although this is only circumstantial evidence and hardly that. It would be better if we could prove that she was in Uppsala on the fourth of June.”
The Intruder Page 32