“In the box under the nightstand.”
“Are there any more notes?” Lindell asked, turning the pages and seeing for herself brief notations on roughly every other page. All were written in pencil and—from what Lindell could tell—in Gabriella’s handwriting.
“Pålle,” Haver said. “Who is that?”
“Pålle,” Lindell said slowly. “It’s a nickname.”
She had not come across it before anywhere else in the investigation.
“He knows Gabriella, is agitated, and wants to see her. He has most likely been here before. For some reason she doesn’t want him to come,” Haver summarized.
“Is he mentioned anywhere else?”
“Not that I’ve seen so far,” Haver said.
Lindell was quiet and tried to imagine Gabriella with the notebook in front of her.
“It must be a person that she has a relationship to, a person who means something,” she said. “Who is called Pålle?”
“A Paul, Peter, Per-Olof, Petter,” Haver began.
“Pålle, Pålle,” Lindell repeated.
Lindell looked at a couple of more pages at random. It was not a diary in the traditional sense, more a collection of comments. Some were about the planting of vegetables, others about the weather. Sven-Erik’s name appeared in many places. “Sven-Erik is coming” from May 20, and “Sven-Erik in Spain” on February 14.
“Okay,” Lindell said. “Why don’t you finish checking this and write up all of the notes that may be of interest. Skip the plants and the weather; take down all the names and their frequency.”
“Pålle,” Haver said musingly, as if he were trying to visualize this acquaintance of Gabriella’s.
Lindell continued to turn the pages. On May 28, Gabriella had noted something that baffled her:”The calf is looking worse. Poor thing.” She showed it to Haver.
“What calf?” he said. “Did she have cows?”
“I don’t think so,” Lindell said. “Maybe there’s a neighbor who has some.”
* * *
Lindell felt more satisfied as she got into the car to leave the cottage for a second time. Gabriella had been given a voice, even if only a few words in an journal. Who was Pålle? Lindell felt certain that he was a close acquaintance; otherwise Mark wouldn’t have used this nickname the way she did.
Was Pålle the killer? It sounded like the name of a horse, Lindell thought, and imagined a large Ardennes draft horse with enormous hooves, a generous mane, and a long, rough tail.
Twenty-one
Uncovering the details of Gabriella Mark’s life and circle of acquaintances was a simple enough task, but frustrating nonetheless. She had been a very lonely woman. This was the conclusion Lindell arrived at upon reading Beatrice’s report.
Born in a little village outside Simrishamn. Her father was a dentist and her mother a dental hygienist at the same practice. Both dead for five years: her mother from cancer and her father by drowning off the coast of Sri Lanka. Lindell’s colleagues in Simrishamn had gathered a half page of information. There was nothing of a sensational nature.
Mark had no siblings. Her closest relatives were three cousins, one in Ystad, one in Tomelilla, and the third in Malmö. The first two had never had any real contact with Gabriella Mark. The third was the only one who had been in sporadic contact with her through the years. They wrote and called each other, according to the cousin in Ystad. They had not yet been able to get ahold of the Malmö cousin. The Malmö police had gone to her apartment, but no one had opened. A neighbor had said that she left for vacation a week ago and planned to be gone for fourteen days. She was hiking in the Dolomites.
The last time the four of them met up was three years ago. The meeting had been in regard to an inheritance from their grandparents. Gabriella Mark had traveled to Simrishamn and selected some decorative items.
Gabriella had always been a little unusual, as one of the cousins put it. Not unfriendly exactly, but reserved. Neither of them had ever heard of Sven-Erik Cederén.
The company that Gabriella had been working for most recently had gone out of business. Beatrice had managed to trace the former owner to Holland, where he was now involved in real estate transactions. He had sounded genuinely distraught when he was informed of Mark’s death.
“She was a wonderful person,” he had said on the poor connection from Boskoop.
Lindell thought it was comforting that someone had said a positive word about anyone in the investigation.
“She was also a very fine project manager,” he said. “She had good ideas and was able to implement them, which is more than can be said for most people. She was hard to discourage, as stubborn as a mule, and very single-minded.”
“Why did she quit?” Beatrice had asked.
“She didn’t. She went on disability after the car crash that killed her husband. She never really rebounded from that blow.”
The man had paused, and Beatrice thought she had been cut off, but he had then made a comment that Beatrice and Lindell later discussed the significance of.
“Gabriella always wanted to be fair. She hated injustice, whether it was whose turn it was to make coffee or something that she had read about in the morning paper. I think she got this from her father, who had been a bit of a do-gooder and truthsayer. She often talked about him.”
Beatrice had thought it was refreshing to speak with a real estate swindler who was so adept at discussing personal relations.
“She lost everyone who meant anything to her,” Lindell said as she and Beatrice went through the facts about Gabriella Mark. “Her husband died, her parents, and then this with Cederén.”
“It’s no wonder she was taking oxazepam,” Beatrice said.
“She hated injustice,” Lindell said thoughtfully.
She had liked Gabriella. Too bad we didn’t get to talk more, she thought.
“She would have made a good police officer,” Beatrice said.
“Yes, we are also project managers,” Lindell said. “Project Justice.”
The physician who had prescribed medication to Mark did not have much to add. They had not had any extended contact. Apparently she had not confided in him, just turned to him as a way to get tranquilizers and sleep aids.
Financially she had been comfortable. The cottage was paid off. She had inherited a certain amount from her parents and could be characterized as financially independent even though she had been on disability for such an extended period. Her monetary assets had been close to eight hundred thousand kronor. She was saving for her retirement and had no debts as far as they could tell.
“So she wasn’t after his money,” Beatrice said. “She had enough of her own.”
“I wonder if she knew about Cederén’s affairs in the Dominican Republic? Did she know that he had bought land out there? Maybe it was a joint project?”
“I don’t think so,” Lindell said. “Although you have a point. Do you remember the fragments of that letter we found? That Piñeda who wrote that they were suffering? Could that have been from the Dominican Republic? With Mark’s sense of justice, it’s not hard to imagine she would have wanted to put things right.”
Their meeting was set to begin in fifteen minutes. The Cederén investigation was now being viewed differently. Lindell closed her eyes and tried to find some kind of logic in all of these loose threads. Where did Piñeda’s letter fit? The attack of the animal rights activists at TV4? What had Gabriella known that was so dangerous she had to be silenced?
When she opened her eyes, Beatrice was watching her with an expression of both concern and curiosity.
What does she see? Lindell wondered. Their eyes met for a brief moment. They were not particularly close, even though they were the only women in the unit and should therefore have felt a certain kinship. Was there perhaps a streak of competition between them? Beatrice was not easy to get close to. That was probably necessary in this line of work. She could be acerbic. Many of their male colleagues thought of her as
a bitch, and even Lindell sometimes wished she were a little softer.
“At least the guy who was injured on the stairs at the television station is going to be okay. The paralysis in his legs is gone,” Beatrice said.
“That’s great,” Lindell said. “But our paralysis is increasing.”
“Is it a man?” Beatrice asked.
Lindell nodded. “Yes. I think a woman would have trouble strangling another woman.”
“He must have known her.”
“I think so. This is definitely no maniac who appeared out of the woods and choked her to death for the fun of it. He knew her and wanted to keep her from talking.”
Lindell felt the nausea come on in waves and stood up. Her lack of concentration bothered her. How long was she going to feel this way?
“If we assume Mark’s theory that Cederén was murdered, what would the motive be?” Beatrice went on.
“Perhaps financial,” Lindell said.
With an effort she managed to repress the nausea and turned back around.
“Maybe,” Beatrice said doubtfully. “But MedForsk was doing well. They had consistently great results and new medical breakthroughs. They were at the brink of a significant expansion.”
“The point at which things are starting to go well is often when desperation becomes the greatest—if there’s something wrong with the picture. Maybe Cederén was the problem?”
Lindell felt suddenly close to tears. Again she had to turn her back to Beatrice. Images of Josefin’s and Emily’s bodies by the side of the road in Uppsala-Näs flashed before her. Above all, the girl’s dress and her little hands that had been picking flowers.
“How are things?” Beatrice asked. “You seem a little down.”
Lindell nodded weakly toward the window.
“I’m thinking of Emily,” she said quietly.
“Little kids dying is the worst,” Beatrice agreed. “I’ve also been thinking of her.”
They were both quiet for a while. Lindell sensed that Beatrice would like to continue. She both wanted and didn’t want Beatrice to ask her more about how she was feeling. She realized that she needed to talk to someone. Her mother was out of the question, in part because their discussion would have to be over the phone and because the situation of finally getting a grandchild but without a son-in-law would be so confusing for her mother. She would not be able to provide any sensible or comforting words.
Beatrice was the only woman who was somewhat close to Lindell, but only because they saw each other daily, not because they had very much else in common.
“Don’t take this personally,” Beatrice said. “I know that sounds absurd, but—”
“I can handle it,” Lindell interrupted.
* * *
The morning meeting was a somber affair. Everyone was affected by the new homicide and the fact that the Cederén case had to be taken in a different direction. Sammy Nilsson was the exception. He seemed to be stimulated by the fact that the situation had grown more complicated.
“Gabriella Mark is the key,” he said enthusiastically.
The rest of them pondered this for a few seconds, but no one found anything revolutionary in the pronouncement. There were plenty of keys. A new lead could be found by accident. Stating that solving the murder of Gabriella Mark could break the entire MedForsk case was hardly a revelation, but his colleagues let the comment stand. It was good that someone was positive. Perhaps they would even find a hint of value in his lengthy commentary.
“I have been checking her calls over the past few months,” he continued. “She has not made very many, but a couple stick out as more important than the rest. A couple actually complicate this whole thing even further.”
He paused dramatically. Now the others realized that perhaps he had a reason for his optimism and waited for him to continue.
“Four times she has made calls to Jack Mortensen, the CEO of MedForsk. And once to Cederén’s parents.”
Lindell’s head jerked up. “Mortensen?” she said. “He denied all knowledge of Cederén’s having a lover. When were the calls?”
“The last one was the day before yesterday,” said Sammy Nilsson. “Fourteen-ten. And before that, on three separate occasions. The first call took place the day after Cederén’s death.”
“Damn,” Lindell said in spite of herself.
“The call to the parents was made a week ago and was about eight minutes long. Her call to Mortensen was about fifty-two minutes long.”
“Fifty-two minutes,” Haver echoed. “They must have had a lot to talk about.”
“Let’s bring him in,” Ottosson said. “Let him sweat a little. Ann, why don’t you talk to Cederén’s father again and see what the call with Gabriella was all about.”
Lindell could see the old couple in her mind’s eye. What did Mark have to say to them? Perhaps they knew one another from before.
“We know that she was strangled between nine and ten the night before last,” Ryde said. “There are indications that it happened in the kitchen. A throw rug was scrunched up in a strange way. Since the rest of the kitchen was tidy, the state of the rug seemed significant, but of course we can’t be sure. There were no fingerprints apart from hers and Cederén’s. Nothing in the garbage, nothing under her fingernails. No other indications of injury on the body and no bruises.”
“We have the journal,” Berglund jumped in. “It doesn’t give us more than the name Pålle. We also have some chicken scratches on a little notepad, not exactly a diary, but a series of writings that appear to stem from the time that her husband died. Sad reading. The address book had about forty names, which has to be characterized as relatively few. There is no Pålle anywhere. I’m still in the process of reviewing the list.”
Ottosson looked appreciatively at him and nodded.
“Her shoes were still in the house. As you know, she was found barefoot, which corroborates the theory that she was killed inside. Her heels are dirty, consistent with the body’s having been dragged down to the stone pile,” Ryde said, and Lindell had the impression that he and Berglund had staged their participation.
“Have any of the neighbors seen anything?” Ottosson asked.
“No, not anyone we’ve talked to so far,” Haver said. “Nilsson—our Rasbo expert—is in charge of that. But there are some indications that someone has been lurking at the edge of the woods. Bronkan’s team found some evidence, but he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. There’s elk shit, to be sure.”
“Okay,” Ottosson said. “Someone came to the cottage, most likely someone that Mark knew. He entered, either invited or uninvited, strangled her, and then took off. There’s no sign that anything else was touched or stolen.”
“Hard to say. We don’t know what was there before,” Berglund pointed out.
“That’s true,” Ottosson said. “But nothing appeared messed up or searched through, I mean.”
There were a couple of seconds of silence before Lindell took over.
“There’s the question of motive. Gabriella Mark talked to me on the phone twice. The first time she sounded bewildered and upset, but the second time she was more collected and convinced that Cederén was innocent. She also thought it was completely unbelievable that he would have committed suicide. As her strongest argument, she raised the issue of the gin. What do we think of that?”
“So Cederén had been forced to drink gin and then been gassed to death?” Ottosson said skeptically.
Lindell nodded.
“It’s not completely out of the question,” she said. “Mark was very sure of herself. We’re looking into Cederén’s background to see if he ever drank gin.”
“Who could have told her that detail? It wasn’t in the papers.”
“I’ve been wondering that too,” Lindell said.
“Did we tell anyone?” Haver asked.
“I have,” Beatrice said and everyone’s faces turned toward her. “I talked to Cederén’s parents, and when his mother asked me if I
thought her son had suffered very much before he died, I said no. I said that he had been heavily intoxicated when it happened and probably hadn’t felt a thing.”
No one said anything.
“I said it to comfort her,” Beatrice added.
“Did you mention that it was gin?” Lindell asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe. That may have been wrong,” she went on when no one said anything.
“Right, wrong,” Ottosson said. “I understand what you were thinking. Let’s just ask Cederén’s mother,” he added, trying to lighten the situation.
* * *
The meeting wrapped with Lindell summarizing the current findings and assigning tasks. This wasn’t strictly necessary, since all of them were clear on what they were doing, but it was helpful for her own sake, to negate her own passivity. Ottosson smiled at her and rubbed his beard. Beatrice glanced at her from the side. Haver just looked impatient.
Afterward, Lindell went straight to the bathroom. She wanted to see herself in the mirror, to check if her inner confusion was visible from the outside. She drew one hand tenderly across her cheeks and forehead, as if in a lover’s caress. The wrinkles around her eyes had deepened, and what was even worse was that her eyes had lost their sparkle. They stared dully out of a stranger’s face attached to a stranger’s body.
She left the bathroom in a state of despair and had to force herself to take the fifteen steps to her office. Once there, she pulled her notepad over and looked up Jack Mortensen’s number. He wasn’t at MedForsk and he also didn’t answer his cell or home numbers. She left a voice mail on each line.
* * *
Haver was poring over passenger lists from Arlanda. This project had begun the moment that Cederén had disappeared. The goal then had been to find Cederén’s name. Now the search had been widened to include a number of incoming and outgoing flights from the Dominican Republic and Málaga. There were thousands of names. He had ruled out most of the charter flights and was concentrating on the regular routes.
His idea had been that somewhere along the line he would see a name that he recognized from the investigation. Either Cederén or someone else at MedForsk. Now he was eyeing the lists to try to find the killer’s name.
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