Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  Then it actually got quiet in the kitchen, and through clouds of smoke the two policemen saw five pairs of tired eyes turn towards them.

  ‘Conny Sjöberg, Violent Crimes Unit, Hammarby,’ said Sjöberg, holding up his police ID. ‘Jamal Hamad, the same,’ he continued, gesturing towards his colleague. ‘Which one of you lives here?’

  ‘She does,’ said the man at the table, pointing at a woman with tangled, shoulder-length dyed-blonde hair.

  The woman straightened up a little and looked at them with an attempt at a smile.

  ‘Are you Lena Johansson?’

  She cleared her throat, but instead of saying anything she simply nodded in response.

  ‘Are you the mother of Jennifer Johansson?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, taking a quick puff on her cigarette.

  ‘Can we perhaps talk privately in another room?’ asked Sjöberg.

  The woman shrugged, scooted the chair back and got up on unsteady legs, a beer can in her hand. She went ahead of them into a simply furnished living room and tumbled down on one of the two worn plush couches on either side of a low table. The lacquered pine surface was covered with circular stains only partially concealed by a thin layer of dust and ash. Sjöberg and Hamad sat down on the couch opposite her. The conversation started up again in the kitchen and soon the voices were just as loud as before.

  ‘I have some bad news to tell you,’ Sjöberg began.

  The woman looked at him uncertainly. The police probably didn’t talk that way when the neighbours had complained.

  ‘I’m sorry to say that Jennifer is dead.’

  She did not seem to take the information in, but continued smoking her cigarette instead, apparently unperturbed, saying nothing. Sjöberg waited quietly for her reaction.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a few days,’ she said after a while. ‘She’s in Finland, I think.’

  ‘Lena, she’s dead. Jennifer is dead. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  ‘I’m not stupid. Even if I may be a little drunk.’

  She spoke with a calm, slightly drawling voice, and her eyes wandered back and forth between the two policemen.

  ‘I also have to tell you that Jennifer was murdered,’ said Sjöberg.

  She sat quietly for a few seconds before she said anything.

  ‘Did it hurt?’

  Finally, some kind of healthy reaction, Sjöberg thought.

  ‘It probably hurt,’ he answered factually. ‘Jennifer was strangled. It presumably took a while, but she didn’t have to suffer too long. She’s in Åbo now. She was murdered on a Finland ferry. We don’t have any suspects yet. Do you have any idea who would do something like that to Jennifer?’

  ‘No,’ her mother answered, still equally blunt. ‘You’ll have to ask Elise.’

  ‘Elise?’

  ‘My other girl. But she’s not home right now.’

  ‘Is there anyone else in the family?’

  ‘No. Just the three of us.’

  ‘Do you have any friend or relative you can ask to come over?’

  Laughter and noise from the kitchen. She tapped a long pillar of ash down into the beer can.

  ‘We want to give you a little time to digest this terrible news,’ said Sjöberg, ‘but we will need to speak further to both you and Elise.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Preferably as soon as possible. Can we come back tomorrow afternoon?’

  ‘I’m sure that will be fine. But I don’t know whether Elise will be home then.’

  ‘I want you to make sure that she is. It would also be nice if you could be completely sober then.’

  Sjöberg felt ashamed when he said that; he did not want to sound threatening, but he was forced to continue. ‘Otherwise we’ll have to bring you in for questioning, and I’m sure you would prefer us not to do that.’

  Lena Johansson mumbled something inaudible in response and let her gaze rest on a random point on the yellowing wall behind them.

  ‘We’re extremely sorry about this, I hope you understand. There is help available if you need it. You can call this number any time, day or night,’ said Sjöberg, handing her a card. ‘I’ll see to it that someone comes here too, someone you can talk to. But try to ask a friend or relative to stay with you as support.’

  The card left a long trail behind it on the dusty tabletop. The friends in the kitchen were laughing. The woman twisted her neck and looked absentmindedly in their direction. Sjöberg and Hamad got up from the couch at the same time.

  ‘We’ll meet here tomorrow afternoon then,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Some time between five and six. We are truly sorry about what happened.’

  He hoped that Lena Johansson was too.

  * * *

  It was almost ten when Petra got back to the police building. She, Sandén and a few reinforcements had been door-knocking in the area around Vitabergsparken, but as far as she knew none of them had produced any interesting information so far. The medical examiner Kaj Zetterström had called and estimated the time of the woman’s death at some time between Friday evening and Saturday morning.

  Petra froze inside when she heard that. Could that little baby have been lying outside in the cold for more than twenty-four hours before he got care? In a park in central Stockholm without anyone noticing him? He must have stopped crying before it was morning. Because he must have cried. The doctors at Karolinska had not found any injuries, just that he had hypothermia and was dehydrated. He had a severe throat infection too. According to what they said the last time she spoke to them, he would not have lasted much longer. But now his condition was stable. They thought he would recover without any lasting damage, although they could give no guarantees.

  No one had contacted them yet. No one missed the little boy and his mother, or perhaps babysitter. It was disgusting that you could be so isolated in a city, surrounded by people. So alone in a large community. The hunt for witnesses had become simpler once they had an approximate time to work with, but despite that no one they had spoken to so far had seen or heard anything. She had visited the ever-friendly and helpful Ester Jensen on Stora Mejtens Gränd again. She lived near the discovery site and had not gone out on Friday evening, but she had not noticed anything either.

  They had a difficult, extensive job ahead of them. Vitabergsparken was surrounded by apartment buildings. They had only covered a fraction of them before they had to quit for the day. Petra sent home the police officers who were supposed to be off for the weekend and the increasingly fatigued Sandén. She suspected he had been up late the night before, but he hadn’t complained.

  The lights were off in all the offices along the dimly lit corridor, except in Einar Eriksson’s, where the midnight oil was burning, she thought ironically. Einar was not one to exert himself unnecessarily, but he did what he was asked and pretty well besides, even if it was seldom without complaining. As she passed his office, she hesitated for a moment before she stopped after all. She knocked lightly on the open door and stepped in. Eriksson did not look up but continued to stare at the screen in front of him.

  ‘It’s too dark in here,’ she said with solicitude in her voice that she did not feel. ‘You’ll ruin your eyes.’

  He muttered something under his breath, still without looking at her. The office smelled musty in a way that Petra unconsciously associated with beard stubble.

  ‘Have you found anything?’ she continued.

  ‘I’ve produced an extensive list of previously convicted passengers on the Finland ferry. No murderers, though. I haven’t found any missing infants, if that’s what you’re wondering. No missing mothers of infants or babysitters either. But I can tell you that the pram is an Emmaljunga, 2003 model.’

  ‘An ’03,’ said Petra pensively, and was about to say something else when her mobile phone rang.

  She pulled it out of her pocket and assumed it was Sjöberg, as it usually was when the display read ‘Blocked number’.

  ‘And here’s a list of sales locations in
Stockholm,’ said Eriksson, apparently undisturbed by the ringing. ‘New and used. And here’s a list of childcare centres in the area. I don’t have anything else for you yet,’ he said in conclusion, returning to his searching on the computer.

  Petra suspected he hadn’t met her gaze once during the conversation. She wanted to say something encouraging, but instead she picked up the lists and left the office to answer the call.

  * * *

  ‘And what was your name again?’

  ‘Barbro Dahlström.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Doktor Abelins Gata 6,’ answered Barbro.

  ‘Where’s that?’

  ‘It’s on Södermalm, but that’s not important –’

  ‘I’ll connect you to the Hammarby Police Department,’ the female voice interrupted.

  ‘No, wait a moment. It doesn’t matter where I live; the girl might live anywhere in Stockholm.’

  ‘Then you should call the county detective unit. You’ll have to call back tomorrow.’

  ‘In that case I’ll try the Hammarby Police anyway,’ said Barbro irritated, surprised at her own stubbornness.

  ‘Very well.’

  After a few seconds, giving Barbro a little time to think through how she should express herself, a male voice answered at the other end.

  ‘Hammarby Police, Lundin.’

  ‘I would like to make a report concerning a small child whom I think is in danger,’ said Barbro, deliberately skipping the courtesies.

  ‘Does this concern a report of a violent crime?’ asked Lundin.

  ‘No, not exactly, but I would like to speak to someone.’

  ‘Then I’ll connect you to a patrol officer.’

  ‘Fine. Thanks,’ said Barbro.

  ‘Holgersson,’ answered an authoritative voice, before Barbro even heard a ring.

  ‘My name is Barbro Dahlström and I have received an unpleasant telephone call –’

  ‘Then this isn’t the number to call.’

  ‘Yes, but that’s what I’m doing now anyway,’ she said with increasing irritation. ‘This is important. A little girl called me – not someone I know, she called at random and happened to get me – and told me that she was at home all alone. She must be pretty young, because she didn’t know for example what her last name was or where she lived. But she spoke extremely well otherwise –’

  ‘To the point,’ said Holgersson sullenly. ‘I’ve got lots to do.’

  ‘Yes, the point is just that no one is taking care of her. Her father is out of town, she says, and her mother has moved. She hurt herself and is making her own food. She wants me to come and rescue her, but of course I don’t know where she lives. You have to help me.’

  ‘How could I do that? You said you don’t know where she lives or what her name is.’

  ‘You’re the police, for God’s sake!’

  ‘But I’m not a psychic.’

  Barbro bit her tongue; she must try to remain calm now.

  ‘I know that her name is Hanna. And that she lives in Stockholm.’

  ‘Stockholm’s a big city. I suggest you contact the county detective unit.’

  ‘But I have managed to get certain details about the surroundings of the building where she lives.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Are you writing down what I’m saying?’

  ‘No,’ answered Holgersson. ‘Like I just said, you’ll have to contact the county detective unit about this. Good luck with that.’

  The conversation was over. In no way did Barbro feel convinced that the county detective unit would take her more seriously.

  * * *

  It might be too late, but it had been a hectic day and Sjöberg felt he ought to call Åsa. Check how they were doing. Justify his existence, though he was not sure why that should suddenly be in question. He sat down at the kitchen table with a glass of milk and a cheese sandwich, smelling again the aroma of Margit Olofsson’s modest perfume in his nostrils. It had come and gone all day; the power of the olfactory memory could not be denied. He took a bite of the sandwich and tried to recall the aroma of Åsa’s perfume instead. Pleasures, he thought. But it didn’t work; he could only smell cheese. And Margit. He reached for the phone and dialled Åsa’s number.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No problem, we just got the kids to bed. What are you doing?’

  ‘Just got home. I’ve been working all day.’

  ‘Working? Haven’t you been at the hospital?’

  ‘Sure, I drove Mum home this morning, helped her shop and all that. Now we’ve got two bodies and an abandoned infant on our plate.’

  Sjöberg briefly related the events of the day.

  ‘You must be really tired,’ said Åsa when he was finished. ‘Weren’t you going out on the town last night, you and Jens?’

  ‘Yes, I should go to bed now.’

  ‘Were you out, or what?’

  ‘Yes, we were. I’m completely done in.’

  ‘So where did you go?’

  Åsa was curious, as always, but why shouldn’t she be? They were in the habit of telling each other about things they did. Not to be controlling, but out of interest. Genuine interest and the desire to share each other’s lives.

  ‘First we had a beer at the Half Way Inn. Then we had a bite at Portofino.’

  ‘Portofino! On Brännkyrkagatan? Are you kidding me?’

  ‘Kidding? Why would I do that?’

  ‘You and I were supposed to go there!’

  Åsa was upset, and Sjöberg felt himself also starting to feel angry. He was an adult, damn it!

  ‘So when? In seventeen years, when the kids have moved out?’

  He regretted it as soon as he said it, but Åsa did not give it up.

  ‘That place is really expensive!’

  ‘Really expensive, I don’t know … But there’s nothing to keep you and me from going there too, is there?’

  ‘Maybe our budget. If you’re throwing away our money on a night out with Sandén.’

  ‘We just had pasta! Since when do I have to ask for permission to go to a restaurant?’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  And then she hung up. Åsa was mad. Sjöberg had not been prepared for that, but for some reason it was not completely unwelcome. The subject of how the evening developed after dinner at the restaurant had not come up.

  Monday Morning

  Petra Westman had two dozen police officers, Sandén among them, out knocking on doors. So far no witnesses had been found, nor could anyone give them any useful information about the dead woman or the child. The medical examiner had determined earlier that morning that the woman was indeed the mother of the child – a piece of information that Petra received with some relief, in terms of the investigation, trying not to think about the implications for the child.

  Petra herself was at a children’s health centre on Barnängsgatan, hoping to find a paediatric nurse who recognized the dead woman or her son. This was the first children’s health centre she had visited. Every child goes for periodic check-ups by a nurse, and the younger the child, the more often it is weighed and measured. The woman looked Swedish, as did the child. Somewhere in the country there must be a nurse who would recognize them both, hopefully in Stockholm and preferably on Södermalm.

  The waiting room was already full of people. The majority were mothers with infants, but a few of the children were big enough to crawl and walk. A father was sitting at a little table being served make-believe food by his daughter on a plastic dining set.

  ‘Mum,’ a four-year-old boy called from a red plastic car, ‘can you push me?’

  The mother was a woman in her thirties trying to read Parents magazine while she nursed a baby.

  ‘Not now, Hugo,’ she answered quietly, so as not to disturb the infant she had in her arms. ‘The baby needs food.’

  Then it occurred to Petra for the first time that the woman might have more than one child, that there might be siblings who were also miss
ing their mother. But in that case they must be in good hands, she told herself. Perhaps they’re out of town, with a grandmother or their dad. Perhaps the parents were divorced. They had to find out who this woman was. They could hardly publish a picture of her when the only one they had was of an obviously dead person, with severe skull injuries besides.

  A nurse came into the waiting room and looked around as if she were expecting someone in particular. A good sign, thought Petra. They recognize their patients. She went up to the nurse and addressed her in a low voice, keeping her back to the others in the waiting room so as not to attract unnecessary attention.

  ‘I need to speak to you. My name is Petra Westman and I’m from the police.’

  The woman, who was in her fifties, looked at her in surprise.

  ‘Of course. I was just going to call a patient, but that can wait a moment. We’ll go to my office.’

  She looked around the waiting room and caught sight of the family she was expecting.

  ‘There’s Otto!’ she said to the nursing mother. ‘It will be your turn soon. I just have to take care of this first.’

  She showed Petra into her office, closed the door behind them and extended her hand.

  ‘Well then, my name is Margareta Flink. What’s this about?’

  Petra explained her errand in a brief, factual manner. The nurse looked at her bemused.

  ‘I’m going to show you several pictures. One of them is extremely unpleasant. I’m sorry about that, but I have to.’

  Petra held out the photographs.

  ‘I’d like to know if you recognize either of them. The woman is about thirty-five.’

  The nurse instinctively recoiled from the appearance of the dead woman, but she studied the pictures carefully before she answered.

  ‘Unfortunately I don’t recognize either of them. This is not one of my mums, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘I’ll need to ask all your colleagues here the same question,’ Petra continued. ‘Right now seems to be the best opportunity. I’d also like to get a list of all the other children’s health centres around here.’

  ‘There are only a few, but I’ll write them down for you,’ the nurse answered willingly.

  ‘Are new mums assigned to a children’s health centre,’ Petra asked, ‘or can they choose any one they want?’