Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘I stared at those lists for a while longer.’

  ‘How do you manage it? And why?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s like I want to savour the names. So that they’re there if I need them. Maybe see if any bells start ringing.’

  ‘So, did they?’

  ‘No, but you never know. Sooner or later maybe.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to Zetterström and Nieminen. Come in and sit down and I’ll tell you about it. Is Eriksson here yet?’

  ‘Think so. I’ll go get him.’

  Sjöberg reported on the current situation for his two colleagues, after which Eriksson slunk away. Sjöberg realized that he had a lot to do on the Vita Bergen case so he let him go when he had finished his summary.

  ‘We have to call in Joakim Andersson,’ Hamad suggested.

  Sjöberg shook his head. ‘I’m curious about that family, so I think I’d rather go to him. Check out the atmosphere. Meet the mother. If I’m lucky maybe I’ll see that brute of a father too, if he hasn’t left for work yet.’

  Sjöberg glanced at his watch. Half past seven.

  ‘You know the kind of hours they have at the bank. He might very well be home still,’ he continued. ‘I suggest you get to work on those solo travellers immediately. Call them or get help from Lotten and bring them in at, say, fifteen-minute intervals. I’ll aim to be back from the school around twelve, so count me in after that and we’ll divvy up the job.’

  ‘Speaking of families,’ said Hamad. ‘When you think about the Johansson family … What a strange group! Those girls have grown up in that environment; they don’t know anything else. In Sweden you’re so vulnerable. Even if there isn’t a dad, there should at least be grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, neighbours, whatever. There ought to be someone who cares. I think it’s the welfare state’s fault. It’s like you don’t need to be responsible for anyone else. Society does it for you.’

  He was silent for a few moments, as if considering what he had said. Sjöberg waited for him to continue.

  ‘I guess what I’m getting at is that maybe it isn’t a coincidence that something like this happened to Jennifer Johansson in particular. Who knows what trouble she invited? Home for her was an environment where all the individuals were dangerous in their own way, to themselves and to others. How could she distinguish something really dangerous from what was run of the mill to her? She could have ended up in any sort of company, done any kind of stupid thing. Maybe she did do something incredibly stupid or saw something really ugly.’

  ‘And so she only had herself to blame?’ Sjöberg said provocatively, as if to take the edge off the seriousness of it all.

  ‘More like the other way round. She had no chance to defend herself. That’s what I mean. That story with the Finns in the cabin. How much do you know about life if you go along with something like that?’

  ‘Way too much,’ Sjöberg said.

  ‘Or too little. I’m not so sure this incident really has anything to do with the murder, but it’s an indication if nothing else. An indication that Jennifer Johansson was capable of quite a lot.’

  ‘Or that she wasn’t capable of anything,’ said Sjöberg. ‘That she was a reed in the wind. Being blown around, unable to control her own fate.’

  ‘Is that the impression you have of her? That she was a victim who let herself be controlled by others?’

  ‘No, it’s not. But whatever happened to her, she was innocent.’

  ‘She was sixteen. Just a kid. We’ll get him, Conny.’

  ‘We’ll get him,’ Sjöberg agreed.

  * * *

  When Barbro had arrived home at her apartment on Doktor Abelins Gata on Monday evening it was already getting dark. She was tired, hungry and dissatisfied. After a quick dinner, she fell asleep like a clubbed ox and slept for the whole night without interruption.

  When she woke up she was rested and angry. Mostly at herself because she had not got going earlier the day before and had to give up her search after the Zinken allotments. But also at the whole situation. If a little three-year-old girl really had been abandoned by her parents, how could the police not take it more seriously instead of simply shifting the responsibility on to an overloaded telephone service provider? Deep down she knew the answer. It was no more complicated than that they didn’t believe her, and perhaps they were right not to. Hopefully they were right in this particular case. She wanted nothing more than for Hanna simply to be a child with a lively imagination who made crank calls and invented scary stories while her mother was in the laundry room. At the same time, Barbro did not like the idea that she might be perceived as a confused old lady, just seven years after retiring as a hard-working academic and pillar of society. She felt hurt, in short. Her nose had been put out of joint.

  Now a full day had passed since she talked to that Nyman fellow at the county detective unit, and Barbro did not intend to leave him alone. It would be best to act before her fury subsided. She remembered a story she had recently read on the Internet, about a man who woke up in the night and discovered that there were thieves in his garage. He called the police and told them what was going on, but they answered that they had a lot to do and no cars were available. A little later the man called again and said that the police could cancel his previous report, because he had shot the intruders. Two minutes later six cars showed up and the crooks were arrested.

  ‘I thought you said you’d shot the thieves?’ said one of the policemen.

  ‘I thought you said you didn’t have any available cars,’ the man replied.

  The idea crossed Barbro’s mind that she should blow the whole thing up. Pretend that the girl said her mother was dead in the apartment. But she dismissed that idea. If it turned out the whole thing was a misunderstanding, she might be taken to court for false reporting and she was not prepared to take that risk.

  She imagined that Nyman – by his tone alone – judged her to be a hysterical version of Miss Marple, and she intended to convince him otherwise. Now she would take on the role of angry terrier. Still in her pyjamas, she steeled herself and reached for the phone with her teeth bared.

  ‘This is Barbro Dahlström. We spoke yesterday, as I’m sure you recall, and now I want to know whether you’ve managed to locate that call I received on Sunday evening.’

  Pure facts, no prattle about little girls left alone – that would only make her seem emotional and unreliable.

  ‘The provider has been informed,’ answered Nyman.

  Barbro wondered whether he was telling the truth.

  ‘As I said, it may take a week if they have a lot to do,’ he continued, ‘and most of the time they do.’

  ‘You also said that it can take twenty-four hours in prioritized cases. Like this one,’ Barbro added.

  ‘Well, this is not exactly a typical example of a prioritized case,’ Nyman began, but Barbro was quick to counter him.

  ‘It may turn out that that’s just what it is. If you find a dead three-year-old in a few days, perhaps you’ll regret not making this a higher priority. I think we should try to avoid that.’

  ‘That sounds ominous,’ Nyman laughed in the receiver. ‘But I’ll do what I can. Besides, it hasn’t really been twenty-four hours yet.’

  Barbro glanced at the clock; it was only quarter past eight. Perhaps she ought to be grateful that he was even at work at this time. But she did not feel particularly grateful. On the contrary, she had a strong feeling that he was not taking her seriously this time either.

  ‘How hard can it be?’ she said in her sternest tone of voice. ‘See that it gets done, then you’ll be rid of me. I’ll be in touch during the day.’

  Barbro ended the call, feeling no less frustrated but even more resolved to succeed in her project. With an angry snort she shook off the detective’s condescending tone and half an hour later she locked the door and was on her way out for yet another day among the allotments of south Stockholm.

  * * *

  Not surprisingly, i
t was Joakim who opened the door at quarter past eight. He gave Sjöberg a look first of surprise, then fear.

  ‘I was in the neighbourhood,’ Sjöberg explained. A white lie, he told himself. ‘I thought you could avoid a trip to the station today.’

  Joakim looked at him, and Sjöberg could see his mind was racing behind the anxious eyes.

  ‘I know you have your mother to take care of,’ Sjöberg continued when he got no response. ‘I have a few questions I’d like to ask you, if that’s all right. May I come in?’

  ‘Uh, sure,’ Joakim stammered, taking a few steps backwards.

  He remained standing there, in the entrance hall, and Sjöberg got a feeling that Joakim did not want him to go any further into his home. But he stepped out of his shoes anyway and took a few steps in Joakim’s direction, without taking off his jacket. Joakim stood as if rooted to the spot and looked at him desperately.

  ‘Well,’ said Sjöberg with exaggerated calm. ‘Shall we go in?’

  Joakim leaned against the wall and let him past. Sjöberg went into the living room and glanced towards the three-piece suite. ‘Is this a house search or something?’ Joakim said.

  ‘Not at all,’ Sjöberg answered calmly. ‘I’m just looking around a little.’

  He continued into the small kitchen, which only held a breakfast nook for two, by a window overlooking an inner courtyard, and a worktop with cupboards above and below as well as a cooker. On the opposite wall were the fridge and freezer and a tall cupboard that might contain cleaning things or food. The room had a somewhat shabby air, but it was clean and things were put away.

  ‘So where’s your mother?’ he asked, apparently unperturbed.

  ‘She’s sleeping,’ Joakim answered quickly. ‘What were you going to ask?’

  Sjöberg was already on his way out of the kitchen and answered with a counter-question.

  ‘Is this where she’s sleeping?’

  He went back through the unimaginatively furnished living room, with its bookshelf without books, the conventional suite and a TV that had seen better days. On the table was a half-full ashtray. In the windows hung yellowed half-transparent curtains, framing a few surprisingly vigorous monsteras. Across from the hall a small corridor with a cupboard ran past a bathroom and ended in a wall with two closed doors. Voices were coming from inside one of the rooms, like from a radio or TV. Sjöberg knocked carefully on the door and looked at Joakim with a smile that he meant to seem good-hearted.

  ‘You don’t need to …’ Joakim implored, but Sjöberg disregarded the sympathy he felt and let his curiosity guide him.

  He pushed down the handle and opened the door, determined not to reveal any reaction.

  The little room was completely taken up by a double bed. On the wall above the foot of the bed a TV was mounted. Spread-eagled on the bed was a woman, dressed in an enormous, light-blue garment like a housedress. The woman was bare legged, and the gigantic blocks of her legs led up to a gigantic body. Layer upon layer of massive rolls of fat were spread out over the bed; the head was like a colossal pumpkin without a neck, and her skin was dry, cracked and scaly.

  Sjöberg had never seen anything like it. This was not a person; this was a monster lying there on the bed before him. In the middle of that giant head was a little face, with a mouth, nose and two small embedded eyes, looking at him in terror. As he had resolved, Sjöberg managed to conceal his immediate reaction of horror and disgust, even though he could not have imagined what he would encounter behind the door. He gave her a friendly smile and introduced himself with exaggerated heartiness.

  ‘Good day, good day. Conny Sjöberg is my name. From the Hammarby Police.’

  She still looked terrified, but answered in an uncannily light, beautiful voice, ‘Good morning.’

  Sjöberg did not know what to say next. He considered leaving after a few polite phrases, but after a moment of hesitation the official in him took over.

  ‘You appear to need professional care. Is it Joakim who takes care of you?’

  ‘Yes, and he does it very well. We get along fine.’

  ‘Do you ever see a doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m not sick exactly …’

  She switched her gaze from the frightening stranger to her son.

  ‘Why did you bring the police here?’ she wanted to know, but Sjöberg answered for him.

  ‘This is just a routine matter. It has nothing to do with you. I’m here because we’re investigating a murder. An acquaintance of Joakim’s was murdered. Didn’t you know about that?’

  ‘No,’ she answered with surprise, looking at Joakim as if she expected an explanation.

  The woman was spending her life in this bed. God knows for how many years she’d been here, cut off from the outside world, disconnected from all responsibility, happily ignorant of what was going on beyond her bedroom.

  ‘You can’t carry on like this,’ Sjöberg asserted. ‘This is indefensible. You need medical care. You can’t lie here like this, it won’t do. Joakim can’t be solely responsible for you in this condition. He has no training for this sort of thing. He’s twenty-four years old and has his whole life ahead of him. I’m going to contact the social authorities. It’s my duty.’

  ‘But what will people say?’ was the only thing that came out of her mouth.

  How he loathed that phrase. Those words that controlled life for so many people in this country. He had a mind to tell her that she should have thought of that earlier. But what did he know about what had driven her into this room? Perhaps it had been a way for her to escape, thought Sjöberg. Perhaps she had eaten herself away from her husband’s abuse of her son, eaten herself away from the hardships of life and into the corner of the world that was her own. A hiding place where there was only room for her, where she was cared for without being in an institution, a place where she was free from harsh words and accusations. She had become a family secret, an eyesore that must be kept away from the world. But what she really was, thought Sjöberg, was a monument. A monument to this family’s secrets.

  He turned to Joakim, who was standing behind him in the corridor, looking at his feet.

  ‘Now we’ll get to those questions,’ he said, but then he caught sight of the other door and on impulse decided to find out what was behind it too.

  He opened the door and looked into a bedroom that was smaller than the other one, furnished with a single bed, wider than normal, and a bedside table. The blinds were drawn, but despite the darkness Sjöberg could see that the bed was unmade. At first he saw only an ordinary bedroom, like any other, and furnished like the rest of the apartment without any attempt to make it cosy. But as he was about to close the door he was struck by the insight that more than one person slept in this room. On a chair in one corner were clothes that must be Joakim’s, tossed into a heap. Over a valet stand in front of the window hung a cardigan and tie that evidently belonged to the father. In the bed he saw three pillows and two blankets. He remained standing in the doorway, unable to bring himself to say anything, for a long time. What could he say? What should he say?

  ‘So, this is your bedroom?’ he asked simply.

  Joakim nodded self-consciously.

  ‘And your dad’s?’ Sjöberg added, in a tone that was as neutral as he could make it.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ mumbled Joakim.

  Sjöberg felt a growing sense of unease. A distaste for the whole situation, for this musty, run-down, cramped little apartment with its gloom and its colourless walls. A suspicion was taking shape in his mind, a suspicion that this family had more secrets than he had at first thought.

  He closed the door and went back out into the living room.

  ‘Can we sit here?’ he asked Joakim, gesturing towards the dark-green suite.

  ‘Sure,’ Joakim answered guardedly.

  They each sat down in an armchair and Sjöberg tried to brush aside what he had just seen. He put the MP3 player on record and tackled his actual business.

  ‘We have been ab
le to chart another few hours of the end of Jennifer’s life,’ he said matter-of-factly.

  Joakim showed no reaction.

  ‘You said the last time you saw her was when she was sitting in the dance hall together with two considerably older men, is that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When they’d had a few drinks they left the bar together, all three of them.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joakim tonelessly.

  ‘Then they went to the two men’s cabin.’

  No comment.

  ‘I think you already know this, Joakim. Am I wrong?’

  Joakim did not say anything, just looked down at his hands.

  ‘You’re not answering, Joakim. I want you to answer me when I ask you a question.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I have a lawyer then?’

  ‘You’re not suspected of anything. Yet.’ Sjöberg emphasized. ‘But I do get suspicious when you refuse to answer questions and when you lie to me. Wasn’t it the case that you followed them to the cabin and stood outside until they had finished whatever they were doing inside? Wasn’t that how it was?’

  Joakim let out a heavy sigh and answered without looking Sjöberg in the eyes, ‘Yes, I guess that’s how it was.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell us that to begin with?’ asked Sjöberg, even though he already knew the answer.

  ‘Then you would just think I’d followed her.’

  ‘But you did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but then. You’d think that I killed her.’

  ‘And you didn’t do that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you did follow her. Why did you do that?’

  ‘I wanted to know what she was doing. What she was thinking.’

  ‘About the two of you, you mean?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think she thought about the two of you?’

  ‘I don’t think she thought about me at all.’

  ‘That’s just what I think too,’ said Sjöberg provocatively. ‘I think she’d lost interest in you.’

  Joakim did not answer, did not change his expression. Sjöberg studied him for a while in silence before he continued.