by Bragelonne
* Rörö is a small island of two hundred and sixty-nine inhabitants on the west coast of Sweden, in the Bohuslän province.
Linnéa Blix’s home, Olofsbo, Falkenberg
Tuesday, 14 January 2014, 14.00
LEFT ALONE following Emily’s departure, Alexis had begun sorting out the contents of the study, setting invoices and irrelevant documents aside, then inspecting the kitchen and the drawing room. All Peter wanted to keep were Linnéa’s sketches. He’d asked for the rest – the furniture, books, crockery, clothes and trinkets – to be given away to charity.
She had not been looking forward to completing this inventory. She was aware of the pain it might cause her. Every single object had the potential to revive the person she had loved so much; might give Alexis the feeling that she was sinking into Linnéa’s lost embrace. In effect, however, what with the kitchen’s orange wall tiles, the drawing room and the living room’s psychedelic tapestries and the unmatched furniture, she felt as if she was not truly in her friend’s place at all, and this made the task easier. The police had left few traces of their presence: just, here and there, white and black flecks of powder across the wooden floor, on the door handles and on the light switches, which gave the impression of random touches of minor artistry dotting loud patterns of the place.
Upstairs, the guest room was barely large enough to fit a bed and a narrow set of drawers; however, it offered an unmissable view of the beach and the lighthouse. Linnéa’s bedroom had a curiously rural feel to it for a place bordering the sea. The bed had a flowery patchwork cover, and the walls, whose lower halves were panelled, displayed a wallpaper of bucolic tones, which stretched all the way to the ceiling. Lively yellow curtains framed the windows. A novel by Harry Martinson and another by Jan Guillou sat on the right-hand bedside table, while on the left was an empty leather wallet. A fitted white-wood cupboard faced the bed.
As she opened the cupboard door, Alexis could feel her heartbeat pounding: a red coat, silvery Louboutin shoes, a silk blouse and a pair of pin-striped trousers – the outfit Linnéa had no doubt been planning to wear for the Cartier evening. Alexis moved the hangers from one side to the other. The clothes were so delicate she had the feeling she was looking through a child’s wardrobe. At one metre fifty-five, Linnéa’s height didn’t conform to Swedish standards, only her blonde hair and pale eyes betraying her origins.
Alexis suddenly frowned. Two pairs of trousers, a couple of T-shirts and a pullover – all much too large to fit her friend – hung in the far right of the cupboard. She checked the labels: the jeans in a 42, the tops L.
Alexis sat down on the edge of the bed. A man’s clothing. But Peter had never set foot in this room.
‘Miss Castells?’
She jumped. The duty cop had popped his head round the open door.
‘There’s someone downstairs who wishes to see you. Name’s Stellan Eklund. I’m not allowed to let him in as he’s not on the list of permitted visitors the station gave me for today. I’m sorry, but I’m new to this; not supposed to make any mistakes, you’ll understand…’
‘That’s OK. Thank you.’
A wave of lassitude taking hold of her, Alexis sighed and gave a final look in the cupboard. She followed the cop out of the room, feeling as if she was abandoning Linnéa’s unknown lover there alone, unobserved.
Stellan was waiting for her outside, indifferent to the gusts of cold wind buffeting his face and inflating the hood of his anorak.
‘Hej, Alexis. I went by the police station and Bergström told me I’d find you here.’
‘Do you have some news about the enquiry?’ she asked, worried.
‘None at all, I’m afraid … Just wanted to offer you something of a coffee break, let you breathe a little. I can drive you back here as soon as you want to get back on the case again.’
It was true – Stellan had come at exactly the right time. Alexis needed to inject a new perspective into her thoughts.
She picked up her handbag in the hall and stepped into the car. One minute later, they arrived at Stellan’s.
Alexis’ heart tightened as she walked into the house. She recalled following Kristian Olofsson through this corridor, then meeting the gentle giant Bergström, who had informed her of her friend’s death. She briefly closed her eyes and imperceptibly shook her head, forbidding herself to dwell on this recent memory.
‘Come, we’ll be better in the kitchen,’ Stellan proposed.
Her gaze fascinated by the wide glass windows, Alexis slowly moved towards the breakfast counter. The house had been built on the edge of the beach, just far enough from the sea that you could embrace its splendour, just close enough to appreciate its power. Black, foaming waves washed over the snow-crowned shingles, forming the prelude to the imminent sunset.
Stellan handed a cup to Alexis and sat down next to her. They watched the night fall across the beach in comfortable silence.
A few minutes later, a second cup of coffee in her hand, Alexis asked Stellan Eklund how he’d originally met Linnéa. And, while he was telling her about the summer when he was fourteen, she wondered whether the men’s clothing abandoned in the bedroom cupboard belonged to him.
Olofsbo, Falkenberg
Tuesday, 14 January 2014, 16.00
EMILY WALKED FAST along the cycle path bordering the snow-covered road. The wind was animating the snowflakes, sending them dancing like a swarm of small flies. Her body felt tight, her thoughts confused, frustration spreading like poison through her veins.
Bergström had handed over most of the files she had requested: the aerial views of the area where Linnéa Blix had been discovered; the scale map of the immediate surroundings; the preliminary police report containing all the information about the circumstances in which the body was found, as well as the relevant socio-economic information about the Olofsbo area. But she was still waiting for the autopsy report; and of Linnéa’s neighbours, only Stellan Eklund had been interviewed.
Eklund: a retired cop with a zealous reputation who now worked in real estate. Unusual and uncommon enough for her to ignore and not wish to meet Eklund in the flesh.
The profiler broke into a steady run in an attempt to get rid of some of the tension that was building up inside her.
The investigations, both into the murders of the children in London, as well as into Linnéa’s death, cast more shadows than light at this stage. Information filtered through in no particular order, spoiling her attempts to forge any form of profile of the killer. This latest death had added fresh elements, but nothing that enabled Emily to start separating the wheat from the chaff.
First she should focus on Linnéa Blix. Alexis Castells had painted an interesting picture of her and, furthermore, Emily had made a fascinating discovery at the victim’s home that very morning. She was now eager to hear what the ex-cop, Eklund, would be able to tell her about Linnéa. Or reveal about himself.
She slowed her pace, regulated her breathing and rang Stellan’s bell.
She hadn’t warned him she was coming over. She preferred to take people by surprise, catch them in the midst of their day-to-day activities, not allowing them enough time to compose themselves.
Stellan Eklund opened the door, a cup of coffee in his hand. Emily remembered catching sight of him as she arrived at the police station. Tall, square shoulders and jaw, pale eyes; the sort of guy you couldn’t help noticing.
She quickly introduced herself, walked inside and, to conform with Swedish habits, took off her shoes. Following Stellan into the kitchen, she came across Alexis, leaning against the American-style counter. She nodded towards her, careful not to betray any surprise.
Alexis felt like a child caught lying. Her cheeks reddened as she cleared her throat and responded to Emily’s greeting.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you at home, Stellan,’ the profiler said, a candid smile spreading across her lips. ‘I’m attempting to draw up a profile of the victim and I need your help…’
Alexis, shoc
ked, threw a glance at her. She’d never witnessed Emily be so tactful and gentle.
‘I’ll leave you to it,’ she said, getting off her stool.
‘I’m not bothered if you want to stay,’ Emily said, then turned to Stellan: ‘As long as it’s OK with you.’
Alexis opened her eyes wide. This was unbelievable. Emily on a charm offensive.
Stellan, totally relaxed, nodded his head.
Emily accepted the coffee she was offered and they all sat at the living-room table, facing the sea.
Delighted to be allowed to stay, but in a state of discomfort, Alexis left a chair between her and her host and concentrated on her cup.
‘Linnéa Blix and you had known each other for a long time, am I right?’
Emily’s voice swam with empathy. Alexis had to prevent herself looking up to the sky in sheer amazement.
‘We knew each other as teenagers,’ replied Stellan. ‘We spent our summers in Båstad, with our parents. It’s a town on the coast, a bit further to the south.’
‘You lived in the region?’
‘No. I lived in Stockholm. And Linnéa in Norrköping.’
‘How did you end up in Falkenberg?’
‘My first posting, twenty years ago. I liked it here, so I stayed on.’
‘And Linnéa?’
‘Linnéa left Sweden some two decades ago. She only came here on vacation. If I remember correctly, she bought her house almost three years ago. Prior to that, she stayed with her parents, in Båstad. Following their deaths, she sold their villa and acquired this farm – her “psychedelic chalet” she used to call it. She didn’t change a thing inside. She was waiting to come into some money and summon up enough energy to deal with the place properly. We’d planned to set to work on it this year, in the spring.’ He frowned as he said this, his eyes looking down at his coffee cup.
Pain flowed through Alexis. How did everyone else find it so easy to talk about Linnéa?
‘You were going to renovate the house together?’
Stellan looked at Emily in silence for a few seconds. ‘No. Linnéa had asked us to do the work.’
‘Us?’ Emily’s eyes had shrunk, making her look somewhat suspicious.
‘I deal in real estate,’ he explained as he rose from the table.
He moved behind the kitchen counter, picked up the coffee pot and returned, serving all three of them again.
‘I manage a building company dealing with renovations.’
‘Are you familiar with Linnéa’s ex-husband?’
These sudden changes of subject enervated Alexis. Stellan, on the other hand, didn’t appear bothered.
‘Yes. Karl was part of the group of kids we spent our holidays with.’
‘And have you stayed in touch with him?’
Stellan straightened. ‘No.’
‘What type of man is he?’
‘Angry. Full of himself. A notorious pervert.’ Every single word was spoken sharply, like a sword cutting through the air.
‘Do you know Peter Templeton?’
‘I once had dinner with him and Linnéa in London. And we came across each other the other evening.’
‘What did you make of him?’
‘I liked him. Back in London I found him sympathetic, open. Although, on Sunday, he was more like a man torn apart by his partner’s death.’
‘Did Linnéa ever talk to you about her relationship with him?’
‘She would never discuss her personal life with me.’
‘Do you know if she was sleeping with anyone else?’
Stellan made no sign of being surprised or shocked by the question. ‘I really don’t know. If that was the case, she didn’t confide in me.’
Of course, Alexis thought. There was no doubt Emily had also noticed the items of male clothing in Linnéa’s cupboard. And the profiler was asking the very same questions she herself would have asked.
Torsviks småbåtshamn, Olofsbo, Falkenberg
Tuesday 14 January 2014, 17.00
THE HEAVY CURTAIN OF NIGHT hung like a cloud of ice, the cold turning into something even fiercer.
Emily energetically advanced along the field bordering the Olofsbo beach. Alexis had difficulty keeping up; she was nowhere near as strong, nor did she possess the right equipment for this sort of romp, with the snow and frost pulling the temperature down to minus 15 degrees. The cold was clawing all the way down to the bottom of her lungs, insinuating itself through all her layers of clothing, breezing across her skin. But she had no one else to blame but herself: she was the one who’d insisted, on leaving Stellan’s place, that she accompany the profiler to the small pleasure harbour. Emily wanted to see the småbåtshamn again, now she had the scale map of the area and the aerial photographs in hand.
A wave of questions about Linnéa’s murder swept through Alexis’ mind, and Emily was the only one who could provide answers. She was not looking forward to this dialogue – having to endure Emily’s brusque mannerisms and misanthropic attitude, but it would be worth it, she knew. She’d return to Linnéa’s to complete the inventory tomorrow.
Emily’s torch beam swept across the ground, illuminating their path as they moved along to the sound of their shoes struggling through the snow.
Alexis gritted her teeth to divert the pain. With every step, she had to raise her knees almost halfway to her waist in order to extricate her legs from the frozen grip of the snow. Her thigh muscles soon tired, reminding her how unfit she was.
Emily, on the other hand, moved with surprising agility. Alexis watched her conquer the fields of snow with a demeanour that was simultaneously feline and warrior-like. She was thinking back to how unctuous the profiler had been when interrogating Stellan, almost seductive in fact. Had she taken a fancy to him, or what? And why not? Alexis pondered.
They finally left the field and reached the small marina, if she was to believe the presence of the pontoons isolated in the midst of the icy esplanade. They swerved to the right to avoid the pontoons, and finally came level with a small wooden hut braced against the dune.
Alexis pulled a bottle of water from her bag and greedily drank the whole half-litre in an attempt to soothe the fire raging in her lungs.
‘Do you want some more?’ Emily asked, reaching for her rucksack.
Alexis whispered a ‘no’, wiping her mouth dry with the back of her hand.
‘I’ve never known you to be so considerate,’ she said. ‘You surprised me at Stellan’s, earlier.’
‘I’m told people respond well to this sort of approach,’ Emily answered with assurance, then gripped the small torch between her teeth.
She pulled a thick cardboard folder from her backpack, and from the folder took a set of photographs, which she placed under the circle of light from the torch. Alexis noted these were aerial views of the bay and the beach. Photographs of the area where her friend’s body had been found, abandoned.
Eyes strained with anguish, she looked away, staring at the desolate landscape. She was treading the same ground as Linnéa’s killer. Her feet were standing on the very ground across which he had probably dragged the naked, mutilated body.
It wasn’t as if Alexis was not accustomed to crime scenes. To document her books, she had looked at countless blood-splattered and horrifying photos. She’d examined them with cold eyes, with the detachment of someone who hadn’t been involved, and had not experienced the suffering. With two exceptions: one particular murder seven years earlier, and now Linnéa’s.
Her heart was beating frantically inside her chest and she felt the sudden urge to vomit. She leaned forward to expel the bile rising up her throat, spitting it out. She had to swallow hard a couple of times to repel the horrible taste spreading across her palate as she bent forward; it was as if even gravity was conspiring against her, and she felt her nerves jangle.
A hand brushed against her shoulder: Emily was encouraging her to just let go, expel the pain and the anxiety. Alexis allowed a wave of sadness to submerge her thou
ghts and feelings. Tears welled up in her eyes, threatening to drown her. She forgot the cold surrounding her, the snowflakes burning her face and hands, hanging onto her hair, her eyelashes.
Finally, the spasms became less frequent, then faded away. She straightened up, wiped her face, gulped down a sharp gust of cold air as if it might negate the sorrow, and followed Emily, who had begun climbing the dune. On the other side was the car park where they had left the car.
Inside, Alexis curled herself up, waiting for Emily to switch the engine on and the heating to begin working.
They drove in silence to the hotel.
Standing in front of the door to her room, Alexis couldn’t help thinking over and again about all the questions going round in circles in her mind. But Emily anticipated her thoughts.
‘Go and have a rest,’ she said. ‘We’ll talk about it tomorrow.’
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
He lowers his hand to the top of the child’s head and, with his fingers, combs the rebellious strands into place. His hair is soft, much too long for a small boy.
He leans down and buries his face in the untidy curls obscuring the child’s forehead. The smell has become slightly acrid, but he knows that if he breathes in deeply enough, his nostrils will inhale a touch of sweetness, with a hint of vanilla.
His inhalations are noisy and greedy, and the little one’s hair is tickling the end of his nose. He smiles. A smile full of tenderness, overflowing with pride.
He continues to caress the child’s head, his mouth nearing the perfect and divine oval-shaped ear.
‘I know you don’t want to have a bath.’
His worried eyes move from the steel slab to the tub. This is the part he never likes. The bath. And the rest. Takes too long. Fastidious.
‘But not quite right now. You can lay here a little longer, you know.’
His tongue moves across his dry lips.