by Bragelonne
‘Were you on good terms with Linnéa?’ Emily continued.
Karl’s jaw tightened. His lips curled downwards. ‘We were not on speaking terms.’
‘Had she tried to contact you?’
‘No.’
‘And how about you?’
‘Contact her? Why would I?’
‘And your studio: is it in the house?’ Emily cleverly changed the subject, her voice neutral.
There was a flash of childish excitement in the artist’s previously vacant eyes. ‘It’s in the barn next door.’
‘Could we take a look?’
Karl’s features froze again. ‘In order to do that, ladies, you’d have to come back with some official papers.’
Emily hadn’t spoken since they had left Karl Svensson’s house.
Her nose stuck against the car window, Alexis was watching the landscape unfurl. The sky was low and heavy, and gave her the impression the day hadn’t yet begun. The trees were bending under the weight of the snow, like an old man overcome by the burden of the passing years.
‘What did you want to know?’
Alexis jumped. Emily’s voice had stolen her away from her lyrical dreams. She collected her sparse thoughts.
‘I’m sorry I interrupted your inspection of the marina yesterday evening…’
‘No harm. I went back this morning. What was it you wanted?’
‘I’m not sure you’ll be able to answer me…’
The profiler remained silent, her eyes drawn to the road they were driving on.
‘Tell me about the other women. The two London victims.’
‘They were two young boys.’
‘Two b…’
Alexis had assumed all along they were women, between thirty and forty, blonde like Linnéa, even with long hair. Not this. Not children. She closed her eyes for a while in an attempt to digest this new information.
‘The same wounds…?’
Emily nodded.
A wave of pain coursed through Alexis’ chest. Thinking of the abominable agony the children must have endured. The unbearable sadness of the parents, the families. Her mind went to her nephew and niece, and a ring of nausea encircled her heart, dismay washing over her. But she had to remain strong. She couldn’t break down a second time in front of Emily.
Alexis opened her side window a little; a rush of cold air swept across her, returning her to the present.
‘Are you thinking of two separate killers with the same signature, but different modus operandi?’ she continued, her voice strained.
‘Maybe.’
‘And Linnéa might have surprised them?’
‘Surprised or recognised,’ Emily continued, still unwilling to take her eyes off the road.
Alexis felt cold sweat run down the back of her neck.
It was clear the police were suspicious of anyone close to Linnéa.
Wednesday, 15 January 2014
He sets the scalpel down on the steel tray. The blue absorbent paper shrivels when the blade and the blood-spattered handle make contact with it.
Earlier, the walls were sweating. Those who had been transformed were vomiting their fear and anxieties. Their tears, the size of rain drops, dripped all the way down to the floor. When they finally stopped crying, he gazed at their accusing, horrified eyes.
But no longer. Now, all is silent. A comforting, pleasing silence. The child is quiet and terror has left his eyes.
He wraps gauze around the sockets and the opening he has carved into the child’s neck. With an antiseptic cloth, he cleans the forehead, the nose and the marbled cheeks. Then the shoulders, the torso and the navel, on which he delicately places a cotton pad to absorb the blood. He throws the soaked pad away and completes his cleaning with a small, thin towel that he has rolled round his fingers. He uses it to delve into the depths of the ears, to wipe the sides of the nose and the skin on the child’s stomach.
He takes off the white overalls, the mask, the shoe covers and the cap holding back his hair, and steps into the small kitchen he has set up by the study. He picks up an olive lying in an earthenware ramequin and, nibbling away at it, slices through one of the green lemons he has left by the sink. He drops the slice into his glass and drowns it in sparkling water. He takes a sip and closes his eyes. The bubbles wash over his tongue, running down his palate.
Dear God, was he thirsty!
Gustaf Bratt restaurant, Falkenberg
Wednesday, 15 January 2014, 19.00
OUT OF BREATH, Alexis pushed through Bratt’s doors. Although the restaurant was only a stone’s throw from the hotel, the short distance had frozen her from head to toe.
She’d gone out with the intention of picking up a pizza she could then eat in her hotel room, but had changed her mind. She’d recalled the generous bread basket and the soothing light of the candles, and her plans had changed.
The restaurant was almost empty. She sat herself at a small, round table. She ordered a glass of Pouilly Fumé to complement her scallop carpaccio when Bergström, accompanied by a woman who was almost as tall as he was, walked in.
Noticing her, the Kommissionar greeted her with a nod of the chin. Alexis responded with a wave of her hand, then concentrated again on her Pouilly, glad not to have to share it with anyone.
She was about to bite into the final rye bread roll from the basket when, out of the corner of her eye, she realised that Bergström’s companion was moving towards her table. Lithe, a welcoming smile illuminated her features.
‘Good evening, Alexis. I’m Lena, Lennart’s wife.’
Obliged to neglect her piece of bread, Alexis shook hands with her.
‘Why don’t you come and join us? I hear it’s your last night here, and I can’t have you eating on your own, can I?’
Alexis had no choice. It would be impolite to decline the invitation. She tried to appear pleased, and reluctantly left her small, round table behind.
‘Stellan should be arriving any minute now. I hope you don’t mind,’ Lena added, sitting next to Bergström, who was halfway through a telephone conversation.
This is getting better and better, Alexis reflected, feeling misanthropic. The previous evening, she’d almost fled Stellan’s convinced he had been Linnéa’s lover. And now she was going to be stuck at a table with him!
‘I’m sorry, Alexis,’ Bergström said as he hung up. ‘I couldn’t convince my wife to leave you alone. She’s not easy to persuade…’
Lena smiled and patted her husband’s hand, then called a waiter over and ordered the same wine Alexis had been drinking.
Stellan made an appearance while the sauvignon blanc was being poured. He said ‘hej’ to everyone present and sat himself next to Alexis, facing the Bergströms.
‘I found this lovely lady on her own,’ Lena explained. ‘I knew right away she would be much better off sitting with us. Where were you?’
‘With Molin,’ said Stellan, puffing his cheeks out slightly, in a sign of indifference.
‘What did he want?’
‘He wants us to start work on the country house in the summer, rather than around Christmas.’
‘This summer? But we’re already busy with two sites in Stockholm and one overseas!’
‘He won’t listen to reason,’ Stellan said.
Bergström began laughing loudly. ‘Poor Alexis hasn’t a clue what you’re talking about!’
Alexis remained silent.
‘Lena and Stellan work together. I can’t begin to tell you all the problems that come up when a brother and sister disagree…’
Alexis widened her eyes with surprise.
‘Oh, you didn’t know that either? Your friend Emily sure isn’t into gossip, is she?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s my fault,’ Stellan intervened. ‘I should have thought of telling you…’
‘Welcome to our family dinner,’ Lena joked, winking at Alexis as she poured another glass of wine.
Grand Hotel, Falkenberg
Wednesday, 15 January 2014, 20.00
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br /> A TOWEL DRAPED around her waist, Emily came out of the bathroom and sat herself down on the bed, her body still dripping with water. In front of her she’d laid out a dozen photographs and her notepad.
When Pearce had arrived at her house, around midnight on Sunday, she hadn’t expected him to tell her that a body discovered in Sweden displayed the same injuries seen on the Hampstead victims. Normally, killers were territorial. But the details passed on by the Falkenberg police – a sectioned trachea; enucleation; and a letter carved into the arm – left no doubt: the murder of Linnéa Blix, some thousands of kilometres from London, was connected to her existing cases. The new death changed everything about the direction of her enquiries. She’d have to start from scratch.
Emily picked up an oat biscuit from her bedside table and chewed away at it in silence.
Returning from Karl Svensson’s, she had dropped Alexis off at the hotel and then visited the police station to get hold of the autopsy report and the notes about the neighbouring area, which had been written in English at Bergström’s request. As she had half expected, there were no real surprises. The medical examiner’s conclusions, however, were in Swedish. Emily and the Kommissionar had sat themselves down in the conference room and, without protest, Bergström had translated the report for her, page by page.
According to the medical examiner, Linnéa Blix had died approximately one week before the body had been discovered. Which placed her death on the weekend of the 4th and 5th of January. Linnea’s mobile-phone records had provided no useful clues, as Linnéa hadn’t used it once following her arrival in Sweden.
Like the children found in Hampstead, she had died of asphyxia. The medical examiner had found traces of glue, originating from some kind of adhesive band, which had been placed around her neck. His theory, which was similar to his English counterpart’s, was that the victim’s head had been wrapped inside a bag, which had then been taped tightly around the neck.
The enucleation, the sectioning of the trachea, the carving of the letter into the arm and the cleansing of the body, had all taken place post mortem, as had happened with the London victims. The incisions around the eyes and the neck had been made with a scalpel in a precise and tidy manner in all cases.
The Kommissionar had ventured to suggest that the use of a scalpel and the surgical aspect of the wounds might point to a criminal with a medical background. Emily had shaken her head. A killer’s anatomical knowledge seldom had anything to do with his day-to-day work. Sociopaths and psychopaths often had strange hobbies.
There were no signs of sexual activity, either with the children or Linnéa. The only fibres found on her body almost certainly originated from the clothes she had been wearing when she had been killed. As with the two previous victims, the killer had left no trace that could point in his direction; not a single clue.
Emily stared at the three scene-of-crime photos spread out across the bed. They all echoed each other, even Linnéa’s shaven pubis which, aesthetically, matched the hairless genital areas of the small boys.
Emily knew from experience that, when it came to comparing crime scenes, it was best to concentrate on the similarities rather than the differences. But here she just couldn’t dismiss the divergences: in Linnéa’s case, the sex and age of the victim, an X rather than a Y carved into her arm, and this so much deeper than the others. The fact that Linnéa had not actually been buried could be attributed to the sheer hardness of the frozen ground in Falkenberg, which might explain why her body had been hidden out of sight under the boat.
Emily shed her towel, pulled her legs up under her and stretched her back. With one finger she slid the photo of Linnéa lying in the snow towards her. The killer had not covered her face, and he hadn’t cut her hair. Could this mean he felt no anger towards her, had no wish to punish her? This in no way, however, excluded the possibility that he might have known her.
Emily stepped off the bed, switched the kettle on and dropped a tea bag into a cup.
These changes in the modus operandi were leading her towards a variety of theories.
The first was that there were two killers involved, one of whom was dominant over the other. The criminal identity of the Swedish killer hadn’t yet fully evolved; he was merely borrowing elements from the working methods and fantasies of his London inspiration.
Emily filled the cup with boiling water and went back to sit on the bed.
Her second theory was that there was only one killer – the London one; he had links with Sweden and hunted there at random. Linnéa Blix, a perfect stranger, had happened to cross his path.
The third possibility was that there was only one killer, but Linnéa knew him and they had come across each other in Sweden.
In the last two instances, the killer had followed his usual procedure, but had had to deviate from it in that his victim was a woman and he had been unable to bury her.
Emily carefully sipped the steaming drink.
At any rate, the criminal or criminals always took the time to clean up the corpses after they had been mutilated, then provided them with some form of burial. A proof, if needed, of a kind of remorse, but maybe also respect.
Emily rolled her shoulders to release the tightness in her muscles.
Her gaze moved from the slit throats to the dark, empty orbs, and lingered on the letters carved into the victims’ left arms. The direction of the letter was different on each body. Compared to the shoulder-hand axis, Linnéa’s X was straight, seeming to point north, while the first victim’s Y veered to the right, indicating north-north-east, and the second one pointed towards east-south-east.
These spatial indications, however, provided her with no clue as to where the next body might be discovered, the potential victim’s place of residence, nor the identity of any victim who might follow. Emily could think of no explanation for the variations. Pearce had had scores of people studying the matter, but no one had come up with anything.
The signification of the trachea being removed represented less of a problem: the killer, who certainly suffered from hallucinations, was preventing his victims from speaking or screaming. The enucleation could be interpreted in several ways: either the murderer could not bear to watch the victims’ look of panic, which mirrored his own cruelty, or he was hoping to shield them from the painful truth by blinding them. Which theory was correct? Right now, Emily had no clue.
She picked up her notebook and read her most recent notes. They concerned Linnéa’s ex-husband. Not once had he referred to his ex-wife by name. He’d always said ‘she’, indicating some form of disapproval. Here, the profiler could only agree with Stellan Eklund: Svensson was a narcissist – he’d been so excited when the location of his work studio had been mentioned. But he was a narcissist who had something to hide. His whole posture betrayed the fact: arms crossed, gritted teeth, eyes shaded. When Emily had asked him if she could visit his workspace, Svensson had immediately gone on the defensive, clearly feeling threatened.
However, as things stood, according to Bergström, the judge was unlikely to grant them a search warrant on the grounds of suspicion alone.
She would have to wait. Wait for the next victim.
She picked up the photographs and locked them away, together with her notebook, inside the room’s safe. She then quickly brushed her teeth and slipped between the sheets.
Before switching the light off, she opened the small black box she had set down on the bedside table and briefly peered inside before looking away.
Hampstead Village, London
Thursday, 16 January 2014, 18.00
EMILY CLIMBED THE STEEP PATH that led to the Holly Bush in three hearty steps. With a nod of her head, she greeted Bridge, the bouncer standing by the door, who responded with a ‘Hello Em’, his voice rough from years of heavy smoking.
The profiler made her way to the back of the pub and entered a small room to the right. Sitting at a round table was Detective Chief Superintendent Jack Pearce, two foamy glasses of b
eer of different colours marking out his territory.
‘Just in from Heathrow?’
She took off her parka and sat down facing him.
‘I just dropped my case off at home.’
She took a mouthful of the black beer and looked at her boss.
‘We’re still combing through the passenger manifests,’ Pearce said, his face expressionless.
Emily slowly nodded her head.
‘Look, you know all too well how much work that takes – seven airports in Sweden, and Copenhagen to boot. Are you aware of the number of flights connecting London to Sweden and Copenhagen in a week? That’s a hell of a lot of names to check up on; it takes time.’
The profiler kept on sipping at her Guinness as if it were a vintage Bordeaux.
Pearce leaned back and continued, now in a lower voice: ‘For now, we haven’t found anything. No one close to Linnéa appears on any of the passenger lists. And all the alibis are solid: Alba and Paul Vidal were in London, as was Alexis Castells. Peter Templeton was in Lausanne and Anselme in Berlin. We’ve checked the flights departing Lausanne and Berlin for Scandinavia, and they don’t appear on any list. So nothing on that front. What about you – anything about the Swedes?’
‘Stellan was in Stockholm, alone, and Karl Svensson was at home in Falkenberg, with a young woman who has confirmed his alibi.’
‘Svensson was close by. Eklund could have made the journey by car.’
‘The same applies to our London friends. They could even have taken a ferry to get to Sweden.’
‘I know, Emily. I know.’ Pearce downed some more of his lager. ‘Stellan Eklund is Bergström’s brother-in-law, isn’t he?’
She nodded silently.
‘He’s the ex-copper?’
A similar gesture.
‘Do you think he was Linnéa Blix’s lover?’
Emily’s head began to move.
‘Please, Emily,’ begged Pearce, ‘say something. I’m not into sign language.’