Block 46

by Bragelonne

  Kerstin Jensen printed the document and handed it over to Emily.

  ‘Do you have closed-circuit TV in the hotel?’ she asked.

  ‘Only in the reception area and in the lifts. We retain the recordings for a month, and then they are destroyed. Which particular day are you interested in?’

  Emily consulted the document Kerstin had given her, then passed it over to Alexis.

  ‘January the 5th, a few minutes before 2.12 in the morning, and just before 8.59.’

  While Kerstin picked up the phone and saw to Emily’s request, Alexis studied the jeweller’s movements. The function he said he’d attended with Linnéa had taken place on Saturday the 4th of January. That night, Anselme, or whoever was in possession of his magnetic key card, had gone into the room at 2.12. According to his credit-card records, he’d checked out on Sunday morning at 8.59.

  Kerstin hung up, turned the computer screen towards the two young women and the recording began playing.

  At 2.07, they recognised Anselme crossing the reception hall, holding a tall brunette by the hand. Another man walked into the shot, rushing by. The two men greeted each other effusively, after which they all took the lift together. Kerstin opened a new window on her screen and the trio appeared in a low-angle shot in the lift. The couple were kissing, mouths locked tightly together while the jeweller looked on.

  Emily and Alexis had seen enough to guess how the rest of Anselme’s evening had developed.

  Kerstin, who appeared in no way shocked by the turn of events, opened a third window on the computer screen. It showed Anselme coming out of the lift at 8.48 the following day, without the couple he had been with earlier, rolling a small suitcase behind him. So it appeared he had genuinely spent the night at the Upper House hotel; he had been telling the truth.

  Emily and Alexis thanked Kerstin Jensen and made their way to the Ljus nightclub, where Richard Anselme claimed to have spent the Saturday evening.

  The club was on Avenyn, in the heart of Gothenburg, behind heavy, red, double steel doors. It wouldn’t be open for another hour.

  Jon Kasten, the manager, a man in his thirties with slick-backed hair and a healthy tan, greeted them at the bar.

  With its walls covered in a gallery of old, dull mirrors, its wooden oak panels and array of low tables flanked by brown leather armchairs, Ljus could have been mistaken for a London gentlemen’s club.

  ‘A gentlemen’s club in the country of gender equality? Never,’ he joked in reaction to Alexis’ remark.

  ‘We’re hoping to check on the whereabouts of two specific people who might have been here on the 4th of January,’ Emily explained, sitting on a tall stool. ‘Do you have cameras by the entrance? Or surveillance staff?’

  Jon shook his head.

  ‘Neither. We have a bouncer…’ He stopped talking and briefly frowned. ‘Did you say January the 4th?’

  Emily silently nodded.

  ‘Yes…’ he said, consulting his mobile phone. ‘The fourth; that was our Nyckeln evening. The Gimme Group hire our premises once a month for a rather … particular evening.’

  ‘Tell us more…’

  Jon blushed behind his tan. ‘They organise their own version of a “padlock” evening: the boys wear a small padlock around their necks and have to locate the girl who owns the key that opens it. Then it’s a free for all, if you see what I mean.’

  Falkenberg

  February 1948

  ERICH GULPED HIS COFFEE down while he enjoyed his havregrynsgröt – oat porridge laced with apple compote.

  He had missed the sausage and mortadella of German-style breakfasts for a few months, but now he had grown accustomed to Swedish porridge, which he had to admit was more hearty. Often, when his list of patients was too long and he didn’t have enough time for lunch, he would add a couple of slices of polar bread over which he had spread butter and cheese.

  He slipped on his woollen coat, his cap and his gloves, and walked out into the snow. Before setting off down the road, he gazed for a moment, marvelling at the carpet of white powder unfurling all the way to the sea, and ignoring the bitter wind that burned his lungs and raged against the quivering branches of the trees.

  It turned out that the girl who had served him his first Swedish coffee had been right, after all. Since he had arrived, the winters had been severe but spring always came around, radiant and punctual.

  He’d surprised himself by adapting so well. He could now master the language perfectly when speaking, and his written skills were improving daily. And it appeared the Swedes and the Germans shared a form of rigour, which made the organisation of his daily life a cinch.

  Erich parked his car outside the clinic, picked up his satchel and got out, to be greeted by snowflakes, floating around like a swarm of butterflies.

  ‘Hej, Erich.’

  Pernilla’s pink tongue was brushing seductively against her strawberry-coloured lips.

  ‘Hej, Pernilla. So, what do we have in store for today?’

  ‘There are two patients waiting, according to Janne. The first is an eighty-five-year-old man and the second…’ Her long blonde hair swept across her rosy-cheeked face as she shook her head. ‘Oh, the second one … it’s not a pretty sight, Erich. Not pretty at all…’

  Erich walked through a series of doors and entered the room that was reserved for him. He took his coat, cap and gloves off, opened his satchel, slipped his white coat on, and turned towards his two patients for the day.

  His eyes opened wide with surprise when he noticed the ghostlike shape spread out on the right-hand bed. He wet his dry lips and swallowed a couple of times. His pulse quickened. He put his hand forward, but then pulled it back and closed his eyes. He would begin with the old man.

  BEGIN-WITH-THE-OLD-MAN.

  Concentrate at every stage. Slowly, but surely.

  He wiped the fresh sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and turned towards the left-hand bed. The file indicated a death by pulmonary embolism at 2.00 that same morning. Erich pulled the sheet away from the body and folded it at the foot of the bed. He slowly manoeuvred the dead man’s limbs to test the cadaverous rigour. He then made an incision in the neck, at artery level, and inserted the cannula through which he would inject the formaldehyde. He then began to massage the ears with the tips of his fingers to facilitate the flow of the chemical through the inert body. He closed his eyes while he kneaded the cartilage. The skin was still supple but the lobes were large and swollen. He continued, handling the shrivelled skin of the face, then moved on to the hands, concentrating on each individual digit. He completed his massage, palpating the gnarled palms of the dead man’s body. There was no need to waste time on the other parts of the body as it would be dressed for the vigil.

  Erich knew that it would take a long time to have his medical diploma transcribed and authorised. But it was obligatory if he wanted to complete his surgical studies. In the meantime, he’d had to find work. He knew all too well that, without his diploma duly certified, he couldn’t apply for any of the positions that were of genuine interest to him. When he had come across the advertisement from the funeral parlour, he’d initially dismissed the idea as something of an insult. A stupid idea. Then, after reflection, he’d found it interesting. Stimulating. Almost exciting.

  He’d met the owner, had explained his situation and proposed he should be paid slightly less while he was still being trained. While the medical aspects of the embalming process presented no difficulties, he was quite ignorant of the aesthetic side of the task. But, after a few weeks, the owner had soon allowed him to work alone on the dead bodies.

  His first patient had been a forty-six-year-old woman who had died falling from a horse. He could still recall the experience: it had been both terrifying and wonderful. With no one overseeing him, his memory had carried him straight back to Buchenwald. Block 46. Doktor Fleischer. His whole body had buzzed with the same excitement that had animated him back then. He had remembered the coldness of the chi
ldren’s bodies under his hands. Bodies rid of their envelope of flesh.

  Erich had dutifully forgotten. He had forgotten about regulating his diploma. The resumption of his studies. He had accepted that his task was no longer to keep people alive. He would rather help them to die.

  Erich stepped round the bed in which the old man lay and approached the other one.

  He read the file. The patient was six years old. For six, he wasn’t very large. And somewhat skinny. His thoracic cage bulged as if it was attempting to flee the body, which, with every passing second, was losing what was left of its humanity. He slid the sheet off the naked body and observed it in silence. Then he allowed himself to touch the skin, as cold as the metal of the bed. A disagreeable shudder ran through his spine. But it soon turned to a warmth that radiated through all his limbs.

  His thoughts moved to Pernilla. Her pink tongue. Her red lips. And images flourished in his mind. Visualising her strawberry mouth closing down on the hardness of his sex.

  Grand Hotel, Falkenberg

  Tuesday, 21 January 2014, 07.30

  ALEXIS LAZILY CLIMBED OUT of bed following seven hours of restless sleep. Unsettling dreams she was unwilling to interpret had followed one after another in a continuous stream, peregrinations that had left a bad taste in her mouth. It was not surprising: the revelations about Linnéa’s sex life had disturbed her. It was not for her to judge her friend’s tastes, but she was annoyed that Linnéa had never confided in her. Did she give the impression of being a prude? Intolerant? Or both? On the other hand, why should Linnéa have opened up to her? Her sex life was her own business. But with Anselme; really? And participating in a sordid ‘padlock’ evening, to boot? Alexis shook her head. Matters seemed to be moving too fast.

  She took her mobile phone from the night table. There was a message from Alba, inviting her to dinner. Alexis had left London in such haste that she hadn’t had time to warn anyone. She’d only, out of courtesy, informed Stellan about her return to Sweden. She felt she owed him at least that, after fleeing halfway through their lunch, just as they’d reached the confession stage. Had a man acted that way with her, his face would have quickly served as a dartboard!

  Another message reached her, just as she was moving across the room. It was Emily, suggesting she should join her at 9.00 to visit those neighbours of Linnéa’s they hadn’t been able to interview the previous day. Alexis replied with a quick ‘OK’ and went to take her shower.

  Deep within herself, she felt a strong need to pursue the investigation. She wanted to be present when they caught, judged and locked up whoever it was that had once again spread death and horror across her path. She had to be there and Emily’s presence made this possible. Who would have suspected that the profiler would have proven so cooperative? Alexis was well aware how difficult it must have been for Emily to impose her decision on her colleagues: the way DCS Pearce had greeted them at the airport had been far from welcoming.

  Alexis truly didn’t wish to know what motivated the profiler to be so accommodating. By now she knew there was no point asking why this particular door had opened; sometimes opportunities presented themselves, then closed just as quickly, of their own accord. She just accepted the fact.

  She checked the time. She had a few minutes left to blow away the cobwebs of the difficult night before her meeting with Stellan. She applied a touch of concealer around her eyes and then some mascara. She felt she had no need for blusher: in Sweden the cold weather could be relied on to make you rosy-cheeked.

  Wrapped in her padded coat and wearing a pair of après-ski boots, she ventured out into the icy air, so much steadier than on her first occasion here.

  An appetising smell of cinnamon lingered in the busy tea room. Alexis found the only empty table, by the window, and didn’t have to wait long for Stellan to arrive. She ordered a coffee and a saffron brioche; Stellan opted for a prawn sandwich and a latte. Alexis grimaced at the idea of eating seafood for breakfast.

  Stellan noticed her expression and burst out laughing. ‘You don’t know Kalles Kaviar? The Swedish version of taramasalata? My sister smothers her bread with it every single morning. Lennart even dips it in his coffee!’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll pass,’ Alexis said, grimacing even more. ‘The smell of fish when you’re straight out of bed is not my cup of tea. I’ll stick to your saffron or cinnamon brioches. I’ve also heard about your surströmming – a fish with a pestilential odour, left to macerate in soda…’

  ‘…proclaims a French woman, who takes nationalistic pride in her array of odorous cheeses,’ Stellan remarked, with a mocking smile.

  ‘Cheeses are different,’ insisted Alexis, biting into her brioche. ‘You’re going to make me regret defending your food to my own disbelieving mother.’

  ‘I notice you say “food”, not “gastronomy”.’

  ‘As you said, I am French,’ she replied, with a wink.

  Stellan raised his arm to catch the attention of the waitress and ordered some more hot drinks. When he spoke in Swedish, his voice had a different tone altogether. It was deeper, smooth as velvet.

  ‘So how come you’re tagging along with Scotland Yard?’ he continued. ‘Are you writing a book about Emily Roy?’

  ‘No … but that would actually be a great idea,’ said Alexis. ‘Lennart has told you about the latest murder?’

  ‘An old colleague has been a touch indiscreet. Have you known Emily long?’

  ‘For a few years. I met her when I was researching one of my books, actually.’

  ‘Lennart told me she was trained at Quantico and used to be with the Canadian police force. She boasts a hell of a CV, it seems.’

  ‘Yes, she has quite a reputation. Why are you so interested in her?’

  The waitress brought over their drinks. Stellan took a few sips of his before he answered.

  ‘She contacted my old boss in Gothenburg, to find out more about the death of my partner and his family. Add to that her interest in Linnéa’s possible lover…’ He paused and looked anxiously into his cup.

  ‘Were you Linnéa’s lover?’ Alexis couldn’t prevent the words rushing out, as if her lips had caught fire.

  He smiled. It was a tired and sad expression.

  ‘No, Alexis, I was never Linnéa’s lover.’

  Olofsbo, Falkenberg

  Tuesday, 21 January, 08.45

  EMILY WAS DRIVING SILENTLY, eyes fixed on the asphalt. On the radio, the sound of a cello and a piano playing a jazz duo made her feel rather sluggish. The grey weather outside matched her mood: a barrage of clouds held the sun captive and made the early morning look more like dusk.

  It took ten minutes to reach Lotta Ahlgren and Anna Gunnarson’s. Ten minutes during which Alexis experienced some peace of mind, without any further bad thoughts invading her consciousness. Just ten minutes. But she couldn’t be too demanding, could she?

  Anna Gunnarson, an opulent, short-haired blonde with a face full of freckles, invited them into the living room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Lotta had to leave early today. She’s had to stand in for a sick colleague. She said she’ll call you to make another appointment.’

  Emily smiled back at her hostess, who set down a plate of plain biscuits on the table and began to serve them coffee. With her loose jeans, woollen sweater and halting gestures, she looked like anything but a traditional housewife, Alexis noted.

  ‘You speak very good English,’ Emily said, to encourage her.

  ‘Our mother is American.’

  ‘Have you been living with your sister long?’ the profiler continued, slowly sipping her coffee.

  ‘Almost seven months, now.’

  ‘Did you know Linnéa Blix before you moved here?’

  ‘Oh yes, for over ten years. What a terrible thing to happen. Shocking.’

  ‘As I was explaining to your sister over the phone,’ Emily continued, ‘we’re trying to create a timetable of Linnéa’s movements throughout the first weekend of January. We were hoping y
ou could be of help.’

  ‘The weekend she died, you mean…’ Anna Gunnarson whispered, eyes fixed on the bottom of her cup.

  ‘Yes. Saturday the 4th and Sunday the 5th of January.’

  Anna straightened up and pulled a mobile phone from her jeans pocket.

  ‘Let me see … the 4th and 5th of January … No, I didn’t come across Linnéa.’

  ‘Do you remember if the lights were on at her place?’

  ‘I just can’t remember.’

  ‘According to Barbro Byquist’s daughter, Linnéa was planning to spend Saturday evening in Gothenburg with a friend who was passing through. Did she ever mention this?’

  Anna frowned then silently shook her head.

  ‘Is there anything you can think of she might have mentioned in passing, and that could be of use in our investigation?’

  ‘I just can’t think of anything, no. I’m sorry.’

  Emily’s mobile phone rang and she stepped over to the opposite side of the room to take the call.

  Pensive, Anna drank a mouthful of coffee. She seemed to have forgotten Alexis’ presence and was peering down at a corner of the coffee table, her hand moving slowly across her chair’s armrest, as if she were trying to caress its ribbed, velvety fabric. Her wrinkled eyes suddenly grew in size, but Emily interrupted whatever had just occurred to her by rushing back across the living room.

  ‘I’m sorry, Anna, but we have to leave. Thank you for your time. Your sister has my details. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you remember anything relevant.’