Block 46

by Bragelonne

  A quarter of an hour later, Emily and Alexis were sitting down next to Bergström in the police station’s conference room. Richard Anselme was about to be interviewed once more by the Metropolitan Police in London, and Pearce had suggested Emily should observe the interview via a video link.

  Inspector Andrew Durham appeared on the screen. He waved to them and explained how the interview would be conducted: there would be no picture in London, so Anselme would be unaware of them watching. However, Durham would be able to hear their comments through an earpiece he was wearing.

  Durham left the room and returned a few moments later accompanied by Anselme, whose handmade John Lobb shoes echoed across the concrete floor. He took off his marine-blue coat and smoothed out the creases in his grey suit jacket, looking around at his surroundings with obvious disdain.

  ‘Mr Anselme,’ Durham began, ‘we believe you haven’t been telling us the truth about the nature of your relationship with Linnéa Blix.’

  ‘Really?’ the jeweller replied, with a touch of contempt in his voice.

  ‘The Nyckeln evenings organised at the Ljus club in Gothenburg are rather … particular … wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, it would have been advisable to let the police know you were hitting the sack with the victim the very night of her death.’

  ‘I would quite agree with you, if it were true.’

  Durham remained silent.

  Anselme shifted in the chair, folding then unfolding his legs. He was becoming impatient.

  After three uncooperatively silent minutes he finally spoke. ‘I was not “hitting the sack” with Linnéa,’ he said abruptly. ‘But I certainly enjoyed her company.’ The superiority in his smile had now faded and his voice was flat.

  ‘You weren’t sleeping with her, but went together to a “padlock” evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was that something the two of you did regularly?’

  ‘No, it was the first time.’

  ‘What time did you see her last?’

  ‘I’ve already told your colleague that I have no idea. We split up long before I finally came across the key that fitted my own padlock; that’s all I remember. I went off to take a look at the other guests; she was standing by the bar, alone, when I left her. Her play partner hadn’t found her yet.’

  Alexis was startled.

  ‘Her “play partner”?’ Durham repeated, equally surprised.

  ‘Yes, someone had planned to meet up with Linnéa at the club.’

  Alexis felt a knot tighten in her throat.

  Bergström home, Falkenberg

  Tuesday, 21 January 2014, 19.00

  BERGSTRÖM WAS BUSY in the kitchen, his mobile phone wedged between his shoulder and his ear.

  There were two ways to find out who Linnéa was planning to meet at the ‘padlock’ evening, but neither seemed to be leading anywhere.

  Before leaving for Sweden, Linnéa had informed Anselme she would be coming with someone that evening. The jeweller had then asked her to warn his secretary, Paula, so she could get in touch with the organisers: Linnéa’s friend would have to be put on the list to be allowed access to the club. However, there was no way to get in touch with Paula; she’d just got married and was away on her honeymoon.

  The other way was to get the name from the Gimme Group, which had organised the event, but they had redirected the Kommissionar to their lawyer, which was slowing matters down considerably.

  Towards the end of the afternoon, while they were still wading through the seemingly endless amount of files covering the many child disappearances, the Kommissionar had suggested to Emily, Alexis and Olofsson that they should keep on working at his place, in front of a nice warm fire. Emily had seemed uncomfortable with the idea, but Alexis had accepted on their behalf.

  Olofsson, though, had declined the invitation as he urgently had to attend the scene of a suspicious-looking suicide. On his way out, clearly confident that Alexis was unable to understand a word of Swedish, he’d mentioned to Bergström how sorry he was not to be able to spend more time with the ‘hot French girl’. Bergström found his attitude repellent.

  The Kommissionar hung up and turned back towards Emily and Alexis, who were leafing through the investigation files in the living room.

  ‘Bad news: none of the sexual delinquents on file could have killed the little Nilsson boy; they all have solid alibis. And, as for the Gimme Group, the organiser of the Nyckeln evenings will only be able to forward the list of participants tomorrow morning.’

  While Alexis carried on sorting through the piles of pages and the photographs, Bergström brought in some janssons frestelse – a gratin of potatoes, sprats and fresh cream.

  Having completed her own trawl through the files, Emily felt bereft and looked around her. Thinking he understood now at least a little about how Emily functioned, Bergström thought he’d set out something tempting and see if she had an appetite for talking.

  ‘My phone rang just as I was about to ask you what asphyxiation might possibly reveal about our killer,’ he said, generously filling his guests’ plates.

  Just like a feline spotting her prey and getting ready for the chase, Emily’s eyes narrowed. ‘Many, many things. Asphyxiation is a form of torture. The killer takes pleasure from watching his victim slowly die. Killing a child is relatively easy for a grown adult: all he has to do is strangle him or beat him repeatedly over the head. Our killer, on the other hand, has opted for a slower and crueller execution method: he first inflicts a strong blow to the back of the head to immobilise the victim, make the kidnapping easier, then drags him back home. As the autopsy has confirmed, this is not a mortal blow. His prey now powerless, he fits the head inside a plastic bag, which he secures around the neck with some adhesive tape, then binds the victim to prevent him from struggling when he awakes. He then sits down and waits. He waits for his prey to regain consciousness so he can witness the suffocation at first hand – the spectacle he craves.

  ‘What makes you think that he watches them die?’ Alexis asked. She hadn’t touched her food yet.

  ‘The enucleations and the slitting of the throat.’

  Emily drank a mouthful of water and continued, her whole body in a state of agitation. ‘Once his prey is dead, he pulls the plastic bag away from the face. This is when he is no doubt assaulted by shame: the prey turns into a child again, and thus a victim. His sense of humanity briefly returns and he becomes aware of the sheer horror of what he has done. All of a sudden he is haunted by the spectacle he has witnessed: the child’s horrified features, his cries of panic and agony. So, to bring it all to an end, in order not to see these eyes swollen with fear and pain, not to hear the weak voice strained by suffering and terror, he pulls out the eyes and the trachea. The victim is instantaneously depersonalised, turned into mere flesh. He has simply become prey again, and the killer can continue in peace.’

  A heavy silence followed Emily’s explanation.

  Alexis broke it. ‘So you believe the actual killing is the apogee of his actions?’

  ‘I’m unsure what satisfies him most. But one thing is certain: his sense of all-pervasive power, and therefore his arousal, reach a paroxysm when he dominates his prey fully. The actual killing is one of those moments. But our own perspective on his killings also provides him with much in the way of satisfaction. The fact that he abandoned Logan Mansfield’s body without burying it means he is deriving pleasure from the knowledge he is being hunted down, studied by the police, being discussed in the media. These are all elements from which he derives sexual enjoyment and creates new fantasies. The only thing that bothers me in my profile is the victimology. This killer attacks high-risk targets: children, who he wishes to dominate both physically and psychologically. But he’s choosing children already in some form of peril, who are more vulnerable than the average child, which means he wants to minimise his risk of failure, of getting caught. This demonstrates some form of opportunism, even
cowardice, and doesn’t quite feel right to me.’

  It was incredible the way death could make the girl so talkative, the Kommissionar pondered, sipping from his glass of Campo Viejo.

  ‘So the killer must have the use of a large, isolated location where he can mutilate the body at leisure?’ he queried, his arm tracing a circle in the air above him with the now empty glass.

  ‘No, not necessarily. A small room would suffice, as long he has access to water. Maybe he’s even gone as far as soundproofing it.’

  The silence hanging between them lasted a few seconds, as they processed Emily’s explanations.

  Bergström began to clear the table and brewed more coffee. He filled five cups, and set two of them on a tray.

  ‘I’ll just take some coffee to Lena and Stellan. I’ll be back shortly.’

  Alexis, who was about to begin working her way through the files again, looked up at him quickly. ‘Stellan and Lena are here?’

  ‘They’re upstairs, in Lena’s study. They’re working on the London renovation project. They didn’t come down to say hello because they didn’t wish to disturb us. Come up, if you like; I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you.’

  Emily didn’t lift her eyes from the new file she had begun studying. Having received no reaction from her, after a couple of moments Bergström and Alexis left the room.

  Located up under the roof, where the attic must once have been, the study ran along the whole length of the house. Lena had placed her work desk facing a circular window, the copper frame of which was reminiscent of a porthole. Despite the darkness of the night, Alexis could distinguish the sea, like a wilderness of speckles, shimmering under the moonlight.

  Lena was sitting at her desk and Stellan was standing next to her, both glancing down at a computer screen. They turned round together to greet their visitors and share a Nordic-style embrace with Alexis. Now accustomed to the habit, the young woman acted as if she’d been doing this all her life.

  ‘You’ve finished your work?’ Lena asked, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension in her body.

  ‘Nowhere near it. We just came up to bring you coffee.’ Bergström handed them the tray.

  ‘And the profiler?’

  ‘She’s busy profiling. I don’t think she even noticed us coming up to see you.’

  ‘Would it bother you if I went downstairs for a few minutes? I’d love to see what your Canadian Sherlock looks like.’

  ‘She’s as eccentric as she is antisocial; but quite attractive,’ said Bergström smiling widely.

  His wife affected to ignore his teasing and the three of them walked downstairs.

  In the kitchen, the folders were piled up high on the table and Emily’s backpack had disappeared.

  The Kommissionar gave Alexis a quizzical look. She shook her head.

  They’d left the door to the cage open and the feline had escaped – gone out hunting once again.

  Falkenberg

  July 1970

  AGNETA’S HEAVY BREASTS SWUNG to the rhythm of her riding him. Her breathing quickened. She leaned, one hand on Erich’s torso and bucked, head thrown back, her long hair caressing her lover’s midriff. Her trembling thighs tightened and she cried out with pleasure. A few seconds later, she dropped down onto the bed across from him and stared at the ceiling, gasping for breath, her body still vibrating in the wake of her orgasm.

  Erich pulled up his pants and trousers. She hadn’t even given him time to properly undress.

  ‘No, no, no, no, no…’ she murmured, sliding back towards him, her eyes predatory. ‘You knew what you were getting into, seducing a younger woman. Time to show your worth, now…’

  She unzipped the trousers, pushed the pants aside and again began to stimulate his penis.

  The girl was a surprising package. She approached sex with no reservations whatsoever and with such transparent honesty that it made the whole experience exceptionally pleasant. A sign of the times, maybe. Agneta must form part of these squadrons of liberated women who used their vaginas as if they were phalluses. While it was somewhat tiring, as he was twice her age and had lost some of his vigour, their relationship was both easy and practical: she had no need for reassurance or expressions of love, which saved him risky lies and calculated flattery. What a change it was from all the other women he had slept with previously. They had all been so damned demanding and needy when it came to affection!

  She stretched like a cat, not that it interrupted her endeavours.

  He enjoyed Agneta’s body. The suppleness and elasticity of her milky skin. The way her flesh had retained the firmness of childhood. Her breasts were too large, but he could live with that. He just avoided concentrating on them when their swinging made them look like udders when they fucked.

  All of a sudden, his whole body tightened. Erich closed his eyes and his sperm rushed out, straight into the mouth of his mistress. Again, he pulled up his trousers, in order to distract her from the idea of yet another bout, but she cuddled up to him and almost immediately fell asleep. He remained motionless, savouring the clarity of the moment and the way his ejaculation had briefly heightened the vibrancy of all his senses.

  They had known each other for a few months and now met a few times a week. Always at his place. One day, Agneta had arrived unannounced and Erich had made it clear this should never happen again. Since that particular episode, she always called him on the phone before coming to visit.

  Two years before, following the death of her parents, Agneta had inherited the family house, which she had sold for a small fortune. She had since brought her studies to a temporary halt and was, in her own words, ‘searching for herself’. When they had met, she was about to leave on a trip around the world. But she had decided to postpone her departure and instead take life day by day. And, for now, her life was all about making love, as she had once teasingly whispered to him, theatrically biting her lower lip; it was an expression she had probably heard in some movie.

  Escaping Agneta’s embrace, Erich slipped on a sweater and walked down to his workshop. He would soon have to enlarge the space: he needed more room.

  Before setting to work, he lingered over his collection, observing the sixteen bodies with a critical gaze, allowing his fingers to slide over their soft curves. The muscles had perfect definition. He had managed to impart just the right colour – like meat, a perfect equilibrium between flesh and fat. Doktor Fleischer would have been proud of him. The eyes were still an uphill struggle, but he was confident he would eventually succeed.

  He put on his overalls and the protective cap, covered his shoes, dug his fingers into the gloves and set to work. He felt happy.

  The only negative element in the whole affair was that he had to content himself with whatever happened to cross his path. Unlike in Buchenwald, where Doktor Fleischer could select whatever pleased him, even children, he had little actual choice in the matter.

  He had begun his collection the day he had been brought a six-year-old child, dead from leukaemia. What was his name? A French first name … Not that it mattered. That particular day, Wednesday the 4th of February 1948, two bodies were waiting to be transferred to the Gothenburg medical university to be used for autopsy practice by the students. A twenty-six-year old woman and a sixty-nine-year-old man. No one had claimed their bodies and they had been stored in the cold vaults for some time. Oh yes … Antoine, the boy was called Antoine. In order to smuggle the girl’s body out, he’d had to conceal it inside the child’s mortuary bag, which was scheduled to be forwarded to the undertaker. He had delivered the little one to them but smuggled the girl’s body back to his place.

  To initiate her transformation, he had begun by severing her breasts. Febrile, hard with excitement, he’d had to interrupt the operation several times for fear of making a mistake.

  Back then, his work environment had been somewhat improvised: he’d used his bath tub and equipment he brought home from work. For a working surface, he’d had to be content with the woo
den table from the kitchen, which he’d covered with towels. Since then he’d had the workshop tiled, installed adequate lighting and, of course, had acquired a proper dissection table.

  Erich consulted the wall clock. It was time for breakfast. Walking upstairs, he could smell the fresh coffee. Agneta must be waiting for him in the kitchen. He had forbidden her from ever entering the workshop. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was working.

  She was wearing one of his shirts and a pair of his socks. Why did women have this ridiculous habit of wearing the man’s clothes after leaving their bed? What made them so much more comfortable than their own clothing?

  Agneta smiled at him tenderly. ‘You got up early. Do you have a lot of work?’

  He nodded in reply and sipped from his cup of coffee, still standing up. He was in no mood for small talk. It was time for her to leave so he could enjoy a peaceful Sunday.

  She sat down, crossing her legs and placing her hands on the table. Then she looked up to him with a joyful, serene glint in her eyes.

  ‘I’m pregnant.’

  Tuesday, 21 January 2014

  The young woman’s mouth stretches open, revealing a row of suspiciously white teeth. He smiles back. Visibly satisfied, she continues her monologue, her voice loud and squeaky. The way she is dressed offers no clues as to the contours of her breasts, waist or legs. Below the circular collar of her black dress, she wears a string of pearls, the metaphorical chastity belt of the bourgeoise. It’s only when she tilts her head to allow her hair to fall freely that her theatrical pose shatters. There she is, sexually on parade, her long curls sliding across her chest and shoulders like the hands of an eager lover.

  Two hours later, her dress has been pulled up to her waist and her knickers are dancing around her ankles as she is gasping with pleasure inside the bar’s spacious toilets. He comes, his face buried inside the cascade of brown curls, thinking back to the silk-like softness of Tomas Nilsson’s hair.