by Bragelonne
He’d gone hunting that very evening. Seeking a choice prey. Tracking, selecting, killing. He could no longer wait for fate to drop a body in his path. He no longer had to adapt whatever came his way. He had to select carefully, so that he could carry forward a perfect, immaculate heritage. He had a responsibility to both his successor and himself.
Upstairs, the telephone was ringing, but Erich couldn’t hear it.
‘Your husband isn’t answering, Agneta. I’m sorry.’ The midwife’s voice reached her through the fog.
Agneta was trying hard to summon the strength to overcome the latest contraction. She barely had time enough to catch her breath before the unsettling feeling that she was both dying and alive swept through her again, and the pain returned, like an unstoppable wave. It rose for just a second, but crested immediately, furiously, lashing her stomach, her back and reaching down to her thighs. Agneta gripped the edges of the bed hard – her fingers freezing, freezing, freezing – in a bid to prevent herself drowning in the pain. Her delivery paralleled her pregnancy: a long, lonely journey. She had reckoned that, as a man, Erich was finding it hard to find a connection with the new sort of woman she had unwittingly become.
Her sexual appetite had remained the same. She hadn’t put on that much weight either; but the new curviness of her body didn’t seem to be to Erich’s taste. He rejected her advances and systematically begged her to get dressed again. She should behave like a responsible human being and think of the baby’s health, he would repeatedly tell her. Her body had become a temple.
As soon as the baby had begun to move inside her, he had spoken to it in German, morning through to night. Agneta couldn’t understand a word of what he was saying, but she could clearly see and feel how much Erich already loved their child. But not her any longer, it seemed. During the course of those endless months, he had never demonstrated any true care for her. He had overseen what she was eating, regularly checked her pulse, and analysed her urine, but, apart from that, he just ignored her. Totally. Her body was not a temple, but a vessel. The vessel that carried and would deliver his child.
‘Push, Agneta, push…’
There was no need to tell her what to do, her whole body was screaming at her to push. And every movement in that direction felt like a short-lived deliverance. She heard herself bellow out. Breathed in short bursts when she was instructed to stop pushing. Then bellowed again. Another shattering stab of pain cut through her, followed by a strange sensation of freedom, then tears, or rather whining.
‘Look, Agneta, this is your son.’
She noticed a reddish bundle being carried through the air, its limbs folded back like a frog’s. It was placed against her chest. The small, hungry mouth closed on her nipple, the tiny fists settling on either side of her breast, as if marking its territory. Exhausted, Agneta closed her eyes, gently holding this beautiful little thing against her, body to body.
She returned to Erich’s house four days later, after leaving the maternity ward. The anger brewing inside her had faded. She had come to terms with it. She hadn’t been able to get in touch with him, but she knew him well: when he was working in his laboratory – and God only knew the amount of time he spent there – he didn’t hear the phone ring. Maybe it was also her own fault that he had not come seeking her: she had all too often threatened to move away with the child.
She was waiting for Erich in the kitchen, holding her hungry little frog to her breast.
‘I thought you had left. With my child.’
Erich’s voice made her jump. She turned round. Instantly, Agneta realised what attracted her so much in this man. She shook her head, a smile stretching her plump lips.
‘This is our son, Erich. His name is Adam.’
Erich approached their child and placed his large hand on the bald skull.
‘He’s big and fat.’
‘Fifty-five centimetres and four kilos nine hundred grams. Yes, a very big baby.’
She didn’t say a word of what she had done to take revenge for his absence. It could wait. And, anyway, it wasn’t that important. In his way, he would forgive her in the long run.
And this child would mend their relationship, she was absolutely certain of it.
Falkenberg police station
Wednesday, 22 January 2014, 15.00
ASSISTED BY BERGSTRÖM AND ALEXIS, Emily unloaded the first batch of folders from the cart and placed them in the middle of the table. Olofsson reluctantly rose from his chair to help them.
‘We’ll organise this a different way,’ Emily explained, her voice neutral. ‘We will thoroughly examine all the disappearance files, but this time around, we will go back fifty years.’
Olofsson kept silent, even though he was dying to open his mouth. Bergström seemed to be in a foul mood, almost hostile towards him, and he didn’t even know why. He thought it best to make himself invisible. Despite all the ungodly hours he’d been working since the beginning of this particular case, generally, life in Falkenberg was something of a doddle, and he had no wish for it to change. Besides, he was getting sick and tired of this female profiler. A pretty face, granted, but below it she was flat as a bread board. A curveless body, all straight angles. On top of which, Madame was happy to lead them a merry dance, lording it amongst the hills of old, dusty files, while the investigation made little progress. Why did no one realise that her methods were just a lot of hot air? She’d interviewed the flower seller for over two hours, and why? All to learn that Linnéa wore a blue coat and blow-dried her hair before going out! If these were Scotland Yard’s best, then … Supposedly, they now knew where Blix had met her killer. Big deal. But Anna Gunnarson was unable to identify him, so what was the point of it all? Was he the only one to realise this was all useless bullshit: Bergström and the sexy one took everything that Madame-my-left-frontal-lobe-is-larger-than-both-my-tits said as gospel.
He felt compelled to speak out. He had to. Of course, he’d deliver it with his customary elegance and charm, as he always did. Yeah, that’s it.
‘Why fifty years – why be so precise, Emily?’ he asked with a broad smile.
‘I was coming to that, Kristian. I’m increasingly convinced we are facing a duo in which the dominant/dominated dynamic is at work. But I don’t believe that they divide the tasks on a territorial basis. On the contrary, they hunt and kill together. That’s why the wounds are all alike, as it’s always the same man who is responsible for them. If the dominated one must be between thirty and forty-five years old, as I am led to believe, his dominant, on the other hand, is likely to be at least twenty years older. The dominated one is an educated man, hard to impress or manipulate and he’s the one who is now in the ascendancy. So, the dominant must be between fifty-five and sixty-five years old, maybe even older, albeit in good health. It’s very likely he’s been active for some time. We should look out for his signature amongst just one particular type of victim: boys between six and eight. If we assume he is no older than sixty-five and that his interest in children began around the age of twenty, we must therefore focus our investigations all the way back to 1969. Forty-five years ago.’
Thank you so much, but I can count, Olofsson rebelled silently.
He asked a further question. ‘And what did you learn from the cognitive interview?’
Bergström threw a dubious glance at his detective, wondering what he was leading up to.
‘The cognitive interview showed me that Linnéa knew the killer – well enough to recognise him under his hood and coat at night.’
Olofsson rocked his chair back and forth with feigned nonchalance. ‘Didn’t Anna say the street was well lit?’
‘Yes. But the light from lamp-posts is angled and creates shadows across a face if you’re wearing a hood or a hat.’
‘What difference does it make?’ Olofsson’s tone was becoming increasingly impatient.
‘I’d previously established that our main suspect might have been a friend, a colleague, a neighbour or a tradesman sh
e often came into contact with and would have been able to recognise. But, thanks to the information provided by Anna Gunnarson, we know she recognised the person in an instant, despite the partial light. We can therefore assume she knew the person well.’
Alexis could feel cold sweat on the back of her neck.
‘In addition, the cognitive interview taught me that the next victim, in all likelihood, lives in the centre of Gothenburg.’
Olofsson repressed his frustration, grinding his teeth loudly.
‘So, as I was saying, we must now operate differently,’ Emily continued. ‘We must comb through the disappearance files and note down for each one the gender, the age, the colour of the eyes and hair of the child; whether he came from a single-parent or nuclear family, and whether this was a dysfunctional family; the date of his disappearance; the approximate hour, if that information is available; the last place the child was seen; and the address where the missing child lived.’
‘So we don’t look out any longer for the investigation logs, the psychological evaluations or the interviews?’ Alexis enquired.
‘No, not for the time being. All we require are the items of information I’ve listed. I’ll take care of the actual analysis.’
Emily moved out of the room for a few minutes to make a phone call.
When she returned, Alexis, Bergström and Olofsson were busy filling in the gaps in the forms Emily had prepared earlier, attentive and focused, like students at an exam.
Home of Linnéa Blix, Olofsbo, Falkenberg
Wednesday, 22 January 2014, 18.00
ALEXIS HAD GIVEN UP wading through the files in order to accompany Anna Gunnarson to Linnéa’s. Anna wanted to pick up her belongings, which Alexis had sorted out and labelled as part of her inventory, believing they had belonged to Linnéa.
Anna entered the house first. She placed her feet carefully, casting a worried eye on her surroundings, as if she was discovering the place for the very first time. Alexis followed her, observing her gestures. She watched her open the drawers, the wardrobes, the cardboard boxes, retrieving insignificant objects in silence, her movements tentative, hesitant.
Having gathered her stuff, Anna walked as if sleepwalking towards the kitchen and sat down at the table, her body burdened by sadness.
‘Is that it? You have everything?’ asked Alexis, sitting down next to her.
Anna slowly nodded her head, her fingers skimming across the few breadcrumbs still littering the tabletop.
‘I think I have everything, yes. Thank you.’
All of a sudden, her shoulders began to shudder. She sniffed, trying hard to contain the tears welling up inside her eyes.
Alexis placed one hand on the woman’s shoulder and, with her other hand, stroked her hair with almost maternal tenderness. Anna didn’t blink, seeming to welcome the physical closeness and the strange form of intimacy that mourning allowed them to share.
‘I saw Linnéa only the day before yesterday,’ she whispered, her voice broken with sobs.
Alexis got nearer to her.
‘I was in the street, walking towards the store and I saw her, waiting for me. She looked so sad. So sad…’ Anna wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I didn’t even tell Lotta. She spends most of her time worrying about me. I don’t want to make things even worse.’
‘When my partner died, a few years ago,’ Alexis confessed, ‘I saw him once, three weeks following his death. He was sitting on the bed in our room and was smiling at me. The same, open smile he always gave me when I woke up in the morning and my eyes were still only half open. Such a commonplace everyday gesture. Silly, really. For a few seconds, he had returned. He’d come back to me.’
The words had flown from her mouth before she’d even been able to think. They’d floated from Alexis to Anna, freed by the sadness, liberated. Her mourning for her partner had been like an inner quest and she had finally succeeded in finding some peace.
She took Anna’s hands in hers and the two women shared a few minutes of comforting silence as they watched the black sea outside, whitewashed by the moonlight.
After Anna left, Alexis was about to call for a taxi when a mad thought rushed through her brain. She slipped on her coat, shivering at the thought of the glacial gusts of wind awaiting her outside, then went out of the house to confront the polar night.
Two minutes later, she had arrived at Stellan’s.
The two recessed bulbs situated on each side of the front door switched on automatically and bathed her in naked light. She suddenly wondered what the hell she was doing here, at night, begging for the company of a man she barely knew. What the fuck was she doing here? She should have returned to the hotel. Asked Emily what she could do to help. Or consulted her notes again. Done something constructive. For the sake of Linnéa. Not for herself.
Stellan opened the door. His surprise was quickly replaced by a worried look. ‘Is everything OK?’
Alexis nodded, her cheeks red, more from embarrassment than because of the cold.
‘Come in, you must be freezing.’
She stepped across the threshold, her brain in overdrive, hunting for a justification for her visit.
‘You were at Linnéa’s?’
‘Yes. With Anna Gunnarson.’
He frowned.
‘Anna … Gunnarson?’
‘Your neighbour Lotta Ahlgren’s sister.’
‘Oh yes, yes, Lotta. But why her sister? Did she know Linnéa?’
‘They were friends.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, Anna had been staying at Linnéa’s for some time.’
‘Linnéa told me she sometimes let a woman friend stay, but I was under the impression it was someone from London; I’m not quite sure why.’
Alexis took her coat and shoes off with unnecessary slowness, hoping to stretch time enough to come up with some brilliant excuse for her visit. But all she could think of was the feeling of being naked. Taking your shoes off indoors was a very hygienic, Swedish custom, but it somehow lacked glamour.
She followed Stellan into the living room.
‘Do you want something to drink?’
She nodded, avoiding his eyes.
Stellan placed a couple of glasses on the table and sat down on the sofa next to her.
Alexis granted herself a few extra seconds while she tasted the wine. A Bordeaux. Heady. But full of flavour. She could feel Stellan staring at her.
‘You’re no stranger to … all this …’ he said.
The wine swirled inside her glass. She knew Stellan was not referring to the drink they were sharing.
‘You mean investigations into serial killers, or mourning?’
‘The two go hand in hand, don’t they?’
A wave of desire ran through Alexis, a totally inappropriate response to Stellan’s question. It felt as if it was about to consume her.
‘The two indeed go together.’
She felt dirty; soiled by the strength of her desire, her lascivious thoughts. She had no right to think of herself again, no right to banish her pain. Not yet. This was not the time to say farewell to her partner, replace him. She had the right to go to bed with any old person when her hormones were raging, but never with someone serious.
Stellan’s eyes swept across the table. He was waiting for her to say more, explain herself, share her thoughts, but Alexis had no impulse to confide in him about her particular hell. It was a burden she had to carry all the time, and it was heavy enough as it was, without talking about it.
He nodded, his eyes still fixed on the table, and Alexis wondered if she had somehow spoken out loud. He set down his glass and turned towards her. He’s about to get personal too, she thought, lassitude sweeping over her, the tiredness that came of continual bouts of therapy and meetings with broken men.
She was about to beg him not to say a word when Stellan leaned towards her, his gaze questioning. There was a feverish look in his eyes, as they swept across her body. Surprise froze Alexis i
mmediately, then disappeared in a stroke at the very moment Stellan’s lips pressed against hers. She melted and caught fire at the same time, as if he were directing the sun to move across her cold-sodden body. Her final thoughts crumbled and her mind went blank.
Stellan’s mouth travelled from one lip to the other, then reached the cradle of her neck. Out of breath, he waited a little, then put his tongue between her lips. Desire electrified Alexis and a wave of heat reached her lower stomach. Gasping, she fell onto the sofa, eyes closed, limbs heavy, a near-drunken feeling taking hold of her.
She heard the rough fabric of Stellan’s jeans rub against her, the click of his belt buckle falling on the floor tiles and the hushed sound of his trousers sliding down his legs. He pulled her knickers down and shivered as he caressed her wet sex. She opened her thighs and pulled him towards her. The heat and weight of his chest against hers put her instantly and completely at ease, a sensation she hadn’t experienced for as long as she could remember.
She only opened her eyes again when the orgasm radiated through her lower body. Her eyes met Stellan’s. He had a satisfied, serene look, touched with tenderness, and it made her shiver with joy.
Cornwall, England
July 1982