“Come on in!”
There was a rattle as the security chain was released and the door flew open. Ritva Ekholm was a small, neat woman. Her fair hair, peppered with grey, was caught up in a messy bun on top of her head. She was wearing a man’s shirt in thin, pale blue cotton, and black harem pants. The shirt was several sizes too big. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted bright red. Behind the round-rimmed glasses her sparkling eyes were heavily made up with kohl. Her smile was warm and welcoming, though her teeth were badly stained with nicotine; the smell of cigarette smoke in the apartment was overwhelming. There was nothing about Ritva that fit with Irene’s preconceived notion of a female university lecturer.
“Sorry. I guess I didn’t hear the first time you rang the bell,” Ritva said as she turned and walked away.
“No prob—” Irene broke off when she realized Ritva wasn’t listening. She stepped into the airy hallway and closed the door behind her. She also turned the key in one of the locks; something told her Ritva valued her security.
As she moved further inside she realized she was in a two-story apartment. The lower floor was completely open-plan, with a combined living room and kitchen. An elegant wooden staircase presumably led up to a bedroom and bathroom.
The décor was an eclectic mixture of different styles. Most of the furniture could well have come from a trunk sale, but some pieces appeared to be genuine antiques. There were also a couple of designer items that looked new. Irene thought it was a shame the room was so messy, because the overall effect was kind of cozy. Three of the walls were completely covered with over-stuffed bookshelves, while the fourth was made up of narrow windows reaching from floor to ceiling. Four large paintings hung between the windows; if they were genuine, they were extremely valuable. Irene recognized the style of Ivan Ivarson, the Göteborg artist. A few months earlier she had been caught in a shower while shopping in town, and had sought refuge in the art gallery, which was holding a major exhibition of Ivarson’s work. She immediately fell for his colorful paintings of France and the west coast of Sweden. Before she left she bought a poster, which she intended to frame and hang in the hallway. She also recognized Inge Schiöler’s work. Most Swedes were familiar with them since they had appeared in a number of auction shows on TV. Irene was no expert, but she knew these two artists commanded sky-high prices. And Ritva Ekholm had two of each.
“I inherited them.”
Irene gave a start; she hadn’t noticed Ritva was standing beside her.
“My parents inherited an art collection from my maternal grandfather. Mom was from Göteborg, but moved to Åbo when she married my father. They were both teachers, and didn’t exactly amass a fortune during their lives, but they did keep Grandpa’s paintings. When they died I sold almost the entire collection and bought this apartment. But I held on to those four; they’re my pension,” she said with a smile.
“Is that why you have so many locks on the front door?”
“Yes; the insurance company insisted. I also have an alarm that’s switched on whenever I go out, plus another alarm when I go to bed.”
“You live in Fort Knox,” Irene said, returning the smile.
“Indeed I do.”
Ritva went over to a generous black leather sofa, which was next to a large, far-from-modern swivel chair. The coffee table was a solid combination of a white marble top on a cast-iron base. Irene thought it was beautiful, but probably impossible to move. An overflowing ashtray clumsily modeled from blue-painted clay was in the middle of the table. The woven rug in shades of green with orange spots clashed with everything else in the room.
“Please sit anywhere you’d like.”
Irene chose the swivel chair, which turned out to be extremely comfortable.
“Would you like a cup of coffee? Or tea?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” Irene replied.
Ritva went over to the kitchen area and put the kettle on. She opened a cupboard and took out two mismatched mugs and a jar of instant coffee. She placed them on a tray and added two spoons, a carton of milk and a box of sugar lumps. She carried the tray over, then shook the milk carton and pulled a face.
“Not much left. I haven’t had time to go shopping . . . even though I’m home unusually early today. I’m a regular customer at the 7-Eleven,” she said.
“That’s where you were going on Monday evening?” Irene asked.
“Exactly. I’d run out of cigarettes and bread.”
The kettle switched itself off with a loud click. While Ritva went to fetch it, Irene put a spoonful of coffee into her chipped pink mug. Her hostess returned and poured hot water into the mug. This didn’t qualify as coffee in Irene’s book; if she’d known it was instant, she would have chosen tea.
“Milk? Sugar?”
“No thanks.”
Ritva added four sugar lumps and what was left of the milk to her lime green mug. She leaned back on the sofa and fished a packet of cigarettes out of her breast pocket. She offered them to Irene, who shook her head. With a shrug she lit up and greedily inhaled, before allowing the smoke to filter out slowly through her nostrils.
“Monday evening. That’s why you’re here,” she said, taking another drag.
“Yes. We’re investigating the car bomb, and we’re very interested in what you saw.”
Ritva nodded pensively, narrowing her eyes at Irene through the haze.
“I understand. As usual I had nothing edible in the refrigerator; I’m not great when it comes to planning. I normally shop on the weekends, but during the week I’m hopeless. I work long hours, so my go-to place is the 7-Eleven, unless I pick up a takeaway. Or sometimes I just don’t bother to eat.”
She smiled and blew smoke rings up toward the heavy beams before going on:
“On Monday I got home just after eight. I had some food left from the weekend, so I didn’t think I needed to go shopping. Then I realized I was almost out of cigarettes. I can manage without most things, but not those. So I went out again.”
“What time was this?”
“I’m not sure, but I’d say shortly after eight-thirty. I didn’t look at the clock when I left.”
Ritva sat up and stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, causing several of the old butts to spill over onto the table. She picked them up and added them to the pile once more, then pointed at the ashtray. “I made that in fifth grade and gave it to my dad for Christmas. He didn’t want to upset me, so he always kept it on display.”
Her hoarse laugh turned into a rattling cough.
“So you went out for cigarettes,” Irene said, keen to get back on track.
“Yes. The rain had stopped, and it was a lovely evening. I walked slowly, enjoying myself. When I was about to cross over Lorensbergsgatan, I made sure to look both ways, and I saw a car that had stopped down the street. A man got out; I know I said he looked like a shady character when I called the police, which might sound a little odd, but I stand by my choice of words.”
She was interrupted by another coughing fit and took a large swig of her coffee.
“Could you describe him in as much detail as possible?” Irene asked.
“I’ll do my best. He wasn’t very tall, but he was powerfully built. Fat, actually. Short neck. Long, lanky hair in a ponytail. Dirty, ripped jeans with his gut hanging over the waistband. Black T-shirt, black hoodie. That’s it! The other guy in the car said something to him, and he stopped and pulled up his hood. Then he waved and went into the backyard where the bomb went off later. He was carrying a small toolbox in his left hand.”
Ritva reached for her cigarette packet. It was less than a minute since she had finished the first one, but clearly it was time for another. She shook out a cigarette and began to roll it between her fingers.
“What did the driver do?” Irene asked.
“He waved through the sunroof and moved
the car forward a little. Then—”
“The sunroof? The car had a sunroof?” Irene broke in.
“Didn’t I say that? Maybe I forgot when I called in, but yes, it did. He stuck his hand through the gap and waved. I noticed that the hand was completely black. At first I thought he was dark-skinned, but then I realized the color came from tattoos—all the way down to his fingertips.”
“Did you see any more of him?”
“Nothing—the car had tinted windows.”
“Did you notice if the other guy had any tattoos?”
Irene knew Ritva had mentioned this in her initial statement, but wanted to double-check.
“Yes. I only saw him in profile, but he had a tattoo up the side of his neck and cheek.”
“Could you make out what it was?”
“No. I can see pretty well with my fabulous new glasses, but they have their limitations, and I was at least fifty yards away.”
“Okay . . . Would it be possible for you to come in to the station first thing tomorrow morning to meet our sketch artist—say seven-thirty? I say sketch artist, but of course they use a computer program these days,” she corrected herself.
“I know how it works, but I’m afraid I couldn’t be there before eleven. It’s almost the beginning of the semester, and we have a meeting that I really can’t miss. It’s the most important meeting of the year,” Ritva said firmly.
Irene thought fast; it was essential to get an image of the suspect as soon as possible.
“If I call the station and see if there’s someone who could work with you this evening, would you come in now?”
Ritva smiled and shrugged. “Sure. I’m not doing anything special.”
Irene made the call and asked to be put through to forensics. There was no answer, which was hardly surprising. It was almost six o’clock, and the chances of anyone still being around were small. She decided to try Fredrik Stridh.
“Hi, Fredrik. Ritva Ekholm is prepared to come in and work on a composite of the guy she saw on Monday evening; her description could be very useful,” she explained quickly.
“Great.”
“There’s no reply from forensics; do you have Göran’s direct line? It would be good if Ritva could get this done tonight.”
“Let me just check. Hang on.”
Irene could hear him talking to someone else in the room. A female voice responded, and there was at least one male voice in the background.
Fredrik came back on the line: “Ann will find Göran’s number and call him.”
Göran Nilsson was the only one who was familiar with the computer program, so Irene had no choice but to wait, and hope that Ann Wennberg could get ahold of him.
“Tell her to give him my number and ask him to contact me.”
“Okay.”
Irene couldn’t suppress an impatient sigh as she ended to call. It suddenly seemed very important to issue a wanted notice for Ritva’s “shady character.” She wasn’t entirely sure why, but she had learned to trust her instincts.
She spent the next fifteen minutes trying to get Ritva to remember what the car had looked like, but it was a waste of time; Ritva didn’t have a driver’s license, so of course she didn’t have a car; nor did she know anything about cars. They eventually decided that it was a medium-sized dark sedan with a sunroof and tinted windows. Irene also had to accept another cup of the almost undrinkable instant coffee. When her cell phone finally rang, she noticed that her hands were shaking—probably thanks to a combination of too much coffee and too little food.
“Hi. I’m afraid I haven’t managed to speak to Göran,” Ann said right away.
“Can’t be helped. Could you please leave him a message saying that Ritva Ekholm will be in at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning?”
Irene could hear the disappointment in her voice, but there wasn’t much more she could do at this stage. And it didn’t really matter whether Ritva came in at seven-thirty or eleven the following day; they should still have the sketch by lunchtime.
“Will do,” Ann promised.
I guess she doesn’t do small talk, Irene thought.
“Unfortunately we’ll have to wait until tomorrow, but if you can come in straight after your meeting, that would be great,” she said to her hostess.
“No problem. At least that means I have time to go shopping this evening,” Ritva replied with a smile, blithely showing her nicotine-stained teeth.
When Irene got home she was met by Egon, who told her a tale of woe as he tried to convince her that he had been by himself all day. Fortunately she knew better; Jenny had taken him for a long walk before she went off to work at Grodden, less than four hours ago.
Irene quickly fed him, then heated a leftover fishcake and some potatoes from yesterday’s dinner for herself. She couldn’t be bothered to make a salad. Egon was the only one who knew she was missing out on nutritious greens, and he was unlikely to tell. Even though she loved Egon, she felt a little lonely eating dinner with her canine companion, particularly as he finished a lot faster than her, and immediately started scratching at the door. Krister was still clearing up at Glady’s, and probably wouldn’t be home until late.
They went down to the wooded area behind the apartment block. It felt nothing like a city park; there were no flower beds, no neatly clipped shrubs. The trees were tall and dense, and if a tree came down it was left to rot. The air was filled with the smell of damp earth and decaying vegetation, and mushrooms were poking up through the ground here and there. Darkness was falling, but there were plenty of people around on the well-lit asphalt path—mainly dog owners out for an evening stroll.
As they headed toward Doktor Fries Square, it started to drizzle. Egon tugged at the leash, sniffing eagerly to pick up all the latest doggie news. Irene could hear the squeal of the trams down in Wavrinsky Square. Childhood memories. This whole area was full of them. She had grown up there, in the apartment where she and Krister now lived; she had inherited it from her mother, who had lived there for almost fifty years. Thanks to Katarina’s fiancé, Felipe, the renovation had gone like clockwork. He was not only a student of architecture, but also a very handy guy. He had helped them to repaper the walls and to lay new floors. With the assistance of an electrician and a plumber, he had also fitted the new kitchen, and now the apartment was exactly the way Krister and Irene wanted it to be.
It had come as a total surprise when Jan-Erik asked if Krister was interested in buying Glady’s. They had discussed the offer at length, and after due consideration decided to accept. Their lawyer prepared all the necessary paperwork to form a limited company; that alone cost 50,000 kronor. By the time everything was paid for, the money they had left from the sale of the house in Fiskebäck was gone, and Krister actually had to borrow several hundred thousand as a start-up fund. There was no getting away from the fact that his staff expected to be paid from day one. They were both relieved when the very last piece of paper had been signed, and Glady’s was theirs.
And then the car bomb exploded. It wasn’t only their car that had been wrecked, it was their entire existence. Every scrap of security had been blown away. Irene felt nothing but despair when she thought about how badly the conversation with Krister had gone exactly twenty-four hours earlier. They were facing disaster, and suddenly they couldn’t talk to each other.
Krister was still sound asleep when Irene cycled off to work the following morning. He had come home around midnight and collapsed into bed. Before he fell asleep he had muttered: “All done.”
As usual the day began with morning prayer and a cup of coffee. Fredrik Stridh and Ann Wennberg were also present. After a couple of minutes of small talk, Irene gave her report.
“I spoke to Ritva Ekholm yesterday. She’s coming in at eleven to do a composite sketch with Göran Nilsson, but she did tell me one thing we didn’t know before: the car had a sunr
oof. She saw the driver wave through the gap, and his hand was covered in tattoos, all the way to his fingertips. That was all she saw, because the windows were tinted. I’m wondering if we should take a look at the CCTV footage from the area around the Avenue to see if we can spot a dark-colored car with a sunroof? And maybe we ought to check the footage from the Ringön intersection again, in case the same car turns up there.”
“Why would it do that?” Tommy said with a frown. He was in uniform today since he was due to hold a press conference on the murder of Patrik Karlsson. There was still a high level of public concern over the macabre homicide, which even overshadowed the car bomb.
“I’m not sure, but these are two bad guys. Then again, perhaps that’s not the car we should be looking for out there; maybe there’s another car with ‘gangsters’ written all over it,” Irene said.
A thoughtful silence settled over the room; after a moment Fredrik spoke up. “We’ve already gone through the films; we didn’t see anything suspicious.”
“No, but we were focusing on two bikers,” Irene persisted.
“I’m with Irene,” Ann Wennberg said. “If we go through the footage with fresh eyes, we might find something we didn’t see the first time.”
“You could be right . . .” Tommy said, tugging at a long hair in one eyebrow.
Irene could see the calculator clicking away inside his head as he worked out how much it would cost to check the CCTV one more time.
“Okay,” he said at last. “But you’ll have to do it yourself, Irene.”
Running through Saturday evening’s CCTV records from the Ringön and Frihamn intersections wasn’t a major problem because they knew the killer or killers must have arrived before 10:30. To be on the safe side, Irene started at 9:00.
A black BMW appeared at the Ringön intersection at 10:03, and Irene’s attention was caught by the passenger in the front seat. The side window was down, his left arm dangling outside the car. He was holding a cigarette and wearing a black T-shirt and one of the largest gold watches Irene had ever seen. If it was real gold, it must be incredibly heavy and extremely valuable. The same applied to the gold chain around his neck. She could see several tattoos on his arm, although it was impossible to make out what they were. She hoped the tech guys would be able to improve the definition.
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