by Anna Jansson
“Do we know anything about her? How old is she?”
“According to her driver’s license she would have turned thirty-three in August. I have Martenson’s digital camera here so we can see the pictures they took from the apartment. The fewer people who tramp around in there the better.” Maria took a deep breath and forced herself to look at what she couldn’t avoid seeing. The woman’s face was mottled blue. Her tongue was hanging swollen out of her mouth, and her bloodshot eyes were staring. The next picture showed the bruise on her neck.
“So repulsive.” Maria closed her eyes and swallowed.
“Horrible. You never get used to it. If you did maybe it would be time to quit.” Hartman continued the display with a series of pictures of the interior. “It looks like she did massage. There’s a massage bench set up in the living room—otherwise it’s furnished like any other apartment. That might explain the number of visitors.”
Maria looked at the pictures with dismay. The destruction was incredible. Not one chair whole. The TV screen was smashed and the glass doors of the sideboard broken. Otherwise the living room was light and sparsely furnished. One side of the room faced out toward the large balcony with a view of the sea and the harbor area. The massage bench was set up along one wall. It had a slipcover and pillows, hot water bottles, and buckwheat pillows, and at the foot end was a large welded floor candleholder. Tea lights were set out all over the room in elegant small steel-wire candle lanterns. Two large ceramic bowls of fruit decorated the low coffee table and everywhere were expensive flowers in vases. White lilies, white roses, and other tall white flowers, the names of which Maria did not know. Strangely enough, these had been left untouched.
The opposite wall was covered with bookshelves and the books were sorted by subject and in alphabetical order. Two shelves were swept out onto the floor. Mostly fiction, but also professional medical literature and books about herbs and art, Maria noted while she tried without much success to screen off the intrusive visual image of the dead woman. The thought of the violated body, the bruises. A woman thirty-three years old, a woman younger than herself. There was a bundle of papers on the desk. Photocopied newspaper articles about EAN codes and chip marking of animals. There were no signs of any pets in the apartment. No food bowls, leashes, or scratching posts.
“Is there a photo of her?”
“The driver’s license. Do you want to see it?” Hartman pulled a plastic bag out of his briefcase with a gloved hand and showed the photograph through the plastic. “She was very nice-looking.”
“Yes, very.” Maria studied a friendly, open face with regular features and a nice smile. “I’ve seen her before. Only in passing, but I remember it quite clearly. She left her wallet in the store. I couldn’t catch up with her then, but she got her wallet back anyway.
“I noticed she had a computer in the bedroom. It was even turned on.”
“Yes, I hope it can give us some information. On the floor in the bedroom was a ceramic carafe. There has been wine in it, and it looks like she drank straight from it without a glass. The technicians took it with them. I don’t think we have much more to do here, or what do you think? Lennie Hellstrom next, shall we head over to Rutegatan and question the ex-boyfriend?” Maria agreed and let her eyes pass one last time over the picture of the living room.
“I’m wondering about something. It looks like the massage bench is easy to fold up and put away. But it’s set up. Could she have been expecting a client? Both men and women come here, you said. The apartment is rather small and the bench takes up space. I would have folded it up if I wasn’t working.” She continued thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t dare be a masseuse and let strange men into my home. I mean, being home alone and letting a man strip down to his underwear and then massaging him; it seems risky. Was she forced to see clients at home for financial reasons, do you think? I’m just thinking out loud. We should probably assign someone to check up on her clients.”
“If her live-in moved out, the rent for this apartment must cost a bit every month.” Hartman was silent a moment, thinking about what the monthly expense for an apartment with a sea view in Visby might be. “Wonder if she’s a masseuse in her spare time or is that her real occupation?”
They went into the building to return the camera. “No Solicitors” it said on a neatly handwritten piece of paper right below it. Maria could not take her eyes off the woman’s sturdy permanent. Close to her scalp it was straight as an arrow and then it became a thick headband of steel wool.
“I need to talk with you, Mr. Policeman. You are a policeman, aren’t you? It’s hard to tell if you’re not wearing a uniform.”
Yes, he was.
“Is it true that she’s lying dead in there, the poor girl? Imagine, I wondered what kind of terrible commotion there was when I got up to use the bathroom. It sounded like someone was smashing apart all the furniture. This is just too terrible. How did it happen? What was going on? Well, what I want to say is … perhaps you could come in so I can offer you a cup of coffee on a day like this … you might really need it. I don’t have much to go with it, but there are always rolls if that would taste good. Gotland rolls.”
“I don’t think we have time for that right now. If there’s anything you forgot to tell the policeman you spoke with here earlier this morning please say what’s on your mind, but we don’t have time for coffee.”
“Oh no, there’s always time for that. You have to give yourself time for a cup of coffee so you can keep working.” Without Maria really understanding how it happened, soon they were sitting nicely next to each other like two schoolchildren on Aunt Ingrid’s kitchen bench. “Well, what I wanted to tell you was that Sandra Hagg is a clean-living person and a teetotaler. I know that, because I’m involved in the Blue Ribbon Society and we’ve talked about these things on many occasions. I know her mother; she was also active in the temperance movement. Where is society headed when the social democrats want to lower the alcohol tax? Who’s going to pay those bills? If we’re going to take care of everyone with alcohol damage, municipal taxes will have to go up if folks with other complaints are going to get any care at all. The money has to be there. Sandra Hagg is a nurse and has worked with smoking cessation. A combination of massage and smoking cessation. She worked at that health center that recently opened at Snackgardsbaden. I can barely pronounce the name: Vigoris Health Center. It’s a kind of community health center, but private. For people with money.”
“Do you know where we can get hold of Lennie Hellstrom? If we’re not misinformed he doesn’t live here anymore.” Maria refused a refill. Her stomach was aching. Onset of gastritis again, presumably. Linda’s reaction that morning was still in her body—Promise you won’t die, Mommy—and the constant thoughts of Emil. She needed to be with him.
“Lennie, that’s very sad, I don’t understand what made her break off the engagement. They were so in love and he’s such a nice young man. So considerate and friendly. If he saw that I was carrying heavy bags from the store he helped me up the stairs with them, and if he was going into town he always offered me a ride so I wouldn’t have to walk. Yes, she was nice too, she really was. I thought they were so well suited for each other and then they go and make a mess of things. I have to be truthful. When she broke up with him he was sitting there on the bench, right where you’re sitting now. He was completely pale, the poor boy. He couldn’t understand it. He simply could not understand what he had done wrong. Things were going so well for them, a nice apartment and both of them had jobs, a car and everything. It was as if she wasn’t really herself anymore. He didn’t recognize her, he said.”
“In what way was she different?” Hartman swept the crumbs into his hand and put them on the plate. He was getting ready to say thank you and leave when he got an answer to his final question.
“Yes, in what way? No, he didn’t say. So you haven’t got hold of him yet? Well, but then he doesn’t know … that’s just terrible! He lives on Rutegatan.”
&n
bsp; “We know that, but he doesn’t answer the phone.”
“That’s not so strange. He works nights at a security company. That was how they met and he became her personal bodyguard. They used to joke about that and now she’s dead … it’s just so horrid and he doesn’t know anything yet, poor boy.”
“What’s the name of the security company where he works?”
“Guard something, that center and the security company are related in some way. They’re owned by a foreign company, I think. It was so romantic when Sandra and Lennie met. She got locked in the laboratory. There was something wrong with her access card so she couldn’t get out, and he had to come and rescue her on a ladder through a window so that she could get back to her patient who had just had an operation. She worked nights at that time and was the only nurse on the ward. She had to get out so she could do her job. Sometimes Lennie works extra as a bouncer at the bars in town. I know that. He’s probably working more now that they’re no longer together. He’s got to do something. He can’t just sit alone at home staring at the wall.”
“I assume you’ve already been asked whether you saw anything unusual yesterday evening, saw anyone on the stairwell who doesn’t live here, for example, or heard anything unusual.”
“Yes, I actually did. I have such a hard time sleeping when it feels like there are ants creeping up my legs; I walk back and forth in the apartment. I’m sure I’ve walked several thousand miles this month alone. Of course, you have to take a look at who’s on the stairs. The Perssons below aren’t home. They’ve gone to Greece and you feel a little responsibility. There have been a number of apartment break-ins recently when people have been away … and then I read in the newspaper about the old man who let two strange women in who wanted to borrow a pen and paper to write a message to the neighbor upstairs. He wasn’t at home and they had just stopped by. While they kept the man busy a third person sneaked in and took his wallet and other valuables. It’s just shameful to do such a thing to old people. Well then, I do keep an eye on the building.”
“And what did you see,” said Hartman in an attempt to hasten the testimony somewhat if possible.
“First some children came who were selling peppermint sticks. A boy and a girl. The girl had long blonde hair and was a little taller than the boy. He was dark and had big brown eyes and said his name was Patrik. They were in third grade and were going to Denmark. It’s awful that they have to work so hard to go on a school trip. We never went on school trips when I was a child. We just bicycled out to the beach and camped. Right after the children rang the bell a man came by in a cowboy hat and boots. I’ve never seen him before. He had a beard or long mustache anyway. Henriksson saw him too. He may have been forty-five or fifty, perhaps. Burly. Grayish blond long hair. He reeked of alcohol, I noticed it far off.”
“You didn’t see anything else?” asked Maria when Ingrid Svensson paused to refill their cups.
“Well, there was another man, I think. I heard a man’s voice outside. It may have been the same person, the one with the cowboy hat—but I got a feeling somehow that it wasn’t. I thought that such a big fellow can’t have such a squeaky voice, you imagine that the voice and the person go together, if you understand?”
“Did you hear what he said?” asked Hartman.
“No, I didn’t. It may have been the same man of course, I won’t say otherwise, but the voice was extremely high-pitched.”
Chapter 19
“The bird flu on Gotland has claimed yet another victim. The thirty-year-old female coach who was infected at a soccer camp in Klintehamn died at three o’clock this morning. According to reports from a reliable source, the supply of effective medicine is no longer adequate, and today the Minister of Public Health will make an appeal to the World Health Organization for help. The situation is serious. We also have information from unconfirmed sources that eleven more of the children at the soccer camp have become ill with flu-like symptoms and will be transferred to the old Follingbo sanitarium today with the help of a response team from Linkoping. We have disease control officer Asa Gahnstrom with us in the studio for commentary.”
“The fact is that the antiviral medications we have do not work on the strain of flu virus that has struck the island. We can treat complications like pneumonia with antibiotics, but Tamiflu and the other medications that were procured for the emergency supply are ineffective.”
Maria turned off the radio and covered her face with her hands. So now they were admitting it. Emil! It was as if only now had the shock subsided enough for her to understand what Jonathan Eriksson said to her last night. She couldn’t bear to hear more. The sound came and went and a powerful attack of vertigo made her take desperate hold of the handle to the car door while she supported herself with her other hand against the instrument panel. She should be with her child and not at work! A moderate infection, Jonathan had said, but he hadn’t look her in the eyes when he was saying it.
“What’s going on, Maria? Are you thinking about Emil, or what? I understand if you are. You can’t work under such circumstances. I can speak with Lennie Hellstrom myself. I’ll drive you to Follingbo so you can see how the boy is doing, then you can call me when you want to return to Visby. Okay?”
“Yes, I have to be with him now. I can’t think about anything else. It’s like a nightmare. They said that eleven more children … eleven children have gotten sick and there’s no medicine to give them. There aren’t enough respirators on the island or personnel if they get really sick, there may even be a shortage of beds, the doctor said when I pressed him. What happens now? If Emil had remained at the soccer camp I would have picked him up after this. I would do it even if I had to force my way past my colleagues. I would have fought to get him out of there and I don’t think I’m alone in feeling that way. I feel sorry for the police officers standing guard outside the school—what will they do if parents demand to pick up their children to save their lives? It’s an unreasonable task. They won’t be able to hold a unified front. There’ll be chaos. What will happen to the parents who try to get past? Tie them up? Hit them with batons? Arrest them?”
The row of apartment buildings on Rutegatan looked orderly, no graffiti or any visible damage. The bicycles were parked neatly in a rack, except for one rusty child’s bike with training wheels that was tossed on the lawn outside. A nice area, if not as exclusive as Signalgatan. When Hartman got out of the car at the indicated address he wondered how the division of property was worked out between Sandra and Lennie. Who earns more, a nurse or a night watchman with extra income? Perhaps Ingrid Svensson’s view of Sandra Hagg as a clean-living person did not exactly add up. It’s not a given that you tell your neighbors everything, especially not if they’re in collusion with your mother.
Hartman read the blue directory by the entry and then took the two stairs up to the floor where Lennie Hellstrom lived. He rang five or six times before someone opened the door. A man with a large head of coal-black hair dressed only in underwear opened and assessed the intruder with squinting, tired eyes.
“Tomas Hartman from the police, may I come in?”
“What’s this about? If you’re selling something I’m not interested. You woke me up actually. Is anything wrong?” said Lennie Hellstrom when he saw Hartman’s serious expression. He combed his hair back with both hands and yawned so that the black fillings at the back of his mouth were visible. “I’ve only slept for …”—he squinted and looked at his watch—“barely three hours. Is it something important?”
“Yes. Perhaps it’s best if we go in and sit down.” Hartman showed his identification. Still hesitant, Lennie opened the door so that Hartman could barely squeeze in under his hairy armpit. The stench of old sweat and beer became stronger. The whole apartment had a stale odor of unwashed workout clothes, moldy garbage, and sour milk. Hartman took a step over a large exercise bag and a pile of clothes on the hall floor and followed him into the kitchen, where Lennie immediately went up to the fridge and popped op
en a beer that he drank straight from the can.
“Would you like one?” he asked, reaching for another beer. When Hartman declined he continued drinking in silence and stifled a belch with puffed-out cheeks. “Okay, what do you want? Hartman, was that your name?”
“I’ve just come from Signalgatan.”
“Good Lord, Sandra! Is she okay?”
“We’ve found a woman in her apartment. Dead—and yes, we believe it is Sandra Hagg.” Hartman paused so that the words could sink in. “Do you know of any distinctive marks on her, a scar, birthmark or the like?”
“This isn’t true! Marks? Sandra has a bar code tattooed on her butt. She did it last summer; she thought it was cool. I don’t get it! What happened?”
“A neighbor of Sandra called the emergency service center last night. She was wakened by a noise and was trying to figure out where it came from. The door to Sandra’s apartment was open and when she came in she saw the destruction. By then she was already dead. She was lying in her bed. Strangled.”
Lennie stared straight ahead, not understanding, as if the words went right past him. He went over to the refrigerator and opened another beer and emptied it in three large gulps. Hartman waited. Lennie remained by the refrigerator door without closing it. He stood there staring at the bare wall without showing a single reaction to what had been said. Hartman remained sitting quietly and waited for the outburst that might come without forewarning.
“Dead?” Lennie whispered in a voice from far, far away. “Is Sandra dead? She can’t be dead. I just talked with her. You’re lying, damn it, I just talked to her.” His tone was threatening now and he came quite close with his face bobbing from side to side to stand his ground and demand an opponent, someone to fight with to regain what he had lost. Tomas Hartman did not turn his eyes away.