Then she passed out, within ten minutes, at most. The perpetrator put her on a bed and undressed her, removing all her clothes, her wristwatch and rings.
‘They usually do it in that order,’ Sjöberg said. ‘The pillow suggests a bed, and they usually take care to undress their victims completely. They usually stand and look at them before they get to work, exposing them, twisting and turning them a bit, looking at them from different angles. Small and defenceless, entirely exposed, at their mercy. They usually take their time with that.’
Then he raped her, subjecting her to full vaginal ‘intercourse’ and pulling out before orgasm. He ejaculated across her stomach, chest and head. Then he wiped his genitals with her pink T-shirt.
‘At a guess, I’d say the perpetrator is fairly young,’ Sjöberg said. ‘A lot of semen, shot quite some distance. Not the sort of thing your average ugly old man can accomplish.’
‘Did he assault her more than once?’ asked one of Jarnebring’s colleagues.
‘I don’t think so,’ Sjöberg said. ‘She bled heavily after the first assault. A lot of them have trouble with that. With real sadists, it’s the opposite, of course, but I get the impression here that we’re dealing with a more sensitive type of paedophile. Respectful, as one of them once described himself to me when I was conducting a physical examination of him.’
Finally, he smothered Yasmine with a pillow when he realized that there was no alternative but to kill her if he was to get away with what he had done.
‘For the rape alone he’d serve at least seven or eight years,’ Sjöberg continued. ‘Better to take his chances. Then there are all the other things that they usually take into account. The social consequences, if I can put it like that. He doesn’t seem to have been a madman. He didn’t strangle her, didn’t cut her throat, didn’t smash her head in, even though any of those would have been much simpler. Not the slightest sign of sadistic violence either. He chose the most humane alternative and suffocated her with a pillow. And then, of course, he didn’t have to look at her while he was doing it. Like I said, a sensitive paedophile, socially accepted by those around him, people who presumably don’t have the slightest suspicion of his sexual proclivities. Someone who believes he doesn’t have a choice. That what happened isn’t really his fault. That it just turned out that way.’
‘A cowardly little fucker, then,’ Jarnebring said. I’ll kill the bastard, he thought. A thought that was so strong that it had already taken root in his fists.
‘Couldn’t agree more,’ Sjöberg said. ‘If you happen to break his arms and legs when you arrest him, I promise to do everything in my power to show that the wounds were self-inflicted.’
What about the timing? What could he say about that? First the assault, and then the murder?
According to Sjöberg, everything he had described had occurred soon after she disappeared. She probably died that same evening, Friday, 14 June. Among other things, the contents of her stomach were a strong indication of that.
And the dumping of her body?
There was a good deal of uncertainty on that point. If Sjöberg were to hazard a guess, he would say that Yasmine’s body was dumped the following night. Some time around midnight, perhaps, when it was dark enough not to be seen, light enough for him to see what he was doing and not trip over and fall. Seeing as he was so sensitive.
25
Thursday afternoon, 15 July 2010
‘Sjöberg was a real rock,’ Jarnebring declared. ‘But he never got to stick his knife into our esteemed colleague Bäckström. The old boy died ten years or so back. He was over ninety, so I daresay he was still hoping. Tried to cling on but couldn’t quite manage it.’
‘The problem with men like Bäckström is that they never die,’ Johansson said. ‘But never mind him now. Tell me about Yasmine instead. Was she one of those happy, sociable, trusting little girls who might have gone off with someone she didn’t know?’
‘Not according to the parents. Both her mother and father had spoken to her about that on numerous occasions, about never going with anyone she didn’t know. Avoiding any close contact with strangers, men and women alike. Even other children and teenagers if she didn’t know who they were and whether they could be trusted. She’s supposed to have been a sensible girl, mature for her age, well brought up, and she knew her own mind. A pretty little thing, too. I put some pictures of her in the file for you to take a look at. Dark, with big, brown eyes and long, black hair. Good at school, too. Popular with her friends, the sort plenty of boys that age would fancy. Very particular about how she dressed. A bit coquettish, as they say.’
‘All according to her parents, of course.’
‘I know what you mean. But also according to her teachers and everyone else we spoke to who knew her.’
‘Under normal circumstances, that may well have been true,’ Johansson said. ‘But this was no ordinary evening. First, she runs away from her mum. When she gets home to her dad’s, the house is locked up and he’s gone, without telling her. And she’s forgotten her keys, too. And she hasn’t got a phone. I mean, there were no mobiles in those days. I think that opens up the possibility that she might have done plenty of things she wouldn’t normally have done.’
‘I agree with you,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Which didn’t exactly make things any easier.’
‘How did they end up here, anyway? The whole family, I mean,’ Johansson said, even though his thoughts were focused on a time and a life that only arose much later. Maybe she just wanted to borrow a phone so she could call her mum, he thought. Knocked on the door of some trustworthy and helpful paedophile of the more sensitive variety. Who just wanted to look at her while she slept naked on his bed as he took care of himself. Until a rush of lust, which obviously wasn’t his fault either, grabbed hold of him and left him with no choice.
‘That political stuff isn’t my strong point, but I could always—’
‘Sorry, what did you just say? Something about politics?’ Pull yourself together, he thought.
‘Yasmine and her parents arrived as political refugees from Iran,’ Jarnebring said. ‘That was in the winter of 1979, when Yasmine had just turned three.’
‘I see.’
‘That political stuff’ may not have been Jarnebring’s strong point, but he had talked to Yasmine’s parents and listened to what they had to say on the subject. He had compared what they had said with what was written in the files held by the immigration office on when they came to Sweden and – immediately upon arrival at Arlanda Airport on 20 January 1979 – they had applied for political asylum. Just for once, all parties concerned had been touchingly unanimous. The risk of them being subjected to ‘political persecution’ in the Ayatollah’s Iran was deemed to be ‘highly considerable and pervasive’. They themselves, along with their families, were members of the Christian minority, belonged to the old upper class and had supported the Shah. The father, or ‘Jusef’, as his name was spelled in his Iranian passport, his wife, Maryam, and their three-year-old daughter, Yasmine, had quickly been granted residence permits.
Both parents were highly educated, the father a doctor who had graduated from medical school in Tehran, the mother with a medical-technical degree from the same university. They also had an existing connection to what would become their new homeland. ‘Josef’ Ermegan – he changed the spelling of his name as soon as he was granted permanent residency – already had a number of relatives living in Sweden, among them an uncle who was a successful doctor and worked as a professor of medical chemistry at the Karolinska Institute.
‘I have a feeling the father was given authorization to work as a doctor in Sweden after just a year or so,’ Jarnebring said. ‘He needed to do a couple of supplementary courses. Yasmine’s mother trained to be a dental nurse and had also finished within a year or two of their arrival. The entire family became Swedish citizens in February 1985. Just a few months before their daughter was murdered. That was when they applied formally for a divorce. The
y had already separated a year or so earlier, but they kept that quiet. Presumably, didn’t want to jeopardize their application for citizenship.’
Whatever their divorce had to do with that matter, Johansson thought, but instead of saying anything he contented himself with a nod.
‘You remember those charges the mother filed against the father, about him assaulting her? I mentioned them yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said.
‘Those weren’t filed either until they’d been granted citizenship.’
‘Well, that was fairly practical. For the father, I mean. Why complicate things unnecessarily? He probably promised her the kid and a bit of extra maintenance if she kept her mouth shut.’
Off he goes again, Jarnebring thought. There’s something not right.
‘What happened afterwards, then?’ Johansson asked. ‘To the parents, I mean. Are they still alive?’
‘I haven’t heard anything to the contrary,’ Jarnebring answered. ‘But they’ve both left Sweden. The father moved to the USA in 1990. Alone – he didn’t stay for long with the woman he was living with when his daughter was murdered. He’s supposed to have done well for himself over there. As rich as Uncle Scrooge. Owns some big pharmaceutical company. He’s been an American citizen for years. He changed his name again when he moved, to Joseph Simon, Joseph with a “ph”, and Simon after his father. You know, like that singer in Simon and Garfunkel.’
‘What about the mother?’ Johansson asked.
‘She lost it, apparently,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Moved back to Iran some time in the 1990s. Became a Mohammedan. With a veil and the whole shebang.’
‘Converted to Islam, you mean.’
‘Yes. Started going round in a burka, or whatever it’s called.’
‘Sounds practical.’
‘No doubt,’ Jarnebring agreed. ‘If you’re a woman living over there, it’s probably essential.’
One who survived, Johansson thought. Who hardened himself, brought out the worst in himself and survived with the help of his hatred. And one who went under and was forced to give up the life she had lived before.
‘I’m starting to feel a bit tired,’ he said. ‘Would you mind if I called time out and had a little nap?’
‘Not in the slightest.’
‘See you again tomorrow?’
‘Oh, yes,’ Jarnebring said. ‘You can count on it: same time, same place.’
Then something strange happened. When Jarnebring leaned over the bed to give him a manly and comradely pat on the shoulder, Johansson held out his right hand. Without even thinking about it. He raised it from the covers where it had been lying the whole time and held it out.
Jarnebring took it. In a firm grip, but as gently as he would a child’s hand.
‘Squeeze, then, Lars,’ Jarnebring said. ‘Let me see some of the old energy I know you’ve still got in there.’
‘It’s coming,’ Johansson said. It’s coming, he thought. ‘Listen, Jarnis,’ he added when his best friend was on his way out through the door of his room. ‘Don’t forget my trousers.’
Then he fell asleep. On his back, with his hands folded over his stomach, the way he always did before he got that crap in his head which was actually just a bonus he got because of his dodgy heart.
When Pia came to see him that evening he was fast asleep.
She sat down on the chair beside his bed, and stayed there for a good couple of hours, just looking at him. He wasn’t snoring, for once. He just lay there on his good left side, quietly, motionless.
She stroked his face and right arm softly. No movement, not the slightest change in his face. She felt a deep anxiety that she couldn’t explain.
He’s asleep, she thought. He’s asleep, that’s all, she repeated to herself. Just as long as nothing else happens.
Then she went home.
26
Friday, 16 July
Another day in Lars Martin Johansson’s new life. A day he started by setting two new personal records. First, he more than doubled the amount of time he could squeeze the red rubber ball in his right hand. Then, and without the slightest hesitation, he raised his sleeping right arm and touched his right shoulder with his hand. His arm was also itching and aching the whole time, in the most encouraging way.
‘I’m proud of you, Lars,’ his physiotherapist said. ‘You’re making great strides.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Johansson said; deep down, he was a shy, modest person. ‘Maybe not great strides, but at least it’s going in the right direction.’
Things weren’t quite so good with his doctor, Ulrika Stenholm. She looked tired, which is exactly what she was. She had been on call for the past couple of nights, and the most she had managed was four consecutive hours’ sleep.
She hadn’t had time to do much about her father’s papers. But she had done a little, trying to pick out the bags and boxes containing documents from 1989, 1988 and 1987, as Johansson had instructed her. She had put them in a separate pile and was thinking of getting to grips with them seriously over the weekend.
‘It’s not the end of the world,’ Johansson said. ‘Those papers are hardly going to run away from us,’ he added.
‘Thanks,’ Dr Stenholm said. ‘It’s nice to have someone show me a bit of patience.’
And you’re not a lawyer either, are you? Johansson thought. Even though I’ve already explained the situation to you.
Then he ate lunch, the food pretty much the same as usual. He reinforced it with a banana and half a bag of morello cherries, as well as a chocolate biscuit which he ate in secret. Just as he was wiping the last crumbs from his lips, Jarnebring appeared. They had coffee in his room, a whole pot with a jug of warm milk alongside it, and then spent half the afternoon discussing their case.
‘What do you think about this, then, Lars?’ Jarnebring said. ‘Yasmine’s murder, I mean.’
‘You start,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ll listen. You were there, after all.’
‘It all went wrong from the beginning,’ Jarnebring started. ‘When I think back to how it went wrong, I usually console myself by thinking that it might have been one of those cases that would have gone wrong anyway. I can tell you, this case has been eating me up from the inside.’
‘How do you mean, “would have gone wrong anyway”?’
‘Because it was too difficult,’ Jarnebring said. ‘When the girl was heading back to her mother’s – because that was probably where she was going – she ran into one of those lunatics who get turned on by children. Someone she’d never met before, a complete stranger, and a totally coincidental encounter, but because she wasn’t herself he managed to trick her into going with him. The sort of case we never manage to solve because it’s simply too difficult,’ he repeated.
‘For God’s sake, Bo,’ Johansson said, and sighed. ‘Now I’m starting to get seriously worried about you.’
I recognize you now, Jarnebring thought.
‘So tell me what happened, then. I’ve always been a simple constable. I’ve never been able to see round corners. Tell me what happened.’
‘I don’t know,’ Johansson said. Not yet, he thought. ‘But there’s one thing I do know,’ he said.
‘What’s that?’
‘That in nineteen out of twenty cases when we’re dealing with crimes like this, the perpetrator is someone in the victim’s immediate vicinity. Either in their social circle, or the perpetrator belongs to the same family, group of friends, all the usual, you know – or he’s in the victim’s vicinity geographically. They’re neighbours, he lives in the same area, he sees the victim every day when she walks to and from school, because maybe he works in the cornershop across the street. Or he’s in both – social and geographic proximity.’
‘Hang on now, Lars,’ Jarnebring said, putting his hand up to stop him, just in case. ‘Take someone like that Anders Eklund, who killed little Engla, Engla Höglund, that young girl who lived up in Dalarna. Pure coincidence. He’d probably never seen
her before in his life.’
‘The twentieth case,’ Johansson said. ‘But you don’t have to worry about him this time. Not when it comes to Yasmine.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Eklund wasn’t carrying sleeping pills or a pillow with a white pillowcase around with him,’ Johansson said. ‘He was a primitive simpleton, and the way he carried out his crime was perfectly logical, given the way things worked inside his tiny mind. It took the local cops less than twelve hours to find him. So you can definitely forget about men like him when it comes to Yasmine.’
‘Ulf Olsson, then? The one who killed Helene Nilsson.’
‘Classic nineteen of twenty,’ Johansson said. ‘Lived in the same place as her, had lived there all his life. His family knew her family; and his younger sister was best friends with Helene’s older sister, wasn’t she? The fact that it took sixteen years to find the bastard wasn’t down to him. He can thank our colleagues down in Skåne for those years, for screwing up a perfectly simple case beyond all recognition. I’d have caught him within a month.’
I believe you, Jarnebring thought. Who knows, maybe even I could have managed that?
‘The “girl killer”, then, John Ingvar Löfgren? You know, the one in Stockholm back in the mid-sixties.’
‘It was 1963,’ Johansson said. ‘Two little girls; I seem to recall the first victim was six years old, the other even younger – four, if I’m not mistaken. The dates of their murders were 12 August, out in Aspudden, and 2 September, in Vitabergs Park on Södermalm.’
Now I definitely recognize you, Jarnebring thought. ‘But they were hardly victims he socialized with,’ he said. No point giving in too easily, he thought.
‘He tried,’ Johansson said. ‘Löfgren was thirty-two. He had the intellect of an eight-year-old and a grown man’s body and desires. He spent his days drifting around parks looking for girls of the same mental age as him to play with. He forced himself upon them, or attempted to, then killed them and ran off. Compared with him, even Anders Eklund looks almost normally intelligent. Forget men like Eklund and Löfgren. Where Yasmine’s concerned, you can even forget Ulf Olsson, although he was considerably more than normally intelligent, if we’re talking about his IQ here.’
The Dying Detective Page 9