by Viveca Sten
Jeanette had suggested a meeting at four o’clock on Monday afternoon, and M had confirmed the time. The following day M contacted her again, first via a phone call, then with a texted request for an urgent meeting.
Thomas tried to get an overall picture, even though they only had fragments to work from.
Maybe Jeanette had told M something, and he needed time to think about it. That took him a day, and when he’d gotten his head around whatever it was, he asked to see her again. To persuade her, convince her of the right course of action?
Jeanette, he thought. Who did you invite into your home that morning? You must have felt safe in that person’s company, otherwise you would never have let him or her in voluntarily. But you needed to keep M’s identity a secret, which is why you used only the initial in your address book.
Was that for your benefit, or M’s?
You sat down at the kitchen table and had coffee together. This can’t have been a passing acquaintance, a temporary contact; it must have been someone you knew well.
Who left their home on December 24 to come and see you? Who hated you enough to poison you on Christmas Eve?
“What do you think VBP stands for?” Aram said. “It could be anything—a café or a restaurant. Or a gym?”
“Where do you meet someone if you don’t want to be seen?”
“In a place where there are lots of people—a park?”
Thomas stroked his chin. Vitabergs Park came to mind—the two hills, St. Sofia’s Church in the center.
“Could it simply be Vitabergs Park?” he said. “It’s not far from Jeanette’s apartment. Do you know the area?”
Aram shook his head. “Not really.”
The park was also close to Thomas’s apartment on Östgötagatan. In the summer it was a favorite destination for families with children; they would take a picnic and play on the grass in the sunshine.
“It’s a pretty big park, probably the largest in the Söder district,” Thomas explained. “It’s in the eastern part of Södermalm, between Skånegatan and Malmgårdsvägen. It used to be a poor part of town, but now it’s a conservation area.”
Thomas tried to think back. It had been a long time since he’d visited, but when Elin was a little older, the steep slopes would be perfect for sledding.
“There’s a little café,” he said slowly, “down below the bandstand. It’s a popular meeting place, if I remember correctly.”
He glanced at his watch: six thirty, not too late.
“Shall we go over there now?”
The small building on the edge of a snow-covered lawn was barely visible when Thomas and Aram arrived.
It’s pretty desolate, Aram thought. But beautiful.
The café wasn’t much more than a kiosk among the trees. One wall was completely covered in graffiti in garish, angry colors. The rest of the place was painted green. The black treetops almost merged with the dark sky; only the silhouettes of sprawling, bare branches could be seen in the gloom.
A sign informed them that the café was open from ten in the morning until seven in the evening, but the hatch was firmly closed and padlocked. Judging by the virgin snow all around, it was months since anyone had served coffee here.
Maybe it’s only open in the summertime, Aram thought as he moved closer. The streetlamps were few and far between in this section of the park. He took a small flashlight out of his pocket and swept the narrow beam around, but it wasn’t much help.
“You know, this isn’t a bad place to meet,” Thomas said from behind him. “Admittedly it’s some distance from Jeanette’s apartment on Fredmansgatan, but not too far—no more than a fifteen-minute walk, I’d guess.”
It was a place that would suit someone who didn’t want to attract attention. Meandering paths, dense shrubbery. Some of the old workers’ areas had been preserved for posterity, with narrow passages and alleys. The subway was nearby; it would be easy to disappear down there if necessary.
The ideal spot for sharing sensitive information.
Aram was becoming more and more convinced that Jeanette had been carrying out research leading up to some kind of exposure, and that M was a source.
Thomas headed back to the path.
“I’m wondering if we should go and talk to Anne-Marie Hansen again,” he said. “See if she knew who Jeanette’s visitor was.”
There was something about the way he said her name.
“Do you think she was involved?”
“I don’t know, but we can’t rule anything out. It’s a long shot, but Anne-Marie could be M.”
Aram slipped the flashlight back in his pocket.
“OK, let’s go.”
CHAPTER 69
Alice poked at the fried, sliced sausage; the tomato ketchup had congealed on top of the skin, which was dark brown around the edges.
She had hardly eaten a thing, but in order to prevent her dad from nagging, she moved her mashed potato around with her fork. If she spread it out, it didn’t look too bad.
Then again, he was lost in his thoughts as well. He’d hardly said a word since he’d returned from Petra’s; he didn’t even seem to have noticed that Alice wasn’t eating. She slipped her cell phone out of her pocket and checked the screen. Still no new text message. She had been waiting for two days for whoever it was to get in touch.
For the hundredth time, she wondered what would have happened if the guys from school hadn’t been there when she reached the hotel. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that they’d frightened away the person she was supposed to be meeting. As soon as they called her name, she somehow knew that was the end of it.
Why hadn’t she received another message?
She’d hidden the USB stick in a secret place where no one would be able to find it, especially not Dad. It was a good hiding place. The original message filled her mind once again:
Do you want to know how your mom died?
The small amount of food in her mouth became even harder to swallow.
“No phones at the table please, Alice,” her dad said, interrupting her train of thought. “Eat your dinner—you’ve been messing around with it forever. It doesn’t taste good when it’s cold.”
“Sorry,” Alice mumbled, moving a clump of potatoes. The sausage looked disgusting. She cut off the tiniest piece and put it in her mouth, then took a big gulp of milk in an attempt to wash it down before she could taste anything.
“Petra was wondering if we’re still going over there on New Year’s Eve as agreed,” he said, placing his knife and fork on his plate.
Alice pretended to chew in order to avoid answering.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Do I have to come?”
She didn’t need to look at him to know he was annoyed, but he was crazy if he thought Alice was going to spend New Year’s Eve with her.
“Honey, you can’t stay home alone, you know that.”
That kindly tone of voice. Alice had no intention of giving in; she shook her head.
“No, I don’t know that. Anyway, Sushi will be here, so I won’t be alone.”
“Sushi’s a cat, Alice.” He sighed and slowly ran his hand over his scalp. Time to shave it again; he usually did it every three days. He must have forgotten this morning. “I told Petra we’d be there as planned.”
Alice pursed her lips, then got to her feet with such a violent movement that her chair toppled over backward. She didn’t care; she made no attempt to pick it up.
“I’m not going.”
She stopped in the doorway and looked back at him; she was so angry.
“By the way, those cops were here again today.”
She saw him stiffen, and felt a surge of triumph. Screw him and Petra!
Fucking Petra—he always put her first!
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?”
“You didn’t ask.”
She kept her tone casual; she couldn’t help thrusting her chin forward a little.
“You can sto
p that right now,” he said. “What did they want this time?”
Alice was taken aback; he sounded so different. Something cold had crept into his voice. He never spoke like that. Not to her.
“Nothing in particular,” she said quietly.
“They can’t just turn up here and start questioning you. I won’t have it!”
A muscle beneath one eye was twitching, as it often did when he got upset.
He stood up and came over to her, grabbed her arm. “What did you talk about? Tell me!”
He was hurting her.
“Let go!” she said, trying to twist free. “They asked me about a lot of different stuff; I can’t remember much.”
He looked at her searchingly, his face only inches from hers.
“Like what?”
“They wanted to know what we did on Christmas Eve, who was here.”
“Is that all? Are you sure?”
He still sounded so agitated; he was scaring her.
“Come on, Alice—what else did they want to know?”
“They asked what happened when I saw Mom for the last time.”
That was hard to say: the last time. She felt her face crumple.
Dad seemed to come to his senses; he drew her close and gave her a hug.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmured into her hair. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m just angry that they questioned you when I wasn’t here—they’re not supposed to do that.”
He stroked her cheek.
“So did they ask you about anything else?”
“Well,” she said in a small voice, “they wondered where you were on Christmas Eve—when I woke up and you weren’t home.”
CHAPTER 70
Thomas rang the bell, and Anne-Marie Hansen opened the door almost right away.
“You again?” she said, stepping back to let them in. Her nose was red, her hair lank and greasy. She had a shawl over her gray sweatshirt, which had a stain on the front. What was going on with her?
Aram introduced himself.
“You were with a female colleague last time,” Anne-Marie commented.
“Margit Grankvist—she had to take care of something else.”
Thomas took off his jacket and hung it up in the hallway.
“We have one or two more questions; it won’t take long.”
Anne-Marie led the way into the living room and sat down on the sofa. She didn’t offer them coffee. From the bedroom came the sound of a TV.
“How are you?” Thomas asked.
“I have a cold, and I guess I’m still in shock. I can’t get my head around the fact that Jeanette is gone.”
Her voice was breaking.
“We’ve found out a little more about Jeanette’s last couple of days,” Thomas said. “It seems as if she had a visitor on the morning of December 24. We were wondering if you had any idea who that might have been?”
“I wasn’t here.” Anne-Marie plucked at the fringe of her shawl. “I told you that before.”
“Are you absolutely certain she didn’t mention anything? You were in shock when we spoke; it’s not that easy to remember under those circumstances.”
Aram cleared his throat. Thomas gave him an encouraging nod, and he leaned toward Anne-Marie.
“We found out that Jeanette received a text message when you were with her in her apartment on the evening of December 23. She answered it at around ten o’clock, so she must have been using her phone while you were still there.”
Anne-Marie stopped fiddling with the fringe. Aram went on: “I’m just wondering if she maybe said anything that would help us figure out who the message was from.”
“Let me think.” Anne-Marie closed her eyes—was she trying to picture the scene? Jeanette and Anne-Marie in the living room. Christmas music playing in the background, a half-empty bottle of wine on the table. A shared sorrow over an unborn child and a daughter who didn’t live with her mom.
“It was when I came back from the bathroom. Jeanette was just putting her phone away.”
Thomas felt a surge of hope. “What did she say?”
“It sounded like: ‘We used to be able to trust each other.’ Something along those lines.”
We used to be able to trust each other, Thomas thought. When, Jeanette? Was it a long time ago? It must have been someone who let you down, disappointed you.
“Did you ask her what she meant?”
Anne-Marie looked as if she was slightly embarrassed because she’d only just remembered Jeanette’s words.
“No—she was talking to herself, not me. When I sat down, she just asked if I wanted another glass of wine. I didn’t give it another thought.”
Thomas nodded. “We wondered if the message could have come from one of her sources, or from someone she knew well.”
There was an intimacy in the choice of words: Need to see you.
“We have a theory that she was in the habit of meeting this person in Vitabergs Park,” he added.
Anne-Marie took a crumpled tissue out of her pocket and wiped her nose.
“She never mentioned it to me. Jeanette wasn’t exactly the type to go feeding the pigeons in the park like some old lady.”
Some old lady.
The words hung in the air. The fear of growing older, of no longer mattering, was reflected in them. Anne-Marie really did look terrible: her eyes were red-rimmed and the skin around her nose was flaking, as if she’d blown it too many times on rough toilet paper.
She had also seen Jeanette during the time frame Sachsen had established, Thomas reminded himself. She did seem very shaken over her friend’s death, but that could easily result from a guilty conscience rather than genuine grief.
They had run a background check on Anne-Marie, but nothing had come up. Everything she’d told them so far appeared to be true, so there was no reason to distrust her at this stage. Plus there was no motive. However, that didn’t necessarily mean that there wasn’t something going on. Thomas decided to ask her a straightforward question.
“Did you have any unfinished business with Jeanette?”
“Me?” Anne-Marie looked horrified. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Just that if there was any kind of conflict between the two of you, I would suggest that you tell us now.”
“We were good friends, very good friends. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“If I asked the other residents in the apartment block about your relationship, would they say the same thing?”
Anne-Marie pressed the tissue to her mouth.
“That’s a ridiculous question!”
Thomas ignored the indignation in her voice.
“I’m sure you can understand why I’m asking.”
Anne-Marie pursed her lips and said nothing. Thomas glanced at Aram. Take over—I’m getting nowhere.
“Do you happen to know whether Jeanette was spending time with anyone in particular?” Aram said. “Did she have a boyfriend, or someone else in her life?”
Anne-Marie didn’t even look at Thomas.
“I don’t think so—at least, she never mentioned it to me.”
“It had been a long time since her divorce; surely she must have had other relationships over all those years?”
“Jeanette put all her energy into her work. And besides, she was . . .” Anne-Marie hesitated. “She was a very private person. She had a strong sense of integrity. I’m not sure she would have said anything even if she had met someone, at least not until it got serious.”
She coughed and leaned back in her chair. “I need to go and lie down.”
“Just one more question,” Aram said. “The text message we mentioned came from someone listed as M in her address book. Does that mean anything to you?”
“M as in Michael?” Anne-Marie grabbed a cushion and clutched it to her chest. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
Thomas stopped on Ringvägen to drop off Aram by the entrance to the Skanstull subway station.
“Say hi to Pernilla from me,” Aram said as he opened the car door.
Thomas nodded. “See you tomorrow morning—eight o’clock briefing as usual.”
Aram got out and the car pulled away, wet snow spraying up from the back wheels as it sped off. Aram stood there for a moment, watching the Volvo’s red taillights disappear around the corner. He wasn’t tired, in spite of the fact that he’d been working for almost twelve hours.
Thomas seemed to be leaning toward the ex-husband now, thinking that the custody battle lay at the root of the problem. Anne-Marie had been very upset when she talked about Michael’s threats over the phone, and Petra, the girlfriend, had behaved as if Michael had something to hide.
However, Aram couldn’t stop thinking about Jeanette’s research, the documents in her study. She had built up an entire library on New Sweden; that must mean something. He had passed on the details he’d found out about Peter Moore, but they hadn’t made much of an impression on Thomas.
There could be another explanation for the abbreviation in Jeanette’s address book, a possibility he hadn’t wanted to share with Thomas until he’d had time to think it through.
M could stand for Moore.
Peter Moore was deeply involved in every aspect of New Sweden’s activities, and as Pauline Palmér’s personal assistant he had access to sensitive information and any number of secrets.
A goldmine for a journalist.
Aram tried to imagine the situation. Maybe Moore had voluntarily helped Jeanette, then gotten cold feet. He might even have been paid—that could go some way to explaining his extravagant lifestyle. Or perhaps Jeanette had had something on him, something that had forced him to pass on information?
Until he grew tired of it.
What had happened during that demonstration in Uppsala? If Moore had hurt people once, he could do it again, even as a more deliberate act in Jeanette’s case. He took out his phone and tried Holger Malmborg again.
“Pick up,” he muttered, but the call went straight to voice mail.