Malin was itching to deal with the old, unsolved case of the count like it was a cluster of mosquito bites on her ankle. She couldn’t believe that no one had figured out who had killed him at the time. Okay, the stabbing had happened twenty years ago, when forensics was a lot less sophisticated, but that was no excuse. Someone had hated him enough to drive the knife through his chest eighteen times. People like that didn’t just go up in smoke. As Fabian had suggested, there was only one way to scratch that itch: she had to drive out to the old cottage south of Stockholm and take a look for herself.
She told Anders that she had finally found the motivation to start exercising, so she needed to go into town and buy some training gear and visit a few gyms to figure out what she wanted to focus on. Maybe she’d try a workout or two, depending on how much energy she had.
As expected, Anders rolled right over. He smiled and told her it sounded like a fantastic idea. She shouldn’t worry herself about the construction junk a bit; he’d take care of it.
The GPS told her that the trip would take about an hour, and even though it occasionally got a little confused on the narrow gravel roads that wound through the dense forest, she eventually found her way.
The cottage was about ten metres off the road, behind a wall of untended bushes that hid most of it from view with their thick foliage. It looked old; it had to be well over a hundred. Its walls had once been painted Falu red with the classic white corners, but these days it was covered in a green layer of moss and algae.
She walked through a waist-high gate and waded through the tall grass to the stoop. There was no nameplate on the door, only a dark rectangle with screw holes in each corner. Although she didn’t expect anyone to answer, she tapped the rusty door knocker against its plate. The sharp sound of metal against metal was quickly absorbed by the lush greenery, and everything was soon silent again.
Three attempts later, she tried the door handle instead; it was mounted upside down, so she tried swinging it up to see if the door was unlocked. It was.
It was several degrees cooler inside, and after a few breaths she felt her asthma begin to act up, blocking her airways. This meant the air was not only damp and stuffy, but full of mould spores. There was no helping it, she reasoned as she walked into the kitchen, which was decorated with rugs, furniture, and all sorts of odds and ends. There were still plates, silverware, and glasses in the dish rack, and open on the table was an issue of Länstidningen Södertälje from March 4, 1995, with the headline STATOIL ROBBED BY 20-YEAR-OLD AXE-WIELDING MAN, 500 KRONOR TAKEN.
The inner door handles, too, were upside down, and her thoughts went to her aunt’s old cottage up in Dalarna. The same thing had been true of that house. When she’d asked why, her aunt told her it was for protection against all the spirits that occupied the house. Apparently they couldn’t get through doors with handles turned the wrong way. Did that mean this house was haunted? Was that why it had been left to its fate after Vera Meyer’s death?
The bedroom was sparsely furnished, with an old writing desk under a single bookshelf at one end and a double bed with a carved headboard on the other. The taut bedspread appeared to have been blue once upon a time, but years of sunlight had turned it pale grey. The same went for the rag rug beside the bed. Malin walked over and moved it aside with her foot, and there it was, just as she’d suspected after reading the case file.
The dark blood stain was shaped like an amoeba and looked like it might be about a metre in diameter. This was where Henning von Gyllenborg had been stabbed eighteen times in the back, some of them so deep that the tip of the knife came out his chest. The knife had never been found, even though the whole area had been searched with metal detectors and the waterways had been dredged and explored by divers.
Malin crouched down and ran her hand along the floorboards, which someone had almost certainly tried to scrub and bleach with lye before realizing that the dry wood had sucked up so much blood that the only solution was to replace them entirely.
Something creaked behind her, and she turned around with a start. No one was there. She stood up and listened intently.
“Hello? Is anyone there?” she called, waiting for a response in the silence that followed before shaking her head at herself. Surely she hadn’t begun to believe in ghosts just because a couple of door handles were mounted upside down. Unlike Anders, she never believed anything until it had been proven several times over.
She put the rug back in its place and went over to the writing desk, which had carvings identical to the headboard. The key was still in the lock, so she turned it and opened the desk. Deep in the back she found a stack of newspaper crosswords that had all been started but never finished.
One of the small drawers along the sides contained pencils and erasers, and in the next were a few decks of cards. The third held spools of thread, needles, and thimbles, and the last was completely empty. The fifth drawer, in the middle, was twice as wide as the others, and it too was empty. As she drew it out she felt a mild gust of air on the back of her hand. She pulled the drawer all the way out and put it aside, and at that point she could feel a definite draft from the hole. She leaned forward for a closer look, but she couldn’t see anything in the darkness — she had to turn on her phone and shine it inside.
The hole continued through the back of the desk and into the wall behind, and if it weren’t for the return of the creak behind her she would have been fully engaged in trying to guess what might be hidden in the secret compartment. Instead, she spun around and called out once again to ask if anyone was there.
There was no answer, and although she was fully aware that old cottages gave off creaks and groans as a rule, she walked across the room and closed the door that led to the hall. Just to be safe.
Then she tried to pull the desk away from the wall, only to find that it was bolted to the floor. She would have to stick her hand into the dark, mysterious compartment.
Malin had to lean down and reach her whole arm into the wall before her fingertips brushed anything. And she had to take off her coat and sweater before she could reach in far enough to grab the object and pull it out.
It was an old photo album. Malin wiped off the layer of dust and mouse crap and opened it. The first picture showed two children of about five holding hands on the lawn in front of the cottage. The only thing that differentiated them was their clothing — one wore short pants with suspenders over a shirt; the other had a dress with a bow. Aside from that, they looked identical. Their blond hair, facial structure, and even the way they stood, each with one hand on a hip, was practically indistinguishable. Twins.
The caption read Didrik and Nova in faded, ornate cursive.
She paged through the album, which was full of pictures of the children at different ages. In most of them, they were holding hands and looking straight at the camera. In others, they were hugging and kissing. Vera Meyer was present in some. Malin took out her phone and compared them with some of the photos Fabian had sent of the two perpetrators. There was no question that these were the same people.
Didrik and Nova. Sten and Anita Strömberg.
Could they be Vera’s children? Malin didn’t think she’d had any children. At least, not according to Edelman’s old case file, and its information was based on the national registry.
The click she heard behind her could have been her imagination — just another whim of her subconscious — but it wasn’t. It was the barrel of a rifle at such close range that Malin could see right down it when she turned around. She instinctively began to reach for her shoulder holster, but stopped herself.
It was already too late.
85
Sonja had now been away from home for more than twenty-four hours without calling or sending so much as a text. It wasn’t unusual for her to vanish into her bubble while she was creating. Fabian himself was sometimes gone for days when work got busy.
The difference this time was that she had left him.
It was a difference that made seconds feel like hours.
The investigation had helped Fabian keep his anguish at bay for a large portion of the previous day. But as soon as he locked the front door and hung his keys in the cabinet, his most painful thoughts had returned.
He’d made dinner on autopilot, and as he and the kids ate he’d bombarded himself with questions. Would they sell the house? What about the kids? Weren’t they too old for an every-other-week life, bags always packed? And then there was him. Would he end up a single dad? Or would he, like Tuvesson, lose himself in alcohol? The answers felt like one huge, stupefying maw of darkness.
Matilda asked where Sonja was, but he hadn’t been able to offer much more than a shrug and a half-assed lie about how she had to work late. She saw right through him, of course, and pointed to the untouched glass, plate, and silverware on the table.
After dinner he’d tried to limit his time awake by going to bed at nine thirty. But there was no sleep for him. Like a stubborn bout of tinnitus, the questions made it impossible. Fabian had tossed and turned through the night, sweating more and more, until his sheets felt like a straitjacket.
This was why he poured himself a second cup of the freshly brewed, extra-strong coffee as he waited for the rest of the team to take their places around the conference table.
“Okay, let’s get started,” said Tuvesson, who was finally back and the only one in the room who seemed at all well rested. “From what I hear, yesterday was action-packed. Who feels like starting us off?”
Cliff held up an index finger. “Where in the world were you all day yesterday and Wednesday night? I don’t know about everyone else here but I, for one, would like to know.”
“Same here,” Lilja said, nodding in agreement.
“There is so much going on here, with this investigation,” Cliff went on. “But when I try to call you, which I did many times, you don’t answer or call me back. So now I want to know why. Because this can’t keep happening.”
Fabian sympathized with Cliff and Lilja. They were justifiably fed up with Tuvesson’s alcohol problem, which was affecting their work life more and more. He’d had enough, too. But the timing wasn’t right to open that can of worms.
“She answered when I called,” he said, and was met with puzzled looks from Cliff, Lilja, and Tuvesson herself. “But you couldn’t talk because you were just boarding the plane, right?” He met her gaze and as soon as her initial confusion passed, she nodded.
“Right, I was on my way to Berlin to visit my sister.”
“Berlin?” Lilja said.
“Yes, I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. But it came out of the blue and it was actually my sister’s idea for me to take that extra day off and come down. I didn’t expect it to work out, but when Högsell gave us the go-ahead on Wednesday and said Jeanette Dawn’s witness statement was enough, I found a last-minute flight and headed straight for Kastrup. As soon as I heard what had happened, I took the next flight home.”
“Your sister must have been disappointed.” Cliff tugged at his stubble.
“Of course, but what could I do?” Tuvesson threw up her hands as if there was nothing more to add.
“I thought you said she was in a meeting with Malmö.” Cliff turned to Fabian.
“Yeah, I guess that was after she landed and was heading back here.”
“Right. I stopped there on the way,” Tuvesson broke in. “But listen, let’s get moving here. I have a meeting with Högsell soon. Fabian, why don’t you start.”
Fabian nodded and gave a quick account of what they’d found at Johan Halén’s house. The hidden sex dungeon in the basement and the grave with three bodies in the yard. He ran through them one by one. Among them Diana Davidsson, who’d helped them realize that they weren’t dealing with just one male perpetrator but also a female accomplice who was equally skilled at changing her appearance.
Then he talked about Count Bernard von Gyllenborg, identified by his signet ring, whose brother Aksel von Gyllenborg had been found frozen to death in the winter of 2010 with a gunshot wound to the foot. Fabian explained that his former colleague Malin Rehnberg was in the process of investigating whether there were any links to the still-unsolved murder of their father twenty years previously.
He also told them about the complex web of financial transactions Halén’s personal banker Marianne Wester had unravelled and traced through various offshore accounts, back to Sten and Anita Strömberg.
When he was finished, Tuvesson stood before the whiteboard with her eyes on the timeline and the pictures of all the victims and crime scenes, and shook her head. “I’m sure this is all accurate. It’s just…I don’t understand how they could have…how should I put it? In a normal case, I would have tossed out this whole scenario and called it nonsense. It’s totally absurd.”
“Totally absurd — that seems like a pretty accurate description of our suspects,” Fabian said. “Remember that we’re dealing with a woman who marches right into the jail and sabotages a lineup without batting an eye, and a man who drives a car right over the edge of the quay in the middle of downtown, only to swim off along the bottom of the harbour.”
Tuvesson nodded and turned to the others. “So how do we move forward?”
“I think we focus our attention on her.” Fabian circled the driver’s licence picture of Anita Strömberg. “Whether this is her true identity is far from certain, but there’s a chance it’s an identity she’s still using.”
“Yes, and for once we actually have a personal ID number.” Tuvesson turned to Cliff. “I want you to put everything else aside and start looking into her right away. Irene, it will go even faster if you help.”
Cliff and Lilja nodded and left the room, each with a full cup of coffee. Fabian followed in their wake, his divorce tinnitus ringing in his ears.
“Fabian, how are you doing?” Tuvesson asked, giving him no choice but to turn and face her.
“In my personal life or at work?”
“So it is that bad.” She walked to the coffeemaker and filled her cup. “When I was pregnant…I don’t know if it was the same for you when you and Sonja were expecting, but I saw big bellies all over the place. Then, six months later, when I was pushing the stroller around, I suddenly saw strollers everywhere.” She met his gaze. “It’s exactly the same when you’re recently divorced. You can see it in people’s eyes. Hear it between the lines, in their voices. Everywhere, all the time.”
Fabian nodded. He didn’t have any words. Especially not right now. Only action. “Maybe we can talk about it another time,” he finally managed to say, turning toward the door.
“Sure. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to — I just wanted to…but, one more thing before you go.”
He stopped again and turned around.
“I want to thank you for helping me out and having my back during the meeting.”
“No problem.” Fabian tried to smile. “Like I said, I don’t think we should get too personal in the middle of an active investigation.”
“I’m sure you’re right, but weren’t you the one who came to my house yesterday?”
He nodded, and Tuvesson pressed her index finger to her lips.
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“Yes, I do. I want to say how grateful I am that it was you and not someone else on the team. And I want to say how terribly sorry I am for what you saw when you came over, which you’ll probably see again every time we meet.”
“Astrid, it’s fine.”
“Fine? It’s fucked, that’s what it is. But…” She looked out the window. “This is important. Because no matter what you think, I want you to know that this was a one-time thing and that’s that.”
“What I think has nothing to do wit
h it,” he said, although he didn’t want to say anything at all. “We’re in the midst of an investigation like no other. An investigation that will go to hell without a leader who answers when we call, even if it’s in the middle of the night. A leader who doesn’t have to have everything repeated because she was lying at home, passed out in her own puke.”
“Fabian, you’re absolutely right. But things have been a little —”
“One more time.” He fixed his eyes on her. “One more time, and I won’t hesitate even a second to report you to Bokander.”
Tuvesson was just about to say something when she was interrupted by her ringing phone. “Yes, hello? Yes, this is Astrid Tuvesson…Hi, Ragnar…I see…What? Wait, hold on a second, can you repeat that?” All the colour drained from her face and she had to sit down in one of the chairs. “I don’t understand. How could they have just…Oh my God, it can’t be…that sounds totally absurd…Hold on, how the hell could it be our fault? We’re not the ones who…What do you mean, unlawful imprisonment? But Ragnar, listen to yourself! This is completely insane.”
Fabian could hear the agitated voice on the other end of the line, but he couldn’t tell what it was saying. When Tuvesson finally ended the call and turned to him, he could see that although she had heard every word, she hadn’t understood.
“They switched places,” she said as if under hypnosis.
“What? Who did?”
“The perpetrators, the man and woman.”
Fabian still didn’t understand.
“Apparently she visited him in jail this morning, and half an hour later he walked out in her clothing. At first I thought it was a joke, but it’s not.”
“What about the woman? What happened to her?”
“She stayed there until fifteen minutes ago, when she advised them of their mistake.”
“What, so now they have her in custody instead of him?”
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