H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  “Will you be all right now?”

  “Yes. Thank you so much, Nurse Margit!”

  “See you later then. Bye for now!”

  And then she remained sitting by herself, but without feeling particularly alone, for she was sure that Nurse Margit would take care of everything.

  When Nurse Margit finally came back, she had changed out of her white hospital coat into a black cotton tunic under a blue, unbuttoned down jacket that fluttered after her as she hurried over to Ingrid. The white clogs had been replaced by a pair of black curling boots and the clip-clopping by almost soundless steps.

  “My car is in the parking lot,” said Margit, smiling warmly at Ingrid as she offered her arm in support as she got up out of the armchair. “Has it been terribly boring?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. I’ve been reading the whole time.”

  They went side by side out the hospital entrance and made their way at a snail’s pace down a little hill to a stone-paved pathway, which led through some barberry bushes and onto the enormous parking lot. After passing several rows of cars, they stopped at a white Ford Mondeo. Nurse Margit unlocked the car with a click on the remote control and helped Ingrid into the passenger seat.

  “Now you’ll get a little exercise, too, Ingrid. It’s good that you’re practicing walking. You can look at it as physical therapy.”

  Ingrid smiled at the friendly nurse as she got into the driver’s seat beside her. She hardly believed herself that there really was a corpse at home in her kitchen. Could she have imagined the whole thing? Perhaps her pain pills were giving her hallucinations? It seemed unreal that anyone could have been murdered in her house.

  The closer they got to home, the more the foundations of the artificial Ladies Home Journal security she had been lulled into during the hours in the hospital reception area were shaken. There was a corpse at home in her kitchen. Period. How would that affect her life from now on? The house would probably be invaded by police and crime scene investigators who would ransack her home in search of fingerprints and clues. Who would clean up after them? Barricade tape around the house and neighbors staring. Maybe reporters. Police interrogation.

  No, it would no doubt be some time before life really returned to normal again. If ever. Would she feel safe again in a house where an unknown murderer had killed a strange man? Well, perhaps it was not very likely to happen again. She would just have to put the whole thing behind her sooner or later and go on as if nothing had happened. She was not involved in any way, she was only struck by a little bit of bad luck. People get murdered every day, in Sweden and even more so in other places. You can't worry about that kind of thing, and the only rather unusual thing about this particular death was that it happened in her own home. Grit your teeth, forget it, and go on.

  It felt gruesome as they walked up the path, arm in arm in the dense November darkness. The gravel crunched under their feet, and the only light was the dull yellow glow from a light pole at the side of the path and a wall light on the porch. The temperature was close to freezing and the northerly autumn winds caused the bare crowns of the fruit trees to bend in torment and the two women to shiver.

  As soon as the door opened and she brought her nose into the warm house, Nurse Margit recognized the sickening odor. Ingrid, too, now noticed it immediately. It was strange she hadn’t thought about it before. Ingrid turned on the ceiling light and remained standing in the doorway while Nurse Margit nimbly removed the unbuttoned curling boots and resolutely headed for the kitchen. She stopped at the threshold and fumbled for the light switch. With the light now on, she looked around for a few moments before her eyes found what they were searching for. Without hesitation, she rushed up to the lifeless body on the floor. Her fingers searched expertly under the shirt collar to the carotid artery and she quickly verified what she already knew: the man was dead. She got up and went to the phone.

  * * *

  Detective Chief Inspector Conny Sjöberg was lying on the couch watching a children’s show on TV. On top of him a wild one-year-old was jumping up and down, trying, despite more or less stern reprimands, to tear off Daddy’s eyeglasses, which at this point were so greasy he could barely see through them. Yet another one-year-old marauder was standing by the magazine rack, tossing all the magazines on the floor. Sjöberg observed—for the umpteenth time—that they seriously needed more magazine holders, and made a mental note to buy some tomorrow. On her knees right in front of the TV sat a young four-year-old lady, totally engrossed by the hardships of a zebra, giraffe, monkey, and two small teddy bears trying cleaning a child’s room. She seemed totally oblivious to the mayhem going on around her and followed with undivided attention the program that was meant just for her, without taking any notice of her twin brothers.

  Conny Sjöberg’s wife, Åsa, was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, assisted by their chatty six-year-old daughter, who loved to do dishes. From his spot on the couch, Sjöberg could hear her light voice through the sound from the TV and the excited voices of the wild toddlers. Their oldest son, eight-year-old Simon, had gone home from school with a friend in the neighboring building, leaving the family one short.

  The Sjöberg family’s apartment was a marvel of orderliness, especially considering the size of the family. This was a necessity, however, for the mental well-being of the paterfamilias, and he kept it that way. When all the children were home in the afternoon, and play, baths, and dinner preparations were under way, the uninitiated observer might get the impression of total chaos. But by nine o’clock, when all the children were in bed, there were no longer any signs of activity whatsoever in the apartment.

  It was the same way in the morning: even though seven people ran around like dazed chickens for a few hours, all traces vanished when the outside door was closed for the last time. Sjöberg convinced himself that it was best for the children to start from orderliness, every time new chaos was created. Although, in reality, it was mostly because he had a hard time collecting his thoughts if everything was not in its place. With the job he had, as chief inspector of the Violent Crimes Unit, it was important to be able to organize his thoughts in a logical order, and that just didn’t work if things were out of place.

  The apartment on Skånegatan, right by Nytorget, was large, five rooms with a spacious kitchen, but still too small. The twins shared a room and the girls shared a room. Simon had his own nook, but the girls would also need more privacy in the not-too-distant future. They were also in great need of a second bathroom. Mornings were an endless lining up for the facilities. To avoid that, and be able to sit in peace awhile with the newspaper at the breakfast table, Sjöberg was always the first one up. By five-thirty he got out of bed, shaved and showered, put on the coffeepot, made two cheese sandwiches, and fetched the newspaper. He often had twenty minutes to himself before the rest of the household started stirring, and then a lot had to happen in a short time. Porridge had to be heated and diapers changed, sandwiches made, clothes taken out and put on, hair braided, and teeth brushed. And to top it off—a constant roar of voices, little feet jumping and running, furniture being moved around, and the damn pedal car that must sound like thunder to the neighbors below. Not an enviable situation perhaps, but Sjöberg truly loved his life with the children, and he and Åsa never regretted their large, noisy family.

  Even so, they ought to move somewhere roomier. But a bigger, better apartment in the inner city would be hard to find and certainly much too expensive. A single-family home or townhouse in the suburbs did not feel particularly inviting. Here they were settled and happy. They were satisfied with school and daycare, the children had their friends, it was close to work for both Åsa and himself, and close to everything else too: stores, restaurants, and many of their friends. No, it would be hard to find a better place to live.

  From the kitchen he heard his oldest daughter, Sara, bellowing, “Fish pudding, fish pudding, fish pudding, don’t give me fish pudding, fish pudding, fish pudding...” and wondered to h
imself why she was singing that—she loved salmon pudding. At the same moment the phone rang and a thud was heard, as Sara leaped down from the chair by the kitchen counter to get to the phone first.

  “Hello, this is Sara!” she chirped.

  “...”

  ”Fine, how are you?”

  “...”

  “No, he’s watching Bolibompa.”

  “...”

  “Okay, I'll ask. Bye now!”

  “Who is that?” asked Åsa.

  “It’s Sandén!” Sara called, already halfway to the living room at a gallop. “Daddy, it’s Sandén on the phone, he wants to talk with you!”

  “Please watch the boys, Sara,” said Sjöberg, removing Christopher from his stomach and setting him down on the floor, after which he unwillingly got up from the couch.

  “Oh, crud,” he moaned when the call was finished.

  He could already see the displeased frown on his wife’s face, and he understood her all too well. This was not exactly a dream situation, alone with five kids at bedtime.

  “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “An old woman who had been in the hospital came home and found a corpse on her kitchen floor. Unfortunately, I have to go there.”

  “Who was it?”

  Even if Åsa disliked the situation, she could not help being fascinated by her husband’s work. She let him sound off at home, and tried, to the best of her ability, to offer sensible suggestions about the often nasty cases he was working on. Sjöberg frequently used her as a sounding board, and sometimes she gave him guidance and inspiration in complicated investigations.

  “That’s what’s so strange,” Sjöberg answered. “She had no idea who it was. He was lying dead in her house, but she’d never seen him before.”

  “Dreadful.”

  Åsa shivered as she pictured a lifeless body on the kitchen floor that first occurred to her—their own.

  “But isn’t it most likely that they have met somehow,” she added thoughtfully.

  “We’ll have to see,” he said, kissing her quickly on the lips. “This might take all night, I don’t know. Take care now.”

  “You too, and good luck,” she said, stroking his cheek briefly before he left her with a tired sigh.

  * * *

  The old woman was younger than he had imagined. She might be in her seventies, and was reclining on a pilled, dark-brown love seat of 1970s vintage. A crutch was leaning against the couch and one of her legs. She sat quietly, looking straight ahead with a gaze that did not reveal what was going on in her mind. She did not look frightened or sad, and she did not seem particularly curious either about what was going on around her. In the hall outside the living room, Sandén was talking with a middle-aged woman, but the older lady showed no sign of listening to the conversation. Her eyes were gray behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, and her hair was gray and cut short. Her legs were thin in a pair of straight, light-blue pants with sewn creases and ended in a pair of black shoes. On her upper body she was wearing a gray lamb’s wool turtleneck.

  Sjöberg went up to her to say hello, and she turned toward him with a not impolite but rather uninterested expression. He extended his hand and introduced himself, and she replied with a limp handshake and a nod.

  “Can you please wait here a while, then I'll come and talk with you a bit,” Sjöberg asked politely.

  “I’ll be sitting right here,” she answered tonelessly, and resumed studying the airspace around her.

  Sjöberg returned to the hall and Sandén gave him a quick look and nodded toward the kitchen, while he continued his conversation with the younger woman. Sjöberg took a look in passing at the tall, full-figured woman, who could be anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five. Despite the worried frown and serious tone, he thought he detected a lively gleam in her green eyes. Her imposing reddish-brown hair fluttered as she turned toward him and met his eyes. For some reason he felt ashamed and immediately turned his face away. A sudden thirst came over him and a shiver ran down his spine.

  He approached the doorway between the hall and kitchen and observed the dead body for a few moments, after which he looked around the kitchen without entering it. This was the chance he had to create an image of the discovery site before photographers, CSI technicians, and the police started swarming in. The first impression of a crime scene might be very important, and he took his time before he crossed the threshold.

  The kitchen showed no signs of a violent struggle. Everything was appeared to be in order, and no furniture was overturned. Work surfaces and the kitchen counter were clean, and in the middle of the round table was a white lace tablecloth on which stood an empty fruit bowl and a brass candleholder. The dead man was lying on the floor below the refrigerator, dressed in a dark blue sailing jacket zipped up halfway, khaki pants, and brown leather shoes. His face was badly mauled and a little blood had run from his nose down onto the floor. Otherwise, he looked rather peaceful, lying there in a resting position, on his back on the pinewood floor.

  Sjöberg left the kitchen and squeezed past Sandén and the woman in the hall. The agreeable aroma of a not too insistent perfume found its way into his nostrils. He went out onto the stoop and called to the men. The photographer and technicians already knew what they had to do, but he gave directions to the police officers to set up barricades and look around in the yard. He intended to question the owner of the house before he sent her away.

  “Is your name Ingrid Olsson?” asked Sjöberg.

  “Yes,” Ingrid replied curtly.

  “Unfortunately, I must ask you to leave the house for a while. You can’t stay here while we conduct the crime scene investigation.”

  She looked at him expressionlessly, again without answering.

  “Do you have anywhere to go for the night?”

  “I’ll talk with Nurse Margit.”

  “Nurse Margit?” Sjöberg asked.

  “Yes, I had just been discharged from the hospital and came home and found the body. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked Nurse Margit to help me.”

  “I understand. Can you please tell me the whole story from the start?”

  Ingrid Olsson told her story in a toneless voice, but Sjöberg listened attentively, jotting down a few lines in his notebook now and then or asking a question. Her calmness regarding the whole matter surprised him, but it was probably good she was not getting too worked up. After all, she would still be living in the house, and many people in her situation would have decided right then and there to move away. But what type of person, he thought, dismisses a murder in her own house with a shrug? Possibly the type who turns off the news when it’s about war and suffering, and turns her face away when she encounters street musicians and Save the Children collection boxes. Sjöberg was aware that intuition was an important tool in his occupation, but unwilling to draw hasty conclusions, he was content that Ingrid Olsson presumably was more agitated than she gave the impression of being.

  “So, you didn’t know the dead man?” he continued instead. “Are you completely sure of that?”

  “I’ve never seen him before,” she answered firmly.

  “Do you have any children or relatives who have access to the house?”

  “No one has access to the house. No, I have no children.”

  “How long have you lived here?”

  “For sixteen years. I moved here to be closer to my sister when my husband died.”

  “Where did you live before?”

  “I grew up in Österåker, and lived there until I moved here.”

  “And so your sister lives here in the neighborhood?”

  “She’s no longer living.”

  “I’m sorry. Who may have known that you were in the hospital? Or more precisely, who might have known that you weren’t at home?”

  “Well, no one in particular. The neighbors perhaps. The mail carrier. What do I know?”

  “Do you have any contact with the neighbors?”

  “We say hello
.”

  “You’ve never had a break-in before?”

  “Never. There’s nothing here to steal.”

  He silently agreed. What he had seen so far of the house gave no indication that there would be anything of value, other than possibly the TV, even if it did not appear to be new. There were only inexpensive reproductions and framed photographs hanging on the walls, and the house was furnished extremely sparsely, all with furniture from the 1960s and ’70s.

  “That’s enough for now,” said Sjöberg, closing his notebook. “I’m sure I’ll have reason to speak with you again. We’ll make sure that the house is returned to its normal condition when we’re done here, so you don’t need to worry about that. Thank you very much,” he said, extending his hand in farewell.

  A quick smile passed over her lips when their hands met, and she suddenly looked quite sweet.

  In the hall he ran into Sandén, who, like him, was on his way to the kitchen.

  “Did she have anything to tell?” Sjöberg asked.

  “Margit Olofsson? No, nothing other than that she went with the old lady back here from the hospital, confirmed that what she said was true, and called the police,” Sandén replied.

  Sjöberg tried to tone down Sandén with an index finger to his lips and a nod toward the living room, and continued half whispering, “They don’t really have any relationship?”

  “No, other than that she’s a nurse in the ward where the old woman was. The old lady is alone and took a liking to her. Margit Olofsson has nothing to do with the case,” said Sandén quietly.

  One of the technicians, Gabriella Hansson, came out to them in the hall, waving a wallet in her gloved hand.

  “The identity seems to be established,” she said, pulling out a driver’s license. “Hans Vannerberg, born in 1962.”