H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  Petra sat quietly a moment.

  “I keep it hidden behind my driver’s license. I don’t think he went through my wallet and--”

  “Of course he did,” Håkan interrupted. “He’d want to know who he’s dealing with. Your name. Where you live.”

  “If he did, I don’t think he found my police ID anyway.”

  “And if he did find your ID, he might very well think the experience was even more exciting. But maybe he’ll also have more reason to be suspicious.”

  “Are you trying to scare me?”

  “I just want you to be careful.”

  “I took the used condoms and replaced two unused ones. With contents. I took the beer bottles and put two others back instead. I also apologized for getting so drunk and then played a tender farewell scene that would have won an Oscar. There’s no reason to worry.”

  “I hope you’re right. That was an ingenious rape procedure, I must say.”

  “If it was a rape,” Petra sighed. “Maybe I was just drunk and horny after all. But I’ve never done anything like that before. And I’m never going to again, heaven help me.”

  “By your description, he sounds awfully cunning,” said Håkan, rubbing his unshaven cheeks. “No moves during the evening in the bar. No groping, no shameless proposals. Just cultivated conversation.”

  “Handsome, charming, and intelligent. He shouldn’t have any problem at all attracting women.”

  “Which makes him truly perverse,” Håkan interjected. “He prefers unconscious women to willing ones.”

  “You should have seen how he treated me in the morning,” said Petra. “Like a porcelain doll. Those kinds of guys don’t grow on trees in real life.”

  “What a charade you played for each other. He played tender and loving and grateful for your little dalliance, and you did the same. Both of you knew he had raped you, but neither of you let on. But it’s 1-0 for you, Petra. He thinks he knows something you don’t, but in reality, it’s the other way around.”

  “He’s going to jail sooner or later,” said Petra with conviction. “He’s done this before, and he’s going to do it again. I hope my bodily fluids won’t need to be used as evidence, but if that’s what’s required, then that will just have to happen.”

  Petra handed the grocery bag across the table.

  “Take good care of them,” said Petra.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said forensic laboratory technician Håkan Carlberg, taking the bag with a wink.

  SATURDAY EVENING

  ÅSA WAS WITH CHRISTOFFER and Jonathan at a two-year-old’s birthday party. Conny Sjöberg had been Christmas shopping with the older children, though it was still only November. If Christmas shopping seemed stressful now, it was disaster to wait until December rolled around. Besides, it was pure delight to sit at home in an armchair, sipping mulled wine in December, knowing that almost everyone else in Stockholm was either slogging through crowded department stores or tormented by anxiety at the prospect of doing so. That Åsa was one of them did not make it any less enjoyable. Not to mention that all the most popular sizes of clothes were usually sold out before the second week in December.

  Now they had hidden all the Christmas presents, wrapped and ready, in a closet, to which by tradition Åsa and the children did not have access to during the last two months of the year. The cooking patrol sat gathered around the kitchen table drawing up the guidelines for the regular Saturday dinner project.

  “Sara will get out all the ingredients for the tapenade,” said Sjöberg, pointing to a recipe in a cooking magazine. “Then you’ll try to measure the exact amount it says, and put it in the blender. I’ll help you crush the garlic. Do you know what this means: ‘tbs’?”

  Sara shook her head.

  “It means ‘tablespoon’,” said Sjöberg. “I’ll show you which one it is. Maja will roll the dough out into thin squares and then you’ll both help spread the tapenade on the dough when you’re ready. Okay?”

  “Okay,” said the girls in unison.

  “Simon will make the salmon salad here, but it’s in the same magazine, so you’ll have to share. You’ll manage by yourself, won’t you?”

  “You bet,” said Simon. “But the salmon has to marinate for three hours, so we’ll never get anything to eat!”

  “Ha, ha,” Sjöberg gloated, “I’ve already marinated it! But take care of everything else first, and we’ll add the salmon last. I’ll peel the potatoes for the turbot and grate the horseradish.”

  “I don’t like horseradish,” said Maja sullenly.

  “No, it is a bit strong, but we’re having peas, too, and melted butter, so I’m sure you’ll be fine. Let’s get going!”

  “Stop!” said Maja. “We’ve got to have a cooking beer too!”

  “Of course, I completely forgot about that. Can you bring it in from the balcony? Simon, help her open the door.”

  The project was in progress, and this was truly the high point of the week for everyone involved. Sjöberg put on his apron and reminded himself that he was going to get an appropriate size apron for each of the children as a Christmas present. Maja came in twice with three sodas and a beer, and Simon opened them with a practiced hand. Sjöberg set the potatoes in the sink and prepared to peel them. The kids were concentrating on their tasks and he wondered what the mood was like among Vannerberg’s children this Saturday afternoon. Poor things, he sighed to himself. Hans Vannerberg’s facade undeniably seemed spotless, but had there been a crack somewhere after all?

  The investigation was at a standstill and nothing new had emerged as the week came to an end. Ingrid Olsson had never planned to sell her house, so she hadn’t spoken with Vannerberg or any other realtor about it. True, Pia Vannerberg was certain her husband said he was going to meet a seller that evening, but could you rely on that? She might have misheard or misinterpreted him, or he might have misspoke. Unless the murder was premeditated and planned. That meant someone had arranged a meeting with Vannerberg in Ingrid Olsson’s house, perhaps for the purpose of murdering him. In that case, what relationship did this person have to Olsson? No, that seemed too far-fetched. The guy had an irreproachable past, he had stable finances, no unpaid debts, no unusual transactions, and he was not in any of the crime registries. He was not likely having an affair, had no enemies, and no shady contacts.

  On the other hand, the buyer at Åkerbärsvägen 13 maintained that they had not agreed to meet that particular Monday, but that Vannerberg would stop by when he was “in the neighborhood”. It was most likely that he decided to stop by that very evening, to get it over with, but then wouldn’t he have called first? He was home, after all, and it would take a little while to walk there. And if it was number 13 Vannerberg was going to, what kind of lunatic had taken up lodgings at 31? Or was he being followed by someone who took the opportunity to kill him in the empty house, and in that case how did Vannerberg get in? Did the old lady forget to lock the door? That didn’t seem very likely. No, this was truly a mystery.

  The only remarkable thing about Vannerberg was that he lacked a father. And that he had a mother who was in the striptease business, but none of that could be held against him. After Petra Westman got hold of Vannerberg’s personal calendar, the investigation group mapped out his final weeks, but nothing interesting had emerged. On his computer at VM Realty nothing of interest had been found either. He had nothing personal at all on the computer, and his e-mail communication was limited to a few messages a week; nothing concerning his possible meeting with the mysterious seller at Åkerbärsvägen 31. Jorma Molin had no hidden sides either, apart from a few speeding tickets and an old overdue payment notice.

  As far as Ingrid Olsson was concerned, Sandén relayed that Margit Olofsson had nothing to say about her other than that she was a person who rarely smiled. Olofsson took pity on her because she was old, sick, and above all, alone, and because she had asked her for help. According to Olofsson, Olsson had a rather indifferent attitude about the murder, which
was somewhat surprising. But indifference was not a crime.

  Nothing was stolen from the house, either. The jewelry box, which proved to contain the only things of value that Ingrid Olsson owned, was untouched, and the technicians, with the meticulous Bella Hansson in the lead, had not found any traces of anyone other than the owner of the house herself elsewhere in the house—except for the kitchen, hall, and living room. Margit Olofsson’s fingerprints were found here and there. Vannerberg’s fingerprints were in the kitchen and on the outside door handle, which might suggest that he opened the door and entered the house on his own if it was unlocked. On the kitchen chair, which was the probable murder weapon, there was another, unidentified set of fingerprints, not found anywhere else in the house.

  His musings were interrupted by the six-year-old’s happy voice.

  “Daddy, you were going to show me the ‘tbs’,” said Sara enthusiastically.

  “Of course, the ‘tbs’,” said Sjöberg.

  He took the measuring spoons from one of the kitchen drawers.

  “Look here, this is the tablespoon measure.”

  “Which one is the ‘dl’?” Sara asked.

  “That’s this one,” Sjöberg answered. “It's called ‘deciliter’.” What’s measured in deciliters?”

  “The olives.”

  “Look, Daddy, look how nice I'm making this!” said Maja, showing the slabs of dough she was rolling out.

  “Yes, look how clever you are. Now I’ll take out the sheet here and put some baking paper on it, then we‘ll set the spirals there.”

  Simon was busy cutting green peppers, cherry tomatoes, and chili in small pieces, and Sjöberg placed a hand on his shoulder.

  “That looks really nice.”

  “I know,” the eight-year-old answered self-assuredly.

  The sound of the outside door being opened and Åsa’s breathless voice was heard from the hall. Maja let go of the rolling pin and rushed out to her. Sjöberg followed and greeted her happily, after which he lifted the twins out of the stroller in the stairwell, closed the outer door, set one down on the floor, and sat down with the other one on his lap. There was a lot of clothing to take off and put on this time of year.

  “We’ve done our Christmas shopping,” Sjöberg said proudly, and Åsa looked sternly back at him.

  “It’s only November,” she muttered.

  “Yes, exactly, and that’s the best time to do it. Isn’t it, Maja?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Maja agreed.

  He set undressed son number one on the floor and attended to number two.

  “How was the party?”

  “It was really nice. Eight wild children running around, and some nice parents having coffee. Caroline is going to have a little brother.”

  “I see, they know that already?”

  “Yes. The boys are all tuckered out. We’ll have to put them to bed at once. They won’t need any food after everything they’ve been stuffing themselves with. What kind of good things are you cooking?”

  “Mommy, Sara and I are making tapenade spirals,” said Maja. “Come and look!”

  They all went out in the kitchen and Åsa seemed suitably impressed by all the good food that was being prepared.

  “I’ll put the twins to bed while you fix dinner,” said Åsa.

  Jonathan and Christoffer were both standing under Simon, whining imploringly and pointing. He gave them a cherry tomato each, whereupon they fell silent at once. With some herding, Åsa managed to chase them into the bathroom, and Sjöberg finished his potato peeling and put the saucepan on the stove. He assembled the food processor and poured in Sara’s black olives, anchovies, capers, and oil, and added some crushed garlic cloves, which she had prepared. They mixed the ingredients until there was an evenly blended black paste, and the girls then helped spread the tapenade on Maja’s rolled-out squares of dough. Sjöberg cut three-inch-long strings out of the dough, which the girls twisted into neat spirals and put on the sheet.

  Meanwhile Simon rinsed the marinated fish in a colander. Then he carefully stirred the salmon cubes with the chopped vegetables and a little coconut milk in a bowl, adding cut chives and spices.

  The dishes were ready at the same time, but Simon had prepared his dish himself, while Sjöberg and the girls were a team of three on theirs, so in his personal opinion, he was the best. Which, of course, annoyed the girls. Sjöberg was of the opinion that he had actually marinated the salmon and that therefore he could say they were all equally good, after which Simon retreated with a snarl and peace was restored.

  After ten minutes in the oven the dough was crisp enough, and the little boys had been cleaned up, put to bed, and were asleep. Åsa uncorked a bottle of white wine and a big bottle of passion fruit soda, after which the wakeful part of the family gathered around the table, each with a glass, and a bread basket full of tapenade spirals, waiting for the potatoes to be ready.

  The children noisily told first one story, then another: mostly episodes from school, the playground, and daycare. Sjöberg leaned back contentedly and enjoyed their stories from the uncomplicated side of real life that he so rarely came in contact with at his job.

  The appetizer was an unqualified success, as were the tapenade spirals, and Åsa was very impressed by her children’s cooking talents. Both Sara and Maja got so full they couldn’t eat any of the main dish, and were excused to watch a children’s program instead. After the entree, Simon, too, disappeared from the table and adult conversation took over.

  “I want to try something out on you, Conny,” said Åsa. “One of the psychology teachers at school tried an amusing test out on us in the teachers’ lounge.”

  Åsa taught the unusual combination of mathematics and physical education at Frans Schartau High School.

  “It’s an ethics test. I’ll start by telling you a story. Then you will rank all the individuals in the story by how you think they behave, in purely ethical terms. Do you follow me?”

  “Yep,” Sjöberg answered enthusiastically.

  He loved games, play, the romance surveys in the tabloids—all of that sort of thing.

  “Stina lives in a cottage on one side of the river. On the other side lives Per in his cottage, and they are in love. The problem is that the bridge over the river has collapsed and the river is full of crocodiles, so it’s not possible to swim across. Stina longs to see her Per so much that her heart is almost bursting. So she goes to her neighbor, Sven, who has a boat, and asks to borrow it. He just laughs and says that of course she can, but she has to sleep with him first.”

  Sjöberg grinned and Åsa continued.

  “Stina is desperate and goes to her other neighbor, Ivar, who is the strongest, most authoritative person in the village. Everyone respects him and does what he says. She tells him about her desperation and asks him to make Sven see reason, but he just says that he doesn’t care. Sven can exploit the situation any way he wants, Ivar does not intend to get involved. Stina is now completely exasperated and tells herself that Per, who loves her so much, will surely understand and forgive her, so she goes to Sven and sleeps with him and gets to borrow the boat. When Stina makes it across the river, she does not spare her beloved the painful truth, and tells Per at once about the terrible thing she had to do and asks him to forgive her. Per is furious and kicks Stina out and makes it clear that he never wants to see her again. Stina then goes to Per’s neighbor, Gustav, who is a reliable person, and cries her heart out. He consoles her and gets so angry when he hears how Per has treated her that he goes over to Per and punches him in the nose.”

  Sjöberg laughed and shook his head.

  “Well,” said Åsa, “now you have to rank these people by what you think about their ethics. Not the law, remember that. One is best and five is worst.”

  “Well, that little floozy, Stina...” said Sjöberg with a grin.

  “Conny, be serious now!” Åsa interrupted.

  “I’m just joking. I have to think a bit.”

  “I’v
e already decided what I think,” said Åsa. “It will be interesting to see if we think the same way. Then we have to discuss it.”

  He loved her way of planning how the conversation would proceed. He loved her enthusiasm and her way of letting it rub off on others. He loved Åsa, to put it simply, the whole Åsa. Though I don’t think I'd be too happy if she went to bed with Sandén just to see me... Sjöberg thought.

  “So, we have Stina, who is honest and good-hearted, but a little dense,” Sjöberg summarized. “She lives in the present, with no concern for the consequences of her actions. We have Per, who is selfish and unforgiving. Gustav has a good heart, he has empathy and stands up for his opinions, but uses his fists and sets himself up as a judge over others. Sven is unhelpful, scornful, and undependable and takes advantage of the misfortunes of others. Ivan is indifferent and lacks empathy. I say that Per is the most ethical, then Stina, Ivar, Gustav, and Sven last.”

  “But surely you can’t mean that Ivar is better than Gustav!” Åsa exclaims. “He could easily have told Sven what to do and solved Stina’s problem!”

  “Yes, I guess Gustav really is somehow the most ethical, but he’s really the only one who commits a crime here. You can’t just attack people willy-nilly. And indifference is not a crime,” Sjöberg added, suddenly struck by a feeling of déjà vu.

  “But how can you put Per before Stina? There’s nothing bad about Stina, is there?”

  “Per didn’t like Stina’s actions and simply broke up with her. He has the right to do that. It’s like he’s not involved. Stina actually behaved really stupidly, I think anyway.”

  “But it was for a good cause. Although you’re right, in principle, that you wouldn’t have done the same thing yourself. Well, purely in terms of goodness, I think that Gustav is best. I like people who stand up for what they think and take an active part in what is happening around them. Ivar is a real jerk. I can agree that Sven is the very worst, but Ivar is almost as bad. And Stina is two and Per three.”