H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  “In Katrineholm a forty-four-year-old mother of two was found yesterday, murdered in her apartment. The woman was discovered by her seventeen-year-old son at lunchtime and is believed to have drowned in a washtub sometime in the morning. The police have found certain interesting clues in the apartment, but do not yet have a suspect in the crime.”

  This has truly not been a good week for forty-four-year-olds and now this, thought Sjöberg. Three murders in nine days, this just doesn't make sense. A colleague from the Katrineholm police department was interviewed about the murder by a female reporter, while the camera swept across a muddy play area and a group of people crowding at the barricade around a cellar stairway.

  “The forensic investigation is not finished, but all indications are that the woman's life was taken by one or more unknown assailants,” said the police commissioner.

  “We have information that she was drowned,” coaxed the reporter.

  “Is that so?” asked the police officer. Suddenly, something clicked in Sjöberg, though he couldn’t immediately pinpoint what it was he reacted to.

  “Yes, this much I guess I can say,” the police officer admitted after a moment's hesitation, “that drowning is a probable scenario we are working on. I can't say more than that right now, but the forensic investigation is expected to be finished over the weekend and then we will know more.”

  “Weekend,” Sjöberg muttered to himself. “Funny pronunciation, much different than ours. ‘Is that so’,” he mumbled, with an affected whining tone of voice. “In the sense of ‘I see’.”

  There was something familiar about those dialect expressions and the whining tone of voice, but he could not for the life of him think of where he had heard them before. At last he reluctantly pushed the thought away and returned to watching the report on the consequences of the major snowstorm at the beginning of November.

  * * *

  Thomas shuddered when he opened the jar of lingonberry preserves and saw that the surface was covered with grayish, furry mold. He quickly screwed the lid back on and threw the jar in the garbage bag hanging on the knob of the cabinet under the kitchen sink. He sat down at the kitchen table and attacked the blood pudding, not without a certain disappointment.

  The kitchen window still gaped vacantly, except for the old transistor radio that had been there since the days of Uncle Gunnar. But the kitchen curtains were ordered. Last Monday after work he had ventured into the fabric store down at the corner. There was a sign in the window with an offer to sew curtains for free, if you bought the material there. The fabric he decided on was warm yellow with a thin, blue checker pattern that would probably go well in a kitchen. Actually, it was the woman in the store who finally got impatient and firmly recommended that he choose it. Thomas gratefully accepted the suggestion and overlooked her irritated facial expression and angrily exaggerated motions. He left it up to her to decide on the type of curtain; they had not even discussed the different variations. The workmanship on the curtains would have to be a surprise and he had not dared ask what it would all cost either. Next week he could pick them up.

  His gaze landed on the old radio and in his mind he saw Uncle Gunnar, his grandmother’s brother, sitting at the same kitchen table where he was sitting now. On weekdays he listened to “Let's Celebrate” with his morning coffee, and on Saturdays they would try to solve the melody crossword together. He did not make much of a contribution, but they were together and had a nice time and Uncle Gunnar was quite good at it.

  Uncle Gunnar had not been a man for grand gestures. He was somewhat taciturn, and they did not exchange many words during the course of a day, but they kept each other company in the silence. He accepted Thomas as he was and neither criticized nor was irritated by him. Thomas, for his part, overlooked the old man’s lack of personal hygiene and felt relieved at finally having left the narrow-mindedness of the small town for the anonymity of the big city.

  He thought about the last days in Katrineholm and how he had worked with the old couple in the clothing shop. They had assumed he was basically a delinquent—which was perhaps a reasonable assumption since he had not finished his elementary education—and treated him with great suspicion the whole time. They never dared leave him alone in the store, and the cash register was always in sight of one of them when he was there. This meant that, instead of trying to learn something from his internship in working life, he spent the time trying to be free from their sullen, watchful gazes.

  The proximity to the secondary school did not make matters better. His former classmates, who often passed by during free periods and lunch breaks, could not keep from looking into the store and making cracks at him when the opportunity arose. The primary theme of their harassment was his presumed homosexuality, and as he was wondering about it, he suddenly recalled an episode from that time period he had not thought about since it happened, some thirty years before.

  True, this incident did not affect him personally, but rather a brother in misfortune by the name of Sören who was in a parallel class. He recognized the pattern. Sören, along with the rest of the soccer team, had been at a training camp in Finland. On the trip home on the Finland ferry, they had apparently been drinking heavily and many of the boys got very drunk. One boy—a bully who for some reason went by the name Lasse Golare—got so drunk he let himself be lured into the restroom by the boy at the bottom of the pecking order, Sören. There Sören subjected the poor, intoxicated Lasse Golare to a blow job, after which the deeply offended Lasse Golare marched out of the men’s room in the throng of the Finland ferry and told all his teammates about the terrible thing he had experienced. The teammates reacted with great consternation, as did the coach who was along on the trip—to the point that Sören was kicked off the team without a hearing “for the boys’ sake.” Lasse Golare—who, of course, was not the least bit homosexual—was praised as a hero and emerged with his honor intact.

  Thomas smiled at the thought of the absurd story while he swallowed the last slab of blood pudding and rinsed it down with half a glass of milk. He reached for the tabloid still lying unread on the kitchen table, and leafed through it to the spread with news from around Sweden.

  Lise-Lott’s gaze met his, and for a moment he thought that for the first time she was smiling at him in a friendly way. Then reality caught up with him and his heart began beating faster. He suddenly felt extremely thirsty, but could not force himself to stand up to get something to drink. He read through the article, carefully, twice, and then with a rapid movement pulled the pile of the past week’s newspapers still lying on the table to him. Farther down in the pile he found the Sunday paper and leafed to the short item about the murder of the prostitute in Skärholmen. After reading it, too, a few times he remained sitting, back straight, with hands clasped around his knees and with his gaze vacantly staring ahead of him.

  “What have I done?” he whispered to himself. “What do I do now?”

  THURSDAY MORNING

  ON THURSDAY IT WAS TIME for another meeting of the investigation group. Hadar Rosén reported that he did not plan to attend. Everyone else was present, except Westman. Sjöberg was somewhat indulgent about her inability to be on time, since she had so many otherwise positive qualities going for her. Despite her young age, she had no problem leading older colleagues. The male dominance at the workplace did not seem to affect her, and she was both enterprising and full of initiative. Besides, he knew that she usually stayed at work until late in the evening and never left behind a half-finished job. And this time Sjöberg knew, of course, that she had worked late the night before.

  Five coffee cups stood ready around the conference table, as if waiting for the meeting’s starting signal so they could be drained. Einar Eriksson kept looking at his watch, glaring at the door from time to time. Sandén balanced on his chair, while he distractedly drummed the table with his fingers and let his eyes rest on a framed poster depicting a girl in a swing. When the door flew open and Westman rushed in, cheeks red an
d out of breath with a teacup in her hand, he smiled sarcastically at her, but she grinned back unconcerned, pulled out a chair and sat down. Eriksson sighed audibly.

  “All right then,” said Sjöberg. “Does anyone have anything new to report?”

  He was met by nothing but head shaking, except from Hamad, who began to speak.

  “I have identified the ‘shady toilet paper salesman’ who was not exactly shady, unfortunately. I called around to some tennis clubs in the area and finally got a nibble. He is eighteen years old, his name is Joakim Levander, and he plays for Enskede Tennis Club. It's correct that he was going around those neighborhoods for a while trying to sell toilet paper with the club’s emblem. Without much success—it clearly worked better to sell by phone. The shady thing about him was probably a goatee and an earring. And most probably a disillusioned appearance.”

  “When was this?” asked Sandén.

  “It was the week before the murder. I took the boy over to Ingrid Olsson’s house, but as far as he could recall, no one answered when he rang and he hadn't noticed anything in particular either.”

  “Had he run into any of the other characters during his wanderings through those streets?” wondered Sjöberg.

  “He doesn’t live in the area,” answered Hamad. “I’m sure he ran into lots of people, but they were all unknown to him.”

  “Sounds like we can remove him from the investigation, then,” said Sjöberg. “Always something. I’ve been wondering a little about Vannerberg’s activities that evening, and I have concluded the following: Pia Vannerberg—this we can agree on—seemed both interested in, and informed about, what her husband was doing, both on and off the job. She says she is certain that Vannerberg was going to meet a seller. In our main hypothesis, we have assumed that she misunderstood or heard wrong. I don’t think that feels quite right. This, in combination with the fact that Vannerberg actually left home in the dark that evening to meet someone we have assumed to be the buyer of number 13. Well, I talked with the buyer last evening,” he continued, now turning to Westman. “True, he did say to Jorma Molin that it was fine to drop by any time, but they had not agreed on any particular time. And he never said that Monday evening would be a particularly good time to drop by, either. According to him there was no guarantee that his wife—or him for that matter—would be home, whether it was daytime or evening. He thought that the reasonable thing for Vannerberg would have been to call before he came over, if he didn’t really happen to be passing by. I think that, as Pia Vannerberg suggests, he really had scheduled a meeting with someone at Åkerbärsvägen 31 at six o’clock Monday evening. This someone I believe is the murderer.”

  “So this business at Åkerbärsvägen 13 is only supposed to be a remarkable coincidence, do you think?” said Einar Eriksson sullenly. “I find that hard to believe. Strange coincidences do not exist in this business.”

  “In any event, that is what I believe happened,” Sjöberg persisted.

  Hamad and Sandén nodded in agreement.

  “And Lennart Josefsson’s testimony?” asked Westman.

  “Josefsson’s testimony is interesting in any event,” Sjöberg replied. “We have the footprints in the garden. Bella?”

  “Yes, the strange man’s footprints indicate that he climbed over the gate and jumped down onto the lawn by the side of the gravel path,” answered Hansson. “Whether this occurred before or after Vannerberg entered the gate is impossible to say. One might suspect that the reason for climbing over the gate instead of going through it would be that the person did not want to make a sound. The gate makes noise, as does the gravel walkway. Which, in that case, might indicate that the murderer followed Vannerberg there.”

  “Which was observed by Josefsson,” added Westman.

  “Why should the murderer—if he had arranged a meeting with Vannerberg at that address—also follow him there?” asked Sandén.

  “That does make me wonder a bit,” Sjöberg admitted. “Maybe he wanted to make sure that Vannerberg really went there. He didn’t want to leave traces behind in the house for no reason.”

  “He didn’t leave any traces behind in the house anyway, damn it,” Einar Eriksson grumbled.

  Sandén ignored Eriksson’s lament and continued speculating.

  “Perhaps Josefsson’s testimony is not relevant. Perhaps the murderer climbed over the fence a good while before Vannerberg showed up.”

  “Why climb when he could just go through the gate?” Westman interjected. “Wouldn’t he attract more attention if he climbed than if he went through the gate like a normal person, even if the gate made noise?”

  “That’s exactly why I still think the murderer followed him there,” Sjöberg stated.

  “So where do we stand?” asked Hamad.

  “We’re looking for a person who has a connection not only to Hans Vannerberg, but also to Ingrid Olsson,” Sjöberg summarized. “Perhaps to the point that he actually wanted to create problems for Ingrid Olsson, too, but maybe that’s a little far-fetched. In any case, a person who knew that Ingrid Olsson’s house stood empty.”

  “The mailman,” said Sandén. “The garbage men, hospital staff.”

  “The neighbors,” Hamad added. “A female Polish picture-seller, a drunk cyclist, the paramedics.”

  “A woman with a Swedish appearance out for a walk,” said Eriksson sullenly. “Any old pedestrian.”

  “So, we’re in agreement,” said Sjöberg, resuming command by means of a surprise attack. “Our new main hypothesis is that Vannerberg arranged a meeting with the murderer at Åkerbärsvägen 31 on Monday evening. The murderer shadowed him there—why or from where we don’t know, but probably from Vannerberg’s residence. Judging from the footprints, Vannerberg then walked around to the back of the house, and during that time the murderer presumably entered the house where he waited for Vannerberg and finally killed him.”

  “So we’re going with the connection?” Sandén suggested. “The Vannerberg-Olsson connection.”

  “Yes, I think so,” Sjöberg answered. “We will devote the next few days to trying to find a person who in some way has a connection to both Hans Vannerberg and Ingrid Olsson.”

  “You might say that the buyer at number 13 has,” said Westman. “He’s a neighbor of Ingrid Olsson and bought his house through Vannerberg’s real estate agency.”

  “Sure, why not,” Sjöberg replied. “Even if he never met or spoke with Vannerberg, there is actually a weak connection there. I suggest that you, Petra, make the rounds with the neighbors. The neighbors who live close enough to have noticed that Olsson was away. Feel them out properly. Show pictures of Vannerberg—alive and dead—and pay attention to how they react. And this applies to the rest of you, too. Einar, you check on the mail carrier, newspaper delivery person, and garbage collectors. And then run a background check on Ingrid Olsson. Sandén, you talk with the hospital staff and paramedics. By the way, do you know where Ingrid Olsson is staying right now?”

  “She’s living with Margit Olofsson for the time being.”

  “Poor woman,” Sjöberg sighed. “She has her hands full anyway, being a nurse and all. When can Ingrid Olsson move back home again?” he asked, turning to Hamad.

  “We were thinking about keeping the house until Sunday, to be on the safe side. In principle we’re done, but you never know.”

  “That’s good. I thought about going there today and going over it one more time. This time with a focus on any connection between Ingrid Olsson and Vannerberg. Jamal, you’ve done that once before, so you’ll go with me. Anything else?”

  “Yes, I was just thinking,” said Westman hesitantly, as she fingered the teacup in front of her. “If Vannerberg scheduled a meeting with the murderer at Åkerbärsvägen 31, as it said in his calendar, isn’t it likely that the so-called seller called him at work to sort that out? Shouldn’t we go through all the incoming calls, let’s say, during the weeks when Ingrid Olsson was in the hospital? And to cover our bases, maybe even check
his home phone and cell?”

  “Of course,” said Sjöberg. “Do you want to do that, Petra, or do you feel like you have enough already?”

  “I don’t mind doing it,” said Westman without hesitation.

  “Excellent,” said Sjöberg, downing the last drops in his coffee cup. “Now we’re cooking with gas.”

  “Hey,” said Sandén. “What’s up with the Christmas dinner on Saturday?”

  “Of course,” said Sjöberg, turning to Hamad, “I’d completely forgotten about that. Have you made a reservation?”

  “Yes, by general request, it will be an alternative Christmas dinner, 7:00 p.m., at Beirut Café on Engelbrektsgatan.”

  “Beirut Café,” said Sandén. “What do they serve there? Iced bombe and pomegranates? Sounds great.”

  Westman glanced furtively in Hamad’s direction. As usual, everyone laughed at Sandén, including Hamad.

  “It is great,” said Westman. “I love Lebanese food.”

  “Yes, those Arabs,” Sandén sighed. “They’ll do anything to avoid eating ham, including eating testicles instead.”

  * * *

  The assault Petra Westman was subjected to over the weekend had been reduced to a story. True, she had only told it to a single person, but in her mind she had gone through the whole sequence of events an incalculable number of times. What she felt about the whole thing was shame. Shame at waking up in a bed in a strange house, not knowing who she spent the night with. Oddly enough, she did not feel violated. She assumed that was because she had no recollection of what happened, but she wanted to get rid of the shame. At any price.

  As long as she kept busy there was no problem, but when she was trying to fall asleep, she tossed and turned for hours while the embarrassing memories went through her mind, one after another. Naked and groggy between the Egyptian-cotton sheets, or in front of the bathroom mirror in the luxury home in Mälarhöjden. Or else stumbling on her new boots on the way out of Clarion’s bar.