★ ★ ★
Erik led them to the cramped staffroom, apologising for the lack of coffee. He went on to say how pleased he was that Riksmord were willing to help, then quickly summarised what they knew so far about the family and the four murders. Billy, Vanja and Torkel took it all in, giving the matter their full concentration and asking questions here and there. Sebastian switched off. It was during this phase, when the local police were handing over a case, that he usually sat in the background drinking coffee, listening with half an ear. But as this godforsaken dump couldn’t even provide a decent hot drink, he decided not to bother listening at all, and sat there lost in his own thoughts.
‘So how do you want to do this?’ Erik Flodin’s voice brought him back to reality. The handover was done, and from now on Torkel was in charge.
‘So you have a suspect – this Jan Ceder?’ Vanja just wanted to clarify the situation.
‘Well …’ Erik hesitated. ‘He’s threatened the family in the past, but it looks as if he might have an alibi.’
Torkel got to his feet. ‘Vanja and Sebastian, you take Ceder. Billy and I will go out to the scene of the crime.’
‘I’ll ask Fredrika to go with you,’ Erik said, leaving the room. Sebastian looked at Torkel, who was gathering up his papers from the table.
Torkel and Billy.
Sebastian and Vanja.
That suited him perfectly, but was Torkel deliberately drawing a line between them? They hadn’t said much to one another during those hours in the car on the way to Torsby; they had exchanged perhaps ten sentences. Sebastian tried to remember whether they usually chatted on the way to a case, and concluded that no, they didn’t. The last time had been very similar, he thought – travelling from Östersund to that mountain station, whatever it was called. Besides, Torkel’s decision was perfectly correct in view of their areas of expertise. Sebastian was virtually no use at a crime scene, while he and Vanja were a crack team when it came to interviewing a suspect.
However, he still felt as if they would have to talk about what had actually happened that evening at some point.
Talk about Ursula.
But not now.
★ ★ ★
They were sitting in a room that was really too small to be called an open-plan office, but it did contain five desks: four over by the windows, facing one another in pairs, and one on its own to the left of the door. Sebastian chose the latter and sat gazing idly at pictures of someone’s wife and kids and childish drawings as he listened to the recording of the earlier interview with Jan Ceder.
They had already talked about threatening behaviour and a stolen shotgun; now they had moved on to insurance. Nothing of interest so far. He picked up a pencil and added a large cock to one of the drawings in front of him. He smiled to himself. Infantile but satisfying.
‘Where were you yesterday?’ Erik asked in a pleasant tone of voice; Sebastian saw Vanja’s face brighten. He dropped the pencil and leaned back in his chair. He wondered if anyone would mind if he put his feet up on the desk, decided he didn’t care one way or the other, and immediately got a dirty look from Erik, which he ignored.
‘Yesterday?’
‘Yesterday.’
‘I was in Filipstad,’ Ceder replied immediately.
‘When did you go to Filipstad?’
‘On Tuesday evening.’
‘And when did you return?’
‘Today. This morning. I’d only been home for an hour or so when she came and picked me up.’
‘He means Fredrika,’ Erik clarified.
Vanja nodded and jotted something down in her notebook. If that was true, Jan Ceder had been nowhere near Torsby when the murders were committed.
‘How did you get there and back?’ Erik asked on the tape.
‘I caught the 303 to Hagfors, then the 302 to Filipstad.’
‘At this point he gave us this,’ Erik said, holding out a plastic bag containing a piece of paper. Vanja took it: a crumpled ticket from Värmland Transport.
A return ticket.
Outward journey the day before yesterday, return today.
‘What were you doing there?’ the interview continued.
‘I was with friends.’
‘The whole time?’
‘Yes, we drank quite a bit and … yes, the whole time.’
‘I’ll need the names and telephone numbers of these friends.’
There was a scraping sound as Fredrika pushed a pad and pen across to Ceder.
‘What’s this about, anyway?’ he asked.
There was a brief pause, as if both officers were considering how to proceed, how much to reveal, but eventually they obviously concluded that sooner or later Ceder was going to have to be told why they had brought him in for questioning.
‘The Carlsten family are dead,’ Erik said. ‘Killed with a shotgun. What do you have to say about that?’
Erik switched off the tape.
‘He had nothing to say about that, at least not without a solicitor.’ He removed the tape and put it back in its case, then turned to Vanja.
‘Fredrika called the friends he listed, and they confirmed his alibi.’
‘So why is he still here?’ Sebastian wanted to know. Erik looked at him, still with a certain amount of distaste. Sebastian removed his feet from the desk, got to his feet and started to wander around the small amount of floor space available.
‘I thought you said Ceder was an alcoholic with poor self-control,’ he went on. ‘Is that correct?’ He stopped in front of Erik.
‘Yes.’
‘And yet you think he planned this in detail, established a false alibi, and acquired bus tickets to and from Filipstad to back up his story?’
Erik didn’t respond, so Sebastian kept going.
‘If he’s so meticulous, then surely he wouldn’t have threatened the family in broad daylight the day before he intended to go round to their house and shoot them all dead?’
‘All I’m saying is that at the moment he appears to have an alibi,’ Erik said grimly, failing to hide his annoyance. ‘But we could still find traces of cordite or blood on his hands or clothes. If we find the missing shotgun, we can see if it matches the cartridges from the house. We haven’t spoken to the Carlstens’ neighbours yet; someone might have seen Ceder nearby. Then we’ll be back on track.’
Sebastian shook his head; he couldn’t suppress a smile.
‘Or we could just go back in time, stand outside the house and see who shoots them. That sounds more realistic!’
‘That’s enough, Sebastian!’
Vanja stood up and Sebastian turned to face her. There was something dark in her eyes, something he recognised all too well. She was angry with him. She nailed him to the spot for a few seconds, then turned to Erik.
‘I apologise – he can be such an idiot sometimes.’
‘I’ve seen this kind of thing before,’ Erik said in a softer tone, his gaze fixed on Sebastian. ‘People who think we’re useless just because we’re not from Stockholm.’
‘It’s nothing to do with the fact that you live in a dump,’ Sebastian explained kindly. ‘Incompetence isn’t all that sexy in the big city either.’
Vanja sighed to herself. She wasn’t really surprised, to be honest. She knew that Sebastian didn’t give a toss what anyone thought of him, but it was usually Ursula who criticised the local cops as soon as she got the chance. Sebastian’s job was to make himself impossible in his dealings with witnesses and relatives; it was as if they had divided the shit-stirring up between them. But with Ursula gone, it looked as if Sebastian was taking on full responsibility for making everyone loathe them.
She gave Erik a tight little smile.
‘We’d like to speak to Ceder now, if that’s OK.’
Without a word Erik marched past Sebastian and out into the corridor.
★ ★ ★
A woman of about forty stood up and held out her hand as they entered the interview room.
‘F
lavia Albrektsson. I’m Jan Ceder’s solicitor.’
Vanja introduced herself and shook hands, then sat down on the opposite side of the table.
‘Flavia – that’s an unusual name,’ Sebastian said, holding her hand for a fraction too long – in Vanja’s opinion.
‘Yes.’
‘And a beautiful one,’ he went on, finally letting go of her hand. ‘Where does it come from?’
Vanja rolled her eyes. If they had been faced with a male solicitor called Flavius, Sebastian wouldn’t have given a flying fuck where the name came from.
‘Perhaps we could discuss that later,’ she said, keeping her tone neutral as she fixed her gaze on Sebastian.
‘Let’s hope so,’ Sebastian said, smiling at Flavia. This time she responded in kind, and they both sat down. Sebastian weighed her up: dark hair in a bob, framing a round, open face. Discreetly made-up eyes and lips. A pearl necklace over the collar of the thin grey woollen sweater under the the jacket of her suit. Small breasts. A wedding ring. That usually meant more work; greater resistance to begin with, the outcome less certain. If he really was going to screw someone in Torsby, maybe he should start with something easier.
Vanja glanced at Sebastian; he obviously had no intention of leading the interview, so she turned her attention to the slumped figure next to the smartly dressed solicitor. He looked tired.
‘Tell us about the Carlstens.’
‘Tell you what?’ Ceder asked with a shrug.
‘What did you think of them?’
Ceder snorted and shook his head, making his opinion clear, but he obliged by putting it into words as well.
‘They were tree huggers, eco-warriors, friends of the wolf, demanding toxin-free this and ecological that. They acted like cops – you could hardly piss in the forest without them complaining.’
‘So you threatened Emil Carlsten outside the swimming pool.’
‘I was drunk.’
‘Can you tell us what you did after that?’ Vanja went on, opening her notebook. ‘Until the police picked you up at home.’
‘He’s already done that,’ Flavia interjected.
‘He hasn’t told us his story.’
Ceder folded his arms. Took a deep breath. Started speaking.
Vanja and Sebastian listened carefully; from time to time Vanja asked a question or sought clarification. Approximately fifteen minutes later Ceder fell silent, seemingly exhausted by his efforts. He flung his arms wide to indicate that he had nothing more to say, and his chin sank down towards his chest. Vanja consulted her notes; everything he had said appeared to match his previous interview.
She gave a start as Sebastian suddenly stood up.
‘The gun.’
‘What about the gun?’ Flavia wondered.
‘That’s the only part of your story I don’t believe,’ Sebastian said, leaning on the windowsill. ‘You said it was stolen, but you didn’t report it.’
‘He’s explained his reasons,’ Flavia countered.
‘I know, but I still don’t believe him.’ Sebastian shifted focus from Ceder to his defender. He was probably about to scupper his chances with Flavia, but it couldn’t be helped.
‘You said that’s the only thing you don’t believe.’ Flavia leaned back, looking pleased. ‘Does that mean you think he’s innocent?’
‘Yes,’ Sebastian said firmly.
‘So why is he sitting here?’
‘Because I don’t have the authority to release him.’
Flavia broke into a smile; maybe it wasn’t too late after all, Sebastian thought.
‘Sebastian’s opinion isn’t necessarily the same as that of Riksmord, Vanja said sharply. ‘He’s not a police officer.’
However, she did agree with him on one point: there was a big question mark next to the issue of the shotgun in her notes too. She had picked up something false in Ceder’s tone of voice at that point; it was something she was good at. Nuances. Billy sometimes referred to her as a human lie detector.
‘He has an alibi,’ Flavia insisted.
‘Sometimes people make sure they have an alibi when they know they’re going to be suspected of some offence.’ Vanja closed her notebook and met the solicitor’s gaze. ‘The gun could still be the murder weapon, even if your client wasn’t holding it himself.’
Sebastian folded his arms and leaned back; he was impressed.
‘And maybe, just maybe, your client knew it was going to be used.’
A contract killing. Or a favour, more likely. Sebastian nodded to himself. Even an alcoholic with self-control problems would be able to sort that out. Ceder had lived in the area all his life; he had taken over his parents’ home. He must know plenty of hunters and landowners who felt exactly the same as he did about the Carlsten family. Someone was bound to owe him a favour. Shooting an entire family was one hell of a favour, but if the Carlstens had made enemies, upset a lot of people, it wasn’t an impossible scenario.
Alcohol, testosterone, the male of the species pissing to mark out his territory. Sebastian had seen stranger things.
‘So I think he’ll be staying here for the time being,’ Vanja concluded, getting to her feet and heading for the door. Sebastian stayed where he was and watched her leave the room.
She was good. She was very good.
His daughter.
They caught the last of the daylight as they arrived at the isolated two-storey house twenty minutes outside the town. The place was a good size, and looked well maintained. Only the blue-and-white police tape gently swaying in the breeze showed that the attractive exterior was hiding a tragedy. Fredrika parked next to what Torkel assumed to be the family’s white Nissan. She got out and nodded in the direction of the house. Billy pulled up, jumped out and retrieved his bag from the back seat. Torkel stayed where he was, staring at the house.
It really did look idyllic, surrounded by a meadow and a number of deciduous trees that were just coming into leaf. Slightly further away, along a track that ran parallel to the meadow, he could see several red-painted outhouses and a large greenhouse. Apparently the Carlstens ran an eco-friendly smallholding, specialising in locally produced root vegetables.
He got out of the car and walked over to the stone wall that curved around the house and the lawn. Two small bicycles, one green and one blue, were propped up against the inside of the wall; they looked well used. To the side of the lawn was a sandpit with various plastic toys perched on the wooden frame. The family seemed to have had a good life here. Lots of space and freedom to play.
A man dressed in protective clothing emerged from the house and came towards them; Erik Flodin had said that the local forensic technician would probably still be there.
‘Riksmord?’ the man asked Fredrika.
‘Yes. Can you take care of them? I’ve got things to do.’
‘Of course.’ The man turned to Billy and they shook hands.
‘Billy Rosén. This is Torkel Höglund, SIO.’
The man gave them a friendly nod.
‘Fabian Hellström. Welcome.’
At least he didn’t seem to have any objection to Riksmord turning up, which was a good start. Torkel had been on the receiving end of far chillier receptions in the past.
The three men set off towards the house.
‘We’ve removed the bodies, but I took lots of photographs.’
‘We saw some of them down at the station; you seem to have done a very good job,’ Torkel said, and meant it. So far Erik’s team hadn’t put a foot wrong, as far as he could see.
‘Thanks. It’s a pretty big area. The perpetrator was both downstairs and upstairs, so I’m far from finished.’
‘How sure are you that we’re looking at a single perp?’
‘Fairly sure. We’ve found prints from a pair of size forty-four boots all over the place.’
‘And it can’t be the father?’
Fabian shook his head.
‘He wore size forty-six or forty-seven, and we haven’t found any boo
ts with soles that match the prints among his belongings.’
They had reached the door, and stopped to pull on shoe protectors and gloves. As soon as they walked in, Torkel saw the amount of blood on the stone floor in front of them.
‘Karin Carlsten, the mother, was lying here,’ Fabian explained. ‘We assume she was shot first, and that she opened the door to the killer.’
Torkel nodded and took a step back. He wanted to get an overview. The door, the hallway, the blood. He realised that he was missing Ursula. Not that Billy wasn’t competent, quite the reverse; he had worked closely with Ursula and had learned a great deal. There was no one Torkel would rather have had on the case, but he wasn’t Ursula. No one could match her when it came to seeing that connection, that little detail that could move an investigation forwards.
‘The front door was open when the little girl from next door found Karin, is that correct?’ he asked after a while.
‘Yes, and we haven’t found any signs of forced entry on the back door or the windows so we’re working on the hypothesis that the perpetrator came and went this way.’
Fabian led the way inside. There was a large kitchen at the end of the hallway; they could see an overturned chair in front of a table laid for breakfast. Blood everywhere. On the table and on the floor, even splashed across the walls several metres away. It wasn’t hard to see where the victim had been lying; the seeping blood had left the outline of a small body on the rug next to the chair.
‘Georg Carlsten, eight years old,’ Fabian said, his voice not quite as steady as before. He pointed to the bloody trail of little bare feet leading out of the room, growing fainter as they disappeared in the direction of the staircase.
‘His younger brother was here too.’
‘Who the fuck does something like this?’ Billy said as he crouched down to look at the footprints. ‘Did the family have a lot of enemies?’
‘So far we’ve only found one – Jan Ceder. But a lot of people thought they were a bit odd, with their green lifestyle and their ideas on the environment,’ Fabian replied.
Torkel took a deep breath; he suddenly felt terrible. There was something about the little bowl of cereal on the table, all that blood; it made what had happened seem perfectly ordinary, yet at the same time so horrific.
The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4) Page 5