‘At least so far,’ muttered Wittberg. ‘But it wouldn’t surprise me if—’
‘Did you say something?’ Jacobsson said sternly.
‘No, no. Nothing.’
Wittberg held up both hands as if to ward off any criticism and then took a few more biscuits from the plate on the table. He was too tired to do any of the usual sparring with Karin. He’d met a girl on Friday night, and they’d spent all yesterday in bed. Which had proved far from restful.
‘Who phoned from Stockholm?’ asked Jacobsson, to change the subject.
‘Kihlgård. And he sends his regards to both of you.’
Jacobsson’s face lit up.
‘Martin? How nice. But why did he make the call? Is the NCP already involved in the case?’
‘Apparently. He’d like you to contact him as soon as you get to the city. The two of you will be leaving first thing tomorrow morning.’
Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances. It was three days before Christmas Eve.
‘That’s fine with me,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I was thinking of going to Stockholm anyway. Hanna has invited me over for Christmas Eve.’
A big smile appeared on her face.
‘That’s wonderful,’ said Knutas warmly.
‘Yeah, that’s great,’ Wittberg agreed. ‘But I can’t say that a visit to Stockholm was part of my holiday plans. Of course, this means I won’t have to eat any of the brawn that my grandmother always serves, and that’s a positive thing. Plus, there’s a bird or two in the city I could always ring up.’
‘It’s not certain that either of you will have to stay there over Christmas,’ said Knutas. ‘But I think it’s important for you to be on the scene as soon as possible so you can get your own impression of the situation. The perpetrator might be from Gotland. At this point, we just don’t know.’
JENNY SAT ON the sofa in the flat on Kungsholmen and stared into the dark. It would soon be daylight, but she hadn’t slept at all. A sense of unease had kept her awake. She still didn’t have a clear idea of what had happened after the Christmas party. The scattered images that she’d had upon waking up in the waterbed in the stranger’s bedroom kept coming back, but that was all she could remember, no matter how hard she tried. The ache in her pelvic region had gone, but an unpleasant feeling remained because she had only a fragmentary idea of how the evening had ended. What had she got herself mixed up in? And where had she been?
The house stood in a secluded spot, with no neighbours close by. Without her mobile, she couldn’t even ring for a taxi. After walking several kilometres along the road, she’d finally entered a residential area with more houses.
She stopped at an intersection, pausing to consider which way to go. Apparently, she had looked bewildered enough that a female driver pulled over and rolled down her window. When Jenny asked where she might find the nearest bus stop, the woman had offered her a lift. Jenny found the whole situation so embarrassing that she gratefully accepted the offer without asking where she was. The woman was driving into town and was kind enough to drop Jenny at the front door of her building.
As luck would have it, the other models who had spent the night in the flat had already left. She bought a take-away pizza and rented a film on Saturday evening, trying to shake off all thoughts of the unwelcome experience of the night before.
On Sunday she slept until one in the afternoon and didn’t leave the flat for the rest of the day. She hardly had the energy to move at all. She was glad she didn’t have her phone, so she wouldn’t have to talk to anyone. She was just waiting for Monday to arrive so she could go back home. She was going to spend the Christmas holiday with her parents on Gotland and didn’t have to return to Stockholm until the 26th. She was longing to be with her parents and feel safe on the farm.
She had gone to bed early but couldn’t fall asleep. Finally, she gave up and went into the living room to sit on the sofa. She could sleep when she got to Gotland. Her plane was due to depart at ten thirty in the morning. She had already packed her bag and cleaned up the flat. She looked out of the window, catching a glimpse of the canal below. The water glittered in the light from a solitary street lamp but, otherwise, everything was wrapped in darkness. No people were visible on the narrow pathway. With a shiver she recalled the last time she’d walked along that path. And the man who had appeared out of the dark. But he hadn’t spoken or done anything, so she had decided not to tell anyone about it. She didn’t want to alarm her mother for no reason; she was neurotic enough as it was. But Jenny had definitely found the incident unsettling.
Overcome with restlessness, she decided to go out to Bromma Airport as soon as possible. She couldn’t bear to sit here waiting, drinking coffee and reading the morning papers. She wanted to get out of this flat. Away from all this shit. She looked at the clock on the wall and saw that it was four fifteen. She really couldn’t see herself getting there before six.
So she took a shower and washed her hair. Then she spent time rubbing lotion on her skin and putting on some make-up, which made her feel more alert. In the kitchen she turned on the radio and hummed along with the tune that was playing. At five o’clock the music was interrupted by the Eko news report. By that time she had sat down at the table with a bowl of yoghurt. As she listened to the news, she lost her appetite.
On Sunday evening a man in his forties was found dead in an office in central Stockholm. The police suspect foul play. The office belongs to one of Sweden’s biggest modelling agencies, Fashion for Life. This is the same agency which employed Markus Sandberg, the well-known fashion photographer. In late November he was the victim of a brutal act of violence on Gotland when he was assaulted and seriously injured. The police refuse to say whether they’ve found any direct links between the two cases, but they won’t rule out a possible connection.
Then a police spokesman was interviewed, giving a terse and unrevealing account of the investigation.
Jenny jumped to her feet. This couldn’t be true. She refused to believe it. She dashed into the living room to turn on the TV. The early-morning news bulletin was longer on television than on the radio, so the report about the murder at the agency was still on. A reporter was shown standing in front of the agency building. He said that it was the wife who had discovered her husband’s body inside. The victim could be only one person. Robert Ek.
The footage then shifted to another scene, and Jenny could hardly believe her eyes. She was looking at a luxury home with police vehicles parked outside it. In spite of the darkness, sections of the façade were visible, along with the front entrance, which had a lion sculpture on either side of the door. The disembodied voice of the reporter echoed hollowly:
The victim lived in this house in Nacka outside Stockholm. The police have searched the premises and apparently found evidence that an unknown number of people spent the weekend here while the victim’s family was out of town. The police would be grateful for any information from the public regarding any individuals who were seen in the vicinity of the home over the past few days.
Jenny recognized at once the house where she’d found herself on Saturday morning. And she felt her throat slowly closing up.
‘HI, SWEETIE.’
Her father looks happy, as usual, but she notices concern in his eyes as he swiftly appraises her thin figure to see if she has put on even a tiny bit of weight. He gives her a cautious hug. Katarina makes no attempt to hug her. She knows that Agnes would not welcome such a gesture. Instead, she gives her a quick, uncertain smile and whispers hello. Katarina is so pathetic.
Agnes takes her father by the arm and turns to head back to the ward. She has been longing to see him. Last night, she hardly slept. She lay in bed thinking about the murder of Robert Ek, who was head of the modelling agency she once worked for. She’d heard about it on the evening news. She had met Ek several times. Now she wants to talk to her father and find out what he knows. Probably more than she does.
She expects Katarina to trudge off to the day room, as she always do
es. But she sees that something is up with her father. His feet seem to be glued to the floor.
‘Well, er, you see, Agnes,’ he says, ‘I was thinking that, uh …’ He casts a quick glance at Katarina. ‘… we were thinking that Katarina would come with us today. With you and me. Is that okay?’
Agnes is completely unprepared for this request. Why would she want to spend time with that woman? She isn’t the least bit interested in the idea and can hardly bear to look at her. For a moment, no one speaks. Agnes stares at her father as she struggles with herself. The two adults wait for her to answer, exchanging looks with each other. She can sense their nervousness seeping through their coats.
But she doesn’t want to behave like a stubborn child. That would merely confirm Katarina’s preconceptions about her. Before she manages to say anything, Per appears, like a guardian angel.
‘Hi. Come on in.’
As if he understands the difficulty of the situation, he leads the way down the corridor, and the others follow. Agnes’s cheeks are burning with shame. So far, she has simply ignored Katarina, pretending not to see her at all. That’s going to be harder to do now. She’s also disappointed because today she won’t have any private time with her father.
They take seats in the common room. Per goes to the kitchen to get coffee for all of them. Agnes’s father sits next to her on the sofa while Katarina sits in an easy chair.
‘It’s very nice in here,’ she says appreciatively, looking around the room.
Agnes gives her an icy glare but doesn’t say anything. Her father nervously shifts position.
‘So, how are you?’ he asks in his gentle voice, placing his big, dry hand on top of hers.
‘I hate this place. You know that,’ she snaps, pulling away her hand. ‘And I feel shitty, in case you want to know.’
He ignores her tone of voice.
‘Grandma and Grandpa send their love.’
‘Huh.’
She’s already regretting her attitude. She doesn’t want to appear weak in Katarina’s eyes. Or as if she cares about her being there. Agnes casts a surreptitious glance in her direction. Come to think of it, Katarina actually looks rather nice. Dark hair under the beret she’s wearing. Brown eyes and a fresh complexion with rosy cheeks. Distinctive features. Pale-pink lipstick. Agnes shifts her gaze to her father and is suddenly seized with tenderness. He looks tired. His calloused hands are fidgeting. She notices the faint scent of his aftershave.
Per brings them their coffee. The china clinks and his hands tremble slightly as he fills their cups, one by one. It takes for ever.
‘Why don’t you join us?’ Agnes suggests. ‘You would ease the situation a bit. It’s rather tense, as you can tell.’
The next second, Katarina is on her feet, her lips pressed together in a tight line.
‘I can see this isn’t a good idea. I don’t think Agnes is ready.’
‘Don’t go,’ Rikard pleads as she leaves the room.
‘It’s okay,’ Per tells him. ‘I’ll go after her.’
He hurries after Katarina, who is angrily striding down the hall.
‘Was that really necessary?’ Agnes’s father gives her a reproachful look. ‘Couldn’t you at least try?’
‘She’s so highly strung,’ Agnes defends herself. ‘Can’t stand even the slightest criticism.’
‘This isn’t easy for her either. She’s been sitting in that day room for three months now. Don’t you think it’s about time you cut her a little slack?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Because Katarina and I are together and have been for quite a while now. How do you think I feel when you ignore her, pretending that she doesn’t exist?’
‘What about me? Don’t I mean anything to you?’
‘Agnes, sweetie. You’re everything to me. But I need to live my own life, too. I have my work, but everyone else has a family they can go home to. I don’t want to sit at home alone every evening and every weekend. And you’re here. And you don’t seem to be getting any better. Don’t you want to get well?’
‘Of course I do. But it’s not that easy.’
‘I spoke to the head of the clinic, and she says that you’re resisting the treatment. That you’re not helping yourself.’
‘Huh.’
Her father looks deep into her eyes, then reaches out to caress her cheek gently. She’s on the verge of tears, but she fights against it.
‘My beautiful daughter,’ he says tenderly. ‘My beautiful little girl. You’re the only one who can make yourself well. Nobody else can do it for you. What’s so awful about gaining weight? What are you afraid of?’
She shrugs. The words lodge in her throat.
Then she says, ‘I don’t know how to act if I’m not anorexic. I can hardly remember what I used to be like.’
‘Before all this happened, you were a happy, sweet girl who had lots of friends and enjoyed going to school. Until those damn fashion people came into the picture. Katarina agrees that it’s awful how they destroyed your life. I hate them for what they did. She does, too. She thinks it’s terrible how they treated you. I want you to know that Katarina cares about you, even though you don’t think she does. But you can have your life back, and everything can be the same as it was before. Don’t let those cold, calculating people win. They’ve already caused enough harm.’
JOHAN BERG WAS about to have his morning coffee when he switched on the TV, as he usually did on Mondays. It made no difference that he was on holiday and staying at his mother’s home in Rönninge. He still had to watch the news. It was in his bones.
‘What the hell?’
He reached for the remote control to turn up the volume. His colleague from the Stockholm office Madeleine Haga was on the screen. She stood in front of a building in the city centre.
There is speculation that the murder may have had something to do with the staff Christmas party, which the agency hosted on Friday evening at a club on Stureplan, only a stone’s throw from its office. Robert Ek may have lain dead in his office all weekend. But the police are also asking the question …
Emma came into the living room, carrying a mug of coffee. The children were still asleep in one of the guest rooms upstairs. Johan’s mother wasn’t yet awake either.
‘What is it?’ she asked, sitting down on the sofa next to Johan.
‘The head of Fashion for Life is dead. He was found murdered at the agency.’
‘Really? Good Lord, this is too much.’
‘I know. His body was discovered last night. And they haven’t caught the killer.’
‘That’s unbelievable. What’s going on with that agency? And Jenny works for that place. This is starting to get really scary. I need to call Tina.’
She got up and left the room.
In the meantime, Johan rang his boss, the editor-in-chief, Max Grenfors, in Stockholm. He sounded out of breath. Johan could picture him running along the corridors of the huge television building.
‘What a bloody mess! The morning meeting starts in a few minutes, and after that we’ll decide how to tackle this story. Right now, Madeleine is on the scene, and I’ve got two reporters working on it here in the office. I’ll phone you back after the meeting and we’ll work out how to handle the Gotland angle.’
‘What are you hearing?’
‘There’s speculation that it’s some sort of personal vendetta against the two victims – that they were involved in some shit together, and that’s what provoked the attacks. They share a long history.’
‘Is that right? I didn’t know that.’
‘I’ll brief you later. Haven’t got time to talk right now. But since you’re here in Stockholm, why don’t you drop by the office? This could be a big story.’
Johan could hear excited voices talking in the background. Apparently, there were others who wanted Grenfors’s attention. Johan yearned to be there, in the midst of it all. He wondered what Emma would say about Grenfors’s idea.
He w
ent back to his mother’s kitchen, which was elaborately decorated for the holidays with red curtains, Advent stars, Christmas elves and a gingerbread heart which hung in the window. The whole room was still fragrant from the ginger biscuits they’d baked the day before.
It was two days before Christmas Eve.
KARIN JACOBSSON AND Thomas Wittberg were sitting in a conference room at police headquarters in Stockholm, along with Detective Inspector Martin Kihlgård of the NCP. They had just arrived from Visby and were about to get their first report on the situation. Outside the window, the light was fading, even though it was only eleven in the morning. Snowflakes were briskly tumbling down from the gloomy sky. In the big windows facing the park, someone had placed electric candles, which produced a warm glow against the hazy backdrop. Stockholmers hunched their shoulders as they hurried along the street in the snowstorm. No one paused or glanced to the side or bothered to meet the eye of other pedestrians. It was too cold for that. In these days before Christmas, everyone deadened their senses by spending too much on gifts and decorating their homes in a desperate attempt to withstand the darkness.
Martin Kihlgård reached out his hand to take a saffron bun from the basket of pastries on the conference table. He was famous for his appetite, and he was almost always eating something. He was solidly built, without being obese. Jacobsson thought his rotund appearance gave him a certain air of authority. And confidence. She had liked him from the very first time they met, several years ago, when he came to Gotland to help hunt for a serial killer.
‘How much do we know?’ she asked him now.
‘Robert Ek was found in his office at the Fashion for Life agency, murdered with an axe. He had been brutally attacked and had multiple wounds on his head and body. His skull had been split clear down to his eyes. It was one of the worst things I’ve ever seen.’
Kihlgård shook his head, making his cheeks quiver.
‘What about the perpetrator?’
The Dangerous Game Page 17