The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  ‘Not yet apprehended. But we did find some interesting items in the rubbish early this morning, including what appears to be the murder weapon. A bloodstained axe.’

  Wittberg whistled.

  ‘Damn. Is it the same one that was used on Furillen?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. It was sent to the lab for analysis. The forensics guys also found Ek’s mobile phone. And it turns out that he received a text message from another mobile on the night of the party. And not just from anybody. The message was sent from Markus Sandberg’s phone! At 1.10 on Saturday morning.’

  Wittberg and Jacobsson stared in astonishment at their colleague.

  Kihlgård paused for dramatic effect before he went on.

  ‘This is what the message said: “Meet me at the agency in half an hour. Hugs. Jenny.”’

  ‘Are you serious?’ exclaimed Jacobsson.

  ‘Yup. That’s what it said. Word for word. I have the transcript here. And the next minute, Robert Ek sent a reply, saying that he would wait for her. Fifty-one minutes later, at 2.01 a.m., he sent a text saying, “I’m here. I’m waiting for you.”’

  ‘So that means the cases are definitely connected and, judging by the text, it’s the same perpetrator,’ said Jacobsson. ‘The question is whether Jenny Levin wrote it, or whether the killer pretended to be her in order to lure Ek to the agency. Sandberg’s mobile has been traced to Flemingsberg ever since Markus was assaulted, and Jenny hasn’t been anywhere near there, at least according to her. What does she say about all this?’

  ‘The problem is that we haven’t been able to reach her, but we just heard from her parents that she’s on a plane heading for Visby right now,’ said Kihlgård, casting a glance at his watch. ‘She should be landing any minute. I’ve asked our colleagues in Visby to contact her as soon as possible. From what I understand, she was one of the last people to see Robert Ek alive. Witnesses told us that the two of them were seen talking together at the bar during the party, around midnight. So that was about an hour before he left.’

  ‘What did the crime scene look like?’ asked Wittberg.

  ‘Lots of blood, of course. The SOCOs found footprints, but no fingerprints. There was no sign of a struggle, or any indication that someone had broken in. So either Ek left the door unlocked or the perpetrator had a key.’

  Wittberg raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Is there anything that might lead us to think that one of the employees is the murderer?’

  ‘It’s far too early to say. We need to question more people and then put together the information from the interviews we’ve already done. The work has just started.’

  ‘What about the footprints?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘What can you tell us about them?’

  ‘They’re from a heavy shoe with a rubber sole. A rather small size. Five and a half.’

  Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances.

  ‘The same as on Furillen. We found footprints that were the same size.’

  ‘Interesting,’ murmured Kihlgård, biting into another bun. ‘One more thing,’ he said as he chewed. ‘There were two glasses filled with champagne and a bottle of Taittinger in a wine bucket on the table in the staff lounge. And he seems to have set the mood with candles.’

  ‘Taittinger?’ enquired Wittberg.

  ‘A type of champagne,’ Kihlgård clarified.

  ‘Do we know what time Ek left the party?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘And did he leave alone?’

  ‘The bouncer and the cloakroom attendant both say the same thing. He left the club around 1 a.m. and they think he left alone. There was a lot of coming and going, because people kept leaving to have a smoke. So they weren’t a hundred per cent positive, but he was alone when he picked up his coat.’

  ‘Was he drunk?’

  ‘He’d definitely had a few, but he wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘Since he was such a ladies’ man, he had plenty of opportunity to take someone home with him that night. His wife and kids were away, so he had the whole house to himself. Why didn’t he ask Jenny to go home with him?’

  ‘That’s a good question,’ Kihlgård agreed. ‘Although he’d already invited some people to stay the night. Maybe he didn’t want them to see her. At any rate, Robert Ek wasn’t planning to be at home alone. He’d invited a couple of male friends and given them a key. They brought along some girls from the club.’

  ‘How do we know this?’

  ‘His wife, Erna, could tell that there’d been a party in the house. She gave us the phone numbers of several of Ek’s closest friends, and they were quick to answer our questions. One of them, who also happened to be at the Christmas party, had borrowed a key to the house. We interviewed him late last night. He said that a bunch of them went to Ek’s house for an after-party, thinking that he’d turn up later on. When he didn’t, they assumed that he’d decided to stay with some girlfriend instead. This friend left the house on Saturday afternoon and put the key inside a pot at the back, as he and Robert had agreed. He didn’t give it any more thought.’

  ‘How many people were in the house?’ asked Jacobsson.

  ‘That’s a bit vague. This guy doesn’t seem completely trustworthy. He claims that he was really drunk and can only name one of the women, who also happens to be his girlfriend. He didn’t know the others. They were people he’d met at the club and had never seen before. He can’t recall exactly how many spent the night, but he thinks five or six. When he and his girlfriend woke up on Saturday, everybody else was gone.’

  ‘What’s the name of his girlfriend?’ asked Wittberg.

  ‘Katinka Johansson. She lives in Bagarmossen. Twenty-seven years old. Works at the 7–11 on Grev Turegatan.’

  ‘Has anyone talked to her yet?’

  ‘Yes, but she really had nothing to say. Could hardly remember where she’d spent the night, and she couldn’t name a single person who was there, except for her boyfriend.’

  Wittberg looked at Kihlgård.

  ‘What about surveillance cameras? There must be some at the entrance to the club or along the street on the way to the agency. The building is smack in the middle of Stureplan.’

  ‘We’ve already thought of that. The club has cameras at the front entrance, but we didn’t see anything of interest. We’re checking the whole area and should have more information later in the day. We can only hope we find something useful.’

  ‘What about the other tenants in the building?’ said Jacobsson. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything?’

  Kihlgård was starting to look annoyed.

  ‘We don’t know yet. Robert Ek’s body was only found last night, damn it. Of course, we’ve got officers knocking on doors and questioning the neighbours.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ Jacobsson waved her hand, trying to calm him down.

  Kihlgård drank some coffee and leaned back in his chair.

  ‘Naturally, our first thought was that the murder of Robert Ek and the assault on Markus Sandberg must have something to do with the fashion world,’ said Wittberg.

  ‘I agree. And Jenny Levin is involved in both cases,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I wonder how she figures in the whole thing.’

  ‘Sure. But it could also be a coincidence. All these people work together. And the attacks might have nothing to do with the fashion industry. The motive could have something to do with women. Ek has a reputation for being a ladies’ man, just like Sandberg. And what about Ek’s wife, Erna Linton? She’s also an ex-model. What was her relationship with Sandberg? It’s clear that she had a motive for killing her husband. Or at least the desire to do so – if she knew about his escapades.’

  ‘Does anyone know how he’s doing now?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘I’m talking about Markus.’

  ‘I spoke to the hospital this morning,’ said Kihlgård. ‘His condition is unchanged, so it’s impossible to question him. And, apparently, there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Unfortunately. As for Erna Linton, so far we’ve only conducted a brief interview with her. We’re going to
meet with her here after lunch. You can sit in as witnesses, if you like. But she does have an alibi. She was visiting her parents in Leksand all weekend.’

  ‘But the murder occurred well after midnight,’ countered Wittberg. ‘How long does it take to drive from Leksand in the middle of the night when there’s no traffic? Three hours? Let’s suppose that she left around eleven or twelve on Friday night. Arrived in Stockholm around two or three in the morning. Maybe she’d pretended to be someone else in order to set up a rendezvous with Ek at the agency. And then she killed him. Afterwards, she drove back. If she left the city around three thirty, she’d be back in Leksand by six thirty. She could have done it.’

  ‘You could be right,’ Kihlgård admitted. ‘We’ll have to take a closer look at her alibi. And I have no idea where she was when Markus Sandberg was assaulted.’

  He gathered up the papers lying on the table.

  ‘So, are you starting to get hungry? There’s a new place down on Kungsholmstorg that serves great home cooking.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Jacobsson. ‘There’s one more thing. I was thinking about that Finnish model Marita Ahonen. The one that Markus got pregnant. Do you have any material from the agency here? A catalogue showing the models and information about them? I’m thinking in particular about their shoe size.’

  ‘We confiscated all sorts of material – computers, and the like – yesterday. It’s over in the technical department,’ said Kihlgård, clearly worried that lunch might be delayed another hour. ‘Wait here.’

  He left the room, grabbing another saffron bun on his way out. A few minutes later he was back, his face flushed.

  ‘I found out about that Marita Ahonen. She wears a size five and a half shoe.’

  KARIN JACOBSSON WAS sweating in the lift on her way up to the fifth floor. This was the first time she’d been invited to her daughter’s flat. Even the front entrance had made her nervous. It had to be one of the poshest buildings in all Stockholm, with its stucco flourishes and embellishments. A thick red carpet adorned the steps of the grand marble staircase in the vestibule, and on display in one corner towered a stately Christmas tree decorated with ornaments and lights. Marble sculptures stood in several niches, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. She had never seen anything like it. Thankfully, she knew that Hanna was not a pretentious person, or she would have been terrified.

  On the top floor of the building there were two flats. One of them belonged to Hanna.

  Jacobsson smoothed down her hair, took a deep breath, and rang the bell. She was clutching a bouquet of white tulips, which she held out in front of her.

  The heavy door opened almost at once.

  ‘Hi, Karin. How nice. Welcome!’

  Hanna’s sunny smile calmed her, and the warm hug helped even more. The dog came over, wagging his tail, clearly delighted with the visitor as he leapt about on his long legs.

  ‘Okay, Nelson. That’s enough.’

  Karin handed over the bouquet.

  ‘Thank you. Come in.’

  Hanna led the way to the kitchen, which faced Mariatorget. Karin couldn’t help pausing on the threshold. It was as far from a traditional kitchen as it could possibly be. A long counter made of black marble against a bright-yellow mosaic wall, an inverted zinc basin that served as the ceiling lamp. And the walls were decorated with old-fashioned Swedish enamel signs trumpeting various products such as Mazetti cocoa eyes, the orange soda Loranga, oatmeal from AXA and Tre Ess margarine. No refrigerator, freezer, or kitchen cabinets in sight.

  Hanna pulled on a handle that was the same colour as the mosaic to reveal a spacious, ultra-modern fridge. Karin realized then that all the appliances and cabinets were built into the walls. Hanna took out a bottle of white wine.

  ‘Would you like a glass?’

  Karin nodded.

  ‘What a beautiful kitchen. And there I was thinking you had simple tastes.’

  ‘Appearances are deceptive,’ replied Hanna, laughing.

  They went from room to room. Karin saw that the flat was even bigger than she’d thought. The grand balcony that she’d seen from the street ran the full length of the flat. They took a tour of the dining room, living room, home office, guest room and bathroom. A lovely oak staircase led up to the floor above. There, Karin saw two large bedrooms, a huge bathroom with a sauna and its own little balcony, and yet another living room, which looked more like a library, with a fireplace and countless bookshelves holding both books and DVDs.

  ‘This is amazing,’ said Karin with a sigh. ‘How big is this flat?’

  ‘Just over 250 square metres,’ said Hanna. ‘I inherited it from my uncle. He died of cancer three years ago, and he insisted that I should have it. We were very close. The one condition was that I had to take care of his dog and stay here for as long as Nelson is alive. So I can’t sell the flat. He didn’t want Nelson to have to move. He thought it was traumatic enough for the dog to lose his master. He was a bit eccentric, my uncle. But he had a heart of gold. He also left money in a bank account that was to be used for only one purpose. To renovate the entire flat according to my own taste, because he knew I’d want to do that. He hadn’t done a thing to the place in thirty years, so it was really run-down and outdated. And he also made sure that the managing agents’ fees were paid for the next twenty years. He overdid things a bit. I realize that. He knew that Nelson couldn’t possibly live that long.’

  ‘What an incredible story. And what about your parents? How are they doing? If it’s okay for me to ask,’ she hurried to add.

  ‘Of course. They still live in our house in Djursholm, where I grew up with my little brother, Alexander. He’s two years younger than me. They’d been trying for years to have a baby when they adopted me. And it wasn’t that long after they brought me home that Mamma got pregnant. They’re still married.’

  ‘What sort of work do they do?’

  ‘Pappa has his own company. He’s in the construction business. Mamma is the head of an advertising firm. We get along well, and I’m especially close to my father. It’s largely because of him that I became a structural engineer. I suppose I’ve always been Pappa’s little girl. But now I think the food is probably ready.’

  They went back to the kitchen. Hanna busied herself at the hob while Karin sat down at the counter.

  ‘We’re having vegetarian lasagne. I haven’t eaten meat in ten years.’

  ‘Okay. Why not?’

  ‘I don’t like the way the animals are treated. I won’t eat anything that has a mother or father.’

  ‘But where do you draw the line? For example, do you eat eggs?’

  ‘No. And not shrimp, either. They have parents.’

  ‘Right.’

  Karin sipped her wine. There was so much they didn’t know about each other. They were strangers. Even so, she felt an odd sense of connection. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she wanted to hang on to the feeling. Savour it as she sat here, in Hanna’s kitchen. She could sit here for all eternity, just looking at her daughter. Fixing her eyes on her.

  For as long as possible.

  ROBERT EK’S WIFE was an attractive woman, tall and elegant, dressed in a bright-pink rib-knitted tunic that reached almost to her knees and heavy turquoise tights that were barely visible above her black, high-heeled boots. Her taste in clothes is just as colourful and striking as her husband’s, thought Jacobsson.

  Erna Linton sat down on a chair in the interview room, which was similar to the one in Visby, although bigger and with a view of Agnegatan. Wittberg and Jacobsson were seated in a corner of the room and would take part only as witnesses. Detective Inspector Martin Kihlgård was handling the interview. He’d arranged for coffee, water, and a plate of ginger biscuits. Typical Kihlgård, thought Jacobsson. Always so thoughtful.

  Even though they’d worked together many times, she’d never sat in on an interview with Kihlgård. This opportunity excited her almost as much as the thought of hearing what Erna Linton was going to s
ay.

  ‘Would you care for milk or sugar?’ asked the inspector.

  ‘Milk, please. Thank you.’

  Erna crossed her long legs and stirred her coffee. She blew on the hot liquid for a moment before raising the cup to her lips. Only then did she look Kihlgård in the eye. Her expression changed from wary to slightly alarmed when Kihlgård calmly dipped a biscuit in his coffee and then took a bite of the soggypepparkaka. He gave the woman across from him a kindly smile.

  ‘Tell me about Robert. What was he like?’

  Erna’s slender white hand shook as she considered the question.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What sort of interests did he have? What did he enjoy doing in his spare time? What did the two of you do together for fun?’

  ‘I don’t really know,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘He worked so much at the agency. And we have four children, so they take a lot of my time. There’s not much left over for anything else.’

  ‘I see.’

  Kihlgård fell silent for a few moments. Erna picked at a cuticle, then shifted her position.

  ‘Have a biscuit.’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘A little sugar can be very soothing.’

  ‘Okay.’

  She bit into the biscuit and then proceeded to eat the whole thing.

  ‘How are you holding up?’ he asked with a friendly expression.

  ‘Not so good.’

  ‘I understand.’

  Again, silence.

  Erna’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  Kihlgård shrugged without speaking. Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances. What was he up to? In front of him sat a woman who had just lost her husband in the most brutal and awful way imaginable.

  Erna moistened her lips with her tongue before she spoke again.

  ‘So maybe you think that I’m the one who did it?’ she said, clearly ready for a fight. ‘Is that why you’re using this silence tactic? You think that if you just wait me out, I’ll confess? Or else what the hell are you doing? I have four children at home who are very upset. I don’t have time to sit here and stare at the walls. So tell me, what do you want? What do you want me to say?’