‘For goodness sake, Seja! What on earth have you been doing to yourself?’
Seja had to laugh. ‘I’m trying to build a new shelter for Lukas and I got in the way of the hammer!’
She didn’t want to prolong what was sure to turn into a conversation about her life choices. She already knew that Kristina couldn’t understand how anyone could choose to live all year round in a cottage with no indoor shower and toilet.
‘It looks worse than it is,’ she said.
‘But can’t you get someone in to do it? Or what about him?’ said Kristina, gesturing towards the dining room and the door through which Christian had disappeared. ‘Can’t he help you? I mean, what’s the point of having a man around if you have to do everything yourself?’
‘He’s really busy.’ Seja could hear how defensive she sounded. ‘With work. Besides, it’s my house. It’s not as though we live together.’
‘Nonsense. If you love each other, you help each other out. Any sensible man knows that. And if it’s serious, you’ll be moving in together, surely? If he doesn’t want to, he’s not worth having. Don’t get me wrong, he seems really lovely. Although I can understand how it might be difficult for the two of you to live in your little cottage. Might be a bit cramped. And maybe he doesn’t like showering outdoors when the temperature is below freezing, and—’
‘I’m not sure I’m ready to live with Christian. As long as we want different things, and he works such long hours while I’m tied to this place because of the horse, it’s perfect just the way it is. People can have a good relationship without moving in together. We see each other when we really want to, and in between times we make our own decisions and do what we like.’
‘I see. Right. Yes.’
Seja could see that Kristina was slightly put out. But she didn’t want to discuss her relationship with Christian. It was enough that she allowed it to occupy her thoughts so often.
A gentle breeze drifted in through the door leading to the veranda at the back of the house, bringing with it the fresh smell of pine needles and a faint hint of moss, just like the scents in her own garden. It was a mild evening. If she’d been at home she might have sat outside.
Kristina called to Åke, ‘Seja wants coffee.’
Seja protested. ‘I don’t want coffee this late.’
‘Late?’ Kristina exclaimed. ‘It’s not late at all!’
‘It’s late for me.’
‘Nonsense.’ Kristina sounded impatient. ‘Anyway, you can have a mouthful or leave it, it’s up to you. What are you doing, Åke? Where’s our coffee?’
Åke came in with a tray on which he was balancing some kind of gateau and three small dark-blue cups and saucers.
‘It’s strong, Seja, just the way you like it.’
‘Goodness,’ said Seja. ‘Cake as well. Are you sure it isn’t somebody’s birthday?’
She took the plate Åke was holding out to her. ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were up to something.’
Kristina gave Åke what surely had to be a meaningful look: Out with it, Åke!
‘Come on then,’ said Seja. ‘Are you up to something?’
No one spoke. They sipped their coffee; it was good, completely different from the thin liquid Seja drank at home.
‘No, it’s nothing to make a big fuss about,’ Åke went on hesitantly. ‘But there was something we wanted to talk to you about.’
‘Oh? That sounds serious.’
‘No, no, nothing serious,’ he reassured her with a sudden laugh. ‘It’s about selling the house.’
‘This house,’ Kristina added.
‘This house?’ Seja almost choked. ‘You’re moving?’
Kristina coughed. It seemed to have been agreed that Åke would break the news. Now he’d done his job, the baton had clearly been passed to Kristina. ‘We’re not getting any younger, Seja, and Åke won’t be able to manage the house and garden for much longer.’
‘I can manage,’ Åke objected. ‘But I’m not sure I want to.’
‘No,’ Kristina agreed. ‘We’re going to have to move to a more practical apartment eventually. And it’s more fun to do that while we’re reasonably fit and well.’
Seja was lost for words. ‘I have to say I’m really surprised,’ she managed eventually.
‘Anyway,’ Åke went on, ‘the thing about this house is that, unlike yours, it’s completely modern and everything works perfectly.’
Seja was bewildered.
‘You’d better explain to Seja,’ Kristina chipped in.
‘Yes,’ Seja said, totally lost. ‘I think you’d better.’
‘Explain? There’s not much to explain, is there?’
‘We thought you and Christian could buy it,’ Kristina clarified. ‘It’s a good house, and we’ll keep the price down because we’d really like to see someone we know take it on. Someone who cares about it.’
‘The idea was,’ Åke went on, ‘that we, or I, would keep the cellar for storage. If we move to an apartment in town, I won’t have room for all the stuff I’ve collected over the years. You know how it is.’
‘I’m still not sure I completely understand this.’
‘Don’t get us wrong,’ Åke added quickly. ‘That’s not a deal-breaker. If you need the cellar, I can do without it.’
‘You want us . . . me to buy your house? But . . . what about your son? Doesn’t he want it?’
‘He already has a house, Seja. He doesn’t want another one, and definitely not out in the wilds. In any case, he’ll get a share of whatever we make, which he’s very pleased about.’
‘I buy your house and you keep the cellar to store your stuff?’
Åke looked uncertain, as if he were just beginning to have his doubts about the whole thing.
‘Well, I mean, I wouldn’t be popping in and out all the time. I’d ring first.’
Kristina leant forward and placed her hand on Seja’s. ‘Seja, my dear. You must surely realise that you can’t possibly spend another winter in that cottage. It’s not good for your health, it’s cold and damp with no inside toilet.’
‘Cold and damp? You’ve hardly ever set foot inside my house, Kristina.’ Seja pulled herself together. ‘Right. Listen. It’s very sweet of you to think of me. Of course it is. But this isn’t on.’
‘What?’
‘The idea of me buying your house. And it’s got nothing to do with you wanting to keep stuff in the cellar, Åke. I don’t want to move, that’s all. And as far as Christian is concerned, nothing would persuade him to leave the city.’
‘We could talk to the bank about the financial side . . .’
‘This isn’t about money. I’m happy in my house. But I am very sorry that you’re thinking of moving. It will feel very empty up here without you.’
Kristina sat back, pursing her lips. She wasn’t happy. ‘I can see that.’
Seja controlled herself. She really didn’t want to upset them, it was just so . . . unnecessary.
‘I shall be very sorry to see you go, Kristina, but I’ll be fine. And you should get an agent and sell the house for as much as you can get. Obviously.’
‘We weren’t planning to give you the house for free, you know.’ Åke clapped his hands. ‘But never mind! That’s that. Would anyone like another piece of cake? Seja?’
Seja nodded.
Then she said, ‘You know what? I promise I’ll give it some thought, OK?’
‘Excellent.’ Åke took her sticky plate and shovelled on a second helping.
Kristina watched his movements pensively, then put her plate next to Seja’s. ‘I’ll have another piece too. And a drop more coffee.’
‘Well, there we are,’ she said eventually. ‘We’ve asked you, anyway. And you’ve promised to give it some thought. We won’t mention it any more.’
Kristina ate her second piece of cake with obvious pleasure and seemed to forget both Åke and Seja, along with all thoughts of selling houses or storing things in cellars.
15
Gothenburg
Gonzales began the briefing: ‘About ten years ago Rebecca Nykvist was reported to the police by her then boyfriend. Several times.’
A hush descended on the meeting room.
‘Actual bodily harm, threatening behaviour, a death threat on one occasion. Harassment. Illegal entry, damage to personal property, you name it.’
Beckman whistled. ‘Well, that’s . . .’
‘Wait,’ said Gonzales. ‘Forensics have sent in their initial report. Tell asked Johansson to prioritise the fingerprints inside the letterbox. Guess who they belong to?’
‘Rebecca?
‘Bingo.’
‘And inside the apartment?’
‘Nothing. We’ve run the prints that were found inside, but there’s no match. She, or whoever committed the murder, was wearing gloves. Either that, or they’re not on our records.’
‘Or she didn’t touch anything,’ said Bärneflod. ‘She might have just shot them and left.’
‘You look doubtful, Tell,’ said Beckman.
‘Doubtful?’
Bärneflod banged the table. ‘It could hardly be clearer: the girl is pathologically jealous and has a history of violent behaviour. The boyfriend was playing away, that much we know. We also know from Karlberg’s witness that she was there, creeping around, behaving suspiciously. We know she got inside the building, we even have her fingerprints on the door. Besides which, she lied about going out that night.’
Tell waved vaguely in Bärneflod’s direction.
‘Yes, yes, I hear what you’re saying. But think about it this way: we’re looking for someone who has access to a weapon and is prepared and able to use it. Would Rebecca have been able to get her hands on a gun? Did she kill her lover’s mistress, then walk into the next room to kill him in cold blood?’
‘Can’t most people get hold of a gun these days?’ Beckman chipped in. ‘And it doesn’t take great marksmanship to fire a bullet into someone standing a metre away.’
‘They picked the lock without damaging the door or the lock.’ Tell chipped in. ‘Is that something someone like Rebecca would know how to do?’
‘I’ve been wondering about that,’ said Gonzales. ‘The door was locked when the bodies were found. Granberg and Andersson had to force the lock.’
‘My point exactly.’
Tell leant forward, picked up some paperclips from the middle of the table and started to straighten one out. He was desperate for a cigarette. Sometimes he wondered about his decision to give up smoking. Was it really worth it?
‘The perpetrator opened the door, went inside, shot Ann-Marie Karpov and Henrik Samuelsson dead, left the apartment, closed the door and locked it behind him or her.’
Bärneflod said in a resigned voice, ‘Let me refer you to lesson one of any criminology course you’d care to name. Motive: yes. Opportunity: yes. Evidence . . . Oh, hang on a minute. Ah, yes, her fingerprints are at the scene of the crime! A witness saw her and her curly red hair – how many girls have curly red hair? The fingerprints are enough to bring her in for questioning; we know she’s unpredictable and she could well decide to do a runner, I mean it’s just—’
‘I’m not arguing with that.’ Tell said sharply. ‘We’ll bring her in and I think you should be the one to talk to her, Beckman. I’ll ring the duty prosecutor right away. In the meantime, Gonzales will do more research into her record of threatening behaviour and violence. I want to know who she is. And what she’s capable of.’
‘I’m suspected of murder and this is a formal interrogation?’
Rebecca Nykvist’s eyes were green with pinprick pupils.
‘You’re being held as a suspect, as I explained earlier. You have the right to wait for your solicitor.’
‘So why bother asking me how I am? It’s hardly relevant, is it?’
Beckman held Rebecca’s gaze without faltering for a moment before replying: ‘I merely asked whether you’re getting any help.’
‘Help with what?’
‘With your jealousy. This isn’t the first time it’s caused you problems.’
‘No doubt you’ve got all the paperwork. You know exactly what I got in terms of punishment, care, help, whatever you want to call it. You know what I was accused of. But you don’t know what really happened, or why. That’s not on file.’
‘That’s why I’m asking you.’
‘I’ve fulfilled my part of the care plan. The episode you’re talking about was years and years ago. It has nothing to do with the tragedy that has hit me now: my partner has been murdered. My life is in tatters and I’m being accused of killing him. It’s scandalous, its absolutely insane.’
She put her hand down on the table, a couple of inches from Beckman’s forearm, visibly struggling to compose herself. Breathing deeply, she leant back in her chair.
‘It’s ancient history. It has nothing to do with any of this.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Beckman said calmly. ‘As I said, you have the opportunity to talk to me now, to give me your version of events.’
Rebecca Nykvist’s chin dropped to her chest. ‘There’s no point,’ she said.
A knock on the door from the duty officer announced the arrival of Nykvist’s solicitor. Viktoria Ekholm walked into the room with a perfunctory nod. She slid into a chair next to her client and signalled that the interview could proceed.
‘14.35, Viktoria Ekholm enters the room. OK, since you claim there’s no point in going through your version of events, I’ll give you mine first; this is what I think happened last time. You attacked, threatened and harassed your then boyfriend Georg Broberg due to uncontrollable jealousy. An affair, imagined or real—’
‘You don’t have to respond to this, Rebecca.’
Viktoria Ekholm made a point of turning away from Beckman. ‘It’s not a question, it’s an assertion which, furthermore, has no relevance to the crime of which you are currently suspected.’
‘If your client is guilty of the crime of which she is suspected, there is in fact a great deal of common ground with the previous crime,’ said Beckman. ‘I am merely trying to understand how it all came about.’
‘So far my client is a suspect for reasons I have yet to hear you explain. I think it would be best to use those as your starting point.’
‘OK. One,’ Beckman started to count on the fingers of her left hand. ‘You said yourself that on the night when Ann-Marie Karpov and your partner Henrik Samuelsson were murdered you’d just found out that he’d been having an affair. You also found out that it had been going on for some time, behind your back, and that several other people knew about it.’
‘I don’t see the relevance of that.’
‘Two. You were seen by a witness at the location where the murder took place; you were creeping around and trying to enter the building.’
‘Stop!’ Viktoria Ekholm’s cheeks flushed. ‘The witness saw a woman with red hair. My client is not the only woman in the world with red hair.’
Beckman was secretly impressed by the way Ekholm had assimilated every detail of the case so quickly. She raised her voice. ‘Three. Whether the red-head seen behaving suspiciously in the courtyard was you or not is irrelevant. We found your fingerprints on the inside of Ann-Marie Karpov’s letterbox. We know you were inside the apartment block. You were wearing a dark hooded top and you pushed open the letterbox. You were definitely at the scene. So why did you lie about it?’
Rebecca closed her eyes and joined her hands in her lap. Beckman didn’t think she was praying; Rebecca didn’t look the sort to rely on others, not even a higher power. But maybe she was praying; appearances could be deceptive.
Ekholm sat there in uncomfortable silence. This was a question her client couldn’t dodge.
Rebecca looked up at the ceiling. ‘I was there. I was there for the reason you think.’
‘When?’
‘At about two o’clock, maybe a bit later. I’d found out that . . . I didn’
t go there to kill them, I just wanted . . . I don’t know.’
Her face crumpled, but tears didn’t come. Beckman waited, then pushed a couple of packets of tissues across the table. Rebecca didn’t touch them.
‘Well, what did you want to do?’
‘I suppose I wanted to confront them.’
‘And?
‘I didn’t murder them!’
‘You looked through the letterbox. If the time you have stated is correct, and you’re not lying about anything else, then you must have seen Ann-Marie Karpov lying just inside the door, as her neighbour did in the morning. So why didn’t you call the police?’
‘No!’ Rebecca shouted. ‘I didn’t see a thing, it was the middle of the night. It was pitch black in the hallway. I thought . . . I went back home. What could I do? What else could I do?’
‘You just went home? Did anyone see you? Did you speak to anyone?’
She shrugged helplessly. ‘No. I don’t know, I cycled through the park, through Slottsskogen. As I said, it was the middle of the night.’
‘And when you got home?’
‘I drank more wine. Eventually I fell asleep.’
Rebecca began to wail. Beckman grabbed hold of her upper arm. ‘Rebecca.’
The shock brought Rebecca back to her senses. She tore her arm free and buried her face in her hands. Her breathing became a series of long drawn-out sobs.
To Beckman’s surprise, she felt a sudden surge of sympathy. ‘Rebecca.’
‘My client needs a break.’
Beckman switched off the tape with a sense of relief. She too needed some air. Those dry sobs were hard to bear.
16
The house in question turned out to be a terraced house with a red front door and Samuelsson–Nykvist on the letterbox. That fitted. Preparation was the key; the difference between a job well done and a job botched. Between success and a cock-up. Torsen would have sold his mother for the cash this job could bring in. And it would put an old ghost to rest. Knud’s ghost.
Knud had been clean for many years. He’d sorted his life out. Got a job in a museum. None of the new lot even knew who he was. And it was far more about who you knew than what you knew in this business. Knud should have understood that himself. In this situation, the fact that they’d spent a short time together inside meant nothing. OK, they’d got on well and done a few things together afterwards. Before Knud decided to stick to the straight and narrow. It was all so long ago.
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