Torsten gave Brundin a short nod and said, “All right to take a look?”
Brundin blinked. “Sure, I’m finished.”
Torsten and Augustin walked over to the boat that covered the corpse. The female victim was lying on a black bier of rubber. Torsten guessed she hadn’t yet reached her twentieth birthday—not yet an adult, really. Torsten turned his head away, and Augustin took a step forward, looking more closely at the deceased. He then called over to Brundin, “Do we know yet how she was killed?”
Brundin was about ten feet away, packing his bag. He shook his head. “I see no blunt trauma and nothing to indicate she was poisoned. My first guess would be suffocation. I won’t be able to tell until I’ve finished the autopsy.”
Torsten wrinkled his brow. “Suffocated? I don’t see any blue marks on her face.”
“They don’t always show up. I’ll take a look at the lungs. It’s not always easy to tell from the outside. I’ll call you as soon as I find anything.”
Augustin looked at Jan Brundin. “Do you think she came here to commit suicide? Or was that boat put over her after she died?”
“The latter, most likely. Someone killed her and then used the boat to hide her body. I doubt very much she would crawl under there to kill herself.”
“Maybe she was hiding, and then something went terribly wrong.”
“Possibly, but I’ll stand by my first impression for now: suffocation. Someone hid her body under the boat, and she died here.”
Torsten laid a hand on Augustin’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s get going. We’ll get all the information we need later. Let’s try to solve this murder.”
To Brundin, Torsten said, “Her father came? How did he react when he identified the body? Is he a suspect?”
“I doubt it, but I’ve been wrong before. I’m going to the lab to begin the autopsy.”
Torsten and Augustin waved good-bye as Jan Brundin began instructing his team on how to prepare the crime scene and transport the young woman.
On the way back to the city, Augustin turned off the radio. They drove in dark silence. When they reached Scheelegatan, Augustin turned to Torsten. “I assume we’re going to the station to start investigating this right away.”
“Yep. Might as well. We’ll have to get a report together before Olle faces the media vultures. They will have us for breakfast if we have nothing to show them. We won’t trouble the family, however. I’m going to call the crisis team and ask them to tell the family we’ll be over there by lunchtime tomorrow.”
Their footsteps dragged as they headed into their office. Torsten rubbed his eyes with his thumbs and smoothed his hair back, massaging his head. The scent of the lily Augustin had put in the window was too strong. He had the urge to throw it out. Still, Augustin had placed it there out of the goodness of his heart. Torsten didn’t want to insult him. He moved his chair a bit farther away and massaged his neck.
“Let’s start by creating a timeline of the girl’s life. Where did she go to school? Where did she live? Who were her friends? Did she have a jealous boyfriend or a stalker? Which one do you want to start looking into first?”
They divided the areas of inquiry and leaned forward to their computers. For the next few hours they stayed there preparing for interviews, occasionally reaching for the phone. By seven, Torsten tiredly lifted his head from his work to call Noah’s cell phone.
“Hello, my boy, it’s me, Pappa. I’m still at work. There’s been a murder north of the city, a young girl. Have you found something to eat? Do you mind my staying here a few more hours? I don’t think I’ll be home before midnight.”
Torsten glanced at Augustin.
“Noah was studying with a friend and didn’t seem to miss me. I think they’re having a good time.”
“Sounds like a great kid. Just the fact he’s studying without being nagged is proof of that.”
“Yeah, though I have no idea where he gets it from. You practically had to force me to study at gunpoint, and as far as I know, his mother wasn’t much better. But something good came out of our genes.
“So, why don’t we put together what we’ve found into a timeline? But maybe we should get something to eat first. One of us should call Olle and give him a preliminary report. The journalists must be licking their chops already.”
“You call Olle, and I’ll run down and buy some food. What do you want?”
“Just a hamburger for me, thanks.”
Augustin disappeared and Torsten punched in Olle’s cell phone number.
“Hello. You’ve reached Olle Lundqvist’s cell phone,” said a female voice.
Torsten jumped. “Marianne? Is that you?”
Her voice was stiff and formal. “With whom am I speaking?”
“Torsten Ehn. Are you on call?”
Her voice softened and she laughed. “Yes, I am. Olle just called. He’s still stuck in that meeting with the EU guys. I’ll have to hold down the fort a little while longer.”
“Are you here at the station?”
“Yes, and it’s been busy. The phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I finally released a press statement for Olle.”
“What did it say?”
“That we can’t release any information until the press conference early tomorrow morning.”
“That’s a good idea. It gives us a little more time. I was afraid he wanted to give one out this evening. Have you had any dinner? Augustin is out buying hamburgers. We could bring one to your office.”
“That sounds good, but I’m on a diet right now.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “A diet? You’ve got to be kidding. We’ll bring you something in fifteen minutes. And we’ll need your help. We have a lot to sort through, especially if Olle wants something definite by nine tomorrow morning.”
Torsten called Augustin right away to add to the order and tell him they’d meet at the entrance.
CHAPTER 60
Paula took a deep breath before turning the key in the ignition. Jens’s return had made the girls very happy, and he hinted to her that they were obviously relieved because she’d failed to make them feel secure.
They endured dinner stiffly, artificially. Afterward, Paula felt forced to take two migraine pills. Since Jens had hardly seen the girls the past week, it was his turn to read to them and put them to bed. The girls knew how to read, but they insisted on the bedtime-story routine, so he would read them a chapter from whatever book they chose.
Paula loved that part of the day. Tears came to her eyes when she thought how a divorce would take away some of these moments. The idea of divorce had been whirling through her head all afternoon. She was somewhat shocked by her own thoughts. How did she jump to them so quickly? Had she been subconsciously debating the issue all the time?
Before bedtime, Paula told Jens that a Gothenburg friend had taken a quick trip to Stockholm and wanted to get together for a glass of wine. Paula saw Jens’s relief at the thought of being alone. He told her she should get out more often. The girls gave her a slew of kisses before she left, saying she was the most beautiful Mamma in the world. They liked seeing her with her hair down.
Her car slowed through the traffic circle leading past Djursholm Square. All the shops were closed. Two police cars were parked near Café Gateau. Paula wished the police would do more than just park there, that they would actually patrol the place. But that would be asking too much, of course. At least they were making an appearance in the neighborhood.
She drove over Stocksund Bridge and looked out over the bay toward Lidingö. The sun had just set on this beautiful September evening. She reached for the radio, but then changed her mind and enjoyed the silence. Her body thrilled to the memory of her phone call. He’d called right after seeing her text message. Lotta had given her a strange look as she walked outside to talk. He asked if she could find an excuse to come over that ev
ening. At first she’d laughed and explained it would be impossible, but he managed to convince her. She’d memorized his address and the entrance code for the main door: Värtavägen 148—the third floor, the first door to the left of the elevator. He explained he was subletting a studio with less square footage than her entryway. She told him about finding the cigarette butts inside her house and how frightened she was. He’d asked her bluntly why her husband wasn’t taking her seriously and said that would be scary for anyone, even him.
She turned right by the Statoil gas station and drove into Lill-Jan Forest. She slowed to a stop at the crossing below the hill to let two horseback riders cross. A lone jogger took advantage of the moment to cross as well. Paula realized that this was the first day in a long time she’d missed her morning run. She’d followed the same routine for at least a year without a break, running even when she had a cold. Perhaps a day of rest was fine, after all.
She took Tegeluddsvägen past the ferries to Estonia. Some obviously tipsy women, about fifty years old, staggered along the sidewalk. One of them lost her shoe, and the rest laughed so hard they almost fell over. Paula couldn’t help frowning at the scene. She parked in front of Värtavägen 18 and walked about ten feet from number 14. At the entrance, she took a deep breath to calm her racing heart. Then she pressed the door code and went in.
The stairwell could have matched any housing-project design from the seventies. The elevator door was heavy, and the elevator itself stank of cigarettes, despite the small metal sign forbidding smoking. The door opened on the third floor as she took out her cell phone. She thought about how she hadn’t received those anonymous text messages for a while. Perhaps the terrorizing had come to an end. But the invasion of her house left a much worse impression. With her thumb, she put the cell phone on silent and locked it.
As the doorbell echoed and she heard steps coming close, she couldn’t help smiling. A laugh bubbled up the moment the door opened. He smiled widely and pulled her close. She closed her eyes and melted into his embrace. At last she felt safe.
CHAPTER 61
Torsten and Augustin entered Marianne’s office bearing food, papers, and their laptops. Marianne had Olle’s cell phone to her ear, explaining to yet another journalist that she could say nothing more than that the victim was deceased and had just passed her twentieth birthday.
She hung up. “They’ll call again. It was the fourth time Aftonbladet called. They don’t get that they can’t fool me just by putting a different journalist on the line each time. Wow, what a feast!”
Augustin had set the burgers and fries on a tray, and he handed them their sodas with straws. Marianne sighed at the thought of her new scale grumbling at the result. What was she supposed to do? She couldn’t work the rest of the night on just a grilled chicken thigh for lunch and a boiled egg for breakfast. She was human after all. She decided to enjoy her hamburger. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had Coca-Cola. Then, she nodded at the stack of papers they’d brought in.
“What do you have for me?”
Torsten washed down a mouthful of food with some Coke.
“We haven’t spoken yet with the girl’s family, but we have updates from the crisis team over there now. We’ve also done quite a bit of research. There’s nothing unusual. The girl’s name is Ellen Nyhlén, born July 18th, 1990. Both parents raised her and her younger sister in Näsbypark. She graduated from Viktor Rydberg Gymnasium last spring, and she’s been working at Café Gateau on Djursholm Square ever since. She’d just given notice and was planning to go to France for six months to study French and ski. She didn’t have a boyfriend, or, at least, not one her friends knew. She was a responsible person; she partied at times but never let it get out of hand. The crisis team told us that her parents and her friends believe she had never tried drugs—which doesn’t say much. What have you found out, Augustin?”
Augustin tapped some keys on his laptop and picked up a few sheets of paper. “According to her school, Ellen wasn’t an outstanding student. She was seen as a good friend and had slightly above-average grades. The only thing unusual is that she started a demonstration a year ago. A guy in a neighboring school was going to be shipped back to Iraq with his family, and Ellen organized a successful protest to make sure he could stay. The boy and his family received permission to remain in the country. There’s a newspaper article about it. Could this have upset someone? A neo-Nazi, perhaps? Other right-wing groups?”
Torsten’s forehead wrinkled. “Possibly. We’ll have to check on that. I’m sure someone’s thought of it, though. I can see the headline now: Girl Slaughtered By Nazi. The only thing that makes that unlikely is that a Nazi would have killed her in a splashier way. Nazis are publicity hounds—perhaps they’d mark the body up. They’d be more likely to beat her up in a subway tunnel or something like that.”
He sighed and stuffed a handful of fries into his mouth.
Marianne asked to read the papers they’d gathered. Augustin handed over his, which already had notes written on them. She put on her reading glasses and drank the last sip of Coke. While her stomach gurgled in protest, her eyes caught a sentence that she read aloud:
“‘Ellen Nyhlén is a true revolutionary, and has always fought for the rights of the weak. This makes her a perfect candidate to be the Student Body President.’ A revolutionary? Could she have been part of an organization or political party? Perhaps her parents didn’t know about this? It sounds as if that protest group wasn’t the only thing she was involved in. She could have annoyed quite a few people, especially conservatives. The only place with more Nazis than Skåne is Djursholm. My friend Chrisse used to live there, and she said when people meet for lunch, they talk openly about how much they hate immigrants. I would have thought educated people had more sense than to utter such embarrassing opinions in public.”
Torsten agreed with her.
“Augustin, could you look into that? I’ll find out more about her workplace. Just to be on the safe side, I’ll find out more about her family, too. Even if they seem perfectly normal, some strange things have come out in other investigations. Oh, these are great burgers. I’m sorry, Marianne, that you’re missing your gallery opening.”
Marianne looked up surprised. “Gallery opening?”
“Weren’t you going to the opening at Carlsdotter’s on Skeppsholmen?” Augustin said. “I usually go there with my father. He knows the gallery owner.”
“Lola is my best friend. I was going there this evening, but there will be other openings.”
Marianne wondered who the young man’s father could be. She didn’t mention that she was meeting Lola for dinner the following evening. She didn’t want it to seem like she was dropping names. The tradition Lola had was to go out for dinner the evening after an opening. Lola would invite the artist as well as a few close friends and colleagues. They would celebrate the opening and discuss the reviews, if there were any. Sometimes, if the reviews hadn’t been good, the dinner guests were in the mood to argue. Once Lola had invited a famous newspaper critic. His review had been terrible, but the critic had the nerve to show up to the dinner anyway. The dinner turned into a fistfight before the hors d’oeuvres were even finished. Marianne valued the place she had in Lola’s life and found events like this truly entertaining—probably because they were so unlike her usual daily routine.
Her eyes wandered over the reports, and she stopped at one of Augustin’s notes.
“Augustin, you wrote here that perhaps she was trying to hide under the wooden boat, and then she was murdered. What do you mean by that?”
Augustin looked embarrassed. He waved toward the sheet of paper. “Oh, I was just jotting down an idea. Torsten thought it wasn’t likely, but I wanted to be thorough.”
Marianne shook her head. “It’s not unlikely at all. That’s something we ought to check. Perhaps she was trying to hide.”
Torsten and Augustin glance
d at her doubtfully, but she continued her train of thought. “Let’s say she did have a boyfriend. Perhaps they decided to fool around, and the boat was a good hiding place.”
Torsten smiled. “So you think that they could have both gone there willingly, and then the guy just happened to kill her?”
“Stranger things have happened. Sometimes young people have a difficult time with both parents at home keeping an eagle eye on them. They have to find secluded places to make out.”
“You could be right,” Augustin said. “We can try to find any young men she might have been dating.”
Marianne took a French fry and pointed at the paper. “Definitely. Look for someone her age. Or a year or two older at the most.”
Torsten stared into space, chewing on his pencil and thinking about what Marianne had said.
Olle’s telephone rang again, and Marianne gave her stock answer. Then Olle called in to say he’d stop by at midnight to check on their results.
Torsten took out the trash and called Brundin, who answered at the first ring.
“Damn it, there’s something not right about this,” Brundin said. I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s different from any case I’ve ever dealt with.”
“In what way?” Torsten asked.
Brundin sighed. “I thought I’d find more during the autopsy. There was nothing. She wasn’t raped. She wasn’t injured in any way. It is as if she suddenly just stopped breathing.”
“But if you were to guess? Was the murderer male or female? Or could it be suicide?”
“Definitely not suicide. I would have found poison in her stomach—or elsewhere in her body. I’ll take another look, but I really don’t expect to find anything.”
Torsten hung up, wrinkling his brow. He felt the same as Brundin. There was something odd about Ellen Nyhlén’s death. He’d thought it had to do with her youth, which touched him deeply, but now…
A Small Indiscretion Page 24