Patrick Hedstrom 07: The Lost Boy

by Camilla Lackberg

  The nameplate on the door said Grip. Martin checked his watch before he rang the bell. It was only eight o’clock; he was hoping to catch the tenant at home before he or she left for work. When no one opened the door, he sighed and then pressed the bell again. The shrill sound hurt his ears, but there was still no response. He was just about to head downstairs when he heard the sound of a lock turning behind him.

  ‘Yes?’ The voice was surly.

  Martin hurried back to the door of the flat.

  ‘I’m from the police. Martin Molin.’

  The safety chain was on, but he caught a glimpse of a bushy beard in the door opening. And a bright red nose.

  ‘What do you want?’

  Hearing that Martin was from the police didn’t seem to have made Mr Grip any more amenable.

  ‘A man died in that flat over there.’ Martin pointed towards Mats Sverin’s door, which was now sealed with police tape.

  ‘Yes, I heard about that.’ The beard bobbed up and down in the doorway. ‘What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Could I come in for a few minutes?’ Martin asked in the pleasantest tone of voice he could muster.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So I can ask you some questions.’

  ‘I don’t know anything.’

  The man started to close the door, but Martin instinctively stuck his foot in the opening.

  ‘Either we have a brief chat here and now, or both of us will have to waste the whole morning while I take you down to the station and interview you there.’ Martin knew full well that he had no authority to haul Grip off to the station, but he took a chance that the old boy wouldn’t realize that.

  ‘All right. Come in,’ said Grip, unfastening the safety chain and pulling open the door.

  Martin stepped forward to enter, a decision he regretted the moment he smelled the stench.

  ‘Come back here, you little rascal. You’re not getting out.’

  Martin caught a glimpse of something furry and then the man threw himself forward and grabbed the cat by its tail. The creature meowed in protest but then allowed the man to pick it up and carry it into the flat.

  With the door closed behind him, Martin tried to breathe through his mouth so as not to throw up. The place was stuffy and reeked of rubbish, but the overpowering smell was cat pee. It didn’t take long to see why. Martin stood in the doorway to the living room and stared. There were cats everywhere – lying down, sitting up, and moving about. He did a quick count and realized there were at least fifteen. In a flat that couldn’t be much more than 400 square feet.

  ‘Have a seat,’ grunted Grip. He chased a few cats off the sofa.

  Martin cautiously sat down on the very edge of the cushion.

  ‘Okay, what do you want to know? I haven’t got all day. This lot keeps me plenty busy.’

  A fat, ginger cat hopped on to the old man’s lap, curled up, and started purring. The cat’s fur was matted, and it had sores on its back legs.

  Martin cleared his throat. ‘Your neighbour, Mats Sverin, was found dead in his flat yesterday. So we want to find out whether anyone who lives in the building saw or heard anything unusual over the past few days.’

  ‘It’s not my job to hear or see anything. I mind my own business and I expect everybody else to do the same.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear any noises from your neighbour’s flat? Or notice any strangers in the stairwell?’ Martin persisted.

  ‘As I said: I mind my own business.’ The old man petted the cat’s matted fur.

  Martin closed his notebook, deciding to give up. ‘What’s your full name, by the way?’

  ‘My name is Gottfrid Grip. And I suppose you’d like to know what everyone else is named too, right?’

  ‘Everyone else?’ said Martin, glancing around. Were there other people living in this flat?

  ‘This is Marilyn.’ Gottfrid pointed at the cat on his lap. ‘She doesn’t like women. She always hisses at them.’

  Martin dutifully opened his notebook again and jotted down word for word what the old man was saying. If nothing else, his report was bound to give his colleagues a good laugh.

  ‘The grey one over there is named Errol, the white one with the brown paws is Humphrey, and then there’s Cary, Audrey, Bette, Ingrid, Lauren, and James.’ Grip continued rattling off the cats’ names as he pointed to one after the other, and Martin wrote all of them down. He was going to have quite a story to tell when he got back to the station.

  On his way out the door, Martin paused for a moment.

  ‘So neither you nor your cats heard or saw anything?’

  ‘I never said that the cats didn’t see anything. I just said that I didn’t. But Marilyn here, she saw a car very early on Saturday morning, when she was sitting in the kitchen window. She sat there hissing like crazy.’

  ‘Marilyn saw a car? What kind of car did she see?’ asked Martin even though it sounded like a strange question.

  Grip gave him a scornful look. ‘Do you seriously think cats know about different kinds of cars? Are you out of your mind?’ He tapped his temple and shook his head, laughing. As Martin stepped out into the hall, Grip closed the door behind him and fastened the safety chain.

  ‘Is Erling in?’ asked Gösta, knocking lightly on the door jamb of the first room in the corridor. He and Paula had arrived at the council offices in Tanumshede.

  Gunilla gave a start. She was sitting with her back to the door.

  ‘Oh, you really scared me,’ she said, fluttering her hands nervously.

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that,’ said Gösta. ‘We’re looking for Erling.’

  ‘Does it have to do with Mats?’ Her lower lip began quivering. ‘It’s just so awful.’ She reached for a packet of tissues and used one to wipe away the tears that had welled up in her eyes.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ replied Gösta. ‘We want to talk to all of you, but we’d like to start with Erling, if he’s here.’

  ‘He’s in his office. I’ll show you where it is.’

  She got up and, after blowing her nose quite loudly, escorted them to an office further along the corridor.

  ‘Erling, you have visitors,’ she said, stepping aside.

  ‘Well, hello. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’ said Erling heartily as he stood up and shook Gösta’s hand.

  Then he looked at Paula and seemed to be feverishly searching his memory.

  ‘Petronella, right? This brain of mine is like a well-oiled machine. I never forget a thing.’

  ‘It’s Paula, actually,’ she told him, reaching out to shake his hand.

  For a moment Erling looked a bit embarrassed, then he merely shrugged.

  ‘We’re here to ask you a few questions about Mats Sverin,’ Gösta told him. He sat down in one of the visitor’s chairs in front of Erling’s desk, which prompted Paula and Erling to sit down as well.

  ‘Yes, it’s awful,’ Erling said with a strange grimace. ‘Everyone in the office is very upset, and naturally we’re all wondering what happened. Is there anything you can tell us?’

  ‘Not much at this time.’ Gösta shook his head. ‘I can only confirm what you were told yesterday when we rang your office. Sverin was found dead in his flat, and we’re investigating his death.’

  ‘Was he murdered?’

  ‘That’s not something we can either confirm or deny.’

  Gösta could heard how formal his words sounded, but he knew that he’d catch hell from Hedström if he gave away too much information, which might damage the case.

  ‘We need your help,’ he went on. ‘From what I understand, Sverin didn’t come to work on Monday, or on Tuesday either. That was when you contacted his parents. Was it usual for him to miss work?’

  ‘On the contrary. I don’t think he’d taken a single sick day since he started here. As far as I recall, he was never absent for any reason. Not even for a dentist’s appointment. He was punctual, dedicated, and very conscientious. That’s why we got worried when he didn’
t turn up or contact us.’

  ‘How long had he worked here?’ asked Paula.

  ‘Two months. We were really lucky to find someone like Mats. The job had been advertised for five weeks, and we’d brought in a few candidates for interviews, but none of them had the qualifications we were looking for. When Mats applied, we were concerned that he was over-qualified, but he assured us that the job was exactly what he wanted. He seemed especially keen to move back to Fjällbacka again. And who can blame him? It’s the pearl of the coast.’ Erling threw out his hands.

  ‘He didn’t give any particular reason for wanting to move back?’ asked Paula, leaning forward.

  ‘No, except that he wanted to get out of the big-city rat race and have a better quality of life. And that’s precisely what our town has to offer. Peace and quiet and a great quality of life.’ Erling carefully enunciated every syllable as if giving a PR presentation.

  ‘So he didn’t mention anything about his personal circumstances?’ Gösta was beginning to get impatient.

  ‘He didn’t talk about his private life. I knew that he was originally from Fjällbacka and that his parents still live there, but other than that I can’t remember him ever saying much about his life outside the office.’

  ‘Sverin was involved in a very unpleasant incident shortly before he moved here from Göteborg. He was assaulted and beaten so badly that he ended up in hospital. Did he mention that?’ asked Paula.

  ‘No, never,’ said Erling in surprise. ‘He did have several scars on his face, but he said that he’d got his trouser leg caught in his bicycle wheel and taken a fall.’

  Gösta and Paula exchanged looks of astonishment.

  ‘Who attacked him? Was it the same person who …?’ Erling almost whispered the questions.

  ‘According to his parents, it was an act of unprovoked violence. We don’t think it has any connection to Sverin’s death, but we can’t rule it out,’ said Gösta.

  ‘So he never mentioned his years in Göteborg?’ Paula insisted.

  Erling shook his head. ‘I can only repeat what I already told you. Mats never talked about himself. It was as if his life started when he took the job here.’

  ‘Didn’t you find that rather odd?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think anyone gave it much thought. He wasn’t anti-social by any means. He laughed and joked and joined in the chat about TV shows and the sorts of topics that come up during a coffee break. I don’t think anyone really noticed that he never discussed anything personal. It’s only now, after the fact, that it’s occurred to me.’

  ‘Was he doing a good job?’ asked Gösta.

  ‘Mats was an excellent financial officer. As I said, he was conscientious, methodical, and painstaking with his work. Those are all desirable qualities in someone who’s in charge of financial matters, especially in such a politically sensitive office as ours.’

  ‘You have no complaints about him?’ asked Paula.

  ‘None. Mats was extremely talented in his field. And he has been an invaluable resource for Project Badis. He came on the scene late in the game, but he quickly got up to speed and really helped us to move forward.’

  Gösta glanced at Paula, who shook her head. They didn’t have any other questions at the moment, but Gösta couldn’t help thinking that Mats Sverin seemed as anonymous and faceless as he had before they began this interview with his boss. And he couldn’t help wondering what they might find when they finally started scratching the surface.

  The Sverins’ small house was located down by the water’s edge in Mörhult. It was warmer today – a lovely early summer day, and Patrik left his jacket in the car. He had phoned ahead to say that he would be coming, and when Gunnar opened the door, he looked down the hall to the kitchen and saw that the table had been set for coffee. That was how things were done here on the coast. Coffee and biscuits were always served, no matter whether the occasion was joyous or sorrowful. Over the many years that he’d spent on the police force, Patrik had downed countless gallons of coffee as he visited local citizens.

  ‘Come in. I’ll just go and see if I can get Signe to …’ Without finishing his sentence, Gunnar turned to go upstairs.

  Patrik remained where he was, thinking that he would wait in the front hall. But Gunnar was gone a long time, and finally Patrik moved towards the kitchen. The whole house seemed cloaked in silence, so he took the liberty of stepping inside the living room. It was a pleasant room, nice and tidy with elegant old furniture and doilies everywhere, as was customary in the homes of elderly people. Scattered about were framed photographs of their son. As he looked at them, Patrik was able to follow Mats’s life from infancy to adulthood. He had an agreeable appearance, a likeable face. He looked happy. Judging by the photos, he’d had a good childhood.

  ‘Signe will be right down.’

  Patrik was so immersed in his own thoughts that Gunnar’s voice almost made him drop the framed picture he was holding.

  ‘You certainly have a lot of nice photos.’ Carefully he set the photograph back on the bureau and followed Gunnar out to the kitchen.

  ‘I’ve always enjoyed taking pictures, so we’ve accumulated a lot of them over the years. And we’re glad to have them now. As a reminder of him, I mean.’ Embarrassed, Gunnar began fussing with the plates and filling the coffee cups.

  ‘Do you take sugar or milk? Or both?’

  ‘Black is fine. Thanks.’ Patrik sat down on one of the white kitchen chairs.

  Gunnar set a cup in front of him and then sat down on the other side of the table.

  ‘We might as well start. I’m sure Signe will be here soon,’ he said, casting a worried glance at the stairs. Not a sound could be heard from overhead.

  ‘How’s she doing?’

  ‘She hasn’t said a word since yesterday. The doctor said he’d look in on her later. All she does is lie in bed, but I don’t think she slept a wink all night.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve received a lot of flowers,’ said Patrik, nodding at the counter where big bouquets had been placed in all sorts of containers serving as vases.

  ‘Everyone has been so nice. They’ve offered to come over, but I can’t stand the thought of having a bunch of people sitting around the house.’ He dropped a sugar cube in his cup and began stirring. Then he reached for a biscuit and dipped it in his coffee before putting it in his mouth. He seemed to have a hard time swallowing the mouthful and had to wash it down with some coffee.

  ‘There you are.’ Gunnar turned around to look at Signe as she entered the hall.

  They hadn’t heard her come down the stairs. Gunnar stood up and went over to his wife. Gently he put his arm around her and led her to the table, as if she were a very old woman. She seemed to have aged several years just since yesterday.

  ‘The doctor will be here in a while. Have some coffee and a biscuit. You need to get something in your stomach. Should I make you a sandwich?’

  She shook her head. It was the first time she’d reacted, acknowledging that she had heard what he said.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry,’ said Patrik, and he couldn’t resist placing his hand over hers. She didn’t pull it away, but neither did she respond to the gesture. Her hand felt limp and dead. ‘I wish that I didn’t have to disturb you at a time like this. At least, not so soon after what happened.’

  As usual, he was having a hard time finding the words. Since becoming a parent, he found it harder than ever to deal with people who had lost a child, even if that child was grown up. What was he supposed to say to someone whose heart had been ripped out? Because that was how he imagined it must feel.

  ‘We realize that you have a job to do,’ said Gunnar. ‘And of course we want you to find the person who … did this. If there’s any way that we can help, we want to do that.’

  He was sitting next to his wife, and now he protectively drew his chair closer to hers. She hadn’t touched her coffee.

  ‘Have some,’ he said, lifting the cup to her lips. Reluctantly she t
ook a few sips.

  ‘We talked about this yesterday, but could you tell me a little more about Mats? Any details you’d like to share with me, no matter how big or small.’

  ‘He was always so nice, even as a baby,’ said Signe. Her voice sounded dry and raspy, as if she hadn’t spoken in a long time. ‘He slept the whole night through, right from the start, and he was never any trouble. But I worried about him; I always have. I kept thinking that something terrible was going to happen.’

  ‘And you were right. I should have listened to you,’ said Gunnar, fixing his eyes on the table.

  ‘No, you were the one who was right,’ said Signe, looking at him. She seemed to have suddenly woken up from her stupor. ‘I wasted so much time and happiness by worrying, while you were always glad and grateful for what we had, and for Matte. It’s impossible to prepare for something like this happening. I’ve spent my whole life worrying about everything between heaven and earth, but I was never able to prepare myself for this. I should have been happier.’ She fell silent. Then she said, ‘What do you want to know?’ And she picked up her cup to drink her coffee without waiting to be coaxed.

  ‘Did he go to Göteborg when he moved away from home?’

  ‘Yes, after secondary school he enrolled in the Business College. He received excellent marks,’ said Gunnar, obviously proud of his son.

  ‘But he often came home on the weekends,’ added Signe. Talking about her son seemed to be having a positive effect on her. She now had a little more colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were clearer.

  ‘Naturally, in recent years he didn’t come as often. But in those early years he was home almost every weekend,’ said Gunnar, nodding.