‘No sign of forced entry,’ Billy went on. ‘It seems as if she, like the others, let the killer in. However, there are signs of a struggle inside the apartment. Sperm, pubic hair and fingerprints left at the scene.’
He placed his finger on a new picture. A blonde woman, forty-five to fifty years old. Blue eyes. A small scar on her upper lip, probably from an operation to correct a harelip when she was a child. No obvious similarities to the first victim. A germ of an idea flashed through Sebastian’s mind as he looked at her, but it was too small and too fast for him to catch.
‘Fifteenth of July. Jeanette Jansson Nyberg, Nynäshamn. Her husband and sons came home after a football trip and found her. She had written in her blog that she was going to be alone all weekend, “just chilling out”. Perhaps the murderer knew when to strike.’
‘Did the others write a blog? Maria Lie?’ Sebastian asked.
Billy shook his head. ‘No, but she was on Facebook of course, with her status posted as single.’
Sebastian nodded. He was amazed at the amount of information people were prepared to share with strangers. These days burglars didn’t need to bother finding out when a property was empty; the owner cheerfully provided the information via their blog, writing about how wonderful the coming holiday or trip was going to be. The same thing applied when it came to personal information. Single equalled alone equalled vulnerable.
‘We found a footprint in the flowerbed at the bottom of the steps,’ Vanja chipped in. ‘It didn’t match the husband’s or sons’. Sperm from the same person as with Maria Lie.’
‘So he’s deliberately leaving evidence?’
‘It seems that way,’ Torkel replied. ‘Or else he’s unusually inept. But if he’s that useless he should have had dealings with us before, and he hasn’t.’
‘He should definitely have had dealings with the police,’ Sebastian nodded, looking troubled. ‘Copycats usually have some kind of criminal background. It’s extremely unusual for them to start off by killing.’
‘Does the fact that he leaves forensic evidence behind mean anything?’ Billy asked.
Sebastian looked at him. There was something different about him, wasn’t there? Last time Billy had been content to take on responsibility for those aspects of the investigation that were to do with technology – CCTV cameras, mobile phones, call records – and he was the one everyone turned to if they thought the answer to a question might be found in a computer somewhere. But this time he seemed more engaged in questions he wouldn’t even have had an opinion on before. By and large he appeared to be much more switched on than the last time they had worked together.
‘It’s a demonstration of power: you can’t find me even though I’m leaving clues behind . . . It makes him feel smarter than the police. It’s also a cast-iron way of making sure all the crimes he commits are linked to him. No clever barrister is going to be able to rob him of his triumph in the future.’
‘So he wants to be caught?’ Vanja asked, sounding extremely doubtful.
‘No, but if he does get caught he wants to be sure that it doesn’t end there.’
‘Anyway . . .’ Billy went on with his interrupted summary. ‘Same MO. Same nightdress.’ He moved his finger to the third woman on the board. Dark hair again. ‘The day before yesterday. Katharina Granlund. Same traces, same MO, same everything. And that’s all we’ve got.’ Billy sat down.
Sebastian leaned forward. ‘He’s stepping up the pace.’
‘Is that important?’
‘Hinde had a fairly consistent cooling-off period. It became only marginally shorter.’
‘What’s a cooling-off period?’ Billy asked.
‘The time between the murders.’ Sebastian got up and started to walk around the room. Vanja watched him with obvious distaste. It struck him that he had barely given her a thought since he came into the room. The case had immediately grabbed him, pushing everything else aside for the moment. There were links to Hinde. There were links to the old Sebastian.
The better Sebastian.
The best.
‘Serial killers lie low after a murder. Partly because they’re actually afraid of being caught, and sometimes they feel guilt and regret at having lived out their fantasies, but mostly it’s just a period of calm. Until the desire, the compulsion, returns. The cycle gets shorter, but not this short.’ He stopped and gestured towards the pictures on the board. ‘The man who’s done this isn’t reflecting afterwards. He isn’t going through the various phases.’
‘And what does that mean?’ Billy again. Definitely more switched on.
‘That the act of committing murder is not a compulsion for him. He regards it as a job. Something that has to be done.’
‘How do we stop him?’
Sebastian shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He turned to Torkel. ‘I need to visit the scenes of the crimes. At least the latest one, from the day before yesterday.’
‘We have gone over them, you know,’ Ursula broke in before Torkel could speak. ‘You only have to ask if there’s anything you want to know.’
‘You’ve missed something. If this is a real copycat.’
Ursula could feel the irritation bubbling up inside her. She missed nothing. During all the years she had worked, first of all at the national forensics laboratory in Linköping and then with Riksmord, she had never missed anything. Sebastian knew that, of course.
‘What have we missed?’ She almost managed to keep the rising anger out of her voice.
Sebastian didn’t answer; he simply turned back to Torkel. ‘Can I visit the scene or not?’
Torkel sighed. He knew Ursula pretty well by this stage. Calling into question her professional expertise was not something that would go unpunished. She might have other flaws and weaknesses, but she was the best at what she did, and God help anyone who claimed otherwise. Torkel got the feeling she was already regretting the fact that she hadn’t opposed the idea of bringing in Sebastian.
‘Vanja, take Sebastian over to Tumba.’
Vanja stiffened. Her expression, her entire body made it clear what she thought of the idea of spending time alone in a car with Sebastian Bergman.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Yes, you do.’
‘Okay, let’s go,’ Sebastian said with a broad smile as he pushed open the door. He caught himself experiencing a feeling he hadn’t known for many, many years as Vanja reluctantly got up from her chair.
Excitement.
He was working again, and on his very first day he would be spending time alone in a car with his daughter.
Get a life before you can be part of a life.
He had the feeling that this case really could be the road along which he would take his first steps back.
They sat in silence in the dark blue Volvo. Vanja drove out of the underground car park at Fridhemsplan, stopped briefly at the security barrier to show her ID, then turned onto Drottningholmsvägen. Sebastian looked at her closely. There was no mistaking the fact that she was sulking. Every movement was suffused with irritation – changing gear, aggressively switching lanes, the look she gave him when he opened the window, letting the warm, humid summer into the car.
‘The air con doesn’t work if the window’s open.’
‘Oh well, you can’t have everything.’
He dangled his arm out of the open window. He liked her directness. It made her real. Alive. Strong.
He had watched her from a distance for such a long time that being so close to her now almost made him feel dizzy. He couldn’t remember when he had last felt so contented, so calm. However furious she might be, he wished this time in the car with her could last forever. Even the Stockholm traffic seemed harmonious for a while. They continued south along the E4 in silence. By the time they reached the Essinge Islands she could no longer keep quiet.
‘Are you a masochist?’
Sebastian was jerked out of his daydream. He turned to face her, not really understanding the question. ‘What . . . ?
No.’
‘So why have you come back, then?’ Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Why do you insist on being in a situation where nobody likes you?’
‘Billy likes me.’
‘Billy doesn’t openly dislike you.’
‘Same shit, different name.’ Sebastian allowed himself a little smile. Did she really think his actions were dictated by what people thought of him?
‘Are you so used to being hated that you’re happy with people who tolerate you?’
‘Probably.’
‘If you weren’t such a bastard I might almost feel sorry for you.’
‘Thanks.’ He gave her a grateful look. Noticed that this made her even crosser. It was a strange feeling, being so close to her and yet the only one who had the full, accurate picture of the situation.
There was so much he wanted to know about her. What did she dream about? What did she think about when she was sitting at the breakfast table in the mornings? What was it she laughed about with the man she thought was her father? Would he ever come close to getting to know her in that way?
‘Stop it,’ she said with sudden fury as he scrutinised her.
‘Stop what?’
‘Looking at me like that!’
‘Like what?’
‘Like that. Like you’re doing now. I don’t even want to know what you’re thinking about.’
‘You’d never guess . . .’
Vanja glared at him; she looked almost disgusted.
Sebastian turned to face the front. Without realising it she had come close to the truth, nudged it without knowing, without thinking. He wanted to carry on touching the impossible, somehow. The idea was difficult, the words even more so.
‘If you and I had met in a different . . .’ He broke off. Started again. ‘At another time in our lives. What I mean is, there’s a reason for everything, and . . .’
She interrupted him. ‘Sebastian?’
‘Yes?’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
He shut up.
She put her foot down.
They didn’t speak for the rest of the journey.
Number 19 Tolléns väg was one of many well-cared-for, charming houses in one of many residential areas near Stockholm. Hours of dedication and love had gone into the garden, Sebastian noticed, but otherwise there was nothing unusual about the place. Only the bright yellow sign on the front door gave away the fact that a tragedy had occurred here: crime scene. no entry. Vanja led the way up the steps and unlocked the door. Sebastian was in less of a hurry, and stopped on the neatly swept path to look at the house. Two storeys. Red-tiled roof. Yellow with white window frames. Clean and tidy, with curtains at the windows, plants in white pots. Until just a few days ago, a couple with dreams and aspirations had lived here. They might not have wanted to stand out. But they had wanted to live.
Vanja opened the door and looked back at him. ‘Are you coming?’
‘Absolutely.’ Sebastian joined her and they went inside. It was oppressively warm, with a stuffy, almost sweet metallic smell. She must have bled a great deal, Sebastian thought, if the smell was still around.
‘Where’s the bedroom?’
‘She was murdered upstairs. What is it we’re looking for?’
‘I want to see the bedroom first.’
Vanja nodded irritably and led the way. ‘Up here.’
They made their way up the stairs, subdued. It was always like this. Death had a way of lowering voices, slowing things down. They reached the bedroom and stopped in the doorway. The room was decorated in beautiful yellow textured wallpaper with a restful pattern. The curtains were closed; the bedclothes had been removed, but the large dark stain that had spread across the double mattress said it all. Sebastian walked slowly into the room and looked around.
‘So what is it we’ve missed?’ Vanja sounded impatient.
‘A little room, a cubby hole or a cupboard,’ Sebastian replied, crouching down by the bed.
Vanja looked at him wearily and pointed to the white sliding door on the other side of the room. ‘There are some wardrobes in here.’
Sebastian shook his head without even looking at them. ‘It has to be lockable from the outside.’ He stayed where he was and gazed around the room. On the bedside table a few paperback books lay in front of a black and white photograph of a smiling couple in a silver frame. Splashes of blood on the glass. Richard and Katharina Granlund. He recognised her from the briefing back at the station. He picked up the photograph.
‘Okay, so what’s supposed to be in this cupboard?’ he heard from the doorway.
Sebastian didn’t reply, but went on staring at the picture in his hand. They were standing on a beach somewhere, and they looked happy and in love. The woman was hugging the man, who was gazing straight into the camera. It looked like Gotland, or maybe Öland. A shingle beach somewhere. One summer not so very long ago. Or a lifetime ago, if you were the grieving husband.
He gently replaced the photograph. A thought.
Faint.
Fleeting.
Sebastian reached for the photograph again.
‘I said, what’s supposed to be in this cupboard?’
Vanja was starting to get annoyed. Sebastian decided to forget about the photograph; he straightened up and looked at her. ‘Food.’
Vanja went back downstairs while Sebastian methodically checked the upper floor. There were three more rooms; one seemed to be the couple’s shared study, with a printer and photocopier. He presumed Billy had taken the computer. Along one wall a bookcase contained everything from Tom Clancy thrillers to cookery books, all neatly arranged. Sebastian didn’t find what he was looking for, and went back to the small living room.
In passing he glanced into the bathroom, which looked as if it had recently been renovated. White, clean, tiled from floor to ceiling, with both a shower and a spa bath. A decent size, the way modern couples like their bathrooms. But not what he was looking for. The dressing room would be better suited to the purpose, but it couldn’t be locked from the outside.
He went downstairs. The kitchen was at the back of the house, leading out onto a large patio, with the beautifully laid out garden stretching beyond it. The kitchen was just as light and fresh as the bathroom, open and pleasant with white cupboard doors and black granite worktops. An island in the centre with two bar stools beside it. There were a few dishes on the draining board, but otherwise it was surprisingly clean and tidy. He was about to move into the dining room when Vanja called to him.
‘Sebastian!’ She sounded as if she were some way off.
She shouted again, ‘Sebastian!’
‘What is it?’
‘The cellar!’
The cellar stairs were right by the front door, and it took him a little while to find them. Dark, narrow steps led down into semidarkness. Even though the Granlunds had put up some modern art posters, it was clear that this part of the house hadn’t been a priority. Gone were the bright colours and the perfect finish. It was faintly redolent of cellar, but that was almost preferable to the sweet smell in the rest of the house. At the bottom of the steps was what had evidently once been a hobby room, but it now seemed to be used mainly for storage. The ceiling was low, and Sebastian had to duck underneath hot water pipes. A window set high in one wall provided a limited amount of light, and there was a plain floor lamp in one corner of the room. Vanja was standing in front of a scruffy cupboard door, a challenging look on her face. The yellow light from the lamp behind her made her hair look like spun gold. She pointed at the door. There was an ordinary internal key in the lock.
‘What about this? Could this be what you’re looking for?’
‘Have you opened it?’
‘No, I thought you’d want to do it.’ She moved to one side to let him pass. ‘And I’m hoping you’ll explain what we’re doing here before too much longer.’
Sebastian looked at the door, then at Vanja. ‘I really hope I’m wrong.’
‘No you don’t.’
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He couldn’t bring himself to answer; he reached out and tried the handle. The door was locked. With the other hand he turned the key. Pushed down the handle again, and the door opened. It was dark inside; the light from the lamp behind them didn’t reach very far. But it was enough to make out the shape of the objects on the floor. Sebastian felt his entire body lock. His fingers groped for the light switch that he knew should be somewhere on the wall just inside the door. He found it, and the white light from the naked bulb turned his spiralling anxiety into fact.
Perfectly arranged.
A soft drink.
A packet of Marie biscuits.
Two bananas.
A bar of chocolate.
An empty chlorine bottle.
It was him. It was him.
Hinde.
They were back in the Room. Vanja was putting up the pictures they had taken in the Granlund house. Sebastian was walking around and around. Restless. Wound up. Of all the things that could come back to haunt him, he never thought Hinde would be one of them.
‘Our man has information about Hinde’s modus operandi, and there’s only one way he can have acquired that information,’ Sebastian said when the others were all sitting down.
‘From your books?’ Ursula asked. That had also been Vanja’s first thought when he had discussed his theory with her in the car on the way back from Tumba.
Without stopping his pacing, Sebastian gave Ursula the same answer he had given Vanja. ‘My books just said that he had a store of supplies. Not what. Not how.’ Sebastian stopped by the board and tapped his knuckle on the picture of the neatly arranged food and drink from the Granlunds’ cellar. ‘The content and the way the items are placed is absolutely identical to Edward Hinde’s supplies,’ he went on. ‘That hasn’t been written about anywhere. Our man has had contact with him.’
‘But how?’
That had also been Vanja’s response to Sebastian’s assertion. Sebastian sighed; he was no wiser now than he had been in the car twenty minutes ago. He didn’t know how. He just knew that he was right.
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