‘I don’t mean with the murders. I mean with information. Contact. I think he has help inside Lövhaga.’
They all leaned forward. Interested. Focused. This wasn’t a revolutionary suggestion – they had sniffed around the idea before – but Billy might have a new angle. One that might lead somewhere.
‘I’ve checked with Victor Bäckman, who’s responsible for security out there,’ Billy went on. ‘None of those held in the secure wing are allowed to communicate via the computers. However, two of them are allowed to use the telephone. Their calls are recorded; I’ve got the print-outs here.’
He picked up five sets of perhaps fifteen pages each and passed them around the table. ‘Names, addresses, phone numbers. There aren’t many of them. One of them usually rings his girlfriend. The other usually rings his mother. There’s the odd exception, but nothing regular. We ought to have a chat with them, though. The people they’re calling, I mean.’
‘Absolutely.’ Torkel looked up from the list he had just been given. ‘Vanja, could you sort that out?’
Vanja had to make a real effort not to show how surprised she was. The world had turned upside down. Billy was in the middle of a lengthy discourse about the case, mainly the more technical aspects, admittedly, but even so. He was pushing ahead. And she was supposed to sort out some uniforms to go and have a word with the people on the list he had given her. Her headache was getting worse.
‘Of course,’ she said quietly, staring down at the desk.
‘Anything else?’ Torkel was still looking at Billy.
‘If it isn’t one of the inmates, it could be someone who works there. I’ve requested stafflists and I’m going to run them against everything we’ve got.’
‘I assume none of the guards at Lövhaga has a record?’
Billy shrugged. ‘You’ve said that Hinde is manipulative. He’s communicating with someone. I know it . . .’
‘How can you be sure?’
Sebastian again. Genuinely curious this time.
Billy ran through his reasoning: the fourth murder was different.
Sebastian nodded. It was very unusual for a serial killer to change his MO, but for a copycat to do so was almost unthinkable. Unless Hinde had found a weak personality whom he could control. Someone for whom the killing was less important than pleasing Hinde. Not impossible. All they had to do was find him. Apparently Torkel had reached the same conclusion.
‘Go through the staff. Get some help if you need it. Good work, Billy.’ He turned to Ursula, who spread her arms wide in an eloquent gesture.
‘As far as forensics goes we’ve got just as much today as we had yesterday. Or just as little, depending on how you want to look at it.’
Torkel nodded, gathered up the material he had brought with him and the papers he had been given during the briefing, and got ready to bring things to a close.
‘What about Sebastian? Aren’t we going to hear his input?’ Vanja felt she had to take out her bad temper and her headache on someone. And who better than Sebastian Bergman? She leaned forward and fixed him with a defiant stare. ‘What contribution have you made? Apart from keeping your trousers on, I hope.’
Torkel’s phone rang before he had time to comment on Vanja’s outburst. He chose to answer, knowing that Sebastian was perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
Sebastian gazed calmly back at Vanja. Should he tell her he’d actually tried to warn some of his former lovers? Done what he could to prevent a repetition? That he was intending to sit down with a phone today to try to get hold of several more? No. Partly because they would want to know who he’d warned, and partly because they would think it was incredibly stupid to start visiting these women when someone might still be following him. But nor did he intend to take any more crap. He had been badly shaken by what had happened, and Vanja had made the most of it. No sympathy, just contempt. Right now he didn’t care who she was; it was time for Sebastian Bergman to rise again.
‘I have indeed kept my trousers on. I might have unzipped my flies and had a little wank, but I presume that’s okay with you?’
Vanja gave him a poisonous look and shook her head almost wearily. ‘I hate you.’
‘I know.’
Torkel ended the call and turned back to the group without any indication that he had heard the last exchange.
‘A car has been found. Burnt out. It is, or was, a blue Ford Focus.’
‘Where?’
Vanja, Billy and Ursula were all on their feet immediately.
‘A gravel pit out in Bro. I’ve got the directions.’
‘Let’s go.’
Billy pulled up by the gravel pit behind Ursula’s jeep. He turned off the engine and sat there for a moment. Watched as Ursula got out, opened the boot and took out her equipment in two large bags. Vanja was sitting next to him with her sunglasses on. Her head was lolling against the headrest, her breathing calm and regular.
When they had got down to the car park she had thrown him the keys. ‘You drive.’
Since then she hadn’t spoken. Not a word. He drove out of the city and they headed north in silence. When they had travelled a little way along the E18 he asked whether she minded if he put the radio on. No reply. He tuned in to The Voice. Snoop Dogg. She didn’t protest, so he assumed she had fallen asleep. Just past Bro he turned right onto the 269 and with the help of the GPS found his way to the minor road leading to the gravel pit near Lövsta. And here they were. He shook her gently by the shoulder.
‘Wake up, we’ve arrived.’
‘I am awake.’ Vanja sat up straight and stretched.
They got out of the car and walked towards the burnt-out Ford. The air was motionless between the heaps of gravel, insects buzzing everywhere. Vanja guessed that the temperature must be around forty-five degrees. A uniformed female officer aged around twenty-five was standing just outside the area that was being cordoned off. Vanja went over to her as Billy continued towards the car.
‘Jennifer Holmgren,’ the officer said, holding out her hand.
‘Vanja Lithner, Riksmord. You found the car?’
‘Yes.’
Vanja looked over at the Ford Focus. Or what was left of it. It was just about possible to tell that it had been blue in the odd place that the fire hadn’t reached. Otherwise it was ash-grey. The tyres and the bumper had melted, as had the whole of the interior. The doors and the roof had buckled from the heat. All the glass had shattered. The boot was open, and the bonnet was missing. Perhaps something in the engine had exploded. Ursula would tell them, if that was the case. She was walking around taking photographs from every possible angle.
Vanja turned back to Jennifer. ‘Did you touch anything?’
‘Yes, I opened the boot.’
‘Why did you do that?’
Ever since Jennifer had reported her discovery and been told that she was to stay where she was and wait for Riksmord, she had been contemplating the fact that her real reason for opening the boot – that she was hoping to find a dead body as the result of some kind of transaction between criminal gangs – wasn’t exactly going to cut it. She had realised that Riksmord would think searching for the victim of an execution in a sunny gravel pit outside Sigtuna was at best utterly stupid, and at worst professional misconduct. Even if two dead bodies had been found in the boot of a burning car on the E6 in Halland a few years ago. Jennifer would have given anything to be in the patrol car that was first on the scene back then . . . Today the boot had been empty, but while she was waiting she had come up with a much better reason to explain why she had opened it.
‘We’re looking for a missing six-year-old. I just wanted to make sure he hadn’t hidden in there, or something. It’s so hot,’ she added.
Vanja from Riksmord nodded. A nod which told Jennifer that her explanation had not only been accepted, but had also impressed Vanja a little.
‘Nothing else?’ Vanja wanted to know.
‘No. Why are you interested in this car? Has it been invo
lved in something?’
Vanja looked at her uniformed colleague. There was no mistaking her tone: anticipation bordering on excitement.
‘Have you found the child?’ she asked, avoiding the question.
‘What child?’
‘The one you were looking for.’
‘No. Not yet.’
‘In that case I think you should carry on looking for him.’
Vanja ducked under the police tape and went to join Ursula and Billy.
Jennifer watched her go. Riksmord. That was where she ought to be. As soon as she had finished her placement in Sigtuna, she would put in her application. How old was that Vanja? Thirty, maybe. Five years difference. And she didn’t exactly seem new to the job. If she could do it, so could Jennifer. And she would. But first of all she would find Lukas Ryd. There was an area not far away known locally as the Marchland which sounded promising.
Vanja went over to the burnt-out car and looked inside. A total mess of melted plastic, burnt wires and distorted metal. Ursula was still taking photographs, but she was usually able to form a quick assessment of the most important elements at a crime scene. Vanja straightened up. ‘Anything?’
‘A very powerful accelerant. No sign that there was anyone in the car.’ Ursula lowered the camera and met Vanja’s gaze across the roof. ‘I don’t want to pre-empt things, but don’t get your hopes up.’
Vanja sighed. The number plates were burnt beyond recognition, impossible to read with the naked eye. They didn’t even know if it was the right Ford. They could be standing here wasting valuable time because somebody couldn’t be bothered to take some old wreck to the scrapyard.
‘I’ll take a walk along the track to see if I can find anything.’ Obviously Billy was thinking along the same lines. There wasn’t much for them to do here. Not at the moment, anyway.
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. Something. Anything. We don’t all need to stand around here staring.’
He walked away from the car, ducked under the tape and set off. Vanja stayed where she was. With hindsight it had been a little hasty of all three of them to come rushing over, but they were so desperate for a breakthrough. They really needed something, and they had hoped that this would be it. But there wasn’t much here. No chance of finding footprints. No witnesses. No CCTV cameras. Ursula would deal with the car. So what else was there to do? There was no point in them all standing around staring, as Billy had said. But somebody had to do it, and apparently that was her job. Bloody hell, it was hot.
Billy walked along the track, scanning the surrounding area as he went. He didn’t really know what he was looking for, or what he thought he might find. If they were lucky, their perpetrator had made a mistake out here. He hadn’t allowed for the fact that they would be called in. Perhaps he had thrown away an empty petrol can that might lead them to a service station with CCTV cameras . . . Wishful thinking, no doubt, but at least searching along the forest track beat staring at a burnt-out car along with a bad-tempered Vanja.
He had gone about eight hundred metres without finding anything and had almost reached the main road. A hundred metres further on, on the left-hand side by the crossroads, was an isolated house made of red-painted wood, with white eaves and window frames. Solid stone foundations. Steeply pitched tiled roof. Two cars in the drive. A three-wheeler and toys in the garden. Definitely someone living there. Worth a visit. Billy turned off towards the house, but he had gone no more than a few steps before he heard a rustling sound in the trees behind him to the right. Billy spun around and instinctively placed his hand on his gun, but relaxed when he saw a woman aged around forty coming towards him with a dog on a lead. Some kind of setter. Brown. Long-haired. Hot. Tongue dangling like a tie.
‘Are you from the police?’ asked the woman as she stepped up onto the road a few metres away from Billy. The dog was panting and tugging at the lead, wanting to come and say hello.
‘Yes.’
‘Why are you here? I’ve been seeing officers around all day.’ The woman and the dog came over to Billy, who bent down and patted the excited animal on the head.
‘Some of them are looking for a child who’s gone missing.’
‘Who’s missing?’
‘I don’t know. A little boy from the local area. I’m here because a burnt-out car has been found up at the gravel pit.’
‘I see.’
‘Do you live around here?’ Billy asked, straightening up. The dog was starting to show a bit too much of an interest in his hands, licking them like mad. Lack of salt, presumably.
‘I live there.’ The woman pointed to the red house on the crossroads.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Carina Torstensson.’
‘I’m Billy Rosén. Do you know anything about it?’
‘The car?’
‘Yes.’
‘No.’
‘It ended up here at some point between ten o’clock yesterday morning and . . .’ Billy broke off. They didn’t actually know when the car had been driven to the gravel pit. It was cold, so that excluded the last ten hours, but otherwise it could have been dumped at any time. He shrugged. ‘. . . Some time during the night. You didn’t see anything unusual during that period?’
Carina was already shaking her head.
Billy gave it one last try. ‘Perhaps when you were out with the dog . . . Did you notice another car? Someone who didn’t really seem to belong here?’
‘I met a man when I was out picking mushrooms.’ The head shaking was replaced by a pensive nodding. ‘That was yesterday.’
Billy took a deep breath. At last! Somebody who had seen something. So far he had been like a bloody ghost, but Carina Torstensson had seen someone.
When she was out picking mushrooms.
In the heat of high summer.
In July . . .
Carina noticed his doubtful expression.
‘The chanterelles have started to come through. It’s a bit dry at the moment, but the late spring was quite wet, so there are a few . . .’ She looked up at the clear blue sky. ‘But of course a little more rain wouldn’t go amiss.’
‘This man you met . . .’ Billy decided not to write her off just yet, and led her back to the matter at hand.
‘He came from up there.’ She gestured over her shoulder with her thumb.
‘From the gravel pit?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you remember what he looked like?’ Billy dug out a pen and a notepad, and opened it at a clean page.
‘Tall. Not dressed for the forest. Leather jacket. Long hair in a ponytail. A big scar over one eye.’
Billy stopped writing. A big scar. Like Roland Johansson.
‘Was it his left eye? Running down over his cheek?’ Billy used the pen to show her what he meant on his own face. The woman nodded. Billy made a note.
‘Did you see where he went after that? Did someone pick him up?’
‘No, he got on the bus.’
‘Which bus?’
‘The 557. To Kungsängen. It goes from over there.’ She pointed down the main road and Billy saw a bus stop about fifty metres from Carina’s house.
‘Do you remember what time this was?’ He was almost holding his breath. If they could get a time they could find the bus, the bus driver, and a possible destination. Carina thought about it.
‘Quarter past, twenty past twelve. He must have caught the twelve twenty-six.’
‘Thank you!’ Billy had to suppress the impulse to give her a hug. ‘Thank you!’ He put away his notepad and broke into a run.
He didn’t have to run far. After only a few hundred metres he met Vanja in the car. She slowed down beside him and wound down the window as he caught his breath.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked.
‘Ursula’s fine on her own back there; we’re not doing anything useful.’
‘Okay . . .’ Billy got in, fastening his seatbelt as Vanja moved off. ‘Roland Johansson has been here.’
Vanja glanced over at him, and Billy felt the car slow as she instinctively lowered her speed. Surprised.
‘The guy who was in Lövhaga at the same time as Hinde?’
‘Yes.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I met a woman who lives just by the crossroads.’ He pointed out the red house, which they were about to drive past. ‘She saw him here. Yesterday.’
‘Did you go off to interview witnesses?’
Billy was lost for words. He had expected a whole lot of questions from Vanja. About the case. About Johansson, about the witness. Instead she was wondering why he had left the gravel pit, with a hint of criticism in her voice.
‘No, I went to check out the track, and I bumped into her.’
‘And you asked her about the car?’
Billy sighed. The information he had was good news.
Big news.
Possibly crucial news.
Get your priorities straight, he thought.
‘No, I was just walking along the road.’ Billy did his best to keep the irritation at bay, but he could hear the exaggerated care in his explanation. ‘She was out with her dog and she asked me what we were doing here and I told her and then she said she’d seen a man with a bloody great big scar who was coming from the direction of the gravel pit at the right time. What was I supposed to do? Ask her to keep quiet until you were there to hear it as well?’
‘Oh no, you seem to be doing your own thing these days anyway.’
Vanja turned left onto the main road and put her foot down. More criticism. For what, exactly? For the life of him he couldn’t work out what he had done wrong. He had refused to help her with a search, but that was all. He was ambitious; he wanted to develop. To change. He decided to tackle the issue head on.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
Vanja didn’t answer; instead she gave every appearance of concentrating on the road.
‘As soon as I don’t do exactly what you say, or do something on my own initiative, you go crazy,’ Billy persisted. ‘Do you feel threatened?’
‘By what?’ A touch of amusement in her tone. As if she had suppressed a little laugh at a ridiculous idea.
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