‘Did you see him?’
‘We put in an application for a visiting order. Apparently nobody is allowed to see him without first being approved.’
‘And how long does that take?’
‘Three to five days.’
‘I’ll see if I can speed things up.’
Vanja nodded her thanks. Someone was copying Edward Hinde, which meant he became a part of their investigation. She wanted to see him, if only so that she could eliminate him. Until then he was a loose end, and Vanja hated loose ends. Dismissing something because a connection seemed improbable – she just couldn’t do it. It would have made her feel as if she wasn’t doing her job, as if she wasn’t doing her best. And that was something she had learned at home, from when she was a child. Something her father had said to her when she was worried about how she would cope with her first day at school. You didn’t have to be the best, but you should always do your best. You couldn’t do any more than that, but it would be foolish to do less. Twenty-five years later, those were still words she lived by.
‘Anything else from Lövhaga?’ Torkel wanted to know. Vanja turned to Billy, who produced four sets of stapled A4 sheets from the folder in front of him and handed them out.
‘I’ve gone through the websites Hinde has visited over the last three months. Nothing worth mentioning. Lots of newspapers, both Swedish and foreign, and he follows a number of blogs; you can see them listed there. And he quite often joins various forums, mostly those discussing philosophy, psychology, other humanities.’
Ursula looked up from her print-out. ‘Can he join in the discussions?’
‘No, he’s only allowed to read. His sole communication with the outside world is through letters. He has received three in the past six months. Two were from women who want to meet him, asking how they could visit him and inviting him to come and see them when, or if, he gets out.’
‘Sick,’ Vanja interjected. Both Torkel and Ursula nodded in agreement.
‘The third letter might possibly be of some interest.’ Billy turned to a new page in the print-out, and the others did the same. ‘It’s from a Carl Wahlström here in Stockholm. He writes that he has followed Hinde’s activities with great interest, and would very much like to meet him personally in order to, and I quote, “gain a deeper insight into the decision process which led to four women losing their lives”. He’s writing a dissertation on practical philosophy, but he seems pretty impressed by Hinde, if you ask me.’
‘Have they met?’ Ursula asked.
‘No. According to Lövhaga, Hinde didn’t even reply to the letter.’
‘Check him out after the meeting anyway,’ Torkel said. ‘At least it’s something.’ He put down the papers and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. ‘The door-to-door enquiries in Tumba didn’t turn up a thing. The Granlunds’ friends and parents knew nothing about the couple feeling as if they were being watched, or threatened. The husband is completely out of the picture. He was in Germany, or in the air on his way home.’
A heavy silence descended on the group. With a few minor variations, this was the third time they had heard Torkel report that no one had seen anything at the scene of the crime, and that no one close to the victim was able to come up with even the slightest hint of a motive.
‘So that leaves forensics.’ Torkel turned to Ursula.
‘Sperm and pubic hair. Again. I’ve sent samples to Linköping for analysis, but I think we can assume it’s the same perpetrator. The preliminary autopsy report states that the carotid artery and the trachea were severed, which means that she choked before she could bleed to death. Again.’ Ursula fell silent and spread her hands. There wasn’t any more.
Torkel took over: ‘As you are all aware, we haven’t managed to find a link between the three women, so we have no idea who his next victim will be.’
Torkel’s closing remark was received in painful silence. Nobody could dispute what he had said. It seemed highly improbable that the perpetrator would not strike again. Another woman would lose her life, and there was nothing they could do to prevent it. Vanja pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘We’ll go and see Wahlström.’
Vanja and Billy had gone to look for Carl Wahlström in the philosophy department, but had been informed that he wasn’t there. The university was virtually deserted at this time of year. Had they tried calling him? No, they hadn’t, nor did they have any intention of doing so. Had they been to his apartment? Carl was working on his dissertation over the summer. They were given an address which they already had. Forskarbacken. Second floor. Student accommodation.
They could hear music coming from the apartment. Vanja took out her ID as she rang the bell, keeping her finger on the button for a long time. She couldn’t decide if her hearing was particularly sensitive, or if the music was really loud.
Carl Wahlström opened the door with a cup of tea in his hand and looked enquiringly at his visitors. The music was really loud, Vanja decided as she and Billy showed their police IDs.
‘Police – Vanja Lithner and Billy Rosén. Could we have a word, please?’
‘What’s this about?’
‘Could we come in?’
Carl stepped aside and let them in. The apartment was warm, and there was the aroma of freshly baked bread.
‘Could you please take off your shoes? I’ve just finished vacuuming.’ Carl edged past them in the narrow hallway and went into the bedroom; he walked over to the computer, which was standing on the desk along with a printer, and turned off the music.
Vanja and Billy stepped out of their shoes and into the apartment. There was a small kitchen in one corner of the living room, which was equipped with a sofa, a wall-mounted television, and in the other corner a desk with a neat pile of textbooks, and an office chair. A perfectly ordinary student apartment, had it not been for the large pictures, almost like display cases, hanging on one wall above the sofa. Behind the glass each one contained a number of butterflies and moths; six or eight if they were large specimens, perhaps fifteen or twenty if they were smaller, their brightly coloured wings spread in a wing beat frozen for all eternity. Vanja recognised a handful, and she knew the names of two: peacock and brimstone yellow. She didn’t even know if the rest were native to Sweden.
‘What was it you wanted?’
Carl had emerged from the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He folded his arms and looked at the two police officers. Vanja glanced at Billy and noticed that he too was fascinated by the display of insects.
‘We’re here as a result of a letter you sent to Edward Hinde some weeks ago,’ Vanja explained, sitting down on the sofa. Billy leaned against the kitchen wall.
‘Oh?’ Carl spun the office chair around and sat down, an enquiring expression on his face.
‘Why did you write to him?’ Vanja went on.
‘I wanted to get in touch with him.’
‘Why?’
‘I hoped he might be willing to help me with my studies.’
‘In practical philosophy?’
‘Yes. Why is that of any interest to the police?’
Vanja didn’t reply. The less Carl knew about the reason for the visit, the less likely he would be to adapt his answers accordingly. Billy was thinking the same way, and changed the subject completely.
‘What does a practical philosopher do? I mean, what kind of job would you end up with?’
Carl spun around a quarter turn and looked at Billy with the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth.
‘Why? Are you tired of being a cop?’
‘Isn’t philosophy purely theoretical?’ Billy went on as if he hadn’t heard the question. ‘What does a practical philosopher do? Go out preaching? Run evening classes?’
‘Just because you don’t understand it, there’s no need to have a go at me.’
‘Sorry, I was just curious.’
The look of displeasure on Carl’s face made it clear that the apology had not been accepted. Vanja broke in
to get the conversation back on track before Carl decided he wasn’t prepared to speak to them at all.
‘We read your letter to Hinde.’
Carl kept his gaze fixed on Billy for a second or two longer before turning to Vanja.
‘I realise that.’
‘It sounds as if you look up to him.’
‘No, I wouldn’t say that. He fascinates me.’
‘He murdered four women. Does that fascinate you?’
Carl leaned forward in his chair, clearly more interested in the conversation now.
‘Not his actions in themselves, but I do find his journey to that point incredibly interesting. The decisions he took, the deliberations he went through. I’m trying to understand him.’
‘Why?’
Carl fell silent for a moment, obviously pondering his answer as if he were explaining to his professor rather than speaking to the police.
‘The murders he committed were deliberate acts. Planned and considered. He had a desire to kill, and he fulfilled that desire. I want to know where the desire came from.’
‘I can tell you that – his sick brain.’
Carl smiled almost superciliously at Vanja. ‘That’s not quite enough for a dissertation. Besides which, your assertion demands an acceptance that certain desires can be classified as “sick”, while other more socially acceptable desires, such as wanting a puppy, are “healthy”.’
‘Are you saying it’s healthy to kill four women?’
‘For very good reasons, the act itself is not accepted in our society, but I find it very difficult to talk about the desire to carry out that act in terms such as healthy or sick. We have established rules on how to behave, and of course we do not accept the killing of another human being. But can we really not accept the desire to do so?’
Vanja sighed to herself. Was it necessary to analyse everything, to turn everything inside out, to understand and explain? To her it was perfectly simple. If you wanted to kill another person, you were sick. If you actually did it, you were even more sick. Or evil.
‘Did you get a reply from him?’ Billy broke in, partly because he couldn’t stand listening to the philosophical lecture any longer – if it was philosophy – and partly because he could see that Vanja was running out of patience.
‘No, unfortunately.’
‘Do you contribute to any of these forums?’
Billy handed over a print-out of the websites Hinde had visited over the past three months. Carl took the paper and studied it carefully. A bell pinged on the kitchen bench; Carl put down the print-out and stood up. ‘My bread is ready.’
He went into the kitchen, turned off the oven and opened the door. He picked up two pot holders and lifted the baking tray out of the hot oven. When Vanja saw the two golden-brown loaves in their rectangular tins, she realised she was hungry. They waited while Carl prodded the bread to check that it was ready, then tipped one of the loaves out and placed it upside down on a cooling rack on the draining board. As he repeated the procedure with the second loaf, he turned briefly to Vanja. ‘Which department are you with?’
‘Riksmord.’
Carl’s attention was diverted from his baking. ‘Has he escaped?’
‘No.’
‘But someone has died, and you’re interested in Hinde?’
Vanja glanced at Billy. Either Carl Wahlström was very bright and had put together what little information he had with unusual speed, or he knew that someone was copying Hinde’s murders. Without giving away what she was thinking, Vanja went on: ‘Where were you yesterday between ten a.m. and three p.m.?’
‘I was here. I was studying.’
Carl placed a clean tea towel over the loaves, closed the oven door and came back to the little living room.
‘Were you alone?’
‘Yes.’
‘So nobody saw you all day?’
‘No.’
Silence. Vanja didn’t need any more; she had already decided to run a thorough check on Carl Wahlström. She got to her feet.
‘Would you be prepared to provide a voluntary DNA sample?’
Carl Wahlström didn’t even bother to answer. He tipped his head back and opened his mouth wide. Vanja dug a sterile cotton bud out of her bag and quickly drew it over his tongue and the inside of his cheeks.
‘So what about that list I gave you?’ Billy asked as Vanja placed the cotton bud in a small plastic container and closed the lid.
Carl turned around, picked up the list and handed it back to Billy.
‘One. That one.’ He pointed and Billy looked at the name. It didn’t help much. It didn’t help at all, in fact. Even if Hinde knew that Carl was contributing to that particular forum, he couldn’t communicate with him. But at least it was a point of contact, which was something. And something was more than nothing, which was what they had had so far.
On the way out into the hallway, Vanja turned around. ‘Your insects?’
‘What about them?’
‘Where does the desire to stick pins in butterflies and moths come from?’
Carl smiled at her again, as if to show that he was prepared to indulge her ignorance. As if she was a little girl who didn’t know any better. It was a smile that Vanja already hated, after only ten minutes in Wahlström’s company. It reminded her far too much of Sebastian Bergman’s superior smirk.
‘It’s not a desire, it’s an interest. I’m a lepidopterist.’
‘I presume that means you’re a butterfly collector.’
‘Expert. A butterfly expert.’
‘How does it work? Are they still alive when you stick a pin in them?’
‘No, I kill them first with ethyl acetate.’
‘So you’re interested in killing things?’
Carl tilted his head to one side as if Vanja had just said something enchanting and sweet.
‘Aren’t you going to ask if I used to wet the bed and enjoyed setting fire to things as well?’
Vanja didn’t reply. She bent down next to Billy to put on her shoes, avoiding that supercilious look.
Carl went on: ‘You do know it’s a gross simplification to believe that when serial killers are young, they wet the bed, start fires and kill animals?’
Billy straightened up. ‘You seem to know a great deal about serial killers.’
‘I’m writing a dissertation about them. Among other things.’
‘And what’s it about? This dissertation?’
‘When the desires of the individual collide with the rules of a civilised society.’
Billy met Carl’s gaze and suddenly had the feeling that the topic was very definitely based on personal experience. In spite of the warmth in the apartment, he shivered.
‘He was creepy.’
Vanja and Billy had stepped out onto Forskarbacken and were walking along the pavement to the car when Billy put into words what they were both thinking. Vanja nodded, put on her sunglasses and unbuttoned her thin jacket.
‘Creepy, and taller than you.’
‘Yes, I noticed that too,’ said Billy, unlocking the car even though they were still twenty metres away. ‘Shall we put him under surveillance?’
‘He seemed a bit too relaxed. If it is him, he knows we’ve got forensic evidence.’
‘Perhaps he wants to be caught?’
‘Why would he want that?’
‘The media haven’t linked the murders yet. He’s getting no publicity, no attention. If the kick he gets from killing is becoming weaker and weaker, he might need something else. An arrest and trial would not only show what he’s done, but would provide him with acknowledgement. Make him someone.’
Vanja stopped dead and stared at Billy in surprise. Not only because that was probably the most she had ever heard him say without interruption, but mainly because she couldn’t remember him speaking with such authority and insight. He was an expert when it came to technology and new gadgets, of course … but serial killers? When Billy noticed that Vanja had stopped, he turned back; e
ven though he couldn’t see her eyes behind the sunglasses, he could tell that she was surprised.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You’ve been reading up on this.’
‘Yes, and?’
‘Nothing.’ There was something in Billy’s voice that told Vanja she shouldn’t go any further, and that she definitely shouldn’t joke about this. Not right now, anyway.
‘We’ll keep an eye on him until we get the results of his DNA sample,’ she went on. They got in the car and closed the doors. Vanja fastened her seatbelt as Billy started the engine.
‘So who’s the girl, by the way?’
‘What girl?’
‘The girl you went to the theatre with.’
‘Nobody.’
Which meant it was definitely somebody. Vanja smiled to herself. She would get the details out of him during the short trip home.
Polhemsgatan. Again. Sebastian was sitting in the café where he could call himself a regular customer by now. At his favourite table, the one with the best view of his former workplace. Riksmord. Which was now her workplace. He was on his third cup of coffee, and he looked once more at the white plastic clock on the wall. He cursed himself. He cursed Stefan, who had got him to go all the way to Frescati to see a woman who hated him, as it turned out. He should have stayed in the café instead. Waited for her. It would have cost less.
He needed to see her.
Here in the café on Polhemsgatan he felt almost comfortable. The closer he was to his former workplace, the safer he felt. Here he didn’t need to hide himself quite so carefully. There were several reasons why he should be here. If Vanja or anyone else saw him, he could always say that he was visiting. That he was waiting for a former colleague. That he had a meeting which had been cancelled. If they didn’t buy that, he could always change tactics and claim that he was there because he wanted them to take him back. They would believe that.
Not that Torkel would ever do it. Not after Västerås.
But it would be logical. They would understand why he was sitting here with his cup of coffee, staring over at the concrete-grey building. It would be considerably more difficult to explain his presence if Vanja spotted him on the hill outside her apartment.
The Man Who Watched Women Page 7