The Last Lullaby (Hammarby Book 3)

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘No report?’

  ‘Report? Are you joking?’

  ‘Does it look like I’m joking?’

  ‘I would never dream of reporting a colleague.’

  Hamad lied again. Because of course he would not hesitate to report a corrupt cop or a cop who in some other criminal way abused his position. This, however, was something quite different.

  ‘Not even if it turns out that you have incurred some form of injury?’

  ‘In that case I would see it as an accident on the job,’ Hamad answered without the hint of a smile.

  ‘How do you think it will be for the two of you working together after this?’ Malmberg continued stubbornly.

  ‘It’s going to be just fine,’ Hamad replied without the slightest hesitation. ‘As it always has been. And work always comes first,’ he added, out of some kind of hazily conceived sense of solidarity, of the team as a whole.

  Or was it really mostly for Petra’s sake? And why should it be more important to emphasize her professionalism in particular? Because she was a woman, it struck him. She ended up under the management’s magnifying glass more often than the rest of them for just that reason. And considering how much he loathed being there himself …

  ‘Westman is a shining example of that. She is enormously focused and professional,’ he maintained, and suddenly felt quite pleased with how he was handling this interrogation, weaving between landmines surprisingly agilely.

  ‘So how will we proceed?’

  ‘We’ sounded bad to Hamad’s ears. Malmberg and the rest of the mafia up there on the management level must be shaken off as soon as possible, so that he and Petra could resolve this between themselves.

  ‘I’ll talk to her. Everything will be worked out next time we meet, that I can promise.’

  ‘We have to hope so. But I still haven’t had any explanation for what happened,’ said Malmberg in a voice like dry leaves.

  Tenacious as a terrier, thought Hamad, and hesitated for a moment before he answered. Then he smiled broadly and turned his palms up in a resigned gesture.

  ‘Well, what can I say? You know how it is with women. PMT.’

  That did the trick. Malmberg’s stony face cracked from ear to ear. Hamad had male-bonded with the deputy police commissioner, hopefully had succeeded in defusing the matter from an official perspective and was now back at square one. Malmberg left the office with a guffaw that could be heard a good way down the corridor.

  Hamad stood in the window and gazed out at the twilight falling over the Hammarby canal. He felt sickened.

  Thursday Evening

  ‘Critical but stable, they said. He is breathing on his own, but his pulse was very high. At first I thought he was dead. He was staring straight ahead, but I noticed that his blink reflexes functioned. He’d stepped on broken glass so his foot was completely bloody, he’d run his fist into the wall so it must have hurt like hell and on top of that he broke one arm when he fell. And he did not react in the slightest to the pain. They say he’s catatonic.’

  ‘Catatonic – is that a temporary condition?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘It depends, apparently,’ Westman replied. ‘In this case it may have been caused by possible brain damage – from the fall or when he banged his head against the wall – or by some kind of mental shock or however you want to put it, a reaction to the photograph. They are also talking about epileptic fits; I don’t know whether that can be brought on mentally or just physically. In any event he’s going to get electroconvulsive therapy and is on a drip. They seem to think there is some hope that he will recover.’

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘But I already have.’

  ‘Tell it again, from a psychological perspective, so to speak.’

  Westman cleared her throat and tried again.

  ‘He was just as you described. Taciturn. A little melancholy as I interpreted it. He talked in a drawl; I can understand how it must have been unbearable for Jens. He did not comment on his wife’s and children’s deaths at all. It was as if they did not really concern him. Or as if he didn’t think it concerned him, if you know what I mean?’

  ‘As if he had waived his right to mourn them?’

  ‘Exactly. And then quite unexpectedly he started talking about guilt.’

  ‘Guilt?’

  ‘Yes, he said something along the lines that guilt is like a shackle that you drag around, but that you get used to it.’

  ‘In what context did he say this?’ Sjöberg wondered.

  ‘We asked him if he had a bad conscience because he hadn’t taken responsibility for the children. Then he said that he’d been a bad father. He said something else strange too: that he had not killed his children in a legal sense.’

  ‘As if all the same he believes that he is responsible for the children’s deaths in some way? Morally responsible?’

  ‘That was how I understood it.’

  ‘That would mean that he knows something about these murders after all,’ Sjöberg said thoughtfully. ‘Even if he didn’t commit them himself.’

  ‘He denied that he murdered them. It was a concrete no to that question.’

  ‘And then you showed him the photograph?’

  ‘First we asked if he knew that Catherine had a man in her life, Erik. He did not. Then we told him that Erik was actually named Einar Eriksson and there was a flash in his eyes. I thought it seemed as if the name had struck a chord. But it passed just as quickly again.’

  ‘Perhaps it occurred to him that there must be many people with that name?’ Sjöberg suggested.

  ‘Very possibly, or else he simply held back his reaction,’ Westman speculated. ‘But on the other hand he asked – before I showed him the photograph – if we suspected Einar of the murders. And of course I answered somewhat evasively, along the lines of wanting to rule out as many conceivable alternatives as possible. Well, you know.’

  ‘But then, once he had seen the picture –’

  ‘Then all hell broke loose. You know the rest.’

  ‘And what do you think, Petra? Is Christer Larsson our man?’

  ‘Absolutely not. Einar Eriksson is our man. And if Larsson wakes up out of his condition he is going to be able to tell us why. Then he might be prepared to commit murder; that’s the impression I got.’

  ‘Murder Einar, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Maybe he’s already done that.’

  ‘Then how do you explain his reaction to the photo, Conny?’

  ‘Perhaps Christer Larsson is a skilled actor.’

  ‘You don’t believe that yourself,’ Westman refuted him, and he had to agree with her on that point.

  Sjöberg briefly accounted for his day and his meetings with Ingegärd Rydin, Solveig Eriksson and Ann-Britt Berg. Westman told him about their fruitless attempts in the little apartment on Eriksdalsgatan to find the reason for Einar Eriksson’s disappearance. The neighbours in the building had not contributed anything of value either.

  ‘Now I’m going down into town to partake of a steak with Béarnaise sauce and a pint of beer,’ Sjöberg concluded the conversation.

  This wasn’t quite true, however, because as soon as he hung up he stretched out on the bed with his hands behind his head and started thinking about the incident with Christer Larsson. It was too bad he hadn’t been there. Westman had provided a vivid and extremely thorough description of the course of events, but he would have given a lot to have seen Larsson’s reactions with his own eyes.

  But it did open up new paths in the investigation. Christer Larsson and Einar Eriksson had a shared past, that was obvious. And he himself was now in Arboga, the town where Erik Eriksson had served as a policeman during the early years of his career. The town where Christer Larsson and Ingegärd Rydin had lived together during the same period. There was some ancient history behind the brutal murders of Catherine Larsson and her two children, Sjöberg was becoming more and more convinced of that. Unfortunately it was already
too late for him to get to the bottom of it today, but tomorrow he would root about in Einar Eriksson’s past in the locality.

  He was roused from his musings by Åsa calling.

  ‘I’ve been out to look at that piece of property,’ Sjöberg told her.

  ‘Property?’

  ‘Don’t you remember that I found a title deed at my mother’s place? I made enquiries and it turned out to be in this area, outside Arboga. So I took the opportunity to drive out and look at it, since I was here anyway.’

  ‘So, what sort of place is it? How did she acquire it?’ Åsa asked.

  ‘Wait and you’ll hear,’ said Sjöberg, giving a thorough account of the condition of the property and his high-flown plans for it.

  ‘But Conny, it’s not ours,’ Åsa objected.

  ‘It’s going to be ours. It’s Mother’s land, but she is obviously not the least bit interested in it. It’s really nice; you would love it. It’s called Soldier’s Croft – great name.’

  ‘But why hasn’t she ever mentioned it?’

  ‘I’ve made some investigations and you have no idea what I discovered. For one thing, I lived there during the first years of my life.’

  ‘But I thought you were born in Stockholm?’

  ‘I was born in Stockholm, but there must have been a special reason for that. Risky pregnancy, difficult delivery or maybe just that Mother happened to be in Stockholm when I was born – I have no idea. Anyway, my paternal grandmother and grandfather lived at Soldier’s Croft roughly until Mother and Father got married, then we took over the place. We lived there until Father got sick and we moved to Stockholm. It’s my childhood home – of course we should fix it up!’

  ‘That sounds quite amazing! But why in the world hasn’t she ever said anything?’

  ‘I think there’s something fishy there. Presumably Mother has no positive feelings about the place. You see, it turns out that my grandfather died in 1967, when I was nine years old. I can’t remember ever having met him, or him or my grandmother ever being mentioned in our home. That must mean that Mother didn’t get along with them, don’t you think?’

  ‘While your father was alive they must have got along, because your parents got to take over the cottage.’

  ‘Yes, but some time during those years there must have been a serious falling-out between them.’

  ‘And your grandmother, was she already dead when you were born?’

  ‘Grandmother is alive.’

  ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘It’s true. She’s ninety-five years old, but she is still alive.’

  ‘Unbelievable! And you’ve never met her?’

  ‘In any event not since I was very small. I thought she’d been dead for half a century.’

  ‘But you must visit her!’

  ‘I’m going there tomorrow. I found out where she lives, so I’ll go there first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘What a story! Have you spoken to Eivor?’

  ‘I called her this morning from Soldier’s Croft and told her I was there. She made no comment. That was before I discovered that my grandmother is alive. I’ll visit Mother over the weekend and take her to task. Damn it, we ought to be able to talk about things.’

  ‘Well, I’ll eat my hat!’

  Åsa was a treasure trove of folksy old expressions her grandmother always used.

  ‘Hug the kids for me,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow night. I love you.’

  ‘It’s mutual. Hugs.’

  When he had finished the overcooked piece of meat with its standard trimmings and started his second and – considering his schedule the next day – last beer for the evening, Sjöberg called Sandén.

  ‘The night life in Arboga seems to be world class. Are you at a disco or … ?’

  ‘Not really,’ Sjöberg replied, ‘but there is quite a racket in this greasy spoon. I’ve just eaten something that will have to be considered dinner.’

  ‘Oh dear, it’s hard to be a police inspector. Listen, I found Einar’s passport. It was in the glove compartment.’

  ‘Good. But that doesn’t change anything. I’ve never doubted that he’s still in the country.’

  ‘And then I put Bella on Eriksson’s car.’

  ‘I see. Was there anything in particular?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘Someone has sat on the passenger side,’ Sandén answered. ‘I thought it might be interesting to know who.’

  ‘Shoeprints?’

  ‘In the best case. There was a little gravel and stuff.’

  It struck Sjöberg that he ought to have asked Ann-Britt Berg if she happened to remember what kind of shoes Einar had worn on his visit to Solberga on Saturday. Of course it was highly unlikely that she would have noticed, but anyway he took out his notebook from the pocket of his jacket, which was hanging behind him on the back of the chair, and made a little note about it while still on the phone to Sandén.

  ‘It may have been Einar who sat there,’ Sjöberg suggested.

  ‘You’re still clinging to your conspiracy theories,’ Sandén said with a laugh. ‘You think he could have been taken away in his own car?’

  ‘Why not?’ Sjöberg answered seriously. ‘And if that’s the case I don’t want to think about how he’s doing right now.’

  ‘But by who, Conny?’

  ‘By Christer Larsson perhaps. He apparently has a bone to pick with Einar.’

  ‘Yes, that was a dreadful story. But that man hardly seems to be in a condition to –’

  ‘We know nothing about it,’ Sjöberg interrupted. ‘He seems to have some pent-up rage inside him.’

  ‘If Eriksson murdered his wife and kids, of course he’ll be angry.’

  ‘I wish I’d been there,’ Sjöberg said with a sigh, taking a sip of beer. ‘I’m not at all satisfied with this second-hand information. I can’t piece it together.’

  ‘We’ll have to see what tomorrow holds in store,’ Sandén said philosophically.

  ‘Well, not tennis anyway,’ said Sjöberg, referring to the matches he and Sandén played every Friday morning at seven o’clock.

  ‘No, I suspected that. Seeing as you’re at the disco instead of getting some rest. Chalk one up to me.’

  ‘You can’t do that!’

  ‘Walkover, damn it! It’s a result reflecting that the mentally weaker player has made excuses to avoid playing the match. What is it you’re going to do tomorrow?’

  ‘First I’m going to visit my grandmother.’

  ‘You see!’ said Sandén triumphantly. ‘Talk about a poor reason to miss a tennis match. By the way, I didn’t know you had a grandmother.’

  ‘I didn’t either, actually,’ said Sjöberg.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I discovered it a couple of hours ago. She lives here in Arboga, so I thought I would take the opportunity to visit her since I happen to be here.’

  ‘And this knowledge you just stumbled across, in the middle of the intensive hunt for Einar Eriksson?’

  ‘Something like that. I’ll tell you when I see you. Then I thought I would drop by the police station here and ask a few questions about Einar. He worked there about thirty years ago.’

  ‘That sounds more substantial,’ said Sandén, teasing still.

  ‘That remains to be seen. See you tomorrow.’

  ‘My regards to your grandmother.’

  Early Friday Morning

  The lawn under his bare feet was cold and wet from the night dew. He did not dare look up towards the house. His head felt so frightfully heavy that he was hardly able to lift it. With an enormous effort he finally managed to turn his face up towards the light, towards the window. His cheeks were burning, despite the coolness of the night, as he let his head fall backwards, between his tense shoulders. He must also dare to open his eyes, but somehow he could not make himself look at her. He swayed in the darkness, about to lose his balance, and his eyes involuntarily opened. There she stood in the window on the upper floor – Margit, rosy and inviti
ng, with her amazing blazing red hair like a backdrop for her soft face. She was dancing for him, only a few tentative steps, with a questioning look on her face: Will you dance with me? He answered by extending his hands towards her, but the unnatural weight of his head restrained him, pulled him backwards, and everything turned black before his eyes as he fell heavily through the dark August night.

  He sat up in bed with a stifled scream. It had happened to him so many times before that even in his sleep he could prevent himself from screaming out loud. The bedding was soaked and he drew the back of his hand across his forehead and dried it off on the cover. Then he started to feel cold. He threw his arms around his bare upper body and sat shaking with cold and tension, unable to suppress a drawn-out whimper. It was more than a week since he had last been woken by the dream, but this time it had felt more real than ever. After a few minutes, when he no longer felt the pounding of his heart in his temples, he turned on the lamp fixed to the wall behind him, reached for his phone on the bedside table and entered Margit Olofsson’s mobile number.

  ‘Conny, what are you doing up at this hour?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  ‘It’s after three. What’s the matter with you? You sound out of breath.’

  ‘I suddenly got so worried.’

  ‘About me?’

  ‘Are you at work?’

  ‘Otherwise I wouldn’t have picked up. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m … on a business trip. Forgive me for calling.’

  ‘You can call whenever you want. I miss you.’

  ‘I miss you too. I got worried –’

  ‘I’m at work, Conny. There’s nothing to be worried about.’

  ‘That’s good. Forgive me … I’ll be in touch.’

  He ended the call and crept under the covers with the phone still in his hand. He did not know why he had called her. A sudden impulse, some kind of acute longing for … for what? He squeezed his eyelids together and tried to shut out the unpleasantness of the dream, all the unanswered questions.

  He wanted everything to be back to normal again, wished he had never met Margit, or that he at least had backbone enough to break off the relationship. He did not love Margit, he loved Åsa, but there was something about Margit that he needed, and he could not put his finger on what it was. He had to end it, he knew that, but then he would keep on going, making the wrong choices. What the reaction would be at home if he told them about his affair he dared not think. He had seen Margit four times since September; it was only a matter of four times. But four times was not a casual fling, it was a relationship. A sick, destructive relationship that could only lead … to hell.