Summertime Death mf-2

by Mons Kallentoft

  ‘Evidently her mother accused her step-father of abusing her, but the case never got anywhere. She must have been twelve at the time, if these dates are right.’

  ‘Not surprising,’ Malin says. ‘Just think, this sort of crap always comes up.’ Then Malin thinks about what Viveka Crafoord said: that the perpetrator could well have been the victim of abuse. Isn’t that always the case? One way or another. That one act of abuse leads to another. The trail goes as far back through history as human life itself.

  ‘OK, but we can’t question her again because of that,’ Sven says. ‘We’ve leaned on her enough as it is, and there are almost as many sordid backgrounds and family histories as there are people.’

  Karim looks focused, and Malin can see the thoughts racing through his head. The image of his own father must be in there, committing suicide in his despair at his failure to find a place in Swedish society, the father who died bitter in a way that you, Karim, would never allow yourself to be, and Malin thinks of the cliché her mother always used to trot out at the slightest failure or disappointment: ‘It’s not what happens that matters, it’s how you deal with it.’

  Then the words of the philosopher Emile Cioran come to mind: ‘Nothing reveals the vulgar man better than his refusal to be disappointed.’

  Are you the most disappointed person in the world, Mum?

  Tenerife.

  But back to the present.

  ‘Hypnosis,’ Malin says. ‘I’d like to question Josefin Davidsson under hypnosis,’ and now it’s Zeke’s turn to look angry, questioning: What’s this? I knew you were thinking about it, but we could have discussed it first.

  ‘We all know that it’s possible to remember things under hypnosis that you don’t otherwise remember. I’m friends with Viveka Crafoord, the psychoanalyst, and she’s offered to conduct an interview with Josefin under hypnosis, free of charge.’

  Waldemar Ekenberg laughs.

  ‘Well,’ he goes on to say, ‘sounds like a good idea.’

  ‘This mustn’t get out to the press. They’ll say that we’re desperate,’ Karim says. ‘And we don’t want that.’

  ‘Discretion is assured,’ Malin says. ‘Viveka works under an oath of confidentiality.’

  Zeke has got over his sudden annoyance.

  ‘Will her parents agree?’

  ‘We don’t know until we ask.’

  ‘And Josefin?’

  ‘Ditto.’

  ‘If it happens, and if it works, it could help us move forward,’ Sven says.

  ‘It could be the breakthrough we need,’ Karim adds.

  ‘So what are we waiting for?’ Waldemar asks. ‘Get the girl to the fortune-teller!’

  And Malin doesn’t know what to say, can’t decide if the hard-case from Mjölby is joking or means what he says. A joke to smooth things over: ‘Hocus-pocus,’ Malin says, getting up from her chair. ‘OK, I’m going to go and stick some pins in a voodoo doll, Waldemar, so watch out.’

  Ekenberg comes over to her desk after the meeting.

  What does he want? Malin wonders.

  ‘Fors,’ he says, ‘you look happy.’

  ‘Happy?’

  ‘Yes, you know, like you’ve just been fucked. Where do you go if you want to get a fuck in this town?’

  And once again Malin doesn’t know what to say, or do, hasn’t felt so surprised since she was three years old and took a drink from a cup of hot water, thinking it was juice.

  Shall I punch him on the chin?

  Then she pulls herself together.

  ‘You sack of shit. There isn’t a woman in this city who’d touch you even with gloves on. Get it?’

  Ekenberg was already on his way out.

  Grinning to himself, Malin thinks.

  Don’t let yourself be provoked, we’ve got more important things to deal with.

  But he was right.

  She could still feel Daniel Högfeldt inside her.

  Would like to suppress the smile spreading over her lips.

  42

  ‘That’s absolutely out of the question.’

  Josefin Davidsson’s father, Ulf, is sitting on the burgundy sofa in the living room of the row-house in Lambohov, moving his toes anxiously back and forth over the mainly pink rug. His suntanned face is round, his hair starting to thin and his wide nose is peeling.

  ‘Hypnosis,’ he goes on. ‘You read about people getting stuck like that. And Josefin needs to rest.’

  His wife Birgitta, sitting beside him on the sofa, is more hesitant, Malin thinks. She’s evidently trying to read the situation, trying to follow her husband so as not to annoy him. Their roles are clearer now than the first time she met them at the hospital. They declined the offer of protection for Josefin, saying she needed peace and quiet more than anything else. Birgitta Davidsson is a neat little woman in a blue floral dress. So neat that she dissolves in your khaki-clad presence, Ulf. Doesn’t she?

  Zeke from his seat beside Malin: ‘The psychoanalyst who would conduct the hypnosis, Viveka Crafoord, is very experienced.’

  ‘But do we really want Josefin to remember?’

  Ulf Davidsson’s words less adamant now.

  Malin pauses, answers no in her mind, it would be just as well for your daughter if she didn’t remember, she’ll be fine without any conscious memory of what happened. But she says: ‘It’s vitally important for the investigation. Two girls have been murdered, and we have no witnesses. We need all the help we can get.’

  ‘And you’re sure it’s the same man?’

  ‘Absolutely certain,’ Zeke replies.

  ‘It doesn’t feel right,’ Ulf Davidsson says. ‘Too risky.’

  ‘You’re right, darling,’ Birgitta Davidsson says. ‘Who knows how she might feel if she could remember?’

  ‘We have no idea when the murderer is going to strike again,’ Zeke says. ‘But sooner or later it will happen. So asking these questions under hypnosis is absolutely . . .’

  Zeke is interrupted by a thin but clear voice from upstairs.

  ‘Isn’t anyone going to ask me? Ask me what I want?’

  A look of irritation crosses Ulf Davidsson’s face.

  ‘We’re your parents. We’ll decide what’s best for you.’

  ‘So you’d like to be questioned under hypnosis?’

  Josefin Davidsson comes downstairs and sits in an armchair, the white bandages covering her wounds a sharp contrast to her bright red summer dress.

  ‘I would.’

  ‘You . . .’

  ‘It’s not going to happen.’

  ‘But Dad, I . . .’

  ‘Be quiet.’

  And the room falls still, the only sound the vibration of a bumblebee’s wings as it tries to get out through an open window, but keeps missing, again and again, flying into the glass instead with a short bumping sound each time.

  ‘We’re trying to find . . .’

  ‘I know what you’re trying to find. The devil himself could be out there for all I care, because you’ll have to find him without upsetting my daughter more than is absolutely necessary.’

  ‘You’re such a damn hypocrite, Dad,’ Josefin says. ‘When I told you that you could probably get compassionate leave to be here with me, you both took it. And went straight off to the golf course.’

  ‘Josefin!’ her mother cries. ‘That’s enough!’

  ‘I’m begging you,’ Malin says.

  ‘Me too, Dad. I’m going to do it, no matter what you want.’

  In the space of a second Ulf Davidsson suddenly looks fifteen years older, as if he’s staked out any number of principles and opinions over the years, but has always had to back down in the end.

  ‘It’s the right thing to do, Dad. And if I remember something that helps them catch the killer, you’ll be a big hero.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re asking for,’ Ulf Davidsson says to his daughter. The look in his eyes is clear, but sad. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking for. But OK. If hypnosis is what you want,
hypnosis is what you’ll get.’

  On the way back to the car park.

  The sun like the ice-blue core of a gas flame in the sky, the sort of light that sunglasses have no effect against. The ground seems to be sweating, even though it’s so dry Malin imagines it could spontaneously combust. There’s also the smell of the forest fires, tickling her nose and making her whole being feel slightly anxious. Phrases of gratitude in the house they’ve just left.

  ‘Thanks. You’re doing the right thing.’

  Reassurance: ‘It isn’t dangerous. It will be good for her to remember.’

  Practicalities: ‘We’ll be in touch when I’ve spoken to Viveka Crafoord. Hopefully this evening. Tomorrow at the latest. We’ll be in touch, make sure we can contact you.’

  And now Viveka on the other end of the line, in her house out in Svartmåla.

  ‘I’m just back from a dip in the lake.’

  Daniel Högfeldt’s body.

  The waters of Stora Rängen.

  The key is in the past.

  ‘She’s agreed to be hypnotised. And her parents have given their consent.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Whenever suits you.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Same thing.’

  ‘How about seven o’clock this evening in my clinic?’

  ‘Perfect. As long as nothing else comes up.’

  Nathalie Falck is standing with a rake in her hand, its spray of teeth like a dying treetop against the blue summer sky, almost white with the heat.

  They’re standing among the graves at the far end of the cemetery, from where they can see the roof of the supermarket in Valla, and hear the cars out on the main road, forcing their way through the dense air.

  ‘I use a grass rake for the gravel,’ Nathalie says. ‘It’s easier than using the other sort.’

  ‘It’s looking good,’ Malin said, gesturing at the gravel path up towards the chapel where they hold the burial services. ‘You’re very conscientious.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it’s unusual to be conscientious.’

  Zeke silent by Malin’s side, in the shade of an old oak, the flowers on most of the graves scorched and crisp, prematurely withered in the cruel heat.

  ‘I can see you looking at the flowers. But we can’t water them fast enough. Not in this heat.’

  Malin nods.

  ‘It is hot,’ she says. Then she asks: ‘You haven’t told us everything, have you?’

  ‘How can you know that?’

  ‘Just a gut instinct. Two girls of your age are dead, murdered, so it’s time to talk.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything to tell you.’

  ‘Yes you have,’ Malin says. ‘We both know that.’

  Nathalie Falck shakes her head lightly.

  ‘No.’

  ‘OK,’ Zeke says. ‘What were you doing on the night between Monday and Tuesday?’

  ‘I was at home. Mum and Dad can tell you.’

  ‘Two girls,’ Malin says. ‘Theresa. Aren’t you upset that she’s dead?’

  Nathalie Falck shrugs her shoulders, but Malin can see her eyes slowly fill with tears. Then she pulls herself together.

  ‘OK,’ she says.

  ‘OK, what?’ Zeke says, and Malin can feel him trying not to sound angry and aggressive.

  ‘Calm down, Zeke. Let her tell us.’

  Nathalie Falck takes a few steps into the shade before sitting down on the grass by the oak tree.

  ‘I read in the paper that you searched Lollo Svensson’s house. But the article didn’t say everything. You ought to know that I had a thing with her, well, I went with her, just like Theresa did. I presume that’s what you want to know, if you didn’t already know.’

  Malin and Zeke are staring at each other.

  So maybe that was what Theresa was doing when she said she was with Peter Sköld? Is that what he wouldn’t tell them?

  Louise ‘Lollo’ Svensson.

  So, you’re back in the case again.

  And are you Lovelygirl as well?

  ‘Is Louise Svensson the same person as Lovelygirl on Theresa’s Facebook page?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  Lollo.

  A hot fog drifting into the meandering byways of the case, taking shape, disappearing, sweeping on and taking shape again.

  A shadow.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Zeke says.

  ‘And it didn’t occur to you that we ought to know this?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘But you still . . .’ Malin stifles her words, swearing inwardly. All this silence they have to fight against, all this life that has to be kept secret, to elevate it somehow, as if all this damn silence were holy water.

  ‘But now you know,’ Nathalie Falck says with a smile. ‘I just didn’t think it was anything to do with you. It’s private.’

  ‘How do you mean, went with her?’

  ‘Had sex with her out at her farm. She’d give you money. And in case you’re wondering about Peter Sköld, he’s got a boyfriend in Söderköping. He was spending time with him whenever he said he was with Theresa. And Theresa was with me instead.’

  ‘Were you and Theresa a couple?’

  ‘No. Not my type.’

  Not ‘your type’, Malin thinks.

  ‘We had sex a few times, every now and then,’ Nathalie Falck says. ‘But only as friends.’

  Zeke’s words to Sven Sjöman: ‘Get a patrol car out to Lollo Svensson’s farm outside Rimforsa, and bring her in for questioning straight away. She had a sexual relationship with Theresa Eckeved.’

  Pause.

  The hot, clammy interior of the car as he opens the door in the cemetery car park.

  ‘I know, Sven. We can always hold her on corruption of a minor.’

  Don’t be too hard on her now.

  See her as the person she really is.

  Lollo, there’s nothing wrong with her. Unless perhaps there is? Something wrong with her?

  I remember her hands on my skin, the way she gave me money afterwards, the taste of her swollen, moist crotch, and her words, whispering: Theresa, Theresa, Theresa, and the words turned to cotton wool among the flowery sheets, to the forest outside her window, to the dark expanse of the sky adorned with hopeful stars.

  And she gave in to my tongue, and I had nothing against that, because I had so much to learn about the body that I no longer have.

  Angels.

  Like me, like Sofia.

  Are we the eternal virgins?

  Is she Lovelygirl, Malin?

  Or is Slavenca Lovelygirl?

  You’ll have to work that out on your own.

  So listen to Lollo, try to understand why she does what she does, why she is the way that she is.

  I can feel your excitement, Malin.

  The way you think you’ve caught a scent of the truth.

  Imagining that it will help you.

  That hope is driving us both, isn’t it?

  43

  Waldemar Ekenberg is sitting at his temporary desk in the Crime Unit’s open-plan office. His longs legs, clad in green linen, are up on the desk and he’s drumming a pen against the arm of his office chair. Opposite him Per Sundsten is randomly surfing various news websites and bringing himself up to date with what’s being written about their murders.

  Expressen: City of Terror.

  Aftonbladet: What the Killer is Like.

  Dagens Nyheter: A Swedish Serial Killer?

  The Östgöta Correspondent: The Linköping Killer: Man or Woman?

  He skims the articles, nothing new, nothing they don’t already know, interviews with people in the city, young girls swimming at Tinnis.

  We’re scared. We don’t go out at night.

  There’s a really weird atmosphere in the city.

  I’ve got a fourteen-year-old daughter. I worry whenever she goes out.

  Per lets the screensaver click in on his laptop, pictures of a beach in Thailand.

  God, what wouldn’t I give to
be there now? At that moment he sees Sven Sjöman heading towards their desks, from a distance it looks as though he’s shuddering as he makes his way through the office. Am I going to end up like that? Per thinks: so tired, and sort of slow? Sven’s body might be tired, but the look in his eyes is all the more alert, and Per can see that Sven has something important for them.

  Two strangers, Sven thinks as he heads towards Per and Waldemar’s desks. Outsiders, even though they belong to the same force. The man of the future and the brute, the rumours that precede them both, Ekenberg a rotten egg who’s been lucky enough to get away with it.

  Sven has seen a lot of men like Ekenberg during his years in the police. He’s always tried to keep away from them, or, as a senior officer, to get rid of them.

  The ends do not justify the means.

  Unless perhaps they do? In a case like this?

  Sven recalls the girl’s body in the Railway Park. Her eyes white and blind, like a sightless deer, polished stones that have lost their shine, their beauty.

  Sven stops at their desks, two pairs of eyes staring at him, one pair, Per’s, still seem to be somewhere else, but Waldemar’s exude concentration on the task at hand.

  ‘We’ve heard from Telia. The call has been localised to Mariavägen in Wimanshäll. There’s a Suliman Hajif living there, he cropped up alongside Karami in the gang rape case last winter, although he was never a suspect. The likelihood is that the two of them have fallen out somehow and Suliman just wants to make life difficult for Karami.’

  The two outsiders have stood up.

  ‘We’re on our way,’ Waldemar says, and Sven sees his eyes turn black, the pupils expanding in anticipation of something that Sven would prefer not to express in words.

  ‘Take it easy now. Be careful.’

  Per nods.

  ‘Who knows,’ he says. ‘We might be getting close.’

  Ten minutes later they pull up on Mariavägen, outside a small, white block of flats, two storeys surrounded by a garden with unkempt apple trees.

  The heat and light pounce on them as they get out of the car.

  ‘Sunglasses on,’ Waldemar grins.

  The air conditioning just had time to get going, turned up to maximum, and now a difference in temperature of some twenty-five degrees lets the heat get a stranglehold on them, driven on by the light.