Night Rounds

by Helene Tursten

  Jenny swallowed her sobs and nodded. Shakily, she stood up and tried to help her mother, but Irene was unable to stand.

  “I’ll just crawl for a bit,” Irene said.

  As quickly as she could, she made her way to the opening in the fence. It was easy to find now in the light of the blaze. She used the fence to help her get to her feet. Extremely slowly, she headed toward the bushes in the corner. They could hear police sirens coming closer. The moment the first flash of blue light appeared, Irene ducked behind the bushes and pulled Jenny after her. She wrapped her arms around her daughter to both keep her warm and comfort her. They sat stock-still.

  They heard the slam of a car door and footsteps on the asphalt.

  “Damn, it’s locked. We have to pull the alarm—Wait, is that a car from the security company? Hey there, guys! I’m glad you’re here. The fire truck will be here any second. Hurry and open the fence.”

  Now or never. The activity around the fence and the approach of the fire truck distracted the policemen and firemen just enough so that Irene and Jenny could sneak away. Irene supported herself with a hard grip on Jenny’s shoulder, and they headed together toward the tiny side street.

  Step by step they wobbled toward the car. Irene felt that they had walked for miles, even though it was hardly a hundred yards. She was no longer dizzy, but she felt weak and shaky. Her clothes clung to her body with sweat.

  Before she opened the car door, she thoroughly wiped the cell phone on her sweater and then, with all her remaining strength, threw it into a clump of rhododendrons nearby. It would lie there undiscovered for a long time, if she were lucky.

  She fumbled with the lock on her car door and sank down into the driver’s seat. She unlocked the passenger door for Jenny, whose teeth were chattering from cold. Irene took off her leather jacket and gave it to Jenny. Her daughter began to cry softly again but pulled herself together enough to put the jacket on. Her voice trembled as she said, “Mama … I thought … we were just going to put up … some posters.… Not set … a car on fire. And he … hit you! I saw it.… I screamed.…”

  Now Jenny dissolved into violent sobs. Irene started the car and carefully backed onto the main road. She began to drive away, well under the speed limit but putting as much distance as possible between themselves and the burning truck.

  Jenny blew her nose and dried her face with the cloth Irene kept in the glove compartment. Irene used the cloth to wipe the insides of the windows when they fogged up, so it was not the cleanest. Jenny’s face now looked as if she’d put on camouflage makeup. Irene decided not to mention it and asked instead, “What happened to you?”

  Jenny blew her nose again into the cloth and tried to control her voice. “When Tobi—one of the guys—realized that you were … you were my mom … he called me a traitor and slapped me on the cheek and demanded the hoodie back.”

  Irene glanced at Jenny and realized that the red in her face was not just from crying. There was a sharp mark just at the line of Jenny’s cheekbone that would certainly blossom into a black bruise.

  Irene drove back toward Frölunda Square. As she entered the square, she was happy to see that a police car and a police bus, blue lights flashing, were parked next to the ancient Volvo 240.

  IT WAS EXACTLY 10:00 P.M. when Irene and Jenny opened the door to their house. Irene was relieved that Katarina was not yet home. Irene’s rattled brain was beginning to clear and she’d started to make a plan. She turned to her daughter, who looked forlorn and frozen, and said, “Hurry up and take a shower. Use steaming-hot water. Then go right to bed and pretend you’re asleep. Do not talk to Katarina. I’ll bring you a sandwich in a minute.”

  Jenny nodded and hurried upstairs. Irene hopped into the downstairs shower. She threw her dirty clothes directly into the laundry. Then she called her colleagues in Frölunda to report her telephone stolen. She said she believed it had been stolen while she was shopping, around six that evening. Her voice didn’t tremble and the other officer promised to cut service to her number.

  Fifteen minutes later she went up to Jenny’s room with a lettuce-and-tomato sandwich on a plate and a mug of hot tea. At the last moment, she’d remembered not to add honey. Jenny was just coming out of the bathroom in her thickest flannel pajamas, the ones she’d gotten for the ski trip to Värmland. She snuggled down into her sheets as Irene sat on the edge of the bed.

  Irene said, “We won’t mention this to anyone, not even Papa or Katarina. No one at all.”

  Jenny’s eyes were red from crying, and the mark on her cheek was beginning to take on a purplish hue. She nodded without saying anything.

  “We’re going to say that you hit your face on the railing of a stairway and that gave you the bruise.” Irene considered. “You left your jacket in the trunk of that Volvo. Is there anything in the pockets that could lead to you?”

  Jenny thought for a moment and shook her head. “I had my wallet in my jeans, and my keys, too. It was an old jacket, and I’d just washed it, so I’d taken everything out of the pockets. They … they said to wear dark clothing. So we wouldn’t be seen. I thought we were going to hang … those posters.”

  “I know, sweetheart. But it’s worked out okay. Everything’s fine now. Just promise me you’ll never get in touch with them again. Do you think they might turn you in?”

  Jenny shook her head violently. “We never talk to the pigs. Never!”

  The mother pig smiled and stroked her militant daughter’s face above the bruise now turning blue.

  IRENE WAS IN bed when she heard Katarina sneak in through the front door. She heard Katarina try to muffle Sammie’s joyful barks, hissing, “Shh, Sammie. You’ll wake them all up. Stop.”

  The sounds of careful tiptoeing up the stairs. Irene closed her eyes and pretended to sleep as her daughter peeked through Irene’s half-open bedroom door. She must have put on a good act, because Katarina slowly closed the door and slipped into the bathroom. Irene glanced at the clock on her nightstand: 23:08.

  Katarina ran water from the faucet, flushed the toilet, and then crossed through the television room to go to her bedroom.

  Irene lay for a long time and stared into the darkness. It did not feel right to have secrets from the family. But right now Krister was under tremendous pressure at work. He didn’t need to know about this latest adventure. Perhaps this would be the end of Jenny’s foray into the animal-rights movement. She could be a vegan as much as she wanted, which would be enough of an irritant for her father. This just wasn’t necessary for him to know.

  A new worry began to rattle around in her brain. Why was Katarina out so late? Of course, the girls were in the last year of their basic schooling and would be fifteen next month, but coming home after 11:00 P.M. on a normal weeknight was much too late. Perhaps she hadn’t even been at Anna’s house at all. What was she up to? Did she have a boyfriend? Irene was wide awake now and imagining one scenario after the other. Had she warned the girls enough about HIV and using condoms under any circumstance? Had she talked to them about other sexually transmitted diseases? What kind of birth control would be best for fifteen-year-old girls? Finally she calmed herself down. She would have to trust her daughters a bit. They probably knew more about all this than she did. But she would make sure to have another chat with them anyway.

  Perhaps it was a good thing that Katarina had come home late. Nothing need be brought up about what had gone on this evening. They all seemed to have their own little secrets.

  • • •

  THE EVENING MOVIE on Channel 5 was over. Siv Persson felt content and even somewhat tired. The movie had been a romantic comedy, not one of those unpleasantly graphic mysteries with all those deaths and murders. Nothing to remind her of the previous week. She’d come out of that fairly well, she thought. Her anxiety was no longer so bad, and there were even stretches of time when she hardly thought about the hospital at all. Now she’d do her best to relax in the days before her cataract surgery.

  The memories
of that terrible night were still vivid, especially when she tried to fall asleep. Then the images became as sharp as those on her big-screen TV. Cold moonlight. The tall blond woman in the nurse’s uniform, her face turned away. Then the woman began to turn her face back.… Siv shut down the memory as quickly as she could.

  She got up to go into the kitchen. It was almost eleven in the evening and time to get her medicine ready. She usually put the tablet into an egg cup and brought the cup and a glass of water to her nightstand. Now that she could no longer read before sleeping, she had taken up the habit of listening to the music on the radio’s Channel 2. At midnight she’d take her medicine. Then she’d be able to sleep until eight.

  Siv Persson had just put her little white pill in the porcelain cup when she heard a soft knocking at the door. At first she doubted her ears and stood still in the kitchen with the open bottle in her hand. A moment later the knock repeated, just as quietly as before. Her heart began to thud, and she felt her fear grow. She heard the male policeman’s voice inside her head: You are now the only surviving witness. This is a dangerous killer.

  Whoever would knock on the door at this time of night? She certainly wasn’t expecting visitors.

  Her mouth was dry, and her tongue stuck to her teeth. She could hardly breathe. Screaming would not help, and she wouldn’t have been able to make a sound anyway. Who could she call for help? She hardly knew the neighbors. They’d exchange greetings when they ran into each other on the stairs, but that was it. The police? They already thought she was crazy. She walked to her door quietly and looked through the peephole.

  Empty. No one was on the other side. She almost laughed out loud from relief, but her laugh lodged in her throat. Even if she didn’t see well, there was nothing wrong with her hearing. The sound out there was barely audible, detectable only by someone whose senses were on high alert. Clothes rustling. Someone was pressed next to the wall beside her door. Someone was hoping that she’d open it.

  Her heart leaped, and her ears hummed. Don’t faint! Don’t faint! she told herself as she took deep breaths. She tried to calm down. Her door was sturdy and equipped with dead-bolt locks. She’d locked them all, even with the risk of being caught inside in case of fire. She’d been doing this ever since Marianne Svärd had been killed.

  Her pulse had calmed somewhat when she noticed that the lid of the mail slot was slowly opening. There was a slight creak. To her horror, Siv realized that the killer could probably see her ankles and her feet. She quickly moved back. Slowly, the lid closed again. Hasty footsteps away from the door clicked toward the stairs. At first Siv Persson stood paralyzed, but once she heard the footsteps in the stairwell, she rushed to the peephole.

  She caught a glimpse of a black hat with its brim turned down. Underneath the hat she could see blond hair.

  Chapter 17

  COLD RAIN TEEMED from the dark gray skies; it was a day when the curtains of downpour would never part.

  Irene stared gloomily into her first cup of coffee of the day. The injury on the back of her head was throbbing and aching, but she still slept until six-thirty.

  She felt sick as soon as she woke up. Her skull hurt, and her eyes felt filled with a shovel of sand. A badger also seemed to have crawled into her mouth and died. Judging by the smell of her breath, he’d been rotting for some time now. That’s what I get for not brushing my teeth before I went to bed, Irene condemned herself in no uncertain terms.

  Krister was asleep beside her and didn’t notice as she slowly got up. After a brief shower and a quick application of makeup, Irene went downstairs to make breakfast. The twins managed to show up by seven. Katarina appeared to swallow the story that Jenny had fallen down the stairs. She started to chatter about anything else but the events of last night, just as Irene had expected.

  Göteborgs-Posten had a huge headline on the first page: MILITANT VEGANS BURN TRUCK. Underneath that, a subhead: POLICE BELIEVE ARSONIST CAUGHT. Jenny quickly folded the paper with the first page inside.

  AT THE STATION everyone’s spirits were down. The investigative group held a brief morning prayer. Andersson announced that the technicians had found a few new leads. One of the suitcases had long blond strands of hair. The strands were fresh. They hadn’t been permed or bleached, and they were about four inches long. It was possible that they might have come from a wig. Hair samples from all blond female suspects would be collected and tested. Fingerprints, fresh and clear, had been found on the inside edge of the second suitcase. Fredrik had been given the task of collecting the samples.

  The Ghostbusters Group could pick up the suitcases if they wished. They did.

  HANNU, TOMMY, AND Irene were given four paper bags filled with the contents of the suitcases. Irene took the time to look through both of the empty suitcases before they left the building. These two were larger than Lovisa Löwander’s had been. One was made of thick leather with reinforced corners. The monogram H.L. was on the edge. Obviously Hilding Löwander’s.

  The other one was made of heavy yellow-gray cardboard. There were two wide leather ropes wrapped around it. A name tag with a yellowed celluloid window was attached to the handle. The name Tekla Olsson was faded but still legible, written in old-fashioned black-inked letters.

  Svante Malm entered the laboratory. He pointed at the paper bags and said, “I wrote their initials on the outside.” The technician was as overworked as always and disappeared out the door as fast as he’d entered.

  Two bags were marked H.L. and the other two T.O.

  “So who shall we start with?” Tommy asked as he placed the bags on his desk.

  “Tekla,” answered Irene and Hannu at the same time. They moved the two bags marked H.L. to the floor.

  Methodically, Tommy started to unpack the things Tekla Olsson had left behind.

  Uppermost was a knitted shawl in thin black wool. No moths had nibbled their way through it, which was understandable, since the unmistakable smell of mothballs spread through the room. Next Tommy unpacked a sturdy pair of walking shoes. They were made of brown leather and had low, thick heels. Also two pairs of underwear, rather large, in white cotton. Then a long white slip with embroidery around the neckline, and then a thin, armless nightdress in cotton satin and a pair of heavy black socks.

  Irene held the clothes up next to her body. “She was almost as big and tall as I am.”

  The next bag contained more interesting items: a number of envelopes and sheets of paper. At the bottom there were some thin books.

  “Let’s divide the papers between us,” Tommy suggested.

  The bag’s contents were quickly separated into three piles.

  “I’m taking my share to my office,” Hannu said. He nodded and left carrying his share of papers under his arm.

  AN HOUR LATER Hannu reappeared. Irene had finished going through her stack, and Tommy had only one more envelope to open and read.

  “These can wait,” he said. “They’re mostly rent invoices anyway.” He set the envelope down again. “Who’ll start?”

  “I can,” Irene said. She began to go through the papers in the order she’d looked at them. “I have an identification card made in the name of Tekla Viola Olsson. Born October eighteenth, 1911. On the line where the reason for wishing an identification card is given, someone has checked ‘New Employment.’ Maybe that’s when she started working at Löwander Hospital?”

  “That’s correct. I have her proof of employment,” Hannu said.

  Tommy said, “I have a number of letters from one of her friends. According to the return address, this is Anna Siwén. Her address is Rörstrandsgatan in Stockholm. Mostly she writes about her husband and her small child. In her last letter, judging by the date of October 1946, she seems to have had another child, a girl. Her first child had been a boy.

  “I also have three letters from Anna Siwén. In the earliest letter, dated April 1943, she writes: ‘Mother’s difficult bout of pneumonia is almost past. She will make it this time, too.’ ” Tommy p
laced the letter he’d just read from back in the pile and took up another one. “The next one is a short letter, which says, ‘Mother much worse. She is asking for you. You must come home.’ ”

  Tommy then picked up a third letter. He didn’t read it out loud but looked directly at his colleagues. “This is a long letter dated June first, 1943. The mother has died, and Anna writes about her deep sorrow and says things like, ‘We’ll make it through our grief together’ and ‘it’s hard to believe that our parents are gone.’ I believe that Anna is probably Tekla’s sister.”

  “She had no relatives,” Hannu reminded them in his quiet way.

  This was true, unless Anna Siwén and her entire family were gone before Tekla died. This didn’t seem probable.

  “Siv Persson said that Tekla had a cousin. This cousin was supposed to come down to Göteborg and pick up this very suitcase but never came. Perhaps Anna was Tekla’s cousin?”

  “If that’s so, they seem very close. Judging by these letters, you would assume Anna and Tekla had the same mother,” Tommy said.

  “I have the death certificates of her parents,” Hannu said. He placed the yellowed sheets of paper next to each other on the table. Tekla’s mother had died three days after giving birth to her. Tekla had been the only child. Her father had passed away two years later. He was almost twenty years older than her mother.

  “Two years old and already an orphan,” said Tommy. “Poor girl.”

  “Do you think she was placed in an orphanage?” Irene wondered.

  “I’ll track down Anna Siwén and her relatives,” Hannu said.

  Irene and Tommy were grateful to hear that. They were confident that whoever was left in Anna Siwén’s family was as good as found.