Night Rounds

by Helene Tursten

  “Tekla had good grades from the Sophia nursing school. Not as fantastic as Lovisa’s, but still fairly high. She received her nursing diploma in 1934.”

  “Did they both attend Sophia at the same time?” Tommy asked.

  “No. Tekla was seven or eight years younger than Lovisa. Since Lovisa moved back to Göteborg after she graduated to work in her father’s hospital, they couldn’t have met before Tekla started working at Löwander.”

  “And by then Hilding and Lovisa were already married,” Tommy said thoughtfully.

  “Yes, they’d been married for six years.”

  Irene waved her hand over her stack of papers. “Most of the rest of these are Christmas cards and other greetings from friends. Probably fellow students from Sophia.”

  Tommy nodded. “Same thing here. But I have two letters from a man as well. They’re love letters. Both are dated July 1942. No return address, but he signs his name as ‘Erik.’ ”

  “I have Erik’s last letter,” Hannu said. He pulled a thin envelope from his pile. “He’s calling it off. He met someone else.”

  “What is the date of the proof of employment at Löwander?” Irene asked eagerly.

  “November first, 1942.”

  “That explains how she ended up in Göteborg. The same old story. Unhappy love,” Irene stated.

  Tommy thought a minute before he said, “Wonder where she lived.”

  “At the hospital,” Hannu answered. He flipped through his papers and found the sheet he was looking for. “Appendix to the employment contract. The hospital provided her housing. One room. She had to share a kitchen and a bathroom with two other nurses. But there’s another employment contract, too.” He pulled out a thick white envelope from the bottom of his pile. “This is from 1944. Nurse Tekla achieved a new rank as head nurse. The hospital would provide a one-room apartment with kitchen and bathroom just for her.”

  “Sounds like the apartment for the doctor on duty,” Irene said, surprised.

  “Let’s have another chat with your doctor,” Tommy said.

  “He’s not my doctor.” To her embarrassment, Irene felt a blush come to her cheeks. Perhaps she was already getting high blood pressure like Superintendent Andersson?

  Tommy gave her a teasing look but changed the subject. “All her books are collections of poetry. We can put them aside and assume she liked poetry. Should we get something to eat before we go through Hilding’s bags or wait until afterward?”

  “Tekla’s things took us two hours to go through, so I vote we eat first,” Irene said.

  THEY ATE AN uninspiring potato-and-egg hash in the employee cafeteria. The red beets on the side seemed designed to remind them of a violent crime. They finished quickly and decided to take their cups of coffee back upstairs.

  They sat down around the desk and found spots for their mugs. “Let’s pack up Tekla’s things before we open Hilding’s,” Irene said. They finished their coffee and then cleared everything away.

  “Nice to see the surface again,” Tommy said. “It’s been weeks.”

  He lifted one of Hilding’s bags and was just about to unpack it when Hannu said, “Could the two of you go through these bags on your own?”

  Tommy looked at him, surprised. “Sure. What are you going to do?”

  “Find Anna Siwén or her relatives. And Tekla’s death certificate.”

  Hannu was already out the door. Tommy raised an eyebrow meaningfully toward Irene. Neither of them said anything; they weren’t about to contradict Hannu.

  These bags contained no clothes, only books, envelopes, and files. The books were textbooks with titles such as Organic Chemistry, General Anatomy, and Dictionnaire Étymologique de la Langue Grecque. All the books were bound in dry brown leather.

  “I refuse to read these books, and I’m sure it’s unnecessary. Let’s concentrate on the envelopes and files,” Irene said.

  Just as they’d done with Tekla’s things, they separated the remaining contents of the bags into two piles. They sat down at their respective desks and began to read.

  As they read, one or the other would exclaim out loud, but they’d promised not to interrupt each other until they were both finished.

  IRENE LEANED BACK in her chair. She stretched her shoulders and spine; there was the sound of cracking. Then she contemplated the papers as ideas jelled in her mind and a theory formed.

  Tommy slapped his papers with his palm. “Unbelievable! I think I’ve found something completely—”

  “Wait. Me, too. But let’s take it systematically from the beginning.”

  “Okay. I have his university transcript. Top grades. In those days his name was Hilding Svensson. Later he changed to Löwander, probably because it sounded more upper-class.”

  “Maybe. On their marriage certificate, it’s noted that the couple would take the bride’s last name. Much less common in those days.”

  “I have a letter from an old classmate or colleague. This letter congratulates Hilding on the event of his marriage, but at the same time it adds condolences on the death of his father-in-law.”

  “So Lovisa inherited the hospital but it was Hilding who took it over.”

  Irene thought about the wedding photo from 1936—tall, stylish Hilding Löwander, born Svensson, and doll-like Lovisa. Sweden in the 1930s was going through a major depression and hard times. Hilding, on the other hand, had acquired money, a powerful position, and social status via his marriage. He didn’t get a castle by marrying his princess, but he did get a hospital. A good catch for a hardworking, career-oriented doctor without a fortune of his own.

  “Three of my files concern the restoration and renovation of Löwander Hospital. There are drawings of the plumbing system, the elevators, and the operating rooms. Hilding was a stickler for order and kept everything.”

  “Which year did they start the renovation?” Irene asked.

  “In the mid-fifties. The drawings date from ’56 and ’57.”

  “So the actual renovation was probably ’58 or ’59.”

  “Yep.”

  Tommy picked up a thin blue cardboard file and waved it in the air. “This one has completely different stuff. Personal bills. It’s very interesting. Look at the index.”

  He opened the first page and held it toward Irene. In confident handwriting were alphabetized entries: under A, “Automobile”; F, “Freemasons”; G, “General.” Under T, Hilding had written “Tekla.”

  Tommy opened the T file and pointed to a bunch of receipts.

  “During the entire fall of ’46, Hilding Löwander paid Tekla’s medical expenses. There’s seven of them here. And there’s one for a fourteen-day hospital stay from January first until January fifteenth, 1947.”

  “This confirms my suspicions!” Irene found the file that had interested her. It was marked “Private” on its linen spine. It crackled as she opened it. “Rumors tell us that Lovisa Löwander wanted Tekla to leave the hospital. It was during the same time she became pregnant. My theory is that Tekla went into a deep depression. Hilding paid for her visits to the doctor and her hospital stay. We know that her depression culminated in her suicide two months later.”

  Irene flipped the pages in her file folder to find what she was looking for. She nodded to herself. “I believe that Lovisa and Hilding thought they couldn’t have children. Nothing happened for years. Perhaps Lovisa was feeling worthless and wasn’t able to demand an end to Hilding and Tekla’s relationship. Maybe her pregnancy was what gave her the power to stand up for her principles. And here’s a piece of paper dated March fifth, 1956.”

  “Read it out loud.”

  “It’s a doctor’s evaluation. Dr. Ruben Goldblum. He writes, ‘Since Lovisa Löwander suffers from Turner syndrome, there are valid reasons to consider adoption. I have known the Löwanders for many years and can bear witness to their good character and reputation. Although Lovisa Löwander is over forty, this is no reason for avoiding adoption. She is unusually intelligent, hardworking, and healthy.
Dr. Löwander is a well-respected doctor and a fine person besides. These two people would make excellent parents.”

  “Soooo … they were considering adoption.”

  “Yes.”

  “What kind of doctor was this Goldblum?”

  Irene held the sheet up to the light to help her read the blurred stamp. “It says ‘Doctor of Gynecology.’ ”

  “All right. So what is Turner syndrome?”

  “No idea.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes, there’s a rental contract for a studio apartment with kitchen on Drottninggatan. It’s made out to Lovisa Löwander for a four-month period from November ’46 to February ’47.”

  “Did she have Sverker in Stockholm?”

  “It appears so. I remember him saying that she had to have expert care during her entire pregnancy. It was quite complicated, he said.”

  Irene flipped until she found some small, thin pieces of paper. “Here we have bank receipts. At the end of each month, Hilding put two hundred crowns into an account. The first deposit is the last day of August ’46 and they end on the last day of February ’47. He didn’t need to make a payment in March because Tekla had already hanged herself.”

  “You think the money was for Tekla?”

  “Yes, it’s the right period of time. Probably he was trying to deal with a bad conscience.”

  “Did she ever have another job?”

  “No idea. Maybe she was too depressed to work.”

  They fell silent as they contemplated this new information. Finally Tommy said resolutely, “I have to know what kind of illness this Turner syndrome is. I’m going to call Agneta.”

  He picked up the receiver and quickly dialed his wife’s work number at Alingsås Hospital. She was soon on the line. Tommy said, “Hi, darling, can you help me out? I need to know what Turner syndrome is.”

  Tommy said nothing else but began to write in his notebook. Two times he lifted his eyebrows toward Irene, but he remained silent and continued writing, turning pages as he ran out of room. Irene wondered if he was in the midst of composing a medical dissertation.

  Finally, after a long time, Tommy stopped writing. He put down his pen, thanked his wife for her help, and kissed into the receiver. Once he’d hung up, he looked Irene right in the eye and said, “Hold on to your hat. Lovisa Löwander never could have had children. She didn’t have working ovaries.”

  Tommy sat down and began to read out loud from what he’d written in his notebook.

  “ ‘Turner syndrome is a chromosomal disorder that only affects girls. Normally, boys have the chromosomes XY and girls have XX, but girls who have Turner syndrome have only one chromosome, and therefore it’s noted as XO. These girls are short and do not undergo puberty. They can be treated with female hormones in order to develop breasts and the like’—but I imagine that wasn’t a possibility during the twenties, when Lovisa was young. ‘Regardless, girls with Turner syndrome are always sterile.’ ”

  “Sterile! But how—”

  She was interrupted when Hannu knocked on the door and came in. He had a number of faxes in one hand.

  “Hello. So what did you find out?” Tommy asked.

  “Lots. Anna Siwén is deceased. I reached her son Jacob Siwén. He still lives in Stockholm.”

  “Were Anna and Tekla related?” Irene asked.

  “Yes, they were cousins. Tekla’s mother died when Tekla was born, so Anna’s parents took her in. Tekla’s father started to drink heavily after the death of his wife and was unable to care for a child. He died two years later and left Tekla some money.”

  “Does Jacob Siwén remember Tekla at all?”

  “Not well. He was six years old when she died. He says that he remembers one Christmas when a lady who cried all the time stayed with them. He believes this must have been Tekla. He had some letters Tekla had written to his mother that she’d saved. He faxed them to me. And I also found a photograph of Tekla in one of the envelopes.”

  Hannu handed all the papers to Irene. The photograph was on top. Nicely printed on the back were the words “Tekla Olsson. Graduation from nursing school, June 1943.” Irene turned it over.

  In spite of the fact that the photo was faded with age, Irene saw at once something that made her head spin. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Tekla is Sverker’s mother.”

  Her two colleagues looked at her in surprise.

  “How can you say that?” Tommy asked.

  “Look at her eyes.”

  Tommy grabbed the photo and looked it up and down. “How can you tell in this black-and-white picture? Cute face, though.”

  The white cap with its black band was placed firmly on tightly pinned blond hair. Tekla’s face had regular features, and her laughing mouth revealed perfect teeth. Tekla Olsson had been quite a beauty. Although the photo was black and white, and somewhat yellowed at that, Irene imagined that her eyes were greenish blue, the color of clear seawater.

  “Lord in heaven! I really believe Sverker knows nothing about any of this. And yet we are now certain that Lovisa was sterile and never could have had a child.”

  Hannu regarded her, contemplating. “He should have known. Both his parents are deceased. It would have been on the death certificates if he were either their natural-born or adopted child.”

  Tommy and Irene both looked at Hannu. Tommy was the one who said it first. “Do you think you could track down those death certificates?”

  Hannu nodded and headed out the door.

  Irene began to search through the file marked “Personal.” She was sure she’d glanced at something behind one of the tabs. There! She pulled out the sheet of paper.

  The top of the yellow sheet stated “Delivery Record.”

  “Look at this! A delivery record for Mrs. Lovisa Löwander. January second, 1947, at Sabbatsberg Hospital in Stockholm. There’s a lot of strange jargon—‘nulliparous’ … ‘pelvimetry carried out’ … ‘shows tendency to …’ Here! A male child was born without complications at 4:35 P.M. Weight at birth, seven pounds, six ounces.” Irene looked up from the sheet. “What’s this all about? We know that Lovisa couldn’t have children. Probably Tekla Olsson and Hilding Löwander are Sverker’s parents. How can there be a delivery record under Lovisa’s name?”

  “Who wrote the record?”

  “Let’s see.… Well, what do you know. Our friend the gynecologist who wrote the adoption certification. Here he is again: Dr. Ruben Goldblum.”

  “The very good friend of Mr. and Mrs. Löwander.”

  “He must have helped them create a fake delivery record.”

  “Why?”

  “No idea. Perhaps something to do with biological versus adoptive children.”

  “Maybe. And remember, that recommendation for adoption was never sent. It’s still here.”

  They both thought a minute.

  “If Hilding was Sverker’s biological father, he wouldn’t have to adopt his own son,” Tommy said. “But Sverker could not have been Lovisa’s son. We know that. Therefore she must have adopted him. Right?”

  Irene thought again and nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. That’s what happened.”

  “Know what I think? The whole arrangement with the fake delivery record and all that talk that Lovisa was under a specialist’s care was just an attempt to hide a scandal—that Hilding had gotten another woman pregnant.”

  “Perhaps Lovisa had a deep need for a child—even an adopted one. There weren’t any alternatives in those days. Not like today, when a fertilized egg can be inserted into a sterile woman’s womb.”

  “Yes, that’s done these days.”

  “But not fifty years ago.”

  “No.”

  Hannu stuck his head into the doorway. “On the death certificate, Sverker is registered as Lovisa Löwander’s biological son.”

  “Hannu, come take a look at this.”

  Tommy held out the faked delivery record. Hannu read it without expression.

&nbs
p; “That could have worked,” he said at last. “There were no central data registries then. An unwed mother could give her child up for adoption at birth, and the new parents could take the child at once. This must have happened in Stockholm. If the adoptive mother came back to Göteborg with papers that proved she’d given birth, there’s a good chance that the church registry would accept it.”

  “Especially if the parents were upper-class and were considered respectable. And they must really have played the game well. I expect Lovisa wore a pillow under her clothes before she left Göteborg for Stockholm,” Irene said.

  “Wait a moment! Tekla. The envelope with the rent receipts.” Tommy began to shuffle papers as he looked for the right envelope. He quickly pulled out the receipts. “Here! Seven rent receipts at one hundred crowns apiece. Under the name Tekla Olsson. No address, unfortunately.”

  “Let’s take another look through these file folders and see if we can find a rental agreement,” Irene said.

  She was only able to open to the index when the phone rang.

  “Inspector Irene Huss.”

  “It’s Siv Persson. Something’s happened!”

  “What?!”

  “The killer! The blonde! Yesterday evening. Right outside my … my door!” Siv Persson stammered.

  “We’ll be right there. Don’t open the door for anyone but us, even if it’s someone you know.”

  “I promise. Thank you for coming.”

  Irene hung up and repeated the short conversation to the others. They decided to split up. Hannu and Tommy would go to Siv Persson, while Irene would stay to keep sifting through the papers and letters.

  She hardly wanted to admit it even to herself, but she was intrigued, almost excited, to poke around among these relics of the dead. But would she turn up anything relevant? She’d have to trust her intuition, and she had a hunch these clues from the past were important. The need of the murderer to kill, on top of all these secrets, told her that.

  Irene was unable to find a rental contract, so she went over the letters, which were much more interesting. There were nine of them. She arranged them according to their dates.

  The first one was from July 19, 1945. A poem was quoted as a superscription above the greeting. Following the poem, the letter read: