Women Without Mercy

by Camilla Lackberg

  ‘Help,’ she wailed. ‘Help me! He’s dead!’

  The female voice on the line was calm and authoritative.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘An accident. A terrible accident.’

  33. Victoria Brunberg

  She quickly went over to the open window and listened. Silence. She saw the silhouette of the forest beyond the fields but could see nothing moving. She checked the time. Malte was dead. He had to be dead. For a second she was struck by panic. But she forced herself to pull herself together. The meatballs were sizzling. The smell of cooking in her nostrils brought her back round. Everything should seem just as normal. She left the window open and went to the cooker. She took hold of the frying pan handle and shook it back and forth a few times. The police would turn up sooner or later. When they did, she would need to play the loving and considerate wife. How did someone react when they were told that their beloved was dead? She – of all people – ought to know. But she had no idea – she couldn’t remember the hours after Yuri had been gunned down.

  Had she spoken to anyone? Cried? Screamed? All there was inside her head were a few blurry images of her throwing herself over his body. Seeing the blood pumping out of the hole in his chest, holding his head and watching as the life drained out of him. Around her, there had been people screaming in panic, tugging and trampling all over each other to get out. He had been staring up at the ceiling. But what about her? Victoria didn’t know. She took the lid off the pan, the steam burning her wrist. Malte’s potatoes were ready, but he would never eat again. She hadn’t done anything wrong, she was a good wife who had been waiting at home with her husband’s favourite meal. The next moment she heard sirens and she rushed to the window. There were blue lights flashing in the forest.

  34. Birgitta Nilsson

  She went and waited by the bigger road. When the police car was approaching – according to her watch exactly thirteen minutes after she had called 112 – she waved at it frantically. The siren stopped. Two serious-looking police officers, a man and a woman, looked at her gravely. The man had his hands on the wheel. His window was rolled down. Birgitta pointed into the forest.

  ‘In there. He’s in there. Oh my God, it’s so awful.’

  ‘You’ll have to come with us and show us,’ the policeman said authoritatively.

  Birgitta nodded. Her heart was pounding, creating an absolute storm in her ribcage. She opened the back door and got in. They pulled off the road onto the small forest track.

  ‘Oh, thank God you came. I didn’t know what to do. I think he’s dead. It’s so horrid. Poor man, the poor man.’

  The police officers were serious and taciturn. The policewoman turned around and scrutinised her. The woman’s expression was equivocal. Did they suspect her? She asked them to stop a couple of metres before the wire and they got out. The engine of the patrol car was still running, illuminating the forest. The policewoman’s gaze was caught by the hire car.

  ‘Is that your car?’

  ‘Yes. It’s my car. I …’

  ‘It’s okay. Show us where.’

  Birgitta went ahead of them into the forest.

  ‘There he is, the poor thing. I can’t understand – what could have happened?’

  The police officers went up to the man and whispered to each other. The woman put her hand to her shoulder and said something into her radio. Birgitta looked around nervously into the darkness. It felt ominous. She was guilty of murder and right now she was standing here lying to two police officers. But in their eyes she was just a confused primary school teacher. A witness who had done her civic duty and called the police.

  ‘You can go back and wait by the car.’

  It was the policewoman again.

  ‘Can I leave?’

  ‘No, we want to talk to you. I’ll come over in a little while.’

  While she waited, she tried once again to find the car keys but without any joy. Her mobile phone battery level was glowing red. There wasn’t much juice left. She opened the back door and got in without closing it behind her. She left her feet resting on the gravel outside the car.

  The policewoman came walking towards her, followed by the policeman. Birgitta put her head in her hands and leaned forward. They stopped in front of her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ the man asked.

  She liked him better; he seemed softer and less on his guard than his colleague.

  She nodded and theatrically gulped a few times.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he asked, crouching in front of her.

  ‘It’s … Mona.’

  ‘Your car … the number plates have been removed and the window’s smashed.’

  ‘I know,’ Birgitta whispered.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘I had a break in earlier today. In Sala.’

  She looked up. The policewoman was shining her torch towards the tree where Birgitta had strung up the wire.

  ‘Olaf, look at this,’ she said, heading for the tree. ‘It’s a wire. A fucking wire.’

  The policeman got up, got out his gloves and put them on. They leaned in and examined the wire before returning to Birgitta. She made an effort to look dumbfounded.

  ‘So it wasn’t an accident?’ she whispered. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

  The police exchanged a look before the policewoman spoke.

  ‘We don’t know that. What did they take?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘During the car break in.’

  ‘My handbag and the number plates.’

  The policeman went over to the hire car and shone his torch through the window. The light danced on the car for a while before he returned. Birgitta tried to read his facial expression. Was there something that didn’t add up? Did they suspect her?

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘Did you report the break in to the police?’

  Birgitta shook her head, trying hard to look unhappy.

  ‘No, not yet. I was going to tonight when I got home.’

  ‘Do you live nearby?’

  ‘No, in Stockholm. I was in Sala to visit my sister Gunilla. She’s sick – in hospital. And it was there – the hospital that is – that they struck. I just wanted to get home.’

  The policeman’s gaze softened slightly and he put a hand on her shoulder. She looked up and smiled at him.

  ‘What are you doing here then? If you were heading for Stockholm?’

  ‘I took a wrong turning.’

  ‘For twenty kilometres?’

  ‘I’ve never had much of a sense of direction, I’m pretty scatter-brained. I was going to stop in Heby for a bite to eat, but I missed it and then I didn’t dare turn on this narrow lane. I pulled in here – in the forest – to try and turn around. And it was then that it happened.’

  There was a crackle on the police radios and they each held up a hand in a synchronised move. They listened. Birgitta wiped her sweaty palms on her trousers.

  ‘So you saw the accident?’

  ‘No, but I heard a dreadful sound. I have to say I was terrified, but I thought someone might have got into trouble, so I got out of the car and that was when I found him.’

  ‘Have you got any ID?’ the policewoman asked.

  Was that a hint of suspicion on her face? Birgitta shook her head – was it worth trying to squeeze a few tears out?

  ‘It was in my handbag that they stole,’ she said disconsolately. ‘I just want to go home to my husband. What a day! What an awful day. I don’t know how I’m going to teach those poor kids tomorrow. Perhaps I’ll have to call in sick. I’m a teacher, you see.’

  ‘But have you …’

  The policeman put a hand on his colleague’s arm.

  ‘Excuse us for a moment.’

  They walked a short distance away. Birgitta couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they seemed to be in disagreement. She glanced towards the hire car. The number plates were wedged under the chassis. She hadn’t dared throw them into the forest in case
they were found when day broke. Her handbag and the spray paint were under the front seat. If they searched her car, they would soon realise she had put up the wire. The officers came back again. The policeman kicked something. He bent down and picked up something between his thumb and forefinger.

  They were too far away for her to see what it was.

  ‘I think these must be yours,’ he said, coming towards her.

  Birgitta wanted to vomit – what on earth had they found? She squinted towards him. There was a flash of metal in his hand. The car keys.

  ‘I must have … oh my God. Thank you, officer. I must have dropped them when I went to wait for you on the road.’

  He handed over the keys.

  ‘Just leave us your name and phone number and you can go,’ he said with a smile. The policewoman looked unhappy, standing there with her arms crossed a short distance away.

  Birgitta gave them the name of her childhood best friend Mona. She took her leave. The policeman escorted her to the car.

  ‘Will you be all right getting home?’ he said before she shut the door.

  ‘Yes, I should think so. I’ll drive slowly. Thank you, officer.’

  She closed the door and put the keys in the ignition. The car started up and Birgitta got ready to pull away. But at that moment there was a tap on the window. She jumped and fumbled with the button to lower it.

  ‘Don’t forget to report the break-in,’ the policeman said.

  35. Victoria Brunberg

  There was a ring at the doorbell. Victoria checked the dinner preparations one last time and then wiped her hands on the apron she had tied around herself in honour of the day.

  She opened the door and made an effort to seem surprised. The two police officers looked at her grimly.

  ‘Hello,’ she said haltingly.

  ‘May we come in?’

  Victoria nodded and stepped to one side. The policeman pulled the door shut behind him and introduced himself as Olof Lönn. He pointed to his female colleague and said:

  ‘This is my colleague Lisa Svensson.’

  Victoria noticed that they were glancing over her shoulder towards the kitchen where dinner was on the table. Olof Lönn took off his gloves and ran a finger over them. He hesitated for a while. Victoria felt sorry for him.

  ‘There’s been an accident nearby. The victim is a man, Malte Brunberg.’

  Victoria shivered. She stared at him. Olof Lönn swallowed and shook his head.

  ‘Is he going to make it? Will Malte be okay?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. He’s dead.’

  ‘Are you sure it’s Malte?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We found his driver’s licence. And the motorbike is his.’

  ‘Is it okay … I mean … Can I sit down?’ Victoria asked, gesturing towards the kitchen table.

  While Olof Lönn held her by the arm and gently helped her to a chair, his colleague filled a glass with water and set it down in front of Victoria. She took a few hesitant sips.

  ‘What happened?’

  The police officers exchanged looks, then Olof Lönn spoke again.

  ‘We’re not quite sure. Do you know whether there’s anyone – a neighbour perhaps – who puts up wires?’

  ‘Wires?’

  ‘Yes, cable. Between the trees.’

  Victoria put her hands to her mouth.

  Then she explained: around a week ago, Malte had bought a wire from a hardware store. He’d been sick of the youths who sometimes sped down the tiny forest track. She had tried to dissuade him and said that someone might get hurt. It was probably illegal, she’d said. But Malte had refused to listen.

  ‘Why did he take the motorbike this morning? The weather isn’t exactly ideal.’

  Victoria looked up. It was the first time Lisa Svensson had opened her mouth.

  ‘I don’t know. He loved that motorbike. Even when he was only going to work. I told him so often that he should drive carefully. Especially now that it’s cold. But Malte didn’t listen.’

  A tear trickled down from the corner of Victoria’s eye.

  ‘But if he had put the wire up earlier this week or yesterday, surely he would have had to take it down when he went to work this morning?’

  Victoria pretended to think for a while.

  ‘The mailbox. It’s on the main road. Malte usually picked up the mail on his way to work. He must have gone that way this morning.’

  She reached for a napkin.

  36. Ingrid Steen

  Ingrid Steen looked around, put the keys in the door and breathed a sigh of relief when they fitted. She went into the foyer and studied the sign with the list of surnames. Julia Wallberg lived on the top floor – the fifth floor. Ingrid sighed. She didn’t like lifts. But that couldn’t be helped; she would have to hurry. Lately she had been forced to do things she didn’t like at all.

  She got into the lift and pressed the button. Tommy’s gloves were far too large, but she knew she would have to keep them on. Fibres or even the odd strand of hair being found in Julia’s apartment could be explained away by the affair. But a fingerprint was, on the other hand, completely out of the question. No.

  What she was about to do went beyond her wildest fantasies. To start with, her revenge had only been aimed at Tommy. It was as if her rage grew with each passing day. And as that rage swelled, so her own imagination expanded.

  She got off at the top floor and noted it was quiet. Five minutes. No longer. Ingrid carefully opened the letterbox and peered through it. Dark. She straightened up and unlocked the door and went inside the apartment. Unfamiliar smells hit her nose. For a second she hesitated. Perhaps she should turn back, leave and be satisfied with what was waiting for Tommy …

  Ingrid turned around to leave the apartment, but as she did so her eye was caught by the coat hooks. There was one of Tommy’s jackets.

  ‘You bastard,’ she muttered.

  She went into the apartment. The parquet creaked. The living room faced towards the water, while across the channel loomed Liljeholmen. The walls were decorated with black-and-white fashion photographs. Marilyn Monroe seemed to be Julia’s favourite subject. The blonde was smiling. The blonde was smoking. The blonde was looking horny. ‘So predictable,’ Ingrid murmured. ‘I’m disappointed in you, Julia. I thought you were more exciting than that.’

  She opened the bedroom door. There was a large bed with a substantial headboard. She was immediately overcome by images of what Tommy and Julia got up to there. Ingrid quickly closed the door and returned to the living room. She would need to find somewhere that Julia didn’t check regularly. Ingrid went over to the TV unit and opened it. There were a few magazines and a DVR. Two photo albums. She resisted the temptation to leaf through the albums, reminding herself of what she had come to do. The TV unit would have to do. Ingrid reached her hand into her handbag and pulled out a small bag. Five grams of cocaine. She hid the bag under the magazines at the back of the unit before changing her mind. She turned around, found the bathroom and went in. Standing in a glass by the sink there were two toothbrushes. She grabbed them and rubbed the bristles against the bag. She couldn’t magic fingerprints out of thin air, but plenty of DNA ought to do the trick.

  The fall of Julia was just a bonus. She could deal with her later, once Tommy was dead. She left the little bag on the side, spun around and grabbed the toilet brush. Ingrid carefully rubbed the toothbrushes against it. ‘No kisses for you for a while, Tommy boy,’ she said, putting the toothbrushes back and then returning to the living room.

  Getting onto the metro at Hornstull, she messaged Tommy.

  You dropped your keys on the driveway.

  37. Victoria Brunberg

  The train pulled into Stockholm Central. Victoria Brunberg had only been to Stockholm once – with Malte, in their earliest days together. She enjoyed being absorbed into the anonymity of the crowds as she got off the train. She was no mail-order bride, she was no one at all. Just one of thousands of people.

  She had
two days. First she needed to buy a suitable dress – according to the instructions in the letter, she would have to go to a cocktail party on a boat. Her client had allocated her three thousand kronor for this purpose. It wasn’t the same level as the clothes that Yuri used to spoil her with, but Victoria was longing to dress up and make herself beautiful after the years with Malte. She stopped in front of a taxi sign and headed left towards the rows of waiting cars.

  The sky was light blue, a weak sun shining without any warmth.

  A driver waved her over right away, put her bag in the boot and held the rear door open for her. Victoria got in.

  ‘Grand Hotel, please,’ she said.

  He confirmed this with a nod and pulled away.

  Of the man Victoria was going to kill she knew little, but the woman who had signed his death sentence probably had her reasons – just as she had with Malte. Victoria was on the guest list for the party. Not in her own name, but as Natasha Svanberg. The instructions on what she should do then were set out in detail.

  Victoria took out the small passport photo of the man. He was smiling slightly. He had bright, kind eyes and a chiselled jawline. Judging by appearances, he was neither cruel nor evil, but she of all people knew that a photo could hide a man’s true nature.

  If Victoria could share the feeling of freedom she’d experienced herself since Malte’s death, then she would more than happily follow the instructions in the letter.

  The car pulled up in front of a beautiful building by the water. Across the water, Victoria recognised the royal palace. She paid, and the driver opened the boot. Even before her bag had touched the ground, a man in livery hurried to her side and offered to take it.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Victoria with a smile.

  ‘After you,’ the man said formally.

  38. Ingrid Steen

  Tommy was snoring beside her. Ingrid reflected that it was their last night together. She felt, surprisingly enough, indifferent. No regrets, no qualms of conscience. Inside her was nothing but indifference. Perhaps it was biological: the man she had chosen to reproduce with because he would defend her and their mutual offspring had betrayed her. Left them unprotected.