Josefin, on the other hand, all she had to do was snap her fingers and spread her legs a little for all and sundry to come running. She wasn’t even good-looking. Apart from being thin, too thin to be honest, she had nothing. She barely even had a hairdo. And yet, there she was with yet another memory between her legs, pretending to be ill.
It was so like her not to give a toss that Tuesdays were park days and the whole group was off to the park, even though just two hours ago it had been raining so hard she’d been convinced it would be on the news. The only reason they hadn’t cancelled and played indoor games instead was the deluge of displeasure they’d get from the parents who would inevitably jump down her throat at the next parent – teacher meeting.
And of course all the children were present. Even Rigmor, who had such a bad cold her dried-up snot would fit in brilliantly as a prop in The Exorcist. They should have wiped it a long time ago. Or rather, someone should have wiped it, but that someone apparently felt she should be the one to do it.
As though she hadn’t already put on more than her fair share of the rain clothes, made a packed lunch for Asta whose parents had, as usual, chosen to forget, and made sure they packed the first-aid kit, which had already come in useful when Edvin tripped and caught himself with his hands. My God, he’d howled. No one could scream as much over as little as that helicoptered brat.
No, she was at the end of her tether. The pain in her knees rivalled her heel spur, and every part of her body was exhausted. Exhausted from taking care of everyone’s children but her own. Exhausted from all the screaming and from never having an uninterrupted adult conversation.
She couldn’t even think about tutelage. Sure, it was nice on paper, ever so fancy and sounded great in the sales pitch when parents came in for tours. In reality, it was often about sheer survival. Getting through the day without too many disasters.
It was easier said than done when the children refused to stay in one place for longer than two seconds. They dashed around like crazed squirrels, screaming, completely impossible to keep an eye on. Especially here at the Slottshagen playground, where they could easily wander off into the rest of the park.
At least the man with the backpack was leaving. One reason for cheer. He’d probably noticed she was watching him and felt innocently accused. But she couldn’t care less. Innocent or not, there was no reason for him to hang around the playground when the whole park was full of benches.
She turned to the sun, which had just found an opening between the clouds, and felt its warmth on her face. It might be a really nice day after all.
‘Angela! Siri needs to go to the bathroom.’
She turned around and saw Harald with Siri in his arms.
‘Do you want to take her or should I?’ he continued, pushing his fringe out of his eyes.
Harald, who she didn’t know what to make of, even though they’d worked together for almost a year and a half. He was unquestionably amazing in every way. Enthusiastic and so full of energy he had to round off every shift with a trip to the gym. The children adored him and even though he didn’t have any formal training, there was no denying he was an enormous asset. Even so, she felt unsure about him.
‘It’s all right,’ she said and started walking towards them. ‘I’ll do it.’
She couldn’t help it. It didn’t matter how politically correct you were. How happily you embraced the ideas of gender equality and eventual world peace. You just couldn’t deny that Harald was a man and that with very few exceptions, child molesters were men.
‘No, not Angela,’ howled Siri, who had disliked her since her first day. ‘Harald help me.’ On the other hand, she’d never liked Siri either.
‘I mean, really, I’m fine doing it.’ Harald hoisted the girl up on his shoulders as though the overfed little lump weighed nothing at all.
‘No, I’ll take her. I have to go myself anyway,’ she lied, and she pulled the protesting Siri down from Harald’s shoulders.
No one could tell her she didn’t know what she was talking about. Not after what happened with Krister. And she’d worked with that man for more than five years. Five years, during which he’d been the children’s favourite, always happy to pull out his guitar and sing a song or read a book aloud with intense feeling, unless, of course, he made up his own story. He of all people had done things to the children that were so horrible she still wasn’t over it.
Some of her co-workers had even told her in confidence they couldn’t help suspecting him of the unthinkable. And every time she’d defended him, on occasion taking it so far she’d ended up in a conflict situation with the co-worker in question.
Never again, she’d promised herself after that rude awakening. Never again would she stick her head in the sand without a clue about what the children were suffering. That was why she never left Harald alone with the children if she could help it. Without making a big deal of it, she always made sure she or someone else on the team was present, too.
Harald obviously wanted to know what her problem was and had gone so far as to ask her bluntly in one of their staff meetings. But she had stubbornly denied it had anything to do with him being a man. Instead, she’d referred to her interpretation of the curriculum, which said the children should always be supervised by at least one fully trained teacher, and until he was fully trained, there wasn’t much she could do about it.
As expected, Siri refused to pee. To avoid an accident on the playground, she forced her to stay on the loo until she couldn’t hold it any longer and eventually emptied her bladder. She couldn’t say why, but a nagging feeling of having made the wrong decision was growing stronger with every step she took on their way back towards the playground.
To make matters worse, she couldn’t hurry back. Of all the children she’d looked after over the years, Siri was the only one she’d never been able to pick up without scratching and loud protests. So they walked on at a snail’s pace.
An eternity later, with her heart pounding in her ears, they passed through the leafy archway. Siri immediately let go of her hand and scampered off to play with Quentin and Nova, who’d collected a pile of stones and were now busy arranging them in a straight line.
She saw Harald playing with Samuel, Ruben, Lisen and Sonja at the other end of the playground, and Ebba, Alva, Niki and Victor were on the big swing, waiting for a push. She spotted Vincent’s bright ginger mop of hair on its way across the bridge to the miniature copy of Helsingborg’s medieval tower, Kärnan, to go on the slide. And Melvin was in the sandpit.
At first glance, everything seemed calm, almost calmer than usual. And yet, every alarm bell in her head was ringing so loudly it was difficult to think.
The bench where the man with the backpack had sat was now occupied by two mothers with buggies that must’ve cost the equivalent of providing for an entire African village. But who wasn’t there? Who was missing? It was someone, she was sure of it. Every cell in her body was screaming at her that something was about to go terribly wrong.
Ester. Was Ester the one she hadn’t seen? She almost always played with Lisen, but right now Lisen was with Sonja, waiting for Harald to tag Ruben and Samuel. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Not again, she thought, spinning around one more time.
‘Harald,’ she called out, in a voice that had already given up hope. ‘Have you seen Ester?’
‘Ester?’ Harald replied, scanning the playground with a bewildered look on his face.
‘Yes, Ester Landgren with the yellow jacket and the blue tights,’ she said, even though she was sure he knew.
‘She was playing tag and was going to run and hide.’
‘Where, Harald?’ she said, grabbing hold of his jacket. ‘Where did she run and hide?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘No, I had my eyes closed and was counting to twenty. But I’m sure she’s here somewhere.’
‘She was here somewhere! Where she is now, we apparently have no idea!’
‘The tower. Did you check the tower? Sometimes they hide in there.’
No, she hadn’t checked the tower, and on her way there, she wasn’t even able to try to hope they’d find the little girl. She’d already given up and could only watch as one scenario more horrible than the last played out in her mind. Even so, she burst into tears when, seconds later, she looked through one of the openings in the tower and confirmed what she already knew.
Her legs wouldn’t carry her; she collapsed in the sand. She couldn’t even answer Harald when he called out he was going to look outside the playground to make sure she wasn’t hiding behind a tree.
There were, of course, any number of places to rule out before they could be absolutely sure. Then the police would be called and an alert would be sent out. But it was mostly for appearances’ sake. So they could clear their own names and claim they’d done everything. Whatever that was supposed to accomplish when what must never happen had just happened.
Again.
64
They were looking. She could tell they were all looking, almost staring, even though they were doing everything they could to hide it. She had to admit it wasn’t exactly surprising, given that she normally never wore make-up, other than maybe a hint of lipstick if she was going to a wedding or some such. Today, she’d attempted a proper pancake.
But no one said anything. They all just sat there, waiting for the meeting to start, slurping their coffee like they were on a hike and the lukewarm liquid scalding hot. And she could see why. What were they supposed to say? Even if they did suspect what was hidden underneath the layers of concealer and powder, they could hardly do anything other than keep their mouths shut.
It was the first time Hampus had ever hit her. But it wasn’t the first time he’d raised his hand in anger, though until now he’d always chosen to take out his frustration on the nearest piece of furniture instead, or whatever else happened to be within arm’s reach.
But this time, his fist had completed its trajectory through the air without interruption, and in some twisted way, she felt relief, some kind of gratitude, that he’d finally crossed the line and nothing in the world could make it undone.
She’d left him more times than she could count. But he’d never accepted it was more than empty threats, which in some ways it had been. Because despite all the problems and ugliness, there had still been a part of her that loved him. But that was then. Everything was different now.
As expected, he’d launched into extravagant apologies and promises it would never happen again. Not to mention his pathetic justifications about his blood sugar being low after working on the lawn all day, or how terrible he’d been feeling recently because she made him feel so rejected. Which somehow made her complicit. After all, it took two to tango and yada, yada, yada.
He could say whatever he wanted. It made no difference. It was over. So incredibly fucking over.
‘Irene?’
Lilja looked up at Tuvesson, who had turned to her.
‘Are you okay?’
‘Yes, you keep asking me. Why wouldn’t I be?’ It was only at that moment she realized the rest of the team were looking at her too, without even trying to hide it.
‘You just seem so… absent. Did something happen?’
‘No, like what?’
‘I don’t know. But I would personally find Sievert Landertz’s attacks in the papers pretty difficult to handle.’
‘Whatever. I couldn’t care less about what he says.’
‘Okay, great. It’s obviously empty threats, but if anything happens, don’t hesitate to ask for help, okay?’ Tuvesson turned to the others. ‘Where were we?’
‘The crime scene investigation at ICA Maxi,’ Molander said and turned to Lilja. ‘Which has determined that the perpetrator exited through the staff entrance and fled on his bike.’
‘I know,’ Lilja lied and emptied her coffee cup.
‘And what do we have on the victim, Lennart Andersson?’ Tuvesson asked.
‘Not much, other than that he was divorced, did a lot of sports and seemed to have a burning passion for genealogy,’ Klippan replied. ‘I’ve talked to his ex-wife, who fell apart when she received the news. According to her, he was one of the best people she knew.’
Tuvesson nodded. ‘Any new theories about possible motives? Apart from trying to start a race war, as Fabian has already suggested.’
‘No, not so far. But the ex-wife gave me a list of all his friends and acquaintances. I’m crossing them off one by one. I’ve also requested all the CCTV footage from the week before the murder. Hopefully that can give us something to go on.’
‘All right. Let’s move on to Wessman and the hidden webcams, more of which, if I’ve understood correctly, have been found in other flats.’ Tuvesson walked up to the whiteboard, where she made space for more victims next to Molly Wessman’s photographs and notes.
‘Yes, so far I’ve identified four other women who were under surveillance,’ Fabian said, studiously avoiding the looks Molander gave him as soon as he opened his mouth. ‘If Lina Parnerud at Fiberbolaget is to be believed, Christofer Comorowski has installed fibre-optic cables in twelve buildings during her time with the company. How many flats he did before that is anyone’s guess.’
‘And these latest ones, are they bedrooms and bathrooms, too?’
‘Yes,’ Molander said, finally taking his eyes off him.
‘And how are you getting on with the webcams?’
‘I don’t know about getting on. I haven’t even looked at them yet.’
‘Why not?’ said Lilja, topping up her coffee.
‘Firstly, because I believe we can assume it’s the same set-up and models as in Wessman’s flat.’
‘And secondly?’
‘I’m going to leave that one to Mr Risk, since he was the one who expressly asked me to leave them be until further notice.’ Molander turned back to Fabian. ‘Don’t worry. I’m in complete agreement. Sometimes, it’s best to let a sleeping bear lie.’ He fired off a smile and an almost imperceptible wink.
‘I’m not worried whether you agree with me or not.’ Fabian returned Molander’s look but let the smile pass by unacknowledged, then turned to the others. ‘I’m concerned he’ll realize we’re on to him if we start taking down and examining too many of the cameras.’
‘That’s true,’ Tuvesson said. ‘But how do the women in question feel about it?’
‘I know how I would feel,’ Lilja said.
‘One checked in to a hotel, another decided to go visit her parents in Båstad until this is over. The other two have agreed to carry on as normal.’
‘If you can even do that with a camera in your bedroom.’
‘Sure, that’s debatable. But they’ve promised to try, and I have promised them police protection in return.’
‘Okay.’ Tuvesson sighed and turned to Molander. ‘Then the question should be how you’re getting on with Wessman’s webcams, because I assume you’ve at least examined those.’
‘I have indeed, and I have to say I’m pretty impressed by this Comorowski, if he is in fact the one who constructed and installed them, that is.’
‘And the server, or whatever it is these cameras are sending their pictures to, have you been able to locate that yet?’
‘No.’ Molander smiled widely. ‘And that’s the reason I’m so impressed. As you may know, most webcams are USB based, which means you need a processor and quite a bit of electronics to turn the data into something that can be transferred over an ordinary ethernet cable. Just connecting electricity to the camera itself can be a challenge, given that the IEE 802.3at PoE+- standard can’t deliver more than 25 watts.’
‘Ingvar, please get to the point.’
‘Sorry, that last part was parenthetical. But the rest is pretty much the point, because the same processor is also programmed to create a VPN tunnel and TOR router. Smart, no?’
Tuvesson exchanged looks with the others. ‘Does anyone know what he’s
talking about?’
‘It’s really not that complicated. A VPN tunnel is an information channel that encrypts all data transported through it, which makes it impossible for a third party to check the content. The problem is that the sender address and the recipient address at the beginning and end of the tunnel aren’t anonymous, so they can be traced with the right software. To get around that, Comorowski’s added a so-called TOR router to the signal chain – The Onion Router, as it’s really called. It anonymizes both the sender and the receiver by bouncing the information back and forth between proxy servers. That way, he’s not only made sure the contents are undecipherable to any prying eyes, he’s also made it impossible for us to trace him.’
‘So the only thing you’ve found out is that we can’t find out anything else.’
‘That’s another way of putting it.’
Tuvesson did nothing to hide her irritation. ‘What about that tattoo, then? Did any of the other women have one like it?’
‘Unfortunately not,’ Fabian said.
‘That means we have to drop the hypothesis that Christofer Comorowski and Columbus are the same person.’
‘Isn’t that a bit hasty?’
Tuvesson shrugged. ‘As far as I can see, there’s nothing to suggest a link between them.’
‘No?’ Fabian said. ‘We have one bloke installing hidden webcams in the homes of single women and another who moves in the swinger circuit, branding women like cattle after having sex with them. I would say there are plenty of points of contact.’
‘One sounds more like a voyeur and the other more like a practitioner, if you ask me.’
‘Perhaps. At the same time, though, there are countless examples of observers tiring of sitting on the sidelines and deciding to get involved. And we have the names. I know it sounds far-fetched, but Christofer Columbus. It just can’t be a coincidence.’
‘Why not?’ Lilja asked.
‘Because I think we can assume Columbus is a name someone’s given themselves, and self-given monikers always have significance, whether conscious or subconscious.’
‘All right, let’s keep that door open for a while longer. After all, you have a few more names on your list,’ Tuvesson said. ‘Make sure you contact them as soon as possible. It might be that some of them are branded.’
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