by Andy Maslen
Inside, she was faced with a narrow, dark hallway, off which led four doors. Three were open, and, as she peered in, she identified the kitchen, bathroom and living room.
The rooms were neither large, nor cluttered, and Stella didn’t see a body. Knowing she’d find Annika in the bedroom, she resisted the temptation to rush in, contaminating the primary crime scene in the process.
Instead, she went to the kitchen, and found a roll of plastic food bags in a drawer. She fashioned a pair of crime scene booties, securing them with twist-ties. She put on rubber gloves from the sink and knotted a white tea towel around her mouth and nose. In her improvised CSI gear, she returned to the bedroom.
Annika was lying on her back on a smallish double bed. Her eyes were wide open and her lips were drawn back from her teeth. A dark red line around her neck indicated that the murderer had used a ligature of some kind.
Stella looked down at the dead journalist, and sighed. Without taking her eyes off the corpse, she called William and told him they’d need to muster a full team and start another murder enquiry. ‘Linked,’ she added.
Now she felt able to consider the scene before her with a clinical cop’s eye. Annika’s clothes had been pulled around, but it looked staged to Stella. And that word was important.
Serial killers with a sexual fetish would often pose their victims. Drawing attention to their breasts and genitals, sometimes in the most disgusting ways imaginable. Or tying them in elaborate patterns of knots, the further to display their humiliation.
But that was from a compulsion linked to their disturbed mind. Annika’s murderer had attempted to present her body in a way he imagined was typical of a sex murderer. But he’d got it wrong.
Normally, sex-killers or even the average heterosexual burglar who found himself presented with an opportunity, would yank up a woman’s top and pull her bra up, exposing her breasts. Sometimes they’d cut them or bite them or masturbate over them, but Annika’s top was snug around her chest with no signs of having been moved.
And although her skirt was rucked up around her hips and her knickers removed, her vagina appeared untouched. No bruising, no bite marks, no blood, no semen on the outside.
Stella shook her head. This wasn’t a sexual assault at all. This was someone’s idea of what the aftermath of one would look like.
She stood and looked around. An ornate wooden box with a blue-velvet lined lid lay on its side on the bed between Annika’s feet. Bright costume jewellery spilled out onto the counterpane. Above the bed’s headboard, a painting of a winter scene had been knocked askew. A four-inch-long gash marred the canvas.
She began a methodical walk-through of the flat, and found an emptied-out wallet in the hallway. No sign of a laptop or phone anywhere although there were chargers plugged into the wall by the kitchen table.
All in all, a credible attempt to stage the scene as a robbery plus sexual assault gone wrong. But that’s all it was. An attempt.
She heard a shout from the front door.
‘Stella? It’s William.’
Then footsteps.
She met him in the kitchen and jerked her head towards the bedroom.
‘She’s in there. She’s been murdered.’
He nodded. ‘We’ll start processing the scene. What are you going to do?’
‘I’m not sure. I want to talk to Mattsson again.’
As CSIs, uniformed officers and detectives arrived, Stella threaded her way between them and went back to her car.
This was it. The endgame. Mattsson thought he was being clever, choking off all possibilities of exposure. But he’d been stupid. By eliminating every other suspect, he’d shone a spotlight directly onto himself. She wanted to make sure he’d be at home before driving out to see him, though. Something that would allay his suspicions.
She called Mattsson from her driver’s seat.
‘Hallå?’
‘This is DCI Cole, Herr Mattsson. I just wanted to let you know that the investigation has moved in a different direction. I had a few last questions for you about Tomas then we’ll be able to leave you in peace.’
‘I’m sorry, I’m painting, Detektivinspektor.’
‘I won’t keep you from your easel for very long.’
Mattsson laughed. ‘I did not make myself clear to you. I’m not painting in the garden. I’m up in the hills. I always do a painting on Midsommar. It’s a little tradition of mine. I’ll be back at eleven tonight. We’re having a late dinner then going to the village party. Why don’t you come then? Stay for dinner. You’d be most welcome as a guest in our home as well as our country.’
‘Thank you. I’ll be stopping by just before eleven, then.’
‘See you then.’
The rest of the day passed in a flurry of case meetings, evidence reviews and conversations with Malin Holm about the arrest strategy should they decide they wanted to pull in Ove Mattsson for the three murders.
Roisin slammed her fist down on the desk. She’d just checked flight times from Stockholm to Umeå, only to discover she’d missed the last flight of the day and there wouldn’t be another until 8.30 the following morning. She checked her watch: 5.51 p.m.
She went to talk to Nik, and, ten minutes later, was sitting behind the wheel of a three-month-old silver Volvo in pursuit tune with a full tank and plenty of blue lights. According to Google Maps it was a seven-hour drive from Stockholm to Umeå. She reckoned the souped-up engine and the blues and twos would cut that to more like six.
No way was she going to let Stella get away from her. She was in Umeå and that’s where Roisin would bring her down.
She turned the key in the ignition, blipped the throttle to produce a satisfying roar from the engine, and pulled out of the space in the carpark onto Kungsholmsgatan. She pointed the long bonnet north.
Oskar stopped by Stella’s desk at 7.05 p.m.
‘Still here?’
‘I’m close, Oskar, I can feel it. I’m going out to talk to Mattsson again at eleven tonight.’
‘I’ll have to come with you.’
‘Fine. If I can get him to incriminate himself, you can arrest him. Game over.’
Oskar grunted. ‘I hope you’re right. Do you want to pick up a gun from the armoury after all? The paperwork’s all been done. We’d just need a signature.’
She shook her head. ‘No, thanks. Look at him. He’s an old man. I’m half his age and fitter. And I won’t give him any reason to suspect he’s the one we’re looking at.’
Oskar nodded. ‘What are you going to do between now and then?’
‘Go back to the hotel and order a pizza on room service. Then try to get some sleep.’
‘Not doing so well in this northern light?’ he asked with a smile.
‘I don’t know how you do it.’
‘Eye masks. And vodka. I’ll meet you in reception at ten-thirty.’
At the hotel, Stella ordered her pizza, ate half, washed it down with a miniature of vodka and lay on the bed, fully dressed. She slept fitfully, dreaming of doctors in surgical scrubs and screaming children.
39
Umeå
Too much coffee. Too much sunlight. Not enough sleep.
Stella’s nerve-endings were sending confusing messages to her overstressed brain. She felt hyper-alert and also half-distanced from reality.
It was 10.28 p.m., yet as bright as day. At least the lateness of the hour had given her a chance to get her head down. But the hotel bed was no more comfortable now than it had been on her first night in Umeå. She’d only managed forty-five minutes of sleep, from which she kept waking in disorientating thirty-second jolts.
Oskar drove through a village where every house was bedecked with flowers and multicoloured ribbons fluttered from a maypole on a central patch of grass. A group of women and girls, aged from five to ninety, walked along one side of the road, wearing white dresses and garlands of wild flowers in their hair. They were laughing and chatting excitedly.
He turned down
the forest track towards the Mattssons’ place, keeping up a stream of what sounded like Swedish Tourist Board-approved banalities about Midsommar. When he started talking about the maypole dancing for a second time, she had to interrupt him.
‘What’s wrong? You haven’t paused for breath for the last five minutes.’
‘Sorry. Nervous. Big case. The biggest I’ve ever worked, actually. Most murders in Sweden are domestic or drug and alcohol-related. I’m under a lot of pressure. Malin told me pretty clearly I have to close this one before anyone else is killed.’
‘She’s probably got the high-ups breathing down her neck.’
Oskar burst out laughing. ‘Breathing down her neck! Like for sex?’
Stella’s mouth dropped open. ‘No! I mean, watching everything she does really closely. You know—’
Oskar adopted a husky voice he presumably thought was sexy. ‘Oh, Detectivinspektor Holm, you smell so nice. Can you feel my hot breath on your neck?’
Stella slapped his shoulder. ‘No, dummy! It’s a perfectly OK phrase in English.’
Still smiling, Oskar shook his head.
Stella checked her watch: 10.45 p.m. The shafts of sunlight flickering through the birch trees gave the forest a dreamlike quality. How could it be this bright, this late?
Clearly the birds were as confused as she was: their songs filled the air. She led the way up to the house and rang the bell. But when the door opened, it wasn’t Mattsson behind it.
The man who opened the door was dressed like some sort of pagan priest in a flowing cream smock that reached to mid-thigh over white trousers. His feet were encased in leather sandals. Around his neck he wore a flowered wreath.
He looked to be in his mid-sixties. His hair, dark-brown with just a hint of silver at the temples, was cut in a fashionable style and showed no signs of receding. His eyes were a clear blue, almost turquoise, flecked with hazel.
She introduced herself and Oskar. After checking he spoke English, she switched languages.
‘I was looking for Ove Mattsson,’ she said.
‘Ove’s out at the moment, but I’m expecting him back very soon,’ he croaked. He touched his neck and smiled apologetically. ‘Sorry. Sore throat. We had a long, long choir practice at church yesterday.’ He gestured at his smock. ‘We’re celebrating Midsommar. We always dress up and have a nice dinner. Please, come in.’
As they followed him in, she frowned. Was Mattsson gay? Why should that matter? It didn’t. Not to her personally. But her cop brain was firing erratically.
She wished she’d been able to get more sleep. Her mind felt simultaneously full of fluff and over-stimulated by all the weapons-grade coffee she’d consumed since arriving in Sweden.
‘Do you know when Ove will be back?’ she asked.
Sigge rolled his eyes. ‘Ove loves his rituals. He’ll be back at eleven precisely to present his painting. Sometimes I think he waits down the lane so he can time it properly.’
He took her through the house and into the garden, where a table sat on the terrace laid for dinner.
He looked over his shoulder. ‘I have a lot to finish in the kitchen,’ he said, in a half-whisper. ‘Please make yourselves comfortable.’
Stella leaned back in the chair and surveyed the water. The sun glittered off its mirror-smooth surface.
Unlike earlier, Oskar seemed to be in no mood for conversation, which suited her fine. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.
The plan in her head was simple. Push Ove on the eugenics question. Rattle him. Ask him again about Brömly’s letter. Wait for a misstep. Pounce. Accuse. Push harder. Arrest.
Would it be that simple? Her thoughts were simultaneously filled with certainty and muddy from lack of sleep. Over-stimulated by caffeine and disorientated by the never-ending sunlight.
She stared at the lake. A woman on a paddle board raised an arm and waved at her. She looked familiar. Cropped blonde hair.
She felt a snap inside her head. Had she drifted off? She looked sideways at Oskar. He was checking his phone.
His radio crackled. A panicky voice spoke in rapid Swedish. She caught two words, though. It was easy because they were the same as in English: Islamist and terrorist. Oskar pulled it off his belt and answered, too quickly for Stella to translate.
His face drained of colour, he turned to her.
‘There’s been a terror alert in Umeå. They’re recalling everyone.’
‘What about me?’
He shook his head. ‘Stay here. Just ask questions. I’ll call you when I know more.’
He ran back up the garden and, seconds later, she heard the car’s engine race and tyres spinning in the loose gravel in front of the house.
At that moment, Sigge reappeared carrying a tray bearing two cups of coffee and a plate of kanelbullar.
He looked around and frowned. ‘Where is your colleague?’
‘He had to go. Something came up. But I’ll be happy to talk to Ove on my own.’
‘Oh well, if you’re sure. Try the kanelbullar.’
She picked up a bun and nibbled off a piece.
As she chewed the warm doughy treat, she experienced the familiar taste of cinnamon, sugar and dried fruit. Then her front teeth closed on something hard. She bit down and it released a herby, aniseed, almost soapy taste. What the hell was it?
In a flash, her memory fired up.
The waitress at Kafé Valhalla had said the unidentified Swedish customer mentioned that her husband liked the kannelbullar baked with caraway. Without the ability to recognise faces, had she taken Mattsson for a woman?
‘What is that extra flavour I taste?’ she asked, wanting to hear it from Sigge’s lips. ‘Is it cumin seeds?’
‘Caraway. Do you like it?’ he asked, then winced and touched his throat again.
Stella nodded and smiled.
‘It’s nice. Unexpected, but nice.’
Her next question came to her out of nowhere. Or not precisely nowhere. From that instinctive part of her brain that had, over many years, become honed to a sharp edge and supplied insights before she was aware of needing them.
‘Did you make them?’
He nodded. ‘Ove is many things, but a cook he is not.’
She lifted the little cinnamon bun up. ‘Does he like these?’
Sigge smiled. ‘Loves them.’
‘How about you?’
He waggled his head from side to side. ‘I prefer the regular kind, to be honest. The caraway is a northern thing: from Kiruna. Ove was born there. His family moved here when he was still a baby.’
Her mind whirling, she needed somewhere quiet to straighten out her thoughts before Mattsson returned home.
‘Can I use your bathroom, please? I’ve been drinking so much coffee since I’ve been here…’
Sigge laughed, then winced again. ‘Come with me.’
She walked with him for the terrace to the house and into the kitchen. It smelled deliciously of bread baking. He pointed towards the hallway.
‘We have a toilet off the boot room,’ Sigge said, before reaching for an apron and tying it round his waist.
The boot room was decked out with low, slatted pine benches on two of its sides.
Arrayed in neat rows were pairs of every imaginable kind of footwear, from wellingtons to walking boots and boat shoes in several shades of brown, from tobacco to a pale caramel. Plus long, narrow cross-country skis, fishing waders, tennis shoes and several pairs of gaudy running shoes.
She glanced down at the running shoes. One pair caught her eye. Bright orange, they bore on their tongues a logo: an orange insect.
Looking over her shoulder to check Sigge was out of sight, she squatted and picked up the shoe. The brand was the same as Lucian had shown her: Icebug. She turned it over and felt her heart stutter.
The sole pattern was the same as that impressed on Tomas Brömly’s face. Hexagons, interspersed with metal-tipped studs. She replaced it and darted into the guest bathroom and l
ocked the door.
She pulled her jeans and knickers down and sat on the lavatory, eyes closed.
The ‘woman’ in the cafe back in London had said ‘her’ husband loved the kanelbullar with caraway. But Natasha couldn’t recognise faces, instead relying on other cues such as clothing and voices.
So it was entirely possible she’d been talking to a gay man. And although Ove loved the taste of caraway seeds, Sigge did not.
So was it Sigge who’d gone to London and murdered Brömly after all? Not one of his former colleagues, but one of their husbands? It fitted. And motive was staring her right in the face. Perhaps the oldest motive of all. Love.
Brömly was threatening to expose Hedlund, Dahl and Mattsson. The disgrace and, in the social media age, outpouring of hatred and death threats it was sure to cause, would have driven a Volvo SUV through their happy domestic setup.
All it needed was for Sigge to have read Brömly’s letter. He didn’t even need to have told Ove what he was planning. He could have made an excuse for the trip or just lied and never told Ove he was travelling abroad at all. He was younger and fitter than Ove, too, making the business with the tongue easier to believe as well.
She inhaled deeply and sighed it out again. Scrubbed at her eyes. She consulted her emotions.
Was she frightened? No. Not at all. She’d dealt with far more dangerous characters than Sigge, or Ove for that matter.
He’d shot Brömly in the back and the Hedlunds from long range. Only Annika had been murdered in any way that required a degree of physical strength.
But Annika was in her sixties and while she looked healthy enough, she was smaller than Sigge and undoubtedly less fit. A life behind a desk pecking at a laptop’s keys was no preparation for a struggle with a bigger man intent on murder.
No, Stella was confident she could outwit and, if necessary, outfight Sigge Svensson or Ove Mattsson. Hell, she thought with the amount of caffeine coursing through her veins, she could probably take them both on at the same time.