The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  But later, what had happened after the course? That was the evening he had spent with Petra at the Pelican, the evening he now considered the final quivering minutes of their previously completely normal relationship. The calm before the storm. And it was that same evening that someone had sent an amateur porno film with Petra in the lead role to Pontus Örstedt. From an all-too-familiar email address.

  He slammed the diary shut and sat with his head in his hands, staring listlessly out of the window. He sighed. There was an obvious connection here, but what was it really about? Try to see it from Petra’s perspective, he told himself. What is she thinking? She gets a tip-off about the damned film on amator6.nu and is furious at the troll who … has sent it in? Or at the one who is exploiting her in the film? For this is a question of exploitation, isn’t it? Reluctantly he pictured her again, with closed eyes and half-open mouth. Stoned? Unconscious? How the hell could he know, he had no idea how she might look in … that situation.

  But still. He thought he knew her well enough to be able to dismiss the idea that she would publicize such images. Or let herself be filmed under such circumstances. Or even subject herself to exactly such circumstances. Considering that it must have hurt, and that she did not appear to react to the pain. Or to anything for that matter.

  Things were most often exactly what they appeared to be, he thought. His own mantra. And what makes it inapplicable on this occasion? Nothing, naturally.

  Petra looked completely gone, so presumably she was. Unconscious or high as a kite, or both. Drugged, that is. And being fucked in the wrong bed, in the wrong orifice and by the wrong person. Wrong, because he was hardly unconscious. Raped, that is. On top of that he had a friend with him who filmed the whole thing, so that later they could publish the shit on the Internet. Publicly violated, that is.

  No wonder Petra Westman was furious.

  So she was drugged and raped the evening they had sat and chatted in Clarion’s bar. Possibly she had drawn the conclusion that Hamad was involved because he had been so conveniently on the scene just hours before. But why had this suspicion only developed almost a year after the incident itself? Yes, because it was then that the film had been shown publicly for the first time, it was then that the film had been sent to the amator6.nu site. Right after he and Petra had gone their separate ways outside the Pelican.

  And it had been sent from his own email address.

  The question was: how could Petra know that? That everything pointed to it being him who had sent the film? And consequently he who had filmed or raped her, or both? And how could she know that so soon after the film had been sent? No, he could not figure that one out.

  But there were other, more important questions that must be answered. Who had raped Petra and sent the film to Pontus Örstedt? Who on earth could be so seemingly omniscient and even be able to divert suspicion on to a completely different person? And how could Hamad clear his name and get justice for himself and Petra?

  He could do something immediately for humanity at least, it struck him: direct the attention of the police towards at least one of the bastards, of which there were far too many. They would always find something to bring him in for, right? If they did not succeed in making a procuring charge stick, he was surely involved in drug dealing, financial crimes or some other dodgy business that they could put him away for.

  He picked up the phone and entered the number of an old classmate who these days worked in the City investigative branch, and tipped him off about Pontus Örstedt. And noted that revenge was sweet. Even if it was not his own, but Jenny’s and Petra’s.

  * * *

  Johan Bråsjö stepped into the imposing entrance hall of the police station at Östgötagatan 100 and tried to put on an adult face. He took off his cap as he looked around, wondering if he was in the right place. The large marble hall with the armchairs looked completely different from what he had imagined. On TV there were usually noisy offices with processions of criminals being taken back and forth between interview rooms and holding cells. Here it was calm and quiet and there was not a crook to be seen.

  With forced determination, he stepped up to the reception desk, where two pairs of curious eyes met his. He did not know which of the women behind the rather high counter, both with equally friendly smiles, he should turn to.

  ‘Hi,’ the one with glistening pink lips said.

  She had light curly hair and kind blue eyes.

  ‘Hi,’ said Johan. ‘I would like to report a crime.’

  ‘How clever of you to come here,’ said the other woman.

  She also looked nice, slightly heavy-set with brown hair tied in a ponytail.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Johan,’ he answered, but regretted it at once.

  Well, no harm done. He was not the only boy called Johan and they would get no more information out of him about who he was. And the woman probably understood what he was thinking, because she seemed content with his first name.

  ‘So what’s happened to you, little fellow?’

  True, he was not one of the tallest in his class, but ‘little fellow’? Really? He wasn’t a preschooler; he must get them to take him seriously.

  ‘Nothing. But I happened to walk past when a man was mistreating a pig. Beating the crap out of it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ the blonde receptionist exclaimed.

  ‘Did you see him do it?’ the brunette asked, looking serious.

  ‘I only heard it,’ Johan replied. ‘A friend and I saw when he went into the shack – it was like a woodshed or something – and then he said nasty things and kicked the pig.’

  The two women looked at each other.

  ‘How strange. Tell us everything from the beginning,’ the dark-haired one asked.

  Johan gave a detailed account of what had happened, but as luck would have it the women never asked him how he and Ivan had come to be outside that shed.

  ‘That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!’ said the blonde woman.

  ‘Some people don’t manage to take care of their animals,’ said the brunette. ‘But this sounds like one of the worst. What a little hero you are, Johan, coming to the police!’

  She leaned over and before he knew what was happening she had tousled his hair. He wanted the ground to swallow him up, but the only thing to do was endure it – for the pig’s sake. And when she was finished the other woman wanted to do the same. But he saw it coming: she was just about to stroke him across the cheek when he took a step back, out of reach.

  ‘And could you find your way there again? Or perhaps you remember the address?’ the brown-haired one continued.

  ‘The Ugly Duckling,’ Johan replied, as the blonde called to an older man who had just come in the door.

  ‘Daddy, come and hear this! This boy wants to make a police report; you have to help him!’

  The man came up to the reception desk and for a few terrifying moments Johan thought he too might start hair-tousling or hugging. But the man kept his hands in his coat pockets and looked at him with friendly but tired eyes.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he asked, but before Johan managed to open his mouth the receptionists had taken over.

  The man, evidently a policeman, looked even more tired when the two women began babbling away at the same time, and he started to move away before they were finished. He seemed at most moderately interested – if he had even understood what they were saying. Even so, he tried to be a little encouraging.

  ‘Well done, kid. Take all the information down, Lotten: name, address, telephone number and so on, and we’ll look at it when we have a chance. I have to rush.’

  Give them his telephone number? Not likely. They would call his parents. Besides a hefty scolding he would also lose his bus pass and his freedom, and perhaps not even get to walk home from school alone in the afternoons. No, he had already learned a lesson; that would have to be enough. He turned away from the reception desk and bolted out into the cloudy grey late-winter a
fternoon.

  ‘Wait, Johan! Don’t go!’ was the last thing he heard before the door closed behind him.

  When Sjöberg had checked into the hotel in Arboga and thrown his suitcase on to the little armchair in one corner of his room, he sat on the edge of the bed and took out his mobile. He called Eniro and enquired what church parishes there were in the Arboga area. He noted names and numbers and asked the voice on the other end of the line to connect him to the last one mentioned.

  ‘I’m searching for two individuals who have at one time possibly lived in your parish,’ Sjöberg explained. ‘Can you help me search in the parish registers?’

  ‘Is this personal?’

  ‘It’s personal. It concerns my paternal grandfather and grandmother, John and Signe Sjöberg. John Sjöberg is said to have been born on 20 April 1911, Signe, maiden name Gabrielsson, on 11 January 1913.’

  ‘Just one moment and I’ll look,’ said the woman who had answered.

  ‘Thanks.’

  After a few minutes she was back, but could only tell him that he must have enquired at the wrong parish. Sjöberg entered another of the numbers on his list and presented his request again.

  ‘Are you doing genealogy?’ the lady at the Arbogabygden parish wanted to know.

  ‘Yes, you might say that,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘I actually only want to know when my grandparents died and where they lived.’

  ‘Right, then let’s see what we can find.’

  Sjöberg harboured faint hopes of being able to trace his grandparents so easily, but she was back right away and this time with positive news.

  ‘I have them here,’ she said, and Sjöberg felt his pulse rising. ‘Let’s see now, these are not exactly computer printouts … John Emanuel Sjöberg, born on 20 April 1911, at Soldier’s Croft in Björskogsnäs.’

  Soldier’s Croft, thought Sjöberg. The kids would like that.

  ‘Married Signe Julia Maria Gabrielsson in May 1932. In 1933 they had a son, Christian Gunnar Sjöberg; that must be your father then?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ Sjöberg confirmed.

  ‘John and Signe were registered at Soldier’s Croft until 1954, when they moved to Arboga.’

  ‘Did Christian stay living at the cottage?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘Let’s see, I have to change books …’

  He could hear her turning pages in the background and imagined, without having any clear idea, that the parish registers were very large and dusty, with hard covers.

  ‘He did. Until 1961, when he died. Oh, you were only three years old then; it must have been hard.’

  ‘Well, yes, you might say so,’ muttered Sjöberg, who hardly remembered having had a father at all. ‘And when did John and Signe die?’

  ‘John died in 1967 …’

  There was silence on the line.

  ‘And Signe?’ Sjöberg said at last.

  ‘No, I can’t find any entry about that.’

  ‘And what could that mean?’

  ‘Well … It could be that someone has been careless, naturally. Or that she died after 1 July 1991, when everything was transferred to computer registries, but you ought to have known about it in that case. You’ll have to enquire at the census office to find the date. Or she may still be alive.’

  Sjöberg did not think it was necessary to tell this helpful woman that in his capacity as a police officer he already knew the process, and instead he thanked her for her help and hung up. ‘Soldier’s Croft,’ he repeated to himself; so had he lived there during the first three years of his life. It was strange that he had no memories at all from that period, but on the other hand he had never had much help from his mother to remember. What most surprised him still was that his mother did not want to acknowledge the property, that she consistently refused to talk about it. What in the world could be the reason for that? And why had they moved from the parental farm to an apartment in Stockholm? Because his father had got sick, naturally. Perhaps he had needed advanced care that was only available in the capital.

  Suddenly it struck him that his grandfather John had not died until 1967. Sjöberg had been nine years old then. He ought to have some memories of him at least. He had no memories of his grandmother either; how come? He could not recall either of them being mentioned while he was growing up, nor had his mother told him anything later when as an adult he had tried to find out about his family history. Sjöberg became increasingly convinced that there was something fishy about this. Something must have happened to cause his mother and his paternal grandparents to have no contact. And in that case, on which side had his father stood? Or had the split arisen after or in connection with his death?

  Sjöberg glanced at his watch. It was five minutes to five. There was no time to lose: he had to call the census office before they closed for the day. It would be just as well to gather all the information he could before he confronted his mother in earnest with this strange story. He called Information again and asked to be connected to the census office.

  ‘My name is Conny Sjöberg. I would like information concerning my paternal grandmother, Signe Julia Maria Sjöberg, born Gabrielsson on 11 January 1913.’

  ‘Yes, and what is it you want to know?’

  The female voice on the telephone sounded uninterested and a bit snooty.

  ‘I want to know when she died,’ said Sjöberg.

  ‘Don’t you already know that, if she is your grandmother?’

  ‘Evidently not, because I’m asking you,’ Sjöberg answered with irritation.

  ‘Unfortunately we can’t give out such information.’

  Sjöberg thought he could hear a shade of satisfaction in her reply. He put on his most authoritative voice and made a fresh attempt.

  ‘I’m a detective inspector with the Hammarby Police in Stockholm, Conny Sjöberg. Will you please call me back immediately. The matter is urgent.’

  Suddenly the attitude on the other end changed.

  ‘Conny Sjöberg, Hammarby Police. I’ll get back to you right away.’

  Sjöberg smiled to himself while he waited. Actually he had no authorization to act this way; the matter was personal, after all, and he should not misuse his position in the police for the pleasure of taking a faceless bureaucrat at the census office down a peg. But who would ever catch him at it? Not her anyway. The phone in his hand shook and let out a shrill signal.

  ‘Conny Sjöberg,’ he answered curtly.

  ‘Hi, Conny, it’s Jenny.’

  ‘Hi, Jenny! Listen, I can’t talk to you right now because I’m waiting for an urgent call. We can talk a little later, can’t we? I’ll call this evening.’

  ‘Okay. Bye now.’

  ‘Bye.’

  He clicked off the call and after another two minutes the woman at the census office called back. It was now past five and for a while he had thought she would wait until the next business day to punish him for his brusque manner. But he had not misjudged her respect for ‘the uniform’ and here she was again with a completely different tone of voice from before.

  ‘Yes, I’m calling back from the census registry. What was it you wanted help with, sir?’

  Apparently they were no longer on informal terms. He struck his most cordial tone, thinking to himself that he sounded like an old provincial governor, as he presented his request again.

  ‘Do you have her last four digits?’ the woman asked.

  Sjöberg rolled his eyes.

  ‘No, I don’t. I think she has been dead a very long time, so she’s probably not in the registers at all. But if you could just do a search in the computer for her name and date of birth, young lady, I can get that confirmed. You have a search function, don’t you?’

  She was, as Sjöberg suspected, insensitive to irony and did as she was told.

  ‘Yes, here she is, definitely.’

  Sjöberg frowned. This was not what he had expected.

  ‘Signe Julia Maria Sjöberg, born Gabrielsson, 130111–1841, Birgittagatan 6, Arboga.’


  ‘And she was registered there until …?’

  ‘Yes, she’s registered there. She’s still alive.’

  Sjöberg could not get a word out. He sat as if petrified on the edge of the bed, still wearing his shoes and winter jacket, and felt like an idiot.

  ‘Congratulations,’ said the woman on the phone. ‘Congratulations on your newfound grandmother!’

  * * *

  Hamad had chased around town on his own for several hours. When he had visited Vida and Göran Johansson at their respective workplaces and shown them a photograph of Einar Eriksson, there had been no reaction. Neither of them had ever met or seen Eriksson. But several of Catherine Larsson’s neighbours on Trålgränd recognized Eriksson as the man who was occasionally seen in the stairwell, sometimes alone, sometimes with the children. He had not been seen however in the days before or on the night of the murder.

  Now Hamad was going to meet Christer Larsson for the first time, and with him he had a sulky Westman, who had had to leave Sandén to tackle alone the last item on their list for the day: Eriksson’s car. After an apathetic hello from Westman outside Larsson’s building, Hamad decided to temporarily turn off the personal and concentrate on the task in hand. Westman had not met the executed children’s father, Catherine Larsson’s husband, either, and they were both tense with expectation as they followed him into his home.

  ‘You have a nice place here,’ Westman said, in an attempt to get the conversation going.

  Christer Larsson muttered something inaudible in reply, without meeting her gaze. He sat in his armchair with his hands laced together and loosely hanging between his knees, his eyes fixed on the rug in front of him. His hands were unusually coarse, but the nails were well tended. His greying hair was clean and recently cut, but he did not seem to have shaved for some time. The little apartment was tidy and the potted plants on the living-room windowsill seemed to be thriving.