Frozen Moment

by Camilla Ceder

  * * *

  Chapter 5

  2006

  The fried cod eaten in haste, along with countless cups of coffee and several ginger biscuits during the course of the morning, had left a stale taste in his mouth. Tell had intended to top up his cup yet again when he discovered to his annoyance that someone had removed the coffee maker from the kitchenette. Instead, a huge apparatus had been placed in the corridor, and apparently countless drinks could be ordered through this machine. He hadn't even heard of most of them.

  'Vanilla macchiato. What the hell is that?'

  Renée Gunnarsson, one of the indispensable office staff, was walking by and patted him on the back.

  'Aren't you up to date with all that kind of thing, Christian? You're a city boy after all. Don't you go to cafes?'

  'Not recently,' he muttered, pressing a button at random. You couldn't go far wrong with cafe au lait. The machine started grinding coffee beans, and finished off with a long drawn-out hiss as the foaming milk covered the top of the paper cup like a blanket.

  'At last, a proper coffee machine!'

  Karin Beckman's eyes were sparkling like a child's on Christmas Eve. She immediately started to run through the list of choices.

  'Café chocolat, Café mint, Café au lait, Café creme, Macchiato, Latte…'

  'And you call that proper coffee?'

  Bengt Bärneflod joined the more or less admiring group surrounding the machine. For once, Tell nodded appreciatively at his older colleague. They had worked together since Tell joined the squad fourteen years ago. A sudden awareness of the passage of time made him punch Bärneflod playfully on the shoulder.

  'Come on, Bengt, for God's sake! Who wants to live in the past? Of course we need cafe au lait in this place!' He took a large gulp and pulled a face at the chemically sweetened drink.

  'Right, I'm going to find our good old coffee maker. Where the hell has it gone, anyway?' Bärneflod looked at Karlberg with a challenging expression as he stuck his head out of his office, as if he were personally responsible for the removal of the old machine.

  'OK, we've got a murder on our hands, in case you haven't noticed,' Tell said. 'Conference room in five minutes, please.'

  He clapped his hands impatiently like a PE teacher, and could just imagine them all rolling their eyes behind his back as he walked away. Tough. It was part of his job to get people working.

  Ten minutes later Karin Beckman drew Tells attention to his unconscious but probably extremely irritating habit of clicking his ballpoint pen, by placing her hand on his wrist. He was stressed, anxious inside, as he always was at the outset of a murder investigation.

  He looked around the room, examining his colleagues in what was inaccurately known as the murder squad. They still hadn't finished joking about the finer points of the coffee machine or the bag of buns in the shape of animals that Karlberg had chucked down on the table with some embarrassment. He'd obviously been baking with his niece.

  Bengt Bärneflod, sitting to the left of Tell, looked increasingly tired with every passing day, and Tell often caught him doing crosswords during working hours. He was also increasingly prone to expressing less than sympathetic views on immigrants. These days he constantly maintained that everything had been better in the old days, when you could sing the national anthem without the risk of treading on someone's toes. And he hardly ever took the initiative any more. But he was good in a critical situation. The slowness that got on Tell's nerves the rest of the time served him well then, for he could persuade any lunatic at least to listen, if not to be entirely reasonable.

  Beside him sat Andreas Karlberg, who in contrast to Bengt never expressed a single opinion about anything. He was ambitious and well intentioned, but was often like a weathervane in a strong breeze.

  Karin Beckman was experienced and had been a promising investigator before she had kids, Christian Tell thought bitterly - although naturally he would never dare to be so politically incorrect as to say this out loud. Dead on five o'clock she dropped whatever she was doing and went home, quoting some law and the union. On top of that, both her daughters were still at nursery school, and she was off almost every other day looking after one of them because they were ill. At times he had completely given up counting on her as part of the team. But to look on the bright side, things could only get better from now on. The kids were growing up, after all, and she was hardly likely to have any more; she'd already turned forty.

  She was a good police officer, though, when she was working. He had to admit that. And she was good in sensitive situations. She had a good knowledge of people, a competence when it came to psychological issues. Sometimes that kind of insight was lacking in the squad. And she had almost finished the basic psychotherapy training she had been undertaking for the past two years. It would be good for the squad to be able to rely on her full time again.

  As far as Michael Gonzales was concerned, Tell hadn't really had time to form a definite opinion. He had only been working with the squad for about a year, and hadn't yet been involved in any major investigations. Gonzales was the only officer who had actually grown up and still lived in an area that was over-represented in the crime statistics - it was something he had mentioned in his initial interview. Tell probably hadn't been the only one to think that the squad might be able to make use of his contacts and experiences, even if this was an idea somewhat coloured by prejudice. In fact, Gonzales' contacts with the underworld would turn out to be negligible; on the contrary, he appeared to be miraculously naive. Even though he had legally been of age for ten years, he still lived at home and had no plans to move out, as far as Tell could discern. The high-quality service provided by Mrs Gonzales wasn't something he intended to swap for a bachelor pad with piles of dirty dishes and laundry. However, he seemed to be sufficiently intelligent to understand that he couldn't count on being treated like a little prince in any other context. With endearing self- awareness he told them what had happened when he got into the police training academy - Francesca Gonzales had wept for over a week out of sheer happiness, until the neighbours had told her in no uncertain terms to pack it in.

  In any case, Gonzales was a diligent officer, ready to learn. He was also a textbook example of positive thinking, which was not to be sniffed at in a job like this.

  Tell turned his gaze back to Karlberg. Perhaps it wasn't fair to think of him as a weathervane. It was more that he had a subtle ambition which, if Tell were to make use of the self-awareness he had acquired during his forty-four years, didn't threaten Tell's own ego. Karlberg worked quietly from his own hypotheses, which were frequently well thought out, without making a fuss about it. He sneezed loudly and wiped his nose with the back of his hand in some embarrassment.

  Leaning against the door frame stood Chief Inspector Ann- Christine Ostergren, dressed as always in black: velvet trousers and a polo-neck sweater, contrasting sharply with her instantly recognisable white frizzy hair, which stood out like a curly halo around her lined face.

  She was a good boss; the squad were in agreement on that, even if they all had different views on what made a good boss. She knew what she was doing and had plenty of experience after spending almost her entire working life as a female police officer in a male-dominated world. During the six or seven years she had been in her current post she had built up a strong sense of trust among her colleagues, despite the fact that in the beginning there had been gossip that she had moved because of irreconcilable differences in her previous job.

  What Tell appreciated most was her clear readiness to rely on her team, the ability to delegate tasks and responsibilities without constantly feeling the need to check up and make adjustments according to her own views. There was an unspoken agreement between Tell and Ostergren: as long as he did his job and made sound decisions, he didn't need to keep running to her to check every step he took during an investigation. And that was just the way he liked it.

  Ostergren cleared her throat, and just before she began to speak
Tell caught sight of Beckman discreetly raising her eyebrows in the direction of Renée Gunnarsson. Renée sat in on the initial meetings so that she would know the direction the investigation was going to take; this was because part of her job involved dealing with telephone calls from the press and anxious members of the public. It would be Christian Tell's decision as to how much should be revealed and which questions should be passed on to the investigating team.

  Gunnarsson rolled her eyes at Beckman in return. Tell suspected that this silent exchange of views was to do with the fact that Ostergren was standing in the doorway rather than sitting down at the table like the rest of the group. Tell was annoyed with Beckman and Gunnarsson's attitude. Instead of being so ready to criticise her, surely they ought to be supporting their female colleague? But wasn't it often the case that women were most critical of other women?

  'OK, listen up. As you all know a man has been found dead, in all probability murdered, on one of the minor roads between Olofstorp and Hjällbo, in Björsared to be precise. I say in all probability because we're still waiting for the report from the pathologist, but given the fact that he had been shot in the head, we can assume that was the cause of death. He was also - probably after death, but we're also waiting for confirmation on that - run over several times by a vehicle. Most likely a car.'

  Ostergren took off her glasses and held them in front of her for a moment before rubbing off a mark with the sleeve of her sweater.

  'The location is under the jurisdiction of the Angered police force, and I have already been in touch with their chief. He's promised to give us as much support as he can in the form of manpower and local knowledge. Unfortunately it's obvious they've got their hands full at the moment - a whole load of arson attacks and some kind of burglary boom over the past few weeks. We have therefore agreed that they will step in as and when they are needed rather than giving us an officer on a permanent basis. To begin with we will work together on the routine matters: door-to-door enquiries, checking for any similar crimes, anyone on release from psychiatric care - I'm sure you get the idea.'

  She nodded in Tell's direction.

  'Christian Tell will be coordinating the operation. The whole team will get together for a follow-up meeting next Monday, or whenever Christian decides it's appropriate. Anyway, you can talk to them about all that, Christian. Over to you.'

  She put on her glasses and left with a tense smile. Although he couldn't quite put his finger on it, Tell thought he perceived an uncharacteristic distance in Ostergren. He wondered for a moment if something had happened in her private life. But Ann-Christine Ostergren wasn't the kind of person you would tackle about something like that. If she wanted to talk, she would.

  'OK, so we have a dead man, executed and run over. According to the electoral register one Lise-Lott Edell and one Lars Waltz live at that address. We haven't been able to get in touch with her yet, but hopefully a more thorough investigation will tell us where she is and how we can get hold of her. Karlberg, you and I will head straight over there after this meeting. There are actually two companies registered to Lise-Lott Edell: the main one is a fabric shop in Grabo, and then there's Thomas Edell's vehicle repair workshop and scrapyard. The latter operates from the scene of the crime.'

  Yet another loud sneeze from Karlberg frightened the wits out of Bärneflod, who was doodling psychedelic patterns on his notepad. Karlberg didn't look good at all. Tell had managed not to notice that his colleague had been coming down with a cold over the past few days, but now you couldn't miss it: Karlberg's nose was glowing like a beacon, and his eyes were covered with a fine network of red lines. Beckman wasn't slow to put Tell's thoughts into words, although diplomacy wasn't her strong point.

  'Bloody hell, Andreas, you look rough. Shouldn't you be at home in bed?'

  Karlberg shrugged his shoulders. It was the best he could do to avoid a discussion that often caused bad feeling. On the one hand there were those who came to work whatever state they were in due to an ambitious attitude to work, but also to police pay and benefits and a general shortage of money. And then there were those who chose to stay at home to minimise the risk of puling on the infection to their colleagues. Over the years these difference! of opinion had developed into a matter of principle.

  Karlberg pulled his fleece more tightly around his shoulders and gratefully accepted the packet of tissues Beckman pushed across the table. Tell took a sip of the sweet, cloying coffee before he went on.

  'For the time being we can proceed with the hypothesis that the man lying in the yard is Lars Waltz. Please note that this is only a hypothesis. He had no form of identification on him so he could also have been an employee. We've sent the body off to Strömberg and will have a verbal report as soon as he knows anything. I don't need to tell you that this investigation is our top priority.'

  He scratched his head.

  'We'll make a start on door-to-door enquiries as soon as possible, working with the Angered police. Beckman can take care of that, along with Gonzales. The gravel track follows an arc, parallel to the main road. Call at every house in both directions up as far as the road. It's possible we might have to go round again once Stromberg has established the exact time of death, but it won't do any harm to ask people twice. The first time they're too shaken up to think clearly.'

  Barneflod was drawing matchstick men in his diary when he felt Tell's eyes on him.

  'Bengt, you can look after things here until we have more to go on. Look for anyone else who might be involved, as many people as you can find. As soon as you've got a list, start sorting them into groups. Relatives, employees and so on. Call me on my mobile then we can decide together how to tackle things.'

  'Are the technical team out there at the moment?'

  'Yes. They're not exactly cheering, but the tyre tracks are pretty clear, so we might get something from those. There might be fibres too. There's a chewing-gum wrapper - the old guy who was first on the scene picked it up - but to be honest, the probability that the murderer decided to have a piece of chewing gum while he was waiting to murder Waltz isn't strong.'

  'Not to mention the chance of finding a decent fingerprint among all the rest on a wrapper from some newspaper kiosk.'

  That was Barneflod's contribution.

  'Exactly. Talking of the old guy, one… Åke Melkersson.' Tell read

  from his notes. 'And his neighbour Seja Lundberg, we need to take a closer look at those two.'

  'Why?'

  The sharpness in his voice gave away how offended Barneflod was. He ought to be grateful to escape shitty jobs such as knocking on doors while the rain was lashing down, but he seemed to feel that Tell was doing more than looking after Barneflod's creature comforts by leaving him out of the main investigation.

  'Because they were first on the scene. And because they lied.'

  Tell stood up a little too quickly and managed to knock over his chair, which fell backwards with a crash.

  'OK, let's get a move on.'

  He turned to Karlberg, who already had his jacket on.

  * * *

  Chapter 6

  It was as if a sigh passed through the plane as it landed.

  At last. Lise-Lott Edell realised every muscle in her body had been tense ever since they left Puerto de la Cruz. Next time she flew she was going to take a taxi out to Landvetter instead of leaving the car in the long-stay car park. Not that she travelled a great deal; it had been eight years since her last trip abroad. But that was exactly why she should have been able to indulge herself with a whisky or a Martini on the plane to calm her nerves. Her fear of flying certainly hadn't lessened over the years.

  'You look as if you've seen a ghost!' said Marianne when the plane finally came to a halt. Marianne had seemed completely unmoved by the fact that the plane was sufficiently high up in the air for the earth to look like an abstract map of itself. She had even said that she loved flying, as if sitting on a plane was the next best thing to being able to fly under your own
steam. A feeling of freedom - filled with expectation about the coming holiday, or sated with tales to tell, memories to cherish.

  Her pronouncements might have had something to do with the fact that she had had a drink, or a couple to be accurate. Not that this particularly bothered Lise-Lott - if you were on holiday, you were on holiday. But there was no doubt that Marianne's fondness for a tipple had made Lise-Lott look like a Sunday school teacher. And there was no doubt that the nightcap in the hotel bar after they'd done the round of all the pubs and clubs had been one drink too many for Marianne. Every night.

  Despite this, Lise-Lott was more than happy with her trip, and grateful that her friend had eagerly agreed to come along when she had suggested as late as the previous week that they should take a last- minute holiday in the sun. After all, Lars could never get away because there was just too much work in the winter. And the few short weeks in the summer had a tendency to disappear while they mowed the lawn and fixed things in the house that had been waiting all year. The thought depressed her.

  There wasn't really anything wrong with the way they felt about each other. They loved each other and still had plenty to talk about, and they still wanted each other - if only they had time to talk or the energy to make love. It was stupid, really: two people burying themselves in their work to the extent that they had no time to live.

  They had only been married for six years, but with Lars having two jobs and Lise-Lott getting the fabric shop up and running, which had been a dream come true but had cost so much in terms of time and energy, they had already begun to drift apart. She recognised the signs: Lars fell asleep downstairs on the sofa in front of the television more and more often. She would hear him nod off and drop the remote on the floor. When she got up in the small hours to go to the toilet, the war of the ants would have taken over the television screen. He didn't always bother to have a shower before he came to bed after working on the cars, and the smell of oil and petrol put a definitive stop to her interest in marital relations.