Frozen Moment

by Camilla Ceder

  She silenced him with a kiss and said it was fine, but soon left him to make an unnecessary trip to the outside toilet. Out there she tried to regulate her breathing. A cold hand had grasped her stomach so tightly that she could hardly take in any air.

  She suspected that Christian Tell was suffering because he felt that in going to bed with her he had overstepped the mark as far as his profession was concerned. But instead of suffering with him, his embarrassment made her own deception easier to bear. He would never dare to confront her or challenge her, she thought; he was far too caught up in his own transgression.

  There was a reason why it felt impossible to tell him about the memories that had begun to chafe at her so unbearably, despite the fact that perhaps she ought to. That was where the guilt came in. Not just because she was withholding information that might possibly be relevant to a murder enquiry. No, her guilt went much deeper.

  * * *

  Chapter 29

  2007

  The day's task - door-to-door enquiries - was a foretaste of future cross-district collaboration. Detective Inspector Sofia Frisk, the sparkly blonde from the Christmas party, had driven like a joyrider. Around every bend on two wheels, insane overtaking; it wasn't what you'd have expected when you first met her, slender and blonde with blue eyes, like an advert for coloured lenses. Now she put on a pair of sunglasses that covered half her face and made her look like an insect.

  Gonzales couldn't help laughing.

  'What?'

  'You look funny in those glasses.'

  She smiled and stretched her legs beneath the fleece rug.

  'Mmm, lovely. But my feet are cold.'

  Michael Gonzales didn't think it was lovely at all. He had decided to look good when he was detailed to spend the day out and about with Sofia Frisk from the Borås team. Therefore he was wearing his cool, but thin, leather jacket. His backside was well on the way to freezing firmly to the garden furniture, despite the fact that he had been given a blanket and a fluffy cushion. Not to mention how cold his feet were in his sodden trainers. At the moment there was actually no feeling in them at all.

  'Just imagine living like this. What a luxury, waking up to this every morning.'

  She leaned back, allowing her gaze to sweep over the islands, apparently scattered at random in the lake down below the terrace.

  Their hostess appeared, dressed in a warm padded coat. She was carrying a tray with three cups and a cake on it. 'And you're not cold,' she stated rhetorically, but Frisk shook her head anyway, the beetle shades bouncing up and down on her nose.

  'Goodness no. I was just saying what a magnificent view you have. It's hard to believe when you're driving along these narrow roads that a place like this can suddenly appear.'

  Good God, she was laying it on with a trowel.

  'Yes, it is lovely.' Anette Persson smiled contentedly. 'When we retired about ten years ago, we didn't want to stay in Borås. We wanted to live in the country, and so… We'd inherited this place from my father. It's in such a beautiful spot, although we were a bit anxious that first winter. It's quite inaccessible out here, after all.'

  'Are the houses around here mostly summer cottages?'

  Gonzales made a start on the cake, since it seemed no one else was going to.

  'Yes, more or less.' Fru Persson nodded. 'There's the Transtroms' that you passed at the top of the hill, the red house - they live here all the time. Then there's a young couple who moved in not very long ago if you carry on past Bart's place. It looks as if the road comes to an end there, but it doesn't. They've got a little shop in Borås. Berntsson, their name is. And then there was Bart, of course - he lived here all year round. It's just terrible. I still can't believe it.'

  'Did you know Olof Bart well?'

  'Definitely not.' She made a defensive gesture with her hand. 'We didn't know him at all. I think we only spoke a couple of times. It's a bit odd when you live so close, but… He wasn't the kind to invite you in, if you know what I mean. Not that we have a great deal to do with our other neighbours. We keep ourselves to ourselves, but we help each other out if necessary. When we were doing some building we were down at his place a couple of times to fetch water, but he wasn't all that talkative.'

  'You never went inside each other's houses?' asked Gonzales.

  Fru Persson looked surprised.

  'Well yes, when we were fetching the water. Ernst went into his house - he said it was a real mess.'

  She appeared to be thinking.

  'That's it, yes. Our boiler was playing up and he came to give Ernst a hand. It was a friend of ours, Anders, who told us that Olof could fix all kinds of equipment. Anders owns a heating and plumbing shop, and he also has a warehouse just outside the village. Olof had done some casual work for him in the past…'

  'Anders?' Frisk's pen was poised over her notebook.

  'Franzén, with a z. Nyponvägen 13.'

  'Thank you. Can I ask whether you've been down to Bart's place since he was killed?'

  Anette Persson flushed red.

  'Well… Ernst did pop down. We wondered why the police were here, naturally, but the body was already gone by then.'

  Frisk made a big production of looking at Gonzales, who nodded thoughtfully.

  'Can you think of anyone who might have done something like this to your neighbour?'

  'No. As I said, we didn't really know him.'

  Gonzales stood up, partly to try to get the circulation going in his legs and partly to look over the hedge.

  'Only you and Bart and the young couple use this road, is that right? It comes to an end after that?'

  Anette Persson nodded, appearing to discover her coffee all of a sudden. It must have been cold as she took a tentative sip. She looked anxiously at Gonzales over her cup.

  'It's important that you think very carefully about this, fru Persson. Did you see an unfamiliar car, a stranger, anything at all out of the ordinary before Bart was found dead?'

  Fru Persson took a deep breath. 'I'd just got up, and I was extremely tired. It was still dark, of course, but I did see a car I didn't recognise. And it was driving down towards Bart's place.'

  'When?'

  'Well, the same morning the police turned up. It was just before four, I'm sure of that because I couldn't sleep and I'd been lying there, looking at the clock.'

  'Did you notice anything else? What colour was the car?'

  She sighed. 'I can't say because it was dark, and besides -' she frowned'- it just had on… what are they called? Fog lights, or hazard lights, I don't know. But it must have been really difficult to see the track ahead. I remember, because I thought it was peculiar.'

  'This business with the lights?'

  'Everything. The time, above all. Bart doesn't usually have visitors. And it was so quiet as well. I think the car must have been moving down the hill with the engine switched off, because otherwise I'd have heard it. But it was almost completely silent, just a faint crunching on the gravel. It was a bit ghostly.'

  'And?'

  There was an air of desperation about fru Persson as she shrugged her shoulders.

  'Nothing. I went back to bed, put my earplugs in and managed to fall asleep. I have earplugs because Ernst snores,' she explained, seemingly relieved that the conversation had moved on to safer ground. 'We slept right through till nine, if I remember rightly.'

  The wind grabbed hold of an enormous parasol at one end of the veranda. It fell beside the fence, and Gonzales only just managed to avoid being hit by the pole.

  'Good God!' Anette Persson leapt to her feet, but seemed happy about the interruption. 'It's getting a bit cold to sit out here anyway.'

  She ushered the two officers into the living room. A distinct aroma of alcohol reached Frisk's nostrils as she stood next to Anette Persson. The woman's hands flew up to her face, as if she had only just realised that she had been just a few metres from the murderer.

  'I had to… It's all so dreadful.' She burst into tears. 'How are we
going to be able to live out here now, in the middle of the forest, after something like this has happened? I'll never be able to…'

  It was no longer possible to make out what she was saying. Frisk placed a hand on her back.

  'I realise it must have been a shock for you, but I think we can tell you that the murder was carried out in a way that leads us to believe that the murderer knew Bart and wanted him dead. This has nothing whatsoever to do with you, fru Persson. You have nothing to fear.'

  'You said dark, fru Persson,' said Gonzales, ignoring the look Frisk gave him. 'You said it was dark. Was the car dark in colour?'

  Anette Persson looked up through her tears and appeared to consider the question.

  'I think so,' she said eventually. 'As I said, it was dark outside, but I think I would have noticed if it had been white or a pale colour. I think it was black or maybe dark blue.'

  'And I don't suppose there's any chance you noticed what make it was?'

  She looked surprised. 'Well yes, of course. We used to have one, before we bought the Berlingo. It was a Jeep. A Grand Cherokee. It looked new.'

  Before they left the area and headed for more civilised parts, they called at the Transtroms' place at the top of the hill, even though they knew Inspector Björkman had already spoken to them. There was no harm checking whether the neighbours had remembered anything new. No one was home, however.

  Gonzales took a stroll around the outside, putting his foot through the layer of ice on a puddle and soaking his trainers once again, just as they were beginning to dry out. There were no lights to be seen around them; the other buildings consisted of summer cottages closed up for the winter, their windows covered in frost.

  Frisk pushed back her seat and put her feet up on the dashboard while Gonzales drove - calmly and carefully - towards Borås and the shop belonging to the Berntssons. This job was already dangerous enough, without needing to risk killing yourself on the road. We've got plenty of time, he thought as Detective Inspector Frisk pretended to snore beside him.

  Maja Berntsson hung the CLOSED sign on the door just as her husband arrived.

  Sigvard Berntsson's face and chest were covered by a huge reddish curly beard and he had to be twice as old as his wife. Gonzales thought he looked a little shaken, but that didn't necessarily mean a thing and his appearance didn't prevent him from offering a firm handshake. People were often scared when they talked to the police. Gonzales knew that better than most; a whole load of the friends he'd known as a teenager had chosen lives of crime.

  Unfortunately, the Berntssons didn't think they had anything to contribute to the investigation, since their bedroom faced the forest and not Bart's place. They had been asleep on the night in question, with a couple of brief interruptions.

  'I got up to go to the loo just after midnight,' said Maja after thinking for a few moments. 'I remember the time, because I turned off the video - I'd recorded a film during the evening. Then I woke up first thing in the morning as well. Olof Bart was definitely alive then, because he was making so much noise.'

  Her husband frowned.

  'You never mentioned that.'

  She gave him an indulgent look. 'Yes, I did. I even woke you up with all my complaining, but you just turned over and went back to sleep.'

  She turned to Gonzales.

  'It wasn't unusual for Olof to be up early, revving the engines of those cars he fixed. It could be really annoying sometimes, particularly at the weekend when all you want is a bit of peace and quiet.'

  'What time was this?'

  'Er… I don't really know. I'd guess five or six o'clock? He was nearly always up at first light.'

  Frisk looked meaningfully at Gonzales.

  'Is there anything else you can tell us, Maja? Did you hear any voices? Think carefully.'

  She looked uncertainly at Frisk and shook her head.

  'No… I was really half-asleep.'

  Frisk placed her card on the table. 'OK. It's important that you get in touch with me if you remember anything else. Anything at all. That applies to both of you.'

  Sigvard Berntsson still seemed confused.

  'There was just one thing,' he said thoughtfully as they were about to get up. 'I was talking to Olof on Tuesday. It was an ordinary conversation, although we didn't talk all that often - he was a bit of a lone wolf. I didn't think anything of it at the time, but in the light of what's happened…'

  'What did you talk about?' Frisk helped him out.

  He linked his hands together on the table. 'Olof came to see me while I was out chopping wood. He seemed keen to chat for once, as if he wanted something. He started talking about different kinds of burglar alarm and what you should and shouldn't get. I think I more or less dismissed the whole idea. To be honest, I'm not keen on that kind of false security - you know what I mean, capitalists making a profit out of people's fears. Anyway, he finished up by saying that we ought to keep an eye out for each other. I thought he meant burglaries, that sort of thing, but… I suppose he might have meant something else.'

  'You mean he seemed afraid of something in particular?'

  'Yes, as if he had an idea of what was going to happen. As if he knew about the murderer.'

  * * *

  Chapter 30

  Analysis showed that the bullet in Olof Bart's head came from the same gun that had killed Lars Waltz. It therefore seemed reasonable to conclude that the perpetrator was one and the same.

  Björkman and Frisk took their places in the conference room at police headquarters in Gothenburg for an initial joint briefing.

  At first Tell had been surprised that Björkman hadn't sent someone from the lower ranks who had been involved in the investigation. By coming himself, he became yet another inspector in the new constellation. Tell wondered distractedly whether Björkman's mania for tidiness had now developed into a powerful need to remain in control, and in that case how effective he was as a team leader. On the other hand, the members of Björkman's team he had met appeared to think highly of their boss. And he had to admit that his own prejudice about small-town police officers and their little-brother complex had so far proved unfounded. If you could call Borås a small town.

  Ostergren had asked for a meeting with both detective inspectors to find out how they were planning to proceed. Two murder enquiries had suddenly taken a completely new turn, and new methods were required. Perhaps the top brass had a strategic plan.

  'We need to make a decision on what we're going to do about talking to the press,' she had said, among other things.

  Tell sighed. He'd been waiting for that.

  'The media already have some idea of what's happened - there was a fairly woolly piece in Goteborgsposten after the Olofstorp murder. The question is whether it might do us some good to go public with the whole thing, to avoid media speculation.'

  The team had gathered in full force in the conference room. Since they were on his territory, it seemed natural for Tell to take the lead.

  'I assume you are all familiar with the background of these cases and why we're here, therefore I have no intention of going through it all again. I also assume that everyone,' nodding mainly in the direction of the officers from Borås, 'has had a look at the interview transcripts linked to the Olofstorp murder, along with the SO CO reports and the forensic pathologist's report.'

  Björkman and Frisk nodded.

  'I would therefore suggest that you run through what you've got, then we can look at the information and make an initial comparison.'

  Björkman tapped the bundle of A4 paper in front of him into a neat rectangle.

  'OK… let's see. Olof Bart was shot with the same gun as your victim, that has been confirmed. The bullet was found after a detailed examination of the crime scene, but nothing else. The killer does not appear to have got out of the vehicle. However, we did learn from the forensic pathologist's examination that the execution did not go exactly according to plan, as happened in your case. A mark just above Bart's left ear shows
that the murderer first pressed the barrel of the gun against the victim's skull. However, the shot was fired from a distance of approximately half a metre. It seems likely that the perpetrator held on to Bart and pressed the gun to his head, but Bart managed to tear himself free. The murderer could have shot him while still sitting in his car.'

  'What's that all about?' groaned Gonzales. 'Can't he even manage to get out of his car? Either he's bloody lazy, or he's got some kind of mobility problem.'

  'That is possible, of course,' said Björkman thoughtfully. 'But it's also possible, in both cases, that the murderer did get out of his car but didn't leave any traces behind. As we know, it poured with rain all that day.'

  Everyone around the table nodded gloomily: rain was every officer's worst nightmare when it came to examining the scene of a crime.

  'Apart from blood and other material, there are traces of paint on the metal wall that was rammed. We will probably be able to establish what kind of paint we are dealing with. There were also tyre tracks. The place was ankle-deep in mud, but here and there we were able to make a decent cast. I'll come back to that.'

  He took a deep breath and blew the air out of the corner of his mouth.

  'As I said, the perpetrator was unlucky, if I can put it like that. The shot was not fatal, at least not directly. It went through the nose and came out behind the ear without passing through the brain. Bart would probably have survived, looking like shit admittedly, if he hadn't died from loss of blood or frozen to death. However, as you know, the perpetrator decided to be on the safe side and ran over him as well.'

  Björkman leafed through his papers again.

  'The perpetrator drove into the victim on the lawn, pushing him in front of the car towards the garage. Then the killer put his foot down, pinning Bart against the wall and… well, any of his internal organs that were still intact were crushed at that point. The driver then reversed and the victim was pulled, or dragged, a couple of metres along the grass, where his body was eventually found. We do have a time frame: our forensic pathologist has estimated death occurred between four and six in the morning, and according to an interview with a neighbour, Anette Persson, who evidently suffers from insomnia, it was quarter to five when an unknown Jeep rolled down towards Bart's place. I think we can safely assume that this was our murderer.'