Sofia Frisk cleared her throat.
'The Berntssons, Bart's other neighbours, were also woken at an early hour by noise from Olof Bart's place - the roar of a car engine, among other things. Maja Berntsson assumed he was up early, working, which he often did, but again it seems likely that what she actually heard was the murder.'
'Isn't it a bit strange that she didn't hear anything else - screaming, for example?' said Karlberg.
Björkman shrugged his shoulders. He looked up to check that no one had any further questions about the cause of death, then took a document out of a red plastic folder and carried on.
'As I said, he was found by two young people, David Jansson and Klara Päivärinta, who were out for a walk; their dog ran on ahead and started barking. The dog had evidently been up to the body and… well, I don't know. The boy said its nose was covered in blood. At first he thought it had been bitten by some animal.' Björkman shuddered at the unpleasant picture that came into his mind. 'They made the call straight away. The police from Kinna turned up after only a couple of hours.'
A few of his colleagues laughed appreciatively at the aside.
'Were they questioned?' asked Tell, temporarily deaf to any kind of in-joke.
'They were very shocked, of course, but they were interviewed at the scene and didn't really have much to say. They hadn't seen or heard anything, but then that's hardly surprising. It was three or four o'clock in the afternoon when the call was made.'
Björkman started rustling through his papers again, and Frisk took the opportunity to jump in.
'Michael and I spoke to Anette Persson. Apart from telling us the precise time when she saw the car, she was also able to tell us that it was a Jeep Grand Cherokee, fairly new-'
'A Grand Cherokee, yes,' Tell interrupted.
Frisk cleared her throat.
'Apparently they used to have one themselves, that's why she was so certain. She was less sure about the colour, but she thought it was black or blue. Another thing: Sigvard Berntsson remembered that Bart had been anxious about something just before he was murdered. He'd been talking about burglar alarms and neighbourhood watch. As if he had a bad feeling about something.'
Björkman nodded thoughtfully. 'There's one more house that's occupied all year round, the Transtroms'. They were away on the day itself, but they did say that a sports car driven by an immigrant had been seen down in the village a week earlier. They thought it was odd.'
Björkman's expression showed exactly what he thought of this, and a couple of his Gothenburg colleagues shook their heads incredulously.
'OK,' said Tell, taking over once again. 'We'll carry on interviewing those who live in the vicinity. We'll work our way outwards from the scene of the crime.'
He stood up and made a note on the whiteboard.
'So, we're assuming that we have a murderer in a Grand Cherokee. They can't be all that common.'
'Well no, bearing in mind how much you have to cough up to buy one,' Karlberg agreed.
'So our murderer is upper class. A politician or a brat,' said Beckman.
'Or a plumber,' Bärneflod added.
'Focus,' said Tell. 'The vehicle registration office: all those who own a Grand Cherokee. Start with black and dark blue. In Gothenburg and Borås to begin with, then we'll work our way across the country.'
'What limits are we setting?' asked Frisk.
'We don't know yet,' said Tell.
Björkman raised one finger in the air. 'There was one thing I wanted to come back to with regard to the tyre tracks. It's annoying, to say the least. The impressions show that the tracks from the two crime scenes were not made by the same vehicle. Or to be more accurate, they're not from the same wheel.'
Everyone sat in silence for a moment, digesting this fact with some confusion.
'But according to our technical boys, the tracks were made by a heavy vehicle, something like a Jeep,' Gonzales protested.
'Yes. We know that one tyre manufacturer recognised their specific model from the impressions we took in Olofstorp,' said Tell. 'Plus we have the exact distance between the wheels. A Grand Cherokee is a match for our case too.'
'What does that mean - it's not the same murderer after all? Did the murderer swap cars, same model but a different vehicle? Or did he change the tyres?' said Karlberg.
'It is the same murderer - the gun matches,' Beckman broke in.
'Shit,' muttered Tell. 'OK, we'll check the vehicle register anyway.'
He thought for a moment.
'We should also look at car hire companies in the area who have a Grand Cherokee. Same method: start at the centre and work your way outwards. Check if they have CCTV cameras; if so, it would be useful to have the tapes.'
Somewhat disheartened, Tell found it difficult to summon up enthusiasm for the investigation, yet they had actually managed to gather far more information than could reasonably be expected at such an early stage. They had an exact time; they had the make of the car. Even if the car wasn't the same one in both murders, they could link one car to one murder through the specific wear and tear on a tyre, and hopefully they would be able to link the car to the murderer through the registration office, a car hire firm or witness statements. And then the murderer could probably be linked to both murders, since it could be proved that the same weapon had been used. He pulled himself together.
'The method is the same, the murder weapon is the same. We need to think about common denominators between Lars Waltz and Olof Bart. In order to do this, we need to map each man's background. We've made a start on this with Waltz, as you can see from the reports, so we'll tackle Bart in the same way The focus for this task is to try to find points of similarity between these two men. Can anyone think of anything now, just off the top of your head?'
'They're about the same age,' said Beckman.
Karlberg nodded. 'Waltz is two years older.'
'Grew up in the same area, perhaps? Went to the same school?'
Björkman shook his head.
'Olof Bart has only been Olof Bart for about ten years. He changed his surname in 1997. Before that he was called Pilgren. Odd, don't you think? So far we haven't managed to track down any relatives. His parents are no longer alive. He's supposed to have an older sister - Susanne Pilgren - but she hasn't had a fixed address for years. Evidently she's a known user. But when Olof was young the family lived in Gothenburg, in Angered.'
He scratched his head.
'They don't seem to have had an easy time of it as kids. The sister was taken into care by social services, but that's where the trail ends - it's all confidentiality crap. If we're going to get any information, we need a piece of paper to wave about.'
'OK, Björkman, that's fine,' said Tell. 'Someone needs to look up Bart's social services file, if it still exists, and check out the family in general: mother, father, possible foster homes, care homes, time in prison, whatever. Actually, I can do that. I can go through Ostergren if we hit red tape,' he added to himself.
'Karlberg, you go and have a chat with the guy who worked with Bart. And Bärneflod, you can start setting up the search for the car. Check if there's any transport company that uses the killer's presumed route, and if there is, find out the drivers' schedules. Somebody might have seen our man, maybe at a petrol station or in a lay-by. The same applies to taxi firms that serve the area we're looking at. I know it was an ungodly hour so I'm sure there weren't many people about. Talk to the staff at petrol stations and places that serve food along the road; we know he was driving a dark-coloured Grand Cherokee. He might have stopped to fill up with petrol or got something to eat. The CCTV cameras could be of interest there too. As usual we need to work with the resources available, and we have one or two other cases going on as well. But we do need to strike while the iron's hot. The police in Angered, and I assume in Kinna too, are at our disposal within reason. But we should expect to work hard for the next few days. I'll talk to Ostergren about how many people we can use.'
Tell
had added the last sentence hastily as Bärneflod was beginning to look more and more grim.
'We'll make a start along those lines. It's too early to begin talking about motive until we have a clearer picture of victim number two and what the link is between the victims. But let's assume that the perpetrator had some kind of relationship with both of them.'
He reached for a glass of carbonated water from the Sodastream, the station's latest acquisition.
'Any questions?'
'Yes. Why?'
That came from Frisk.
'Why?' Tell repeated blankly.
'Yes, why are we assuming that the perpetrator had a relationship with the victims?'
Silence briefly fell around the table. Karlberg leaned forward and grabbed a tin of snuff somebody had left behind. He opened it and contented himself with inhaling the aroma. Sometimes it helped.
'Because the alternative is a maniac who kills at random. And we all know the statistics about how unusual it is for a victim and killer to have had no previous contact. Plus that scenario doesn't really fit in with the method and the evidence left behind - or rather the lack of evidence.'
Beckman agreed. 'A confused person would leave more clues behind. Besides which, the method is far too full of hatred to be an impulsive act. I mean, the victims were both shot and run over, not once but twice: one right across the body, the other crushed against a wall. It almost looks like…'
She fell silent, but Tell prompted her.
'Like what?'
She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed at the attention. She hadn't quite finished formulating her ideas.
'I don't quite know what I meant, but it looks like the kind of rage that could have been caused by some deep wrong. I actually thought of something sexual at first, but I don't know why.'
'You mean the murders were committed by a woman?' said Gonzales.
'No, I didn't mean that at all. I just mean I think there was a great deal of anger behind the killings. That much rage builds up over a long period, and is directed at a person who has some significance for you. I think any profiler would agree with me on that,' she said, missing Bärneflod's meaningful glance at Karlberg, who thankfully failed to respond.
'I think you're right. That's what I meant when I said we should assume that the victims knew the killer.' Tell turned to Frisk. 'But you're right too. We can't exclude the alternatives. We can't tie ourselves down to one theory without any proof. That was a good reminder.'
With those words, and with the feeling that he was an excellent team leader - clear, ready to listen, generous, constructive - Tell brought the briefing to an end.
* * *
Chapter 31
1995
The gastric pains kicked in as soon as she got off the train at Borås central. She had taken an earlier train than she'd said and didn't expect to see any familiar faces on the platform. Apart from an elderly man in a raincoat and sou'wester, it was deserted. She bought a couple of bananas and a bottle of mineral water from the kiosk in the hope of settling what her mother usually referred to as her 'nervous tummy', which was protesting against several cups of coffee she'd drunk in the buffet. She'd been travelling all day.
Early that morning a classmate had offered her a lift to the station.
Maya had agreed immediately, throwing a few clothes into her rucksack and scribbling a note to Caroline, who was still asleep: Making my own way to the station - see you Sunday night. Love M! Deep down she knew that this bright little message was a way of hiding the real reason why it felt so indescribably good to leave Stensjö in a hurry. She wanted to be free, even if it was just for a couple of days. Wanted to prove to herself that she could still cope on her own. To have the chance to miss Caroline, as she had done at the start of their relationship.
Talking to Caroline about her need for freedom was pointless, and every time ended in despair and long drawn-out punishment in the form of silence or a sophisticated nastiness. Up to now Maya had not thought that her longing for freedom had in any way matched the pain it caused Caroline; she had adapted, despite the fact that the empty feeling in her stomach had returned, and sometimes became actual pain.
Otherwise she might have thought that the gastric discomfort was associated with the town, with the lifeless greyness surrounding Borås station. Her 'nervous tummy' - the snare inside her - characterised her relationship with her mother, Solveig. Poor Solveig.
The same pain had coloured her teenage years and was closely intertwined with guilt, the constant gnawing guilt that she could never rationally explain but which had nevertheless always been there. She had realised at an early age that her mother was a pathetic soul, but over the years the guilt had become interwoven with anger at the guilt, and love interwoven with the anger, all of it associated with this person who lived and breathed other people's guilt.
No behavioural therapy in the world would be able to remove the snare that had ceremonially been placed around her neck, tightening slowly now as she opened the door.
The smell of home struck her like a slap in the face. It pervaded the people who lived there and their dealings with each other, the hall furniture made of pine and the armchair upholstered in Laura Ashley fabric that her mother had won in a competition in a women's magazine. The vibes, her well-developed sixth sense, told her that she ought to call out to warn Solveig that she'd arrived. That she shouldn't surprise her by walking in unannounced. She tried to clear her throat, but the sound turned into an indistinct mumble.
Solveig was in the bedroom. Maya waited in the doorway until the shoulders stopped shaking and she knew that her mother was aware of her presence.
'Darling girl,' said Solveig, turning her tear-drenched face to Maya. The wet cheek was pressed against Maya's hand, cold and soft like a lump of dough. 'Mummy's just a bit upset.'
Maya knew the words well from her childhood.
'But it's fine now you're here.'
After dinner they left the washing up and moved into the living room. Solveig had bought soft drinks and crisps and made some popcorn in the microwave, and there was a romantic comedy on TV. In order to be able to watch it from the revolving armchair, which was covered in dust as Sebastian usually watched TV in his bedroom, they had to push a pedestal out of the way and lean a folding table up against the wall. The living room was much smaller than the one in Rydboholm, and Solveig had found it difficult to get rid of things. She had mentioned several times during the course of the move that it was hard to find room for everything.
Maya had reassured her patiently, time after time. 'You've done the right thing, Mum, honestly. It's much better for you to be living in town.'
'When Sebastian leaves home, you mean? Any day now? When I end up all on my own? I miss my things. I filled a whole attic with furniture, and I miss my parquet floor. This thing is just pretending to be a parquet floor. What am I going to do here in town, anyway? I spend all my time at home. If anybody ought to spend money on where they live, it's me -1 should have thought about it that way.'
'First of all, Sebbe is only fifteen; he's not moving out anytime soon. And you really ought to find something to do, now you haven't got anybody to look after any more. A hobby, something to get you out and about.'
Her mother met her gaze with an expression of sheer contempt.
'Like what?'
'How should I know? Dancing lessons. Learning a new language.'
Maya couldn't summon the energy to put her heart and soul into the all-too-familiar conversation; she knew it was a waste of time. Her mother snorted and took her cigarettes and lighter over to the chair by the window. She pushed it open and blew the smoke out through the gap, peering anxiously into the street.
'It's so dark here. They were talking about putting some lighting on this street,' she mumbled. 'So women would be safe from rapists and so on. As if that would help.' She squinted. 'Turn the light off so I can see.'
Maya went and stood beside Solveig. Together they watched a lone dog-walker.
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'Is it Sebbe you're worried about?' asked Maya in the end.
Solveig nodded, and the tears started to trickle down her cheeks.
Maya sighed. 'Mum! It's only half past eight. He was going to a party, wasn't he?'
'I told him he couldn't go!' yelled Solveig, her face distorted by weeping once more. She sucked the smoke down into her lungs so sharply that she started to cough and had to bend over and take deep breaths. As she did so, Maya noticed that her hair reached right down to the floor. She had a lot of split ends. It was grey now, Solveig's hair. How long had it been so grey?
'You said it yourself, Maya.' Her mother's voice sounded different as the words bounced off the floor. 'He's only fifteen. These bikers' parties attract all kinds of rough people. I won't be able to sleep without tablets tonight. I don't think I can get through this.' Solveig straightened up and slapped one ear with the palm of her hand. 'Evil, that's what it was called. Evil.'
'The bikers' party? Where is it?'
'I think it was Frufallan.'
'The Evil Riders. Yes, they've got a place there. I know people who've been.'
Maya knew what was coming. She sat down on the sofa and placed a cushion over her stomach.
Suddenly she found them utterly laughable. And she would have laughed, in fact, if it hadn't been so oppressive: she and her mother in this claustrophobic, insanely over-furnished little flat, each with her own psychosomatic cramp presumably exacerbated by their being together. And now Solveig wanted her to go out to Frufallan, on those narrow roads in the rain and the wind.
Solveig pointed at the darkness outside the window as if it were argument enough - which she thought it was.
Solveig shook her head crossly. 'He's your brother! He's only a child; it's your duty as his older sister to go and fetch him. Please, Maya, please, darling. My nerves can't cope with this. You can go on the bus, can't you, if you're worried about getting wet?'
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