by Karin Nordin
‘Can you believe Martin Stenmarck didn’t qualify in the semi-final? Unbelievable!’
Kjeld glanced up to see Sixten following Esme from the department’s kitchenette. He balanced three mugs of coffee in his hands and leaned in her direction when he spoke, giving him an awkward shoulder slump. Sixten was a tall, slim-figured man with a head of unruly blond curls that he tried unsuccessfully to slick down with gel that smelled like glue. He was the talk of the water cooler among many of the call operators and receptionists because of his charming smile and genuine politeness. He also had one of those faces that looked more suited for a lead singer in a boy band than a police detective, which no doubt endeared him to most of their younger colleagues.
Sixten set Kjeld’s coffee mug down in front of him with a smile. ‘What do you think, boss?’
Kjeld took a sip of the coffee and winced. Someone had put sugar in it. ‘What do I think about what?’
‘Mello.’
‘What?’
‘Melodifestivalen! The third semi-finals aired last night. I still can’t believe Stenmarck was pushed to the second-chance round.’
‘That’s because he sang in Swedish.’ Axel Lund, the forensic data analyst who often assisted their team, picked up his head from behind his extra wide computer screen. Axel had at least fifteen years on Kjeld and zero desire for professional advancement. He was distinctly unobtrusive, shorter in stature than most of the men in the department, and had a dry monotone voice. He often treated his job like a chore, although he was one of the best forensic analysts in the department. Like Kjeld he usually found Sixten’s youthful enthusiasm overbearing and trite, but their mismatched personalities often resulted in an amusing display of banter. One which had quickly earned them their office nicknames – Tweedle Lund and Tweedle Sund. ‘You can’t win Melodifestivalen unless you sing in English because that’s the only way you have a chance of winning Eurovision.’
‘I don’t think that’s true! Is it?’ Sixten glanced to Kjeld.
‘Don’t look at me. I stopped watching Eurovision after the travesty of 2009.’
‘But Norway’s song was great that year,’ Sixten said in disbelief.
‘Let me guess.’ Esme grinned. ‘There weren’t any metal bands in the grand finale.’
Kjeld shrugged. ‘What can I say? I’m a sucker for a good rock ballad.’
‘It’s still a sham. How many non-English songs have won Eurovision in the last fifty years? Twenty?’ Axel held up his phone. ‘Forty-six per cent of winners since 1966 sang in English. Do you know what the percentage of Swedish language winners is?’
‘No doubt you’re going to tell me.’ Sixten smirked.
‘Two-point-nine per cent. Stenmarck didn’t have a chance.’
‘And, to be fair, there’s no way the judges are going to send a song called “Let the Shit Burn” to the Eurovision contest,’ Esme said, tucking a strand of unruly hair back behind her ear. ‘I did like the song though.’
‘If the people vote for it, they will,’ Sixten insisted.
‘No way. It’s totally rigged,’ Axel said before burying his face back into whatever he was working on.
Kjeld slouched in his chair and pinched the bridge of his nose. He was grateful for the temporary reprieve Sixten’s conversation had given his thoughts, but the moment the conversation lulled he began mulling over the scene they’d witnessed that morning. It jarred him thinking about the state Louisa’s body had been found in. That brutal image of her remains chilled him to the bone and left him with an aching sense of misplaced guilt that made it impossible for him to join in the office banter. He should have been there to protect her the way he had eight years ago.
He’d failed her. And it left him wondering who else he’d failed.
‘Axel,’ Kjeld said after gathering his thoughts. ‘I need you to go through some CCTV footage around the Marksmyntgatan car park across from the Högsbo Library. We’re fairly certain that’s the last place Louisa Karlsson was seen. At least, that’s the last location her family can place her at before she went missing. There’s a pharmacy and a bank machine in that area which ought to have operating cameras so we should be able to determine what time she arrived and left work. If we’re lucky we’ll be able to get a glimpse of her.’
‘We also need to interview her colleagues and find out if there’d been any changes in her behaviour at work,’ Esme said. ‘The Karlsson family seems to be very close, but it’s possible Louisa told her co-workers things that she didn’t share with her family. According to her family she didn’t have a very diverse schedule so anything out of the ordinary is important. Particularly anything that could point us to a potential suspect.’
Axel nodded, immediately pulling up the area on his computer, including the contact information for the library. ‘Has anyone considered the obvious?’
‘The obvious?’ Kjeld raised a brow.
‘Someone related to the Cellar Sadist.’
Kjeld cringed at the name. He’d always hated the way the media painted killers in an extravagant light. Giving them colourful nicknames had always sat wrong with him. The focus should have been on the victims, not the psychopath. ‘Esme made a call to the Land Registration Authority earlier. Apparently Hägglund didn’t have any next of kin. The house was owned by a real estate company that was planning to remodel the home and put it on the market, but its reputation has kept it empty for years.’
‘Did the family mention anyone with grievances against her?’ Sixten asked.
Kjeld shook his head. ‘Nothing. Which means we’re starting from scratch just as we would any other homicide. Friends, family, close connections.’
‘What about a copycat?’ Axel rubbed his chin. ‘You’ve got the same victim, the same setting, potentially the same method of killing—’
‘Hägglund didn’t have a single method of killing,’ Kjeld interrupted. He thought back to when they found the other bodies on Hägglund’s property. The ones who hadn’t survived. Most of them he’d killed impulsively out of rage when they didn’t appease his fantasy. Louisa had been smart. She’d indulged him just enough to stay alive. That was what kept her from being bludgeoned over the head with a saucepan or choked under the grip of Hägglund’s meaty hands. ‘And regardless of what he claimed he had planned for Louisa back then, he never got a chance to follow through with it.’
‘And until we know the official cause of death, we shouldn’t speculate on the idea of a copycat.’ Esme turned a focused gaze on Axel. ‘Most crimes are committed by someone close to the victim. Let’s start there and fan outwards. Kjeld and I will be following up with Frisk at the pathologist’s office and in the meantime we’re going to need extra help manning the phones. The press is already onto the case and we need to make sure we stay on top of it.’
Sixten groaned. ‘The phone lines are the worst. It’s just a bunch of crazies looking for attention.’
Esme offered an encouraging smile. ‘You’d be surprised how many cases get solved because one officer hears something on the tip line that everyone else ignored.’
Sixten’s mouth upturned in that boyish smile. Kjeld thought he caught more than just a little admiration in the man’s eyes as well, but Esme didn’t seem to notice. Or, if she did, she pretended not to.
‘The chief will probably be organising a press conference on this one before the end of the day so we need to collect as much information as we can before then. Crime scene technicians should already be on their way to the Karlsson residence to go through Louisa’s belongings. I don’t have high hopes that they’ll find anything, but you never know.’ Kjeld paused. ‘And it goes without saying that Louisa’s name doesn’t leave this office. The last thing the family needs is the media tearing open old wounds before they’ve had time to grieve.’
Kjeld took another sip of his coffee having forgotten that someone, Sixten he assumed, added sugar to it, and spat it back into the mug.
A jolt to the back of his chair rocked Kjeld forward
and he twisted to look up at the smug face of Kenneth Olsen, one of the mid-ranking detectives with whom Kjeld had never got along. Lately, however, Kenneth had been on loan to the organised crime department which meant he hadn’t been around much to mock Kjeld with his snide barbs. Kjeld had enjoyed the reprieve while it lasted.
‘Looks like your buddy is on the news again.’ Kenneth sneered.
Esme shot Kenneth a hard glare, but Kenneth merely smirked and kept walking towards the group of detectives and officers congregated around the flat-screen television that was mounted to the wall near the kitchenette.
Kjeld focused his attention on the television, which showed a crowd of about twenty-five people outside the general court building, waving signs while court officials looked on baffled from the main entrance.
The camera swivelled back to an on-the-scene reporter from one of the major news networks. ‘We’re standing outside the Gothenburg general courthouse where these citizens have assembled to protest the incarceration of Nils Hedin. Deputy Commissioner Nils Hedin was arrested last October under suspicion of being the so-called Kattegat Killer, the serial murderer responsible for the deaths of at least four people including Roux Aubuchon, the French Ambassador to Sweden. The case had previously been postponed on account of medical reasons. Hedin sustained a gunshot wound during his capture. No reason as yet has been given as to why the courts have delayed the trial once again, but these protesters claim that Hedin was the fall guy for a larger conspiracy deep within the government. Regardless of what the general court decides to rule on the case, there’s no doubt it will leave this city divided.’
A tense silence fell over the group that stood around the television as the reporter cut to the weather. A few peering glances were cast in Kjeld’s direction, but he didn’t give any of them the satisfaction of showing that he noticed. He kept a straight face, refusing to display any form of recognition that might allow them to presume he was bothered by their judgemental glares. He wasn’t. Not really. He didn’t need their reproachful sneers to make him feel guilty for what happened with Nils. He had enough guilt on his own.
The door to Chief Superintendent Rhodin’s office swung open, slamming against the wall. The sound rattled through the room. Kjeld glanced up to see Rhodin’s stocky figure in the doorway. ‘Last time I checked gawking at the television never solved any crimes! Get back to work or all of you will be doing overtime on Midsommar!’
Chapter 9
Tisdag | Tuesday
Ove Frisk, chief medical examiner for Gothenburg’s forensic department, dropped a toothed pair of forceps into a metal tray on the counter. Then he waddled back over to the body on the slab, stopping to hike his belt up over his round belly. One of the buttons on his dress shirt was missing, exposing his sweaty undershirt. ‘The forensic odontologist sent his findings over this morning. The teeth have been sent to the lab for DNA confirmation, but from what he could see from the dental remains, this is indeed Louisa Karlsson.’
Kjeld’s shoulders sagged, that tiny fragment of hope escaping in a sigh.
‘The official cause of death is cardiac arrest, but as you can tell from the state of the body that was brought on by the severity of the burns.’
Kjeld huddled beside the slab. It was so cold in the morgue that he could see his own breath on the air. He tucked his hands into his pockets and pulled his arms in close to the sides of his torso to preserve his own body heat.
‘Sorry if it’s extra chilly in here today,’ Ove said. ‘The building supervisor accidentally turned off the heat yesterday. Not that we ever let it get too warm in here, but it is a bit more uncomfortable than usual.’
‘I can’t feel my fingers,’ Sixten mumbled from the opposite side of the room.
Ove, not accustomed to a lot of humour from his visitors, nodded to the bench of dissection equipment. ‘There are gloves on the counter.’
It hadn’t been Kjeld’s plan to bring Sixten along, but at the last minute the chief insisted that he and Esme take the younger detective with them. For the “experience”, Rhodin had said, but Kjeld sensed it was because Sixten had been pestering him all morning and he just wanted the greenhorn out of his sight.
Kjeld took a step closer to Esme, who’d been quietly observing the cadaver with a quizzical gleam since they’d arrived.
In the centre of the frigid room, Louisa Karlsson’s body, burned face unrecognisable in the bright fluorescent lighting, lay lifeless on the dissection table. Like her face, her torso was a brutally charred mass of flesh. What remained of muscle and tendons were red and raw. And her arms, already thin to begin with, were scorched down through multiple layers of tissue. The tips of her fingers and toes were burned nearly to the bone.
Kjeld tried not to imagine how long her body must have been engulfed in flames to elicit that result. Or how hot the fire had been.
‘She was alive when this was done to her?’ Esme’s lips pulled taut in a grimace.
‘Without a doubt. That was the first thing I looked at. Normally when someone dies from immolation, such as in a house fire, you find them in a pugilistic pose. They tuck their arms and knees together like a boxer. This is a result of the muscles contracting during the burning and the joints subsequently flexing.’ Ove motioned to the length of the body. ‘As you can see, Louisa’s foetal position is almost textbook in that regard. There’s an extreme bend in the arms and legs, suggesting that she was on the ground when she succumbed to the fire. But there was also evidence in the skin, particularly on the back and shoulders, which indicates she was alive when she was burning. I’ve already sent some samples to the lab to test for trace elements of an accelerant and I’m waiting to hear back on the blood tests for confirmation of cardiac arrest. But at this point I think it’s safe to say she was alive when she was burning and that the flames continued well after her death. Particularly where the lower limbs were concerned.’
From across the room, barely within view of the slab, Sixten gagged. Kjeld couldn’t blame him. It was one thing to see the body in a dark basement, but under the bright examination lights the detail of her suffering was nauseatingly vivid.
‘How could anyone do that to someone?’ Sixten muttered.
Ove held up his hands and shrugged. With his round face, pink nose a tad too small for his face, cheeks rosy from years of late nights with a bottle of red wine, and bushy grey beard, he looked like a tired Santa Claus. ‘That’s an answer I can’t give you.’
‘My God,’ Esme whispered.
Sixten scrunched his face into a squeamish grimace. Before they arrived at the morgue Sixten had been bright-eyed and eager. Now his face was a decided shade of green, not unlike Esme’s car, which made Kjeld feel a little guilty about not welcoming Sixten more thoroughly into their team. He shouldn’t have been so hard on the man simply because he was new, but Kjeld struggled with change. And he wasn’t accustomed to having someone around who was full of pervasive enthusiasm. It made him wonder if there had ever been a time early on in his own career when his eagerness was so irritating. If so, Nils had never said anything. Then again, there had been a lot Nils didn’t say.
‘Can we cover her now?’ Sixten asked, motioning to the cadaver’s exposed lower half.
Ove rubbed his chin on his sleeve. ‘This isn’t a movie, kid. If you’re going to stay in the murder business then you better get used to all sorts of parts dangling about.’
‘I only meant out of respect …’ Sixten’s voice trailed off, embarrassed.
‘She’s gone, son.’ Ove’s tone was brusque and a tad too pedantic. ‘She doesn’t care about respect anymore. If she could speak I’m certain the only thing she’d care about is you finding whoever did this to her.’
Kjeld almost felt sorry for Sixten. It wasn’t easy dealing with Ove’s overbearing gruffness. Then again, it could have been worse. Not that any murder was better. But it was always the ones where the faces had been mangled beyond recognition or bloated, full of insects eating away at the eye sockets,
that made Kjeld’s stomach churn. His own first homicide had him vomiting in the bin during the autopsy. In that respect, Sixten was doing fairly well keeping it together. But there was something about this murder that left him with a gut-wrenching nausea. It was gruesome because of her innocence. Because she’d already survived a circumstance worse than death once before. Because her murderer had treated her so cruelly. And because there was nothing about Louisa that warranted this level of torture.
‘Fire is a horrible way to go,’ Esme said. Her quiet tone suggested that she might have had some personal experience with that and, not for the first time, Kjeld wondered what else he didn’t know about the woman he spent nearly every day with.
Kjeld straightened up and slipped his hands in his pockets. ‘We need to make sure Axel prioritises the CCTV footage from the library where Louisa worked. If the killer found her there then hopefully we’ll be able to see something of them on the footage. If not, then maybe we can at least get a timeline of her movements and find out where she went after work. We know she usually took the bus to and from work as well, so let’s get in touch with whoever was driving that night. Maybe they saw something.’
Esme looked to Sixten and said exactly what was on Kjeld’s mind. ‘It’ll probably be a full night of footage, if you’re interested in the overtime. It’s tedious work, but that’s how most homicides are solved.’
‘I’ll get on it as soon as we get back.’ Sixten smiled, grateful not to be ignored, but still holding back the urge to be sick.
Kjeld’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it halfway out of his pocket to see the name of the caller. Bengt. He let it go to voicemail.
‘Thanks, Ove. Let us know if you find anything else,’ Kjeld said.
Ove placed his hands on his lower back and jutted his hips forward in a small stretch. ‘I don’t expect to find much more, but I’ll give you a call when the bloodwork and toxicology get back to me. And I don’t want to be that guy, but please don’t forget to sign off on the examination documents in your inbox. The pencil-pushers in legal have been harassing me about your department forgetting to acknowledge receipt of evidence.’
