by Karin Nordin
Esme looked up from her notes. ‘How long ago was it that she stopped running with that crowd?’
‘Ah, hell, I don’t know. More than ten years ago, I reckon. Maybe fifteen.’ Ingrid struggled with her lighter. When she couldn’t get more than a spark she tossed it on the coffee table and took out another from the end table drawer.
‘What happened to her finger?’ Sixten asked.
‘That was a weird story, actually. It wasn’t long after we met. Andrea was running drugs back and forth for this big boss back in Romania. One of the deals went bad and he sent two of his guys out here to make an example of her. That was their thing. Cut off a finger as a reminder that they wouldn’t accept any more mistakes. Well, Andrea didn’t let them take her finger easily. And one of the guys pulled a gun on her. But there was this young cop in the area ticketing cars that were parked in a towaway zone. He heard the commotion, barrelled into the building, and by some stroke of luck she managed to escape.’ Ingrid gave an awkward laugh, but there were tears in her eyes. ‘She still lost the finger, but Andrea always said she owed her life to that cop.’
‘Do you remember who the officer was?’
‘I wasn’t there and Andrea never told me. I don’t think she knew either.’
‘One last thing,’ Esme said, removing her phone to show a photo of Louisa Karlsson. ‘Have you ever seen this woman around Andrea?’
‘Isn’t she the one from the news? That girl the serial killer had locked up?’
Esme nodded.
Ingrid shook her head. ‘No. She’s not really the type to be found around the likes of us though, is she?’
Esme closed up her notebook and placed one of her police cards on the coffee table. ‘We might get in touch later this week. If you think of anything that—’
‘Was it quick?’ Ingrid asked.
Esme hesitated for a moment before answering. ‘The pathologist said it was probably instantaneous.’
Ingrid brought the cigarette to her lips, lighting it with an unsteady hand. ‘It’s just fucking typical.’
‘Typical?’
‘Of life,’ Ingrid said, exhaling a queasy cloud of smoke. ‘No matter how much you survive, you never make it out alive.’
Chapter 22
Bengt craned his neck, peering over the rows of seats towards the doors at the back of the auditorium. The performance would begin in less than five minutes and the chair to his left, the one he’d saved for Kjeld, sat empty.
Liam took his hand, entwining their fingers together. Then he leaned in closer and placed a kiss on Bengt’s cheek.
Bengt tried not to shy away from the affection, but he could feel his muscles tense. Public displays of intimacy, even those as simple as handholding or an almost platonic peck on the cheek, made him uncomfortable. Liam knew that, but he still persisted in trying to bring Bengt out of his shell. It wasn’t that Bengt didn’t want to flaunt his affections or share his feelings, but it had never felt natural for him to do so within view of others. Strangers in particular.
Liam was the exact opposite of him in that respect. Liam was open and warm with everyone. He wanted his love for Bengt to be on display for all the world to see. That was his way of showing his commitment to their relationship, by making it clear to everyone how he felt. Liam was an extrovert in all the ways that Bengt wasn’t and it was one of the reasons why he’d been attracted to him in the first place. But he still couldn’t get used to sharing his emotions publicly. Not because he feared being judged or harassed by those who might not approve, but because his private life was no one else’s concern.
That had been the one easy thing about being with Kjeld. Kjeld, too, had a cold exterior when it came to public affection. Although, in Kjeld’s case, Bengt suspected that the reasons for his standoffishness stemmed from something much deeper than simple apprehension about revealing too much of himself in the eyes of other people. Kjeld never would have kissed him in public. Not simply out of respect for Bengt’s unease about such exposed tenderness, but for his own unspoken anxiety when it came to showing his feelings. In fact, the only time Bengt could clearly remember Kjeld ever kissing him in public was when they signed their marriage licence at city hall. And even that was only in front of two witnesses and a local civil servant.
Of all his past relationships, Kjeld had been both the easiest and the most difficult. Love didn’t come easy for Kjeld, but he made his passion for the people who were important to him clear in subtle ways. Ways that took Bengt too long to understand. In the end, however, it wasn’t enough. For as closed off as Bengt was he needed something more than what Kjeld had been willing to give him. Something that he thought he could get from Liam.
‘Forget about him, älskling,’ Liam said. His British accent seeped through the way he pronounced that term of endearment. Darling. Sweetheart. Lover. It warmed Bengt’s cheeks to hear someone speak to him that way and mean it. Which was not to say that no one had ever meant it before, but Liam had a way of making it sound so normal. So true.
But also so underwhelming.
‘He promised he’d be here.’ If it had been for himself, Bengt wouldn’t have thought twice about it. But it was a promise Kjeld had made to their daughter. She would be expecting him. And if he didn’t show then Bengt would have to deal with the disappointment and the heartbreak Kjeld left in his wake.
Liam scoffed, the sound of which was halfway between a laugh and a disbelieving sigh. ‘Kjeld is always making promises.’
Liam wasn’t wrong. Kjeld was a master of saying he’d do something and then failing to follow through. Not with everything, of course. If that had been the case then he and Bengt would never have lasted as long as they had. When it came down to the wire’s edge, Kjeld was perfectly capable of making good on his commitments. But Kjeld had an infuriating habit of confusing his priorities. Truth of the matter was Bengt didn’t appreciate being second place to Kjeld’s work. But it was seeing Tove play second fiddle as well that had pushed him over the edge. And until Kjeld could learn to put his family first then they would never be able to have the relationship that Bengt had always hoped for. That he sometimes – guiltily – still hoped for.
‘I know, but this time will be different,’ Bengt insisted.
Kjeld hadn’t told Bengt everything about what had happened in Varsund, but Bengt had put together enough of the pieces through hearsay to have a good idea. He’d actually thought about calling Kjeld up and asking if he wanted to talk about the situation with his father, but then thought better of it. Taking care of Kjeld wasn’t Bengt’s job anymore. Nor was it a job he really wanted to take back. But for all of the hurt and resentment between them, Bengt did worry about Kjeld. He was Tove’s father, after all. Whether they liked it or not they would always be a part of each other’s lives. And if Bengt’s cancer were to come back with a greater vengeance then Kjeld would be all Tove had. That in and of itself was reason enough for Bengt to be concerned.
But it was also the reason why Bengt hoped Kjeld would be there tonight for Tove’s recital.
The lights dimmed on the audience and a yellow lamp cast a bright spotlight on the centre stage. Bengt turned in his seat again, looking back over the shadowy heads of other parents for any sign that Kjeld was there. Perhaps he was standing in the back, too late to make his way up to one of the front rows. But Bengt didn’t hold his breath as he scanned the room for a lone figure in the dark.
The music began to play and the curtains opened. Liam squeezed his hand and Bengt turned forward in his seat. The beginners ballet group from Stella’s School of Dance stood posed for their debut performance. Tove was poised at centre stage, proud in her pink leotard, tights, and tutu, wild curls done up in a matching bow. She had the biggest smile of the group.
Bengt frowned, craning his neck one last time to the back row, hoping he might catch a glimpse of that familiar head of reddish-blond hair. But he wasn’t there. He sighed.
A murmur to his left drew his attention from the stage.
One by one the shadows in the row stood up for a figure, trying to squeeze his way through the seats to the empty chair beside him. Bengt recognised that familiar scent of cologne in the darkness.
‘Did I miss anything?’ Kjeld whispered, turning his focus to the stage.
Bengt’s heart skipped a beat. ‘No, you’re right on time.’
Chapter 23
Kjeld returned from Tove’s dance recital in uncommonly good spirits. Not only had he enjoyed the performance, despite the fact that one of Tove’s fellow dancers stood on the side of the stage weeping through most of the numbers, he even refrained from getting into an argument with Liam afterwards. Most rewarding, however, was the look on Tove’s face when she saw him in the audience applauding her solo. It was more than happiness in her expression, it was pure love. She hadn’t looked at him like that in more than a year. And neither had Bengt. Although Kjeld suspected he wasn’t supposed to notice that glimmer of affection in his ex’s eyes.
He knew it was conceited to be proud of himself for doing something that was basically the bare minimum where most parents were concerned, but it was another step towards fulfilling the promise he’d made to himself when he returned home from Varsund. That he would do better as Tove’s father. And he would show Bengt that family and fatherhood were important to him. Just as important as his career. No, more so.
It felt good to feel good. Even his microwaveable lasagne, still overcooked and burnt on the edges, tasted better than it had the day before. Maybe those therapy sessions with Alice were finally paying off. Because for the first time in a long time he felt like he was doing something right.
The frantic knocking on the front door broke his thoughts. Kjeld walked barefoot across the cool laminate floor to the foyer. When he opened the door he was surprised to see Esme, drenched and shivering from the cold rain. She shoved past him and into the welcoming warmth of the flat.
‘What’s wrong with your intercom? Is it broken? I was standing outside for at least ten minutes before your neighbour let me into the building.’
Kjeld glanced at the intercom, tapping the speaker button. It didn’t light up. ‘Maybe it needs new batteries.’
‘I was calling you, too.’
‘Ah, shit. I turned my phone off during Tove’s recital.’ Kjeld reached into the pocket of his coat and removed his phone, setting it to vibrate.
Esme huffed and shook the rain out of her hair. Her fringe was wet, swooped sideways to reveal a rare glimpse of her forehead. It always surprised Kjeld how much older she looked without that thick mop of hair covering her eyebrows. He might have suggested she grow it out, but he knew Esme was particular about not drawing too much attention to herself.
‘What’s going on?’ he asked. ‘You want something to drink?’
‘I can’t. I have a—’ Esme cut herself off. ‘I’m meeting someone.’
‘A date? In this neighbourhood?’ Kjeld raised a brow. ‘Do I know them?’
Esme snorted. ‘Do you know anyone in this neighbourhood?’
‘Fair point.’ Despite living in his flat for going on three years now he’d never introduced himself to his neighbours. And any interactions he’d had with them had been limited to in-passing pleasantries at the ground-level postboxes. ‘So, what’s up?’
‘Ballistics came back on the bullet.’
‘And?’
‘Perfect match to a previous case.’
‘Which one?’
Esme reached inside her coat and removed a manila folder. She flipped it open and brought forth a printout from a case dating back sixteen years. ‘Tobias Hedebrant.’
‘Why does that name sound familiar?’ Kjeld took the printout and skimmed through it.
‘Because it was a case you worked. Tobias was involved in a very profitable trafficking outfit, transporting drugs into Sweden from Eastern Europe, until his business partner, Emil Hermansson, shot him dead in one of their warehouses for attempting to push him out of their most recent deal. Emil served five years before he was killed by another prisoner in the lunch line. Apparently he made one too many ethnic slurs to his cellmate.’
Kjeld raised a brow. ‘Let me guess. The bullet that was used to kill Tobias—’
‘Has an identical striation pattern to the one used to murder Andrea Nicolescu. Which increases the likelihood that it came from the same gun.’
‘Which means the possibility that Andrea’s death was drug or gang-related just became our primary focus.’
‘And it also increases the probability that Henny’s supposed tipster is a crank. Like we said earlier, it could simply be someone who’s trying to give her or us a hard time. Someone who gets a kick out of the police or the media spinning their wheels over nothing.’
Kjeld ran his hand over his chin as he mentally added this new piece of information to the puzzle. There was a flaw in Esme’s theory. He remembered the Hedebrant case, but not because of the men involved or the conviction. He remembered it because of how he’d found the gun. Emma Hassan, the girl who mysteriously managed to unlock the back door of his police car, had it in her possession when he picked her up. ‘But it can’t be the same gun because that gun is in evidence.’
Esme double-blinked in surprise. Then she leaned over to look at the file again. ‘What? Are you certain?’
Kjeld didn’t have to reach back into his memory to remember. The event was clear in his mind. They’d received a call from an administrative worker at Emma’s school that one of the other students saw a gun in her backpack. That was why they picked her up in the first place. And that was how they linked the gun back to Emil Hermansson. ‘I’m positive. I put that gun in evidence myself. It should still be there. And if it’s not …’
‘… Then someone with police access removed it.’
‘You might want to reschedule that date, Esme.’ Kjeld grabbed his coat off the wall. ‘It’s going to be a long night at the office.’
Chapter 24
Fredag | Friday
Therese Grahn, senior officer in charge of evidence, used a specialised key card to open the door to the property room while Kjeld and Esme waited on the opposite side of the counter. She returned a few minutes later with the box from the Tobias Hedebrant case, but before she turned it over she requested both of their signatures on two different forms. Then she placed an itemised list of the box’s inventory in front of them.
‘Which item are you interested in?’ she asked.
Kjeld glanced at the list. ‘Item B-3. The pistol.’
Therese opened the box.
Kjeld watched in anxious anticipation, fully expecting the gun to be missing. But before he could express his prediction to Esme, who was also waiting eagerly, Therese took out a bag and placed it on the table.
‘SIG Sauer P226 service-model pistol with a single 9x19 millimetre Parabellum cartridge. One bullet missing. But the bullet is labelled as item number C-2.’ Therese searched through the box again and retrieved a tagged plastic bag containing the bullet uncovered from Tobias Hedebrant’s skull.
‘The gun is here,’ Kjeld said, surprised. He realised he was stating the obvious, but his thoughts hadn’t quite caught up to his words.
‘Has anyone checked on this file recently?’ Esme asked.
Therese glanced at the requisition forms. ‘Not since 2003.’
‘That would have been about the time of Emil Hermansson’s trial.’
Therese nodded. ‘And you were the last officer to sign off on both pieces of evidence.’
Kjeld leaned closer to get a better look at the forms. ‘Can I see that?’
Therese showed him the chain of custody document along with all of the transfers. True enough, Kjeld’s signature was the last one on the list before it was turned in to the evidence manager.
‘Is it possible that someone could have removed it and replicated your signature on the original documentation?’ Esme asked.
‘Impossible,’ Therese interrupted. ‘The property room is under twenty-four-hour s
urveillance on minimally rotating shifts. And the key card system ensures we know exactly who and when is accessing the room at all times. Everything is recorded digitally. This box is from before the new system was in place, but the paperwork is clean. And as you can see from the bag, it still has the original seal. No one could have been in this box without my knowing it.’
‘Maybe it’s the wrong gun. Maybe this gun wasn’t used to murder Andrea Nicolescu.’ But even as he said it, Kjeld didn’t feel right about it.
‘But according to the initial ballistics report the striation patterns matched this case identically. Do you know what the odds are of it being a different gun?’ Esme was frustrated.
‘I know, but how do we account for this one still being in evidence?’
Esme scrunched her nose up in thought.
‘I don’t know what they’ve told you down in ballistics,’ Therese said. ‘But this pistol hasn’t left the property room in sixteen years.’
‘Microscopic striations change over time,’ Axel said after Kjeld and Esme had caught up the rest of the team on their findings. ‘I know it’s unlikely, but if the make and model of gun is the same and they came from the same production line it’s possible that with time and use the striations between two firearms could be similar.’
‘You’re correct,’ Esme said. ‘I asked the ballistics specialist about that and he said that would normally be true. But he pointed out a distinctive groove on the edge of both bullets. He believes this is the result of an aberration in the barrel. Possibly something missed in quality control before it reached the market.’
‘Which means the likelihood that the bullets were fired from two different guns would be astronomical,’ Sixten said, his mouth half full of the cinnamon roll he was eating.
