The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Will you be all right now?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you so much, Nurse Margit!’

  ‘See you later then. Bye for now!’

  And there Ingrid remained, sitting by herself but without feeling particularly alone, for she was sure that Nurse Margit would take care of everything.

  When Nurse Margit finally came back she had changed out of her white hospital coat into a black cotton tunic under an open blue down jacket that fluttered after her as she hurried over to Ingrid. The white clogs had been replaced by a pair of black boots and the clip-clopping by almost soundless steps.

  ‘My car is in the car park,’ said Margit, smiling warmly and offering her arm in support as Ingrid got up out of the armchair. ‘Has it been terribly boring?’

  ‘Oh, no, not at all. I’ve been reading the whole time.’

  They went out of the hospital entrance side by side and made their way at a snail’s pace down a little hill to a stone-paved path, which led through some barberry bushes and on to the enormous car park. After passing several rows of cars they stopped at a white Ford Mondeo. Nurse Margit unlocked the car with a click of the remote control and helped Ingrid into the passenger seat.

  ‘Now you’re getting a little exercise too, Ingrid. It’s good that you’re practising walking. You can look on it as physical therapy.’

  Ingrid smiled at her as the friendly nurse got into the driver’s seat beside her. She hardly believed herself that there really was a corpse at home. Could she have imagined the whole thing? Perhaps her painkillers were giving her hallucinations? It seemed so unreal that anyone could have been murdered in her kitchen.

  The closer they got to Ingrid’s house, the more the foundations of artificial security she had been lulled into during her hours of reading Woman’s Weekly in the hospital reception area were shaken. There was a corpse at home in her kitchen. Full stop. How would that affect her life from now on? The house would probably be invaded by police and crime scene investigators, who would ransack it in search of fingerprints and clues. Who would clean up after them? There would be police tape around the house and neighbours staring. Maybe reporters. Police interrogation.

  No, it would doubtless be some time before life really returned to normal. If ever. Would she feel safe again in a house where an unknown murderer had killed a strange man? Well, perhaps it was not very likely to happen again. She would just have to put the whole thing behind her sooner or later, and go on as if nothing had happened. She was not involved in any way; she had just been struck by a little bit of bad luck. People get murdered every day, in Sweden and even more so in other places. You can’t worry about that kind of thing, and the only rather unusual aspect of this particular death was that it had happened in her own home. Grit your teeth, forget it and go on, she told herself.

  It felt creepy, walking up the path, arm in arm in the dense November darkness. The gravel crunched under their feet, and the only light was the dull yellow glow from a lamp-post at the side of the path and the wall light on the porch. The temperature was close to freezing and the northerly autumn winds caused the bare crowns of the fruit trees to bend agonizingly and the two women to shiver.

  As soon as the door opened and she brought her nose into the warm house, Nurse Margit recognized the sickening odour. Ingrid, too, now noticed it immediately. It was strange she hadn’t done so the first time she came home. Ingrid turned on the ceiling light and remained standing in the doorway while Nurse Margit nimbly removed her unbuttoned boots and headed resolutely for the kitchen. She stopped on the threshold and fumbled for the light switch. With the light on, she looked around for a few moments before her eyes found what they were searching for. Without hesitation, she rushed up to the lifeless body on the floor. Her fingers searched expertly under the shirt collar for the carotid artery and she quickly verified what she already knew: the man was dead. She got up and went to the phone.

  * * *

  Detective Chief Inspector Conny Sjöberg was lying on the couch watching a children’s show on TV. A boisterous one-year-old was jumping up and down on top of him, trying, despite more-or-less stern reprimands, to tear off Daddy’s glasses, which at this point were so dirty with fingerprints he could barely see through them. Another one-year-old marauder was standing by the magazine rack, tossing all the magazines on the floor. Sjöberg observed – for the umpteenth time – that they seriously needed more magazine holders, and made a mental note to buy some tomorrow. On her knees, right in front of the TV, sat four-year-old Maja, totally engrossed in the trials of a zebra, a giraffe, a monkey and two small teddy bears trying to clean a child’s room. She seemed completely oblivious to the mayhem going on around her and followed her programme with undivided attention, taking no notice of her twin brothers.

  Conny Sjöberg’s wife, Åsa, was in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner, assisted by their chatty six-year-old daughter, who loved to do dishes. From his spot on the couch, Sjöberg could hear her light voice over the sound of the TV and the excited voices of the wild toddlers. Their oldest son, eight-year-old Simon, had gone home from school with a friend in the neighbouring building, leaving the family one short.

  The Sjöbergs’ apartment was a marvel of orderliness, especially considering the size of the family. This was a necessity, however, for the mental well-being of the paterfamilias, and he kept it that way. When all the children were home in the afternoon, and play, baths and dinner preparations were under way, the uninitiated observer might get an impression of total chaos. But by nine o’clock, when all the children were in bed, there was no longer any sign whatsoever of these activities in the apartment.

  It was the same in the morning: although seven people ran around like dazed chickens for a few hours, all traces vanished when the outside door was closed for the last time. Every time new chaos was created, Sjöberg convinced himself that it was best for the children to start from order. In reality, it was mostly because he had a hard time collecting his thoughts if everything was not tidy. With the job he had, as chief inspector of the Violent Crimes Unit, it was important to be able to organize his thoughts in a logical order, and that just didn’t work if things were out of place.

  The apartment on Skånegatan, right by Nytorget, was large, five rooms with a spacious kitchen, but still too small. The twins shared a room and the girls shared a room. Simon had his own nook, but the girls would also need more privacy in the not-too-distant future. They were also in great need of a second bathroom. Mornings were an endless queue for the facilities. To avoid that, and to be able to sit in peace for a while with the newspaper at the breakfast table, Sjöberg was always the first one up. By five-thirty he was out of bed, shaved and showered, had put on the coffeepot, made two cheese sandwiches and fetched the newspaper. He often had twenty minutes to himself before the rest of the household began to stir, and then a lot had to happen in a short time. Porridge had to be heated and nappies changed, sandwiches made, clothes picked out and put on, hair braided and teeth brushed. And to top it off, there was a constant roar of voices, little feet jumping and running, furniture being moved around, and that damn pedal car that must sound like thunder to the neighbours below. Not an enviable situation perhaps, but Sjöberg truly loved his life with the children, and he and Åsa never regretted their large, noisy family.

  Even so, they ought to move somewhere roomier. But a bigger, better apartment in the inner city would be hard to find and certainly much too expensive. A single-family home or townhouse in the suburbs was not particularly appealing. Here they were settled and happy. They were satisfied with the school and nursery, the children had their friends, it was close to work for both Åsa and himself, and close to everything else too: shops, restaurants, and many of their friends. No, it would be hard to find a better place to live.

  From the kitchen he heard his oldest daughter, Sara, bellowing, ‘Fish pudding, fish pudding, fish pudding, don’t give me fish pudding, fish pudding, fish pudding …’ and wondered to himself why she was singing
that – she loved salmon pudding. At the same moment the phone rang and he heard a thud as Sara leaped down from the chair by the kitchen counter to get to the phone first.

  ‘Hello, this is Sara!’ she chirped.

  ‘…’

  ‘Fine, how are you?’

  ‘…’

  ‘No, he’s watching Bolibompa.’

  ‘…’

  ‘Okay, I’ll ask. Bye now!’

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Åsa.

  ‘It’s Sandén!’ Sara called, already halfway to the living room at a gallop. ‘Daddy, it’s Sandén on the phone; he wants to talk to you!’

  ‘Please watch the boys, Sara,’ said Sjöberg, removing Christopher from his stomach and setting him down on the floor, and unwillingly peeling himself from the couch.

  ‘Oh, crud,’ he moaned when the call was finished.

  He could already see the displeased frown on his wife’s face, and he understood her all too well. This was not exactly a dream situation, to be left alone with five kids at bedtime.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

  ‘An old woman who had been in the hospital came home and found a corpse on her kitchen floor. Unfortunately, I have to go there.’

  ‘Who was it?’

  Even if Åsa disliked the situation, she could not help being fascinated by her husband’s work. She let him sound off at home, and tried, to the best of her ability, to offer sensible suggestions about the often nasty cases he was working on. Sjöberg frequently used her as a sounding board, and sometimes she gave him guidance and inspiration in complicated investigations.

  ‘That’s what’s so strange,’ Sjöberg answered. ‘She has no idea who it is. He was lying dead in her house, but she’d never seen him before.’

  ‘Dreadful.’

  Åsa shivered as she pictured a lifeless body on the first kitchen floor that occurred to her – their own.

  ‘But isn’t it most likely that they have met somehow?’ she added thoughtfully.

  ‘We’ll have to see,’ he said, kissing her quickly on the lips. ‘This might take all night, I don’t know. Take care now.’

  ‘You too, and good luck,’ she said, stroking his cheek briefly before he turned to go with a tired sigh.

  * * *

  The old woman was younger than he had imagined, maybe in her seventies, and she was reclining on a pilled, dark-brown love seat of 1970s vintage. A crutch was leaning against the couch by one of her legs. She sat quietly, looking straight ahead with an inscrutable gaze that revealed nothing of what was going on in her mind. She did not look frightened or sad, and she did not seem particularly curious either about what was happening around her. In the hall outside the living room, Sandén was talking with a middle-aged woman, but the older lady showed no sign of listening to the conversation. Her eyes, behind a pair of gold-rimmed glasses, were grey, and her hair was grey and cut short. Her legs were thin in a pair of straight, light-blue trousers with sewn creases, and ended in a pair of black shoes. On her upper body she was wearing a grey lambswool turtleneck.

  Sjöberg went up to her to say hello, and she turned towards him with a polite but rather uninterested expression. He extended a hand and introduced himself, and she responded with a limp handshake and a nod.

  ‘Can you please wait here for a while, then I’ll come and talk to you a bit,’ Sjöberg asked politely.

  ‘I’ll be sitting right here,’ she answered tonelessly, and resumed her study of the air around her.

  Sjöberg returned to the hall and Sandén gave him a quick look and nodded towards the kitchen, while he continued his conversation with the younger woman. Sjöberg glanced in passing at the tall, full-figured woman, anywhere between forty-five and fifty-five. Despite her worried frown and serious tone, he thought he detected a lively gleam in her green eyes. Her striking reddish-brown hair fluttered as she turned towards him and met his eyes. For some reason he felt ashamed and immediately turned his face away. A sudden thirst came over him and a shiver ran down his spine.

  He approached the doorway between the hall and kitchen and observed the dead body for a few moments, then he looked around the kitchen without entering it. This was his opportunity to take in the discovery site before the photographers, CSI technicians and other police started swarming in. The first impression of a crime scene could be very important, and he took his time before he crossed the threshold.

  The kitchen showed no signs of a violent struggle. Everything appeared to be in order, and no furniture was overturned. The work surfaces were clean, and in the middle of the round table was a white lace tablecloth on which stood an empty fruit bowl and a brass candleholder. The dead man was lying in front of the refrigerator, dressed in a dark-blue sailing jacket zipped up halfway, khaki trousers and brown leather shoes. His face was badly mauled and a little blood had trickled out from his nose. Otherwise, he looked rather peaceful, lying there on his back on the pinewood floor.

  Sjöberg left the kitchen and squeezed past Sandén and the woman in the hall. The agreeable aroma of a not-too-insistent perfume found its way into his nostrils. He went out on to the porch and called to the men. The photographer and technicians already knew what they had to do, but he gave directions to the police officers to set up barricades and look around the garden. He intended to question the owner of the house before he sent her away.

  ‘Is your name Ingrid Olsson?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘Yes,’ Ingrid replied curtly.

  ‘Unfortunately, I must ask you to leave the house for a while. You can’t stay here while we conduct the crime scene investigation.’

  She looked at him expressionlessly, without answering.

  ‘Do you have anywhere to go for the night?’

  ‘I’ll talk with Nurse Margit.’

  ‘Nurse Margit?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘Yes, I had just been discharged from the hospital and came home and found the body. I didn’t know what to do, so I asked Nurse Margit to help me.’

  ‘I understand. Can you please tell me the whole story, from the beginning?’

  Ingrid Olsson told her story in a dull voice, but Sjöberg listened attentively, jotting down a few lines in his notebook now and then or asking a question. Her calmness about the whole matter surprised him, but it was probably good that she was not getting too worked up. After all, she would still have to live in the house, and many people in her situation would have decided right then and there to move out. But what type of person, he thought, dismisses a murder in her own home with a shrug? Possibly the type who turns off the news when it’s about war and suffering, and turns her face away when she encounters buskers and Save the Children collection boxes. Sjöberg was aware that intuition was an important tool in his occupation but, unwilling to draw hasty conclusions, he was content to assume that Ingrid Olsson was more agitated than she appeared.

  ‘So, you didn’t know the dead man?’ he continued instead. ‘Are you completely sure of that?’

  ‘I’ve never seen him before,’ she answered firmly.

  ‘Do you have any children or relatives who have access to the house?’

  ‘No one has access to the house. No, I have no children.’

  ‘How long have you lived here?’

  ‘For sixteen years. I moved here to be closer to my sister when my husband died.’

  ‘Where did you live before?’

  ‘I grew up in Österåker, and lived there until I moved here.’

  ‘And so your sister lives here in the neighbourhood?’

  ‘She’s no longer living.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Who may have known that you were in the hospital? Or more precisely, who might have known that you weren’t at home?’

  ‘Well, no one in particular. The neighbours perhaps. The postman. How would I know?’

  ‘Do you have any contact with the neighbours?’

  ‘We say hello.’

  ‘You’ve never had a break-in before?’

  ‘Never. There’s nothing here to s
teal.’

  He silently agreed. What he had seen of the house so far gave no indication that there would be anything of value here, other than possibly the TV, though it seemed pretty old. There were only inexpensive reproductions and framed photographs hanging on the walls, and the furniture was extremely sparse, and all from the 1960s and ’70s.

  ‘That’s enough for now,’ said Sjöberg, closing his notebook, ‘though I’ll probably have to speak to you again. We’ll make sure that the house is returned to its normal condition when we’re done here, so you don’t need to worry about that. Thank you very much,’ he said, extending his hand in farewell.

  A quick smile passed over her lips when their hands met, and she suddenly looked quite sweet.

  In the hall he ran into Sandén, who, like him, was on his way to the kitchen.

  ‘Did she have anything to tell?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘Margit Olofsson? No, nothing other than that she brought the old lady back here from the hospital, confirmed what she said was true, and called the police,’ Sandén replied.

  Sjöberg tried to quiet Sandén with an index finger to his lips and a nod towards the living room, and continued, half whispering, ‘They don’t really have any relationship?’

  ‘No, other than that she’s a nurse in the ward where the old woman was. The old lady is alone and took a liking to her. Margit Olofsson has nothing to do with the case,’ said Sandén quietly.

  One of the technicians, Gabriella Hansson, came out to them in the hall, waving a wallet in her gloved hand.

  ‘The identity seems to be established,’ she said, pulling out a driver’s licence. ‘Hans Vannerberg, born in 1962.’

  ‘Anything else of interest?’ asked Sjöberg, taking his notebook out of the inside pocket of his jacket and noting the information from the driver’s licence.

  ‘A few credit cards, a business card – he appears to be an estate agent – pictures of children, an organ donation card, but it’s probably too late for that, I’m afraid. Quite a bit of cash – so probably not a robbery. You’ll have the wallet tomorrow.’

  ‘Good. Thanks,’ said Sjöberg.