The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  His gaze landed on the old radio and in his mind he saw Uncle Gunnar, his grandmother’s brother, sitting at the same kitchen table where he was sitting now. On weekdays he listened to ‘Let’s Celebrate’ with his morning coffee, and on Saturdays they would try to solve the melody crossword together. Thomas did not make much of a contribution, but they were together and had a nice time and Uncle Gunnar was quite good at it.

  Uncle Gunnar had not been a man for grand gestures. He was somewhat taciturn, and they did not exchange many words during the course of a day, but it was a companionable silence. He accepted Thomas as he was and neither criticized nor was irritated by him. Thomas, for his part, overlooked the old man’s lack of personal hygiene and felt relieved at finally having left the narrow-mindedness of the small town for the anonymity of the big city.

  He thought about his last days in Katrineholm and working with the old couple in the haberdasher’s. They had assumed he was basically a delinquent – reasonably, perhaps, since he had dropped out of school – and treated him with great suspicion the whole time. They never dared leave him alone in the shop, and one of them always kept the cash register in sight when he was there. This meant that, instead of trying to learn something from his traineeship, he spent the time trying to get free from under their sullen, watchful gazes.

  The proximity to the secondary school did not make matters better. His former classmates, who often passed by during free periods and lunch breaks, could not keep from looking into the shop and making cracks about him when the opportunity arose. The primary theme of their harassment was his presumed homosexuality, and as he thought about it, he suddenly recalled an episode from that time that he had not thought about since it happened, some thirty years before.

  This incident had not affected him personally, but rather a brother in misfortune by the name of Sören, who was in a parallel class. He recognized the pattern. Sören, along with the rest of the football team, had been at a training camp in Finland. On the trip home, on the Finland ferry, they had apparently been drinking heavily and many of the boys got very drunk. One boy – a bully who for some reason went by the name Lasse Golare – got so drunk he let himself be lured into the toilet by the boy at the bottom of the pecking order, Sören. There, Sören subjected the poor, intoxicated Lasse Golare to a blow job, after which the deeply offended Lasse Golare marched out of the gent’s and told all his teammates about the terrible thing he had experienced. The teammates reacted with great consternation, as did the coach who was along on the trip – to the extent that Sören was summarily kicked off the team ‘for the boys’ sake’. Lasse Golare – who, of course, was not the least bit homosexual – was praised as a hero and emerged with his honour intact.

  Thomas smiled at this absurd story as he swallowed the last slab of black pudding and rinsed it down with half a glass of milk. He reached for the tabloid that lay unread on the kitchen table, and leafed through it to the spread with news from around Sweden.

  Lise-Lott’s gaze met his, and for a moment he thought that for the first time she was smiling at him in a friendly way. Then reality caught up with him and his heart began beating faster. He suddenly felt extremely thirsty, but could not force himself to stand up to get something to drink. He read through the article carefully, twice, and then jerked the pile of the past week’s newspapers still lying on the table towards him. Further down in the pile he found the Sunday paper and leafed through it to the short item about the murder of the prostitute in Skärholmen. After reading this too a few times, he remained sitting, back straight, hands clasped around his knees, and stared vacantly ahead.

  ‘What have I done?’ he whispered to himself. ‘What do I do now?’

  Thursday Morning

  On Thursday there was another meeting of the investigation team scheduled. Hadar Rosén had said that he did not plan to attend. Everyone else was present, except Westman. Sjöberg was somewhat indulgent about her poor time-keeping as she had so many otherwise positive qualities going for her. Despite her youth, she had no problem directing older colleagues. The male dominance at the workplace did not seem to affect her, and she was both enterprising and full of initiative. Besides, he knew that she usually stayed at work until late in the evening and never left behind a half-finished job. And this time Sjöberg knew, of course, that she had worked late the night before.

  Five coffee cups stood ready around the conference table, as if waiting for the meeting’s starting signal so they could be drained. Einar Eriksson kept looking at his watch, glaring at the door from time to time. Sandén balanced on his chair, while he distractedly drummed the table with his fingers and let his eyes rest on a framed poster depicting a girl on a swing. When the door flew open and Westman rushed in, cheeks red and out of breath with a teacup in her hand, he smiled sarcastically at her, but she grinned back, unconcerned, pulled out a chair and sat down. Eriksson sighed audibly.

  ‘All right then,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Does anyone have anything new to report?’

  He was met by nothing but head-shaking, except from Hamad, who began to speak.

  ‘I have identified the “shifty toilet-paper salesman” who was not exactly shifty, unfortunately. I called around to some tennis clubs in the area and finally got a nibble. He is eighteen years old, his name is Joakim Levander and he plays for Enskede Tennis Club. It’s true that he was going around those neighbourhoods for a while, trying to sell toilet paper with the club’s emblem on. Without much success – it clearly worked better to sell by phone. The shifty thing about him was probably a goatee and an earring. And most probably a disillusioned demeanour.’

  ‘When was this?’ asked Sandén.

  ‘It was the week before the murder. I took the boy over to Ingrid Olsson’s house, but as far as he could recall no one answered when he rang and he hadn’t noticed anything in particular either.’

  ‘Had he run into any of the other characters during his wanderings through those streets?’ wondered Sjöberg.

  ‘He doesn’t live in the area,’ answered Hamad. ‘I’m sure he ran into lots of people, but they were all unknown to him.’

  ‘Sounds like we can remove him from the investigation then,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Always something. I’ve been thinking a little about Vannerberg’s activities that evening, and I have concluded the following: Pia Vannerberg – this we can agree on – seemed both interested in and informed about what her husband was doing, both on and off the job. She says she is certain that Vannerberg was going to meet a seller. In our main hypothesis, we have assumed that she misunderstood or heard wrong. I don’t think that feels quite right. This, in combination with the fact that Vannerberg actually left home in the dark that evening to meet someone we have assumed to be the buyer of number 13. Well, I talked to the buyer last night,’ he continued, now turning to Westman. ‘True, he did say to Jorma Molin that it was fine to drop by any time, but they had not agreed on any particular time. And he never said that Monday evening would be an especially good time either. According to him, there was no guarantee that his wife – or he for that matter – would be home, whether it was daytime or evening. He thought that the reasonable thing would have been for Vannerberg to call before he came over, if he didn’t really happen to be passing by. I think that, as Pia Vannerberg suggests, he really had scheduled a meeting with someone at Åkerbärsvägen 31 at six o’clock on Monday evening. This someone I believe is the murderer.’

  ‘So you think this business at Åkerbärsvägen 13 is only a remarkable coincidence?’ said Einar Eriksson sullenly. ‘I find that hard to believe. Strange coincidences do not exist in this business.’

  ‘In any event, that is what I believe happened,’ Sjöberg persisted.

  Hamad and Sandén nodded in agreement.

  ‘And Lennart Josefsson’s testimony?’ asked Westman.

  ‘Josefsson’s testimony is interesting in any event,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘We have the footprints in the garden. Bella?’

  ‘Yes, the strange man’s footprint
s indicate that he climbed over the gate and jumped down on to the lawn by the side of the gravel path,’ answered Hansson. ‘Whether this occurred before or after Vannerberg entered the garden is impossible to say. One might suspect that the reason for climbing over the gate instead of going through it would be that the person did not want to make a sound. The gate makes noise, as does the gravel path. So that might indicate that the murderer followed Vannerberg there.’

  ‘Which was observed by Josefsson,’ added Westman.

  ‘Why should the murderer – if he had arranged a meeting with Vannerberg at that address – also follow him there?’ asked Sandén.

  ‘That does puzzle me a bit,’ Sjöberg admitted. ‘Maybe he wanted to make sure that Vannerberg really went there. He didn’t want to leave traces behind in the house for no reason.’

  ‘He didn’t leave any traces behind in the house anyway, damn it,’ Einar Eriksson grumbled.

  Sandén ignored Eriksson’s lament and continued speculating.

  ‘Perhaps Josefsson’s testimony is not relevant. Perhaps the murderer climbed over the fence a good while before Vannerberg showed up.’

  ‘Why climb when he could just go through the gate?’ Westman interjected. ‘Wouldn’t he attract more attention if he climbed than if he went through the gate like a normal person, even if the gate made some noise?’

  ‘That’s exactly why I still think the murderer followed him there,’ Sjöberg stated.

  ‘So where do we stand?’ asked Hamad.

  ‘We’re looking for a person who has a connection not only to Hans Vannerberg but also to Ingrid Olsson,’ Sjöberg summarized. ‘Perhaps to the extent that he actually wanted to create problems for Ingrid Olsson too, but maybe that’s a little far-fetched. In any case, a person who knew that Ingrid Olsson’s house stood empty.’

  ‘The postman,’ said Sandén. ‘The bin men, hospital staff.’

  ‘The neighbours,’ Hamad added. ‘A female Polish picture-seller, a drunk cyclist, the paramedics.’

  ‘A woman with a Swedish appearance out for a walk,’ said Eriksson sullenly. ‘Any old pedestrian.’

  ‘So, we’re in agreement,’ said Sjöberg, resuming command by means of a surprise attack. ‘Our new main hypothesis is that the murderer arranged a meeting with Vannerberg at Åkerbärsvägen 31 on Monday evening. The murderer shadowed him there – why or from where we don’t know, but probably from Vannerberg’s residence. Judging from the footprints, Vannerberg then walked around to the back of the house, and during that time the murderer presumably entered the house, where he waited for Vannerberg and finally killed him.’

  ‘So we’re going with the connection?’ Sandén suggested. ‘The Vannerberg–Olsson connection.’

  ‘Yes, I think so,’ Sjöberg answered. ‘We will devote the next few days to trying to find a person who in some way has a connection to both Hans Vannerberg and Ingrid Olsson.’

  ‘You might say that the buyer at number 13 has,’ said Westman. ‘He’s a neighbour of Ingrid Olsson and bought his house through Vannerberg’s estate agency.’

  ‘Sure, why not?’ Sjöberg replied. ‘Even if he never met or spoke with Vannerberg, there is actually a weak connection there. I suggest that you, Petra, do the rounds of the neighbours. The neighbours who live close enough to have noticed that Olsson was away. Sound them out properly. Show them pictures of Vannerberg – alive and dead – and pay attention to how they react. And this applies to the rest of you too. Einar, you check on the postman, newspaper delivery person and bin men. And then run a background check on Ingrid Olsson. Sandén, you talk to the hospital staff and paramedics. By the way, do you know where Ingrid Olsson is staying right now?’

  ‘She’s staying with Margit Olofsson for the time being.’

  ‘Poor woman,’ Sjöberg sighed. ‘She already has her hands full, being a nurse and all. When can Ingrid Olsson move back home again?’ he asked, turning to Hamad.

  ‘We were thinking about keeping the house until Sunday, to be on the safe side. In principle we’re finished, but you never know.’

  ‘That’s good. I was thinking about going there today and going over it one more time. This time with a focus on any connection between Ingrid Olsson and Vannerberg. Jamal, you’ve done that once before, so you come with me. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes, I was just thinking,’ said Westman hesitantly, as she fingered the teacup in front of her. ‘If Vannerberg scheduled a meeting with the murderer at Åkerbärsvägen 31, as it said in his diary, isn’t it likely that the so-called seller called him at work to sort that out? Shouldn’t we go through all the incoming calls, let’s say, during the weeks when Ingrid Olsson was in the hospital? And to cover our bases, maybe even check his home phone and mobile?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Do you want to do that, Petra, or do you feel like you have enough already?’

  ‘I don’t mind doing it,’ said Westman without hesitation.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Sjöberg, downing the last drops of his coffee. ‘Now we’re cooking with gas.’

  ‘Hey,’ said Sandén. ‘What’s going on with the Christmas dinner on Saturday?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Sjöberg, turning to Hamad, ‘I’d completely forgotten about that. Have you made a reservation?’

  ‘Yes, by general request it will be an alternative Christmas dinner, seven p.m., at the Beirut Café on Engelbrektsgatan.’

  ‘Beirut Café,’ said Sandén. ‘What do they serve there? Iced bombe and pomegranates? Sounds great.’

  Westman glanced furtively in Hamad’s direction. As usual, everyone laughed at Sandén, including Hamad.

  ‘It is great,’ said Westman. ‘I love Lebanese food.’

  ‘Yes, those Arabs,’ Sandén sighed. ‘They’ll do anything to avoid eating ham, including eating testicles instead.’

  * * *

  The assault Petra Westman was subjected to over the weekend had been reduced to a story. True, she had only told it to a single person, but in her mind she had gone through the whole sequence of events an incalculable number of times. What she felt about the whole thing was shame. Shame at waking up in a bed in a strange house, not knowing who she had spent the night with. Oddly enough, she did not feel violated. She assumed that was because she had no recollection of what happened, but she wanted to get rid of the shame. At any price.

  As long as she kept busy it was not a problem, but when she was trying to fall asleep she tossed and turned for hours while the embarrassing memories went through her mind, one after another. Naked and groggy between the Egyptian-cotton sheets, or in front of the bathroom mirror in the luxury home in Mälarhöjden. Or else stumbling in her new boots on the way out of Clarion’s bar.

  Besides, she could not shake off the doubt. Had she really been raped? Not in the traditional sense. If she had been attacked and raped, there would have been no doubt. Perhaps that would have left deeper marks. Perhaps she would have had injuries and diseases and God knows what. But there would have been no doubt. She would have avoided the doubt. And the awful shame.

  For that reason she would follow through on this project. She was firmly resolved to put the polished senior physician under lock and key. With his charming smile and his damn laughter lines. And something told her that Mona Friberg would have nothing against that either.

  With the information about Peder Fryhk’s interest in war in the back of her mind, on Wednesday Petra Westman had made contact with the military. After numerous phone calls, she finally got hold of the now sixty-one-year-old major who had been Peder Fryhk’s commander during his final months at KA1. He remembered Fryhk as a lone wolf, but gave her a tip about a former French foreign legionnaire of Hungarian origin who had been hired by the troop to train the coast commandos in hand-to-hand combat. Fryhk, according to the major, had shown a greater interest in this Andras Takacs than his fellow draftees, and he had the impression that they hit it off during the training.

  Petra had an immediate feeling that she was on the tra
il of something interesting and thought it might be worth trying to contact Takacs. He was not hard to find. A Google search directed her to a karate club on Norrmalm where he was still training. She was told, however, that he was away and could not be reached until Thursday.

  When Petra finally made contact with the Swedish karate champion with the Hungarian name, she was surprised to hear that he spoke with a French accent. She wondered how long he had actually been a legionnaire, but did not ask.

  ‘I’m looking for information about a person by the name of Peder Fryhk, who did his military service with KA1 on Rindö. You reportedly met him during the spring of 1973, when you were training coast commandos in hand-to-hand combat.’

  ‘Yes, I remember him very well,’ said Andras Takacs. ‘Capable guy.’

  ‘Are you still in touch with him?’ Petra asked.

  ‘No, I haven’t seen him since.’

  ‘How would you describe him?’

  ‘He was strong, and had a good head on his shoulders. He was extremely interested in the training. Asked a lot of questions.’

  His French accent was almost a parody.

  ‘About anything in particular?’

  ‘About everything we covered. He always wanted to go a step further than the others, and as a teacher you feel flattered when a student shows such a great interest in what you’re teaching.’