The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Maybe she was a schoolteacher in her past life?’ Hamad asked himself, but Sjöberg had already figured it out.

  ‘These children are younger than that. They’re no more than five or six. She must have worked as a preschool teacher or nursery assistant. At that time, most Swedish women were housewives and took care of their own children, but some kids went to preschool for a few hours a day.’

  ‘Maybe Ingrid Olsson was Hans Vannerberg’s preschool teacher. There we have our connection,’ Hamad said.

  ‘A very old connection, but it’s the link we’re looking for, I’m sure of it,’ said Sjöberg.

  Hamad tore open envelope after envelope of the pictures he had already looked through, while Sjöberg quickly browsed through the remaining piles. At ten minutes past midnight order was restored, in the room as well as in the cupboard with photographs under Ingrid Olsson’s bookshelf. They left the house and went out into the now sparklingly cold winter night. In an envelope in his jacket pocket Sjöberg had three photographs, taken at Forest Hill Preschool and depicting groups of children from the years 1967/’68, 1968/’69 and 1969/’70. Maybe somewhere, on one of those pictures, was the little boy who now, as a grown man, was at the morgue at Huddinge Hospital waiting for his funeral. Brutally murdered with a chair in Miss Ingrid’s kitchen.

  Friday Morning

  Even though he had not got to bed until shortly before one o’clock, he showed up at Eriksdal, changed and ready, at seven o’clock sharp on Friday morning. Sandén was already there, volleying against a backstop as Sjöberg came into the tennis hall.

  ‘Good afternoon, Chief Inspector,’ Sandén could not resist saying, even though he had probably not been there more than five minutes himself.

  ‘Listen, I was actually working until midnight, while you sat at home munching pizza in front of the TV.’

  Sandén, who was roughly the same age as Sjöberg, had considerably more difficulty maintaining his weight. This didn’t concern him much. He was a bon vivant who ate what he liked and never worried about anything. He was always ready with a joke and was probably considered a bit loud by some, but you were seldom bored around Jens Sandén. They had met at the police academy and, though they weren’t much alike, they had always stuck together and enjoyed each other’s company. There had never been any rivalry between them either, which was a prerequisite for such a long and close friendship.

  ‘How’d it go?’ asked Sandén, hitting the first ball over the net.

  Sjöberg returned it with a soft forehand stroke that placed the ball right in front of Sandén’s feet.

  ‘We’ll discuss that later,’ answered Sjöberg. ‘After the match.’

  They volleyed for a little while to warm up and served a few times before the always competitive match began. As the time approached eight o’clock, the four older women who usually followed them gathered on a bench to one side of the tennis court. The score was 6–3, 4–1 in Sjöberg’s favour and they called off the match. They went over to the women and exchanged a few pleasantries. Then they sank down on the bench and wiped the sweat off their faces with their towels, while they watched the women skilfully volleying in pairs over the net. The two policemen always studied them as they got their breath back. It was easy to see that neither would have a chance against any of these ladies if they met in a singles match, but they sometimes toyed with the idea of challenging them in doubles. Just for the fun of it.

  After teasing Sandén about his worthless backhand, which Sandén countered by reminding Sjöberg of how many of their matches he’d lost, Sjöberg changed the topic of conversation.

  ‘How are the kids doing?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. Everything’s cruising along as usual for Jessica. She nailed an oral exam the other day. “Fourier Analysis and Transform Theory” – what do you think of that?’

  ‘You can pronounce it at least,’ said Sjöberg with a sarcastic smile.

  Jessica was twenty years old and studying to be an electrical engineer at KTH. Her older sister, Jenny, who was twenty-three, had a mild learning disability. Sandén was carefree by nature, but if he had one worry in life, it was Jenny. He always said that it would have been simpler if she’d had a serious disorder. Because her disability wasn’t immediately obvious, society placed greater demands on her than were reasonable.

  ‘And Jenny?’

  ‘I can hardly bear to talk about it, but that damn snot-nosed kid who’s running after her – he’s got her thinking she should move in with him.’

  ‘Oh boy. Not a good kid?’

  ‘Right, what do you think? What do you think he wants with her?’

  ‘But she’s in love with him?’

  ‘She’s in love with him because he’s interested in her. That’s not so strange. But he’s only after one thing, I’m sure of that. There’s only going to be trouble.’

  ‘Does he have a disability too?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘He is so-called normal intelligence. Otherwise I wouldn’t be so worried. Then they would be in the same boat. But this fellow – he’s going to use her like a doormat and she’s going to go along with anything he asks. She’s just too damn kind, Jenny.’

  Sjöberg nodded thoughtfully.

  ‘So what’s he like?’

  ‘He’s a loathsome little jerk, that’s what he is. When we spend time with them, he plays a damn charade and acts all loving and protective.’

  He was spitting out the words.

  ‘But have you talked to her?’

  ‘Of course we’ve talked to her. But she’s a big girl now and has to make her own decisions.’

  ‘I guess she’ll have to learn from her mistakes,’ Sjöberg observed.

  ‘Just hope the fall won’t be too hard,’ Sandén muttered, his face in the towel.

  They allowed themselves some time in the sauna, where Sjöberg took the opportunity to report on Hamad’s findings in Ingrid Olsson’s house the night before.

  ‘I think we’ve found the connection between Vannerberg and Olsson,’ he said. ‘We haven’t confirmed it yet, but my intuition tells me we’re on the right track.’

  ‘Shoot,’ said Sandén.

  Sjöberg briefly related how they found the old photographs from the preschool.

  ‘And?’ Sandén asked.

  ‘The old lady worked as a preschool teacher. As far as we could tell, she ran the Forest Hill Preschool for at least fifteen years.’

  ‘And now you think that’s where she met Hans Vannerberg?’ Sandén asked hesitantly.

  ‘Exactly. I just feel it. This is completely new information about Ingrid Olsson, and I’m willing to bet that Gun Vannerberg and little Hans have lived in Österåker. I sincerely hope this is the breakthrough we need.’

  ‘You feel it?’ Sandén didn’t seem too impressed.

  ‘Do you think I’m going out on a limb?’

  ‘Well,’ Sandén answered doubtfully, ‘the only thing you’ve found out is that Olsson was a preschool teacher. That’s not exactly sensational, is it?’

  ‘Maybe not, but it’s new information.’

  ‘Sure, but for one thing, we don’t know whether Vannerberg really did attend that preschool –’

  ‘No, but if he did – then we have a connection between them!’

  Sandén got up and poured a ladle of water over the sauna element. The room filled at once with steam and the hot air burned in their nostrils.

  ‘Then we have a connection,’ he said. ‘But we have no one who knew that Ingrid Olsson was in the hospital.’

  Sjöberg felt the wind going out of his sails. Maybe he had worked himself up unnecessarily. Counted on something in advance that wasn’t there. His intuition seldom failed him, but this time maybe he had grasped at a straw which would turn out to be just that, a simple piece of straw.

  ‘But maybe that person knew both of them at that time. Maybe that person is also in the picture. Maybe we have a photo of the murderer!’

  ‘I think we should start by checking up on whet
her Vannerberg actually did go to that preschool,’ said Sandén matter-of-factly. ‘And then we can move ahead on that track. Okay?’

  ‘You’re awfully critical today,’ said Sjöberg, half joking, half serious. ‘I’ll have to think twice about beating you at tennis in future.’

  They returned to squabbling about tennis, but Sjöberg felt a growing worry inside him. They finished their sauna, got dressed and left the sports facility on foot.

  By nine o’clock Sjöberg was back behind his desk at the police station. He sipped a cup of hot coffee, and had a couple of Marie biscuits too, which he told himself you could indulge in when you’ve been playing tennis. He browsed through the quickly growing folder concerning the Vannerberg case until he found his note of Gun Vannerberg’s phone numbers. He dialled her home number and let it ring ten times before he hung up. Then he tried her mobile, but got no response on that either. After leaving a message on her voicemail, asking her to contact him as soon as possible, he hung up and decided to visit Hamad, whose office was a little further down the corridor. But before he could stand up there was a knock on the door. It opened. Hamad had anticipated him and sat down in the visitor’s chair.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Did you get any sleep?’

  ‘A few hours. I was up at the crack of dawn and played tennis with Sandén.’

  ‘How’d that go? Did you win?’

  ‘The tennis went fine. I won. But Sandén didn’t seem to think that thing about the preschool was much of a lead.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No. I’ve been trying to get hold of Gun Vannerberg, without success. But even if it does turn out that Hans Vannerberg had Ingrid Olsson as a preschool teacher, Jens doesn’t think that will lead us anywhere. That was almost forty years ago.’

  ‘If they knew each other at that time, then they lived in the same town,’ said Hamad hopefully. ‘In that case we should look for the murderer somewhere in the circle around them and their families. But first we have to establish the connection.’

  ‘I’ll contact Ingrid Olsson too, as soon as we’re done here,’ said Sjöberg.

  ‘I’ll talk to Pia Vannerberg about that receipt from the dentist in the meantime.’

  ‘I think it’s best if Petra does that. She’s spoken to her before. It seems unnecessary to involve more people than necessary. But you could help Petra with Ingrid Olsson’s neighbours. Let’s go and see her.’

  Sjöberg got up, taking his coffee cup with him but leaving the biscuits behind. Together they went across to Westman’s office. The door was open and she was sitting at her desk, jotting down a few lines on a notepad, as they stepped into the room. She looked up and greeted them with a smile. Sjöberg sank down in her visitor’s chair and Hamad perched on a corner of the desk.

  ‘I’d like your help with something,’ Sjöberg began.

  ‘Let’s hear it,’ Westman replied, enthusiastic as always.

  ‘As you know, we were in Ingrid Olsson’s house yesterday and went through her belongings.’

  Westman nodded attentively.

  ‘There, among other things, we found a receipt from the dental office in Dalen, at Sandsborg. Here it is,’ Sjöberg continued, placing the receipt in front of her. ‘This just happens to be where Pia Vannerberg works. Could you phone her and check whether she maybe knew Ingrid Olsson? Stop by the dental clinic too, and see whether you can come up with any interesting information from her colleagues. Look in Olsson’s patient records and so on. We also need her to send us a picture of Hans as a child. Can you arrange that?’

  ‘No problem,’ said Westman. ‘But then I’ll have to put the business with the neighbours and the phone numbers on hold for the time being.’

  ‘Jamal will help you with the neighbours. You’ll have to update him on the process. Have you talked to any of them yet?’

  ‘The ones I got hold of yesterday afternoon. Everyone I talked to reacted normally to the pictures, and none of them had anything new to offer. Ingrid Olsson seems to be a very anonymous person in the neighbourhood, and so far I haven’t met anyone who so much as exchanged a word with her.’

  ‘How’d it go with the phone company?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘They’re supposed to fax a list of the incoming calls on Vannerberg’s home phone, mobile and the company line. They’ll call me when they send the fax, but I can ask Lotten to forward the call to you.’

  ‘Do that, please.’

  Sjöberg left the office and his two younger colleagues. Since he was already on the move, he decided to find out how things were going for Einar Eriksson as well. Eriksson was not in his office, which Sjöberg took to be a good sign. The phlegmatic, moody Eriksson was out and about and, at best, that indicated he was doing what he was supposed to rather than moping in his office. It struck him that while playing tennis earlier in the morning he had been so full of his own business that he had forgotten to ask about Sandén’s progress with the investigation, so he knocked on Sandén’s door. When he got no answer he tried the door handle, but the door was locked, and he could only return to his own office and start on his own tasks.

  He quickly washed down the two biscuits with the last of the coffee and pushed the cup aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialled Gun Vannerberg’s number again, but there was still no answer. He pulled out the note of Margit Olofsson’s home number, but no one answered there either. After talking to four different people at her workplace without getting any concrete answer regarding her whereabouts, he decided to go there. He asked Lotten in reception to take his and Westman’s calls, and also take care of the fax from Telia when it came and put it on his desk. Then he took the lift down to the garage and got into the car.

  The first person he encountered as he stepped into the hospital lobby was Sandén, who was having a cup of coffee and a Danish over an open newspaper in the cafeteria. Sjöberg cursed himself for not having thought that his colleague might already be there, so that he could have spared himself the drive. Sandén looked up in surprise from the Swedish handball results.

  ‘Hey! What are you doing here? Are you sick?’

  ‘I completely forgot that you were here,’ Sjöberg replied, sitting down at the table. ‘I’m trying to get hold of Margit Olofsson – or, more precisely, Ingrid Olsson – but it was impossible to reach her by phone. No one answers at her home number, so I thought it was best to come over. Do you know where she’s hiding herself?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Margit Olofsson. Or Ingrid Olsson.’

  ‘Okay, which one will it be?’

  ‘Stop playing games. Either of them.’

  ‘No, I don’t know.’

  ‘Then say so, you joker. So you haven’t seen Olofsson today?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘Then I guess I’ll have to try to figure out where she’s gone. How’s it going for you?’

  ‘Nothing new under the sun. No one I’ve talked to recognizes Vannerberg. Many people recognize Olsson, but no one knows her.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to talk to the paramedics?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘Sure. The ones who picked up the old lady remember her, but no one showed any noticeable reaction to Vannerberg’s massacred face. I imagine they’ve seen worse.’

  ‘How long will you be here, do you think?’

  ‘Rest of the day, I’d say. The personnel come and go here all the time so I thought I’d try to talk to as many as possible before I leave. And then I’ll call it a day.’

  ‘Are you doing anything in particular over the weekend?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘The in-laws are coming for a visit, so it can’t get much worse than that,’ Sandén answered with a forced look of distress.

  Sjöberg knew that Sandén got along very well with his in-laws. He had met them several times himself and knew that they were nice people.

  ‘I was thinking maybe you could all come over for a bite to eat tomorrow evening, but we’ll have to do it another time,’ said Sjöberg. ‘We
’re going to Åsa’s brother and sister-in-law’s tonight, so we’re sure to be hungover tomorrow.’

  ‘Hello there. Have you forgotten the works do?’

  ‘The works do? Damn it, it’s the Christmas dinner tomorrow!’

  ‘Raw liver and lamb testicles.’

  Sjöberg got up looking amused and raised his hand in farewell.

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Get well soon,’ Sandén answered, returning to the sports pages and his half-eaten pastry.

  The first three people he talked to in Margit Olofsson’s department had no idea where she was. The fourth was a short man who appeared to have passed retirement age long ago. Sjöberg wondered what in the name of God he was doing there. He had never previously encountered a male nurse that age. But the man was well informed. Margit Olofsson had taken her family – and Ingrid Olsson – on a Finland cruise and was not expected back at work until Monday morning. Olofsson and the nurse appeared to be very familiar, and the old man reported that the trip had been planned long ago – for the grandchildren’s sake – and that Olofsson had let Ingrid Olsson go along, rather than leave her alone in a strange house. Sjöberg was not happy about this news, but thanked the man for his help. Then he took the lift down to the cafeteria and bought a bottle of mineral water and a ciabatta with Brie and salami, which he consumed in the car on his way back to the police station.

  Friday Afternoon

  As Sjöberg passed Lotten on the way to his office, he asked her to redirect his and Westman’s calls to his extension. Neither Telia nor Gun Vannerberg had been in touch that morning, and he wondered whether Gun Vannerberg might have gone on a Finland cruise too. It occurred to him that from Malmö you were more likely to go to Germany or Poland, or even England. He had never thought of that before – that Finland cruises were not a Swedish phenomenon but more of a local thing for those living near Stockholm.

  He sat down at his desk, picked up the phone and dialled Westman’s mobile number. She answered almost at once, and Sjöberg asked her who she had talked to at Telia about the requested call logs. She gave him the details he needed, and he explained that, in his many years of experience in similar matters, it was best to be persistent if you wanted to get anything done. Petra Westman laughed irreverently at her impatient superior and wished him good luck. He wished her the same and called the relevant person at Telia. This turned out to be a young woman with a Gothenburg accent, who swore that she had the information right in front of her and was at that very moment in the process of faxing it over to the police. He traded his authoritative detective inspector voice for a gentler, more humane version, apologized for the inconvenience he had no doubt caused and thanked her. Then he went out to the copy room and waited until the fax machine started humming and the longed-for papers were spat out of the machine one by one.