The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  The lists of phone numbers and accounts were long, and Sjöberg was astonished at how many calls were made to a normal family during a three-week period. Not to mention the mobile and the business line. They seemed to be in constant use day after day, and these were only the incoming calls on the pile of papers before him. He started to scan through the lists to see if any of the names came up frequently, but soon gave up. Instead, he called the woman at Telia back and asked whether they could possibly help him by sorting the accounts on the lists, so that he could get a better overview of how many times each subscriber called each number during that time period. She had no way of doing that, so Sjöberg phoned a computer-savvy acquaintance at the National Bureau and asked the same question. He couldn’t help either, so Sjöberg had to tackle the monumental task on his own.

  After staring at the meaningless numbers and names for a while longer, he decided to devote the rest of the day to going through the incoming calls on the business line with Jorma Molin. He called him and Molin dutifully promised to help, as best he could. Sjöberg felt a little guilty for further burdening Vannerberg’s poor business partner, who had been left alone with the company on his hands, as well as his sorrow at his friend’s death. He got on the metro anyway and went over there.

  The office on Kungsholmen was the same, but Molin looked considerably more worn out than the last time they had met. They dispensed with the pleasantries and got straight down to the Herculean task of systematically going through the subscribers who had called the office during the weeks of interest, one by one. They could discount many calls immediately, while the great majority seemed irrelevant, but to be on the safe side these were put in parentheses. Four hours later, when they had gone through all the numbers on the detailed printouts, almost a hundred calls still remained that were unknown to Molin.

  It was now six o’clock, time for Molin to shut up shop for the day and for Sjöberg to hurry home to change before the evening’s dinner with his brother- and sister-in-law. Sjöberg left Jorma Molin at the little office with a shudder. Partly because yesterday’s wintry weather had reverted to howling autumn winds and ice-cold rain, and partly out of sympathy for Molin, who was a pitiful creature with his mussed hair, big, sorrowful, brown eyes and quiet, toneless voice.

  Just as he was about to step on to the escalator that would lead him down into the metro system his mobile rang. To avoid losing the connection if he went down into the underworld, he stopped and stood next to some staggering winos who were begging under the roof outside the Västermalm shopping arcade. It was Gun Vannerberg finally calling back.

  ‘Yes, I happened to think about your frequent moves during Hans’s childhood,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I just wanted to ask, did you ever live in Österåker?’

  ‘No, we only lived in cities,’ Gun Vannerberg answered. ‘You know, in my business …’

  ‘I thought you said you lived in Hallsberg.’

  ‘Yes, we did for a while.’

  ‘But that’s no city.’

  ‘Oh, yes, you bet it is.’

  ‘No, not really. Believe me. But that’s of no significance …’

  The female voice in the receiver interrupted him.

  ‘It’s a lot bigger than Österåker.’

  Sjöberg had no desire to bicker about that too, so he asked instead, ‘So, did you live anywhere else in the Stockholm area?’

  ‘Did we live anywhere in the Stockholm area? No, actually, we didn’t,’ Gun Vannerberg replied. ‘We never got that far north. As long as Hans was living with me, we kept to Östergötland, Närke and then Södermanland, of course, but never the Stockholm area.’

  One of the intoxicated men nudged him and yelled in his face, and Gun Vannerberg sounded so sure of herself that Sjöberg could think of no other questions to ask. Instead, he quickly ended the call and fled the street in disappointment, down into the metro.

  * * *

  Hamad and Westman were on Åkerbärsvägen in Enskede, dividing up the remaining addresses in the door-knocking operation between them. They stood close together under Hamad’s umbrella. Westman’s was back at the office. The rain pattered against the taut nylon and the sound made it seem heavier than it really was. There was a call on Westman’s mobile and with frozen fingers she pulled the vibrating apparatus out of her jeans pocket.

  ‘Westman,’ she answered curtly.

  ‘Where are you?’ asked an angry voice on the other end.

  ‘At work,’ Westman answered uncertainly.

  In the racket under the umbrella she could not tell who it was.

  ‘Who is asking?’

  ‘Rosén. Where are you?’

  ‘In Enskede. We’re knocking on doors …’

  ‘I want to speak to you. When will you be back?’

  The prosecutor sounded really annoyed and she felt herself shrinking as she stood under the umbrella with the phone against her ear.

  ‘I won’t be able to come in later today, but –’

  ‘Then we’ll have to do it over the phone.’

  Hamad was studying her curiously and she turned her back to him, but remained under the umbrella.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Hadar Rosén almost roared into her ear. ‘I’m getting information that you are improperly putting the economic crime unit to work and running amok in the registers. ISPs and ASPs and conducting unauthorized searches in the crime register.’

  She was prepared for this sort of problem, but she had imagined it would come from Sjöberg, not Rosén. She knew how to handle Sjöberg, but a hopping mad, nearly-six-foot-six prosecutor was much worse.

  ‘I can explain,’ Westman ventured, feeling Hamad’s eyes on her neck.

  ‘Yes, you’d better come up with a really good explanation. I don’t want to hear about any personal vendettas in my district.’

  ‘This is no vendetta,’ she stammered, but realized at the same moment that was exactly what it was.

  ‘I can issue you a warning about this.’

  ‘Don’t do that,’ said Westman, pulling herself together. ‘He figures on the fringes of the investigation and I’ve got certain indications that not everything is as it should be. My searches confirm that.’

  ‘I see,’ the prosecutor retorted, ice in his voice. ‘No convictions, no overdue payments, no conspicuous business deals, no hits in the ASP. The guy has a spotless past, damn it. And since when is Mälarhöjden on the outskirts of Enskede?’

  ‘You know very well what I –’

  ‘Perhaps you think I have no insight into what you’re doing, but you think wrong.’

  Rosén spat the words out into her ear and she knew that what he was saying was right.

  ‘I’ve read everything that’s been written in this investigation. I own this investigation, Westman. And I have not read a word about Mälarhöjden or any suspicions that some doctor at KS is supposed to be running around killing people with kitchen chairs.’

  ‘On Monday –’ Westman began.

  ‘On Monday at nine you will be in my office. And then I want a written account.’

  ‘Written account …’ Westman echoed as the prosecutor ended the call.

  She sighed heavily and put the phone away before she turned towards her associate with a guilty smile.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Hamad asked. ‘Did Sjöberg go off his rocker?’

  ‘I wish. No, it was Rosén.’

  ‘What?’ Hamad exclaimed with sincere surprise. ‘Have you fallen into disfavour with the prosecutor’s office? What are you up to? A vendetta?’

  ‘We’ll discuss it some other time.’

  ‘Hey, come on!’

  Westman simply shook her head, a look of resignation in her eyes, and they resumed the work they were there to carry out.

  * * *

  ‘Speech is silver, silence is … what?’

  She sat whispering the words, barely audible even to herself.

  ‘Two letters … must be a chemical notation …’

  Chemistry had ne
ver been her strong suit. No school subject, besides gymnastics, had really been her strong suit, but she had done well in life anyway. She sipped her wine, cut off a large piece of cucumber and set it on the cutting board. Possibly inspired by the crossword, she cut some horizontal slits across the light-green surface and then a couple of vertical ones, after which the cucumber separated into a dozen thin rods that fell on to the cutting board. Using the knife, she gathered them together and placed them in the salad bowl, then she took another sip of red wine and attacked a different corner of the crossword.

  Cooking, and housework in general, were not occupations she greatly enjoyed. Ironically, that was just how she spent most of her time these days. After two years of community college and with mediocre grades she had moved to Stockholm in search of adventure. Even without good qualifications or any work experience, she soon got a job at a trendy bar near Stureplan. She had her appearance and her open, somewhat provocative manner to thank for that, and she made no secret of it.

  On the nights when she was not working she made the rounds of Stockholm’s nightlife and had no problem finding plenty of friends and admirers. It was not long, as she stood behind the bar mixing exotic drinks and pouring beer, before she was headhunted, as she liked to call it. An intoxicated, good-looking and very prosperous lawyer offered her a job as a secretary at his office. She didn’t hesitate. He paid well and she devoted her days to uncomplicated paperwork, making coffee and other small services he wanted done. On weekday evenings they went to expensive restaurants and slept together, and on weekends – which he mostly spent with his wife and children – she moonlighted at the popular bar and continued to entertain her male acquaintances from other branches of society. It was the booming eighties and Stockholm was swinging.

  By and by, however, even Stockholm started to seem boring and she decided to test her wings (so to speak) in the even more glamorous occupation of airline stewardess. Her lack of education was no obstacle here either, and now she had some work experience besides. She got a job at SAS and travelled the world. Troublesome passengers and many hours of hard toil in cramped aeroplane aisles were compensated for by amazing parties, beautiful people and one stormy relationship after another in a never-ending flood of champagne and piña coladas.

  Finally she met her Prince Charming, the SAS pilot Jonas, who, with his dark, almost raven-black hair and his clear blue eyes, was the handsomest man she had ever met. From a constant swarm of female admirers he chose her, and she was just as quick to dismiss her own pining cavaliers and wannabe lovers for his sake.

  After a grand wedding, with almost two hundred guests, she found out that there was an estate outside Sigtuna which had been in the family for generations, where he thought they should live. Jonas was going to realize his dream: to fly on weekdays, and ride and hunt small game in his free time. He expected her to quit her job as a flight attendant and stay at home on the estate, taking care of the household, the horses, the dogs and the children. In the honeymoon phase of their relationship she had not objected to this, which she now deeply regretted. There had been no children and her time in the country was lonely and boring. She who was used to the good things in life – magnificent parties and a large circle of friends – now found herself almost fifteen years later sitting childless and alone on their estate, which still felt foreign to her. Jonas was seldom at home, which naturally did not improve the odds of having children.

  Despite her disappointment at this abrupt, unexpected change in her life, she kept up her usual good spirits. Her body was still like a twenty-year-old’s – perhaps she could thank her childlessness for that. Her blonde, naturally curly hair had retained its shine, and her face showed a conspicuous absence of wrinkles. She also knew that her husband still adored her, even if her own feelings had cooled considerably. She could leave when she wanted, and maybe she would one day.

  Katrina and the Waves were booming from the CD player in the living room, which made Carina suddenly feel joyful. The song recalled many pleasant memories and she could not sit still when she heard it. She emptied the wineglass in one gulp and refilled it while she sang along with the refrain.

  She got up and danced over to the stove, put on a pair of oven mitts and opened the oven to remove the moose steak. Hot steam welled up from the open door and she squinted and turned her face away until it dissipated. Gripping the pan firmly with both hands, she lifted the aromatic piece of meat on to the counter, filled a small stainless steel measuring cup with gravy and poured it over the meat a few times before she placed it back in the oven.

  The wine was going to her head and her cheeks felt warm and rosy. She went over to the kitchen window and looked through the steady rain into the darkness, out over the horse meadow and towards the illuminated road to spot for the bus that would hopefully be bringing Jonas. Admittedly he hadn’t called, so the plane was probably delayed, but sometimes he surprised her. After peering out for several minutes she saw the bus arrive and stop for a moment, then drive on and disappear beyond the curve. In the weak light at the bus stop she could see a solitary figure come hurrying across the road, enter their little lane and get swallowed up by the shadows among the trees. Happy that the past week’s solitude was now finally over, she went back to the stove and turned on the ring under the potatoes, after which she sat down at the table again, took another sip of wine and continued her fruitless attempt to solve the impossible crossword.

  Diary of a Murderer, November 2006, Friday

  The bus stopped and let me off in the rain on a deserted country road on the Uppland plain. I’ve never liked Uppland, and yet as a child I always dreamed of it. I imagined that the big Uppland towns, despite the inhospitable landscape around them, would welcome an odd sort like me, in contrast to rolling, attractive Södermanland, with its small, cookie-cutter, working-class towns and narrow-minded inhabitants.

  I made my way across the road and on to the small gravel lane leading up to the farm. The November darkness enclosed me in its wet, ice-cold embrace, and I knew that I was invisible from the illuminated windows in the main building. The wind howled in the treetops, but nothing can frighten me now. Now I am the one you should be afraid of, and I continued with undisturbed calm past a few hedges and a small patch of forest.

  There was soft light coming from the stable, but no sign of anyone inside. Some dogs were barking somewhere in the vicinity, but that did not bother me. I sneaked around the house, and through the beautiful sash windows I could see large, furnished rooms, with warm colours and wall panels and wooden furniture. The upper floor was dark, and on the ground floor a solitary woman was sitting in a large, modern kitchen with a rustic touch, doing a crossword puzzle. Something was boiling on the stove and a bottle of wine was already opened. The aroma of meat and spices forced its way into the autumn chill outside the kitchen window, and suddenly I felt hungry.

  I took careful hold of the door handle and discovered it was locked. Even though the element of surprise would be lost, I had to ring the doorbell. After a few moments the door opened and Carina Ahonen looked out at me with surprised blue eyes. I cannot maintain that I was struck with amazement, because she was very pretty even as a child, but she looked much younger than the forty-four I knew her to be. What surprised me more was that as soon as she opened her mouth, she lost all the dignity that the pretty face, wavy blonde hair, well-proportioned figure and proud posture gave her at first glance. Despite (or perhaps because of) the fact that the broad Sörmland accent had been exchanged for a more standard Swedish, marked by a vowel inflection normally associated with upper-middle-class suburbs like Danderyd or Lidingö, she immediately gave the impression of being stupid. Her gaze looked unsure, while her way of talking betrayed self-righteousness and condescension. In brief, her very appearance played into my hands, and after a few minutes with her I had all the tools I needed to carry out my fourth murder: impassioned hatred and a big carving knife.

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Carina Ahonen, after studying
my no doubt out-of-date and definitely drenched appearance for a few moments.

  ‘Have I come at a bad time? Are you in the middle of dinner?’ I asked cunningly.

  ‘No, I’m waiting for my husband to come home. Did you come on the bus?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ I answered truthfully. ‘But no one else got off here. In case you were wondering.’

  ‘I see,’ she sighed, unable to conceal a certain resignation, and I could tell that so far the circumstances had not thrown any spanners in the works for me. ‘So, what do you want?’

  ‘May I come in?’ I asked politely. After a moment’s hesitation she answered, ‘Sure, be my guest.’

  The door locked behind her and I wriggled out of my jacket and handed it to her imperiously. She looked surprised, and observed me with some scepticism before she took the soaking weatherproof jacket and hung it up.

  ‘We knew each other a long time ago,’ I said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Preschool.’

  She made no effort to escort me from the hall into the house, so I had to take the first step myself. She followed me into the kitchen and looked at me suspiciously as I pulled out a chair and made myself at home at the long, farmhouse oak table. On it, besides the crossword and a ballpoint pen, was a rough cutting board and a big knife.