The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  Not until Sjöberg sank down in the somewhat worn but comfortable corner couch and took the first gulp of Lasse’s specialty, vodka and Red Bull, did he feel how tired he was. The tension of the past couple of weeks started to release little by little, and the strong drink had an immediate effect. His disappointment at Gun Vannerberg’s negative response about the family’s possible residence in Österåker bubbled up to the surface again and he let out a deep sigh. He could hear the siblings’ voices from the kitchen as Mia sank down next to him on the couch, holding out a small ceramic bowl of mammoth green olives towards him.

  ‘Why the dejected sigh?’ she asked curiously.

  He took an olive and tossed it in his mouth.

  ‘I’m just exhaling after a long, strenuous week with the dregs of society,’ he answered jokingly, depositing the olive pit in an ashtray that had clearly been swiped from a restaurant in the neighbourhood.

  ‘Oh boy,’ said Mia. ‘What are you working on now?’

  ‘A murder in Enskede. A forty-four-year-old estate agent who was beaten to death in an old lady’s kitchen.’

  As he spoke, he happened to think of another forty-four-year-old, and remembered that Mia had actually grown up in Katrineholm.

  ‘By the way, did you hear about that mother of two in Katrineholm?’ he asked. ‘The one who apparently drowned in a tub of water a few days ago?’

  ‘Yes, I read about that,’ Mia replied. ‘A gruesome story.’

  ‘Did you know her?’

  ‘No, I didn’t. She was three or four years younger than me, so we weren’t in high school at the same time. I didn’t even recognize the name. What was it again?’

  ‘No idea,’ Sjöberg answered, taking another olive.

  ‘I think my mum said her name was Lise-Lott or something like that. No, I don’t remember anyone by that name. This case you’re working on now, has there been anything in the papers about it?’

  ‘Yes, quite a bit actually, but that was a couple of weeks ago.’

  ‘Do you think you’ll catch him?’ Mia asked hopefully.

  ‘Maybe we will sooner or later, but right now it doesn’t look good.’

  ‘Then we’ll stop talking about that and entertain ourselves instead. It will ripen over the weekend and then you’ll solve it on Monday!’

  ‘Let’s drink to that,’ said Sjöberg, taking a substantial gulp from his glass and almost getting an olive pit caught in his throat.

  Lasse called from the kitchen that the food was served and they got up from the couch, taking their glasses with them. On the large, round kitchen table a pasta buffet of unusual proportions was set out. There was a bowl of spaghetti alla carbonara, a pan of homemade gnocchi swimming in cream sauce with cheese and diced pork, a saucepan of tagliatelle with pesto smelling of garlic, a pan of homemade lasagne, and another bowl of spaghetti in a sauce made of cream, onion and chicken liver. Alongside this, a large dish with a colourful salad of tomatoes, avocado and mozzarella, and a tub of freshly grated Parmesan cheese. Lasse stood behind the groaning table opening several bottles of Italian red wine of varying origins. Sjöberg’s jaw dropped, and all he could manage was a question about whether both of them had lost their jobs, considering the time it must have taken to prepare this, as promised, ‘simple’ Friday dinner.

  They sat down around the table and dug into the amazing dishes. Sjöberg ate until he was about to burst; the sound level in the kitchen rose as the levels in the wine bottles sank, and topics of discussion flew thick and fast around the table. After the main courses were finished, a sweet, smooth panna cotta was served, decorated with raspberries and blueberries on a mirror of raspberry coulis. With this they drank a white port wine – and their intoxication grew.

  After they had cleared the worst of the dinner debris, they retired to the soft sofas of the living room. While coffee was brewing, Mia took out her favourite game, ‘National Encyclopedia’, and they debated whether they should play individually or in teams. Sjöberg, who was an individualist and hated losing, proposed the former.

  ‘It’s already eleven,’ said Mia, ‘and we know that you’ll win if we play individually. But if we don’t play in teams, we’ll be sitting here all weekend.’

  Something clicked in Sjöberg’s head, and he suddenly sobered up. There it was again, that accent that had haunted him since the story about the murdered woman in Katrineholm on the TV news the other day.

  ‘Wake-end,’ said Sjöberg quietly, but the others heard it and looked at him in surprise.

  It was the policeman from Katrineholm who had talked that way, but who else? It was very close now, it was right there in the back of his mind and wanted to come out. In what context had he heard that, very, very recently?

  ‘Wake-end,’ he said again, louder this time.

  The other three people at the table exchanged glances among themselves, and once again looked curiously at Sjöberg, giggling expectantly. He did not notice them, though; it was so close, so close … He knew it was important. Something in his subconscious told him this was decisively important, he just knew it.

  And then suddenly it came to him. He remembered his first conversation with Gun Vannerberg. The grieving, strangely dressed Gun Vannerberg sitting on a chair across from him in his office at the police station and asking to look at the remains of her murdered son.

  ‘I know that they would prefer that we not come until after four, but I’ll ask.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Gun Vannerberg had answered. There it was, what the policeman had said in the TV interview.

  ‘When did you last see your son?’

  ‘Last wake-end. He was with his youngest daughter, Moa, and came to see me in Malmö, where I live.’

  And where was this sudden insight leading him?

  ‘What are you up to, darling?’ Åsa interrupted his musings.

  ‘I’ve got to go to the loo,’ Sjöberg answered, getting up from the couch and quickly leaving the room.

  The others shook their heads and laughed, wondering, but returned to the game preparations.

  Sjöberg went into the bathroom and sat down on the edge of the tub. So the policeman on the TV news comes from Katrineholm, like his sister-in-law, but Gun Vannerberg comes from there too, he thought. Mia nowadays spoke a smoothed-out variation of the Katrineholm dialect, but Gun Vannerberg’s accent was the same as the policeman’s, he was sure of that. So had Hans Vannerberg lived in Katrineholm? In that case, why had his mother withheld this information from Sjöberg? Sandén would have laughed if he could see him now, but Sjöberg was sure that he was on the trail of something decisive; he felt it intuitively, and this time he relied on his intuition. But where did Ingrid Olsson come into the picture?

  He got up and rushed back into the living room. Three pairs of curious eyes were turned on him.

  ‘I need an atlas,’ he said excitedly.

  ‘An atlas?’

  Lasse looked at him in bewilderment.

  ‘A map of Sweden, whatever.’

  ‘I don’t know where our atlas is,’ said Mia. ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘I’ve got to have one. Now.’

  ‘Maybe the neighbour has one,’ Lasse suggested.

  Mia saw the seriousness in Sjöberg’s eyes and got up purposefully.

  ‘I’ll go and ask the neighbour,’ she said, walking resolutely out into the hall, putting on a pair of shoes and going out of the door.

  ‘What is this all about, Conny?’ Lasse asked. ‘You look completely wild.’

  ‘He’s thought of something,’ Åsa answered in his place. ‘He’s thought of something important that has to do with the murder.’

  ‘The murder?’

  Lasse looked at him with fascination.

  ‘Are you sitting here drinking and solving murders at the same time?’

  ‘Yes, I hope so,’ Sjöberg answered with an absentminded smile.

  At that moment the door opened again, and Mia trudged in holding The Motorist’s Road Atlas of Sweden. Sh
e handed the book to Sjöberg, who immediately started searching in the alphabetical index in the back.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ Mia asked.

  ‘Katrineholm,’ answered Sjöberg. ‘I want to see where Katrineholm is …’

  ‘I could tell you that,’ Mia suggested, but Sjöberg took no notice of the others right now.

  He led his index finger along one of the columns and mumbled, ‘Katorp, Katrineberg, Katrineberg, Katrinedal, Katrineholm – there it is, page sixty-two …’

  He flipped back to the page in question and studied the map for a minute or two. His eyes ran over the names of lakes, cities, towns and villages. He continued to search purposefully until he found what he was looking for. There it stood, clear and obvious in bold, black letters, right between Katrineholm and Hallsberg: Österåker.

  Sjöberg closed the atlas with a thud and looked at his beloved wife with a rather apologetic expression.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s going to be some work for me this weekend,’ he said ruefully.

  But inside he felt a growing exhilaration.

  Saturday Morning

  When he woke up on Saturday morning he had a pounding headache. Although he had switched to drinking water by eleven, when he made his startling discovery, and taken two aspirin besides, and had at least ten glasses of water right before he crept into bed, he was unable to outwit the hangover. It only got harder as the years passed, and now he decided, as he had so many times before, to quit drinking alcohol altogether. A resolution he would abandon by Saturday evening, if he knew himself.

  He let Åsa sleep for a few more hours. After all, he would be leaving her to take care of the kids alone for the better part of the day. Even though he knew that the tasks he had before him were urgent, a few hours here or there would not make any difference. Hans Vannerberg was dead, after all, and his self-imposed Saturday assignment could not change that fact.

  At ten o’clock he finally woke his still soundly sleeping wife. He had been up with the five kids for almost four hours, so his conscience was mostly clear. He snuggled down next to her between the sheets, enjoying for a few minutes her warm, soft body against his own. Then he apologized and promised to be back as soon as possible, probably before the twins woke up from their afternoon nap.

  He hugged the children and sent them in to their sleepy mother, then he slipped quietly out of the door so the little boys would not try to follow him barefoot out into the dirty stairwell.

  When Sjöberg came out on the street he noticed to his surprise that the heavy clouds had scattered and the sun was peeping out for the first time in weeks. There was a strong wind and the temperature was about freezing, but he decided to walk to the police station anyway. The playground at Nytorget was already full of children, and on the benches along the side sat their parents, keeping the children in sight while they played. He did not envy them. Sitting and watching in a playground was not one of Sjöberg’s favourite pastimes.

  Instead of walking down Östgötagatan to the police station, he took the pedestrian path past Eriksdal. The wind was blowing right at him and he regretted not bringing his scarf. Under the bridge, two winos sat yelling, wearing far too little clothing for the season. Sjöberg pushed his hands deeper into his pockets when he saw them. The walk was just what he needed, however, and when he sat down at his desk he already felt more energetic.

  He started by phoning Margit Olofsson’s house again to try to have a few words with Ingrid Olsson, but as he had feared, no one answered. Then he tried both of Gun Vannerberg’s numbers, but got no answer there either. Finally, he called Pia Vannerberg. She was at home. He asked if she had any objection to him coming over for a short visit and she answered in a flat voice that she did not.

  He took the envelope with the old photos from Ingrid Olsson’s preschool, left the police station and took the path back up to Skanstull to get a southbound metro. At Enskede Gård he got off the train and walked the last stretch. Pia Vannerberg’s mother opened the door for him, and it was with some relief that he noted the recent widow was not alone in her grief.

  Pia Vannerberg had no make-up on and she looked tired and worn out. She was moving in slow motion and spoke slowly too, which made Sjöberg think she was on tranquillizers. It was quiet in the house. The children were nowhere to be seen, nor was their grandfather. Sjöberg assumed he had taken the grandchildren out in the relatively nice autumn weather. Mother and daughter sat down on the couch and Sjöberg in the armchair, like the last time he was there. He took out the photos and set them on the coffee table in front of the two women.

  ‘I really have just one question,’ he said, directing himself to Hans Vannerberg’s widow. ‘I understand that this is difficult for you, but I would like to know whether you recognize Hans in any of these pictures.’

  She looked for a long time at two of the pictures without recognizing any of the children. On the third photograph, which according to the writing on the back depicted the group of children from 1968/’69, she found him immediately. She pointed to a little boy with dishevelled light-blond hair and a big smile that showed he was losing his baby teeth. He was on one knee in the middle of the front row, and somehow gave the impression that he was on his way. He wore a checked flannel shirt whose sleeves ended halfway up to his elbows and which let a little of his stomach peep out. He was certainly the first person an observer’s eyes were drawn to.

  ‘There he is,’ said Pia Vannerberg in a cracking voice. ‘That’s Hans, there’s no doubt.’

  ‘Did Hans ever live in Katrineholm?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘He was born there. I know he lived there for a while, but not how long. He moved so much as a child. You’ll have to ask Gun.’

  ‘I thought I did,’ Sjöberg said cryptically, ‘but there must have been a misunderstanding.’

  He got up and extended his hand.

  ‘Thanks, Pia. You’ve been a great help. I apologize for disturbing you like this.’

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Pia Vannerberg, giving him a limp handshake without getting up from the couch.

  He picked up the pictures, put them back in the envelope and stuffed it in his jacket pocket, and left the Vannerberg family.

  On the platform at the metro station the wind was so strong that he had to take shelter behind a wall. The trains did not run very often on Saturdays, and it would be more than ten minutes before the next one came. Sjöberg stood with his hands in his pockets, stamping his feet to keep warm. He wondered about all the misunderstandings about the little village in Södermanland, Österåker, and cursed his own narrow-mindedness. Ingrid Olsson had said when they met, right after she found the body of Hans Vannerberg on her kitchen floor, that she had lived in Österåker before she moved to Enskede. He had assumed it was the Österåker outside Stockholm she was referring to and given it no further thought. Sloppy. Then he remembered how the dialogue with Gun Vannerberg the previous afternoon had developed.

  ‘Did you ever live in Österåker?’ he asked.

  ‘No, we only lived in cities,’ Gun Vannerberg answered.

  ‘You said you had lived in Hallsberg. That’s no city.’

  ‘It’s a lot bigger than Österåker,’ she answered, and from her perspective she was quite right.

  He had assumed she didn’t know what she was talking about, but of course she did.

  ‘So, did you live anywhere else in the Stockholm area?’ Sjöberg had continued.

  ‘Did we live anywhere in the Stockholm area?’ she answered, and Sjöberg had thought it was a pure ‘who’s on first?’ conversation.

  It had been too, but he was the one responsible for the blunders.

  He took out his mobile and called Gun Vannerberg again. This time she answered.

  ‘Excuse me for calling and disturbing you like this on a Saturday morning,’ Sjöberg said politely. ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘Yes, you did, actually,’ Gun Vannerberg replied sleepily. ‘I worked last night.’

  ‘I
only want to know whether you and Hans lived in Katrineholm at any time. Did you?’

  ‘You’re really doing your research, aren’t you? Yes, we lived in Katrineholm. Actually, for a pretty long time. I grew up in Katrineholm and lived there until Hans was about to start school. Then we moved to Kumla.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me that before?’

  ‘I thought I listed a whole bunch of places where we lived.’

  ‘You never mentioned Katrineholm.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘Yes, it does.’

  There was silence for a moment, before Gun Vannerberg started speaking again.

  ‘I think we talked about how we had moved here and there. We never moved to Katrineholm, only away from there. I guess it was obvious to me somehow that we had lived there, because I’d always lived there.’

  ‘I understand. So Hans went to preschool in Katrineholm?’

  ‘I guess so. Yes, now I remember, he did. Green Hill, Sunny Hill … it was some “hill” name.’

  ‘Forest Hill?’

  ‘That sounds right.’

  ‘Do you remember his teacher?’

  ‘No, I don’t know if I ever met her.’

  ‘Ingrid Olsson?’

  ‘That sounds familiar. No, I don’t know, I …’

  ‘Do you remember anyone else from that preschool, any other children?’

  ‘No, not a chance. That was so long ago. It was Hans who went to preschool, not me.’

  ‘Just one last question. Do you recall that I asked whether you had lived in Österåker?’

  ‘Sure, it was just yesterday you asked that.’