The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

‘Then you were thinking of the Österåker outside Katrineholm, I assume?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Are there others?’

  ‘There must be places called Österåker scattered all over this country. Now I won’t bother you any more. Thanks.’

  Sjöberg was seized by an almost irresistible urge to call one of his colleagues to talk about his discovery, but he calmed down and decided that it could just as well wait until Monday. It was Saturday. Everyone had worked hard the past couple of weeks and needed their weekend rest. He still felt somewhat bitter towards Sandén, who would normally be the first one he would call, because of the cool reception given to his now confirmed theory regarding the connection between Hans Vannerberg and Ingrid Olsson. And he was in no particular rush to call the prosecutor, Rosén, who was really the one to whom he should first report progress in the investigation.

  On Sunday he would have a conversation with Ingrid Olsson no matter what, once she was back from her cruise. He decided to let the whole thing rest for the time being. Now he would take the weekend off, or at least one day, and devote the rest of Saturday to his family.

  * * *

  Petra Westman had had a hard time falling asleep on Friday night. The conversation with the prosecutor in the afternoon made her anxious. At two o’clock in the morning she lay in the dark, still going over and over her awkward situation, tossing and turning without falling asleep. At last she felt hungry, which also kept her from sleeping. She went out to the kitchen, and had two sandwiches and a glass of milk. She felt full, but not sleepy. Then she lay down and read until four-thirty, when she finally dropped off.

  She did not wake up until lunchtime, and then only because the phone rang.

  ‘Did I wake you?’

  ‘No,’ said Petra, still half asleep.

  She looked at the clock on the bedside table: quarter past twelve. She tried to shake life into her body. Perk up now, Petra. This was the call she had been waiting for all week: Håkan Carlberg was calling from Linköping.

  ‘Am I calling at a bad time?’

  ‘Yes, you did actually. No, it’s not a bad time, but you did wake me up.’

  He laughed.

  ‘I didn’t fall asleep until four-thirty,’ Petra excused herself. ‘The prosecutor plans to give me a warning because I’ve been doing unauthorized searches in the police computer registers. I have to spend the weekend on a written report of what I’ve done and why.’

  ‘Then perhaps I have something that can relieve the pain,’ said Håkan Carlberg.

  Petra sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake.

  ‘You had alcohol in your blood, but so little you could have driven a car when the sample was taken.’

  ‘I don’t think that would have gone too well,’ said Petra.

  ‘No, I don’t think so either. You also had so much flunitrazepam in your system it would have knocked out a two-hundred-pound man.’

  ‘Are you serious? What is that?’

  ‘Rohypnol – the date-rape drug. How much do you weigh?’

  ‘About 59 kilograms.’

  ‘As I thought. You must have had approximately six half-milligram tablets in you, and the normal dose for insomnia would be one such tablet to start with. I must say I’m impressed that you woke up after four hours. And that you were so lucid.’

  ‘Lucid,’ Petra scoffed. ‘I could hardly stand up.’

  ‘Iron will and good physique,’ said Håkan with admiration. ‘You must still have been seriously affected when we saw each other.’

  ‘And the fingerprints?’

  ‘There were two different sets of prints, one on each bottle. But there was no match for either of them. One set would certainly be yours, so that’s not so strange. But as I said – no hits.’

  ‘I know he hasn’t been convicted. So he must not have left any traces behind at a crime scene before,’ Petra sighed.

  Relieve the pain, she thought. I’m not going to Rosén on Monday and tell him that I’m on the trail of a rapist; a senior physician who presumably has raped many women but who never leaves any traces behind and who has never been indicted.

  ‘Not in the form of fingerprints,’ said Håkan Carlberg.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I did a DNA test on one of those condoms.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And found your DNA on the outside and his DNA on the inside.’

  As expected. But she heard in his voice that he had something in his back pocket.

  ‘His DNA has been found at two crime scenes before. A woman who was raped in Malmö in 1997, and one in Gothenburg in 2002.’

  ‘Bingo,’ said Petra. ‘You have no idea how grateful I am.’

  ‘Just make sure you put this character away. I am in Your Majesty’s Secret Service until you ask me to appear.’

  Saturday Afternoon

  This time Sjöberg remembered to put his scarf on before he left home. Which he was grateful for now, as he sat in the grandstand in the biting wind, watching a gang of eight-year-old boys try to kick a ball into the goal on the artificial turf at the Hammarby football pitch. His scarf was the wrong colour, however, he realized when he saw the other parents and spectators.

  Simon Sjöberg had been playing football with Hammarby at Kanalplan all autumn, until the practice sessions moved into the Eriksdal school gym a few weeks ago. This friendly match, against a five-man team from Marieberg, was being played outside, however, due to the nice weather. Sjöberg drew the conclusion that ‘nice weather’ in a football context had no connection to temperature and wind strength, but took into account only the colour of the sky.

  Beside him he had his two daughters, Sara and Maja, who, completely uninterested in the match, each sat tapping on a Nintendo DS. Åsa was at the Eriksdal pool with the twins, which Sjöberg would have preferred to sitting here freezing.

  His interest in football was limited to Sweden’s matches in the major championships, but as far as he could tell none of the boys on the field were future stars. On the other hand, they were rather cute as they ran and chased the ball with deadly serious expressions, shouting, ‘Offside!’, ‘Man on!’ and ‘Yellow card!’ Sjöberg applauded when anyone did anything surprising with the ball, whether it was a home player or someone from the opposing team.

  Play flowed back and forth across the shortened field, and it was a long time before one of the Marieberg players, with a little luck, finally managed to push the ball past Hammarby’s goalie. Sjöberg had to admit that he did not feel any great disappointment, but instead sat and clapped politely. Below him, a man in a suit suddenly leaped up and rushed down to the goal line.

  ‘It’s time to take off that little bastard!’ he screamed at the astonished home-team coach, who Sjöberg knew was the father of one of the boys on the team. ‘Take off that little red-haired piece of shit, he can’t cut it!’

  The ‘little red-haired piece of shit’ was one of Simon’s classmates whom Sjöberg didn’t know particularly well. But from what he had seen, the boy, who was playing right back, was doing no better or worse than the other boys on the pitch. The coach, an unathletic type in street clothes who was volunteering his time, stood speechless and terrified, staring at the furious dad. Sjöberg noted that the woman accompanying the man had also stood up, but she stayed in the stands, gesticulating wildly. It took a few seconds for him to react, but when he met Simon’s perplexed gaze from down on the field, a calm came over him that he had not felt in a very long time.

  He stood up and resolutely took the few steps down to the field, with an air of authority that he did not recognize in himself. The stands were completely quiet and the match being played on the neighbouring field had also stopped. With all the weight he could muster he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and got him to turn towards him. They were the same height, but Sjöberg felt considerably taller at this moment, as he spat out the words into the man’s face in a controlled voice.

  ‘What kind of example is this? You’re disgracing yoursel
f and the sport in front of these kids and their parents! A grown man, picking on a little boy. You’re nothing but a coward.’

  Then he led the speechless man back to the stands and pushed him down on the spot where he had just been sitting.

  ‘And you sit down too,’ he said in a disdainful tone to the woman, who now looked as though she would like the ground to swallow her up.

  When he looked back to the football field he saw that the red-haired boy had started crying. It was one of the proudest moments of his life, as he watched his eight-year-old son go over to the subject of the altercation and put his arm around his shoulders. The other boys in the team followed his example, and, after the coach on the opposite team whispered something into the ear of one of his players, the Marieberg boys also went up and consoled him.

  Sjöberg returned to his place in the stands to supportive applause from the spectators, but avoided meeting their eyes. Instead, he continued to appreciatively observe the ring of children on the field. But it was as if an ice-cold hand took hold of his heart when his eyes suddenly fell on the little boy standing alone in the home team’s goal.

  Conny Sjöberg was pondering this incident later that afternoon while, clad in an apron, he stood in the kitchen peeling potatoes. He was preparing dinner with the children when Sandén phoned and asked if they could go out for a beer.

  ‘Go to the pub?’ said Sjöberg with surprise. ‘I thought your in-laws were coming to visit.’

  Just as he said that he remembered the conversation in the hospital cafeteria the previous day, and an uncomfortable feeling washed over him.

  ‘Damn it!’ he exclaimed, looking sheepishly over at Åsa, who was doing a puzzle with the little boys at the kitchen table.

  She glanced up at him, with a look that could kill.

  ‘The answer to your question is no, not under any circumstances,’ said Sjöberg grimly.

  ‘Oh boy,’ said Sandén maliciously. ‘Are you in the doghouse again? See you. I hope.’

  Sjöberg hung up. He had completely forgotten about the damn Christmas dinner. For a moment he considered calling to cancel, but that was inconceivable. He was the one who had instigated the whole thing; he was the biggest advocate of team-building, as it was called these days. True, he had opposed having this Christmas dinner on a Saturday for one thing, and in November for another, but that’s what happens when you get too late a start. And he had delegated responsibility for organizing it to Hamad, so the only thing to do was bite the bullet.

  ‘We have our Christmas dinner tonight,’ Sjöberg said dejectedly to his wife. ‘I completely forgot about it.’

  ‘With significant others, I presume?’ said Åsa in a sarcastic tone.

  ‘You know the budget doesn’t allow for that.’

  ‘Well, my work is having their Christmas dinner tonight too. So I guess you’ll have to try to get a babysitter.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Åsa. I understand that this is really stupid and ruins Saturday evening and all that, but what am I supposed to do? I’m the boss, damn it.’

  ‘You’ve been working today, you’ll be working tomorrow. You can’t be gone the whole week and then work all weekend and go to a work party on Saturday night. And just count on the fact that I’ll take care of everything! I have a job to do too. And a life to live.’

  ‘I know that full well,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I do my part. It just gets this way sometimes, you know that. Sometimes it’s the other way around. When you have a lot to do at work and it’s not as stressful for me, then I do the ground service.’

  ‘I see, and how often does that happen? My job is always stressful. I’m a teacher, damn it.’

  The children looked at their parents in dismay. Now Mum was swearing, too – that was a bad sign.

  ‘Run out and stare at the TV or something,’ said Sjöberg, with an irritated wave of his hand, to the three older children. ‘Mum and I have to talk.’

  The children slunk away and Sjöberg closed the door after them. They continued the quarrel in hisses.

  ‘What if I was the one who decided at five o’clock on Saturday afternoon that I was going out with my friends? Huh? What would you say then?’

  Åsa’s eyes were flashing lightning bolts now and Sjöberg felt that he was also starting to get really angry.

  ‘Then I would say, “How nice! You need to socialize with your friends in peace and quiet, without obligations. Have a nice evening!” I guess that’s the natural thing to say,’ he answered in a patronizing tone that made Åsa boil over.

  ‘You can say that, because it never happens!’

  ‘In that case, it’s your own fault.’

  ‘No, it’s your fault! I have no opportunities to go out with friends because you’re never home and I have to be here to take care of the children. And the cleaning and the cooking and everything else too.’

  ‘I think I’m the one who has an apron on right now. And you’re sitting at the kitchen table with a drink in your hand.’

  Sjöberg took a big gulp of his beer while Åsa went on.

  ‘Should I be grateful because I get let off the cooking for one night a week? I don’t get the impression that you’re especially grateful for the other six nights.’

  ‘How hard is it to boil macaroni and heat up frozen hash in the microwave?’

  He knew he was being unfair now, and that his condescending attitude drove Åsa up the wall, but what was he supposed to do? She was cursing and swearing and he had to go to the damn Christmas dinner.

  Åsa got up and pointedly left the kitchen to sit in the TV room with the older children. Christoffer and Jonathan heedlessly knocked all the puzzle pieces on to the floor before they toddled off after her. Sjöberg hoped that the older children would come back and help him with dinner, but they didn’t. He picked up the puzzle from the floor and set the kitchen table for six. Then he went to the bedroom and changed into a pair of nice-looking jeans, a clean shirt and a new sports coat he had not worn before. He told himself it would annoy Åsa even more that he was wearing it when she was not coming along.

  When Sjöberg was finished cooking he made sure the kitchen was spotless. Even the stove was clean, although there had been three saucepans of food on it. He went into the TV room, gave all the children a kiss and declared that dinner was ready. Finally, he kissed Åsa on her head and said that he had to go. To the degree that ice-cold anger can be felt through the roots of someone’s hair, he felt it now. Half an hour later he was sitting with Sandén at St Andrew’s Inn on Nybrogatan with a pint of Erdinger Hefeweizen in front of him.

  Saturday Evening

  Everyone was already seated when Sjöberg and Sandén came sauntering in fifteen minutes late.

  ‘Oh, Conny, I’ve been saving a place for you,’ Lotten chirped.

  That settled the seating arrangement, and Sandén ended up in the remaining place, across from Sjöberg on Petra Westman’s right.

  ‘You have to be nice to the inspector now, he’s had a falling out with his wife,’ said Sandén to Lotten.

  Sjöberg glowered at Sandén, who, heedless, shouted something about balls to Hamad, who was sitting at the other end of the table.

  ‘Is it anything serious?’ Lotten asked in a voice that you might use when speaking to a very small child.

  Petra, too, was curious to hear Sjöberg’s response.

  ‘I forgot about the Christmas dinner, but that gasbag called and reminded me,’ said Sjöberg, with a nod in Sandén’s direction. ‘I’m not very popular at home right now, but it will blow over by tomorrow. Cheers.’

  They sipped the red wine, which was Lebanese and tasted very good.

  Hamad tapped his glass with a fork and welcomed everyone.

  ‘I’m sorry to have to disappoint some of you, but the kitchen is currently out of lamb’s testicles. On the other hand, at this very moment, they are preparing some raw lamb’s liver for Jens.’

  Everyone applauded and Sandén was happy to be at the centre of things.

/>   ‘For those who don’t care for that, various other dishes will be brought out in turn. To start with, there’s bread, vegetables and various Lebanese sauces for dipping. Then there will be salads and cold meats, fried cheese, raw beef, ox tongue and so on. That’s something for you, Sandén. Then there will be grilled meat, and when everyone is satisfied, there will be dessert. There’s something to suit every taste, I promise. Merry Christmas!’

  Everyone toasted each other and the sound level rose as the evening proceeded. The table was loaded with good food and Sandén ate his raw liver, to everyone’s great amusement. Lotten soon tired of flirting with Sjöberg and instead started discussing dogs with the caretaker, Micke, who was sitting diagonally across from her. Petra, who was sitting across from Lotten and next to Micke, tried at first to get involved in their conversation but quickly lost interest. Instead, she tried to join in Sandén’s and Sjöberg’s conversation, but without much success since she hadn’t been part of it from the beginning.

  Hadar Rosén was sitting in solitary majesty at one end of the table, to give him room for his long legs. Einar Eriksson was on one side of him and Hamad on the other. Eriksson did not say much in the early part of the evening, but Hamad exchanged a few words with him and thought that even he seemed to be having a nice time. He was eating with enthusiasm and actually had some wine, without making a fuss about it. Hamad noticed that Petra cast the occasional furtive glance in their direction during the evening, but could not decide whether it was him or Rosén she was looking at. After a few glasses of wine, he tried throwing out a little feeler to Rosén.

  ‘I heard you gave Westman a proper spanking,’ he said quietly.

  ‘You might say that,’ Rosén answered coolly.

  ‘What was that all about?’ Hamad attempted, but the prosecutor was unrelenting.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll tell you if she finds it appropriate.’

  The prosecutor then began a conversation with Eriksson, with whom he suddenly seemed to have a great deal in common. Hamad was unconcerned, and turned instead towards Bella Hansson, seated on his other side. As soon as he had turned his back she had been an unwilling audience to Lotten’s and Micke’s endless dog conversation, trying to look interested. She brightened up and they resumed their own conversation, which, as far as Petra could see, lasted for most of the evening.