‘No, I don’t recognize him,’ she answered, shaking her head. ‘He looks like a real little scamp, and I didn’t have much patience for them, I can tell you that,’ she said, pursing her lips.
After trying unsuccessfully to get Ingrid Olsson to recognize any of the other children in the picture, or even to remember anything concerning this particular class, they felt compelled to leave her. Their theory had been completely confirmed, even though Ingrid Olsson’s surprising lack of any memory of these children made their work more difficult.
When they came back downstairs, Hamad stuck his head into the kitchen and called out a cheerful ‘Thanks’ to Margit Olofsson. Sjöberg, half-hidden by his colleague, shuddered all over and mumbled something inaudible in farewell, without looking in her direction.
‘What do we do now?’ Hamad asked in the car, as they were leaving Åkerbärsvägen and turning on to one of the equally idyllic small cross streets.
‘We have to find out the names of these children. Look them up and see whether there’s anyone who remembers anything. What do you think about Ingrid Olsson?’
‘Strange woman,’ said Hamad. ‘It doesn’t seem to bother her particularly that a person was murdered in her home. One of her old pupils, at that. The only thing she had to say about him was that he looked like a scamp and she clearly didn’t like that. More or less as if it served him right to be murdered, because he looked mischievous in a picture from 1968. Remembers nothing. Well, besides Carina Ahonen, of course. She was apparently teacher’s pet. What do you think?’
‘One got that impression,’ Sjöberg muttered, trying once again to remember in what context he had heard that name before.
Then his mobile rang. It was twelve o’clock and just as Sjöberg answered, the heavens opened and it started to snow heavily, but neither of them noticed that. It was Mia on the phone, Sjöberg’s sister-in-law.
‘Thanks for the other night!’ said Sjöberg. ‘It was a heavy but pleasant evening. And then winning that game to top it off.’
‘It’s called hospitality,’ Mia said jokingly, but her voice had a tinge of seriousness and she quickly changed the subject. ‘Listen, Conny, I don’t know if this has any significance, but I thought I should call you right away, to be on the safe side.’
‘Yes?’
Sjöberg listened intently to his sister-in-law’s somewhat incoherent description of her realization.
‘You asked me last Friday if I knew anything about that woman in Katrineholm. You know, the one who was murdered earlier in the week, Lise-Lott Nilsson.’
‘Yes, what about her?’
‘Well, I didn’t recognize her at all, as you no doubt recall. Did she have anything to do with your investigation?’
‘No,’ said Sjöberg impatiently. ‘I was just curious in general. What about it?’
‘Well, you see now … I don’t want you to think I’m silly or sensationalist.’
‘Out with it. What is this all about?’
Sjöberg could feel, without knowing why, the tension churning inside him, and his heart started beating faster.
‘There was a woman murdered on Friday too.’
‘Yes?’
‘And I recognized her. A forty-four-year-old woman from … it wasn’t in the paper. There it said she was from Sigtuna, but I know that originally she was from Katrineholm. Her name was Carina Ahonen.’
Sjöberg braked abruptly, without bothering to check in the rearview mirror first. Fortunately, there was no one behind him. He felt as if his heart had stopped, and he just sat gaping with the phone in his hand for several moments. Hamad stared at him excitedly, not understanding a word of what was being said on the phone.
‘Hello?’ said Mia. ‘Are you still there?’
‘Thanks, Mia,’ said Sjöberg when he had caught his breath. ‘That was incredibly important information. I’ll call you later.’
He ended the call and put the phone back in his inside pocket. Hamad was still looking at him, wide-eyed.
‘What’s this all about?’ he said at last.
‘I don’t know,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I have to think.’
‘You’re in the middle of the road,’ Hamad informed him.
‘I know. Wait a little.’
‘Come on now! Who was that?’
‘It was my sister-in-law, Mia. She said that Carina Ahonen was murdered …’
‘Carina Ahonen? But that was her, damn it – the teacher’s pet!’ Hamad exclaimed. ‘How did she know that?’
‘I knew it too. I just didn’t make the connection. It’s been gnawing at me all morning.’
Sjöberg seemed clearer now and his voice was controlled, but eager.
‘Hans Vannerberg, aged forty-four, from Katrineholm is murdered two weeks ago in the house of his preschool teacher, Ingrid Olsson. Yesterday, another of her old preschool students from the same group was murdered, Carina Ahonen. The other day, another forty-four-year-old woman from Katrineholm, Lise-Lott Nilsson, was murdered – the one drowned in the tub of water, as I mentioned. I’d lay odds she’s somewhere in that picture, too. And perhaps there are even more. Three murdered forty-four-year-olds in two weeks, all from Katrineholm. Jamal,’ said Sjöberg, emphasizing each syllable, ‘I think we’re on the trail of a serial killer.’
‘You’re joking,’ said Hamad, without thinking for a moment that he was. ‘A serial murderer? You’re out of your mind! How many of those have there been in Sweden?’
‘Not many, but we have one here, I’m convinced of it.’
Were there other victims? He remembered something he’d read, but he could not think what it was. Would there be more? Now it was crucial to act quickly. He retrieved his phone from his inside pocket again and entered Sandén’s number; at the same time he ordered a perplexed Hamad to call Petra Westman and Einar Eriksson. Hamad did as he was told while Sandén answered Sjöberg’s call.
‘Hi, Jens, it’s Conny. Be at the office in half an hour; something has turned up.’
He ended the call immediately, then phoned Hadar Rosén and left the same brief message. Then he started the car again and drove quickly back to the police station, while Hamad informed Eriksson and Westman about the hastily summoned meeting.
Sunday Afternoon
At exactly twelve-thirty, all six of them were assembled in the conference room at the police station on Östgötagatan. No one seemed irritated, not even the usually gloomy Einar Eriksson. Instead, everyone was sitting in tense anticipation, observing their resolute boss as he started to speak.
‘Our focus on a possible connection between Hans Vannerberg and Ingrid Olsson has borne fruit,’ Sjöberg began, and then he related how recent discoveries led to today’s breakthrough in the investigation.
The meeting participants followed his account attentively, without interrupting.
‘Earlier in the week a forty-four-year-old woman by the name of Lise-Lott Nilsson was murdered in Katrineholm. The papers said she was drowned in a tub of water. We have not yet been able to prove any connection to Vannerberg, but I would be surprised if we don’t find one. I haven’t had a chance to speak with our colleagues in either Katrineholm or Sigtuna to confirm this, but that will be the first thing we start working on after this meeting. There may be more victims we don’t know about, and worse yet, there may be more victims to come if we don’t figure this out right now. In short, I believe we’re dealing with a serial killer here.’
Sjöberg fell silent and looked around for reactions and questions. The first one to open his mouth was the prosecutor.
‘Well done, Sjöberg. Just as you say, this puts the case in a different light. We need to act quickly. We have to focus on identifying and locating the other children in this preschool class, not only to warn them but obviously also to look for a motive and a perpetrator. And we have to coordinate our respective investigations in the various districts.’
‘The press,’ said Sandén. ‘What information should we give to the media?’
‘None at all, at the moment,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘It could interfere with the investigation. If we have problems locating the others involved, we may ask the press for help as a last resort, but not unless we have to.’
‘Okay, what do we do now?’ asked Hamad.
‘I suggest that, to save time, Jens immediately makes contact with someone at the municipality in Katrineholm who can give us the information we need concerning that preschool class. We want all the children’s names and addresses. Petra, you get hold of someone at the census bureau who can help us find information about where these people are today. And we want that information as it arises. We can’t afford to wait until the whole list is compiled. Instead, we want each name as soon as it becomes available so we can begin our search as quickly as possible. I’ll contact the people responsible for the investigations within the police departments in Katrineholm and Sigtuna to see what they’ve learned so far. Einar and Jamal are on standby, and will dive into the search process as soon as we have the slightest thing to go on. Einar, you contact the districts and get information about all murders that have been committed in Sweden during the past month. Jamal, to start with, you may as well go and get sandwiches for everyone.’
‘I want frequent updates,’ said Rosén to Sjöberg.
‘Will do,’ Sjöberg promised, getting up from his chair. ‘Work hard now, do you hear me? You’ll get time off in lieu when this is over.’
Five chairs scraped against the parquet floor and three police officers and one prosecutor left the meeting room with determined expressions. Sandén lingered behind for a moment and gave Sjöberg an encouraging pat on the shoulder.
‘You and your damn intuition. But you’re a lousy tennis player,’ he added, laughing, and then he too left the room.
Sjöberg went to his office and closed the door behind him. Before he was even in the chair, he had picked up the phone and was dialling his sister-in-law’s number. It was Lasse who answered but, after a few quick pleasantries, he asked him to put Mia on the line.
‘What now?’ said Lasse, but immediately handed the phone to his wife.
Sjöberg presumed that his brother-in-law was well informed about their conversation earlier in the day.
‘Tell me,’ said Mia. ‘I’m dying of curiosity.’
‘What I’m telling you now is highly confidential,’ said Sjöberg. ‘You must not utter a word of this to anyone, do you understand that?’
‘Absolutely,’ answered Mia.
‘It turns out that the murder I’m working on is closely connected to what you told me this morning. And, presumably, with what we talked about on Friday. We seem to be dealing with a serial killer. A serial killer with very strong connections to Katrineholm.’
‘Wow,’ said Mia.
‘And you can help me a little, if you don’t mind. Extremely informally, if you know what I mean.’
‘Of course.’
‘The police don’t normally work this way, you understand. But if you can, I would like you to do a little social research for me. You have contacts in Katrineholm, after all.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Are you familiar with Forest Hill?’
‘Sure, that was a preschool when I lived there.’
‘Exactly. During the 1968 to ’69 school year, there was a group of children there, led by a certain Ingrid Olsson. That group included Carina Ahonen and Hans Vannerberg, the murder victim in the investigation I’m working on. Now, I haven’t yet got the names of any more children in the group, but that’s only a matter of time. I’ll be in touch with more details when I have any. I would like you to discreetly ask around and find out whether anything special was going on in that group of children – what the social structure was like, if there were any children who stood out in one way or another, et cetera. Do you understand?’
‘I’ll see what I can do.’
‘But not a word about this to anyone.’
‘I’ll be silent as the grave.’
‘Good. I’ll be in touch.’
Sjöberg hung up and then picked up the phone again. This time he called information, who connected him to the Katrineholm police department. The on-duty constable who took the call referred him to an Inspector Torstensson, who was off for the weekend. He promised to locate him as soon as possible and have the inspector call Sjöberg back right away. Sjöberg hung up and repeated the procedure with the Sigtuna police. Then he went out into the corridor and got a cup of coffee and returned to his seat just in time to receive Hamad’s delivery of a sandwich for lunch.
Halfway through his meatball sandwich the phone rang. It was a Chief Inspector Holst from the Sigtuna police. He was very shaken by what Sjöberg had to say, and reported in turn that they had secured fingerprints at the scene of the crime that almost certainly belonged to the murderer. He also reported that the murder of Carina Ahonen could be considered relatively brutal; judging by appearances, it involved torture. Her hair had been cut off and she had had severe burn wounds that were incurred shortly before death. Finally, her throat was cut. The whole thing was a very bloody affair. Sjöberg promised to be in touch again after he had spoken to the Katrineholm police. He felt sickened by the information his colleague in Sigtuna had interrupted his lunch with. He sat for a long time thinking about what he had heard.
Everything indicated that the murderer was someone out for revenge. The question was simply why. The first murder, of Hans Vannerberg, seemed more like a crime of passion, even if the planning of the whole thing had been fairly refined. Then the murderer appeared to have warmed up. Lise-Lott Nilsson, it seemed, had been drowned without mercy, and Carina Ahonen had been outright tortured before her execution. What could these individuals have done to deserve such punishment? The perpetrator must be a disturbed person, likely to have been seriously abused during childhood. Hans Vannerberg had been a scamp, that much he understood. But were his boyish pranks so serious that someone would have hated him for almost forty years to the extent that he – or she, for that matter – finally snapped and then murdered him? The thought was dizzying. That hatred must have been hard to live with. He had heard somewhere that trauma tends to return in memory after ten years. Could the same be true after forty years? Was this possibly the result of some out-of-control mid-life crisis?
His musings were interrupted again by the shrill ring of the phone. This time it was Torstensson in Katrineholm. Sjöberg recounted his theories, but Torstensson evidently had a hard time believing what he was hearing. He asked the same questions over and over, and seemed to need extra reassurance of the credibility of his Stockholm colleague before he gave in. Torstensson then described in detail the murder of Lise-Lott Nilsson. Here too there were clear fingerprints to go on. The murderer was evidently either inexperienced or unafraid, but presumably both. Lise-Lott Nilsson, just as the media had reported, had been drowned in a tub of water, more precisely, her own footbath. According to Torstensson, there were no visible signs of physical torture, but Sjöberg had the definite feeling that the mental torture that preceded the murder had been just as painful. The medical examiner’s report did not contain anything to indicate repeated periods underwater, but Sjöberg assumed, based on what he had heard about the murderer’s methods so far, that the drowning itself was only the end of prolonged torment. Perhaps the murderer had been subjected to similar treatment as a child?
He left his office and went over to Sandén, who was on hold to the municipality of Katrineholm. He had managed to bring in a number of municipal employees who had been off for the weekend, who were now in the process of going through old binders. For now, he could do nothing but wait.
Then Sjöberg went to see Westman, who had just made contact with someone at the National Registration Office. As he entered the room she put the phone on speaker. The woman on the other end readily promised to help when the time came with searches in the central reference register, and to locate information herself about the individuals who were currently register
ed in the Stockholm area. However, she could not do searches in the local registers, but offered to supply a telephone number to personnel at the local tax offices involved. She also suggested that she contact the relevant personnel in Katrineholm and Norrköping, where one might expect to find some of the persons being sought.
Sjöberg moved on impatiently and knocked on Eriksson’s door, further down the corridor. Eriksson was scrolling through old domestic news on the computer screen and Sjöberg got dizzy trying to follow it.
‘Have you found anything, Einar?’ he asked, looking from the flickering letters to his colleague.
‘A little,’ Eriksson answered. ‘I’m waiting for word from police districts all over the country, and in the meantime I’m searching the Internet. I’m printing out everything I find, but I haven’t decided whether any of this is of interest. You can go out and have a look on the printer if you’re curious.’
Sjöberg went out to the copy room, somewhat surprised by Einar Eriksson’s sudden frenzy. On the printer were extracts from a dozen newspaper pages, and he stood next to the copy machine and began to study them. His eyes ran over the black-and-white pages, which brought a series of tragic events to light: a murder with racist undertones at a sausage stand in Nacka; an apartment disturbance that escalated into a knife fight in Skellefteå; a member of the Hell’s Angels beaten to death at a party in Malmö; a woman in Burträsk strangled by a jealous ex-boyfriend; the discovery of the body of a Polish berry-picker who had disappeared in June 2004 in Ångermanland; a presumed settling of scores in the underworld which resulted in a Serbian father of three being shot to death at a restaurant in central Stockholm; an unidentified body with stab wounds that floated up in a plastic bag in Edsviken; and a nineteen-year-old boy knifed to death by a gang of skinheads in a metro carriage.
The printer started humming again and Sjöberg picked up the fresh printout. Here it was, the week-old news that had been nagging at the back of his mind: a prostitute and mother of three killed in her apartment in Skärholmen. That a prostitute should die at a young age was perhaps not that sensational; but it was not her youth he reacted to, but her age. She was forty-four, and now, when he read the article again, he found to his dismay that she had also been tortured before she was murdered.
The Gingerbread House Page 22
