The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  He was just about to leave the copy room to go and inform Sandén and Westman about his discovery when it started humming again, this time a fax. He stopped and waited for the machine to finish. Slowly, a full page was printed out – finally he was standing with a complete list of Hans Vannerberg’s preschool classmates in his hand. He rushed into Sandén’s office. As he crossed the threshold, Sandén was just finishing his call with the municipal official in Katrineholm. They called in Westman, and the three police officers crowded around the coveted list and quickly ascertained that Sjöberg’s fears had been verified. Besides Hans Vannerberg, here too were Carina Ahonen and Lise-Lott Johansson, whom Sjöberg guessed had later married Nilsson. Another twenty children were on the list, but they recognized none of the other names.

  ‘A serial killer,’ Sandén sighed. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’

  Sjöberg held up Eriksson’s printout in front of his colleagues.

  ‘So what do you think of this? Einar has been productive.’

  ‘Wonders never cease,’ Sandén mumbled, but Sjöberg pretended not to hear him.

  ‘A prostitute with three children who was found strangled in her apartment in Skärholmen a little over a week ago. She was forty-four years old and was tortured before she was murdered.’

  ‘Call Skärholmen right away,’ said Sandén.

  ‘I’ll do that. We’ll let Einar continue with the press for a while longer, but the two of you and Jamal will get started on this. I’ll make the call, then I’ll be back.’

  He left the office confident that the important work they had before them would continue at a rapid pace. The question was whether that would be enough. Three, perhaps four forty-four-year-olds murdered in less than two weeks. Now it was crucial to get out into the field quickly to prevent further bloodshed.

  The police in Skärholmen were also caught napping by the news. They gave him the name of the murdered woman, Ann-Kristin Widell, confirmed, as expected, that she was born in Katrineholm and gave her name as Andersson before she was married. Then he got a detailed account of the brutal murder. If possible, it was even more sadistic than the other three. The woman had been tied to the bed, perhaps raped – that was hard to determine, given the woman’s occupation – and then had her hair and even her eyebrows cut off, was burned with cigarettes, assaulted vaginally with scissors, and then finally strangled. Sjöberg knew that it was urgent, very urgent, to find and bring in this maniac.

  Four hours later, with the help of the woman at the registration office in Stockholm, and the personnel at local tax offices around the country with whom she put them in contact, they managed to locate all the children in Ingrid Olsson’s preschool class from 1968/’69:

  Eva Andersson, Sibeliusgatan 9, Katrineholm

  Peter Broman, Rönngatan 7B, Katrineholm

  Carina Clifton, Husabyvägen 9, Hägersten

  Urban Edling, Hagelyckegatan 18, Gothenburg

  Susanne Sjöö Edvinsson, Sibyllegatan 46, Stockholm

  Staffan Eklund, Lokevägen 57, Täby

  Anette Grip, Vinsarp, Sparreholm

  Carina Ahonen Gustavsson, Stora Vreta, Sigtuna

  Kent Hagberg, Idrottsgatan 9, Katrineholm

  Katarina Hallenius, Lötsjövägen 1A, Sundbyberg

  Lena Hammarstig, Sköna Gertruds Väg 27, Katrineholm

  Stefan Hellqvist, Almstagatan 6, Norrköping

  Gunilla Karlsson, Paal Bergs Vei 23, Oslo

  Thomas Karlsson, Fleminggatan 26, Stockholm

  Jan Larsson, Krönvägen 3, Saltsjö-Boo

  Jukka Mänttäri, Sågmogatan 25, Katrineholm

  Lise-Lott Nilsson, Vallavägen 8, Katrineholm

  Marita Saarelainen, Jägargatan 21A, Katrineholm

  Eva-Lena Savic, Djupsundsgatan 24, Norrköping

  Annika Söderlund, Hagaberg Norrsätter, Katrineholm

  Christer Springfeldt, Sunnanvägen 10K, Lund

  Hans Vannerberg, Trädskolevägen 46, Enskede Gård

  Ann-Kristin Widell, Ekholmsvägen 349, Skärholmen

  Four of the children were now dead, eight were still in or near their home town of Katrineholm, six were in the Stockholm area, two in Norrköping, and the remaining three were registered in Gothenburg, Lund and Oslo.

  Sjöberg made an agreement with the other districts involved to immediately start working on the Stock-holmers with Skärholmen; the Katrineholm police would take care of their eight, plus the individuals residing in Norrköping; while the Sigtuna police could wait for the time being. For the present, Oslo, Lund and Gothenburg were given the lowest priority in the investigation. Sjöberg had a strong feeling that they would find the person they were seeking in Stockholm. It was there that the first two murders had taken place, and that was where Ingrid Olsson lived. This suggested that the murderer was also in Stockholm, even if Sjöberg could not be sure of that. Given the circumstances, Oslo, Lund and Gothenburg seemed too far away to be acted upon right now.

  Because the suspect was considered very dangerous, it was decided that the police would work in pairs when they visited the people on the list. They were to be armed as well. Sjöberg took a colleague from Skärholmen with him on a home visit in Täby. Sandén and Eriksson headed for Saltsjö-Boo, while Hamad and Westman made their way to Kungsholmen.

  * * *

  It was already Sunday, and tomorrow it would be that time again. Time to face reality, time to face his solitude. The true solitude that he found when he was with other people. He happened to think about Sofie, a young woman who had started in the post room a while ago. She was very overweight, but that did not seem to have any great significance nowadays. When he was growing up, a girl like that would have had a life not worth living, so Thomas instinctively felt sorry for her.

  At noon on her first day at work, she had ended up right behind him in line in the cafeteria. After paying for his cabbage pudding, he took his tray and went to sit at his usual spot, at the far end of a table that could seat sixteen. To his surprise, she showed up immediately, and with a friendly smile asked if she could sit across from him. Naturally, he had no objections to that, but she had barely set her tray down before Britt-Marie – another co-worker – came up and placed a friendly hand on her shoulder and asked if she wouldn’t like to sit with them instead. They, Thomas knew, were a clique of eight or ten people from the post room who usually had lunch together at a table further away. He had never been asked and Britt-Marie did not dignify him with even a glance this time either, but he had no difficulty understanding what was going on in Sofie’s mind. Flattered to be asked and curious about her new co-workers, she thanked Britt-Marie for the invitation, took the tray and followed her over to their table. Before she left, she touchingly tilted her head and asked Thomas if he wouldn’t like to join the others too. He was halfway out of his chair when he changed his mind. ‘No, I always sit here,’ he answered stupidly, whereupon Sofie left him with a slight shrug. Since then they had not so much as exchanged a word. However, he often saw her in lively conversation with their co-workers, conversation that usually changed from a normal tone of voice to whispers when he showed up.

  At least at home he had TV, books and newspapers to keep him company. Above all, the happy voices and laughter on TV that got him out of bed and took him on adventures into the world, and into other people’s living rooms. He loved the family shows, with songs and games and a cheering audience, hosts cracking jokes, and beautiful performers in glittering costumes. They made him forget his loneliness. They looked him in the eye and spoke right to him. Not many real people did that. They barely seemed to notice what little sense of self he felt he had.

  In a little while a rerun of Class Reunion would start. A well-known person would get to see his old classmates again for the first time in years and then compete with those classmates against another celebrity and his or her old class. Thomas thought it was fascinating the way the class sat there together, happy and enthusiastic, remembering all the fun they’d had in their schooldays. Wasn’t
it true that in every class there was someone like him? Maybe not. Maybe he was unique in that respect. He would never appear in a programme like Class Reunion, and no one would miss him either. No one would even remember that he was in their class. He remembered all his classmates, all the kids from preschool. He could sit and look at old class photos and, without hesitation, rattle off the first and last names of every one of them. Yet he was sure that no one would recognize him. Strange, really, considering that he was the one who stood out, he was the one everyone noticed, who walked the funniest, wore the worst-looking clothes, said the stupidest things, was the worst at football, and was the weakest of the boys.

  The programme had not started yet, so he watched the three-minute news broadcast. Suddenly, there was someone smiling at him again. A lovely smile in a tanned face, framed by curly, light-blonde hair.

  ‘Carina Gustavsson,’ said the news reporter, ‘a forty-four-year-old flight attendant, was found on Friday evening murdered in her home outside Sigtuna.’

  ‘Gustavsson?’ Thomas murmured. ‘Carina Ahonen …’

  ‘The murder was preceded by a violent assault,’ the reporter continued. ‘According to the police, the victim was tortured. The suspect is still at large, but the investigation team has secured evidence and hopes to arrest the perpetrator within the coming days. The motive for the crime is still not known, but the police admit that the brutality suggests it may be a case of revenge.’

  A segment followed with pictures from the crime scene and an interview with the police department’s spokesperson.

  A wave of discomfort washed over him, and he suddenly felt completely powerless, almost paralysed. It felt as though the ground was starting to crack below him. He had to do something, not just sit here and wait. His eyes fluttered aimlessly between the TV and the cold, white textured wallpaper behind it. He looked down at his hands and noticed that they were shaking. His pulse was pounding in his ears and he was afraid for the first time in as long as he could remember. If you were already floundering at the bottom of society, there was nothing to fear. Any unhappiness was drowned in the great flood of misery that constituted life itself. But now, now he felt fear taking hold of him – fear and the compulsion to act. He decided it was time to seek out yet another person from among the shadows of his past.

  Suddenly the doorbell rang. Startled, he jumped out of bed as if shot from a cannon. Without having time to think it through, he unlocked the door, regretting it before it had opened completely. Who could be looking for him at this time on a Sunday evening? Certainly not someone he had any desire to talk to. But now it was too late. They were standing there, a man and a woman in civilian clothes, waving police identification. How could he have been so stupid?

  ‘Detective Assistant Petra Westman, Violent Crimes Unit, Hammarby Police,’ the woman said authoritatively.

  ‘Detective Assistant Jamal Hamad,’ said the man.

  Thomas said nothing. He just looked at them in shock, unable to make a sound.

  ‘We’re looking for Thomas Karlsson,’ said the woman. ‘Is that you?’

  Thomas stood quietly for a moment, just staring at them.

  ‘Yes,’ he answered at last, but his voice did not hold. It sounded like a hiss.

  He had not used his voice all weekend. Now he had to clear his throat, and as he did so, his face turned beetroot red.

  ‘Yes,’ he said again, with better control now. ‘That’s me.’

  Most of all he wanted to disappear, but he stood there, with shaking hands and shifting gaze.

  ‘May we come in for a moment?’ the male police officer asked, looking serious.

  Thomas did not answer, but took a few steps backwards, as if it was an order. To him, all words sounded like orders. The two police officers stepped into the little hallway and looked around suspiciously. The woman closed the door behind them.

  ‘First of all, we would like to know what you were doing on the following days,’ said the female police officer.

  She listed a number of dates and times, but Thomas was not able to concentrate on what she was saying. He answered anyway, reflexively, which surprised him.

  ‘I was at home,’ he said, with his eyes directed down towards the brown hall mat. ‘At home or at work.’

  ‘Strange how you know that just like that,’ said the female police officer. ‘Wouldn’t it be best to take a look at the calendar before you answer? Excuse me, but it doesn’t give a particularly credible impression when you answer so quickly.’

  ‘I don’t have a calendar,’ said Thomas, ashamed. ‘On weekdays between six and four I’m either at work, or on my way there or back. Otherwise I’m at home. On weekends I’m always at home.’

  ‘Is there anyone who can confirm this information?’ the male police officer asked.

  ‘Well, at work there must be someone who knows when I’m usually there …’

  ‘And otherwise?’

  ‘I guess it’s hard to prove that I’m at home when I’m at home.’

  ‘You don’t see anyone?’

  ‘No,’ Thomas admitted. ‘I’m mostly by myself.’

  ‘Mostly?’

  ‘Always, then. I’m always alone,’ said Thomas suddenly, in a loud, clear voice – why, he didn’t really know.

  The two police officers exchanged a quick glance and the woman wrote something down on a small pad.

  ‘Why are you asking me this?’ Thomas asked.

  ‘May we come all the way in?’ the policeman asked.

  Thomas nodded and went ahead of them into the kitchen. The female police officer remained out in the hall, diligently making notes on her pad. They sat down at the kitchen table and Thomas looked hopelessly at his hands, which seemed to have a life of their own, on his lap.

  ‘You have no family?’ the policeman asked.

  ‘No,’ answered Thomas.

  ‘Can you tell me a little about yourself?’

  Thomas thought the policeman looked friendly, but his eyes were vigilant and wandered over the impersonal contents of the kitchen. From the hallway not a sound was heard. Was there so much to write about him?

  ‘Please?’ the policeman repeated.

  Thomas did not dare look him in the eyes, but cleared his throat again and told, stammering, the little there was to tell about his empty life.

  ‘Tell me about preschool,’ the policeman encouraged him.

  Thomas turned completely cold inside.

  ‘Preschool?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. I want to know what preschool was like.’

  ‘I don’t know. Preschool? That was a long time ago …’

  ‘Were you happy? Who did you play with? Are you in touch with anyone from that time?’

  ‘In touch? No, not in touch.’

  Thomas wrung his hands, which were now completely sweaty. What should he say? It felt unpleasant to lie to the police, but you could not dress the truth in words, the truth was like a grey blanket over his entire existence.

  ‘I must ask you to please answer my questions,’ the policeman said commandingly, and his voice cut like a knife in Thomas’s ears.

  ‘Childhood … was a nice time. It was fun going to preschool. We drew … and played. I played with … no, I don’t remember.’

  ‘Why don’t you look me in the eyes?’ the policeman asked, not as friendly now. ‘You’re not lying to me, are you?’

  ‘Lying? No. I played with … a girl whose name was Katarina,’ Thomas lied.

  They had never played, never even exchanged a word as far as he could remember. But what could he say?

  ‘I would like to take your fingerprints,’ said the policeman, setting something that looked like a stamp pad in front of him. ‘All fingers, one print in each square here.’

  He indicated a paper with ten printed squares. Thomas placed one hand on the table and the policeman touched it. His hand was so damp with sweat that the policeman immediately pulled his own hand back, and Thomas felt his face turning bright red again. His puls
e was pounding in his ears and he wished they would leave him in peace now. But he obediently pressed his fingers against the inkpad and then against the rough surface of the paper, one at a time.

  ‘There have been a number of brutal murders,’ said the policeman, watching Thomas intently as he did what he was told.

  Thomas felt like he was about to start crying and a hard, painful lump was growing in his throat. He said nothing, but tried as best he could to look the now almost-threatening man in the eyes.

  ‘Four of your classmates from preschool have been murdered during the past two weeks,’ the policeman continued, ‘and we have reason to believe that you too may be in danger. For that reason we ask you to be on your guard and not to let any strange people into your apartment. We’re finished now, but we’ll be in touch again.’

  He got up from the table and gave Thomas a little pat on the back. It was impossible to tell whether this was intended as a friendly, sympathetic or threatening gesture, but the feeling from the touch lingered on his skin under his shirt, as if he had been burned. He remained seated until he heard the outside door close behind the two police officers. Then he got up on wobbly legs, stumbled into his bedroom and lay down on the bed. He lay there for a long time, crying, and when the tension was finally released he fell asleep there, in the foetal position, with his clothes on.

  Monday Morning

  By eight o’clock on Monday morning everyone in the investigation team was already in the conference room for a review of Sunday evening’s work. Hadar Rosén and Gabriella Hansson were also at the table, and their colleagues in Katrineholm, Skärholmen and Sigtuna were included by phone. The expectant silence was broken only by scattered yawns. Westman sought Rosén’s gaze, but when she did catch it his eyes were completely neutral and revealed nothing about what he was thinking. Finally, Sjöberg began to speak.