The Intruder

by Hakan Ostlundh

  He reached for the picture that Sara was holding and put it back in the folder.

  “The garbage in Stina Hansson’s building has been checked,” he said. “Nothing there.”

  He drummed with irritation against the desk with his index and middle finger.

  “If it’s Stina Hansson or one of the half sisters, we’re going to be able to prove it sooner or later, I’m sure of that. But if it’s someone else this is moving much too slow.”

  Fredrik agreed. They were holding one person, but that track was not being developed. They had to go further. With Stina Hansson or someone else.

  “I’ve talked with Peter and we’ve decided to arrange a meeting on Fårö,” said Göran. “At the community center. Today is too late, but tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. We will draw on every conceivable contact and set up posters. We have to get them to tell what they know. Someone must have seen something, that’s just how it is.”

  “Is it really true, that business that Fårö residents are so bad at cooperating with the police?” Sara asked.

  “As long as it concerns testifying against other Fårö residents, yes,” said Göran and smiled back. “On Fårö and in När they’re the trickiest. All old policemen on Gotland know that.”

  * * *

  Maria Andersson sat completely mute and observed the picture that Fredrik had set out on the table. The blood vessels were clearly visible under the thin skin below her eyes and her hair was flat and heavy on her head. She had set her hands on either side of the picture, lightly clenched.

  “What do you say?” said Sara at last.

  Maria looked up, blinked a couple of times.

  “Huh?”

  Maria turned her eyes toward Fredrik, as if she was pleading for help.

  “Isn’t that your sweatshirt?” said Sara, pointing at the picture with a white ballpoint pen.

  Maria looked at the picture.

  “I have a sweatshirt like that, I do have, but…”

  “According to Henrik you were wearing it on Friday morning,” said Sara.

  Maria opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. She was reminiscent of a fish on dry land.

  “It must be your sweatshirt, right? It can’t very likely be a coincidence,” Sara pressed on.

  She looked up, met Sara’s gaze.

  “Do you think it’s me? That I killed Malin? And—”

  Maria silently shook her head.

  “We just want to know how the murderer happens to have your sweatshirt on.”

  “I don’t know. How should I know that?”

  She shook her head, but then her hands flew up in the air.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait now.”

  She waved her hands defensively toward them, as if to gain time and space to think.

  “It’s true that I was wearing it the morning when Henrik left. Then we were outside. It got hot in the sun when I was running around in the garden with Ellen and Axel. I took off the sweatshirt and hung it on a chair. I must have left it there when we went in. Then we changed into swimsuits and put bathrobes on, so then I didn’t think about it.”

  “So you think that the sweatshirt was still hanging on the chair and that the murderer put it on before she went into the house.”

  “Yes, it must have happened like that.”

  She looked in distress at the picture that depicted her sister’s final seconds in life.

  Yes, thought Fredrik. That was no doubt the simple explanation. For a brief moment, just like Henrik Kjellander, he had thought that Maria might be the murderer, however strange that seemed. But she had neither opportunity nor motive.

  62.

  Before the day’s end there was one more setback. The technical investigation of Stina Hansson’s car produced nothing that could bind her to the murders or in any other way prove that she had been in the house in Kalbjerga. Fredrik wondered whether Klint really could get her remanded.

  He got away earlier than the day before and was at home in time to see the news. They included the sweatshirt in their story about the Fårö murders.

  “How are you?” said Ninni when he had turned off the TV.

  “Good.”

  “You seemed completely absent over the weekend.”

  “I know,” he said. “There were some long days.”

  Ninni looked at him as if she expected something more.

  “What?”

  “No, nothing.”

  Fredrik got up and went into the kitchen.

  “There’s food in the fridge. I didn’t know when you would be coming so I put it in there.”

  “Thanks. I’ll see if I can manage to warm it up.”

  He opened the refrigerator door.

  “Is it the casserole dish with the blue cover?” he called.

  “You don’t have to shout. I’m here.” She had followed him out into the kitchen. “Yes, it is.”

  He took out the plastic dish and raised the lid. Mashed potatoes, Salisbury steak, and green peas. An unusually light Salisbury steak.

  “Veal burger?”

  “Yes.”

  “Advanced.”

  He turned on the oven and transferred the food to an ovenproof glass dish. While the food heated, he went up to Simon. For once he was not sitting in front of the computer. He was semi-inclined on the bed and writing with barely legible letters on a piece of notebook paper with dotted lines.

  Fredrik decided not to offer any sententious advice about the advantage of sitting at a desk when you write. It was not that easy to keep quiet, but he succeeded.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Religion.”

  “We can look through it later.”

  “Sure.”

  * * *

  When Fredrik came back, Ninni was still sitting in the kitchen, browsing through the newspaper. She put it aside as Fredrik set out the food and sat down.

  “I saw some pictures today, of the ones who were murdered up there,” he said.

  Ninni wrinkled her nose.

  “Ugh.”

  “Yes, exactly. I thought it was really unpleasant.”

  “Yes.”

  “Although I don’t always think that. True, they were autopsy pictures…”

  “But stop. Do you have to talk about that when we’re eating?”

  “So what? I’m the one who’s eating, not you.”

  “But I think it’s horrid,” said Ninni.

  Fredrik took a big bite of the veal burger. Perhaps it wasn’t possible to explain to someone who wasn’t a police officer. Not even to Ninni. The point was not that it was horrid. The point was that he normally didn’t react to pictures of dead, mutilated people. Looking at that sort of thing was part of his job. It was a means to achieve a goal. Just as well to forget it.

  “Listen,” he said instead.

  “Yes.”

  “Gustav told me something the other day. It was…”

  He hesitated. Should he say this?

  “What was it?”

  A curious gleam had already been lit in Ninni’s eyes, so he no longer had any choice.

  “It was in confidence, but I must be able to tell you, I assume. But just so it doesn’t go any further…”

  “Was it about Lena? That she might have MS?”

  Fredrik stopped in midmotion, lowered his fork again.

  “You knew that?”

  “Yes, Lena called a week or two ago.”

  “I see,” he said.

  Of course. How could he be so dense to think that the ladies hadn’t already talked with each other.

  “I should have called him. They were going to get the test results today. Or have you talked with Lena?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe better to wait until tomorrow. Or what do you think?”

  “Yes, maybe so.”

  Ninni looked at him seriously. He set his silverware down on the plate. He understood what she was thinking about. It was easy for her to imagine what it must be
like for Gustav and Lena right now. She had been there herself. Waited for news, waited for improvements that no one knew for sure would come.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” he said. “It may actually be that simple.”

  “Yes, that’s true,” she said, forcing herself to smile.

  63.

  The white stone building created an austere, determined impression in its setting in front of a forested area a few hundred feet from the sea. It had been built out at an angle and the windows had broad frames in faded brown that were on the same level as the façade.

  The rain had poured down all the way from Visby. So close to the sea, it came in gusts with the wind and whipped against the side of the car. Fredrik, Sara, and Göran hurried into the community center. Even though it was not far, Fredrik still felt the dampness settle into his clothes.

  Fredrik wiped away a few drops of water from his forehead and looked around the meeting hall. It was fifteen minutes before the appointed time, but three people had already sat down in the chairs that had been set out. In the next-to-last row. All three were in their sixties. Hopefully this was a good sign. They were all worried that the bad weather would cause many to stay home.

  Two colleagues were already there, Gunilla Borg and Leif Knutsson. They had driven up an hour or two ago to help out with the practical aspects. Three plainclothes and two in uniform; Göran did not want more there, considering the less-than-positive attitude of Fårö residents toward the police.

  The rain was rushing off the edge of the roof and fell with a clear patter down into the narrow ditch that had been formed along the long sides of the building. The sound of cars rolling onto the yard broke through the rain and soon murmuring voices were heard outside. The door opened and wet rubber boots squeaked against the floor.

  He had still not called Gustav, it struck Fredrik. He had to call. It was the second day he was gone from work. He looked at the clock. Now it was too late. He could not call and then interrupt in the middle because the meeting was starting. But then, afterward, he promised himself. This could not take more than half an hour, possibly an hour depending on how it developed.

  “Strange price setting,” said Sara.

  She pointed to a slip of paper on the bulletin board. Fredrik looked closer. It was a price list for renting out the community center: Five hundred fifty kronor per day. For large parties two thousand kronor for three days.

  “Maybe they clear the tables hard at the wedding receptions. A lot of shrinkage,” Fredrik whispered.

  On the bulletin board there were also old clippings from Bergman Week and Fårö’s potato dumpling championship. The same individual had taken home the title three years in a row. Most recently he had tucked away twenty-one dumplings.

  Ten minutes later everyone was seated in front of the little stage and Göran started the meeting after a brief introduction by the chairman of the local historical society—a move that might possibly lend him a little more legitimacy among the Fårö residents. Fredrik counted fifty-seven persons. Not too bad with a population of around five hundred and fifty. The majority were over fifty, but there were also a couple of teenagers among those assembled. Like at any lecture, in other words.

  Göran briefly talked about the Andersson Kjellander family, mentioned the background of escalating threats, without going into too many details. He then explained that the purpose of the meeting was to gather as many observations as possible for the time between six and eight last Friday evening. Who had been where, what cars had been out on the roads. Everything was of interest. A sound that someone heard was enough. A car starting, a scream, voices, footsteps. And this applied not only to the area around Kalbjerga, but all of Fårö. The idea was then that the police would piece together all the information, in the hope of discovering something new.

  “So I really encourage all of you to get in touch with us,” he said, starting to approach the end of his speech. “It’s fine to talk with one of my associates right now…”

  With his hand he indicated Fredrik and his three other colleagues scattered around the room.

  “But you will also be given information about where you can call or send e-mail. It’s also possible to leave information anonymously if you prefer.”

  For a short time there was complete silence in the hall, as if Göran had said something indecent. He was about to thank them for coming when a gray-haired woman in a red jacket raised her hand.

  “Yes, excuse me,” said Göran. “If you have any questions I’ll be happy to answer them. Yes?”

  He reached out his hand toward the woman in an inviting gesture.

  “This here person who murdered them in Kalbjerga, can he get it in his head to strike at someone else, too?”

  Göran smiled amiably at her.

  “We have no reason to believe that. As I said, we are starting on the assumption that a series of incidents led up to the murders. There was a reason that the perpetrator attacked these particular individuals.”

  “What was the reason?” said the woman.

  “Unfortunately I can’t go into that,” said Göran.

  Because we don’t know, thought Fredrik.

  Several others raised their hands. Most of the questions concerned the investigation in such a way that Göran chose not to answer them. Because he could not or because it was inappropriate.

  That took up about ten minutes, then no more hands were seen. Göran thanked them. Murmuring and scraping of chairs quickly took over the hall. On the way out everyone got a piece of paper with telephone numbers and e-mail addresses. A few stopped to lament or more generally comment on what had happened on Friday evening. No one came forward to make a witness statement.

  “That went just great,” said Fredrik to Leif Knutsson as the last ones were on their way out the door.

  Leif folded up the papers that were left over and put them in his pocket.

  “What did you expect? It’s obvious that no one will say anything now,” he said with a grin. “Wait until tomorrow. Then maybe.”

  * * *

  On the way out to the car Fredrik happened to think about Gustav again. He had to call, it could not be helped that the others had to wait for him. He excused himself and went back in. A few from the historical society were still there, occupied with something out in the kitchen. He took out his cell phone and scrolled to Gustav’s number.

  It rang a long time, but finally there was an answer.

  “Hi,” he said. “It’s Fredrik.”

  “Yes, hi there,” said Gustav.

  Fredrik tried to interpret the tone of voice, but it was impossible. He thought at first it sounded paralyzed by despair, then neutrally relaxed.

  “How are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  “And Lena. Have you … I assumed you’ve—”

  “Yes,” said Gustav, and disappeared for a couple of seconds.

  Fredrik heard him coughing away from the phone.

  “Yes, we were there yesterday. It was a little much for Lena. That was why I stayed home today, too.”

  A little much? What did that mean?

  “But everything’s fine. She’s healthy,” said Gustav quickly.

  “Is that true?” said Fredrik, relieved.

  “Yes. She’ll go for some follow-up in a year, to be on the safe side. But, yes, she’s healthy.”

  “That’s great,” said Fredrik.

  “Yes, it was…”

  He heard how Gustav swallowed.

  “Lena is happy, of course,” he continued, “but you know … Well, sudden changes and that. If I didn’t know better I would think she was a little shattered.”

  “It’s probably the tension,” said Fredrik.

  “Yes.”

  “That was really nice to hear anyway.”

  He looked out the window toward the parking lot.

  “Listen, we’re up on Fårö and they’re waiting for me in the car.”

  Now it was not as hard to break off, when
the news was positive.

  “Okay,” said Gustav.

  “But give my best to Lena. Will you be in tomorrow?”

  “Yes, I will. Count on it.”

  64.

  On Wednesday the information from Fårö started to drip in, just as Leif Knutsson had predicted. Drip was probably just the right description, thought Fredrik. It was not a steady stream of witnesses that yesterday’s meeting had called forth.

  “We’ve received an interesting finding from the medical examiner.” Göran started the morning meeting.

  Tests from the wounds on Malin Andersson’s head had been shown to contain residual chemicals. These were very small residues, but it was possible to determine that it was detergent. A conceivable explanation was that the hammer that had been used as the murder weapon had been stored somewhere where there were also packages of detergent and that some of the contents had spilled out. The detergent could also have come in contact with the hammer when it was transported to the scene of the crime.

  Eva Karlén would send the detergent that was in Stina Hansson’s apartment to the forensic lab for a comparative analysis.

  Sara got the task of following up and coordinating the tips from Fårö. Fredrik would try to organize the material he had gathered with the help of Janna Drake and the calendar information in Henrik Kjellander’s computer.

  When he logged onto his own computer after the meeting he had an e-mail from Coop. He opened the file that was attached and brought up the never-published blog comments from the past year. There were hundreds.

  He copied the document and started going through the comments on the screen, erasing those that did not seem interesting. Those who questioned Malin Andersson’s competence as a cook, or “food inspirer,” which was the official title on the website, and were not overly aggressive were removed first. Not overly aggressive meant in this case that they were only sprinkled with the most common swear words and an occasional sexual reference in a more neutral context. After that he removed pure nonsense, such as scattered invectives without context, for example: “Crap!, Cunt, Whore!!!” What was left was still a long but nevertheless manageable collection of more hateful comments. The majority ended with something sexually aggressive that described more or less in detail what the sender wanted to do with Malin. Comments such as “You should be penalty-fucked with an unvarnished baseball bat” were among the more benign. There were also a few that were not blatantly aggressive, but which nonetheless aroused Fredrik’s interest because they were about Henrik. Especially one: “Tonight it’s me and Henrik. Tonight I’m the one he wants. I want you to know that.”