Twelve
Ola Haver lingered in the doorway. The terbutaline had kicked in and Gina appeared to be breathing more comfortably. He walked up to the bed and tucked the blankets around her, setting her stuffed animal on the pillow. Her eyelids fluttered and she coughed.
From the bedroom, he could hear the baby whimper before she found her way back to the nipple. Rebecka Haver called softly for Ola and he left Gina’s room, casting a final glance at his resting daughter. Let’s hope she can sleep for a while, he thought, and gently pulled the door until it was almost but not completely closed.
“Please remember to go by the drugstore,” Rebecka said.
Ola had to smile. She was hoarse, had almost lost her voice—he could barely hear her—but she had not lost her ability to give him constant reminders.
“Of course. What a family. Happy almost Midsummer,” Haver said and walked up to the bed.
Rebecka smiled and stretched out her hand to him. The baby snuffled contentedly at her mother’s breast. Maybe she had fallen asleep.
Haver took her hand and squeezed it lightly. The bedroom lay in half darkness, with the blinds pulled down and only a single bedside lamp for illumination.
“Feel better soon,” he said and bent down to kiss his daughter’s neck. Her hair, which was still downy but dark and striking like her mother’s, tickled his nose. He drew in her sweet scent and felt a vast joy.
* * *
He left Valsätra shortly after half past seven. He had an idea. Just as they had checked all of the restaurants that Cederén visited recently, they could methodically search out the gas stations he had been to.
On his way to the police station, he tried to imagine what Sven-Erik Cederén was like. The photos of him in the house had shown a man about his own age, not particularly handsome—at least according to Beatrice, but she was critical of most men. Short hair, tan, and in reasonably good shape. He reminded Haver of the real estate agent who had sold them their house. One of these thirty-five-year-olds lurching toward middle age who try to ward off physical deterioration with hair gel, gym visits twice a week, perhaps golf, and a confidence in their posture that did not always correspond to the state of their inner life.
Haver had been through all papers and documents that concerned Cederén but had not been able to add anything of substance to their understanding of him. Cederén was too much of a nonentity, too flat, too focused on his work and research. Even in his vacation pictures, he had remained a cipher. Of course in some photos he had looked fairly relaxed, laughing and perhaps striking an unexpected pose, but nothing there yielded more for anyone who wanted to learn more about him. Haver missed the voices and gestures.
At the Edenhof golf course in Bälinge, Haver had met with some of Cederén’s acquaintances. All of them had maintained that Cederén was pleasant and easygoing but not particularly social. He was friendly but did not open up, rarely if ever talking about his personal affairs.
He played a decent game of golf, able to put in a concentrated effort without much trouble. If he ever missed a shot or a simple putt he never made much of it, other than perhaps an ironic smile. He played calmly and methodically. He was popular at the club, someone who could be relied upon, and he was a driving force in the tree-planting project as well as the youth recruitment initiative. Other club members said they would be happy to play a round with Cederén. He created a sense of order, as one member put it.
No one sensed any cracks in his facade other than the assumption that he was most likely cheating on his wife. How to explain this departure from his otherwise irreproachable behavior? Haver had fielded this question at the golf course, but everyone he spoke to had dismissed the idea of Cederén’s having a lover as absurd. Most of them knew Josefin—admittedly not very well—and everyone had characterized the relationship as stable and even happy.
Haver drove past the Svandammen pond and cast a longing glance at the café Fågelsången. He had spent a lot of time there in his youth but nowadays rarely had an occasion to stop by. Perhaps he should take Lindell out for a cup of coffee and a vanilla custard doughnut. She liked hanging out at cafés. No, not a doughnut, they were reserved for him and Rebecka. The vanilla game was their secret.
* * *
The list of Cederén’s purchases at the Hydro gas stations was not particularly long. He probably also frequented other stations. Most of the purchases were marked “Klang’s Alley” and that made sense. A handful of transactions were from Råbyvägen and next to the E4 motorway as well as half a dozen stops along Öregrundsvägen.
Haver studied the list and realized that he would perhaps not get that far. Most of the gas purchases were self-serve transactions at a machine. The chance of anyone’s being able to recall Cederén and any company he may have had were very remote, but on the other hand, they didn’t have much else to go on.
Öregrundsvägen was the only station that stood out. What errand had Cederén had in that part of town? Something for his work? Hardly. MedForsk had no presence along that road. Cederén had no summer house. Perhaps he was visiting someone he knew?
Haver pulled out his phone and dialed the number to MedForsk. Sofi Rönn answered. Haver asked her if she knew why Cederén might have traveled along Öregrundsvägen so often. She had no idea and did not know of anyone he might have known who lived in Rasbo, Alunda, or any other area to the northeast.
Haver thanked her and hung up. The transactions had occurred with relative regularity. That was most likely no accident. Haver pounced on the explanation: Cederén’s lover must live in the vicinity.
He stood up and walked over to the map of Uppland on the wall. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Haver took the road only on rare occasions, but he tried to visualize it in his mind. He had a vague memory of an unmanned gas station, but wasn’t there a small shop nearby?
He opened the telephone directory and searched grocery stores. Just as he thought, there was a small grocery store in Vallby, Rasbo Allköp. He wrote down the number and decided to head out there right away with a photo of Cederén.
He called Lindell and told her his plans.
“How are things at home?” she asked.
“Rebecka sounds like Darth Vader, and Gina hardly slept last night.”
“If you need to get back to them, you should,” Lindell told him.
* * *
In spite of clouds sweeping in from the southwest, it was still a beautiful day. Haver drove out along Vaksalagatan, thinking of his little one. What should they call her? Rebecka had suggested Sara, but Haver thought it sounded too biblical. What about my name? she had objected. Doesn’t that sound biblical too? But Haver had stood his ground.
Haver rooted around in the glove compartment for his sunglasses. He felt a great happiness that life had fallen into place. The anxiety during the pregnancy, his wife’s constant spotting, the chaos and masses of overtime at work, and his own sense of having ignored his family—all this hung over him like a shadow all winter and spring. Now the sun was finally shining. He drove far too fast.
* * *
He could not manage to get his conception of Cederén to coalesce. A successful researcher and business executive, a well-regarded golf player, a man with an apparently stable home life. But also someone who had carried out a deception and perhaps even a murder. Haver had read extracts from Josefin’s diary and seen her and Emily lying slain at the side of the road. What made Cederén tick? Haver wanted to catch up to him to find that out.
At Jälla, dark clouds drew across the sky, and at the exit to Hovgården, the rain arrived.
* * *
One of the store staff members was uncertain about recognizing Cederén, but two were able to identify him with assurance.
“He often shops here,” one of them said. She was a young woman in her twenties and had piercings in her tongue and her nose. This, along with her lanky hair and drooping shoulders, initially gave Haver the impression she might be of limited intelligence, but h
e quickly revised his assessment when she turned out to be swift and assured in her answers. Occasionally she had to ponder on her answer for a moment, but on the whole she was a perfect witness.
She knew that Cederén drove a BMW—“that would be something”—and that he drove by regularly. She had seen the car drive past but also stop at the gas station; he had shopped in the store on multiple occasions. Once last spring he had bought all of the tulips in the store. She thought there were something like seven ten-packs in the store at the time.
“You remember a customer who buys seventy tulips,” she said. “It’s so romantic.”
Haver smiled at her.
“Sounds like you wouldn’t have anything against getting seventy tulips.”
“I’d prefer roses,” she said.
“Did he ever have anyone with him?”
It was the decisive question and she answered immediately.
“Yes, the time after that, he was with a girl. Blonde, around thirty, fairly pretty. Not beautiful, not a lady, if you know what I mean.”
Haver nodded.
“I recognized her. She sometimes comes in.”
Haver knew now that he was close.
“Does she live around here?”
“I don’t know.”
“When was the last time she was in?”
The young woman reflected for a few moments before she spoke.
“Last week. She bought some bags of seeds.”
“Seeds?”
“Carrots and stuff like that.”
Haver paused. He looked out of the window, watched the cars flying past.
“If she comes in again, would you write down her license plate? Could you do that?”
“Sure. Sounds exciting.”
“I’ll give you my number and you can call me right away.”
“Is she dangerous?”
Haver shook his head and handed her his card. She studied it.
“Is she wanted?”
“No, we just want to talk to her.”
“Do I get a reward?”
“Seventy tulips.”
* * *
Ola Haver left the store in a good mood. He was almost certain that the young clerk would lead him to the woman, who was potentially hiding Cederén or at the very least would be able to shed some light on his disappearance.
As he unlocked the car, the phone rang. He checked the display and saw that it was Ottosson.
“We’ve found him,” Ottosson said curtly.
“Where?”
“The Rasbo area. He’s dead.”
“Fucking hell. Suicide?”
“Looks like it. Where are you?”
“In Rasbo, or almost there.”
Ottosson chuckled contentedly. Haver saw him in his mind’s eye, his glasses pushed up onto his head and his hand in his beard, which was growing more and more gray and bushy.
Haver was given some hasty directions. Lindell, Sammy, Beatrice, and Ryde, the forensic specialist, were on their way.
* * *
The forest road was almost impossible to spot. It was partially concealed behind a thicket of willow. It was clear that it had not been used for a long time, because vegetation had almost completely taken over the entrance. Lindell’s and Ryde’s cars were already parked on the gravel road. Otherwise Haver would probably have missed it completely. He looked around attentively.
The many branches of a willow brushed Haver’s head. A black woodpecker was frenetically working the heavily ridged bark. It hardly even looked up as he passed, simply casting him a glance as if to say: I was here first.
Fredriksson should have been here, Haver thought. He loved assignments in the country, especially in wooded terrain, and would take the opportunity to show off his knowledge of birds.
The overgrown tractor road lay in shadow. Logs strewn over the trail tracks, which were very likely sodden in fall and spring, lay like rotting cadavers. When Haver stepped on them, they collapsed in on themselves with a muffled crunch of decay.
To the left was an expanse of exposed rock laced with peat moss and decorated with the occasional twisted pine tree. Large blocks of stone had been heaved to the side and resembled mossy forest animals. The area had the feeling of a graveyard.
To the right was a bog, and Haver perceived a faintly sweet smell that he suspected came from the vigorous brushwood interspersed with emerald-green tufts.
Some thirty meters away, there was a clearing. On the far side of that was Cederén’s BMW. The sporty car looked completely out of place, with the large spruce trees as a backdrop. Four police officers were hunched around the driver’s side. Haver glimpsed a body in the car, draped over the steering wheel.
The clearing was around two hundred square meters, a little wooded area in which Sven-Erik Cederén had ended his life. There are worse places, Haver thought as he walked closer.
“That was quick,” Lindell said and looked up.
“I was in the neighborhood,” Haver said.
Lindell hardly registered his answer. She leaned back over the corpse.
“Oh, god, how he stinks,” Beatrice said.
“Things go fast in a car,” Ryde commented.
He was already wearing gloves. Haver saw that he was impatient. Lindell reached in and gently picked up a small piece of paper that lay on the dashboard. She straightened up.
“‘Sorry,’” she read.
It was no example of fine penmanship. The five letters, written in capital letters, had been dashed down in a childishly uneven line.
“What an idiot,” Beatrice said.
The ignition was on, but the engine was dead. A yellow plastic tube ran from the exhaust in through a narrow crack in the back window on the driver’s side. A brightly colored piece of fabric had been stuffed around the tube in the crack to prevent the fumes from escaping.
Cederén’s face rested on the steering wheel. One side of his mouth was pulled up so that it looked as if he were grinning. A sneer. “So long, I’m out of here,” it seemed to say. He was tan, but an unmistakable gray patina completely destroyed the impression of health. He had been a handsome man, Lindell thought.
“I can’t say I’m not disappointed,” she said. “I would have wanted to have a few words with him.”
“Who found him?”
“A farmer who lives in the house that you drove by,” Sammy Nilsson said. “He was making preparations for the winter logging.”
“Lucky us,” Beatrice said. “Think how he would have smelled in another week or so.”
“Yes, it is lucky for us. Now we don’t have to keep looking,” Ryde said.
“That’s what I mean. It was a lucky break,” Beatrice said.
“No one ever died of a bad smell,” Ryde observed dryly.
The assembled officers fell silent. Haver suspected that the others were also thinking of Josefin and Emily. Somehow he wasn’t able to feel upset. Not yet. He knew it would come. Maybe Cederén was a murderer, but the sight of his body, with his mouth wide open and his eyes closed, was so awful that it derailed his anger.
Suicide always affected police officers. All of them had toyed with the idea of taking their own life. Being confronted with the corpse from a suicide roused a heavy melancholy as well as a rare mixture of anxiety, disgust, and rage.
Haver walked to the front of the car. The right-hand headlight had a diagonal crack across the glass, but apart from that, the BMW looked undamaged.
He peered in through the windshield. Cederén was starting to go bald. There was a bare patch on the top of his head.
“Why here?” Sammy asked.
Lindell looked around, as if the answer were to be found in the clearing.
“You can hardly see the turnoff, and the road itself is rugged, to say the least. He must have been familiar with it,” Sammy said, continuing along this line of reasoning.
“Maybe he’s been mushroom picking here,” Ryde said. “This is prime mushroom territory.”
An image of Edv
ard picking mushrooms shot through Ann’s head.
“Why were you nearby?” she asked and turned to Haver.
“I had dug up a lead on his mistress,” he said humbly.
“Around here?”
“It’s possible, but I’m not sure. We may be able to find her by talking to a girl who works in a store in Vallby.”
“Why Vallby?” Sammy asked.
“The Hydro gas station. Cederén stopped there regularly.”
Lindell gave him a smile and an appreciative look.
“All right then,” Ryde said. “You done with your look-see?”
He bent over and fished out a bottle partially concealed under the seat.
“Gordon’s,” he said. “Five centiliters left, give or take.”
He held the bottle aloft and smiled.
“Didn’t you smell the alcohol?”
Ryde was triumphant.
“You think he downed an entire bottle?” Sammy asked in disbelief. “Seven hundred centiliters? Damn.”
“This is a one-liter bottle,” Ryde said, “but no one said he drank the whole thing. It is open and was resting on its side, so most likely some of it has run out onto the floor. We’ll see.”
He walked around the car, opened the back door, and picked up a briefcase.
“You can have this for now,” he said and gave it to Haver. “Ask Jonsson to secure any fingerprints before you handle it too much.”
He began by taking out his camera. Ryde was a highly skilled forensic technician, but he was also an excellent photographer. From time to time he put up small exhibitions in the conference room. The photos were usually extras from police investigations, but sometimes he surprised his colleagues by including scenes from his family life, of grandchildren and vacations. This humanized the otherwise gruff man. The Technical division voted on the best picture. The winning composition was always something from work. It was as if the officers couldn’t bring themselves to vote for anything of a more personal nature.
Ryde’s four colleagues left him to his work on the car. They walked slowly across the clearing. The sun peeked through the spruce trees.
“This is a beautiful place,” Sammy said.
“Who is going to inform the parents?” Lindell asked.
Stone Coffin Page 10
