She leaned over the desk. Should she call him? He would hang up immediately. Driving out to Gräsö was senseless. Viola was caring for Edvard, and his head was most likely filled with hatred and a sense of betrayal.
The phone rang and she automatically reached for the receiver, saying her name mechanically.
“My name is Eilert Jancker and I live in Kåbo, right next to Jack Mortensen, if that rings a bell.”
“Of course,” Lindell said and recalled Frenke’s call from the night before. “What can I assist you with?”
“I am completely fed up with the noise level in the neighborhood, and Mortensen is the one who causes most of the disturbances.”
“I see. Go on,” Lindell said when Jancker made no attempt to elaborate on this statement.
“I’ve registered a complaint about this before, but now I’m at my wit’s end. There has been no improvement—in fact, quite the opposite.”
“Can you tell me in concrete terms what this is about?” Lindell said and felt a growing sense of impatience.
“Work machinery noise,” he said.
“I’m in the Violent Crimes division, so this isn’t really my turf.”
“I was connected to this number,” Jancker insisted.
“Then let me hear it.”
“A couple of days ago, Mortensen operated a digger long into the night. As my neighbors and I understand it, digging should be undertaken during business hours only. I believe I speak for all of us.”
Why do they have to be so long-winded? Lindell thought tiredly.
“What I would like to know is what you are planning to do about it?”
“Have you tried to speak to Mortensen directly about this? That’s often a good first step…”
“I have tried,” Jancker interrupted her. “I went over the other day, when I was completely beside myself, to discuss the inappropriate nature of his behavior. And what did I find? A machine that was on full bore but no Mortensen.”
Lindell became more alert.
“The digger was on and making noise, but you didn’t see Mortensen, is that what you mean?”
“Exactly,” said Jancker, pleased that he had been able to make his point.
“When was this?”
“The evening of the twenty-ninth, between six and ten o’clock.”
“You entered Mortensen’s garden in order to speak to him?”
“I know this may seem forward, but what was I to do?”
“And you did not find him?”
“As I said, no. I even rang the doorbell, but no one opened. Don’t you think it’s reprehensible? To turn on a piece of machinery and then leave the property?”
“You are absolutely convinced that he wasn’t there?”
“Absolutely. The car was gone. He came back at around ten. I noted the exact time: 10:05 P.M.”
“And then he turned it off?”
“Yes.”
Lindell recalled the words of the man who had rented out the digger: that Mortensen had not been particularly good at it, that he hadn’t been effective in his efforts. This statement now took on added significance. The machine had not actually been working.
“Is it possible for you to come down to the station and file a complaint? We can send a car to fetch you.”
“I have to say,” Jancker commented, “that it’s a relief to find a person who understands the importance of peace and quiet. Of course I will come in. How about if I come down in half an hour?”
“That will be absolutely fine,” said Lindell.
* * *
The digging had been Mortensen’s alibi for the evening Gabriella was murdered. He had said that his neighbors could vouch for the fact that he had been working the digger all evening. Now this alibi had been discredited. The neighbor’s statement blew holes in it.
Lindell could not sit still. She stood up and paced. As she passed her desk she removed the telephone receiver from its hook and walked up to the window.
Thirty-one
Jack Mortensen was brought into the police station that afternoon. He smiled at Lindell and Ottosson as he walked up to them, accompanied by Berglund.
“This is becoming quite a habit,” he noted and calmly sat down.
“It seems so,” Ottosson agreed grimly.
Mortensen’s smile stiffened when he saw Ottosson’s expression.
“Gabriella Mark was murdered on the evening of June twenty-ninth,” Lindell began swiftly, but she stopped almost as soon as she had begun.
Mortensen didn’t react at all to her words. He simply stared down at his folded hands.
“You said that you had been digging in your garden the whole evening, isn’t that right?”
Mortensen looked up. “Yes, that’s correct.”
“No, that’s wrong,” Lindell said.
She gave him a few moments to reflect on her statement before she continued.
“We now have information that your digger was simply idling for large stretches of that evening. What do you say to that?”
“It did idle for a while, that’s true. I went out for a snack.”
“Why didn’t you turn it off when you left?”
“I was afraid it would be difficult to restart,” Mortensen answered.
“It can’t be that difficult. You had been given instructions by the man you rented it from, hadn’t you?”
“I’m not well versed in machinery.”
“No, he did tell me that. He thought that you had managed to dig very little, and I guess that can be explained by the fact that it was idling most of the time.”
“Where are you going with this? I told you I went to get some coffee.”
“You also left the house that evening. Where did you go?”
“I didn’t,” Mortensen said, but then reversed himself almost immediately, stating that he had driven to the office to get some papers.
Lindell sat quietly for a while.
“Papers,” she said finally. “What kind of papers? You leave a machine that you have rented for a lot of money so that you can go and get some papers? It must have been some very important documents.”
Mortensen nodded.
“And it wasn’t because you took a drive out to Rasbo?”
“You’re accusing me of murdering Gabriella Mark. Why don’t you just come out and say it?”
“I’m just trying to clarify what you were doing that evening,” Lindell said calmly. “What cars does the company own?”
Mortensen pushed his chair back from the table, crossed his legs, and pushed his hair back with his hand.
“We have two cars,” he said. “A Fiat van and a Škoda.”
“What colors?”
“One is blue, the other red.”
“No company logos, decals, or anything like that?” Lindell asked.
Mortensen shook his head.
“I think that you took your car, drove to MedForsk, changed to the red Škoda, drove out to Mark’s cottage, and strangled her,” Lindell said.
Before Mortensen had time to reply, she went on.
“I think we’ll take a break here for the moment. There are some things we have to check.”
She stood up and Haver followed her lead. They left the room without giving Mortensen a second glance.
“We’ll let him sweat for a while,” Lindell said.
“That he left the house was news,” Haver said, and Lindell detected a note of displeasure in his voice.
* * *
After ten minutes they returned to the interrogation room. Mortensen was sitting in the same position. If he had been sweating, no one could tell.
“I want to get this over with now,” he said as soon as the detectives sat down and Haver had turned on the tape recorder.
“That’s fine with me,” Lindell said.
“I’m sick and tired of your accusations. I actually have a business to run, and if you don’t have anything more than these vague assumptions, then I’d like to leave.”
Lindell disregarded this.
“Is there anyone who can corroborate your claim that you went to get some papers from the office and then returned to your home?” she asked.
“No, I was alone there. We don’t have an evening shift, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“You spent a lot of time talking to Gabriella. What did you talk about?”
“All kinds of things, but mostly of course about Sven-Erik and everything that happened.”
“Did you call her on June twenty-ninth?”
“I’m not sure but I don’t think so. Most of the time it was her calling me.”
“Does the nickname Pålle mean anything to you?”
“No.”
“Did you ever visit her cottage?”
“No.”
“But you met?”
“A couple of times.”
Lindell paused. Mortensen watched her attentively as if he were waiting for the next quick question.
Instead Haver jumped in. “What size shoe do you wear?”
Mortensen looked at him with surprise. He glanced down at his feet, and strangely enough his face turned red, as if it were an inappropriate question.
“Forty-two,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“I was just wondering,” Haver said.
At that moment Lindell’s cell phone rang. She picked it up quickly and answered.
“Send her up,” she said after listening for a while.
An ominous silence fell in the room. Lindell looked appraisingly at Mortensen, who immediately lowered his gaze.
Haver was on the verge of saying something but held back. This was the moment of truth. The answers were here in this silence. Personally he was convinced that Mortensen was lying on one or even several points. Was he the killer? If so, they would have trouble proving it. The fact that he had misrepresented the extent of his digging was nothing that would hold any substance in court. He could very well have gone to the office that night. It was up to the police to prove that he had gone out to Gabriella’s cottage. The fact that MedForsk had a red Škoda van didn’t prove anything either. There were many of those around town. Lindell had asked Ryde to drive out to MedForsk and take the Škoda to the garage to be searched, but neither Haver nor Lindell held out much hope that it would yield anything.
There was no forensic evidence from the crime scene either. The only thing was a footprint. Haver did wear size 42 shoes, but that didn’t make him a murderer.
He shot Lindell a look. She could probably guess what he was thinking. She smiled. At that moment there was a knock on the door.
It was Riis accompanied by an older woman. When she entered the room, Mortensen jumped out of his chair as if stung by a bee.
“What are you doing here?” he shouted.
“I could ask you the same question,” his mother said forcefully and looked around the room.
Riis hurried to bring in another chair and placed it on the other side of the table. Mortensen watched in disbelief as his mother sat down with an ease that astonished even Lindell. She knew that his mother was an iron-willed woman, but the way that she had sailed in and taken her place demonstrated an unusual degree of strength.
“What have you gone and done now?” she asked and fixed him with her gaze.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Sit down,” she said and he obeyed.
“We were talking about the murder of Gabriella Mark,” Lindell said. “We think your son may be withholding additional information.”
“What do you mean by dragging my poor mother into this? It’s unbelievable. You’re capable of anything, aren’t you.”
“Your mother came of her own free will,” Lindell said calmly.
“You don’t have anything to do with this, do you?” he asked and turned to his mother.
She looked at him with a pitying gaze. “You could use a little help,” she said. “You always have.”
“He isn’t very strong,” she went on, and for some reason turned to Riis, who was leaning against the wall. “To lose two of your best friends isn’t easy.”
“You mean Sven-Erik and Josefin?” Lindell said.
“Josefin.” Mortensen’s mother snorted. “There was never much to that woman. I couldn’t for the life of me understand why you were once interested in her. No, I mean Gabriella.”
Mortensen raised his eyes and stared at his mother.
“Did you know Gabriella?” Lindell asked.
The mother stared at Lindell.
“Know her? Of course. She and Pålle have been best friends since they were little.”
There was hushed silence. Jack Mortensen stared at the floor.
“Who is Pålle?” Lindell asked.
“My son, Jack,” his mother said. “We’ve called him Pålle ever since he was little. He and Gabriella were inseparable when they were little. We were neighbors in Simrishamn for at least ten years. Look at Pålle’s teeth! It was Gabriella’s father who straightened them so nicely. Before that, he looked like a rabbit.”
She stopped suddenly. Mortensen was shaking.
“What is it?” his mother asked, and now for the first time Lindell heard a softer tone in her voice.
Everyone looked at Jack “Pålle” Mortensen. He sat with hands raised in front of his face, sobbing.
“Pålle, what is it?” his mother repeated and placed her hand on his arm.
“Let go of me, you old bitch,” he yelled and jumped up from the chair.
Riis reacted in a flash, throwing himself forward and grabbing Mortensen.
“Calm down,” Riis said in low voice but with a smile on his lips. Lindell saw his muscles tense up under his shirt. Mortensen’s mother sat completely frozen.
“Sit down,” Lindell ordered.
Riis lightened his grip and Mortensen sank heavily and helplessly back in the chair.
“You knew Gabriella well, something that you denied earlier.”
Mortensen let out a sob. His mother stared at him in disbelief.
“You did go there that night, didn’t you?” Lindell asked again.
He said nothing, staring down at the floor. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. Lindell shot Haver a look.
“Answer them,” Mrs. Mortensen said. “What’s the point of denying that you knew Gabriella.”
Mortensen’s cheeks twitched. Riis stood behind him, prepared to jump in.
“I did know Gabriella,” Mortensen said hoarsely. “I liked her very much.”
His mother stared at him with an astonishment mingled with what Lindell took to be disgust, an impression underscored by her aristocratic appearance. She was watching her son being interrogated by the police as well as suffering inner anguish, and her facial expression indicated no empathy.
“I liked her,” he repeated and looked at his mother. “You didn’t know that. There’s so much you don’t know.”
Mrs. Mortensen was about to say something, but Mortensen gestured for her to keep quiet and continued.
“She lied to me. She told me when she became a widow that she would never be with another man.”
“You knew that she and Cederén had a relationship?” Lindell asked.
Mortensen turned to her with what appeared to be a great effort. His labored movements matched the slowness with which the words were leaving his mouth. She had seen this before, the paralysis that came over some people in stressful situations where lying was no longer an option. They slowed to quarter speed, and it could be incredibly frustrating for an interrogator who wanted to hasten toward their goal, but Lindell knew to remain patient.
“Yes,” he said finally, “of course I did. I came across them, saw them in Stockholm by chance.”
His mother laughed unexpectedly.
“Poor Pålle,” she said. “First Josefin and then Gabriella.”
“Shut up,” Mortensen said harshly, and she looked as if she had been struck in the face.
“Did you go to her on June twenty-ninth?”
Lin
dell put her question to him in a low voice. Mortensen nodded.
“Can you please answer so that I have it on tape?”
Mortensen smiled sarcastically, leaned over the desk, and clearly enunciated “yes.” Then he shut his eyes and fell back against the chair.
“Did you fight?”
“Answer her,” said Mrs. Mortensen, who appeared to have recovered.
“Get rid of her!” Mortensen screamed and pointed to the door.
“It may be best if you wait outside,” Lindell said and turned to Mrs. Mortensen, who got to her feet without a word. Large patches of sweat had appeared under the armpits of her light-colored summer dress. She stared icily at her son.
“You damn devil-bitch!” Mortensen screeched. “You have always ruined everything. Your fucking textiles that no one cares about. Who is interested in rags? And your damned breakfast rolls that you come in with every morning. Just to check on what I’m doing. You hated Gabriella and you hated Josefin. You stuck your nose into my business, talked shit, and schemed.”
He sank down, and the silence felt like an icy wind flowing through the room. Lindell saw Riis start to hold out his hand as if to place it on Mortensen’s shoulder, but he stopped himself. She had the impression that he felt a certain sympathy for Mortensen. She, on the other hand, simply felt drained by the emotional turbulence in the room. Forty years of accumulated hatred that had been held in check by nothing but a kind of dependence. Mrs. Mortensen had taken advantage of his weak personality and bent him according to her wishes. Now he was striking back.
“Fuck it,” he said and banged his right hand on his knee repeatedly as if he had realized that he had spoken up too late—much too late.
“You poor thing,” she said before she left the room, followed by Riis, who stopped in the doorway and gave Lindell an approving look.
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