Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘I called Conny,’ Lotten explained. ‘He said you should do it.’

  ‘He did? The last time I spoke to him he thought we should keep this low profile.’

  ‘But now it’s already out.’

  Petra sighed. Yes, apparently it was. There was always someone who couldn’t resist calling the tabloids. After brief consideration she came to two conclusions: that it must have been the young mother in the 7-Eleven who had been tempted by a little extra cash, and that a little media attention on the infant boy in Vitabergsparken was perhaps what they needed to get somewhere.

  ‘Okay, put her through,’ said Petra, tossing her jacket on to the desk.

  She had never communicated directly with the press; Sjöberg usually took care of that. But if you were responsible for an investigation, then you were. It was just a matter of biting the bullet and being careful not to say too much. And not to leave room for personal interpretation.

  ‘I’ve been told that you’re the one leading the investigation,’ the reporter said after she introduced herself. ‘How do you spell your last name?’

  Petra spelled her name and hoped she would not regret this conversation.

  ‘I’ve heard that you not only found a dead woman in Vitabergsparken last Sunday,’ the journalist continued, ‘but also an infant. Comments?’

  Petra explained how it all hung together, and described the boy’s appearance and age, including clothing and the pram.

  ‘And no one has called in?’ asked the reporter.

  ‘That’s correct. But we would be grateful for any information,’ she added to forestall the journalist and at the same time seem accommodating. ‘Serious information.’

  ‘Do you have any photos we can publish?’

  ‘At the present time we’ve decided not to release any photographs,’ Petra answered in a voice she did not recognize. ‘We hope of course that very soon we will be in contact with relatives.’

  ‘There is apparently an older sibling in the picture?’

  ‘We know nothing about that,’ said Petra firmly, visualizing the young mother in the 7-Eleven taking out her phone as soon as Petra had left.

  ‘But the pram is a 2003 model. So it could be that way?’

  ‘Naturally there is such a possibility,’ Petra answered diplomatically, ‘but it may just as well be the case that the pram was borrowed or bought used.’

  Then they devoted a few minutes to classifying the crime. The phrase ‘murder with robbery’ came up, but Petra tried to characterize it as ‘an alleged hit-and-run accident’.

  When the call was ended, she was not sure whether she had done a good job or if it had been a complete fiasco. That probably depended on the current mood of the headline writer, she decided with a sigh, as she left the room to find her colleagues who were less burdened with responsibility.

  Monday Afternoon

  She was starting to feel inadequate. She did not trust that Nyman at the county detective unit. What if the poor girl really had been abandoned by her parents! Then a week was too long. If only she had caller ID, she could have traced the number Hanna was calling from herself and found out where she lived. And she could have called to console her and offer help. If it were really needed. Perhaps it would turn out that the girl was not alone after all, and then the problem would be resolved. But Barbro could not get the thought out of her head; she had to do something.

  The girl had talked about summer cottages in the middle of the city. Barbro came to the conclusion that she must have meant allotments. The probability that the girl would have dialled a Stockholm area code before Barbro’s own number must be very slight. On that basis she reasoned that the call was local, that the girl was in Stockholm, in an apartment with a view of allotments. Where else could she look? She had to start somewhere.

  She sat down at the computer in the kitchen and turned it on. Barbro was generally not keen on technical gadgets. As long as the landline telephone worked, she kept it. What reason was there to change? And caller ID – what would she do with that? If the phone rang, she answered it, no matter who called. A mobile phone and answering machine were not for her either. If she wasn’t home when they called, they could just try again. That had worked in the twentieth century and quite likely it still did. Besides, being retired, she did not have unlimited resources.

  But it was different with the computer. She could hardly live without her beloved computer. The indispensable search engines helped her to solve crosswords, book trips and theatre tickets, and best of all kept her up to date on what was happening in cultural Stockholm. True, it was an extra expense, but it was worth every penny.

  A quick search on Eniro showed that there were thousands of Bergmans in Stockholm. Couldn’t Hanna’s neighbour have been named Liljesparre instead? No, she would have to attack the problem from a different angle. Four minutes later she found what she was searching for: a list of all the allotment areas in Stockholm, on the website of the Greater Stockholm Allotment Association. There were a lot, almost eighty, but she told herself not to panic and to visit them one at a time. She could start with the ones that were closest and then work outwards; taking them one by one and keeping her eyes open for yellow castles and angry old men by the name of Bergman.

  Barbro Dahlström was seventy-two years old. She had been a high-school French and English teacher, and had been a widow for thirteen years. Every autumn, together with some retired friends, she would hike in the French Alps, stay at hostels, eat and drink well. Now, at the end of September, it was time to walk off the added French pounds.

  She made herself a few sandwiches and put them, along with a Thermos of coffee and a bottle of ordinary tap water, in the small backpack that she used when she was out walking. This time however she left the walking sticks at home and went out into the mild Indian summer.

  First she went towards the Eriksdalslunden allotments, to which she had walked many times. After that she intended to walk around Södermalm, clockwise. She realized that it would not be possible to do that in a single afternoon, but she had to take one day at a time. In her ears she had Radio P1. Sometimes, when she got tired of the serious voices, she changed to a music station. She had received the small portable radio from her daughter as a Christmas present a few years ago and was now so attached to it that to be on the safe side she always carried reserve batteries in her backpack.

  Eriksdalslunden and the extensive Tantolunden allotments produced nothing. No yellow castles were to be seen, but she worked systematically and searched anyway for the name Bergman on the directory boards of every nearby building.

  After searching without success through the allotments in Årstalund she allowed herself a rest, removed the earplugs and ate her sandwiches sitting on a park bench, accompanied by the sound of the water of Årstaviken lapping against the shore. Some ducks were rooting in the sand between two large willows that had grown in a way that made them look as if they were falling headfirst into the water, with their branches spread out, as if they were trying to catch each other in mid-fall. In her mind she constructed an image of little Hanna. How old could she be? Certainly much too young to be able to manage by herself. Five maybe? Six?

  Barbro realized that it was very unlikely that she had been left at home alone. You don’t let such a small child take care of herself, even for a short time. Not in today’s Stockholm, with all the electrical appliances, heavy traffic, criminals and paedophiles, corrosive detergents, toxic pharmaceuticals, high windows; she hardly dared think about all the hazards that might entice a curious little person without supervision. Her mother must only have been gone for a few minutes; down to the laundry room or rushed off to the store.

  But what about the hash? Hanna said she had had to get food for herself. She also said that she had hurt herself and that she wanted her daddy to come home from Japan and kiss it and make it better. True, the girl could have a lively imagination, but Barbro’s instinct told her this was for real.

  Barbro Dahlström finish
ed her picnic, carefully rewrapping one of the sandwiches in foil and putting it back in the little backpack. Then she took off again. A promise was a promise.

  * * *

  The reception area was suddenly full of young people and Lotten had her hands full taking everyone’s information. They were all aged between fifteen and eighteen. Sjöberg had forewarned her that he had called in Jennifer Johansson’s group of friends from the Finland boat for questioning at one o’clock, and here they were, about a dozen of them. Despite the serious atmosphere, as teenagers do they took up too much space and sounded like there were three times as many. A few boys were lounging in a group of armchairs, some of the young people sat on a pair of benches along the wall, while others wandered around. There was nonstop talking on mobile phones.

  One of the girls stood crying and a couple of friends consoled her. Maybe she had more reason than the others to grieve for Jennifer Johansson, thought Lotten, or else she just wanted attention. On one bench another girl sat crying by herself. The boys tried to look neutral and carried on as usual. But Lotten saw the sorrow and consternation in their eyes, and remembered that it was not easy being a teenager. Everyone had a facade to keep up.

  And then there was Joakim Andersson. He too had been called for questioning, but he did not join the others. Instead he stayed apart by the window overlooking the turning area and gazed out towards the apartment buildings by the Hammarby canal. He stood quietly with his hands in his pockets and appeared not to be affected by the tumult around the other young people.

  * * *

  When Sjöberg came in, aware of being a few minutes late, he took a quick look at the various constellations of young people in the reception area before he went up to Lotten.

  ‘Is that Joakim over there – by the window?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s right,’ Lotten replied. ‘He nodded at a couple of the girls when he arrived, the ones named Fanny and Malin, but except for when he came up and reported in he’s been standing over there by himself the whole time.’

  ‘He hasn’t talked to anyone?’

  ‘No. No one has approached him either. I guess they’re afraid of being confronted with his grief. You know how youngsters are –’

  ‘I’m not sure I do. Maybe they’re afraid of him.’

  ‘I think he looks nice,’ said Lotten. ‘Nice, and sad.’

  ‘How can you see that behind the beard?’ Sjöberg snorted.

  ‘You sound a little cynical, Conny,’ Lotten said. ‘That grungy style is trendy.’

  ‘He’s twenty-four. What was he doing with a sixteen-year-old girl?’

  ‘When did you get so conservative?’

  ‘He’s probably the one who did it. Who else? Bear in mind, Lotten, that this prejudiced statement is based on many years of experience,’ he added jokingly. ‘This is a pretty lively group!’

  ‘Just be glad you’re not a teacher, like poor Åsa.’

  Suddenly and unexpectedly ill at ease at the mention of his wife, he made to go.

  ‘Send Joakim up to me in five minutes. Jamal should start with those girls, Fanny and Malin, separately. After that, it doesn’t matter.’

  He let go of the door behind him, threaded his way past the young people and took the stairs up to the second floor in a few quick steps.

  * * *

  ‘So until that episode in the bar you considered Jennifer your girlfriend?’

  ‘Yes, more or less,’ answered Joakim, watching Sjöberg set an MP3 player on the table between them.

  ‘What do you mean by that? Did you have other girlfriends too?’

  ‘No, not like that –’

  ‘Maybe she had other guys?’

  ‘Maybe she did. I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

  ‘Now I think you should try to explain to me what kind of relationship the two of you really had.’

  Joakim let out a heavy sigh. What should a relationship be like? How do you explain feelings? He was not a verbal person, but now for the first time in his life he was forced to explain things that could not be put into words.

  ‘What kind of relationship …’ Joakim repeated like a faint echo.

  ‘Well, tell me how you met. We have to start somewhere.’

  Now it was easier. There were good times and actual events he could describe. Joakim told about their initial meeting, how the shopping bag fell apart, about evenings drinking at the bar, and walks hand in hand. But soon they found themselves in the grey vacuum that followed after the first few ecstatic weeks with Jennifer.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ said Sjöberg. ‘I think Jennifer was your first girlfriend. Is that right?’

  ‘Yes,’ Joakim answered quietly, not daring to look the chief inspector in the eyes.

  * * *

  Sjöberg saw the boy’s eyes light up as he talked about the first few weeks with Jennifer. He had guided him out into deeper and deeper waters, and now he felt himself relenting as the truth became clear. The boy was twenty-four and had never had a girlfriend. In light of this, it was much easier to understand how hard it was for him to describe his relationship with Jennifer. Joakim Andersson had nothing to compare it to, no tools to evaluate what they had had together.

  Sjöberg could imagine how the girl gradually began to see through this inexperienced, uncertain young man. Twenty-four would sound good to an experienced sixteen-year-old, but under the tough surface, behind the beard and the sunglasses he now had pushed up on his forehead, she glimpsed something completely different and started to feel embarrassed. Perhaps what she sensed behind the facade he put up was a sensitive and delicate personality, but she needed resistance, someone as big and strong on the inside as he appeared to be on the outside.

  ‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Sjöberg in an attempt to soften his earlier harsh tone. ‘Some time has to be the first time for all of us. But now I want you to describe what you were doing – in detail – from the time you woke up on Friday morning until the police knocked on the door of your cabin yesterday morning.’

  ‘Friday morning?’ Joakim looked perplexed. ‘What does Friday have to do with this?’

  ‘I’ll decide that. Let’s hear it now.’

  ‘I delivered papers in the morning, between four and eight. Then I was home all day. Nothing happened in particular.’

  ‘Delivering newspapers – that’s your job?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How often do you do that?’

  ‘Just a few days a week.’

  ‘That’s not much income. What do you live on?’

  ‘I live at home. I don’t need that much money.’

  ‘So how do you spend the rest of your time?’

  ‘I’m mostly at home,’ he said, but Sjöberg gave him a challenging look.

  ‘I take care of my mum,’ he said at last. ‘She’s ill.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. What kind of illness?’

  He asked because he wanted to form an image of Joakim Andersson’s life, what it was like at home, the family circumstances. He wanted to look into the dark corners, dig out secrets, penetrate into his private sphere.

  ‘She’s handicapped,’ Joakim answered, a little too loudly. ‘Disabled. She can’t walk!’

  He spat out the words, with an almost triumphant facial expression – unexpected anger, perhaps he felt offended? Like a child who swears, thought Sjöberg, who hurls out all the bad words he knows, with the fear of repercussion shining in his eyes. The young man across from him had just said something forbidden, something he never mentioned, perhaps was not allowed to say. He had revealed a family secret.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Sjöberg, trying to sound factual and neutral. ‘That must be hard for her. Is she getting the care she needs?’

  ‘I take care of her. I told you that.’

  ‘And your dad, what does he do?’

  ‘He works at a bank. Swedbank in Farsta.’

  ‘Do you help out with the care of your mother or do you do most of it yourself?’


  ‘Dad feeds her if I’m not home. Otherwise I’m the one who takes care of her.’

  ‘I see, so you were at home taking care of your mother all day last Friday. And then, in the evening?’

  ‘I was going to see Jennifer, but that didn’t happen.’

  ‘What happened instead?’

  ‘Dad wouldn’t let me go. He didn’t like her.’

  ‘Had they met?’

  ‘No, but he didn’t like that I had a girlfriend. I said I was going to go anyway and that we were going to Finland on Saturday.’

  ‘And then?’ Sjöberg gestured towards Joakim’s mangled face.

  ‘He knocked me down. I don’t know if I fainted or fell asleep. When I woke up he had gone to bed anyway. I threw a few things in a bag and left.’

  ‘Does he always mistreat you like that?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘Sometimes. He has a bad temper.’

  Sjöberg noticed how Joakim Andersson excused his father, tried to give him a legitimate reason for hitting him.

  ‘Do you hit back?’

  ‘No. What good would that do?’

  ‘And where did you go?’ Sjöberg continued.

  ‘I walked around all night. Looked for Jennifer. Sat in a McDonald’s. Rode the bus.’

  ‘Did you sleep at all?’

  ‘A little, on the bus.’

  ‘Why didn’t you go to Jennifer’s?’

  ‘She didn’t want me to go round to hers.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  Joakim answered with a shrug. Sjöberg had a strong feeling he knew why, but he did not share his suspicions.

  ‘So you must have been extremely tired and irritable on Saturday?’

  ‘Not that I remember. I guess I didn’t think about it that much.’

  ‘What was that day like?’

  ‘In the morning I waited for Jennifer outside her building, until she came out. Fanny and Malin were there too and then we took the metro to Central Station and bought the ferry tickets.’

  ‘How well did you know Jennifer’s friends? Malin and Fanny, for example.’

  ‘I’d never met either of them before.’