Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘And none of the others on the boat either?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why do you think that was? That she didn’t let you meet her friends?’

  ‘But she did. On the trip to Finland.’

  ‘But before?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she intended to break up with me.’

  ‘Were you worried about that?’

  ‘Not worried exactly. Well, maybe. It didn’t feel real that she would want to be with me. And she was so strange towards me at the end. She could be really happy one moment and other times – well, then it was as if I didn’t exist.’

  ‘And how was it on that day?’

  ‘More or less like that.’

  ‘So it fluctuated?’

  ‘She was mad at me the whole day, until the pre-party in the cabin. Then it changed. Then she disappeared. I’m sure you know the rest.’

  ‘I still want to hear it in your own words,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Tell me everything that happened after you got on board the boat.’

  Joakim talked and Sjöberg coaxed and listened. An hour and a half later he let him go, went out to the kitchenette in the corridor and served himself a cup of coffee, then he phoned Lotten and asked her to send up the next young man.

  * * *

  Jens Sandén had a late lunch in the office with Petra Westman and Einar Eriksson. He would have preferred to go out to eat, but Eriksson stubbornly refused to eat anything besides his own packed lunch. Petra was stressed and in a hurry to be off again, so she and Sandén wolfed down a sandwich and a cup of coffee in the conference room, while Eriksson had beef stroganoff, heated up in the microwave. They quickly reviewed the situation and Eriksson delivered his latest lists of prioritized addresses.

  After a brief run-through for the foot soldiers, Sandén again found himself knocking on doors in the area around Vitabergsparken. He was working first north along Barnängsgatan, to then continue with Bondegatan and its cross streets between Skånegatan and Åsögatan, all the way up to Klippgatan. Outside a yellow building in the same block as the Transport Museum that housed a storage company, according to the anything-but-modest sign, he caught sight of a woman in her sixties bending over a navy-blue Emmaljunga pram with small white dots. Sandén stopped beside her and cleared his throat before saying, ‘I see, so Grandma’s doing the babysitting today?’

  The woman straightened up and gave him a friendly smile.

  ‘Yes, my daughter is at the dentist and I’ll just be babysitting for an hour, but it’s no picnic when they’re this small.’

  She shook her head slightly in a gesture of resignation. Sandén took a look in the pram. The child appeared to be sleeping soundly, so he assumed that Grandma was doing just fine.

  ‘How old is he?’ he asked out of curiosity.

  Sandén took a chance on the baby’s gender, but he had apparently guessed correctly, because the woman answered without further comment that the child was six months old. After introducing himself and explaining his errand, he took the photographs out of the inside pocket of his suede jacket. The first one he showed her was of the boy.

  ‘This little boy has a pram similar to your grandson’s here. Do you recognize him? He’s about five months old.’

  The woman studied the photograph for a while but then shook her head.

  ‘It’s not easy. It’s really hard to see the difference in such small children, unless they’re close to you. No, I can’t say I recognize him.’

  ‘This is his mother. Do you recognize her?’

  ‘Oh my!’ she said behind the hand that had flown up to cover her mouth.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no other way –’

  ‘But I do recognize her,’ the woman interrupted. ‘I’ve chatted to her several times. I run into her in Blecktornsparken now and then. I usually go there with this little boy’s big brother. There’s such a fun playground there, with rabbits and everything.’

  ‘And what was she doing there?’ asked Sandén, who already feared the worst.

  ‘Oh my God!’ the woman exclaimed, her eyes moist. ‘There’s a big sister too, you know. A little girl – how old can she be? A little younger than Edvin – my grandson, that is – yes, three or four, I’d say. A bright, happy little girl, talkative and lively. Where is she now?’

  ‘We don’t know, but hopefully she’s in good hands. Perhaps she’s with her father – do you know if he’s around?’

  ‘No, I don’t really know. The few times we spoke it was mostly about the children and their games, the weather and such. They weren’t deep conversations, you understand.’

  ‘Did you ever see her in the company of anyone else?’

  ‘Not as far as I remember.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where they live?’

  ‘No, I don’t think she mentioned that. They could live anywhere. Blecktornsparken is probably the most popular playground on Södermalm.’

  ‘Did she have an accent? Or perhaps some dialect you recall?’

  ‘I’m quite sure that she was Swedish. She had no accent at all, and both she and the girl looked as Swedish as can be. But dialect … No, I don’t think so. In any event nothing noticeable, I mean from Skåne or Gotland or such.’

  ‘How did she look?’ Sandén continued insistently. ‘For example, was she smartly dressed?’

  ‘As far as I remember there was nothing remarkable about her clothes. She looked like a mum with small children. Practical clothes, nothing she’d want to keep from getting dirty, but not slovenly in any way. She was very friendly; not everyone you meet is.’

  ‘Did you notice whether she seemed afraid or to feel threatened? Did she seem worried?’

  ‘Not at all. On the contrary, she seemed extremely content and relaxed. She took the time to talk to me. And she was sweet with the girl. The girl was pretty lively as I said and demanded a lot of attention. She was at that age where they fall down and hurt themselves all the time. She wanted her mother to push her on the swings and play, and her mother mostly did what she asked.’

  ‘When did you last see her?’

  ‘It must have been sometime in the spring.’

  ‘You never saw her anywhere other than Blecktornsparken?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  The baby started whimpering in the pram and Sandén felt he had got all he could for the time being.

  ‘You’ve been a great help,’ he said sincerely. ‘We’ll need to speak to you again, so I would be grateful if I could get your contact information. Name, address, and telephone number.’

  ‘I would be grateful if I could get yours first,’ said the grandmother with a hint of sarcasm.

  ‘Oh, excuse me. Naturally,’ said Sandén, awkwardly pulling out his police ID.

  The woman studied it for a moment and then took the pen and notepad and wrote down her contact details.

  ‘You’d better give that child back before he really gets going,’ Sandén said.

  The boy was wriggling in the pram and the little face was screwed up alarmingly.

  ‘Thanks again,’ said Sandén.

  ‘Don’t mention it. Just see that you arrest whoever did this.’

  Then she went off with the pram and left Sandén to his no-longer-hopeless assignment.

  He took his mobile phone out of his jacket to call Petra Westman when it started vibrating.

  ‘Hey, Jensy! Pontus here.’

  Jensy? Was Pontus messing with him? Or was this just a pathetic attempt to be friendly? Never in a million years would he play happy families with that piece of shit. Especially now, when the whole thing was finally over. Because he was sure that it was. With the offer of ten thousand kronor, this chapter in Jenny’s life should be a thing of the past. Sandén knew what he was doing. The boy liked money. He was a wheeler-dealer through and through, but not in a legitimate-feeling way. He had no education to speak of, showed no signs of cultivation or any noteworthy intelligence. Despite that, he liked to give the impression of having lots of money; he
talked in vague terms about investments here and there, spewing Wall Street clichés about his clearly dodgy – as far as Sandén could tell – business ideas.

  And everything had to be flashy. Expensive, brand-name clothes and stylish, trendy places. Places that Sandén had the impression his beloved little Jenny was never taken to. The few times all three of them had been in the same room there had been talk about Jenny, not with Jenny. As if that creep thought of her like a sweet little dog. Or a piece of furniture. And Sandén had his suspicions about which one.

  He had known from the first that this guy would only mean trouble. It was not just his oily, pseudo-yuppie appearance – a real yuppie would have a real job, Sandén assumed – but, above all, the fact that he was interested in Jenny at all. That in itself said a great deal. What twenty-six-year-old of normal intelligence falls for a younger girl with learning difficulties? It was so unlikely that Sandén was convinced that it couldn’t be for real. Jenny was an attractive girl, so in that respect she was good enough for Pontus. And she was devoted to him. She was devoted to anyone who showed her the least bit of appreciation, and that was a charming quality. In most cases. Not with men, however.

  Reluctantly Sandén forced himself to see his daughter as a woman who was sexually active. And Jenny’s devotion presumably made her good in bed. He hated thinking about it, but at the same time he could not let himself close his eyes to the truth. Pontus was exploiting her, exactly how he refused to go into – that was the limit. And then he’d hit her. That was hard to understand; Jenny would not hurt a fly. Maybe Pontus did it just because he felt like it. But there must be an end to that now; there would be an end to that now.

  ‘What’s on your mind?’ said Sandén, with as much contempt as he could muster in his voice.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about your offer.’ Cheerful voice. Offhand.

  ‘And?’

  ‘It’s generous, certainly, but I guess I would have expected a little more.’

  Extortionist, thought Sandén. The bastard has a system of picking up girls with learning difficulties in order to be bought off by their families. We need to put an end to this.

  ‘Same old Pontus.’

  ‘I was thinking about fifty thousand. Deal?’

  ‘I never want to see you again. You have to be out of the apartment before Jenny comes home.’

  ‘Yes, baby.’

  The guy was not all there.

  ‘Deal?’

  ‘Deal,’ Sandén heard himself say before he ended the call with a shudder.

  * * *

  Petra was sitting in the waiting room of a children’s health centre by Gullmarsplan, browsing through a well-thumbed copy of Nursing Guide. At this point she was fed up with the rose-tinted picture of motherhood in We Parents, and she promised herself never to open that magazine again. Even if she had a reason to. Which she hoped she would have sooner or later. She had two nurses left to confront with the unpleasant pictures; none of those she had questioned so far recognized the mother or the boy.

  The chorus of ‘I Don’t Feel Like Dancin” blared from her pocket, and the eyes of about ten mothers and four older siblings turned towards her. Time to change ringtone, thought Petra, as she walked past the sign with the crossed-out mobile phone and slipped outside to answer the call. It was Sandén, who told her about his meeting with the woman with the polka-dotted baby pram.

  Petra sighed.

  ‘Then we’re on the right track anyway. We just have to keep working to try to find the girl and the father.’

  ‘Do you think we should release this to the media?’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘I thought Conny said –’

  ‘Yes, I thought so too,’ Petra interrupted. ‘But he changed his mind. I got a call from a reporter at Aftonbladet who had got wind of the boy. I just provided a few details. So any moment now I’ll be disgraced.’

  ‘ “Police detective Petra Westman in hair-raising hunt for merciless woman-killer.” No, damn it, Petra, you’re going to be promoted,’ Sandén laughed.

  Her mobile beeped in her ear.

  ‘Someone else is calling. Were we finished?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be in touch.’

  With the push of a button she let call number two through.

  ‘Westman,’ said Petra.

  ‘Hi, Petra, it’s Roland.’

  The voice sounded … positive. Petra struggled for a few moments to place this ‘Roland’.

  ‘Brandt,’ said the voice. ‘Roland Brandt. Remember me?’

  ‘Of course, please excuse me. I just didn’t make the connection.’

  The police commissioner – what business in the world could he have with her?

  ‘You’re going to be promoted,’ Sandén had joked just a few moments earlier. You don’t get promoted because you answer a few questions from a journalist. More likely fired, she thought. But the voice sounded friendly.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked the police commissioner.

  Hi, this is Roland. What are you doing? What was this really about?

  ‘I’m, uh, working on the Vita Bergen case,’ Petra replied uncertainly. ‘Trying to find someone who can identify the victim.’

  ‘Good, good. So you’re in the field?’

  ‘Uh, yes,’ Petra answered stupidly.

  The field? What was going on with him?

  ‘Would you care to drop by and see me a little later, when you’re in the neighbourhood?’

  The silky smooth voice was on the border of ingratiating. Could this be the calm before the storm? Did he want to lull her into a sense of security before he dealt her the death blow?

  ‘Sure,’ answered Petra. ‘How long will you be there?’

  ‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ said the police commissioner with an audible smile.

  ‘Okay,’ said Petra, hoping that Brandt would deliver some parting words.

  He did not.

  ‘See you later then,’ she tried again, hearing immediately that her words didn’t sound as formal as she’d intended.

  ‘Okay,’ said the police commissioner softly. ‘Take care.’

  And with that the call was over.

  ‘What the hell …?’ mumbled Petra, standing stock-still and staring foolishly at the phone in her hand.

  Then she shook her head to bring herself back to reality. She put the mobile on silent and went back into the children’s health centre.

  Sandén rang every doorbell in the building, but no one was home. At the last attempt, on the ground floor, he finally got a response. A man in his seventies opened the door and glared at him through bright-yellow glasses. He was skinny and a little stooped, dressed in a checked blue flannel shirt and jeans, and with a cigarette in his mouth. He might have been the caretaker, thought Sandén, if the building had one. Sandén held out his police ID and explained who he was.

  ‘You are Mr Bergman, I presume?’

  ‘Yes. What’s this about?’

  ‘I just want to ask a few questions. It won’t take long. The family with children who live upstairs – the Hedbergs – do you know where they are?’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘I need to talk to them,’ said Sandén.

  ‘Then ring their doorbell, not mine,’ the old man answered grumpily.

  ‘Of course I already have, but apparently they’re not at home,’ said Sandén, not hiding that he was now starting to get irritated. ‘That’s why I’m asking you: Do you know where they’re hiding themselves?’

  ‘They’re out of town, I would think.’

  He seemed a little shaken after all by Sandén’s harsh tone.

  ‘Why do you think that?’

  ‘Because they do that every now and then.’

  He took a puff on his cigarette, and without taking it out of his mouth blew the smoke out of the other side.

  ‘They’re probably on a “weekend away”,’ he added with contemptuous emphasis.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ Sandén cont
inued unperturbed.

  ‘They’re so refined. He runs around in a suit all day.’

  ‘I see. Blimey. Where do they usually keep their pram?’

  ‘In the apartment,’ the man answered with an unwarranted smile.

  ‘Always?’

  ‘Listen, at first that damn pram was blocking the way down by the entrance, but I told them off and since then we’ve been spared that.’

  Sandén sighed. Bergman had given true neighbourliness a face.

  ‘And when was this?’

  ‘Maybe six months ago.’

  ‘What does the pram look like?’

  ‘It must be black, maybe. Or blue.’

  ‘Is it by any chance dotted?’

  ‘Maybe it’s dotted. Or checked. Or striped or flowery, damned if I know.’

  ‘I would like you to look at a couple of photographs –’ Sandén began, but he was interrupted.

  ‘There’s probably no point in that, inspector, because I’m as good as blind.’

  Sandén stopped mid-motion and pulled his hand back out of his inside pocket.

  ‘So you can’t see my face now, for example?’ he asked with surprise.

  ‘Exactly. I see that you have a body and a head, and we’ll have to be grateful for that.’

  ‘So what do you think about my suit?’

  The man thought before he answered.

  ‘Listen, I can distinguish a white shirt from a dark suit, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  He was clearly not slow on the uptake anyway.

  ‘Thanks for your help then,’ Sandén ended the conversation, holding back the sarcastic tone he would have preferred.

  He went back up to the fourth floor and rang the bell several more times. He crouched down and put his eye to the letter box, but inside it was completely quiet. With a muffled groan he managed to straighten his somewhat overweight body, after which he made a note on his list and hurried down the stairs.

  * * *

  Hanna was mumbling something in her sleep as she lay on her back, snugly encased in the two down duvets on her parents’ unmade bed. She turned on to her side and only a few wisps of tangled hair and a little foot poked out.

  Late in the afternoon Hamad and Sjöberg finished the interviews with the young people, without finding out anything new. Their misgivings were not confirmed; both Jennifer’s mother and sister were at home, and fortunately they were alone in the apartment. Lena Johansson seemed almost sober and perhaps that was why today she looked, if possible, even more lost and worn out than she had on Sunday.