Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Sure, but Grandpa is delighted,’ said Åsa.

  ‘I can believe that, he doesn’t have to clean up after them. So how are you doing? Are you tired?’

  ‘Exhausted,’ Åsa answered truthfully. ‘But there are three of us. That makes it easier.’

  ‘I’ll do my duty,’ said Sjöberg. ‘Just so we get you all home.’

  ‘You don’t need to think about that right now. How’s it going with the murders?’

  While he updated her he felt an intense longing for Åsa to come home. His life partner and great love. He needed her, and he wanted her with him. A couple of days of the bachelor life was more than enough. Now he wanted his family back. Besides, he wanted to seek consolation in Åsa’s arms, wordless consolation, just to feel that they were together. He’d pushed the incident – or whatever it should be called – with Margit Olofsson aside. It was hidden somewhere deep inside. No further action would be taken. End of story.

  When Sjöberg returned to the others, Eriksson announced that the compilation of male, single travellers on Viking Cinderella was now ready. How could he get so much done without getting up from his chair? About fifty men who had reserved a solo trip across the Baltic were listed. Under Hamad’s supervision, those who lived in the Stockholm region would be questioned, starting the next morning. Sjöberg took on the task of visiting Jennifer Johansson’s high school, to get a clearer picture of her with the help of her teachers and classmates. He could not cope with any more lists, so he decided to call it a day, but Hamad and Eriksson were still in their seats when he left the police building.

  * * *

  Petra had been back in her office for a while, tackling one task after another in order to postpone her visit to the police commissioner for as long as possible. From the tone he had used on the phone she could not figure out what he wanted. And she was not sure how her first official media appearance had gone. Was there any reason to worry?

  On her way back to the police building she had bought the damn tabloid and now she read through the article for the umpteenth time. It filled one page. One whole page, but only one page. It wasn’t small, but it wasn’t that long either. However, for Petra’s mental well-being, it was too much. She did not want to appear in the press at all. She did not at all care for the idea that Peder Fryhk and the Other Man could read about her in the newspaper and discover that she was a police officer. The article did not include a picture of her, only a picture that had been published previously showing her with her back to the camera in her torn leggings, along with some other police officers inside the cordon in Vitabergsparken. On the other hand, she was mentioned by name in several places in the article: ‘Police detective Petra Westman, who made the macabre discovery …’; ‘The child may have an older sibling, Petra Westman from the Hammarby Police Department confirms’; ‘Westman admits that the police have not managed to identify the dead woman.’ There. That could be a reason for repercussions from the leadership team. The journalist’s choice of words was not one hundred per cent favourable to Petra. The word ‘admits’ signalled secretiveness, and ‘have not managed’ hinted at failure on the part of the police. The general public may like that sort of thing, but not the police administration.

  Petra sighed and got up. It was time to take the bull by the horns and present herself to the police commissioner. She went to the end of the corridor and took the lift up to the top floor, where the bigwigs and some of the admin staff had their offices. During the ride she rehearsed what she realized was a weak defence: the words that the reporter used in the article were not hers and she had been ordered to do the interview despite her lack of experience in communicating with the media.

  The door to Brandt’s office was closed and she knocked gently.

  ‘Yes,’ came from inside the office, and Petra straightened up, opened the door and went in.

  ‘Petra!’ said the police commissioner, getting up with a broad smile. ‘Welcome!’

  Petra smiled back and he came towards her with his hand outstretched. Petra was prepared for a formal handshake, but he wrapped both his hands around hers. When he released his grip he showed her to one of the armchairs by the window with light pressure on her lower back. Petra sat in the indicated seat while he stood looking down at her with an expression that she could not interpret. His chest, she thought. He looked like he was about to tip forwards. His centre of gravity is in his chest. À la Groucho Marx.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks,’ Petra answered with a deprecatory gesture.

  ‘Mineral water?’

  ‘Mineral water is fine.’

  ‘Two mineral waters,’ he said into the intercom on his desk, and then came and sat down in the other armchair.

  Between them was a round table small enough so that he could easily reach over and place his hand on her shoulder as he asked, ‘How’s the investigation going? It seems a bit sluggish.’

  The touch made Petra stiffen, but she answered in as relaxed a way as she was able.

  ‘Yes, you might say that. We’re completely occupied just trying to identify the woman. And no garages we’ve talked to have seen a car that matches the damage to the pram and the victim’s injuries.’

  There was a knock at the door and Brandt pulled his hand away with a natural movement. A classic, middle-aged secretarial type, complete with twin set and pearls, came in with a tray with two glasses and two bottles of mineral water, which she placed on the table between them. She nodded amiably at them both without saying anything and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  ‘I see, it’s going slowly, you say,’ Brandt said, looking at her the way you look at a little child who has fallen down and hurt herself.

  Petra poured mineral water into a glass and took a sip while Brandt continued to observe her, with his head at an angle.

  ‘But I’m sure it will pick up soon,’ said Petra in a tone that was supposed to sound hearty.

  ‘I’m sure it will,’ said Brandt. ‘I read about you in Aftonbladet.’

  ‘About me?’ Petra laughed. ‘That was mostly about the case, wasn’t it? I only answered a couple of questions.’

  ‘And you did just fine.’

  What a horrid gaze. This must be what they mean by ‘he looked deep into her eyes’. Must get the conversation moving now, thought Petra, so we can get this over with.

  ‘That’s nice to hear. I tried to stick to the point. Not to say too much and not to leave room for free association. You don’t think –’

  ‘And you were in the picture too,’ the police commissioner interrupted. ‘You looked good.’

  Broad smile.

  ‘That must have hurt,’ he said, moving his eyes down to her crossed legs. ‘Your leggings were in tatters.’

  ‘Ah, it was no big deal,’ said Petra, squirming in the chair. ‘I had to get the child out of those bushes. You have to sacrifice yourself sometimes,’ she added with a laugh that in her ears sounded borderline hysterical.

  Which quite exactly reflected her state of mind. The police commissioner’s gaze was wandering slowly back up to her eyes.

  ‘Do you like children?’ he asked unexpectedly.

  Petra did not know what to do. She considered not answering at all, just getting up and leaving, but she managed to overrule her instincts and calm down. For the sake of my career, she thought. Don’t ruin all future prospects with a single impulsive action. The guy is mentally ill, that’s quite clear. But let him be that way, let him eat you with his eyes and say strange things, humour him just this once.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she answered, letting the air out of her lungs slowly so that it would not be perceived as the sigh it really was. ‘I like children a lot.’

  When he did not answer but simply sat staring at her, Petra felt compelled to say something more. The silence was unbearable.

  ‘But you don’t think I made a fool of myself? In the interview? I don’t have any media experience and I was worried about that �
��’

  ‘Petra, come here,’ Roland Brandt interrupted, his voice dripping with honey. ‘Don’t worry, you did an excellent job. Come here.’

  He waved her over. Petra was about to lose her composure, but she could not sabotage this. Just hold out, she thought, getting up and taking two steps in his direction.

  ‘You are doing an excellent job, Petra,’ he said, extending his left hand towards her.

  Her own hands were hanging loosely by her sides and she left them there.

  ‘As proof of my appreciation I was thinking about treating you to dinner this evening,’ he said, smiling at her as if he were Santa Claus.

  ‘That’s not necessary,’ Petra said quickly. ‘I’m glad you like what I’m doing, but I have to work this evening.’

  He took her hand in his and pulled her to him. Petra did not dare resist, because doing that would be to officially acknowledge that she took the whole thing as a pick-up attempt and not as a friendly gesture.

  ‘Like what you’re doing,’ Brandt oozed. ‘Yes, I’d say that, Petra. And there are others who can work tonight. I’ve already reserved a table for us at Mathias Dahlgren this evening at eight o’clock. That’s not something you say no to.’

  ‘I’ll have to do that anyway, Roland,’ said Petra, hearing how strange that sounded; of course she was not on first-name terms with him. ‘I have other plans this evening.’

  Now she felt a tug on her arm. What was he trying to do? Completely unbelievable; he was trying to pull her down on to his lap. She made herself strong, unwavering, and remained braced against the floor, hand in hand with the police commissioner. This sort of thing does not happen in reality.

  ‘I do too, Petra. I was thinking that we could continue up a few floors once we’ve eaten.’

  A few floors up? Petra did not understand what he was talking about. But she had no doubt about his intentions when his hand released hers and instead took hold of her right buttock. That was the last straw. She took a step back, out of reach of the police commissioner who was puffed up in the armchair with a satisfied grin.

  ‘I’m sorry I need to say this,’ said Petra, no longer hesitant, ‘but I can only interpret this in one way. You’re coming on to me. And that last thing could be considered sexual harassment.’

  Then she turned away from him and headed for the door.

  ‘Are you joking with me, Petra?’ said the police commissioner.

  Petra pushed down the handle.

  ‘I thought you said I was sexy?’ he continued with something in his voice that Petra could only take to be triumph.

  The door opened.

  ‘That’s not what I said,’ Petra answered, ice cold. ‘Someone else put those words in my mouth.’

  Petra left Roland Brandt and went out into the corridor without turning around. The words ‘don’t leave room for free association’ echoed in her ears.

  Tuesday Morning

  Sjöberg had a headache. He’d been in bed by eleven the night before, after wolfing down some leftover fish fingers and macaroni from a container in the fridge. Exhausted, out of pure habit he solved the daily puzzle in the newspaper before turning off the bedside lamp. He had been so tired that he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

  Five hours later he was woken by his own scream. Margit Olofsson’s face, beautifully framed by the abundant red hair like flames around her head, was there again with its tranquil expression. Puzzled, she looked at him, and danced a few steps up in the window, and then he fell. Released his hold on the world and fell.

  Even though he still felt completely wiped out he could not go back to sleep. The morning paper had not yet arrived, so he got up and turned on the TV, clicking between vapid programmes on the cable channels before he heard the thud in the hall and wondered whether it might be Joakim Andersson putting the newspaper through the letter box. After reading every page of the newspaper in the total silence of an empty apartment and then eating a hearty breakfast in peace and quiet, he got dressed and went to work.

  Now he was drawing up guidelines for the day’s interviews while he massaged his temples. It was just past seven and it would be as well to try to reach as many of these single gentlemen as possible before they left for work. He had actually meant to assign this task to Lotten, but she wasn’t in yet, so he might as well do it himself. Just as he was about to pick up the receiver, his mobile phone rang. It was the medical examiner, Kaj Zetterström, calling from Åbo, where he had gone to take part in the autopsy and arrange transport home for the body.

  ‘Are you awake this early?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘We’re an hour ahead of you. Are you awake this early?’ Zetterström countered.

  ‘Yes, today I am. Why’d you call, by the way, if you didn’t think I was in?’

  ‘You aren’t awake. I called your mobile. Meant to leave a message. I don’t even know where you are.’

  ‘I give up, you win. How’s it going over there?’

  ‘Have you talked to Nieminen?’

  ‘Today? No, not yet. Should I have?’

  ‘He tried to contact you on your mobile. I’m sure he left a message.’

  ‘That damn provider!’ Sjöberg swore. ‘The voice messages seem to get stuck along the way somewhere. Sometimes I don’t get them for hours. Okay, you tell me instead.’

  ‘The reason I’m calling is to tell you that the boyfriend’s – Joakim Andersson’s – DNA doesn’t match the semen.’

  ‘Oh boy. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but at least he’s telling the truth. On that point,’ added Sjöberg.

  ‘But not on all points, it appears,’ said Zetterström. ‘What Nieminen had to tell you was that they’ve located those men in suits. The ones she was sitting with in the bar.’

  ‘Good work! Finally, a breakthrough.’

  ‘Wait, let me tell you. Nieminen is a sharp guy; he didn’t know for sure it was them, but he had a feeling, so he told them that they’d been seen in the bar with the girl.’

  ‘Did he question them together?’ Sjöberg asked.

  ‘Yes, he saw them at work. They’re consultants of some kind – whatever that means – and share an office. The Finns will look into their business and see what they really do. Anyway, Nieminen had a mental advantage, so to speak, because he caught them in a lie about the girl. They had said earlier, of course, that they didn’t recognize her. That was a little dodgy to say the least under the circumstances. Suddenly they both confessed, not only that they’d been with her in the bar but also that they’d had intercourse with her in their cabin. Both of them.’

  ‘I’ll be damned. How old are they?’

  ‘In their forties.’

  ‘Poor kid. Why put yourself in such a situation? Did they rape her, do you think?’

  ‘There are no signs of rape, and both these customers deny it consistently. But it’s impossible to say. She had a blood alcohol concentration of 0.15.’

  ‘So why did they lie about that?’ Sjöberg asked. ‘It just makes the situation worse for them.’

  ‘Because she was sixteen and they are forty, maybe,’ Zetterström replied cynically. ‘Or maybe because they’re both married.’

  ‘Or because they’re involved in shady dealings and don’t want to attract attention,’ Sjöberg suggested.

  ‘The Finns are checking up on that, as I said.’

  ‘You said that Joakim doesn’t seem to have told the truth on all points. What did you mean by that?’

  ‘Those gentlemen – Helenius and Grönroos are their names – say they went out again, when they were finished with the girl, and partied some more. When they came out into the corridor, a man was standing there. They maintain, and are quite convinced, that he was the man in the photograph they were shown – Joakim Andersson, that is. They say it was obvious that he had been waiting outside, but when they came out he immediately started to walk away, pretending he was on his way somewhere.’

  ‘And they’ve withheld that information from us!’ Sj�
�berg exclaimed with irritation. ‘The girl they’d just had sex with has been murdered and they keep silent about something that could possibly convict the murderer. What bastards. “Didn’t want the wife to know …” No, put those bastards away. I hope they’re smuggling dope or something.’

  ‘Maybe they’re lying,’ Zetterström interjected. ‘They might have made that up, just to direct suspicion elsewhere.’

  ‘All the better in that case,’ Sjöberg muttered. ‘Listen, the forensic techs over there, are they doing a good job? Or shall we send Hansson over?’

  ‘I don’t think that’s necessary. They seem serious.’

  ‘Everything found inside that loo should be analysed. To the minutest detail. Everything should be matched against those men in suits and Joakim.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ Zetterström defended himself. ‘I’m just the messenger.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Nieminen. Is he there?’

  ‘We’re not working in the same part of the city.’

  Sjöberg thanked him for the information and ended the call. Then he dialled Nieminen’s number and discussed what he had learned from Zetterström. Nieminen also told him that five hundred kronor had been found in Jennifer Johansson’s jeans pocket. That was not by any means an eye-catching sum of money, but the thought still struck Sjöberg that perhaps she had sold herself to the two Finnish men. He asked Nieminen to send over pictures of them. They agreed that Stockholm would continue working on the man in the bar and also apply further pressure to Joakim Andersson, while the Åbo police would question all the single male travellers who left the boat in Åbo, and of course follow up on Helenius and Grönroos.

  Hamad showed up at the door, fresh and well-pressed as always.

  ‘Slept well?’ he asked.

  ‘No, damn it. I have such weird dreams. But you look energetic. Did you stay long last night?’