Tuesday Evening
Hamad headed for the metro to Thorildsplan to confront the bartender Juha Lehto with the pictures of Sören Andersson and Joakim’s father, Göran Andersson. It was Lehto’s girlfriend who let him in. She was a short woman in her thirties with a cheerful, open appearance. For some reason it surprised Hamad that she spoke Swedish without a Finnish accent, but when he remembered that her name was Britt-Marie Lundholm it made sense.
‘Juha is on the phone, but he’s expecting you. Come in and have a cup of coffee. Do you drink coffee?’
Hamad suddenly noticed how hungry he was and in the hope of getting something edible to go with it he said yes. She showed him into the kitchen and he took one of the two chairs at the small kitchen table. He heard a male voice from inside the closed door to an adjacent room that he assumed was the bedroom.
‘I have some rolls in the freezer I can heat up if you’d like.’
‘That would be great,’ said Hamad gratefully. ‘Do you work at Viking Line too?’ he asked, to avoid seeming to eavesdrop on the phone call going on in the background.
‘No, I work at a shoe shop in the city,’ she answered as she put the rolls on a plate and into the microwave.
They made small talk for a few minutes until the microwave beeped, just as the door to the bedroom opened. Lehto greeted Hamad and sat down across from him. The girlfriend discreetly left the kitchen.
‘Have you thought any more about what happened?’ Hamad asked, taking a bite of one of the rolls.
It felt impolite to be eating in front of someone who wasn’t, but he pushed the thought aside and tried to take small bites.
‘Of course I have,’ Lehto answered in his melodic dialect. ‘It’s pretty hard to think about anything else. But it feels like I’ve thought about it too much, if you know what I mean. It’s like I don’t know any more if I’m thinking about what happened or my memory of it.’
‘I can understand that,’ said Hamad. ‘It’s a common phenomenon in witness psychology. But you’re aware of it anyway, and that’s a good thing. So you have nothing to add to your previous testimony?’
‘No, unfortunately not.’
From the briefcase Hamad dug out an envelope that he had prepared before leaving the police station, and from it he removed ten photographs depicting middle-aged men, only two of whom he knew.
‘I’d like to know if you recognize any of these men,’ he explained, placing the pictures in a row in front of Lehto.
Lehto sat quietly for a few minutes and Hamad studied his reaction with tense expectation. He could see the bartender’s eyes running back and forth across the photographs. Finally Lehto revealed his thoughts.
‘I recognized one of them immediately, but I wanted to be sure of myself and not say anything too soon. This is the man in the bar,’ he said, pointing at one of the photographs. ‘Small, mean eyes.’
Hamad picked the photograph up from the table and viewed it with satisfaction.
‘You’re sure of that?’ he asked to be on the safe side.
‘I’m completely sure of it,’ Lehto confirmed.
* * *
Lisa’s Café was open in the evening for once. Lisa was stocktaking and thought that this boring but necessary task would be more fun with customers around. Sjöberg was not much company, however, submerged in his own thoughts.
An extremely overweight woman, somewhat older than himself and possibly a little drunk, came into the café and sat down at the neighbouring table with her back to him. She was babbling ceaselessly about first one thing, then another with everyone in the place except Sjöberg, who had the good fortune to be at a kind of dead angle to her. He was not paying attention to what she was saying, but something about her reminded him of his night-time walk with Margit Olofsson. Perhaps it was the hennaed hair, perhaps something familiar in the voice, or perhaps simply her way of taking the whole world in her embrace. There was also the possibility, of course, that Sjöberg’s musings had nothing to do with the talkative woman. Perhaps it was the short break in itself that allowed his thoughts to run away. Because whenever he was not occupied with something else she was always making an appearance. Margit. He barely knew her, and yet there was something about her that felt like home. There it was again, that word. Home.
In logical terms, Margit Olofsson was the opposite of home. Right now she was the greatest threat to everything the word ‘home’ stood for. She had rocked the foundations of his existence and there was nothing positive about that. Absolutely nothing. Yet here he was daydreaming back to that night. A walk, a kiss – that was all there was to it. But still, there was something else too. An aroma, warmth. Security? What kind of security is it that turns everything upside down? Push it away; shut it down.
In front of him was his second cup of coffee, a plate with an almost finished egg-and-anchovy sandwich and a tabloid that he was now leafing through again. Both his own case and Petra’s got quite a bit of space today, and he noted that the paper’s depiction of the police department’s work was not particularly flattering. Even though they were working their butts off, they did not have anything concrete to report to the press. So the articles contained no new facts, only even sharper criticism of their work. But tomorrow they would get pictures of the dead mother and her boy – he and Petra had agreed on that – so then the reporters would have something to feed on. His musings were interrupted by a vibration in his pocket.
‘Jamal here. We’ve identified the man in the bar.’
‘No doubts?’
‘Lehto was dead certain about it.’
‘How many pictures did he have to choose from?’
‘Ten.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At Lisa’s.’
‘I’m on the metro between Thorildsplan and Fridhemsplan. There’s a hold-up. Power cut. It might take a long time, they say. Have you finished eating?’
‘More or less. Okay, out with it now, damn it.’
‘I suggest you immediately make another visit to Ölandsgatan.’
‘Of course.’ Sjöberg ended the call, breaking into a big smile.
Fifteen minutes later he was sitting on the edge of the dark-green couch again, across from Göran Andersson. Joakim was not there this time; Sjöberg had asked him to go out for a while, so that he could speak to his father in private.
The father no longer looked so insolent; his gaze wandered and he avoided eye contact. It struck Sjöberg that perhaps Göran Andersson felt more secure when there were several people around than when he was subjected to a single individual’s penetrating gaze. Possibly his son’s presence may also have changed his attitude. For the worse, it seemed. The aggressiveness seemed to have run out of him completely now, and he seemed mainly uncertain rather than angry and condescending. Perhaps he felt the thumbscrews being tightened. Perhaps the police showing up twice in such a short interval had helped him to understand the seriousness of the situation.
‘Okay, now. So, I’m back already,’ Sjöberg began. ‘It didn’t take long for us to round up reliable witness information that unambiguously points you out as the person sitting in the bar with Jennifer Johansson a few hours before the murder.’
Göran Andersson fumbled with his cigarette pack and finally managed to get one out, which he lit with a match. He glared at the MP3 player on the table and did not answer.
‘You can continue to deny it, of course. That doesn’t put you in a better light, as I’m sure you understand,’ Sjöberg continued. ‘Even if we still have no technical evidence that confirms this testimony, three independent witnesses, all of whom point you out, weigh very heavily in this context.’
Admittedly the two Finnish businessmen had not been confronted with the pictures yet, but Sjöberg saw no reason to reveal that fact right now. He studied how Joakim’s father took a deep drag and coughed. He was off balance now; Sjöberg felt it instinctively. He blew out the smoke and followed it with his eyes for a while befor
e he finally spoke.
‘I sat with the girl briefly in the bar. But so what? I didn’t kill her. I bought her a beer, nothing more.’
‘According to our witnesses you were threatening her. What reason did you have for that?’
‘Threatening?’
‘They claim you were heavy-handed with her and said unpleasant things. Until someone came to her rescue. Did you know who she was?’
Göran Andersson let out a dejected sigh. ‘Yes, I knew who she was.’
‘How did you end up in the bar together? Did you follow her?’
‘No, I didn’t follow her. I was just sitting down in the bar when I caught sight of her. I knew immediately that it was her.’
‘Joakim’s girlfriend?’
‘No, I didn’t realize that until later. When the police showed me the photograph and said her name. Jennifer – that’s fairly uncommon.’
‘What do you mean you knew who she was? Had you met her in some other connection?’
Göran Andersson took a few quick puffs on the cigarette and tapped off a pillar of ash against the edge of the now almost full ashtray on the table. The man must smoke like a chimney, Sjöberg thought. The contents of the ashtray had increased noticeably since he had last seen it just over an hour before.
‘Yes, I had met her earlier,’ Göran Andersson admitted. ‘Or … I thought I had. Now I’m not so sure.’
‘You’re going to have to try to be a little clearer,’ said Sjöberg authoritatively.
‘A lookalike showed up. The sister, I mean. That Elise or whatever the hell her name is.’
‘You can’t tell them apart?’ Sjöberg helped out.
‘It doesn’t seem like it.’
‘So in the bar on the Finland ferry you didn’t know that the girl you were talking with was Joakim’s girlfriend, but you still recognized her from before?’
Andersson nodded.
‘But today when Elise showed up, it occurred to you that maybe it was actually her that you’d met before,’ Sjöberg summarized. ‘Resulting in the attack in the stairwell.’
Andersson nodded again.
‘Now we’re getting somewhere. Why the aggressive treatment? Why did you call her a whore?’
Göran Andersson took a last puff on his cigarette and put it out. Sjöberg waited patiently until he had finished.
‘Joakim was on his way out on Friday night. He was going to meet Jennifer, he said. I couldn’t allow him to do that, but then he got angry and said he was going on a Finland cruise with her the next day. It was completely out of the question for him to go along, so we had a little tussle about that.’
‘A little tussle?’ Sjöberg repeated. ‘You beat him black and blue. That’s called assault and it’s a crime.’
Göran Andersson did not counter Sjöberg’s accusations and did not look him in the eyes. Sjöberg saw how he was shrinking up into the little piece of shit that he was. The faulty structure was starting to shake on its foundations.
‘I thought we’d agreed that he should stay home. Joakim fell asleep and I went to bed,’ Andersson continued.
You beat him unconscious, you miserable creep, thought Sjöberg.
‘When I got up a few hours later he was gone. He had gone out, even though he wasn’t supposed to. I went out in my car to search for him. I drove around for a while, without success. On Skånegatan a girl suddenly came rushing towards me. She waved and waved and when I stopped she started banging on the door. She pulled open the door and got in on the passenger side and I asked what she wanted. She wanted a ride; she was in a hurry to get home, she said. I thought it seemed more like she was in a hurry to get away from there. She was drunk as hell too; she reeked of alcohol. “What will I get for it?” I asked. I wanted to mess with her a little; she did just get in the car without having the green light, so to speak. “I’ll show you my pussy, you dirty old man, just drive!” she screamed.’
Göran Andersson fell silent and started fumbling for another cigarette in the pack.
‘And you let her do that,’ Sjöberg filled in.
‘She just did it. As soon as I started driving she pulled up her knees and spread. She had on a very short skirt and no panties.’
‘And so was this Jennifer Johansson or her sister, Elise?’
‘I’m starting to think it was Elise, but I’m still not completely sure. The girl in the car and the one in the bar the next evening looked exactly alike to me and had similar clothes on.’
‘Very short skirt?’ asked Sjöberg.
‘No, it was a leather jacket with pockets and buttons and shit on it. And they had the same slutty look.’
‘What did you and Jennifer talk about in the bar?’
‘I asked her if she was drunk again. She looked puzzled and didn’t seem to recognize me. I told her she should knock it off with the whorishness, but she was completely blank. That’s what makes me think now that she wasn’t the one in the car; it was the other one instead. Because she on the other hand looked completely terrified when she caught sight of me.’
‘And then what happened? In the bar, I mean.’
‘Some guy she knew came and she went off with him.’
‘And you?’
‘I left the place.’
‘Did you see her again during the trip?’ asked Sjöberg.
‘No, I didn’t see her again. And I didn’t kill her,’ Göran Andersson added. ‘Why the hell would I have done that?’
‘You’ve been lying pretty freely up till now,’ Sjöberg pointed out sharply.
‘But, what the hell! When I realized who’d been murdered and that someone might have seen us together … I didn’t want to admit that.’
‘Innocent people tell the police the truth as a rule,’ said Sjöberg, glancing at his watch. ‘I have to ask you to come to the station tomorrow. We’ll need your fingerprints and samples for DNA analysis.’
‘I’ve got a job to take care of –’
‘So do I,’ Sjöberg ended the conversation.
* * *
A few yards from them, but so far away she was in another world, her own world, Kerstin was trying to hear what they were talking about. She had turned off the wall-mounted TV for once; she had recognized the voice. It was the policeman’s voice, the one with the friendly eyes who had talked to her as if she were a thinking person, as if she understood. He had been upset, raised his voice, but he had talked to her, not about her. He was going to contact social services, he said, take her away from here. Was that what they were talking about out there? She was ready for it now, felt that life perhaps still had something to offer. She had rid herself of Göran; it had taken time, but now he no longer existed for her. She no longer existed for him. During the past few years she had seen him only a few times.
Kerstin had once been beautiful. Interested in fashion and careful about her appearance. She worked in one of the concession shops in NK’s men’s department. Göran could not tolerate that she spent her days there, surrounded by men. Because of that, she had never gone back to work after her maternity leave. He had loved owning her, showing her off. But when someone looked too long he hit her. Not right then, but afterwards, when no one was watching. It was an impossible equation to solve, and she was weak, could not put up any resistance. She did not dare leave him, did not know any other way to live.
But she found a way. When Joakim was born she had a hard time getting rid of all the pounds she put on during pregnancy. Göran criticized her, wanted her to be beautiful, perfect. He didn’t stop hitting her, but it happened less often. Other men stopped eating her with their eyes and Göran lost interest in her as a woman. It was a more comfortable way to live. When he was gone she sat at home and did nothing. Watched TV and ate. She and Joakim took care of each other. As she grew, Göran shrank, as a person and as a man. He became ashamed of her, forbade her to show herself. Finally she disgusted him; he did not want to see her at all, did not want to hold her. Did not even want to hit her.
But she
had Joakim. Kerstin’s world consisted of Joakim and herself. To Joakim she was someone. He took good care of her, made sure she was clean and had enough to eat, and kept her company. They talked to each other. If it hadn’t been for her, he would have left home long ago. She did not want to begrudge him that. Since the policeman with the friendly eyes had been there that morning, they had talked about the future, she and Joakim. He had money now; he had worked hard and saved. When they took her away he would go with her. He would get a life of his own, but he would continue to be part of hers. He assured her that she would get healthy, and she wanted to believe him, she felt ready to try.
The door closed; it was not quite time yet.
* * *
Finally, finally, finally the doorbell rang! It must be Björn arriving, because now it really was evening. It was completely dark outside and the children’s programmes she had been watching had finished a long time ago. Hanna rushed out into the hall and called loudly so it could be heard outside.
‘Hello! Is that Björn?’
‘Ssh, take it easy,’ a voice hissed through the letter box. ‘Is that you, Hanna?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Hanna whispered back.
‘Is anyone else at home?’
‘No, just me.’
She was so excited she could not stand still. She clapped her hands together in front of her chest and her feet tramped eagerly on the spot. Her secret friend had finally come!
‘Do you think your keys work?’ she asked anxiously, but she got no answer, because the letter box closed with a bang.
She stood attentively, looking at the closed door and listening for sounds from outside. Suddenly there was a rattle in the lock and she could see the knob on the inside moving a little. Hanna made small, expectant hops, then she ran up to the door and pulled on the handle, but nothing happened. She backed up a few steps and heard another key being put in the upper lock now and twisted around. The handle was pulled carefully down and now the door was really opening! In the doorway a man appeared; he had a finger to his lips as a signal to remain silent. Hanna did not say anything, but her whole face was one big smile. The man slipped quickly into the hall and quietly closed the door behind him. Only then did he answer her smile and get down on his knees on the rug. The tension was released and Hanna threw herself into his arms. Björn – the only one who had listened to her. It was almost as if Daddy had come home.
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