Cinderella Girl

by Carin Gerhardsen

  She could not see his face now when they were hugging, but she felt his big, warm hands as he caressed her hair and back, and it felt so nice to have someone with her again. She wanted to fall asleep like that, right there in Björn’s soft embrace, but then her eyes fell on the familiar paper bag he had set down on the floor when she came running towards him, and hunger got the upper hand.

  ‘McDonald’s!’ she cried.

  He set her down on the floor and stood up.

  ‘Of course!’ he said with a smile. ‘A promise is a promise.’

  He looked at her as she stood there beaming at him.

  ‘You’re a pretty little person,’ he said. ‘How old are you, Hanna?’

  ‘I’m this many,’ answered Hanna, waggling the three fingers that she held up in the air before him. ‘But soon I’ll be this many,’ she continued, raising another finger.

  ‘How clever you are to manage all by yourself here at home,’ he praised her. ‘But it smells a little bad in here. I think we’ll have to take a bath once we’ve eaten.’

  ‘Yes!’ said Hanna. ‘Are you going to take a bath too? Are you dirty?’

  ‘I’m probably a little dirty. If you want, we can take a bath together.’

  Hanna was not used to this. Her parents never bathed with her. They always said the bathtub was too small, that it was cramped to sit in if you were a grown-up. But Björn – he didn’t care about that; she had made a really good secret friend.

  ‘Of course,’ said Hanna. ‘But first I want to eat hamburgers.’

  She took him by the hand and led him into the kitchen. Half-empty and empty packets lay in a mess of melted ice and food scraps. The kitchen didn’t smell that good either, but he didn’t scold her like Mummy would have.

  ‘Is there another table we can sit at?’ he asked. ‘Then we won’t have to clean in here,’ he added with a wink.

  That’s a good idea, thought Hanna. ‘We can sit in my room, because you can’t eat in the living room. Everything’s so nice and expensive there.’

  She went ahead of him into the children’s room and sat down on one of the little chairs by the little table. She swept the bookmarks and toys on to the floor with her arm and looked up at her secret friend with a happy smile.

  ‘Now we can eat!’ she said, pulling him down on to the chair beside hers.

  Just as they were about to begin the phone rang. Hanna got up and started running towards the hall.

  ‘Don’t answer, Hanna,’ said Björn. ‘Don’t worry if it rings. I’m here now.’

  Hanna stopped in the doorway.

  ‘But what if it’s Mummy!’

  ‘It’s not. Sit down.’

  Another ring.

  ‘But what if it’s the police!’

  ‘The police?’ said Björn, looking concerned.

  ‘There was an angry policeman who called and said that he would come if he didn’t get to talk to Daddy,’ Hanna explained.

  A third ring sounded in the apartment.

  ‘Where’s the phone?’ asked Björn, suddenly getting up and rushing out of the room.

  ‘In the hall!’ Hanna called after him.

  Just after the fourth ring, Hanna heard Björn’s calm voice from out in the hallway.

  ‘Hedberg residence … Of course … I understand … No problem … Bye.’

  * * *

  Einar Eriksson had called that number many times without getting any answer. When someone finally picked up it was a little girl, who said that her father was only out for a little while. That proved to be correct. Eriksson removed the Hedberg family at Ploggatan 20 from his list.

  * * *

  Hoping that the train would soon start moving, Hamad decided to stay seated. The alternative was to go by foot to Fridhemsplan and then look for a bus that might take him in the direction of Skanstull. While he waited he took the opportunity to call Westman, whom he had not had a glimpse of in several days. Except when she – as he interpreted it – left Sjöberg’s office in tears a few hours earlier.

  ‘It’s Jamal. How are you doing?’ he asked gently.

  ‘Fine,’ Westman answered curtly. ‘How are things going for you?’

  ‘Moving along. Was something wrong before?’

  ‘No, why do you think that?’

  ‘Petra, I saw it. Tell me what’s happening.’

  ‘Nothing is happening.’

  ‘Don’t try. I could see on your face when you went into Sjöberg’s office that you were prepared for the worst. I heard in his voice that he wasn’t very happy either. Did he reprimand you?’

  ‘On the contrary,’ Westman answered cryptically.

  ‘Later he basically interrogated me about what we were doing last Friday evening,’ Hamad continued stubbornly. ‘Did something happen after we went our separate ways?’

  ‘Nada. Nothing.’

  ‘Okay, then I guess there’s nothing –’

  ‘Okay.’

  Hamad sighed audibly and gave up.

  ‘You know you can come to me, Petra. If there is something. See you.’

  ‘All right. Thanks for calling anyway.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ he muttered to himself as he stuffed the phone into his pocket and went back to staring alternately out of the window and at his watch.

  The train was stuck between stations for forty-five minutes. The satisfaction of getting Joakim’s father identified as the man seen in the bar with Jennifer gradually diminished as time passed. It was sheer luck. If Elise had not gone to see Joakim and run into his father, perhaps they never would have discovered it.

  Andersson. That was not a name that leaped out at you when you were staring intently at long lists. And another Andersson had also shown up as a person of interest in the investigation: Sören Andersson. It struck Hamad how their interest in him had suddenly diminished. How had that happened? Hamad tried to replay the conversation with Elise Johansson. They had pressured her concerning Sören Andersson and his wallet. After a lot of evasion she finally admitted that she had acquired it on Friday and not on Sunday as she had said earlier. But she still refused to admit that she had stolen it.

  Then she blurted out that bit about Joakim’s father, which they had quickly followed up. All suspicion was now focused on him. Correctly perhaps, but where did Sören Andersson go? Could it be pure coincidence that Elise shows up at the police station with a wallet that belongs to a passenger on the ferry where her sister was murdered? The thought was gnawing at him during the whole journey back to Södermalm. He tried several times to call Sjöberg, but he seemed to have his phone turned off. Not until Slussen did he get a response. They agreed to meet outside the barriers at the metro entrance at Skanstull.

  Sjöberg took his jacket from the hook, pulled it on and stuffed the MP3 player in his pocket. He went out to the corridor and was walking in the direction of the stairs when it struck him that perhaps he ought to check in with Petra before he took off. He turned and went over to her office a little further down the corridor. The door was open and she was sitting at the desk, looking as if she was working. He knocked softly on the doorpost and stepped in. She looked up at him with a tired smile.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked, sitting down on the visitor’s chair with his hands pushed down in his jacket pockets.

  ‘No, I’m still here,’ Petra answered a little wearily. ‘Have you heard anything?’

  Sjöberg shook his head.

  ‘No news is good news,’ he answered, without for a moment believing that. ‘But we’re going to get through this, don’t worry.’

  Petra sighed and set her elbows on the desk, letting her chin rest on her thumbs.

  ‘Thanks for your support, Conny. I appreciate it.’

  ‘The centre of gravity, Petra. Make sure you have your centre of gravity in the right place when they come after you.’

  Petra straightened up and leaned back in the chair with a laugh. She laced her fingers behind her neck and suddenly looked completely relaxed, almost a
t peace, Sjöberg noted. Maybe that thing about centre of gravity wasn’t so silly after all.

  Yet another knock at the door and the deputy police commissioner stepped into the room with a serious expression. Sjöberg gave him a tired glance and then looked at his watch.

  ‘Gunnar,’ he said guardedly. ‘Are you here this late?’

  ‘Good that you’re here, Sjöberg. I need to talk to both of you. We’ve looked at your case now, Westman, and have decided that we should go easy on you. At the police commissioner’s recommendation we’re choosing to avoid court. On condition that you resign. That way this will stay between us, and you’ll be spared the embarrassment of being fired … and the gossip among your colleagues that would follow.’

  Factually and without a trace of Schadenfreude. He was simply doing his job. Petra sat as if petrified as the information sank in.

  She did not know how to react. Was this positive – losing your job but escaping jibes in the corridor?

  ‘Court?’ said Sjöberg. ‘What would the classification of the crime be in that case?’

  ‘Sexual harassment, of course,’ answered Malmberg, standing with his legs apart and his hands in his trouser pockets.

  He looked like a well-ironed cowboy. On most men this would have appeared pathetic, but for him it seemed quite natural. A ten-pointer, thought Petra. A winner on all levels. Sjöberg was thinking nothing of the kind as he sat, still with his hands in his jacket pockets, lightly tapping his fingers on the MP3 player.

  ‘And how would you define sexual harassment?’ he asked, with stoic calm.

  ‘Well, in this case it’s rather simple,’ said Malmberg with a joyless smile that revealed a perfect row of teeth. ‘Do I need to describe the content of that e-mail to the police commissioner?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘I’m thinking like this: Let’s say that a high-level superior calls a female employee – who is in a subordinate position – into his office, and entices her with a reservation, already made, to one of Stockholm’s best restaurants and a room at the city’s finest hotel. When she says no, he tries to pull her on to his lap and caresses her behind. Would you characterize that as sexual harassment?’

  ‘Of course, Sjöberg,’ laughed Malmberg, ‘but that never happened.’

  ‘And if I can prove it?’ Sjöberg continued, and Petra could almost see sparks flying from him now. ‘You can tell the police commissioner from me that I have confirmation from Mathias Dahlgren that there was a table reserved by Brandt for eight o’clock yesterday evening. And I have confirmation from Grand Hotel that Brandt reserved a double room there yesterday, and that it was cancelled at the same time as the restaurant reservation.’

  A raised eyebrow was all that revealed that Malmberg had not been prepared for this. Petra held her breath as she followed the exchange.

  ‘And I should thank you for this, Petra,’ said Sjöberg, now suddenly waving the MP3 player. ‘It was prudent of you to have it turned on. It will come in handy at the hearings.’

  Suddenly she realized what he was up to and a broad smile spread across her face, still leaning back in the chair with her hands behind her neck. The only thing to do was play along.

  ‘No problem, Conny. You can take care of it for now.’

  ‘What do you mean, hearings?’ asked Malmberg.

  His neutral facial expression had suddenly shifted to something more human.

  ‘What Westman and I were just discussing,’ Sjöberg answered calmly. ‘We intend to file a report against the police commissioner for sexual harassment. There are also clear elements of abuse of authority as well, which we think we may pursue further.’

  Petra listened attentively, completely taken by surprise by Sjöberg’s initiative.

  ‘I knew nothing about this,’ said Malmberg, starting towards the door. ‘I’ll have to talk to the police commissioner and hear what he says.’

  ‘Tell Roland I’m sorry if I offended him,’ said Petra, strengthened by Sjöberg’s priceless improvisation.

  Malmberg suddenly stopped and turned towards them with a decisive look.

  ‘I suggest we agree that this conversation never took place,’ he said. ‘I feel sure that the police commissioner will share my understanding.’

  ‘I haven’t heard a thing,’ said Sjöberg with a wink in Petra’s direction. ‘And I haven’t seen any provocative e-mail either,’ he added to be on the safe side.

  ‘Deal,’ muttered Malmberg.

  ‘By the way, Gunnar,’ Sjöberg added. ‘Brandt promised to give Sandén’s daughter a trial as an assistant in reception. Please see to it that that’s done.’

  ‘Sure,’ answered the deputy police commissioner resignedly and he left the office.

  ‘Before you tell me how it went with Göran Andersson, I just want to say one thing,’ Hamad began when he met Sjöberg at Skanstull. ‘So that it doesn’t drown in other interesting facts like last time.’

  Sjöberg nodded attentively.

  ‘I think we dismissed the suspicions against Sören Andersson far too casually. When Joakim’s father showed up in the investigation, we focused all our attention on him. There’s nothing strange about that, but I just want to point out that we’re not through with Sören Andersson. That’s all I wanted to say.’

  ‘You’re very right, Jamal. Elise was up to no good last Friday and now we’re going to talk to her about that. This time we won’t give up until she tells us the whole truth.’

  Once again they made their way to the Johansson family apartment at Ringen, while Sjöberg briefly recounted how the conversation with Göran Andersson had developed.

  Elise was in bed, fully clothed under the covers, listening to music on her iPod. She had earphones on and did not hear when they knocked, so they stepped into the room unannounced. Hamad closed the door behind them to dampen the commotion from the kitchen and living room where life went on as usual. Elise sat up with a start, giving them a somewhat harried look. Sjöberg thought her eyes looked red and wondered whether reality had finally caught up with her.

  ‘Hi, Elise. Here we are again,’ said Sjöberg apologetically, throwing out his arms.

  Elise pulled the earphones out and started tapping on her iPod. She did not answer, but reached for her cigarettes while she got out of bed. Then she sank down on the floor with her back against one of the cupboards. Hamad did the same, but Sjöberg considered himself too old for such things and sat down on the only chair in the room.

  ‘Now we want to hear what really happened last Friday night,’ said Sjöberg. ‘We know more or less what you were doing, but we’d like to hear it in your own words.’

  ‘Has he –?’ Elise began, but stopped herself.

  ‘Has who?’ Sjöberg echoed encouragingly.

  ‘Has anyone said anything?’

  ‘Someone has said something, yes. But now I want to hear you say it.’

  ‘Say what?’

  ‘What you were doing last Friday. We know you’re not doing too well right now, Elise, but you have to talk. It’s important. We think you can help us find the person who murdered Jennifer.’

  She tapped a cigarette out of the pack and put it in her mouth. Sjöberg tossed her a box of matches from the desk, and no one said anything until she had lit her cigarette.

  ‘I’m just so scared,’ she said with a sigh, and for the first time she looked Sjöberg in the eyes without immediately turning away.

  There was silence for a few seconds before she continued.

  ‘I know you’re going to think I’m a slut, but I was drunk and stupid and … Well, I guess it’s genetic,’ she said, nodding towards the door. ‘But I am never, ever going to do it again. I’ve learned that at least.’

  Then Elise finally told them. It felt liberating. She was ashamed of her story, but it was still good to get it out. As if some of the shame released its hold on her. She told them how she and Jennifer had been sitting there on the kitchen floor, with their mother and her friends carrying on in the ba
ckground, smoking and drinking. How they had chatted about this and that, nothing important, just keeping each other company.

  As she painted the picture of how she and her big sister had spent their last moments together, it suddenly became so clear to her. The loss of someone to share this fate, her childhood with, hit her like a kick in the gut. She felt the tears welling up in her eyes and the words sticking in her throat, but she didn’t care. It was so nice just to share her thoughts with someone. So she talked, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. She told them how the intoxication had put her in a good mood, made her strong and brave. How on that final evening she had unexpectedly got to borrow her sister’s new leather jacket, how she had met Nina down on the street, Nina who had money and who whispered and pointed out the ‘paedophile’ to her, the disgusting old man who groped little girls. She told them how she had gone up to him and made her idiotic offer. Which she would regret for the rest of her life.

  She walked three steps behind him all the way to the car park at Bjurholmsplan, where he had left his car, a dirty white Opel. He unlocked the door on his side and got into the driver’s seat, then leaned over to the passenger door and opened it for her. She looked around before she got into the car, as if to make sure that no one noticed them and understood what they were going to do.

  Elise felt exhilarated and wild. It was one of those divinely inspired intoxications where all the barriers come down and the rules loosen up and become meaningless. She imagined that this was how it felt to do drugs; it was like you put yourself outside your real self, become immortal and just live life here and now. She was bubbling inside. He drove silent and resolute through lively blocks, single-mindedly headed towards more deserted areas. She tried to talk to him, but he was taciturn and uninterested. Asked what he was going to do over the weekend; she was going to Åbo on Viking Line, she lied to make herself interesting, but he wasn’t going to do anything, didn’t want to talk about anything. She studied him covertly as he drove with his eyes rigidly fixed on the street ahead of them. How old could he be? Fifty maybe, or seventy? Hard to say: he was an old man anyway. Not clean. Greasy hair hung down over his ears and he had an unfashionable old man’s jacket on. His hands on top of the steering wheel were skinny and hairy. His profile was okay, but the skin on his face had large pores, and it was greasy too.