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Alexis closed her eyes for a brief moment, in an attempt to digest the sheer bleakness of what she had just heard and the awful images it evoked.
‘You think, then, that Linnéa might have known her attacker or attackers?’ Bergström asked, serving a new round of coffee.
‘That’s what I’m beginning to think. What with Tomas’s murder, we now know that our man or men have two sets of hunting grounds: the north and north-west of London and the west coast of Sweden. Just like the killer, Linnéa moved around the same two geographical zones, so this can’t just be a coincidence. I’d say the man she crossed paths with here was a person she knew from London and wasn’t expecting to see in Sweden. Maybe a friend or a colleague; or perhaps a neighbour or a tradesman she might have recognised.’
Emily paused, staring at the board and its constellation of photos.
‘Returning to your question, Kristian,’ she began again, turning towards Olofsson, ‘I don’t know if we’re faced with a man operating alone or a pair of men. Serial killers operating across borders are terribly rare, but they do exist. Much more frequent, though, are tandems consisting of a dominating personality and a dominated one. In the case of a duo, we should make a note of the territorial distribution: one killer in Sweden, the other in London. However, I haven’t noted any significant differences between the wounds inflicted on the three London victims and those suffered by Tomas Nilsson. Even the Y is the same size, although its orientation is slightly different on each body. If we opt for the solo theory, however, we have to imagine the huge amount of organisation and major resources required to be able to kill in two separate territories divided by thousands of kilometres.’
Bergström rubbed his forehead with the tip of his fingers. ‘In your opinion, then, how should we be interpreting the letters? Might they represent their gender?’
‘That would be the obvious explanation, seeing that an X was carved into Linnéa’s arm. But I’m seriously bothered by the way the direction of the Y differs with each child…’
‘Maybe he’s just keen to carve his letter in the arm of each victim and isn’t bothered about the specific position?’ Olofsson suggested, biting into another brioche.
‘I doubt it,’ Emily declared. ‘We’re faced by one or two particularly meticulous personalities. Nothing happens by accident. The mutilations are evidence of fantasies, as distinct as words. A language we have to endeavour to interpret. However, there’s another hypothesis we still haven’t considered…’
Alexis leaned forward on the edge of her chair, her elbows settling on the table.
‘Do you mean that the X on Linnéa’s arm might be a Y, with a stroke across it, indicating that Linnéa was not part of the plan?’
‘Exactly.’
Olofsson hissed with admiration, while Bergström gently bit his lower lips to stop himself from speaking out loudly. Good God, the guy was getting on his nerves!
‘This is all very well, but what do we specifically know about this guy, or his sidekick, if he actually has one? What might his motives be?’ the inspector asked.
Out of the corner of his eye, Pearce was observing the Kommissionar. The poor guy was about to explode.
Seemingly unaware of the tension, Emily was about to respond when the Chief Superintendent indicated with a peremptory wave of his hand that he would do so instead.
‘Serial killers don’t have motives, Olofsson. Their needs are purely psychological. They kill because they have a craving to do so and don’t even know why. The problem with sociopaths is that you cannot decrypt their behaviour the way you can with normal people. Everything is askew, distorted; it’s all filtered through the lens of fantasy. They are usually manipulative, narcissistic and egocentric individuals. But for now, what Emily is certain of is that our man is between thirty-five and forty-five years old, that he is athletic, organised, meticulous, cultured and not pressed for time. That’s as far as the London killer is concerned, if we are, in fact faced with a pair of separate killers. Emily will, of course, expand this profile, but those are the elements that remain uncontested for now.’
‘So what the fuck do we do? We can’t just jail every forty-year-old man who is athletic, organised, meticulous, cultured and holding a passport, surely?’
Bergström could feel a seed of anger rising up his throat again. Why had he been given such an unholy fool to work with?
‘You might as well cuff me right now, then!’ the inspector laughed, holding out his wrists to Pearce and winking at Alexis.
Pearce smiled back. ‘Don’t tempt me, Olofsson.’
Falkenberg police station
Monday, 20 January 2014, 13.00
BERGSTRÖM’S SECRETARY HANDED HIM a tray graced by a large smörgåstårta – a savoury cake made from layers of tasty bread and fillings – and placed it in the centre of the table. He served Alexis, Emily and Pearce generous portions, and they all began tasting the appetising Swedish dish.
A pleasant silence now hung over the conference room. There was no creaking of chairs, interruptions or overloud chewing: the Kommissionar had dismissed Olofsson and dispatched him elsewhere to complete some enquiries. The three Londoners might well have been somewhat phlegmatic but, as far as Bergström was concerned, the uncouth inspector had exhausted all his reserves of patience. Had he had to remain in the same room as Olofsson a minute longer, he would have ended up assaulting him. He wasn’t proud of the fact, but the inspector seemed to have a special talent for lighting his fuse.
In Gothenburg, from where he’d been summarily exiled a year earlier, Olofsson had made an enemy of half the local station after standing as a witness against one of his fellow cops. Having been beaten up for this, he’d had to bid farewell to the big city and was transferred to Bergström, who had little choice in the matter. The Kommissionar had initially thought he was inheriting a victim; he soon realised that was anything but the case.
As soon as the meeting with the London officers reached an end, Bergström had sent the detective out to question Tomas Nilsson’s friends and family, to find out if the child had mentioned anyone new recently. Bergström knew, however, that in London, Pearce had hit a wall on this front: no newcomers had appeared in the lives of the young victims in the months prior to their deaths.
The French woman, Castells, who had taken care, he noticed, to sit with her back to the board, rose, smiling at Bergström, picked up her empty plate and then his, walked past him and served everyone more coffee. She had been taking notes on her iPad while clearly enjoying the smörgåstårta, just lifting her head on occasion as if hearing voices.
The two British visitors, on the other hand, had barely eaten their lunch. For folk who enjoyed lamb with mint, and chips with cheese and ketchup, Bergström found them rather picky. He could forgive Pearce, who had spent all ten minutes of the lunch on the phone, and was still talking; but the Canadian had looked at the sandwiches with evident disgust before becoming absorbed in checking her notebook.
The Kommissionar glanced at the Chief Superintendent out of the corner of his eye. He admired the professionalism, sense of calm and humble attitude of the chisel-featured, broad-shouldered man.
Pearce hung up and rubbed his temples.
‘I’ve just been given some information concerning Anselme’s alibi. He stayed at the Upper House hotel in Gothenburg and the function took place at the Ljus club. How do you wish to proceed, Lennart?’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ Emily intervened.
The DCS threw a deadly look at the profiler.
We all have our burdens: to each an Olofsson, Bergström mused.
‘No problem,’ the Kommissionar smiled. ‘I still have to go to Gothenburg anyway, for little Tomas’s autopsy. Do you want to come with me, Jack? I’ll drop you off at the airport on my way back to Falkenberg, if you want.’
‘That would be perfect. I’ve also been provided with the final details of the alibis of all of Miss Blix’s close friends. Nothing worthwhile, there, I fear.’
Bergström’s secretary moved silently through the room, pushing a cart laden with dusty files.
As she had done in London, and hoping that this time it would prove more fruitful, Emily wanted to check every available file on the disappearances of children over the past ten years, with a particular emphasis on small boys living with a single parent or from dysfunctional families. She was hoping to find some pattern amongst the disappearances that could help narrow her profile; that would tighten the net around the unknown killer or killers. She hoped to read through the transcripts of the interviews with the various families and suspects, and to peruse the police and psychological reports. It was an enormous amount of work to wade through.
Bergström picked up the first bundle and set it down on the table. ‘Emily, what gives you the idea that it all began here?’ he asked, dividing all the files as if he was dealing playing cards.
She knew her answer was unlikely to be warmly greeted, but she had no other to provide.
‘Just my intuition.’
Olofsbo, Falkenberg
Monday, 20 January 2014, 16.00
EMILY AND ALEXIS had left the police station a few minutes after Bergström and Pearce, who had gone to meet the Gothenburg coroner. The Chief Superintendent was returning to London that evening. This was not the only case he was having to work on.
Back empty-handed following his interviews with Tomas Nilsson’s friends, Olofsson had silently begun to leaf through the missingchildren files. He much preferred spending hours with his nose in dusty forms than having to return to Gothenburg and risk coming across any of his old colleagues at the morgue.
Before leaving for Gothenburg with Alexis to check on Anselme’s statement, Emily wanted to interview Linnéa’s neighbours again. She was convinced they would have more to say than what she had read in Olofsson’s report.
Emily parked the car near the turning into a short tree-lined track leading to the shoreside hamlet, and the two women began walking down the narrow, bumpy path, from which the snow had been hastily swept. At the end of the path, by the sea, three yellow wooden houses stood in a straight line. Thirty metres to the right, nearest to the pebble beach, was Stellan’s. Two hundred yards further on was Linnéa’s.
They rang at the door of the first house. According to Olofsson’s report, it was owned by Anders Lager, an electrician.
A tall, imposing man wrapped up in a green woollen jacket opened the door.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Lager. My name is Emily Roy and this is Alexis Castells. We’re investigating the murder of Linnéa Blix, working alongside the Falkenberg police. Could you give us a few minutes?’
‘Do I have any choice?’ the man replied in loud, broken English, looking down at them from his full height. Anders Lager seemed to be one of those people who prefer barking to speaking.
‘Of course you have a choice, sir.’
‘If you say so…’ His mouth twisted as if his lips had been caught on a fish hook. Anders Lager could only be in his late forties, Alexis thought, but acted like a grumpy geriatric.
He stepped back a little to protect his bare feet from the glacial breeze pushing its way past the half-open door, still reluctant to invite the two women in. Alexis could see a laptop standing on a pale wooden sideboard, next to a picture frame displaying a set of images of two men on a beach: Lager and his father, probably, considering how alike they looked.
‘Could you tell us something about your neighbour, sir?’ asked Emily.
‘I’ve already told that Olofsson guy I didn’t know Miss Blix!’
‘We’d just like to know if…’
‘But I’m telling you, I didn’t know her!’
Emily took a step forward. She looked so determined Lager moved back an inch or so.
‘Surely you have an opinion, no?’
‘Even if I had, why should it be your business?’
‘Your opinion, as well as those of all of the people who actually were in contact with Miss Blix, helps me put a picture together of her, a more realistic one than the one drawn by her family and friends.’
‘So go and ring the Ahlgrens’ door, if you’re in search of a realistic picture. They’ll have a lot to say about Blix.’
And, with that, he closed the door in their faces.
Emily wondered why he was referring to ‘them’. Olofsson had only interviewed a Lotta Ahlgren. Who had he missed? There was no point in asking Lager, he wouldn’t open the door again.
They left Lager’s house, where they were clearly unwelcome, and wandered down the path leading to Lotta Ahlgren’s, which was a stone’s throw away from Stellan’s. They rang several times, but in vain.
Making their way back, they knocked at the door of Linus and Barbro Byquist, a couple of retired teachers. A small three or four-year-old little girl opened the door. She wore an Indian headdress over her long blonde hair.
‘Mormor!’ she shouted out, ‘det är inte mamma!’
‘Jag kommer, jag kommer älskling.’
A smiling-faced, brown-haired woman came rushing to the door, wiping her hands on a towel.
Emily introduced herself, explaining the reason for their visit. Barbro Byquist invited them in. She had a strong German accent but spoke perfect English.
The three women sat down in the cosy living room, its wide windows looking out on the snowy fields outside.
With the help of her granddaughter, the hostess laid out brioche and coffee on the small table. Alexis tried one and realised her mother was for once quite wrong: it was soft and delicious, the texture of the sweet bread perfect.
‘You can speak freely, Estelle does not understand English. My other granddaughter, on the other hand, is bilingual. Her father is English, like you. If only you could hear her speak! A true little Brit!’ said Barbro, with unfeigned pride.
She filled three cups with coffee and one with cold milk, and sat herself down, facing her guests.
‘I just can’t believe what happened to Linnéa, it’s just horrible. Discovered as she was, just so close to us … It stops me from sleeping at night.’
‘You knew her well?’ asked Emily.
Barbro’s head shook gently from left to right.
‘Not really, no. But I knew she was a childhood friend of Stellan Eklund’s – the owner of the house at the bottom of the path. You know, the ex-policeman?’
Emily and Alexis nodded in turn.
‘A good-looking man, for sure. Makes you wonder why he’s still a bachelor. You just never know…’
Alexis felt her cheeks redden, not quite understanding why. She took another bite of brioche, hoping Emily hadn’t noticed her discomposure.
‘Anna was also very friendly with Linnéa.’
‘Anna?’
‘Anna Gunnarson, Lotta Ahlgren’s sister.’
‘Ah, of course,’ Emily lied, hoping not to interrupt Barbro.
‘Lotta’s very much something of an old maid, if you know what I mean. But Anna was married. She left her husband some six months ago and has been living with Lotta since, waiting for the divorce to be finalised, according to what they’ve told me.’
‘Anna works in Falkenberg?’
‘Oh yes, she runs the flower store – that large shop on Nygatan, by the bank.’
Emily nodded a couple of times. ‘And did Mr Lager know Linnéa well?’ she said.
Barbro laughed and was echoed by the crystalline tone of her granddaughter. ‘Anders is not someone who makes friends. But he’s not a bad sort: his bark is worse than his bite. And he’s a first-class electrician: he rewired our whole house four years ago. Not had a single problem since.’
‘You told Detective Olofsson that you hadn’t spoken to Linnéa since she returned…’
‘No … Her house was all lit up, but our paths didn’t cross. My da
ughter saw her, though. I didn’t inform the detective as she hadn’t told me yet. She only mentioned it when she dropped Estelle off, the day before yesterday. She said she caught sight of Linnéa a few days before she was found … It was in the morning, Linnéa seemed to be on her way back from a walk on the beach. She said that she was off to Gothenburg that same evening, to have dinner with a friend who was passing through.’
Upper House hotel, Gothenburg
Monday, 20 January 2014, 18.30
EMILY FOLLOWED THE INSTRUCTIONS given by the satnav, moved over to the right side of the road and turned off the motorway. Deciphering traffic signs in this country would always be beyond her, she thought, at least until she learned Swedish.
A few minutes later, they were parking on Mässans Gata, just below the Gothia Towers.
Emily walked across the Upper House hotel’s hall and reached the white lacquered counter where she introduced herself to the receptionist. The curvy blonde shed her fixed whiter-than-white smile, fingering the pearls in her necklace as if they were mere beads. She scanned the hall with a worried look on her face, then discreetly spoke into her phone. She barely had time to hang up when a tall, thin woman in her fifties, wearing an elegant silk-and-wool suit, materialised out of nowhere in front of the profiler.
Kerstin Jensen, the hotel’s manager, led the two investigators to her office while Emily explained the reason for their presence, carefully mentioning the search warrant the public prosecutor had authorised.
‘We require access to your records to check if a certain Richard Anselme was here and assess what he might have been up to. Likewise for Linnéa Blix.’
Kerstin Jensen froze for a brief moment and nervously dragged the tip of her fingers through her hair. Then she regained her composure and put her glasses on.
‘Well … Linnéa Blix has never stayed with us – or, at any rate, not under her own name…’ she said softly, her lips curling and her fingers running across his keyboard. ‘We do have a Mr Richard Anselme, arrival on the 2nd of January. He stayed in the Grand Executive Suite. I have the specific times he entered his room during his stay. I’ll print a copy out for you. I can’t let you know when he left the room, though; our magnetic passes are only used to open the doors to the rooms.’