But his victory was mixed with ambiguity. Who was to blame? Who was truly deserving of his fury? He was drowning in his yearning for her. His grief and hate got the better of him again.
WALTER LEANT OVER the girl’s peaceful face. Her eyes were closed and her mouth sealed with stitches. He observed her in silence. She somehow appeared alive despite being dead, like a young actress with make-up to mimic the dead in some staged scene.
Her eyelids twitched slightly. Curious, he leaned closer. Suddenly, her eyelids opened. Two black holes grinned back at Walter and he fell backwards, horrified.
He awoke soaked in sweat. The alarm clock showed five minutes past four. The image of her empty eye sockets stayed on his retina, despite the fact he was wide awake. This had been happening more often over the years, these dreams about the children and how death always shrouded them.
He had never been able to confront the pain of Martine’s death. He had convinced himself that she was just out of town and would soon be coming back, standing there on the doorstep and greeting him with the warm smile that she had inherited from her mother.
Still, deep down, he knew that this was a dishonest, pathetic self-indulgence. He knew that she had been cremated and that the ashes had been scattered in the wind on that weekday eleven years ago. Anything else was just an illusion to keep him going.
His back felt sore as he got out of bed. He sat himself at the kitchen table, holding his back and massaging it even though he knew it would not help.
He had three injured vertebrae in his lower back, which would never fully heal. He was now paying for his carelessness with his back in his younger years. According to the doctors, there was no point in surgery. Regular exercise would help, but a single session with an over-zealous instructor at the gym had been more than enough for Walter. Walter and endorphins quite simply were not compatible. He had to roll with the punches, as it were.
He laid down again and not only went back to sleep – which was definitely not a common occurrence, especially after a nightmare – but also accomplished the feat of oversleeping. The mobilephone ringtone that played Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold” abruptly shattered his slumber.
Newly awake, he grasped his mobile phone and searched for the green button.
“Do you know what time it is?” Lilja began.
Walter had no idea what time it was. He turned around awkwardly and saw that it was nine-thirty.
“It feels like seven?” Walter suggested.
“Hardly,” Lilja muttered. “We’ve picked up Karin Sjöstrand from the psychiatric ward. You were supposed to head up the interview with her at nine-thirty. Or were you thinking of working from home today?”
“Give me half an hour,” Walter groaned and got out of bed.
Despite the lack of parking and constant traffic jams, there are some advantages to living in Vasastan if one works at Kungsholmen, Walter thought, as he left the lift on the fifth floor of the police station precisely thirty-eight minutes after Lilja’s call.
The interrogation room on the fifth floor was one of the detention centre’s smallest. Twelve square metres with no window, one table and four chairs was pretty much all there was. In the centre of the table, there was a microphone from which the cable disappeared down through a hole in the dark oak. Two robust fluorescent strip lights projected a high-contrast glare in the room that highlighted the smallest of facial details with an eerie intensity. A person looked at least twenty years older in here.
Before Walter entered the interrogation room, he pulled Jonna to one side.
“Now, I want you to listen to me.”
“I’m listening,” Jonna answered, focused. She had sat and waited impatiently for her temporary boss to grace the investigation with his presence. All that talk about Walter being an early riser was obviously an exaggeration.
“It is I who will be asking the questions and you will be observing. This is crunch time, so I want you to stay in the background.”
Jonna frowned. “Can’t I say anything at all?”
“Preferably not,” Walter explained. “This interrogation is not like the pimp and his alibi. It’s different this time.”
“In which way is it different?”
“The woman in there is not a strung-out crackhead with her brains under her arm. She’s in shock and has been given sedatives. This requires a slightly different technique. And I’d prefer to handle this operation myself. You’re welcome to watch, but try not to show any facial expressions or to betray your emotions and how you feel with body language. Try to look expressionless.”
Jonna nodded her understanding. In accordance with Walter’s request, she would do her best to remain expressionless. The only thing she did not understand was the type of interrogation technique Walter was using. This situation was unlike anything that she had learned at RSU. Good cop/bad cop was a classic technique, which she and Walter had successfully used for the alibi witness. Jonna had found her role without being coached by Walter. With three barbed-wire-chewing policemen, the female witness for the alibi could hardly have done anything else than confide in the sympathetic young woman in the police quartet. Jonna was very satisfied with her performance. Jonsson and Cederberg’s mediocre contribution, on the other hand, puzzled her. She now understood what the instructors at the police academy had meant by “desensitized and professionally fatigued” officers. Time and circumstance erodes your humanity until one becomes part of the system oneself. And then becomes blind. They quite simply could not see the wood for the trees. But, as usual, there were no rules without exceptions. Walter was the oldest and had the most years in service, but no situation or person seemed to influence him. He was cynical and impervious to pretty much everything. Jonna did not know which was worse. Plague or famine, take your pick.
Walter and Jonna took their seats facing Karin Sjöstrand, who had the not-so-unfamiliar lawyer Rolf Martensson at her side. She had demanded a lawyer even though she was not suspected of anything yet. She clasped her hands and held them tight against her stomach as if in prayer. Her eyes were fixed on the table and her mouth was tight-lipped. At the short end of the table sat the notary Gunvor Janson, in the role of secretary.
Gunvor Janson smiled at Walter, who nodded briefly back. Walter apologized for his lateness and shook hands with Martensson, who had not stood up when Walter had come in. They knew each other far too well to indulge in such niceties. This was not the first time that Martensson had sat on the opposite side of the table.
CHAPTER 8
WALTER SCRUTINIZED Karin Sjöstrand closely. The silence in the room was infused with the anguish of a mother who had just lost her child. Her face was sunken and there were dark circles under her tear-worn eyes. Despite this, she sat with remarkably straight shoulders. Wonder how much medication they have pumped into her, Walter thought. When Malin’s death sinks into her consciousness, she will certainly break down.
Walter started the voice recorder, began with the usual formalities about who was present in the room, and declared that this was an informal interrogation. So far, no prosecutor was involved.
“How are you feeling?” Walter began and at the same moment the thought occurred to him that he had forgotten his cough drops at home. He had not had time to drink any coffee either. For a brief moment, he considered asking Jonna to go and get him a cup, but he dismissed it almost immediately because then he would be forced to ask the others as well. Such an exercise would delay the interrogation further and he did not have time for that.
Karin’s answer came surprisingly quickly. “Well, how do you think I feel?” she said in a low voice, without lifting her eyes from the table.
“We have questioned your neighbour,” Walter continued and opened the interview file on Mrs Ekblom. “According to her statement, there was a disturbing shouting match in the stairway before she opened the door and saw you sitting beside Malin at the bottom of the stairs. How would you explain that?”
“You promised that I would
get to see Malin again,” Karin interrupted and raised her eyes. She had something hateful in her eyes.
“Well …” Walter dragged out the word. “I rather thought that it would be easier on you if you went to the psychiatric ward and got help. Back home on the sofa, you would only be feeling poorly, and we did not want to have to use force.”
For a few seconds, it looked as if Karin was going to pounce on Walter. Throw herself over the table and tear him to shreds. But then she sank back and gazed down at the table again.
“I have nothing left to live for anymore,” she said, and her eyes revealed a void. He needed to get the interrogation moving before she completely collapsed. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Jonna looked tearful.
“Do you know why you are here?” he continued in a calm voice.
Karin did not answer. She looked at the table and knotted her hands until the fingertips paled.
“Will you tell us what happened?” Walter continued.
Karin took a deep breath. First, she looked at the notary who had adopted a stony expression. Then, at Walter.
“I hit Malin so that she fell,” she said. “It was my fault.”
Martensson convulsed, as if someone had woken him with an electric shock.
“It’s not at all certain that it happened that way,” he began and put his hand on Karin’s arm. “You are still in shock and, in that state of mind, one can say a lot of things one doesn’t mean.”
Karin looked questioningly at Martensson.
“Did you have an argument?” Walter asked.
“I must have been so angry that I didn’t know what I was doing. Everything blacked out and I …” Once again, she lowered her eyes to the table.
“Why were you so angry?”
“Malin hadn’t been in touch all day. She had played truant from school and was probably with Sanna and that Mustafa character.”
“Did you hit her in self-defence?”
“It hasn’t been established that Karin hit her daughter,” Martensson sternly interrupted. “You will have to rephrase the question.”
“Rephrase?” Walter exclaimed. “For Christ’s sake, this is not a trial.”
“It’s still …” Martensson began, but was interrupted by his client.
“No, I think she wanted to get away from me. I really can’t remember exactly,” Karin tried to recall.
“Can’t remember?” Walter repeated and feigned surprise, putting on his glasses. He opened the folder of the preliminary post-mortem report.
“According to the post-mortem, someone ripped a sizeable piece of hair from Malin’s head. Could this have happened in the struggle? Is it possible it was you who ripped the hair from Malin’s head?” he asked, and looked up from the folder.
“Wait just a minute,” interjected Martensson. “My client doesn’t remember what happened. There’s no point in you asking questions that she can’t answer.”
“I’m just trying to help her remember,” Walter smiled sweetly. “I hardly think that’s something you can assist with.”
Martensson glared sourly at Walter.
“As you perhaps are aware, we have a witness who claims to have heard you and Malin arguing on the stairs,” Walter continued. “Your neighbour, Märta Ekblom, says she heard you cry out, and I quote, ‘What have I done?’ End quote.”
Walter removed his glasses and leaned back in his chair.
The room was quiet. Not even Rolf Martensson said anything.
Karin stared blankly at the wall behind Walter.
Walter rubbed his eyes in a hopeless attempt to wake them up. He felt strangely drained and unmotivated. He threw a glance at Jonna, who sat and fumbled endlessly with her mobile phone. She seemed to have pulled herself together.
The tears were gone.
Karin switched her gaze from the wall to Walter.
“When I came home from the court, I felt irritated,” she began. “I just became more infuriated the longer time went by. I couldn’t get hold of Malin. Finally, I got so frustrated that I broke a glass. That’s never happened before, at least not in anger. I can’t tell you why I was so furious.”
“Which court?” Walter asked.
Martensson raised an eyebrow in curiosity.
“The Stockholm District Court,” Karin answered. “I usually sit on the jury a few times a week.”
Walter’s motivation returned as quickly as it had disappeared. He glanced at Jonna, who also seemed to have woken up.
“So you’re a lay juror?” he asked and tried to regain his focus.
“You can do what you want. I can’t live without my daughter,” Karin answered in an apathetic voice.
“But it was you that pulled out your daughter’s hair?”
Before Martensson managed to open his mouth, Karin answered “Yes” to the question.
“Will you tell us what happened?” Walter continued, looking at Jonna. She was staring at the woman with great interest.
Causing Martensson considerable discomfort, Karin nodded an affirmative. The lawyer looked as if he had swallowed something distasteful.
“We had a fight in the doorway,” she began, almost relieved. Tears rolled down her cheeks and her voice became weak. “I wanted to know where she’d been, but Malin was very aggressive and didn’t want to listen to me. I felt consumed with rage. Then I don’t remember so much.”
“Malin could have fallen by herself,” Martensson suggested quickly. “At the very worst, it’s a tragic accident,” he continued to elaborate. “It’s not even proven that Karin caused Malin’s fall on the stairs.”
“But what about the hair?” Walter asked and glared angrily at Martensson.
“I had it in my hand,” Karin said, with tears running down both cheeks. “I had her hair in my hand.”
Jonna steeled herself and tried to hold back the wave of empathy that washed over her. It was the first time she had encountered real and intense grief and, even if she herself had not lost someone dear to her, she could almost imagine the torment that the woman was suffering right now. She tried to fend off the feeling by reminding herself that Karin was a murderer, that she was not to be pitied, that she should be sentenced. But no matter how she tried, she could not picture the woman in front of her as a woman who had killed her own child.
Walter had heard enough. The murderess had said what she had to say and there was not a lot more to add. He could not, however, prevent himself from feeling some sympathy for her. But there was something that was not quite right. To first claim amnesia and then remember that she had Malin’s hair in her hand was a little surprising. Amnesia was usually claimed by less talented villains as soon as they were cornered, but she was apparently in a state of shock – in which the brain could not sort events into a logical order. Statistically speaking, it was an unlikely story. A mother does not kill her child just because she is not home on time. That Karin had suddenly become mentally ill and completely insane did not sound feasible either. Walter’s intuition told him that she was not insane. Yet, she had caused her daughter’s death.
He called the custody officer on the intercom, and a burly male police officer and even larger woman police officer gently took Karin away. She would certainly receive yet another set of sedatives and some counselling on top of that.
The notary, Gunvor Janson, asked if she should close the door behind her. Walter nodded. He wanted to sit for a while by himself in the empty interrogation room. Listen to the silence and to the noise in his head. He pressed his fingers hard against his temples in an attempt to create order from the confusion within.
Just as Walter was about to leave the room, Lilja appeared in the doorway, accompanied by Jonna who seemed to have recovered from the interview.
“How nice of you to take the time to pay us a visit here at the police station,” he began. “By the way, how did the interview go with that Karin Sjö … what’s-her-name? According to Jonna, it went well.”
Walter leaned back in his chair, absent-min
dedly twisting a pen.
“Sjöstrand, yes,” Walter said. “We can close her file. She more or less told us herself that she caused her daughter’s death in some sort of struggle. The daughter fell down the stairs and landed on her head. According to Swedberg, she died more or less instantaneously. My guess is that it will be a charge of manslaughter against the mother.”
Lilja leaned against the doorpost and put his hands in his uniform-trouser pockets. “Yes, something like that. Damn tragedy, that. How can someone do something like that to their own daughter?”
Walter shrugged his shoulders. “You tell me.”
“She was apparently a lay juror,” Lilja added.
“Yes, do you want me to drop the case now?” Walter asked.
“No, why?” asked Lilja.
“I thought maybe Julén wanted me to do the same as I did with Bror Lantz.”
“Spend your time and energy on this instead,” Lilja said with a sudden harshness in his voice, removing his hands from his trouser pockets. “Lantz is history. One can’t win every battle. The main thing is to win the war.”
Walter sighed at Lilja’s old, worn-out clichées, but could not resist joining in.
“How can one win the war if one also has to fight against one’s own forces?” he said, challengingly. “Warfare on two fronts has never been very successful, if you read the the history books.”
Lilja observed that he had no more time to embroil himself in lengthy discussions on history with Walter. He had a meeting to get to.
He has the common sense to flee rather than to fight badly, Walter silently concluded as he heard Lilja’s footsteps disappear down the corridor.
“But surely, there are similarities,” Jonna said after Lilja’s hasty exit. She offered it more as a statement than a question.
“Between Lantz and Sjöstrand?”
Jonna nodded.
“Maybe, maybe not,” Walter said. “We shouldn’t jump to conclusions over the similarities. Coincidence occurs more often than one would expect. There are actually statistics on it.”
Anger Mode Page 8
