‘Do you have any idea what he did after that? Nilsson, I mean? After you fired him?’
‘I heard a few things. There were a lot of Swedes over there, so there was quite a bit of talk. Not least about Staffan Nilsson. Seems like the first thing he did was buy a share of a couple of whore-bars – the sort with little girls – in Phuket. That was probably what he did with the money he stole from us. I think those bars were his main source of income. He had a souvenir shop, too, apparently. Also in Phuket.’
‘Does he still have any assets over there?’ Johansson asked.
‘The last I heard was that he’d had a serious falling-out with his Thai associates and had moved back to Sweden again. Had to, pretty much, from what I heard. Dear God, that must have been at least ten years ago. When Alf told me he was still involved with projects in Thailand, it came as a total surprise to me. I thought he pulled out years ago.’
‘Well, thank you very much,’ Johansson said. High time he went to the toilet and switched off the little recording device before it started to bleep in his breast pocket, he thought.
‘Don’t mention it,’ Carl Blomquist said, raising his glass. ‘I presume this conversation will go no further than this table?’
‘Of course not,’ Johansson said. ‘Discretion is a point of honour,’ he said, raising his glass.
77
Thursday, 12 August
In the afternoon Johansson had a check-up with Dr Ulrika Stenholm. After the usual squeezing and hammering, she passed on greetings from his physiotherapist, who was happy with his progress, and from his cardiologist, who wasn’t.
‘I can’t say that I’m particularly happy either,’ Ulrika Stenholm said, then tilted her blonde head. ‘Your readings could be much better. How are you really, Lars?’
‘You shouldn’t be asking me that – you’re the doctor, not me. Anyway, how are you?’
‘Well, naturally, I’m curious about the other thing,’ she said, craning her long, thin neck. ‘About Yasmine, I mean.’
‘That’s going very well indeed,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ve found the man who did it.’
‘What? You’re not kidding, are you?’
‘You don’t kid people about things like this.’
‘Who is it, then? Is he still alive?’
‘He’s at the peak of fitness, if you ask me.’
‘I have to say, this comes as something of a shock.’
Yes, you look rather taken aback, Johansson thought. No longer curious, more like frightened, he thought. ‘Well, it’s good to have it done and dusted,’ he said vaguely.
‘But I don’t understand. Your colleagues, twenty-five years ago, there were loads of police officers working on this case, for several years. Without any success. Then you show up, and after a month – it’s no longer than that since I told you – twenty-five years later, say that you’ve found the man who did it.’
‘That’s partly thanks to you,’ Johansson said. ‘So thank you for that.’ Lucky for you that it wasn’t little Bäckström who turned up in your department, he thought. Always assuming that a massive boil on the arse could cause a blood clot in the brain.
‘You’ve got to tell me who it is,’ Ulrika Stenholm said. ‘What a terrible business.’
‘That’s a bit tricky,’ Johansson said. ‘Because the case is prescribed, of course, so in a purely legal sense that means that nothing can be done about it now. With that in mind, I’m not sure it’s such a good idea for me to go round telling people his name. I’m assuming, by the way, that this conversation, and all our conversations on this subject, will stay strictly between the two of us.’
‘You don’t have to worry on that point, Lars. I haven’t breathed a word to anyone. Dear God, this is terrible. There must be something that can be done? I mean, someone like that. There must be some way of punishing him?’
‘That would be down to the good Lord,’ Johansson said. ‘As far as worldly justice is concerned, I’m afraid we’ve already lost him.’
‘But there must be something you can do?’
‘I’m still thinking about that,’ Johansson said. ‘I hear what you’re saying, and I’m thinking about it.’ But you probably shouldn’t hope for too much on that score, he thought.
The best idea would have been for you to keep your mouth shut, Johansson thought as he sat in the car on the way home. She looked terrified, poor thing, he thought.
‘How did you get on with him? With the doctor?’ Matilda asked once he was safely installed on the sofa in his study.
‘Lady doctor,’ Johansson said. ‘Dr Stenholm’s a she. Fine, thanks. It went absolutely fine. She’s very pleased with me.’
‘Don’t lie to me,’ Matilda said. ‘Do you know something? You’re just like a big child,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘Double espresso,’ Johansson said. ‘With a jug of warm milk on the side. And a little ham sandwich would be nice.’
‘Forget it,’ Matilda said. ‘You can have the coffee, but on one condition.’
‘What’s that?’
‘That you pull yourself together and start looking after yourself.’
‘I promise.’ Johansson said.
Matilda’s a good girl, Johansson thought as he watched her go off to make his coffee. But it’s a fucking disgrace that she’s got all that scribbling all over her body. Mind you, given the mother she’s got, I should probably be grateful she hasn’t taken to cutting herself.
78
Thursday evening, 12 August
Pia had an evening meeting at the bank and had hardly made it out of the door before Johansson decided to use his new-found freedom to pay a surprise visit to Erika Brännström.
‘Fire up the engine, Max,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m going out to talk to a witness.’
‘Right you are, boss,’ Max said.
Max stayed in the car once Johansson had explained things to him. Sensitive situation and all that, and some conversations had to stay between two people. If they happened at all, that is.
‘It might take five minutes, might take an hour,’ he said. ‘So stay nearby and I’ll call you on my mobile.’
‘What’s his name?’ Max said. ‘In case,’ he added with a slight smile.
‘It’s a she,’ Johansson said. ‘Woman in her sixties. Her name’s Erika Brännström, and she lives on the third floor.’
‘Okay,’ Max said. ‘Give me a call if you want me.’
Johansson did as he had been taught. The problem was that it had been more than twenty years since he last did it. First, with a considerable amount of effort, he crouched down and gently opened Erika Brännström’s letterbox in order to hear better. There’s someone in the flat, he thought. A radio was on, easy listening from the sound of it, and in the gap between two songs he even heard her humming the last lines of ‘Dancing Queen’ by Abba.
Well then, Johansson thought, and straightened up to ring the doorbell, but suddenly everything went black and the floor where he was standing turned into a trap-door. He crashed into her door, bounced back and fell flat on his backside. Which, all things considered, was much better than last time. And he didn’t even have to ring the doorbell. Ten seconds later Erika Brännström opened the door, looked at him and shook her head. Judging by the look on her face, she found the sight amusing.
‘Were you thinking of sitting there all night?’ she asked.
‘You should know,’ Johansson said. ‘One Norrlander to another.’
‘Take it easy as you get up,’ she said, taking a firm grip of his healthy left arm and helping him to his feet.
‘Thanks,’ Johansson said.
‘Coffee?’ she asked.
‘A cup of coffee would be lovely.’
Five minutes later they were sitting in her living room, drinking coffee. At first, Erika Brännström sat in silence, just looking at him. Not remotely hostile, more intrigued, and possibly slightly anxious. Not for her own sake, apparently, but his.
‘You’ve never conside
red looking after yourself?’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You’re even fatter than you were last time I saw you.’
Where have I heard that before? Johansson thought. ‘It’s not that easy,’ he said. ‘Let me tell you, it’s not that easy.’
‘A stubborn, restless man like you. Don’t try to tell me you couldn’t do it. You’ve got it too easy, that’s what it is. Unless you just don’t care, of course.’
‘I promise to make an effort,’ Johansson said. ‘I’ve got a few questions, if you don’t mind?’
‘Probably best to get them out of the way, then. Before the neighbours start to wonder what’s going on. I imagine it’s that hairgrip that’s bothering you. The one you thought belonged to Yasmine.’
‘Yes,’ Johansson said. We might as well start with that, he thought.
‘It wasn’t me who found it,’ Erika said. ‘It was Margaretha. Some time in the autumn, after that terrible summer when little Yasmine was murdered. Margaretha found it under her bed when we were cleaning in advance of her move. She gave it to me, asked if it belonged to Karolina or Jessica. My daughters, but you know that. Why she asked, I don’t know, seeing as they had short hair at the time.’
‘So what did you say?’
‘I said it wasn’t theirs. It wasn’t until much later that it occurred to me that it might have been Yasmine’s. That wouldn’t have been all that odd, actually, given that she sometimes played round there several times a week. And she used to run about pretty much as she liked. Jessica and Karolina were a bit better behaved. Besides, I was the one who had to tidy up after everyone. So I used to keep an eye on them.’
‘Did Margaretha have any ideas of her own? Did she think it might be Yasmine’s?’
‘No,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘She never asked. But you didn’t have to work in the health service to tell that she wasn’t feeling great, which was hardly surprising, as she’d been so fond of the girl.’
‘No,’ Johansson said. ‘The idea that something like that could have happened to the child of one of her neighbours must have come as a great shock to her.’
‘If I’ve understood you correctly, it was actually much worse than that,’ Erika Brännström said.
‘How do you mean?’ Johansson asked, even though he knew exactly what she was thinking.
‘That she was murdered in Margaretha’s home,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘While I was up at Mum and Dad’s in Härnösand with the girls, and Margaretha was at her summer cottage out on Rindö. That’s what you think, isn’t it?’
‘Not think,’ Johansson said. ‘I’m fairly certain that’s what happened. In Margaretha Sagerlied’s bedroom, if you’re wondering. I’ve thought that all along.’
‘That explains a thing or two.’
‘Such as?’
‘When we were putting together the inventory before she moved – because most of the contents were going to be sold – I thought there was one sheet and one pillowcase missing. She had a dozen of each; they were a gift from her husband when they got married. Finest-quality linen. Embroidered with her initials: MS.’
‘What did you think at the time?’
‘I don’t think I thought anything. The last thing I would have thought is that anything could have happened inside Margaretha’s own home. That was completely out of the question. If I thought anything, it was probably that they’d gone astray in the laundry at some point over all those years. Maybe she’d taken them out to the country, or given one set away. Something like that, I suppose.’
‘You never asked?’ Johansson said.
‘No. Anyway, Margaretha was getting worse and worse. This was some time during the spring, or winter, maybe – after New Year, anyway, in 1986 – when most of her things were sold. I was really worried about her. She seemed so distant the whole time. I was actually very fond of her, in spite of all her idiosyncrasies, you know. And my kids certainly didn’t have any complaints. Aunt Margaretha was their great idol.’
‘Yes, I can imagine,’ Johansson said. No lies this time, he thought.
‘Well, then,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘That really only leaves one thing, doesn’t it?’
‘What do you have in mind?’
‘Staffan Leander, Margaretha’s husband’s nephew. The son of Johan’s half-sister, so Johan was his uncle, Margaretha his aunt by marriage. Yes, that was it,’ Erika Brännström said, and nodded. ‘Margaretha was his aunt.’
‘Staffan Leander Nilsson,’ Johansson said. ‘Leander is his middle name. To be more precise, his surname is Nilsson.’
‘I see,’ Erika said. ‘Staffan Nilsson. Well, well. When he introduced himself to me, I’m sure he said his name was Staffan Leander. That was also when he told me that Margaretha was his aunt, because I had no idea about that. I thought all her relatives were dead.’
‘Tell me,’ Johansson said. You should have been a policeman, Lars Martin. You’ve got this interview thing down pat, he thought.
The first time Erika Brännström met Staffan Leander Nilsson was in the spring of 1984. She was helping out at a big party in Margaretha’s house, and that was where they met. The last time they spoke to each other was six months later, in the autumn of the same year, when she called him to have it out with him about what she thought he’d done to her daughters. In between, during the spring and summer of 1984, they saw each other on perhaps ten separate occasions, at most. On two of them he called round to pick up her daughters, the first time, when he and Margaretha were going to take them to Skansen, and the second time, when he and the girls went to Kolmården Wildlife Park.
‘He was extremely charming, you know. Funny and entertaining, too. Polite and helpful and all that. Nothing like the bloke I’d been married to.’
‘Did he try it on with you?’
‘I thought he was at first. But I wasn’t remotely interested. He was ten years younger than me, after all, and I was sick of men at the time. But he was very sweet with the girls; he used to play and mess about with them. Nothing like their father, like I said.’
‘That didn’t strike you as odd?’
‘I remember asking him. He said he was an only child; he’d been brought up alone by his mum. Never met his dad. He said he spent the whole of his childhood wishing he had younger brothers and sisters. Preferably younger sisters, to play and muck about with. That was what he used to wish for, apparently.’
‘Yes, I suppose that sounds plausible,’ Johansson said, even though he had grown up with three brothers and three sisters and spent most of his childhood wishing he were an only child.
‘Yes, this was before the big paedophile debate, and the idea that such a nice, pleasant young man might be interested in young girls in that way . . . Well, it was unthinkable. I mean, Jessica, my youngest, was only five or six years old at the time, and her big sister was ten. And the first few times he met them I was there the whole time. We went to the funfair at Gröna Lund once. And we went on an outing to Hagaparken. I suppose I was just happy and grateful to have found a nice young man who wanted a couple of younger siblings he’d never had.’
‘When did you start to suspect that there was something wrong?’ Johansson asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘It was mostly just a feeling. That there was something odd about him. That such a young, handsome, pleasant lad didn’t have a girlfriend. I know I asked him about that, actually.’
‘What did he say?’
‘That he’d had several girlfriends, but none of them had lasted very long. He thought girls his own age were too superficial. He just hadn’t found the right one yet. I suppose I didn’t start to get suspicious until he’d been to Kolmården with the girls. That was when I realized that something must have happened. They were both completely different afterwards. I asked them what had happened, but neither of them wanted to say anything. That was some time towards the end of the summer.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I’d spent a lot of years working in the health
service, so I talked to a good friend of mine, a colleague. He worked as a paediatric doctor. So he examined them. He already knew them, so it would have been a bit easier for them if anything had happened. But he couldn’t find anything physically wrong with them. But he was fairly confident they’d been through something they didn’t like, or didn’t understand. But at least it wasn’t rape or anything like that.’
‘That must have been a relief for you. Did you talk to a counsellor about it, at all?’
‘Like I said, I talked to my friend. Asked what he thought. He advised against it. He said he thought it was the kind of thing that would sort itself out, and that therapy might actually make it worse. Said he didn’t think adults should insist on digging up that sort of thing. At least not if it was only on that sort of level.’
‘So you followed his advice.’
‘Yes,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘It wasn’t a hard decision, either. I’ve met so many crazy people in that part of the health service. I suppose I’m a bit of a Norrlander on that score.’
‘Very sensible,’ Johansson said. ‘Staffan Nilsson, then? What happened with him?’
‘That was the funny thing,’ Erika Brännström said. ‘He didn’t get in touch for a whole month, whereas before he used to call several times a week, so in the end I decided to call him. I asked him straight out what he’d done with my girls when they were at Kolmården.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He was shocked; he swore and promised he hadn’t done anything, and for a while I even thought he was crying. It sounded like it, anyway. He didn’t understand what I meant. He was completely innocent. So I said it was probably best that we leave it at that. And that if he made the slightest attempt to contact me or them again, I’d go straight to the police and report him.’
‘That was the last contact you had with him?’
‘Yes. Since then I haven’t met or spoken to him. I haven’t even seen him.’
‘Did you mention it to Margaretha?’
The Dying Detective Page 31
