by Viveca Sten
“So the perp didn’t want us poking around into Jeanette’s death,” he said. “He or she wanted to get rid of her without too much fuss.”
Larsson nodded again. “Probably.”
The police investigation was a mistake as far as the killer was concerned. Had anything else not gone according to plan? They hadn’t found any unidentified fingerprints in Jeanette’s apartment, in spite of the fact that the place had clearly been searched.
And the computer was still missing.
Thomas was becoming increasingly convinced that the killer had wanted to be absolutely certain that Jeanette hadn’t made a copy of whatever was on her laptop. If he or she hadn’t found what they were looking for, they must be desperate by this point. Several days had passed since Jeanette’s death, and it was no secret that the police were on the case.
Alice had denied that her mom had given her anything, but surely Jeanette would have backed up her work? Could the girl be lying? Then again, why would she do that? Thomas shook his head in frustration; they were getting nowhere fast.
“There’s no denying it’s an unusual method, this business of the poisonous beans,” the Old Man said.
“Where can you get ahold of them?” Karin said, turning to Kalle. “Shouldn’t you be looking into that?”
“I already have,” he said, holding up a picture of a green plant with purple flowers. “They come from a plant known in Latin as Abrus precatorius. It has purple flowers, as you can see, and green pods. It’s a tropical vine from India, and it’s available in well-stocked garden stores.”
“Even though it’s poisonous?” Karin said.
“The flowers aren’t poisonous; it’s the seeds inside the beans that are dangerous. The beans are often used to make necklaces and bracelets. There was actually a scandal in England not long ago. There’s an eco-park in Cornwall called the Eden Project, where members of the public can wander around among exotic plants, a recreation of the rainforest and so on.”
The Garden of Eden, Thomas thought. There was a serpent in paradise, too.
“It turned out they’d sold thousands of bracelets made of paternoster beans without knowing they were toxic,” Kalle went on. “Because abrin is classed as a controlled substance under British anti-terrorist legislation, it was big news.”
“In other words, it’s not that difficult to find the beans,” Karin said, echoing Thomas’s thoughts.
“You could easily have the plant at home,” Kalle agreed. “Or buy a nice bracelet from a market stall.”
“Does the fact that these beans were used have any other significance?” Margit asked Mats Larsson.
“Yes and no. It tells us that the killer is refined, in a way, but also that he or she probably doesn’t have a job where they’d come into contact with the most common poisons—arsenic, strychnine, modern chemical substances. I think we can exclude industrial chemists, pharmacists, that kind of professional.”
“An amateur, then,” Kalle said.
“That’s one way of putting it.”
Thomas realized that Kalle had misunderstood; Larsson meant they should be looking at people with different professions. Before he could ask a question, Larsson continued: “I’d say this is someone who’s creative, capable of thinking along different lines. When they can’t get their hands on traditional poisons, they seek an alternative.”
Margit waved her pen. “How does our perp behave, in your opinion?”
Larsson got up and went over to the whiteboard. He picked up a marker and wrote in capital letters:
RATIONAL, ANALYTICAL, LOGICAL, DISCIPLINED
“We’re talking about a highly rational individual.” He underlined the word twice. “A person who can consider and assess various possibilities. Deciding on a specific poison requires intellectual analysis; it has to be something that fits the context and isn’t too hard to obtain. Detailed planning and careful preparation are also essential. This is no impulsive act.”
“So we’re dealing with someone who understands the consequences of their actions,” Margit said. “Not a head case.”
“You could say that.”
Then again, Thomas thought, what sane person deliberately poisons a fellow human being?
“You’re looking for someone who’s disciplined, with good self-control and the ability to think clearly. Action X will be followed by effect Y. If the victim ingests the poison, death will be the inevitable result.” He put down the pen and returned to his seat.
“An ice-cold bastard,” Karin said. She seemed as surprised as everyone else at her choice of language, and her cheeks flushed pink. Kalle gave her an encouraging nudge.
“Are we talking about someone who can function within society?” Thomas asked.
“I’d say so. Our perp could easily have a very good job, maybe even in a leadership role. As I said, planning and the ability to foresee consequences are key.”
“Can we make any assumptions about age or education?” Margit wanted to know.
“Most likely a college education—this is a very sophisticated method. These days, anyway. In the past, when virtually everyone had arsenic in the store cupboard to deal with rats, it wasn’t a particularly refined choice, but now we have much stricter controls. It’s not easy to get ahold of toxic substances, plus forensic analysis is far more advanced, so it’s difficult to avoid discovery.”
“But is it a man or a woman?” Margit said. Her tone was so challenging that Thomas was taken aback. She’s like a terrier, she never gives up. But he appreciated her diligence.
“I can’t answer that.” Larsson sounded almost apologetic.
“Oh, come on!”
“Well, we all know that it’s far more common for men to commit violent crimes. In Sweden only one in ten murderers is a woman.”
“And?” Margit’s expression made her thoughts very clear: Is that the best you can do?
“There’s no statistical basis to indicate one gender or the other. There are simply no clear patterns.”
“But surely you must have an opinion?”
Larsson couldn’t suppress a sigh. “What we do know is that men are far more likely to use implements—a knife, a gun, a blunt object. We also know that women who kill are far less likely to use such weapons.”
Thomas could see where he was heading.
“So that would suggest a female?”
“It’s a possibility, but once again, I can’t establish a gender from the limited material available.”
The Old Man also seemed skeptical. “As you just pointed out, in this country only one in ten murderers is a woman. Am I right in saying the victims of these crimes are usually the woman’s own children or partner?”
“Yes—women’s use of fatal violence is usually focused on family members,” Larsson confirmed. “Eighty percent of cases involve a close relative, and ninety percent occur in the home environment. The same applies to female victims; eighty percent of those crimes take place in the home.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes in an effort to maintain concentration. Larsson didn’t usually hit them with quite so many statistics; he must have read a new report recently. Obviously these statistics suggested they were looking for a man, but that wasn’t much help under the circumstances. Thomas wanted to know if there was anything about the method that was significant for this particular case.
A different angle.
“So what about Jeanette herself?” he said. “Can we link motive and method to the fact that Jeanette was a woman?”
“Good question,” Larsson replied. “My instinctive answer is that there’s often an issue involving jealousy or problems arising from a relationship breakdown when men murder women.”
“We haven’t found anything like that,” the Old Man said. “No angry ex-lover. And the divorce was finalized years ago.”
“But we do have an ongoing custody battle between Jeanette and Michael Thiels,” Thomas reminded him.
CHAPTER 79
Someone was standing in
the doorway when Nora opened her eyes.
“Simon?” she mumbled groggily, still half asleep. The night had been filled with dreams of Henrik and Jonas. Einar had popped up, too, and Jukka Heinonen.
“Are you awake, Mom? Can I come in?”
Nora tried to focus. She was hot and sweaty, with the covers pulled right up to her chin.
“What time is it?”
Simon was still in his pajamas, with a chocolate-milk mustache adorning his upper lip. “Quarter past ten,” he informed her, coming closer.
“Oh wow.”
She had slept for almost thirteen hours. Had she been so exhausted? Probably, yes.
“Dad said we mustn’t disturb you because you were sick. Are you still sick?”
Nora sank back against the pillows, trying to sense how she felt. Her whole body felt heavy, but last night’s fever had gone.
“I’m OK, sweetheart; I just need to rest a little while longer.”
“Can I get into bed with you?”
“Best not—you don’t want to catch something.”
“That’s what Dad said.”
Nora patted his arm. “So what are you going to do today—will you go over to Fabian’s?”
There was a sound from behind Simon, and Henrik appeared with a tray.
“How’s the patient?” he asked as he came in. “Can you manage a little breakfast?”
Nora could smell tea and toast. There was also a glass of juice, and a fried egg with several slices of tomato.
“Shall we leave Mom to eat in peace? She’ll soon be back on her feet,” Henrik said to his son before turning to Nora. “So how are you feeling?”
Nora sat up, smoothing down her hair with one hand. She was wearing only her panties and a white T-shirt, which felt damp against her back.
“Better, thanks, but I’m still tired. I don’t know what happened yesterday.”
“You had a temperature spike.”
Delivered with a doctor’s complete confidence. Henrik leaned over and placed a cool hand on her forehead.
“No fever—let me check you over.”
He put gentle pressure on the glands in her neck.
“Open wide and say aah.”
“Aah.” Nora complied, feeling a little foolish, but at the same time it was nice to relinquish control, let Henrik decide if she was sick or not.
“I can’t see any sign of inflammation in your throat. It must have been something temporary, probably a twenty-four-hour bug. That kind of thing is pretty common—you’ll soon be back on your feet.”
He took a step back, gave her a little pat on the cheek.
“At least that’s what your personal home physician thinks. Simon, how about you go and get dressed now, leave Mom to have her breakfast?”
He headed for the door, shepherding Simon along in front of him.
“Try and get a little more sleep when you’ve eaten; you’ll soon feel much better.”
The door closed behind them. Nora waited for a couple of minutes until she heard footsteps going down the stairs, then she slipped into the bathroom to brush her teeth.
Her toast had gotten cold by the time she returned, but it didn’t matter; it was still delicious. She was hungry, and ate everything Henrik had prepared.
It was strange to get such a high temperature with no warning, but maybe it was her body’s reaction to the previous day.
To what had happened in Einar’s office.
She was overwhelmed by a wave of misery. I can resign, she thought, curling up under the covers. I can look for another job.
The misery was immediately superseded by terror.
She had taken out the loan on the apartment in Saltsjöbaden with the bank, taking advantage of her generous staff discount. The cost of maintaining the Brand villa on Sandhamn also took its toll on her finances, even though she supplemented her income by renting out her grandmother’s house, her former home, to Jonas.
She couldn’t leave the bank without another position to go to; she had to be able to support her sons. As a single mom, she had only herself to rely on; that had become painfully clear after the divorce.
If the bank gave her a less-than-glowing reference, it would be very difficult to find something else.
Mom and Dad, she thought, but instantly dismissed the idea. Her parents were both retirees; they had enough to get by, but not much more. Lasse had been self-employed, while Susanne had worked for the local council in a clerical post. They had been there for her every step of the way when she split with Henrik, helping out with the boys and driving them to sports practice, but they wouldn’t be able to keep her afloat financially.
I don’t want to sell the Brand villa. Aunt Signe had left the house to her; it was an act of trust, an inheritance to preserve for future generations. One day Adam and Simon would own it.
She and Henrik had argued fiercely over Nora’s decision to keep the place. That had been one of the reasons for the divorce; Nora couldn’t imagine selling it, nor her grandmother’s house.
I need to talk to someone, someone at the bank who knows both Einar and Jukka. Who can give me advice.
One by one she went through her colleagues. There were ten legal advisers in total, four women and six men. Allan was the latest appointment, Herbert the oldest at sixty-two. The secretaries were Anna and Kerstin.
Nora worked mainly with Anna, who’d been there for the same length of time as Nora—ten years.
Who could she trust, who could she tell about Project Phoenix . . . and Einar?
She didn’t see any of them outside office hours, in spite of the fact that she got along well with all of them. What about Allan? They’d worked together quite a lot over the past year, and she liked him. But if she told him what had happened, he would be caught in the middle, torn between Nora and their boss.
He would be put in an impossible position, and she just couldn’t do that to a colleague.
But I’m not going to change my mind about Project Phoenix.
I can’t go back there. Even though her eyes filled with tears, she knew the decision was made.
CHAPTER 80
Thomas headed to Margit’s office to discuss Michael Thiels, but there was no sign of her. She wasn’t in the kitchen either, so he headed for Karin’s office, where the door was ajar. She was sitting at the desk, her attention focused on her computer. Pictures of a green plant with purple flowers filled the screen: Abrus precatorius.
“Have you seen Margit?” he asked.
“I think she went to ask Nilsson if the results had come through from Linköping.”
Of course, they were due today—he’d forgotten.
“How about Aram? Has he called in?”
Karin shook her head. “Shall I try his home number?”
“Please—I’ve already called his cell phone several times.”
The forensics department was on the same floor, beyond a locked door. Staffan Nilsson had the corner office at the far end, and Margit was already seated in the visitor’s chair when Thomas arrived.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said immediately. “Staffan’s had the report from Linköping. They’ve been so quick—they must have made us their number-one priority.”
Good news, which was much needed.
“What have you got?” he said.
“They found abrin in the samples we sent down,” Nilsson began.
So it was exactly as he’d suspected—Jeanette’s coffee had been poisoned.
“It was in the chocolates,” Margit announced.
“What?”
“Do you remember seeing some chocolate truffles on a plate in Jeanette’s kitchen, along with a dried-up, half-eaten Lucia bun?” Nilsson said.
Thomas tried to picture the table, the plate, the coffee cups.
“The chocolates were poisoned,” Nilsson went on. “The beans had been ground up and added to the chocolate mixture; a couple of bites would probably have been enough to kill Jeanette.”
A dry coug
h.
“Even Agatha Christie couldn’t have come up with anything better: a deadly festive treat served up on Christmas Eve.”
“That’s macabre,” Thomas said.
“It reminds me of the murder in Malmö,” Nilsson said.
Thomas was vaguely aware of the case: back in the nineties, a gangster in the south of Sweden had injected Rohypnol into liqueur chocolates and persuaded an antiques dealer to eat them, with the aim of robbing him.
“Presumably our perp didn’t grind the beans for long enough, which is why Sachsen managed to find those fragments,” Margit said. “Luckily for us.”
Thomas was still trying to digest the information.
“So it was in the chocolates,” he said slowly.
Mats Larsson had said the method was personal, that there had to be some kind of intimate contact between victim and killer. Only a real sicko would offer a woman homemade poisoned chocolates.
It must have been incredibly important to get Jeanette out of the way.
What else had Larsson said? That it was someone Jeanette knew well. The tone of the text messages on her phone reinforced that view.
There was only one person on their radar who fit those criteria, only one person who also had a clear motive for wanting Jeanette dead.
Michael Thiels.
CHAPTER 81
Michael Thiels slowly put down the phone on the kitchen table, staring at the black receiver where his fingerprints were still visible.
He had been called into Nacka police station for an interview at one o’clock, which was less than two hours from now.
The woman who’d phoned had been brief; she hadn’t wasted time on any pleasantries.
“Do I need my lawyer?” he’d asked before she hung up.
“You’re being interviewed as a matter of routine information gathering; legal representation isn’t normally necessary under those circumstances. However, you’re welcome to bring someone with you if you wish.”
Then the call had ended, and he’d remained standing there by the kitchen counter, unable to grasp what was going on.
