by Sten, Viveca
“Would it be possible to identify a murder weapon by comparing a blade with a wound?” Thomas wanted to know.
Sachsen nodded. “Very possibly.” He took off his glasses and put them back on as he thought it over. “However, that applies only if you have a bone that has been cut through, preferably the skull or a larger bone such as the spine or femur. Soft tissue is no good; the damage won’t leave traces that can be used as evidence.”
He pointed to the piece of bone protruding from the gray fleshy mass.
“It would definitely make things easier if you can find more body parts,” he said. “That would enable us to establish the cause of death.”
“Believe me, we’re doing our best,” Thomas replied.
“Anyway, we can hardly confiscate every knife on Sandhamn,” Margit said.
“And I imagine the knife in question was thrown into the sea long ago,” Thomas said. “Hardly seems likely the killer would keep it.”
Margit fingered the tweezers Sachsen had put down, their long pincers pointing toward the stump.
“Anything else you can tell us before we go?”
Sachsen shook his head.
“Not at the moment, but if I come up with anything I’ll be in touch.”
“When do you think we’ll have the autopsy report?”
“I’ll send it over as soon as it’s done; I’m going to do a few more tests first.”
“As soon as possible would be good.”
The expression on Sachsen’s face made it clear that he understood.
Sandhamn 1923
Great-Uncle Olle lived in a little red cottage not far from them, close to Mangelbacken. It consisted of one room with a big stove. There was a bed against one wall, and a shabby kitchen table and wooden chairs under the window.
Olle was almost seventy years old; he was a widower, and his body was tired and stiff. All those years struggling with the nets in the damp and cold had given him rheumatism. His huge hands were bent and distorted, and in the mornings he found it difficult to straighten his fingers. He’d had to give up picking berries and foraging for mushrooms, but he still knew where to fish for the best catch. One long line, and he had cod, flounder, sometimes even a splendid eel.
From time to time Gottfrid gave him a few kronor; otherwise he lived simply and without fuss. The little kitchen garden behind the cottage provided him with enough potatoes, and he bought sour milk for thirty öre a bottle from the residents of Harö, who would row across with their churns.
Thorwald enjoyed visiting his great-uncle, and Olle’s face would light up as soon as the boy appeared. They liked to sit on an old bench that Olle had made out of driftwood; they could stay there for hours as the old man talked about days gone by. He had a good memory and a rich fund of stories to tell. Slowly he would fill his pipe and lean back against the wall, then he would begin his tale as Thorwald listened in awe.
Olle remembered fishing for herring at the start of the fall. Special, fine nets were laid out in order to catch the skinny but delicious fish, which would be salted before reaching the table, to great anticipation from everyone. He could also entertain Thorwald with tales of fishing expeditions unexpectedly struck by bad weather, when sails were torn asunder and both boat and men went down.
He once terrified the boy when he told him about a customs inspector who had both hands chopped off during an inspection. Great-Uncle Olle swore that it was a relative of theirs who had met this terrible fate.
The inspector was attempting to board a French brig that was suspected of smuggling. A fierce storm was blowing as the customs boat set off, and they had great difficulty reaching the brig. When they finally pulled up alongside, the conscientious inspector hurled himself across and just managed to grab hold of the brig’s gunwale. However, as he was about to heave himself on board, the captain appeared with a huge axe. With one single blow he chopped off both the inspector’s hands. The poor man fell into the sea and drowned, while the smugglers got away.
After that, Thorwald dreamed of bloody, severed hands clutching at him. Night after night, he woke up breathless and dripping with sweat.
That didn’t stop him begging for more stories, of course. And Thorwald was always welcome at Olle’s house. Even though the old man had very little, he never failed to offer the boy a sandwich.
“Don’t you eat at home?” he once asked, his expression troubled as the boy devoured what had been put in front of him. “Doesn’t that mother of yours feed you?”
The boy merely shook his head, too busy chewing to reply.
Thorwald sometimes noticed his great-uncle looking at the bruises on his arms or cheeks, but the old man never asked questions; he simply shook his head and muttered under his breath. Olle often gave the boy a loving pat on the cheek before they sat down at the rickety table to eat. And every time, Thorwald wondered why his father never touched him that way.
CHAPTER 20
The tentative knocking was almost inaudible. When it came again, a little louder this time, the sound penetrated Marianne Rosén’s consciousness.
She was lying on the pale sofa in the living room with a blanket over her legs. She must have nodded off, though she hardly dared sleep in case the police turned up with information about her daughter. She looked around for Anders, but he wasn’t there. Maybe he’d gone back to the bedroom to rest; neither of them had slept for more than a few minutes at a time overnight.
The knocking came again.
Slightly dazed, she tottered into the hallway and opened the door. The freezing wind hit her like a clenched fist, taking her breath away. Still, it was a few seconds before she recognized the bundled-up figure on the step.
“Ingrid? What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to disturb you.” Ingrid Österman looked down. “Can I come in?”
Her voice was weak, almost drowned out by the raging wind. Her scarf was pulled up around her ears, muffling the words.
Marianne contemplated her visitor in surprise. Ingrid was married to her cousin, and lived in one of the small houses near the chapel. The last few years had been hard for Ingrid; her husband had been out of work since the Maritime Administration’s cuts, and shortly afterward they had lost their only son in a tragic boating accident.
In the midst of her own sorrow, Marianne still felt sympathy for Ingrid.
“Of course.” She stepped back, and Ingrid walked in, loosening her scarf and tucking her hat in her pocket.
“Coffee?”
The question came automatically, taking Marianne by surprise. How could she operate normally, given the circumstances? Anders had tried to tell her that they should leave the island, go back to town, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it—not so long as there were police officers on Sandhamn, searching for her beloved Lina.
Ingrid nodded as she unbuttoned her jacket and took it off. Without a word she followed Marianne into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
Marianne switched on the kettle. When the water had boiled she placed two steaming mugs on the table and offered Ingrid the jar of instant coffee. Then she spooned the powder into her own mug and added two lumps of sugar.
Ingrid still hadn’t spoken. Her hair was uncombed, the greasy gray strands hanging around her face. She seemed unable to look at Marianne.
“How are you?” Marianne said eventually. She stirred her coffee to dissolve the sugar, then got up and fetched milk. She was restless, couldn’t sit still. She refused to believe that Lina was dead. Her baby was alive, and soon the police would find her, it was only a matter of time. She would have known if Lina was dead. It was perfectly possible to live without an arm.
Ingrid reached for her coffee. Her hand was trembling. She opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. After a few seconds she made another attempt:
“I wanted to offer my condolences. I know what it’s like to lose a child. I know how much it hurts. I wish there was something I could do for you.”
Marianne’s
sympathy was subsumed by a rush of rage; unshed tears scalded her eyes.
“I haven’t lost a child!” she snapped.
Ingrid’s comment infuriated her. They weren’t in the same situation at all. Ingrid’s son had drowned, but her daughter was alive.
“Lina isn’t dead. I’d feel it if she was. I’m her mom. She’s not dead, you hear me?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . . I just wanted to . . .” Ingrid’s voice died away as the panic in her eyes grew.
Marianne lost control. How dare this woman claim that Lina was dead! There was always hope. She leaped to her feet, pointing in the direction of the front door. In her haste she knocked over her mug, which shattered on the floor.
“Get out!”
Ingrid stared at her in horror.
“Out! Get out of my house! I don’t want to hear your lies!”
Every bit of color drained from Ingrid’s face, and her eyes filled with tears.
“I shouldn’t have come,” she whispered, pushing back her chair. She stumbled into the hallway. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
She grabbed her jacket and disappeared out into the cold. The wind slammed the door shut.
“My daughter is not dead,” Marianne repeated to herself. “Do you hear me? My daughter is not dead.”
CHAPTER 21
The knowledge that he was seeing Pernilla that evening nagged at Thomas, even as he tried to focus on work.
He’d considered calling to say he couldn’t make it, but he changed his mind. It would be unreasonable to back out at this stage. But he could feel a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He blamed the greasy hamburger he’d grabbed on the way back from the mortuary, and resolved to eat less junk food the rest of the week.
Like that’ll help, he thought with a grimace.
Everyone else had gathered in the conference room by the time he’d arrived for the briefing. Margit was sitting opposite Erik Blom and Kalle Lidwall, with the Old Man at the head of the table and Karin Ek beside him, pen and notepad at the ready. She was extremely organized, and had quickly found her place in the team.
Thomas nodded to coworkers from the specialist search unit; they had brought in extra resources to help out. A dozen or so uniformed officers were on Sandhamn right now, hunting for more body parts in the frozen ground.
The Old Man had already seen the pathology report, but the rest of the team knew nothing. Thomas summarized Sachsen’s findings.
“It seems more than likely that Lina Rosén is dead,” he said in conclusion, “although we’re still waiting on the DNA analysis. We need to inform the family that we are working from that hypothesis.”
“Better do that as soon as you can get over to Sandhamn,” the Old Man said.
Thomas nodded.
“Poor things,” Margit murmured. She had two teenage daughters herself.
“Anything from the public?” asked the Old Man.
“Not really,” Erik Blom replied. “Nothing of any significance.” He had just returned from a week of skiing in the Alps, and was tanned and well rested. Next to his weary, hollow-eyed colleagues, he looked unforgivably fresh.
The Old Man cleared his throat.
“We need to ask ourselves why someone would want to take Lina Rosén’s life.”
The question had been foremost in Thomas’s mind back when she’d first disappeared; they had been unable to find any reason why the girl would have been abducted or killed, which was partly why they’d accepted the suicide theory.
“We’ve gone through her computer again,” Kalle Lidwall said. He was the youngest member of the team, and rarely spoke up, but since Carina left he had become the unofficial IT expert.
Some might say that Kalle compensated for a lack of brains with conscientiousness, but he was nonetheless an asset, especially when he was given a limited task to focus on.
“We didn’t find anything new in her mailbox, but when I checked out her Favorites I found a website I’d missed: an anonymous forum.”
“On what?” Thomas asked.
“It seems to be a pretty strange group that’s into old Norse mythology. I came across all kinds of weird symbols and expressions.”
Erik immediately took the bait.
“Could it be a ritual? A form of blood sacrifice that some nutjob decided to try out?”
“That’s what I wondered,” Kalle replied. “Nasty.” He ran a hand over his light-brown hair; it was so short he looked like a US Marine.
Erik flipped through his notes.
“Wasn’t there a shed that burned down on Sandhamn the weekend the girl disappeared?”
“There was,” Thomas confirmed.
The local volunteer firefighters had informed the police about the small fire on the southern end of the island. The site had been thoroughly examined, but there was nothing to link the blaze with the missing girl. However, it was clear that the fire had been started deliberately. Traces of accelerant had been found, and the small building had been reduced to little more than a pile of ash. Eventually the incident had been written off as a dangerous prank gone too far.
“Blood and fire,” the Old Man said slowly. “A classic combination for sick minds. Maybe we should take a closer look?”
Thomas thought about it. Could Sandhamn be harboring followers of Germanic neo-paganism, ready to go so far that they would carry out a blood sacrifice? There were barely one hundred and twenty permanent residents on the island. Everyone knew everyone. Was it really possible to hide a secret like that?
Or maybe that was actually the explanation. In isolated communities, the most horrific things took place behind closed doors.
What did any of us actually know about our fellow human beings?
The previous summer Thomas had been involved in a case in which Oscar Juliander, the vice-chairman of the Royal Swedish Yacht Club, had been shot dead during the start of the Round Gotland Race. It soon came to light that the renowned lawyer had been a habitual liar who was unfaithful to his wife and had accepted millions in bribes. The truth had come as a shock to both family and friends.
“I think it’s worth following up,” he said. “Kalle, look for anything related to blood rituals, particularly rituals that might have links to the archipelago.”
At that moment there was a knock on the door.
“I’ve invited someone special to join us today,” the Old Man said. “He’s an analyst from the PPG, here to help out with the case.”
He pronounced the acronym in an American accent, and Thomas looked up. The Old Man wasn’t usually too keen on bringing in outsiders; his reluctance to involve the National Crime Unit was well known. This time, though, specialists sounded like a good idea; this perpetrator was definitely an unusual character, to say the least.
“What’s the PPG?” Karin Ek asked. The Old Man sighed, but Thomas gave her an appreciative glance. It was always better to ask than to sit there wondering. Karin had integrity.
“The Perpetrator Profiling Group,” the Old Man clarified. “They’re a team within the NCU.”
The door opened, and a man with cropped gray hair walked in carrying a cup of coffee. The hair color made him look older, but Thomas suspected they were around the same age. The man wore jeans with a blue tweed jacket, and was noticeably short.
“This is Mats Larsson,” the Old Man said. Larsson moved around the table and shook hands with everyone. It was obvious that he was used to sizing people up, and those sharp eyes rested on each individual for a few seconds. His handshake was firm, his palm dry, Thomas noted. A person who inspired confidence.
The Old Man pointed to an empty chair, and Larsson sat down.
“Mats and his colleagues have been given the case notes from back in the fall, and they’ve also been briefed on the past few days. Mats is a psychologist, and has considerable experience when it comes to profiling. He trained at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Virginia. I believe that he and the rest of his team will be a great help to us.”
The Ol
d Man looked around the table.
“Any questions?”
No one said anything, but the silence was filled with curious anticipation. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on Mats Larsson, who took a handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Then he removed his glasses and began to speak.
“First of all I have to say that profiling isn’t an exact science. The Swedish police have been using this approach for only a few years; before then it was more or less regarded as nonsense,” he said with a wry smile. “And of course there are still plenty of people who think that.”
No one contradicted him, and Larsson went on: “We can’t tell you if a particular person committed a particular crime, but we can help make sure the killer is tracked down quickly.”
“How?” Karin asked.
Mats Larsson didn’t seem offended by the question.
“We’ll build a profile of the perpetrator to help narrow the search; at the moment you seem to be fumbling in the dark, to be perfectly frank.”
Thomas had to admit that Larsson had a point. To a certain extent they were looking at a limited geographical area, but the murderer didn’t even necessarily come from Sandhamn.
“We’re very pleased to have you here,” he said. “What do you think so far? What kind of sick mind are we dealing with?”
The man fixed his sharp eyes on Thomas.
“It’s fair to say that we are looking for one or more individuals who are not entirely in their right mind, at least by normal standards. However, the questions we have to ask ourselves are what could have triggered this incident, and why was the killing carried out in this particular way.”
“I assume you know a knife was used to dismember the body?” Thomas said.
“Yes. A knife is the best implement for the job, except perhaps for a chainsaw,” Mats Larsson said matter-of-factly. “An axe is probably the worst.”
He paused and took a sip of his coffee.
“There are around twenty-five convicted killers in Sweden today who dismembered the bodies of their victims. And every single one of them knew the people they killed. The most notorious unsolved case is probably Catrine da Costa, a prostitute who was killed and dismembered using scalpels, among other things.”
