Molin looked perplexed, twirled his chair halfway around and took a binder from the shelf behind him.
“Let’s take a look here...” he murmured, leafing purposefully through the binder. “Here it is.”
He stood up with the binder open and took the few steps over to Sjöberg, setting it down in front of him on the desk.
“This is a property that I sold,” he said, still hesitant. “I wonder why that showing was on Hans’ calendar?”
He moved his eyes from the sale property to the calendar.
“Now I know!” he exclaimed in relief, pointing at the line below. “Hans was going to look at a summer cottage in Nynäshamn later that afternoon, along with an inspector and a buyer, and he realized he couldn’t make it there in time if he took this showing. Normally he takes all the properties in this area, because he lives so close, but I took this one instead.”
“But isn’t it a little strange--?” said Sjöberg, but was interrupted by Molin.
“This is what happened, of course. I sold the house at Åkerbärsvägen 13 to a family that moved in a few weeks later. The deal was closed, but the buyer called last week and was concerned that the seller had taken various fixtures with him, as the buyer saw it: microwave, wall-mounted lamps that were left bare, torn-off cords on the walls, and a large urn that had been in the garden during the showing. Now only a large cement base was left that disturbed the view. However it was, Hans promised to take a look when he was in the neighborhood and get a sense of the whole thing. That’s of course where he was going on Monday evening, but he evidently had the wrong house number. He couldn’t know... It was my customer, and he had never seen the property.”
Molin fell silent and looked distressed.
“What really happened here? Was he followed by someone, or was there some lunatic inside the house who thought that Hans was a burglar or something? What kind of person does this sort of thing?”
Sjöberg patted him consolingly on the shoulder.
“I’m trying to find that out, I promise you. I have to go now, but I may be in touch again if I have any more questions.”
It was ten-thirty when he was back on Fleminggatan again hurrying to the subway entrance to get back in time for the meeting. Isolated snowflakes were floating down through the gray November daylight and not a trace of the sun could be seen. In his mind he formulated two more questions to add to his list: Who was Vannerberg’s father, and who might have been in Ingrid Olsson’s house during her hospital stay?
* * *
At eight minutes past eleven, everyone was assembled in the windowless blue oval office where they usually held their meetings. Present at the meeting, besides Sjöberg, were Chief Inspector Jens Sandén, police assistants Jamal Hamad, Petra Westman and Einar Ericksson, the technician Gabriella Hansson, and a representative from the prosecutor’s office, Hadar Rosén. Everyone had a coffee cup in front of them except for Westman, who preferred tea. Sjöberg was slightly irritated by the impossibility of getting such a small group to be punctual, but this time it was prosecutor Rosén who arrived last, and because he had formal responsibility for the investigation, Sjöberg had to put up with the annoyance.
Sjöberg opened the meeting by summarizing what had happened and then reported on the meeting with the victim’s family and the visit with his business partner. Rosén interjected an occasional question and asked now and then for a clarification, but seemed content with the investigation so far. Hansson then reported on the technicians’ findings and confirmed that the murder almost certainly took place in the kitchen, and that one of the kitchen chairs had blood on it and could be assumed to be the murder weapon. It was, of course, the medical examiner’s business to establish the cause of death, the time and conceivable murder weapon, but the body had not reached him until the wee hours and no preliminary report could be given until sometime this afternoon at the earliest.
Hansson continued by reporting that there were many fingerprints that had not yet been analyzed, as well as impressions from shoes, taken from both inside the house and outside in the garden. The technicians were not done with those either. Sjöberg noted, like so many times before, that Gabriella Hansson was an exceptionally competent crime scene technician: accurate, fast, and extremely focused on the job at hand. He reminded her to examine the locks thoroughly too, but she reported that they had already done so and no tampering had occurred. Because the locks were very old, it would be simple for someone to force their way in simply by dragging a steel comb between the door and the doorpost, or wiggling a steel wire in the lock itself.
“The victim’s wife,” Sjöberg continued, ”maintains that Vannerberg was going to meet a seller. His partner, Jorma Molin, drew the conclusion that Vannerberg was going to meet a buyer at number 13—not 31, where the murder took place—and that he wrote down the wrong address on his calendar. It sounds like a good explanation, because Ingrid Olsson does not seem to fit into this anywhere. Petra, try to have a few words with Pia Vannerberg—but not until tomorrow—and ask her about this. Also, try to find out as much as you can about Vannerberg and check whether he had a personal calendar at home. Take the opportunity to question the in-laws at the same time, if they have anything to add. Today you can contact the buyer at number 13 and see what they say about this possible meeting. I also want you to go to Fleminggatan and go through Vannerberg’s computer. Look through documents and such, especially private matters, if you find any. Go through all letters and e-mails that were sent and received. Sandén will visit the ladies Olofsson and Olsson and question them thoroughly. Ask Ingrid Olsson if she had thought about selling the house and perhaps scheduled a time with an agent. Check whether she has had any unwelcome visitors before. If Vannerberg came there by mistake, he might have been attacked by someone who was taken by surprise, someone who should not have been there. Margit Olofsson seems to be completely outside this, so take her aside and find out what she knows about Ingrid Olsson. What she is really like as an individual and how has she reacted to everything? Maybe she said something between the two of them that might help us. And don’t forget to take their fingerprints, the house is probably lousy with them, as you can imagine. Jamal, you’ll go through the house when the technicians are done. Check for valuables, history, anything that might be of interest to the investigation. Einar will search Vannerberg in all conceivable registries. See if you can find the guy’s father and check on the mother too, perhaps she’s run afoul of the law. Check on Jorma Molin to be on the safe side. I’ll try to make contact with Vannerberg’s mother and see what she has to say. Does anyone have anything to add?”
“I have the contents of the victim’s pants pockets with me,” said Hansson teasingly, dangling a transparent plastic bag between her thumb and index finger.
“Of course, I’d almost forgotten about that,” said Sjöberg. “Let’s see what you have.”
She opened the plastic bag with a rapid motion and emptied the contents on the table.
“A binky, some coins—four kronor, fifty öre to be exact—a safety pin, some coupons from the food co-op, a bunch of keys, a tin of snuff, and a wallet. In the wallet we found 758 kronor, a co-op card, Eurocard, driver’s license, membership card at S.A.T.S. Sports Club, Nordea credit card, and a video store membership card.”
“That’s unusually exciting,” said Westman.
“A white-bread kind of guy,” said Sandén.
“No surprises. Thanks, Bella,” said Sjöberg. “That’s all for today.”
Seven chairs scraped against the parquet floor with a deafening noise and everyone left the room. Sandén asked whether they should have a sandwich up at Lisa’s Café, and Sjöberg noted that it was high time. It was already one o’clock and the exertion of chairing the meeting made him forget such basic needs as hunger and visits to the restroom. After first taking care of one of those needs, he got his jacket from his office and rushed down the stairs to reception, where Sandén was waiting for him.
“Any messages,
Lotten?” he asked in passing, halfway out the door.
“Lots!” answered Lotten.
“After lunch!” he called back before the big glass door closed behind him.
WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
LISA’S CAFÉ WAS LOCATED on Skånegatan, and though it was a little far to walk, it had become their regular place, not just for Sjöberg and his crew, but for many of the other officers from the Hammarby police station, too. The menu was not extensive, but the bread was home-baked, the atmosphere congenial, and the service personal. Lisa herself had the gift of gab and called all her regulars by name. She had also decorated the walls with their photographs, and Sjöberg, Sandén and Jamal Hamad, who also joined them for lunch, were all pictured on Lisa’s wall.
Over homemade meatball sandwiches and a red beet salad that far surpassed what you could find in a delicatessen, they jokingly bantered about the murder, without really getting anywhere. For Sjöberg this was therapy after an intense morning.
“I think he was evil,” said Hamad.
“No, white-bread was the word,” said Sandén.
“You must have done something wrong if you’re assaulted like that,” Hamad persisted.
“The local police who were first on the scene thought he seemed shady,” said Sjöberg. “Found murdered in Ingrid Olsson’s kitchen.”
“That’s just what I’m saying, it’s obvious he was evil.”
“I think it’s Ingrid Olsson who’s shady, if she had a corpse in the kitchen,” said Sandén.
“Maybe both of them are shady,” Sjöberg suggested. “No good.”
“I think they are and were good, both of them,” said Sandén, “although they’ve had bad luck. They got in the way of a lunatic, to put it simply. Whom they didn’t have anything to do with.”
“In any case, the wife and children had the worst luck,” said Hamad. “The old lady seemed unperturbed, and Vannerberg is dead. But the family has to live with the sorrow. And anyway, they’re not evil.”
“Don’t say that. Children can be pretty wicked. Only Jesus thinks that children are good. Personally, I’m of the opinion that children are evil until their parents take it out of them. That’s called upbringing,” Sandén said with conviction.
“Well, Vannerberg himself doesn’t seem to have been God’s best child, according to what his partner had to say,” said Sjöberg. “But according to what we’ve seen so far, he seems to have been God’s best grownup.”
The conversation gradually petered out and Sjöberg went back to the station and his office. A few reporters had called, but he had been sparing with information. He wanted to wait until he had spoken with the medical examiner, the body was identified, and the technicians had more concrete facts to present. He phoned Einar Eriksson. True, Eriksson’s office was only three doors down, but he didn’t feel like getting up again.
“Have you found anything on Vannerberg’s mother yet?” he asked, without the slightest hope of an affirmative response.
“No, I’ve been at lunch and just sat down at the computer,” Eriksson replied as expected.
“Thought so,” said Sjöberg. “Talk to you later.”
As soon as he put down the receiver the phone rang.
“Conny, you have a visitor,” Lotten giggled. “A real looker, I’m almost jealous!”
Sjöberg was of the opinion that cheerful co-workers were just what you needed in a job as serious as his was at times, and he never got tired of Lotten’s chirping. She did her job flawlessly and was very organized besides, so the only thing to do was grin and bear it.
“Who is it?” he asked.
“I don’t know, your mistress maybe. Her name is Gun, and she’s a little tipsy, I think. She’s on her way up.”
He put down the receiver and was about to get up to go out and look for his unexpected visitor when the door opened without warning. In swayed an unlikely creature who immediately made him think of Dame Edna, with the difference that in biological terms this really was a lady. She was probably in her sixties, with a big, bleached-blonde permanent, her face almost theatrically made up, big golden costume jewelry on her ears and around her neck, and black-and-white snakeskin boots with high heels. Under the gigantic white imitation fur coat, a pink sequin dress was visible, cut halfway down the thigh. He thought he was able to conceal his surprise, and courteously extended his hand to her.
“Conny Sjöberg,” he said calmly. “How can I help you?”
“I am Gun Vannerberg, and I want to look at my son,” the woman answered in a completely normal tone of voice.
He didn’t know what he had expected, presumably a hoarse or shrill voice. He pulled out one of the visitor’s chairs and helped her sit down.
“I’m extremely sorry about what happened, and you have my sympathy,” said Sjöberg seriously. “I realize that this is very painful for you, Mrs. Vannerberg, and we are still not really clear about what actually happened.”
“I understand,” said the woman in a faint voice, the tears welling up in her eyes.
Suddenly everything that was comical about her appearance was gone, and in Sjöberg’s eyes she was just a very small, lonely, and desperate person in a big, awful world. He wondered whether she had anyone who saw her that way and could help and console her.
“I’ll call the medical examiner and check whether we can come over. Perhaps you’d like a cup of coffee, Mrs. Vannerberg?”
He felt that he needed one himself. She nodded silently in response and stared vacantly ahead of her. Sjöberg went out in the corridor and over to the coffee machine. Several faces looked curiously at him, but he shook his head reproachfully, took his coffee cups, and went back into his office. He closed the door behind him with one foot.
“Thanks very much,” she said quietly, looking deep down into the cup before she sipped.
“They would prefer that we not come until after four, but I’ll ask anyway.”
“Is that so?”
“Perhaps I could ask a few questions about your son, Mrs. Vannerberg, since we’re sitting here anyway?” he asked carefully.
“That’s fine.”
“When did you last see him?”
“Last weekend. He came to visit me in Malmö, where I live, with his youngest daughter, Moa.”
“What kind of work do you do?” Sjöberg asked out of pure curiosity.
“I work at a club,” she answered matter-of-factly. “That’s why I have this outfit on. These are my work clothes. I didn’t have time to change before I came here. Pia’s mom phoned me on my cell this morning and I took the morning train. I was not completely sober and didn’t think about bringing along my regular clothes.”
Sjöberg wondered to himself what type of clubs they had in Malmö, but did not ask.
“What was your relationship like with your son, Mrs. Vannerberg?”
“It was very good. Hans was always so kind to me, and helped me when I needed it. I’m not much to write home about exactly...”
Sjöberg thought guiltily that that’s exactly what she was.
“He phoned several times this week just to ask how I was doing. They were so nice, all of them.”
“Who do you mean, Mrs. Vannerberg?”
“Please call me Gun, otherwise I'll feel embarrassed.”
“Okay. Who do you mean was nice?”
“Well, the children, of course, and Pia and her parents. They’re good people, you know, Pia’s family. But it’s like they don’t make a show of it. They talk to me anyway.”
“What was Hans like as a person?”
“Kind. Yes, I already said that. Capable. Good in school, he went to college. And had his own company and that, lots of money. He helped me with the bills if I was short. Charming, he could charm anyone. A favorite with the girls.”
“You moved to Malmö when Hans was starting high school?”
“Yes. We moved a lot, and I guess Hans got tired of that, so he decided to stay put.”
“What other places did you live?”<
br />
“There were lots of places. Norrköping, Kumla, Hallsberg, Kungsör, Örebro. Oxelösund.”
“Why did you move so much?”
“Men. Jobs.”
“So, what type of work are we talking about?” Sjöberg asked, although deep inside he did not really want to know what type of guys she was referring to.
“I used to do hair during the day,” she answered evasively.
“And in the evening?”
“Sometimes I would dance at clubs...”
Sjöberg waited.
“Okay, stripped. But I don't intend to talk about what kind of clubs.”
“No, you don’t need to. But you worked as a hairdresser during the day and stripped in the evenings. It couldn’t have been easy to take care of a child, too?”
“No, I was not a very good mother. But Hans turned out all right anyway.”
“Hans never had a father?”
“No, I don’t know who it was.”
“You must have been very young--”
“Eighteen,” she interrupted. “I didn’t plan to get pregnant. But I’ve always been kind to Hans,” she added convincingly. “I’m sure you understand that, otherwise he wouldn’t have cared about me the way he did.”
She wiped away a tear with the back of her hand. Sjöberg sighed and reflected a moment about all the strange human destinies he encountered in his professional life. He thought about his own twin sons, and he wondered how their lives would look today if things had gone differently a year and a half earlier. A female drug addict had been found seriously assaulted and knifed in a park. He was responsible for the investigation, and when he went to visit her at the hospital after a few days—to his, the hospital staff’s, and not least her own surprise—she had been transferred to the obstetrics department. A few hours later, not one, but two well-formed, but very small, baby boys were miraculously delivered. She remained at the hospital for several weeks and he visited her and the boys regularly during that time. The twins were in incubators and they continued to be for another three months, even after she ran away from the hospital. He had become attached to the tiny boys and continued to go to see them even after the mother’s disappearance. When she was later found dead from an overdose of heroin in a public restroom, he brought Åsa up to the hospital. Even though they already had three children with no plans for more, neither of them hesitated. The adoption was completed six months later, but by then the children had long since been “theirs”.
H01 - The Gingerbread House Page 6
