“No?”
“No, there are almost no photos from that time period, which is too bad. Just studio pictures of the bride and groom, as far as I could see, and those are from 1957.”
“So they got married in 1957,” Sjöberg said meditatively. “Well, then they had thirty-three years together anyway, if the old man died sixteen years ago.”
“So, you think fifty-five is old?” Hamad said mischievously, glancing at Sjöberg as he stuffed a handful of french fries in his mouth.
Sjöberg glanced back, but chose not to reply.
“Are there any more recent pictures?” Sjöberg asked.
“Not much since the old man died. But she and her sister seem to have done a few things together. I found pictures from Prague and London and a few more everyday photos. She doesn’t seem to have had any friends.”
They finished their meal. Sjöberg picked up the trash and wiped off the table with a damp paper towel. Then they continued plowing through the piles of photographs. Sjöberg browsed through a stack of photos from a little cottage, where Ingrid Olsson and her sister apparently spent a summer in the early nineties. He was struck by the absence of children in all of Ingrid Olsson’s pictures. There were simply no children in her surroundings. Neither she nor her sister had kids, and clearly no one else did, either, in the limited circle of acquaintances who appeared in her photos over the years. Of course it’s like that, thought Sjöberg, if you or those closest to you don’t have kids, then you just don’t meet any kids. He had never thought about that before, but Swedish society was extremely age-segregated. Children went to school and daycare, adults worked and went to restaurants. Two widely separate worlds, and, as an adult, if you neither work with children nor have any of your own, you simply have no contact with them. How sad it must be never to hug a child, never experience the unmistakable aroma of a filthy daycare child, never take a pinch of smooth, soft baby fat.
His thoughts were interrupted by Hamad.
“Conny, look at this,” he said, placing an approximately thirty-year-old photo in front of him on the table.
The picture depicted a number of mostly toothless children age five or six who were lined up in front of the photographer. Farthest back to the left stood a woman in her forties, with long blonde hair and large glasses with brown plastic frames.
“What the hell--”
Sjöberg felt a stab in his belly from tension. He turned the picture around and read the sprawling pencil notation on the back: “Forest Hill 1974/’75”, after which he turned the photo face up and set it down on the table again.
“That’s Ingrid Olsson!” he said excitedly, pointing at the only adult in the picture.
“Of course it is,” said Hamad eagerly. “And what’s more—I’ve seen a similar photo from the mid-sixties. I have no idea where that picture is now, and I didn’t realize then that Ingrid Olsson was in the picture. She didn’t look the same.”
“Look for it then,” said Sjöberg. “I’ll go through the piles we haven’t checked and see if I can find more pictures like this.”
“Maybe she was a schoolteacher in her past life?” Hamad asked himself, but Sjöberg had already figured it out.
“These children are younger than that. They’re no more than five or six. She must have worked as a preschool teacher, or daycare assistant. At that time, most Swedish women were housewives and took care of their own children, but some kids went to preschool a few hours a day.”
“Maybe Ingrid Olsson was Hans Vannerberg’s preschool teacher. There we have our connection,” Hamad said.
“A very old connection, but it’s the link we’re looking for, I’m sure of it,” said Sjöberg.
Hamad tore open envelope after envelope among the pictures he had already looked through, while Sjöberg quickly browsed through the remaining piles. At ten minutes past midnight order was restored, in the room as well as in the cupboard with photographs under Ingrid Olsson’s bookshelf. They left the house and went out into the now sparklingly cold winter night. In an envelope in his jacket pocket Sjöberg had three photographs, taken at the Forest Hill preschool and depicting the groups of children from the years 1967/’68, 1968/’69 and 1969/’70. Maybe somewhere, on one of those pictures, was the little boy who now, as a grown man, was at the morgue at Huddinge hospital awaiting his own funeral. Brutally murdered with a chair in Miss Ingrid’s kitchen.
FRIDAY MORNING
EVEN THOUGH HE DID NOT get to bed until shortly before one o’clock, he showed up at Eriksdal, changed and ready, at seven o’clock sharp on Friday morning. Sandén was already there, volleying against a backstop as Sjöberg came into the tennis hall.
“Good afternoon, chief inspector,” Sandén could not keep from saying, even though he had probably not been there more than five minutes himself.
“Listen, I was actually working until midnight, while you sat at home munching pizza in front of the TV.”
Sandén, who was roughly the same age as Sjöberg, had considerably more difficulty maintaining his weight than him. This didn’t concern him much. He was a bon vivant who ate what he liked and never worried about anything. He always had a joke up his sleeve and was probably considered a bit loud by some, but you were seldom bored around Jens Sandén. They had met at the police academy, and though they weren’t much alike, they had always stuck together and enjoyed each other’s company. There had never been any rivalry between them either, which was a prerequisite for such a long and close friendship.
“How’d it go?” asked Sandén, hitting the first ball over the net.
Sjöberg returned it with a soft forehand stroke that placed the ball right in front of Sandén’s feet.
“We’ll discuss that later,” answered Sjöberg. “After the match.”
They volleyed a little while to warm up and served a few times before the always equally prestige-laden match began. As the time started to approach eight o’clock, and the four older ladies who usually followed them gathered on a bench to one side of the tennis court, the score was 6-3, 4-1 in Sjöberg’s favor and they called off the match. They went over to the ladies and exchanged a few courtesies. Then they sank down on the bench and wiped the sweat off their faces with their towels, while they watched the ladies skillfully volleying in pairs over the net. The two policemen always studied them a while as they caught their breath. It was easy to see that neither of them would have a chance against any of these ladies if they met in a singles match, but they sometimes toyed with the idea of challenging them in doubles. Just for the fun of it.
After teasing Sandén a while about his worthless backhand, after which Sandén countered by reminding Sjöberg of how many of their matches he’d lost, Sjöberg changed the topic of conversation.
“How are the kids doing?” he asked.
“Fine, everything’s cruising along as usual for Jessica. She nailed an oral exam the other day. ‘Fourier Analysis and Transform Theory’—what do you think of that?”
“You could pronounce it at least,” said Sjöberg with a sarcastic smile.
Jessica was twenty years old and studying to be an electrical engineer at KTH. Her older sister, Jenny, who was twenty-three, had a mild learning disability. Sandén was carefree by disposition, but if he had one worry in life, it was Jenny. He always said that it would have been simpler if she’d had a serious disorder. As a result her surroundings placed greater demands on her than were reasonable.
“And Jenny?”
“I can hardly bear to talk about it, but that damn snot-nosed kid who’s running after her—he’s got her thinking she should move in with him.”
“Oh boy. Not a good kid?”
“Right, what do you think? What do you think he wants with her?”
“But she’s in love with him?”
“She’s in love with him because he’s interested in her. That’s not so strange. But he’s only after one thing, I’m sure of that. There’s only going to be trouble.”
“Does he have a disabilit
y, too?” asked Sjöberg.
“He is so-called normal intelligence, yes. Otherwise I wouldn’t have been so worried. Then they would have been in the same boat. But this fellow—he’s going to use her like a doormat and she’s going to go along with anything he asks for. She’s just too darn kind, Jenny.”
Sjöberg nodded thoughtfully.
“So what’s he like?”
“He’s a loathsome little jerk, that’s what he is. When we spend time with them, he plays a damn charade and acts loving and protective.”
He was spitting out the words.
“But have you talked with her?”
“Of course we’ve talked with her. But she’s a big girl now and has to make her own decisions.”
“I guess she’ll have to learn from her mistakes,” Sjöberg observed.
“Just hope the fall won’t be too hard,” Sandén muttered with his face behind the towel.
They allowed themselves some time in the sauna where Sjöberg took the opportunity to report on Hamad’s findings in Ingrid Olsson’s house the night before.
“I think we’ve found the connection between Vannerberg and Olsson,” he said. “We haven’t confirmed it yet, but my intuition tells me we’re on the right track.”
“Shoot,” said Sandén.
Sjöberg briefly related how they found the old photographs from the preschool.
“And?” Sandén asked.
“The old lady worked as a preschool teacher. As far as we could tell, she ran the Forest Hill preschool for at least fifteen years.”
“And now you think that’s where she met Hans Vannerberg?” Sandén asked hesitantly.
“Exactly. I just feel it. This is completely new information about Ingrid Olsson, and I’m willing to bet that Gun Vannerberg and little Hans have lived in Österåker. I sincerely hope this is the breakthrough we need.”
“You feel it?”
Sandén didn’t seem too impressed.
“Do you think I’m going out on a limb?”
“Well,” Sandén answered doubtfully. “The only thing you’ve found out is that Olsson was a preschool teacher. That’s not exactly sensational, is it?”
“Maybe not, but it’s new information.”
“Sure, but for one thing, we don’t know whether Vannerberg really did attend that preschool--”
“No, but if he did—then we have a connection between them!”
Sandén got up and poured a ladle of water over the sauna element. The room filled at once with steam and the hot air burned in their nostrils.
“Then we have a connection,” he said. “But we have no one who knew that Ingrid Olsson was in the hospital.”
Sjöberg felt the wind going out of his sails. Maybe he had worked himself up unnecessarily. Counted on something in advance that wasn’t there. His intuition seldom failed him, but this time maybe he had grasped at a straw, which would then prove to be nothing but a simple piece of straw.
“But maybe that person knew both of them at that time. Maybe that person is also in the picture. Maybe we have a photo of the murderer!”
“I think we should start by checking up on whether Vannerberg actually did go to that preschool,” said Sandén matter-of-factly. “Then eventually we can move ahead on that track. Okay?”
“You’re awfully critical today,” said Sjöberg, half joking, half serious. “I’ll have to be careful about beating you in tennis in the future.”
They returned to squabbling about tennis again, but Sjöberg felt a growing worry inside him. They finished their sauna, got dressed, and left the sports facility on foot.
Before nine o’clock, Sjöberg was again sitting at his desk at the police station. He sipped a cup of hot coffee, alongside of which were a couple of Marie biscuits, which he told himself you could indulge in when you’ve been playing tennis. He browsed through the quickly growing folder concerning the Vannerberg case, until he found the paper where he had noted Gun Vannerberg’s phone number. He dialed her home number and let it ring ten times before he hung up. Then he tried her cell phone, but got no response there either. After leaving a message on her voice mail, asking her to contact him as soon as possible, he hung up and decided to visit Hamad, whose office was a little further down the corridor. But before he stood up there was a knock on the door, which then opened. Hamad had anticipated him and sat down in the visitor’s chair.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully. “Did you get any sleep?”
“A few hours. I was up at the crack of dawn and played tennis with Sandén.”
“How’d that go? Did you win?”
“The tennis went fine. I won. But Sandén didn’t seem to think that thing about the preschool was much of a lead.”
“No?”
“No. I’ve been trying to get hold of Gun Vannerberg, without success. But even if it does turn out that Hans Vannerberg had Ingrid Olsson as a preschool teacher, Jens doesn’t think that will lead us anywhere. That was almost forty years ago.”
“If they knew each other at that time, then they lived in the same town,” said Hamad hopefully. “In that case, we should look for the murderer somewhere in the circle around them and their families. But first we have to establish the connection.”
“I’ll contact Ingrid Olsson too, as soon as we’re done here,” said Sjöberg.
“I’ll talk with Pia Vannerberg concerning that receipt from the dentist in the meantime.”
“I think it’s best if Petra does that. She has spoken with her before. It seems unnecessary to involve more people than necessary. On the other hand, you could relieve Petra with Ingrid Olsson’s neighbors. Let’s go see her.”
Sjöberg got up and brought his coffee cup with him, but left the biscuits behind. Together they went over to Westman’s office. The door was open and she was sitting at her desk, jotting down a few lines on a notepad, as they stepped into the room. She looked up and greeted them with a smile. Sjöberg sank down in her visitor’s chair and Hamad perched on a corner of the desk.
“I’d like your help with something,” Sjöberg began.
“Let’s hear it,” Westman replied, enthusiastic as always.
“As you know, we were in Ingrid Olsson’s house yesterday and went through her belongings.”
Westman nodded attentively.
“There, among other things, we found a receipt from the dental office in Dalen, at Sandsborg. Here it is,” Sjöberg continued, placing the receipt in front of her. “This just happens to be where Pia Vannerberg works. Could you make contact with her and check whether she maybe knew Ingrid Olsson? Stop by the dental clinic, too, and see whether you can come up with any interesting information from her associates. Look in Olsson’s patient record and so on. We also need a picture of Hans when he was little. Can you do that?”
“No problem,” said Westman. “But then I’ll have to put the business with the neighbors and the phone numbers on hold for the time being.”
“Jamal will help you with the neighbors. You’ll have to update him on the process. Have you talked with any of them yet?”
“The ones I got hold of yesterday afternoon. Everyone I talked with reacted normally to the pictures, and none of them had anything new to offer. Ingrid Olsson seems to be a very anonymous person in the neighborhood, and so far I haven’t met anyone who so much as exchanged a word with her.”
“How’d it go with the phone company?” Sjöberg asked.
“They’re supposed to fax an extract of incoming calls on Vannerberg’s home phone, cell phone, and the company line. They’ll call me when they send the fax, but I can ask Lotten to forward their calls to you.”
“Do that, please.”
Sjöberg left the office and his two younger associates, and decided to find out how things were going for Einar Eriksson, since he was already at it. Eriksson was not in his office, which Sjöberg assumed was a good sign. The phlegmatic, moody Eriksson was out and about and, at best, that indicated he was doing what he was supposed to and not mopi
ng in his office. It struck him that while playing tennis earlier in the morning he had been so full of his own business that he forgot to ask about Sandén’s progress with the investigation, for which reason he knocked on Sandén’s door. When he got no answer he tried the door handle, but the door was locked, so he could do nothing but simply return to his own office and start on his own duties.
He quickly washed down the two biscuits with the last of the coffee and pushed the cup aside. Then he picked up the phone and dialed Gun Vannerberg’s number again, but there was still no answer. He pulled out the paper with Margit Olofsson’s home number, but no one answered there either. After talking with four different people at her workplace without getting any concrete answer regarding her whereabouts, he decided to go there. He asked Lotten in reception to take his and Westman’s calls, and also take care of the fax from Telia when it came and put it on his desk. Then he took the elevator down to the garage and got into the car.
The first person he encountered as he stepped into the hospital lobby was Sandén, who was having a cup of coffee and a Danish over an open newspaper in the cafeteria. Sjöberg cursed himself for not having thought that his colleague might already be there, so that he could have spared himself the drive. Sandén looked up in surprise from the Swedish handball results.
“Hey! What are you doing here? Are you sick?”
“I completely forgot that you were here,” Sjöberg replied, sitting down at the table. “I’m trying to get hold of Margit Olofsson—or more precisely, Ingrid Olsson—but it was impossible to get a straight answer by phone. No one answers at her home number, so I thought it was best to come over. Do you know where she’s hiding herself?”
“Who?”
“Margit Olofsson. Or Ingrid Olsson.”
“Okay, which one will it be?”
“Stop playing games. Either of them.”
“No, I don’t know.”
H01 - The Gingerbread House Page 16
