H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  When Sjöberg was done with the food, the order in the kitchen was meticulous. Even the stove was clean, although there had been three saucepans of food on it. He went into the TV room, gave all the children a kiss and declared that dinner was ready. Finally, he also gave Åsa a kiss on her hair, and said that he had to go. To the degree ice-cold feelings can be felt in the roots of someone’s hair, he did so now. Half an hour later he was sitting with Sandén at St. Andrew’s Inn on Nybrogatan with a pint of Erdinger Hefeweizen in front of him.

  SATURDAY EVENING

  EVERYONE WAS ALREADY SEATED when Sjöberg and Sandén came sauntering in fifteen minutes late.

  “Oh, Conny, I’ve been saving a place for you,” Lotten chirped.

  That settled the seating arrangement, and Sandén ended up in the remaining place, across from Sjöberg on Petra Westman’s right.

  “You have to be nice to the inspector now, he’s had a falling out with his wife,” said Sandén to Lotten.

  Sjöberg glowered at Sandén, who heedlessly shouted something about balls to Hamad, who was sitting at the other end of the table.

  “Is it anything serious?” Lotten asked in a voice that you might use when speaking to a very small child.

  Petra too was curious about Sjöberg’s response.

  “I forgot about the Christmas dinner, but that gasbag called and reminded me,” said Sjöberg, with a nod in Sandén’s direction. “I’m not very popular at home right now, but it will blow over by tomorrow. Cheers.”

  They sipped the red wine, which was Lebanese and tasted very good.

  Hamad tapped his glass with a fork and welcomed everyone.

  “I’m sorry to have to disappoint some of you, but the kitchen is currently out of lamb testicles. On the other hand, at this very moment, they are preparing some raw lamb liver for Jens.”

  Everyone applauded and Sandén was happy to be at the center of things.

  “For those who don’t care for that, various other dishes will be brought out in turn. To start with, there are cold dishes: bread, vegetables, and various Lebanese sauces for dipping. Then there will be salads and cold meats, fried cheese, raw beef, ox tongue, and so on. That’s something for you, Sandén. Then there will be grilled meat, and when everyone is satisfied, there is dessert. There will be something to suit every taste, I promise. Merry Christmas!”

  Everyone toasted and the sound level rose as the evening proceeded. The table was loaded with good food and Sandén ate his raw liver, to everyone’s great amusement. Lotten soon tired of flirting with Sjöberg and instead started discussing dogs with the janitor, Micke, who was sitting diagonally across from her. Petra, who was sitting across from Lotten and next to Micke, tried at first to get involved in the conversation, but quickly lost interest. Instead, she tried to be part of Sandén’s and Sjöberg’s conversation, but without any great success since she wasn’t part of it from the beginning.

  Hadar Rosén was sitting in solitary majesty at one end of the table to have room for his long legs. Einar Eriksson was on one side of him and Hamad on the other. Eriksson did not say much in the early part of the evening, but Hamad exchanged a few words with him and thought that even he seemed to be having a nice time. He was eating with enthusiasm and actually had some wine, without making a fuss about it. Hamad noticed that Petra cast an occasional furtive glance in their direction during the evening, but could not decide whether it was him or Rosén she was looking at. After a few glasses of wine, he tried throwing out a little feeler to Rosén.

  “I heard you gave Westman a proper spanking,” he said quietly.

  “You might say that,” Rosén answered coolly.

  “What was that all about?” Hamad attempted, but the prosecutor was implacable.

  “I’m sure she’ll tell you if she finds it appropriate.”

  The prosecutor then began a conversation with Eriksson, with whom he suddenly seemed to have a great deal in common. Hamad was not concerned, but instead turned toward Bella Hansson, seated on his other side. As soon as he turned his back she had been an unwilling audience to Lotten’s and Micke’s endless dog conversation, trying to look interested. She brightened up and they resumed their own conversation, which, as far as Petra could see, lasted the greater part of the evening.

  At a quarter to eleven Sjöberg got a text message from Åsa: “Forgive me for losing my temper. Hope you’re having fun at the party. The food was excellent. Love you most in the whole world.” Sjöberg replied with: “It was my fault. I’m a clumsy ass. Coming home to you soon. XOX.” Eriksson announced that it was time for him to go home and Rosén also took the opportunity to excuse himself. Petra got up from the table and mumbled something about going to the restroom, which no one heard. Hamad noted, however, that she left the table just as the prosecutor left for the evening.

  She followed Rosén down the stairs, plucked up her courage and went up to him where he was standing in the coatroom, putting on his overcoat.

  “I’d like to talk with you, Hadar,” she said, trying not to look nervous.

  Einar Eriksson took a quick look at her, after which he resumed tying his scarf.

  “Now?” said Rosén, glancing at his watch.

  Whether that was ironic or not, Petra did not know, but she nodded hopefully.

  “Good night,” said Eriksson, starting to leave.

  They answered his goodbye and Petra proposed that they sit a while in the bar, which Rosén agreed to.

  “This conversation has to stay between us,” said Petra. “You can do what you want with me, but I don’t want you to tell this to anyone.”

  Rosén looked suspiciously at her, and declared that he did not intend to make a decision about that until he had heard what she had to say. Petra was prepared to take that risk, and told her story for the second time about what she had been subjected to a week earlier. Rosén listened attentively without interrupting. After ten minutes, he took off his coat and placed it on his lap. After another five minutes, she was done.

  When Hamad and Bella Hansson came down the steps, Petra looked up. Hamad had his hand on Hansson’s shoulder, but nonchalantly removed it when his eyes met Petra’s. He winked at her as they passed, and they left the restaurant without coats.

  “This is what I know,” said Petra to Rosén. “This man is not just any old rapist, but a well-functioning member of society, who conceals a cunning sex offender behind a prim and proper facade. He rapes women in his own home and when they wake up they believe they’ve had a one-night stand while drunk. This is what I think: He has been raping his whole adult life. I think that his daughter was the result of a rape, but he was so shrewd even then that he concealed it through marriage, and just like that, there’s no evidence. Love does not interest him—violence is his thing. A woman who gives herself to him is uninteresting. It's the element of violence that gets him going. And what could be a better environment for rape than war? So he becomes a Foreign Legionnaire. Then he can ravage freely for years without anyone raising an eyebrow. After he tires of military life, he comes home and has to continue some other way. So he refines his methods. He’s a doctor besides, so he has easy access to drugs. Do you understand? He prefers unconscious women to willing ones.”

  “And what do you want me to do?” the prosecutor asked, who until then had not said a word.

  “For one thing, I want you to overlook my unauthorized computer access. Let that disappear in this murder investigation. Only you and I know about it and no one will be harmed.”

  Rosén studied her thoughtfully over his glasses.

  “For another, I want you to see to it that Peder Fryhk is arrested.”

  “For what? We have no police report and no evidence, because you intend to keep outside of it.”

  “For a rape in Malmö in 1997, and another in Gothenburg in 2002,” said Petra.

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I had the semen from my rape DNA tested. His DNA matches the perpetrator’s from those rapes.”
>
  Rosén sat silently a while and thought. Through a window, Petra could see Hamad leaning forward in a way that suggested he had his palms against the wall. She concluded that Hansson was standing in between, with her back against the wall.

  “But if you don’t file a report, we can’t use the semen from your rape as evidence,” the prosecutor said. “Besides, it’s doubtful we can build a case even if you were to file a report, since you haven’t exactly gone by the book.”

  “I don’t intend to file a report, and I’m aware that this DNA test does not serve as evidence. But now we know that he committed these rapes. Arrest him as a person of interest, swab him, and then do a DNA comparison according to all the rules of the art.”

  “On what grounds could we arrest him?”

  “A tip from the general public or whatever you want. Show a picture of him to the victims and let them point him out. You can solve that problem yourself.”

  “Why are you so afraid to file a report?” Rosén asked.

  Petra was forced to think a moment before she answered.

  “I’m a cop. I don’t want to be the subject of an investigation conducted by my associates. I don’t want them to know anything about this. Can you understand with that?”

  Hadar Rosén nodded meditatively.

  “If, for some reason, he was not convicted of these crimes, I might feel threatened,” Petra continued.

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I’m a police officer, and because he goes to jail right after I've been at home with him.”

  “Does he know you’re a police officer?”

  “I don’t think so. I keep my police ID behind the driver’s license in my wallet. But I’m not sure. He may have found it if he went through my things thoroughly.”

  “You are aware that he will get out again in a few years? Even if he goes to jail.”

  Petra nodded.

  “How many years do you think he’ll get?” she asked.

  “The maximum sentence is six years. He’ll be out after--”

  “It’s all the same,” said Petra. “We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. In the meantime, at least we can keep an eye on him.”

  The prosecutor studied her a while in silence. Petra was calmer now, once she’d revealed her story, but she always felt great discomfort when she found herself under a magnifying glass.

  “What do you say?” she asked, without being able to conceal her uncertainty.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Rosén answered. “God have mercy on you if you’re wrong.”

  “And the meeting on Monday--” Petra began.

  “...we’ll have anyway,” the prosecutor grunted. “But you don’t have to turn in a written report for the time being.”

  A hint of a smile passed over his face.

  Just as the prosecutor was leaving the restaurant, Hamad and Hansson came back in again. Petra joined them on the stairs and Hamad placed his hand on her shoulder and asked her to sit with him. While she was away, Sandén and Sjöberg had taken their wine glasses and moved over to Eriksson’s and Rosén’s vacant seats, so Petra fetched a chair and sat at the corner of the table, between Hamad and Sjöberg. Micke and Lotten were still talking tirelessly about their dogs.

  “What did he say?” Hamad whispered in Petra’s ear.

  “Who?” Petra whispered back.

  “Hadar.”

  “About what?” Petra teased.

  “About the vendetta.”

  “Vendetta?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  His eyes gleamed with curiosity in the soft light.

  “He said I could keep my job.”

  “But tell me now! Don’t be so damn secretive!”

  He tousled her hair a little and made her feel like a kid.

  “You seem to have your hands full anyway,” Petra replied curtly.

  “How many wives can you have over there?” said Sandén in an audible tone.

  Hamad met his eyes across the table and shook his head. Petra felt a sting of irritation and looked at Sjöberg, who tried to look neutral. Bella Hansson pretended to be interested in how often you have to groom standard poodles.

  “Yes, one at home and then two new ones on the hook here tonight,” Sandén went on.

  “Leave it alone,” Petra exclaimed. “Drop that racist talk. Pretty soon there’ll be something about camels, too.”

  Sandén put his hand over his mouth and pretended to be embarrassed, which Sjöberg knew that in reality he was. He gave him a light tap on the arm with a clenched fist.

  “If it interests you, I’m getting a divorce,” Hamad answered, looking seriously at Sandén.

  “Oh hell,” said Sandén. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.”

  Petra and Sjöberg looked at Hamad with surprise.

  “But Jamal, why didn’t you say anything?” Petra asked, placing her hand on his arm.

  “I guess it’s not the first thing you blurt out when you go to work in the morning.”

  “But--”

  “It was finalized last weekend. It’s sad, but that’s how it is. Cheers.”

  Petra’s glass was still at her old place, but Sjöberg handed her Hadar Rosén’s half-finished glass so that she too could be part of the toast.

  A few minutes later, Sandén had managed to get everyone at the table to laugh out loud several times, even Lotten and Micke, who could no longer make themselves heard. With Sandén as conductor, one topic of conversation followed another, and everyone at the table was drawn into the group. The mood was suddenly better than it had been the whole evening, and they did not leave the restaurant until they were politely, but firmly, asked to leave. By then, all the other guests had long since departed and it was already half past one.

  SUNDAY MORNING

  SJöBERG DISCOVERED, TO HIS disappointment, that the paperboy had failed to show up this morning. He had to be content with yesterday’s Aftonbladet, which he had not had time to read. He sat at the kitchen table trying to read the paper, while he ate his own breakfast and assisted his twin sons in swallowing their little sandwiches and yogurt without too much hygienic catastrophe. The other children were sitting in front of the TV watching a rerun of last night’s children’s program, while Åsa was in the shower. During half a minute of peace, while both boys were chewing their liverwurst sandwiches at the same time and in silence, he was able to skim an article inside the paper, which on the placards had been marketed under the headline “Party-Going Friend Brutally Murdered”:

  “A forty-four-year-old woman, Carina Ahonen Gustavsson, was found Friday evening murdered in her home, a remote estate in the Sigtuna area. The woman was discovered at ten o’clock by her husband when he returned from a trip abroad. She had been brutally assaulted and killed with a knife. The time of the crime has not yet been established, and the police have made no statement concerning possible traces of the perpetrator.”

  The majority of the story was taken up, however, by an interview with an old acquaintance and B-list celebrity, who told about her and the murdered woman’s friendship twenty years earlier.

  Christoffer put an elbow in his bowl and yogurt splashed in all directions. Jonathan laughed encouragingly at his brother, and Sjöberg gave up his attempt to read the newspaper and devoted his attention to the children, instead. He felt a nagging worry taking hold in his gut, but had neither time nor energy to figure out what it was that disturbed his otherwise good Sunday mood. He finished his own and the children’s breakfast as quickly as he could and went to shave.

  As he was standing in front of the mirror with the razor against his cheek, he noticed that his hand was still not completely steady. Once again he had woken up in the wee hours, damp with sweat and with a pounding heart, making his way to the bathroom to shake off the horrid dream. Or was it so horrid... The dream itself was not terrible per se, but that was how he experienced it. And as it went on, it had become horrid in more ways than one. Since the woman in the window had assumed
Margit Olofsson’s form, he had started doubting his reason. Good Lord, he was living with the world’s most marvelous woman and nothing could get him to leave Åsa. No woman in the world could compete with her, and he loved her with all his heart.

  But yet... The dream now felt almost erotic, and he caught himself again and again feeling a kind of longing for that dream figure. Margit. Olofsson. It was sick. She was quite nice-looking though. She had amazingly beautiful hair, that could not be concealed, but she was rather heavy and much older than Åsa. She had grown children, even grandchildren. A charming and open manner, of course, but he had barely spoken to her. In terms of appearance, Åsa beat her by several lengths. Yet this woman aroused something inside him that he could not put his finger on. Something enticing and warm, but which still made him shudder with discomfort.

  Hamad was almost euphoric when Sjöberg called and told him about his discovery.

  “That’s just what we said!” he exclaimed. “We knew it the whole time! How’d you figure it out?”

  “The dialect,” said Sjöberg. “I noticed that Gun Vannerberg had the same accent as a policeman I heard being interviewed on TV the other day. About that murder in Katrineholm, you know. There was a woman who was drowned in a tub of water.”

  “And?”

  “It struck me that Katrineholm was not a city that has been mentioned in the investigation in any way. On the other hand, the name Österåker had come up. I found Katrineholm on a map and there it was—Österåker! A small village, or township, or whatever, about twenty miles outside Katrineholm. Ingrid Olsson lived in the small community of Österåker outside Katrineholm, not the Österåker outside Stockholm. Hans Vannerberg had her as a preschool teacher in Katrineholm, and Gun Vannerberg has now confirmed that. The reason she didn’t mention the city before was that she grew up there, so it was not a place she had moved to, but simply from. It fell between the cracks so to speak. I was out to see Pia Vannerberg too. She pointed out Hans on one of the pictures.”