H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  “Oh hell. Have you talked with Ingrid Olsson about it?”

  “No, she’s been on a Finland cruise with Margit Olofsson and her family, so I haven’t been able to reach her. She’s moving back home today, so I thought we could have a chat with her now. If you can handle dragging yourself in, even though it’s Sunday?”

  “Of course. It will be a real pleasure.”

  His associate’s youthful enthusiasm was a relief, but Sjöberg could still not quite get rid of a chafing sense of discomfort.

  Yesterday’s fresh breezes had died down, but in return, the temporary sunshine had once again disappeared behind a thick mantle of threatening clouds. Sjöberg took a detour and picked up Hamad outside his apartment in one of the buildings on Ymsenvägen in Årsta, before they made their way to the familiar old wooden house in Gamla Enskede.

  It was Margit Olofsson who opened the door. Sjöberg was quite unprepared for this and reacted with an embarrassed smile that felt unbecoming. She greeted them happily and invited them in with a gesture. Sjöberg felt that she could read him like an open book, but convinced himself that reasonably he had the mental advantage. He adopted an occupied expression and tossed out, as though in passing, some words of praise about her concerns for her former patient. Margit Olofsson sparkled back and informed them that Ingrid Olsson herself was upstairs unpacking her bag. The two policemen made their way up the narrow stairway, and to their surprise, found the elderly woman perched on a chair in the bedroom. They saw no sign of a crutch and Sjöberg drew the relieved conclusion that Ingrid Olsson had been in good hands during her rehabilitation. They did not expect a smile, but she greeted them courteously and got down from the chair when they entered the room. They sat down on her bed and Sjöberg explained that there were a few questions they needed answers to.

  “For one thing,” he said, “I wonder whether the Österåker where you told us you lived before you moved here is the Österåker in Södermanland, outside Katrineholm?”

  “Of course,” she said, sounding surprised. “Was there anything unclear about that?”

  “No,” said Sjöberg a little embarrassed, “I guess it was more that, to me as a Stockholmer, it seemed obvious that you came from the Österåker just outside the city. That was careless of me, I admit, but it’s good we got that cleared up anyway at last.”

  “Does that have any significance--?”

  Sjöberg interrupted her with yet another question.

  “If I’ve understood things correctly, you worked as a teacher at a preschool in Katrineholm?”

  “That’s right. Forest Hill was its name.”

  Sjöberg removed the envelope with photos from his jacket pocket and searched for the picture from 1968/’69.

  “Do you recognize anyone in this picture?” asked Sjöberg.

  Ingrid Olsson took the picture and held it so far from her that her arms were almost straight.

  “No, good Lord. This must be forty years old. Well, I recognize myself naturally, but there is no way I would recognize any of the children.”

  “No?” Sjöberg asked doubtfully.

  “No, never.”

  She turned over the picture and confirmed her assumption about the age of the photograph.

  “1968. That wasn’t exactly yesterday.”

  Her eyes swept over the black-and-white picture and stopped on one of the children.

  “But this girl I actually remember,” she corrected herself, and pointed at the smiling little girl with light-blonde braids and a neat dress in the upper right-hand corner of the picture. “I’m quite sure her name was Carina Ahonen.”

  Something clicked in Sjöberg and he feverishly tried to recall where he recognized that name from, but without success.

  “A real little jewel,” Ingrid Olsson continued, and for the first time Sjöberg noticed that the old woman was almost showing emotion. “She had a very lovely singing voice, I recall, and she was so sweet and nice.”

  “No one else?” Sjöberg coaxed, feeling a vague sense of unease.

  “No, no one else.”

  “This is Hans Vannerberg,” said Sjöberg, pointing at the little boy in the middle of the picture. “He was the one you found murdered in your kitchen.”

  He watched her face, trying to read her reaction. Hamad too looked at her with tense expectation.

  “No, I don’t recognize him,” she answered, shaking her head. “He looks like a real little scamp, and I didn’t have much patience for them, I can say that much,” she said, pursing her lips.

  After a few more unsuccessful attempts to get Ingrid Olsson to recognize any of the children in the picture, or even remember anything that concerned this class, they felt compelled to leave her. Their theory had been completely confirmed, even if Ingrid Olsson’s lack of any memory of these children was surprising and made their work more difficult.

  When they came back downstairs, Hamad stuck his head in the kitchen and called out a cheerful “thanks and ’bye” to Margit Olofsson. Sjöberg, half-concealed by his associate, shuddered all over and mumbled something inaudible in farewell, without looking in her direction.

  “What do we do now?” Hamad asked in the car, as they were leaving Åkerbärsvägen and turning onto one of the equally idyllic small cross streets.

  “We have to find out the names of these children. Look them up and see whether there’s anyone who remembers anything. What do you say about Ingrid Olsson?”

  “Strange woman,” said Hamad. “It doesn’t seem to bother her particularly that a person was murdered in her home. One of her old pupils, at that. The only thing she had to say about him was that he looked like a scamp and she clearly didn’t like that. More or less as if it served him right to be murdered, because he looked mischievous in a picture from 1968. Remembers nothing. Well, besides Carina Ahonen of course. She was apparently teacher’s little pet. What do you think?”

  “One got that impression,” Sjöberg muttered, once again trying to remember in what context he had heard that name before.

  Then his cell phone rang. It was twelve o’clock and just as Sjöberg answered, the skies opened and it started snowing heavily, but neither of them noticed that. It was Mia, Sjöberg’s sister-in-law.

  “Thanks for the other night!” said Sjöberg. “It was a heavy, but pleasant, evening. And then winning that game to top it off.”

  “It’s called hospitality,” Mia said jokingly, but her voice had a tinge of seriousness and she quickly changed the subject. “Listen, Conny, I don’t know if this has any significance, but I thought I should call you right away, to be on the safe side.”

  “Yes?”

  Sjöberg listened intently to his sister-in-law’s somewhat incoherent description of her realization.

  “You asked me last Friday if I knew anything about that woman in Katrineholm. You know, the one who was murdered earlier in the week, Lise-Lott Nilsson.”

  “Yes, what about her?”

  “Well, I didn’t recognize her at all, as you no doubt recall. Did she have anything to do with your investigation?”

  “No,” said Sjöberg impatiently. “I was just curious in general. What about it?”

  “Well, you see now... I don’t want you to think I’m silly or sensationalistic.”

  “Out with it. What is this all about?”

  Sjöberg could feel, without knowing why, how the tension was churning in him and his heart started beating faster.

  “There was a woman murdered last Friday, too.”

  “Yes?”

  “And I recognized her the other day. A forty-four-year-old woman from... It wasn’t in the paper. There it said she was from Sigtuna, but I know that originally she was from Katrineholm. Her name was Carina Ahonen.”

  Sjöberg braked abruptly, without bothering to glance in the rearview mirror first. Fortunately, there was no one behind him. It felt as if his heart had stopped and he just sat gaping with the phone in his hand for several moments. Hamad stared at him excitedly, not understand
ing a word of what was being said on the phone.

  “Hello?” said Mia. “Are you still there?”

  “Thanks, Mia,” said Sjöberg when he had caught his breath. “That was incredibly important information. I’ll call you later.”

  He ended the call and put the phone back in his inside pocket. Hamad was still looking at him with eyes wide open.

  “What’s this all about?” he said at last.

  “I don’t know,” said Sjöberg. “I have to think.”

  “You’re in the middle of the road,” Hamad informed him.

  “I know. Wait a little.”

  “Come on now! Who was that?”

  “It was my sister-in-law, Mia. She said that Carina Ahonen was murdered...”

  “Carina Ahonen? But that was her, damn it—the teacher’s pet!” Hamad exclaimed. “How did she know that?”

  “I knew it, too. I just didn’t make the connection. It’s been gnawing at me all morning.”

  Sjöberg seemed clearer now and his voice was collected, but eager.

  “Hans Vannerberg, age forty-four, from Katrineholm is murdered two weeks ago in the house of his preschool teacher, Ingrid Olsson. Yesterday, another of her old preschool students from the same group was murdered, Carina Ahonen. The other day, another forty-four-year-old woman from Katrineholm, Lise-Lott Nilsson, was murdered—the one in the tub of water, as I mentioned. You can bet your ass she’s somewhere in that picture, too. And perhaps there are even more. Three murdered forty-four-year-olds in two weeks, all from Katrineholm. Jamal,” said Sjöberg, emphasizing each syllable, “I think we’re on the trail of a serial killer.”

  “You’re joking,” said Hamad, without thinking for a moment that he was. “A serial murderer? You’re out of your mind! How many of those have there been in Sweden?”

  “Not many, but we have one here, I’m convinced of it.”

  Were there other victims? He remembered something he’d read, but he could not think of what it was. Would there be more? Now it was crucial to act quickly. He removed his phone from the inside pocket again and entered Sandén’s number, at the same time he ordered a perplexed Hamad to call Petra Westman and Einar Eriksson. Hamad did as he was told while Sandén answered Sjöberg’s call.

  “Hi, Jens, it’s Conny. Be at the office in half an hour, something has turned up.”

  He ended the call immediately, after which he phoned Hadar Rosén and left the same brief message. Then he started the car again and drove quickly back to the police station, while Hamad informed Eriksson and Westman about the hastily summoned meeting.

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  AT EXACTLY TWELVE-THIRTY, all six of them were assembled in the conference room at the police station on Östgötagatan. No one seemed irritated, not even the usually gloomy Einar Eriksson. Instead, everyone was sitting in tense anticipation, observing their resolute boss as he started to speak.

  “Our focus on a possible connection between Hans Vannerberg and Ingrid Olsson has borne fruit,” Sjöberg began, and then he related how recent discoveries led to today‘s breakthrough in the investigation.

  The meeting participants followed his account attentively, without interrupting.

  “Earlier in the week, a forty-four-year-old woman by the name of Lise-Lott Nilsson was murdered in Katrineholm. The papers said she was drowned in a tub of water. We have not yet been able to prove any connection to Vannerberg, but I would not be surprised if we find one. I have not had a chance to speak with our colleagues in either Katrineholm or Sigtuna to confirm this, but that will be the first thing we start working on after this meeting. There may be more victims we don’t know about, and worse yet, there may be more victims to come if we don’t figure this out right now. In short, I believe we’re dealing with a serial killer here.”

  Sjöberg fell silent and looked around for reactions and questions. The first one to open his mouth was the prosecutor.

  “Well done, Sjöberg. Just as you say, this puts the case in a different light. Now we have to act quickly. We have to focus on identifying and locating the other children in this preschool class, not only to warn them, but obviously also to look for motives and a perpetrator. We also have to coordinate our respective investigations in the various districts.”

  “The press,” said Sandén. “What information should we give to the media?”

  “None at all, so far,” Sjöberg replied. “It could interfere with the investigation. If we have problems locating the others involved, we may ask the press for help as a last resort, but we’ll postpone that until the time comes.”

  “Okay, what do we do now?” asked Hamad.

  “I suggest that, to save time, Jens immediately make contact with someone at the municipality in Katrineholm who can give us the information we need concerning that preschool class. We want all the children’s names and addresses. Petra, you alert someone at the census bureau who can help us produce information about where these people are today. And we want information as it arises. We can’t afford to wait until the whole list is compiled. Instead, we want each name as soon as it becomes available so we can begin our search as quickly as possible. I’ll contact the persons responsible for the investigations within the police departments in Katrineholm and Sigtuna to see what they’ve learned so far. Einar and Jamal are on standby, and will dive into the search process as soon as we have the slightest thing to go on. Einar, you contact the districts and get information about all murders that have been committed in Sweden during the past month. Jamal, you may as well go and get sandwiches for everyone to start with.”

  “I want frequent updates, as you know,” said Rosén to Sjöberg.

  “Will do,” Sjöberg promised, getting up from his chair. “Work hard now, do you hear me? You’ll get comp time when this is over.”

  Five chairs scraped against the parquet floor and three police officers and one prosecutor left the meeting room with determined expressions. Sandén lingered behind a moment and gave Sjöberg an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

  “You and your damn intuition. But you’re a lousy tennis player,” he added, laughing, and then he, too, left the room.

  Sjöberg went to his office and closed the door behind him. Before he even sat down, he had picked up the phone and was dialing his sister-in-law’s number. It was Lasse who answered, but after a few quick pleasantries, he asked him to put Mia on the line.

  “What now?” said Lasse, but immediately handed the phone to his wife.

  Sjöberg presumed that his brother-in-law was well informed about their conversation earlier in the day.

  “Tell me,” said Mia. “I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “What I’m telling you now is highly confidential,” said Sjöberg. “You must not utter a word of this to anyone, do you understand that?”

  “Absolutely,” answered Mia.

  “It turns out that the murder I’m working on is closely connected to what you told me this morning. And, presumably, with what we talked about last Friday. We seem to be dealing with a serial killer. A serial killer with very strong connections to Katrineholm.”

  “Wow,” said Mia.

  “And you can help me a little, if you don’t object. Extremely informally, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course.”

  “The police don’t normally work this way, as you understand. But if you have an opportunity, I would like you to do a little social research for me. You have contacts in Katrineholm, after all.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Are you familiar with Forest Hill?”

  “Of course, that was a preschool during my time.”

  “Exactly. During the 1968/’69 school year, there was a group of children there, led by a certain Ingrid Olsson. That group included Carina Ahonen, and Hans Vannerberg, the murder victim in the investigation I’m working on. Now, I haven’t yet produced the names of any more children in the group, but that’s only a matter of time. I’ll be in touch with you with more details when
I have any. I would like you to discreetly ask around and find out whether anything special was going on in that group of children—what the social structure looked like, if there were any children who stood out in one way or another, etc. Do you understand?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “But not a word about this to anyone.”

  “I’ll be silent as the grave.”

  “Good. I’ll be in touch.”

  Sjöberg hung up and then picked up the phone again. This time he called information, who connected him to the Katrineholm police department. The on-duty constable who took the call referred him to an Inspector Torstensson, who was off for the weekend. He promised to locate him as soon as possible and have the inspector call Sjöberg back right away. Sjöberg hung up and repeated the procedure with the Sigtuna police. Then he went out into the corridor and got a cup of coffee and returned to his seat just in time to receive Hamad’s delivery of a sandwich for lunch.

  Halfway through his meatball sandwich the phone rang. It was a Chief Inspector Holst at the Sigtuna police who was the first to call. He was very shaken by what Sjöberg had to say, and reported in turn that they had secured fingerprints at the scene of the crime that almost certainly belonged to the murderer. He also reported that the murder of Carina Ahonen could be considered relatively brutal, and that judging by appearances, it involved torture. Her hair was cut off and the victim had severe burn wounds that were incurred shortly before death. Finally, her throat was cut and the whole thing was a very bloody story. Sjöberg promised to be in touch again after he had spoken with the Katrineholm police. He felt sickened by the information his colleague in Sigtuna had given him, which had interrupted his lunch before he could finish his sandwich. Then he sat for a long time thinking about what he had heard.