There was an exchange of words around this topic and after some stammering Thomas finally got the same thing said once again.
“Is there anyone who can confirm this information?” the male police officer asked.
“Well, at work there must be someone who knows when I’m usually there...”
“And otherwise?”
“I guess it’s hard to prove that I’m at home when I’m at home.”
“You don’t see anyone?”
“No,” Thomas admitted. “I’m mostly by myself.”
“Mostly?”
“Always, then. I’m always alone,” said Thomas, suddenly, in a loud, clear voice—why, he didn’t really know.
The two police officers exchanged a quick glance and the woman wrote something down on a small pad.
“Why are you asking me this?” Thomas asked.
“May we come all the way in?” the policeman asked.
Thomas nodded and went ahead into the kitchen. The female police officer remained out in the hall, diligently making notes on her pad. They sat down at the kitchen table and Thomas looked hopelessly at his hands, which seemed to have a life of their own on his lap.
“You have no family?” the policeman asked.
“No,” answered Thomas.
“Can you tell me a little about yourself?”
Thomas thought the policeman looked friendly, but his eyes were vigilant and wandered over the impersonal contents of his kitchen. From the hallway not a sound was heard. Was there so much to write about him?
“Please?” the policeman repeated.
Thomas did not dare look him in the eyes, but cleared his throat again and told in a stammer the little there was to tell about his empty life.
“Tell me about preschool,” the police encouraged him.
Thomas turned completely cold inside.
“Preschool?”
“Yes, exactly. I want to know what preschool was like.”
“I don’t know. Preschool? That was a long time ago...”
“Were you happy? Who did you play with? Are you in touch with anyone from that time?”
“In touch? No, not in touch.”
Thomas wrung his hands, which were now completely sweaty. What should he say? It felt unpleasant to lie to the police, but you could not dress the truth in words, the truth was like a gray blanket over all of existence.
“I must ask you to please answer my questions,” the policeman said commandingly, and his voice cut like a knife in Thomas’s ears.
“Childhood...was a nice time. It was fun going to preschool. We drew...and played. I played with... No, I don’t remember.”
“Why don’t you look me in the eyes?” the policeman asked, not as friendly now. “You’re not lying to me, are you?”
“Lying? No. I played with...a girl whose name was Katarina,” Thomas lied.
They had never played, never even exchanged a word as far as he could remember. But what could he say?
“I would like to take your fingerprints,” said the policeman, setting something that looked like a stamp pad in front of him. “All fingers, one print in each square here.”
He indicated a paper with ten printed squares. Thomas placed one hand on the table and the policeman touched it. His hand was so damp with sweat that the policeman immediately pulled his own hand back, and Thomas felt his face turning bright red again. His pulse was pounding in his ears and he wished they would leave him in peace now. But he obediently pressed his fingers against the inkpad and then against the rough surface of the paper, one at a time.
“There have been a number of brutal murders,” said the policeman, as Thomas did as he was told, looking at him intensely.
Thomas felt like he was about to start crying and a hard, painful clump was growing in his throat. He said nothing, but tried as best he could to look the now almost threatening man in the eyes.
“Four of your classmates from preschool have been murdered during the past two weeks,” the policeman continued, “and we have reason to believe that you, too, may be in danger. For that reason we ask you to be on your guard and not let any strange people into your apartment. We’re done now, but we’ll be in touch again.”
He got up from the table and gave Thomas a little pat on the back. It was impossible to tell whether this was intended as a friendly, sympathetic, or threatening gesture, but the feeling from the touch lingered on his skin under his shirt, as if he had burned himself. He remained seated until he heard the outside door close behind the two police officers. Then he got up on wobbly legs, stumbled into his bedroom, and lay down on the bed. He lay there for a long time crying, and when the tension finally let go, he fell asleep there, in the fetal position with his clothes on.
MONDAY MORNING
BY EIGHT O’CLOCK ON Monday morning everyone in the investigation group was already in the conference room for a review of Sunday evening’s work. Hadar Rosén and Gabriella Hansson were also at the table and their colleagues in Katrineholm, Skärholmen, and Sigtuna were included by phone. The expectant silence was broken only by scattered yawns. Westman sought Rosén’s, gaze but when she did catch it, his eyes were completely neutral and revealed nothing about what was going on in his mind. Finally, Sjöberg began speaking.
“Welcome, everyone, to this meeting. This is Chief Inspector Conny Sjöberg, Hammarby, speaking. We’ll have to speak loud and clear because we’re on a conference call. Are you there in Katrineholm, Sigtuna, and Skärholmen?”
Affirmative responses from raspy voices were heard from the speakers on the table.
“To start with, I hope that those of you who aren’t in the Hammarby district have sent all the fingerprints to Stockholm by courier?”
This had been done, and the fingerprints would be in Hansson’s hands at the lab later that morning.
“Then I propose that we go through the names on the list in the order they appear and then have the party responsible for each person report on what they found out last evening. Are you all with me?”
No objections were heard, and the meeting participants gave their verbal reports in the proposed order. The names were dealt with, one by one, and as it turned out, almost all had been at home. Of the twenty-three individuals who had been in Ingrid Olsson’s preschool class, four, of course, were dead. No attempt had been made to get hold of the three living in Gothenburg, Oslo, and Lund, and two who were still registered in Katrineholm, plus one of the persons living in Stockholm, could not be reached. In summary, thirteen individuals had been questioned the evening before, while six had not yet been found.
Of those the police had been able to speak with, the majority were completely average people, who reacted as expected to the visit by the police and did not seem to have anything to hide. A few had scattered memories from their time in preschool, but most of those questioned recalled little or nothing. A few of those who were still living in their home town knew, or knew of, each other today, but none recalled that they had also gone to the same preschool.
One of the men who lived in Katrineholm—Peter Broman on Rönngatan—turned out to be an alcoholic, and when the police barged into his apartment, a party with twenty-some people was going on. The appearance of the police had not been welcomed and a fight broke out, but fortunately no one was injured. The man had been convicted of a number of petty thefts, as well as other similar violations, but never for any violent crimes.
When the list came to Thomas Karlsson, it was Hamad who initially spoke for him and Westman.
“Thomas Karlsson reacted very strangely to our visit. One moment it was as though he was petrified, and the next moment he was shaking like a leaf. He was sweating profusely and incoherent. He had a hard time understanding and answering our questions. Would not look us in the eyes. As we were leaving it looked like he was about to start crying. To start with, he claimed not to remember anything from preschool, but then it came out that he used to play with someone named Katarina. That must be this Katarina Hallenius
in Hallonbergen.”
“We haven’t got hold of her yet, but we’ll try to confirm that with her when we do,” Sandén interjected.
“I got the feeling he was lying,” Hamad continued. “But it wasn’t just that. He was, like...really strange too, don’t you think, Petra?”
“Yes, he was,” Westman agreed. “He’s not really right in the head, I don’t think.”
“And he has no friends, either,” said Hamad. “No family. No one who could attest to his whereabouts at the time of the murders. ‘I’m always alone,’ he almost screamed at one point.”
“Does the guy have a job?” asked Sjöberg.
“He works in the mail room at a company in Järfälla. We’ll have to check what they have to say about him there. In summary, he was a very odd duck, this Thomas Karlsson.”
“We took prints of his shoes,” said Westman. “He had one pair of shoes in the hall. He had almost no possessions. The apartment was completely bare. No pictures, no flowers, no curtains, nothing. A few pieces of furniture, but just the bare necessities, a few books and magazines, that was it.”
“Did he appear threatening in any way?” Sjöberg asked. “Is he capable of murder?”
“He was absolutely not threatening,” Hamad replied. “On the contrary, he almost gave the impression of being scared to death. Is he capable of murder? What do I know about what goes on in his mind. Fear can be a reason to kill people. No idea.”
“Okay, he seems to be our likeliest candidate so far, anyway. Now we’ll wait for Hansson’s analysis of fingerprints and shoe prints. We’ll continue the hunt for the remaining persons and Sigtuna will make contact with Oslo, Lund, and Gothenburg. Now let’s break. Thanks, everyone.”
Sjöberg ended the conference call and Hansson gathered up the fingerprint samples that the officers who were present had collected the evening before. Westman’s competently acquired shoe print also went to the laboratory, along with Hansson. The remaining police officers, in the company of prosecutor Rosén, lingered in the conference room a while longer.
“Now we have a few hours’ wait ahead of us before Bella gets back to us with the initial analysis from the lab,” Sjöberg began. “I propose that Eriksson run all these individuals against the crime register and so on to see what we find on any of them. Westman will make another visit to Ingrid Olsson. Now that we have all the students’ names, perhaps we can bring some dormant memories to life. Go through each and every person and try to get her to remember anything from that year. Hamad and Sandén will continue to search for the remaining person, Katarina Hallenius in Hallonbergen.”
“This Thomas Karlsson,” said Rosén, “shouldn’t we assign a couple men to keep an eye on him?”
“I think it’s too early at this point,” Sjöberg replied. “We’ll wait for the lab results, first, and make a decision on that later. We don’t know anything about him. Maybe he’s just shy and unsure of himself.”
Rosén agreed and the meeting was over. Petra once again tried to make silent contact with the prosecutor. He took his time gathering his papers, without raising his eyes. When he was finally done, everyone had left the room except Petra, who had lingered behind. He looked at her in silence for a few seconds and then said, without revealing anything about what was going on in his mind by his facial expression or tone of voice, “This is more important. Do what you have to do. At 5:00 we’ll meet in my office.”
* * *
When he woke up the next morning, he wasn’t sure where he was, at first. In his dream he had walked on a long pier. Below the pier there was presumably water, but you could not see it because a thick layer of fog covered it and poured up around him like big clouds of smoke. It was twilight and cold, he had a red quilted jacket on, ski pants, and a pair of clumsy black ski boots with blue laces. With every breath he took, steam came out of his nostrils. Behind him he heard the children’s voices. They did not see him in the fog, but they knew he was out there, because the voices were coming closer. The end of the pier could not be seen, but as he walked and walked, it became clear the pier was very long. Suddenly, there was no longer anything under his feet and he fell, arms flailing, into the cold, damp void. He opened his eyes and found, to his surprise, that it was completely light around him. He lay there quietly a while, waiting for reality to return to him. The dream slowly released its grip and he discovered that he was on top of the covers with his clothes on. The lights in the room were on and the shade was not pulled down. He did not move, did not even look at the clock, just laid there a long time, completely relaxed, looking into himself.
At last hunger got the upper hand. His stomach growled discontentedly for breakfast, and he stretched and sat up on the edge of the bed. He could see through the window that it was already light out, which meant he would be late for work. That didn’t matter, because he didn’t intend to go there anyway. Today he was going to look up a woman he had not seen in a very, very long time. Just thinking about it caused a surge in his belly as if he was riding a roller coaster.
* * *
She took hesitant steps on the wet sidewalk, as if she was waiting for something, or as if every step hurt. Now and then she stopped and poked with her foot among some old, rotting leaves, or in one of the small blackened snowdrifts that were scattered reminders of yesterday’s winter weather. In one hand she carried a small suitcase, and the other was plunged deep in the pocket of her coat. Her collar was folded up as protection against the cold wind. As she passed the familiar black iron gate, she stopped and stood a long time, spying across the large yard with its fruit trees. Although it was mid-day, the outdoor lights were on and the old pink house looked welcoming, despite the high, dense hedge that surrounded it. Then she started again, with the same slow steps, but she did not go far. After fifty yards she turned and slowly walked back to the iron gate, where she again remained standing with her thoughts.
Thomas followed her tensely. He had not seen her in many years, but she was not all that different. Soon he would get up the courage to make himself known, but first he just had to watch her for a while.
He was well hidden. He could not be seen at all from his position crouched behind a car parked across and farther down the street, even if the woman were to unexpectedly look in that direction. She did a few more rounds and finally she laboriously opened the heavy gate and stepped onto the gravel path that led up to the house. Thomas got up from his hiding place and crossed the little street with aching knees. Resolutely, he followed the sidewalk toward the gate. Just as he was leaning down to avoid some low-hanging tree branches, he heard a car engine behind him. He turned reflexively to look at the car and found, to his amazement, that it was the policewoman from last night who was behind the wheel. She slowed down, came up alongside him and rolled down the window. Thomas felt the fear from yesterday come over him again, and without knowing why, he started running.
* * *
Petra Westman was in the car on her way to Ingrid Olsson’s house in Gamla Enskede, worried about what would be said in Hadar Rosén’s office at the end of the day. She was extremely uncertain about him. He was not the type to express his feelings to any great extent. Unless he was furious. Either he would recommend that the disciplinary review board give her a warning, or he would accommodate her request and have Peder Fryhk arrested. Both alternatives were good enough reasons for nail biting, a habit she was not prone to. On the other hand, her stomach was in an uproar and she had already been to the restroom more times this morning than she normally would all day.
As she turned onto picturesque Åkerbärsvägen, she was able to temporarily put aside her anxieties and thought instead that this is how she would like to live someday. In a beautiful old house with a mature garden and abundant climbing roses, a small vegetable patch to putter in, and a lawn for the dog to run around in. And maybe children, too, if she ever had any. Nice neighbors you could sit with under the fruit trees and drink wine. And organize barbecues and play croquet. At this time in November
it looked empty and deserted, but in the spring and summer the area would liven up, you could be sure of that. People in minimal clothing, and kids playing soccer and jumping rope on the little street.
Suddenly she saw a man crouching on the sidewalk. He looked familiar, but before she could think about how she knew him, he turned toward her and looked her right in the eyes. It was that character from yesterday, Thomas Karlsson! What business did he have in this neighborhood? Instinctively, she drove up to him and rolled down the window. Before she could open her mouth, he took to his heels and started running. She jumped out of the car and took off after him. He had a lead of fifteen or twenty yards, and she thought that she probably should have taken the car instead, but it was too late for that now! He rushed up the street, without turning around. He was a man and she was a woman, but she was in good shape and had always been a good runner. Despite her bulky winter clothes she started gaining on him, but she had no idea what she would do with him if she caught up. She had left her service pistol in the cabinet at the police station—no orders had been issued on being armed for a visit to Ingrid Olsson. She had a pair of handcuffs in the glove compartment of the unmarked police car, but how would she get to them?
She caught up before the crest of the hill. She threw herself over him with all her weight, and he fell flat on his face on the wet asphalt. She straddled him and tied his arms behind his back. Then she caught her breath for a few moments before she took her cell phone out of the inside pocket of her jacket. She entered Sjöberg’s number, who answered before she even heard a signal.
“It’s Petra,” she panted into the phone. “I’ve caught Thomas Karlsson outside Ingrid Olsson’s house. I need reinforcements, quickly.”
Then she ended the call and put the phone back in her pocket.
H01 - The Gingerbread House Page 24
