H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  “You are arrested, suspected of the murder of Hans Vannerberg, Ann-Kristin Widell, Lise-Lott Nilsson and Carina Ahonen Gustavsson. Now lie quietly and calm down, do you understand?”

  * * *

  Thomas said nothing and did not budge, but with tears streaming down his face he felt the icy cold of the asphalt spreading from the skin on his face and into his body, where it finally squeezed his heart until only a little sharp piece of ice remained.

  Twelve minutes later he was sitting in handcuffs, shaking with cold in the back seat of a police car.

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  ONCE AGAIN, SJöBERG WAS at his desk with a sandwich in front of him, and once again he had a hard time finishing his meager lunch. Some constables were now in a car on their way to the city with a suspected serial killer in the back seat. A forty-four-year-old man who had never been convicted before, who had never been in trouble with the law, never stood out in any way, but instead lived a quiet life in solitude in a little apartment on Kungsholmen. He had always paid his bills on time, never been in contact with the social authorities or mental health system, and yet he was being held as a suspect in no less than four sadistic murders.

  This was astonishing. What could have happened to bring out such a dark side in him? The victims were people he most likely hadn’t seen since he was a child, a very young child at that.

  When news of the arrest reached Sjöberg, after first arranging reinforcements for Westman, he called Sandén and Hamad in from Hallonbergen. They were still searching for the only person on the list who had not yet been located. By now, they were presumably in their car, on the way back to the police station, preparing for the initial interrogation of Thomas Karlsson, who would be charged as a suspect in the murders. Sjöberg was full of resolve prior to the confrontation with Karlsson, and wondered how he would manage to handle Karlsson’s alleged fear and nervousness. Perhaps they ought to have a psychologist on hand? No, that sort of thing would have to wait. The main thing now was to prevent any further victims by ensuring that they had indeed arrested the guilty party.

  The phone rang, yet again—all morning he had been flooded with calls from colleagues involved in the investigation around the country, journalists wanting an update on the developments in the Vannerberg case, the prosecutor, the police chief, and so on—but he answered dutifully anyway. It was Mia, his sister-in-law, who wanted to speak with him.

  “I’ve done some research, as we agreed, and now I have a little information that I think will interest you.”

  Sjöberg had forgotten, in the general confusion after Petra Westman’s breathless voice requesting reinforcements, about asking his sister-in-law for help. The idea of trying to form an impression of the atmosphere in Ingrid Olsson’s preschool class almost forty years earlier felt superfluous now.

  “Go on,” he said politely. “We’ve arrested a suspect for the murders, but tell me anyway. I’ll be seeing him in a little while, so it may be good to have something a bit more concrete to go on.”

  “It’s not Thomas Karlsson you’ve arrested, by any chance?”

  Sjöberg remained silent a moment, but then answered.

  “I can’t answer that.”

  “Of course you can, otherwise I can’t tell you what I’ve found out. And it will interest you, because I knew his name, right?”

  “Okay, okay,” Sjöberg sighed. “Now tell me.”

  “I talked with that friend in Katrineholm I love to talk about childhood memories with. Just because he has such a good memory. He’s the same age as me and it turned out that his little brother, Staffan Eklund, was actually in that preschool class. My friend and his mother both remembered things from that time. On the other hand, his little brother didn’t remember a thing. The police had already been in contact with him, but he was completely blank.”

  “Get to the point, please,” Sjöberg encouraged her impatiently.

  “Okay, here it is. At that time they lived in a pretty bad area. They were building a house and were going to move away from there as soon as the new house was finished, but for the time being, little brother was in preschool there. There was evidently a crowd of really nasty kids and his mom was not at all happy about his playmates. They got into fights and misbehaved and two of the children above all distinguished themselves as real brats. Guess what their names were?”

  “No, tell me.”

  “Hans and Ann-Kristin.”

  “You don’t say...”

  “Hans and Ann-Kristin dominated that group of children completely and stirred up the other children against a couple of poor things they had put at the bottom of the pecking order. One of them was Thomas Karlsson, the other was a girl, and they both got beat up every single day. And the whole class was in on it, Staffan too, to his mother’s great disappointment. He did what was expected of him and, probably due to peer pressure, could not really see what was right and wrong. They did horrible things to those children, each one worse than the last. Besides beating them black and blue, once they almost drowned one of them, they cut off their hair, tore apart their clothes, they laid one of them in front of a car on the street, and there were teeth knocked out, and serious physical and mental abuse along with it. Can you imagine? They were only six years old!”

  “What kind of person do you become if you’re subjected to such things?” Sjöberg asked.

  “In a small town like Katrineholm it works this way,” Mia continued, “that once you’ve been labeled, it’s like it can’t be washed off. I imagine that the bullying doesn’t simply stop, instead it continues on up into school age and presumably goes on in some form or other until one day you move away. So it’s hard to rehabilitate yourself. Maybe these children started it, but then others took over and carried on the tradition.”

  “Carina Ahonen then, where does she fit into the picture?”

  “She seems to have been the one really pulling the strings. A sharp little doll who never used force herself, but who was the initiator of the mental terror. She was the one who decided who was good and who was bad, what was right and what was wrong. Everyone adored her, adults and children alike, but in reality she was the foremost cheerleader and opinion-maker. In a negative sense.”

  “It sounds like we’re talking about a Mafia organization, not about six-year-old children,” Sjöberg sighed.

  “People are always the same. The world runs on power and violence, at all levels.”

  “And Lise-Lott?”

  “A real roughneck. A dense lackey with a great need for attention. I guess she did like most of the others, only more.”

  “And Ingrid Olsson did nothing, I’m guessing?”

  “Exactly right,” Mia answered. “Staffan’s mother tried to talk with her a number of times about the unpleasant atmosphere among the children, but she got no response. Ingrid Olsson thought her job was to watch over and stimulate the children during the time they were at preschool. There was no trouble on the preschool grounds and she could not control what the children said to each other. What happened outside the gates when they left was not her responsibility. The children and their parents had to manage on their own, she thought. Poor Thomas had no rights at all. At last, almost forty years later, I guess he decided to take matters into his own hands. What the hell should he do?”

  “Nothing,” said Sjöberg.

  Thomas Karlsson was a man of normal build, somewhat below average height, with what might be called an ordinary appearance. He had brown hair, several weeks past due for a haircut, and was dressed in blue jeans and a blue cotton shirt. Sjöberg introduced himself and then sat down in the interrogation room to wait for Sandén, studying the suspect in silence. He did not seem to notice the scrutinizing glances, but sat looking down at his hands. Nor did he appear particularly frightened or nervous, as Sjöberg had expected. Dejected, if anything. He had mournful blue eyes and his posture suggested resignation.

  When Sandén stepped into the room he looked up, shifted a little in the uncomfortable
chair, and straightened up.

  “So your name is Thomas Karlsson,” Sjöberg began. “This is Inspector Jens Sandén and we are here to question you about the murders of Hans Vannerberg, Ann-Kristin Widell, Lise-Lott Nilsson, and Carina Ahonen Gustavsson. Do you know the persons I’ve named?”

  Thomas raised his head and looked him in the eyes for the first time.

  “Yes,” he answered. “We went to the same preschool.”

  “Why did you murder them?”

  When Sjöberg got no answer, he continued.

  “This is what’s called an initial interrogation. This is the first questioning that we have with a suspect immediately after the arrest. Later there will be more questioning, and then you have the right to have an attorney or legal representative with you. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you admit that you are guilty of these crimes?”

  Thomas hesitated a moment, then answered.

  “No.”

  “Why do you think we've arrested you, then?”

  “Don't know,” Thomas replied.

  “What were you doing outside Ingrid Olsson's house?” Sjöberg asked.

  “I was afraid something would happen to her.”

  “Indeed?” said Sjöberg. “But I'm not, because you're sitting here with us, in safe custody. There won't be any more murders. Are you sorry that your friends from preschool are dead?”

  Thomas did not reply, but instead sat drumming his fingertips against each other. There was a knock on the door and Sandén went to open it. Westman waved him out into the corridor outside and their whispering voices could be heard, but not what they were saying.

  “That was a difficult time for you, so I've understood,” Sjöberg continued.

  Thomas looked at him in bewilderment without saying anything.

  “Preschool,” said Sjöberg. “I've heard you didn't have such a great time there. Can you tell me what they did to you?”

  “They hit me,” said Thomas.

  “All children fight. It doesn't sound all that bad.”

  Thomas blushed. Sjöberg observed him in silence and Sandén came back into the room and whispered something in his ear.

  “But now you've been able to hit back,” Sjöberg said quietly.

  He saw how the blood vessels on the man's neck became visible. Perhaps there was an underlying rage festering below the insecure surface.

  “Tell us what you were doing at Ingrid Olsson's on Monday evening two weeks ago, when Hans Vannerberg was murdered there.”

  No answer. Sjöberg put on a cunning smile and continued in a silky voice.

  “We have positive evidence that you were there. We have found prints of your shoes in the garden, and in a short time we will have verified your fingerprints on the murder weapon. We have already caught you in a lie. You maintained that you were at home that evening, but we know you were on Åkerbärsvägen in Enskede. What were you doing there?”

  Thomas's face was now beet-red, but he collected himself and answered the question.

  “I was following Hans Vannerberg.”

  “Okay then. You were following Hans Vannerberg. And then?”

  Sjöberg smiled triumphantly.

  “Nothing. He went into the house and I waited outside, but he never came out, so I went home.”

  “Yes, that is a plausible explanation,” said Sjöberg sarcastically. “But soon we will have identified the fingerprints on the murder weapon and what will you say then?”

  He had no answer to that, but the gaze he met was close to terrified. Sjöberg did not give up, but instead continued with another question.

  “Why did you follow him in the first place?”

  “I ran into him on the street. I was curious.”

  “And Ann-Kristin Widell, you just followed her, too?”

  This was taking a chance, and Sjöberg knew it, but it hit the mark.

  “I went to see her.”

  “Just like that? On the evening of the murder?”

  Thomas nodded in reply.

  “Curious about her, too?”

  “Yes.”

  Sjöberg did not believe his ears. Until now they had no traces of Thomas Karlsson in Skärholmen and no witness reports, but now he willingly admitted that he was there.

  “And what did you see then? Perhaps a savage murder? That you yourself committed?”

  Thomas twisted his fingers nervously in his lap.

  “Visitors,” he answered. “There were a lot of people who came to visit that evening.”

  “What kind of visitors were they? Murderers?”

  After a moment's hesitation, Thomas met Sjöberg's gaze.

  “Customers,” he said curtly, lowering his gaze again.

  Sjöberg inspected the quiet man a while without saying anything. Sandén, who until then had not opened his mouth, took over the questioning.

  “And then we have Lise-Lott Nilsson, what do you know about her?”

  “She's dead.”

  “You didn't by chance happen to be there too, when she was murdered?”

  “No. I read about it in the newspaper.”

  “You're lying through your teeth,” said Sandén, “and before long we will have identified your fingerprints at all four murder scenes. Then you can say what you want, but you can expect life imprisonment. Don't you have anything reasonable to say to put an end to this meaningless interrogation?”

  A shake of his head was the only reply, whereupon Sjöberg declared the interview over and requested Thomas Karlsson be transfered to the jail.

  * * *

  Thomas did not know where his sense of calm had come from, but in the car en route to the jail an unexpected feeling of security suddenly appeared. Even though he had just been sitting in a sterile interrogation room, held for a number of very serious crimes, there were people who cared and worried about him. The police officers saw him and took responsibility for him. They talked with him and they would see to it that he got to eat and sleep, that he had clean clothes and did no harm to himself. True, they despised him, but he was a person and he had aroused their interest. He felt like a small child being rocked in a secure embrace—no one could do him more harm than he did to himself. The contemptuous condescension and insinuating questions of the police gave him value. He was a significant person now.

  But during the walk to the jail cell, where he would spend the hours until the attorney arrived, something happened that made him reconsider. Thomas, in handcuffs, and the two constables escorting him, were guided through the corridors of the Kronoberg prison by a burly prison guard. They passed a social room where some young men sat playing cards. One of the men called to the guard and wanted to know who was with him.

  “A new friend,” the guard answered curtly, without stopping.

  For a fraction of a second Thomas met the young man's gaze, but that was enough for things to go wrong. Before anyone realized what was happening, he threw himself forward and head-butted Thomas, making him fall to the floor. The guard, who was considerably larger than the assailant, overpowered him without difficulty, while both police officers brusquely hauled Thomas up from the floor, without taking into account that he was injured. Blood was gushing from his nose and down onto his clothes. When everything started to become clear again, it occurred to him that, in their eyes, he was at least as dangerous as the man who had attacked him. He also realized that he would not cope with being in prison. It would almost certainly be ten times worse than preschool.

  * * *

  Sjöberg left the interrogation room feeling dissatisfied. He had no handle on this peculiar man. He made no effort to either defend or explain himself. Maybe he wanted to go to prison. Was he one of those criminals who wanted to show off and brag about his evil deeds? His story was very strange, too. That he admitted following Hans Vannerberg to Ingrid Olsson's house was one thing, since they had evidence that he had been there, but why did he admit that he had also gone to see Ann-Kristin Widell? A
nd why didn't he admit that he had done the same with Lise-Lott Nilsson and Carina Ahonen Gustavsson? The story didn't make sense. Everything seemed clear, but Thomas Karlsson's conduct in the interrogation room was mysterious.

  “A sick bastard,” Sandén said, when they were sitting in Sjöberg's office a few minutes later, each with a cup of coffee.

  “Do you think so?” said Sjöberg.

  “Of course he's sick, he's killed four people.”

  “What if he hasn't though? What if the fingerprints don't match?”

  “Of course they'll match. You don't mean to say you're in doubt?”

  “No,” answered Sjöberg. “Of course it's him. But he behaved really strangely during the interrogation, in my opinion.”

  “In what way?”

  “He admits that he's been at two of the murder scenes at the time of the murders, but not at the other two.”

  “Maybe he's confused. Maybe he doesn't know what he's done.”

  “You don't believe that yourself,” said Sjöberg dismissively. “On the one hand he's afraid and nervous, on the other, he does nothing to get out of the accusations. Or at least fill us full of lies about mitigating circumstances.”

  “I guess he hasn't found his ’true self’,” Sandén suggested.

  “No, apparently not,” Sjöberg answered thoughtfully. “He had a difficult upbringing.”

  “Where'd you get that from?” Sandén asked with surprise.

  Sjöberg told him about his sister-in-law's private surveillance and Sandén gestured that his lips were sealed.

  “Poor devil!” he exclaimed when Sjöberg was done. “You wonder how that poor girl has managed in life. If he turned out to be a serial killer, you might wonder what became of her.”

  “Probably only a normal, peaceful person,” thought Sjöberg. “Many children have a hard time, but in some strange way most of them turn out human anyway.”

  Their conversation was interrupted when the phone on Sjöberg's desk rang. It was Lennart Josefsson, the neighbor of Ingrid Olsson who had previously testified that two men passed by outside his window on Åkerbärsvägen the evening of the murder. This time he wanted to report that an unknown woman had passed by on the street outside several times that morning, finally entering Ingrid Olsson's gate. Josefsson had also seen the police arrest of Thomas Karlsson, and for that reason, hesitated to call in about the strange woman for the longest time, but ultimately decided to do so. Sjöberg thanked him for the tip, but dismissed the whole thing as irrelevant to the investigation. It was probably only Margit Olofsson visiting Ingrid Olsson to make sure she was coping properly in her home after her long absence.