H01 - The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  “In a house search at Fryhk’s, the police found a large number of video recordings of other rapes. It has been determined that these rapes took place in his own home.”

  Petra gasped for breath.

  “Out of concern for you, I insisted on being allowed to personally go through the evidence before the police. You do not figure in any of these videos. The implications of that you can decide for yourself.”

  Before she could say anything, the cell phone in her pants pocket rang.

  “Excuse me,” she said as she got up from the chair.

  She took out the cell phone and looked at the display: “Blocked Number.”

  “I have to take this, in case it’s Sjöberg.”

  The prosecutor nodded and studied her attentively while the conversation was going on. It was not Sjöberg calling. It was forensic technician Håkan Carlberg.

  “I got the idea that, to be on the safe side, I should also do a DNA analysis of the contents of the other condom,” he said in a tone that was not what she had expected. “I’m sorry, Petra, but it was not Peder Fryhk’s. And this time we have no match with DNA from any previous crime.”

  Petra ended the call and met Rosén’s eyes. Whether he had heard what was being said on the other end Petra did not know, but she thought she detected a worried frown. Thoughts were rushing around in mind and she felt completely dizzy.

  Neither of them said anything before the phone rang again. This time it was Sjöberg, and he ordered Petra Westman to immediately make her way to Åkerbärsvägen 31 in Enskede.

  * * *

  Suddenly she startled. Were those sirens she heard somewhere far off? Very, very faint, but still? The reaction was both unnecessary and stupid, she knew, but you could never be too careful. No one knew she was here, no one knew that Ingrid Olsson was being held prisoner in her own home. The phone had not rung all day, and Miss Ingrid seemed to have no relatives or friends, which she had noted during the days she had sneaked around outside the house, studying the old woman and her doings. That was the discovery that gave her the courage to ring the doorbell, the courage to ask Miss Ingrid if she wanted to be her friend. But then it was too late. The old teacher was suddenly gone and everything was turned upside down.

  The house stood empty for weeks before she dared lure Hans there. She had planned to take them in the order she thought they deserved it. Now it turned out that Miss Ingrid was the worst of all. It could be no other way. She had been a grown-up, responsible for all of them, and yet she stood on the sidelines and watched as the children crushed her, took her childhood from her, her life, everything. Besides, now she was also ignoring Katarina’s cries for help. So Miss Ingrid had been added to the list. She was last, and that was perfect considering the new insight Katarina had. Now she could really draw the whole thing out and make use of all the skills she had acquired in the course of her journey.

  Were the sirens coming closer? Now they definitely fell silent. Maybe she had only imagined the whole thing. To be certain, she put the cork back in the bottle and set the glass down on the bench. Then she slipped over to the tall hedge that marked the boundary to the neighbor farther down the street. The hedge was dense, but there was a space between the branches close to the ground where she could get through if needed.

  She hid by the hedge a good while before she relaxed. She was just about to return to the bench and the bottle of port wine when she thought she heard something. She held her breath for several seconds and was on full alert trying to locate the source of the sound. It was not a car engine and not human voices either—or maybe that’s exactly what it was? Was someone whispering? The sound came closer, and at last it was clear to her that she was hearing whispering voices and stealthy steps against the asphalt on the street. They were heading in her direction and thoughts were buzzing in her mind. What was their purpose? Did the police know what was going on in the house, and in that case, how in the world had they found out?

  Whatever. They would find out from Ingrid Olsson who she was, but they would never catch her. She would have to leave Miss Ingrid to her fate, but the old preschool teacher had some real food for thought anyway, and that was good enough. Seeing that she had a sizeable head start, Katarina squeezed through the obstinate hedge and out onto the lawn of the neighboring lot, to be swallowed up by the darkness.

  * * *

  Hamad’s car, which was first in the group of squad cars headed to Ingrid Olsson’s house in Enskede, turned up on the sidewalk after the exit from Nynäsvägen, and stopped with the engine and blue lights on. Within a few minutes the rest had caught up and were rolling into the residential area in a caravan. They stopped at the main road through the area, just south of Åkerbärsvägen, and parked in a long row along the curb. The police were getting out of their cars just as Westman arrived in hers. They all gathered in a wide circle around Sjöberg who quickly relayed his orders. Then, as a unit, they rushed toward number 31.

  As they approached the neighboring house, they slowed down to take the final stretch over to the gate as soundlessly as possible. Ingrid Olsson’s garden was silent and deserted. There were lights on in some of the windows, but there was no activity in the house visible from the street. One by one the police officers jumped nimbly over the tall gate and down onto the grass by the side of the gravel path. Sjöberg gave low-voiced commands as the police formed groups and slipped around to each end of the house to try to see what was going on inside.

  The foundation of the house reached a good bit above the ground, which made it difficult to see in through the windows, but Hamad hoisted Westman up, who spied in across the living room. She didn’t notice any movement in the room, but suddenly she caught sight of a pair of feet at the far end of the brown three-cushion couch. It was impossible to make out whom they belonged to, but she hissed at one of the police officers on his way back from behind the house to report her observation to Sjöberg. At the same moment Hamad caught sight of the half-empty glass and the bottle of port wine on the little bench.

  Nothing else of interest had been seen in the house, aside the feet on the couch. Sjöberg stepped up on the stoop and carefully knocked on the door. At the same moment Westman noted from her position outside the living room window that the feet jerked at the unexpected sound, and for a fraction of a second, she thought she saw that they were bound together. Then they vanished into the couch again, and now almost nothing could be seen of the still figure. Hamad let go of his colleague. Westman landed with a light thud on the damp grass and ran around the house back to the stoop.

  “I think she’s tied up,” she whispered excitedly to Sjöberg. “Her feet jerked when you knocked, but then she was quiet again.”

  “Let’s go in now,” Sjöberg hissed to the police force now gathered at the bottom of the steps. “You two go to the left, you to the right, you up and you down into the basement. You stay put outside. Weapons drawn, understood?”

  The officers nodded in response and took their guns from their holsters. Sjöberg stepped up to the front door, while the others took a few steps to the side. He placed himself to the side of the front door, took a deep breath and pushed down the handle. The door flew open and the police rushed into the house. Sjöberg ran into the living room and indeed—there was Ingrid Olsson, bound hand and foot, looking at them with eyes wide open in terror.

  “What’s going on here?” asked Sjöberg as he got down on his knee beside the couch, where the shaken old woman was lying.

  “She went out,” said Ingrid Olsson in a weak voice. “It can’t be more than fifteen minutes ago.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Long blonde hair and a navy blue coat.”

  “Take care of Mrs. Olsson,” Sjöberg ordered one of the young constables.

  Then he hurried out into the hall and called out to the officers.

  “She’s out there somewhere,” he said. “She happened to be outside when we arrived and that’s very unfortunate, but now we’ll get her. She ha
s long blonde hair and a navy blue coat. We’ll release the dog after her.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hamad. “There’s a little bench around the corner, and on it I saw a bottle of sherry or port wine and a glass. Let the dog sniff that first.”

  “Good idea, Jamal. Show the dog handler,” said Sjöberg, after which he gave the sign to the policemen to go out again.

  The large German shepherd sniffed the glass curiously for a few seconds, after which she started tugging eagerly on her leash. She rushed over to the hole in the hedge and quickly ran through. The dog handler had a tough time following her without letting go of the leash, and it was not much easier for the other police officers. At last all the police were through, but at this point the dog and her handler were far ahead.

  After that it got easier. The hunt went through a dozen yards, until they finally found themselves back at the main road. Then it continued across the road, over a fence and into a small patch of forest, where she seemed to have wandered around before deciding which way to go.

  Back in another residential area they thought they caught sight of her, but it proved to be another blonde woman out for a walk with her stroller, and she looked in amazement at the panting line of police officers running past. The detached houses came to an end, and a group of poorly maintained apartment buildings took over. They hurried on among the buildings and across a playground, and Sjöberg felt his age starting to take its toll. He considered giving up and letting the younger officers continue without him, but when he caught sight of the stocky Sandén some fifty yards ahead of him, in a thick overcoat and loafers, he changed his mind.

  They soon came to a small street parallel to Nynäsvägen, which at first glance seemed to be an entry ramp to the heavily-travelled road. When he had run a hundred yards on the small street, and the dog handler and several other officers had already disappeared from view ahead of him, he suddenly realized that it was not an ordinary entry ramp he was on, but instead a street that led up to a bridge over Nynäsvägen. Far off on the bridge, almost at the opposite side, in the glow of the orange lamps hanging on large, ghostly steel frames over the road, he saw a figure trying to climb up on the bridge railing. Despite the darkness and the dim light, there was no mistaking it: a woman was hanging onto the railing, and she had long blonde hair and a dark coat.

  The dog handler, who was quickly approaching the solitary figure, now let the dog loose, who reached her in a few leaps. Barking, it jumped up toward her several times and finally caught hold of a corner of her coat.

  “Stop, Katarina! Don’t do it!” Hamad shouted. He was the officer closest after the dog handler.

  With the dog lunging at her, Katarina was about to lose her balance and fall back down onto the bridge, but at the last moment, she managed to wriggle one arm out of her coat. She heaved herself once again up over the railing, clung on firmly with her free hand, and let the coat slide off the other arm, too.

  When he caught sight of Katarina on the bridge, Sjöberg stopped in a position from which he could view the whole drama from below. He watched the coat glide down to the ground and settle in a small heap, right next to the railing. Katarina heaved herself up the narrow railing with strong arms and brought herself sprly into a standing position.

  There she stood now, eyes sweeping over the cars below, and he could have sworn their eyes met. Then her gaze ran along the line of still running police officers until at last it settled on Hamad. The whole time she had a triumphant—and, as he would recall it, very beautiful—smile on her lips. She raised her hand as if in greeting.

  “No!” shouted Hamad. “No! No! No!”

  It was as if time stopped, everything became quiet around them while the traffic moved in slow-motion down on Nynäsvägen. She raised her arms like wings and then left the railing, the police, and life, behind her and flew out into the cold night air.

  An awful thud on the asphalt broke the spell. The sound of brakes, broken glass, and crushed metal cut through the air after Katarina Hallenius’ final act.

  STOCKHOLM, DECEMBER 2006

  ONCE AGAIN THOMAS WAS sitting at his kitchen table, and once again he was looking dreamily out the window. But nothing was the same any more. Something terrible had happened—four people he once knew had been murdered. Four people who lived different kinds of lives, some happy and some, perhaps, unhappy. It was hard to say.

  But he was sure of one thing: None of them wanted to die, and none of them deserved to, either, at such a young age and so inconceivably brutally. They had done terrible things, but they had only been children, very small children. They probably had no idea what damage they were doing. They were children who, without adult supervision, were free to do what they needed to secure their own little territory and social position.

  And Katarina struck back. She did it for her own sake, but Thomas also felt that somehow it was for his sake, too. For that reason, he received the news of the resolution of the whole tragic story with mixed emotions. Katarina was no doubt a very sick person, but she was a person. Their lives had run in parallel, without either of them knowing it. If only they had met! If they could have sat together and talked about childhood and life, be company for each other for a while. Perhaps they could have become friends, united by a broken childhood and a life in solitude. Maybe everything would have been different then, for both of them.

  Nevertheless, Thomas felt that Katarina had given him redress. Her hair-raising, unforgivable actions had freed something inside him. He despised what she did, but he could not despise her. He understood her, but not completely. She was the stronger of the two, the one who went straight-backed out of a situation where she had been humiliated. She had always looked happy and proud, apparently able to easily put up with the harassment, while he sank deeper and deeper into depression. But somewhere along the way she took a step in the wrong direction, and her choice had been devastating for everyone involved.

  He himself was not guiltless. His testimony in connection with the first two murders would have been of great value to the police. By telling what he knew he could have prevented further bloodshed, but it had not occurred to him until he read about the murder of Lise-Lott Nilsson, and then he had been paralyzed by his own marginal involvement in the whole thing.

  Yet, it was as if a stone had been lifted from his shoulders. Katarina had liberated him from his burden, but perished herself. Now it was time to start over, to try again. Take responsibility for his own life. For Katarina’s sake.

  He felt a sudden longing to go out on the street. It was a quarter past five and the streets were filled with people, people on their way home from work and people getting a head start on Christmas shopping. Sunday was the start of Advent and it was snowing again. Snow was falling in large flakes, whirling beautifully in the light under the streetlamps. He wanted to be there, he wanted to be part of the throng of people down there on the street, and he didn’t intend to be scared of them any longer.

  He put on his shoes and jacket and jogged down the steps, out onto the sidewalk and across the street. Then he turned and looked up at the facade of the building where his own apartment was. His eyes wandered from window to window and stopped at last on his own. From inside the kitchen, a warm, welcoming light radiated, softened by the lined curtains—blue checks against a warm yellow background and just right for a kitchen. And, in the middle of the window, between two thriving poinsettias, the Advent candle spread its friendly rays. He turned his face up toward the sky, closed his eyes, and let the snowflakes melt against his warm skin.

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  CARIN GERHARDSEN

  This book is part of

  KATRINEHOLM, OCTOBER 1968

  STOCKHOLM, NOVEMBER 2006, MONDAY EVENING

  TUESDAY EVENING

  DIARY OF A MURDERER, NOVEMBER 2006, TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON

  THURSDAY EVENING

  FRIDAY EVENING


  DIARY OF A MURDERER, NOVEMBER 2006, SATURDAY

  SATURDAY MORNING

  SATURDAY EVENING

  MONDAY MORNING

  DIARY OF A MURDERER, NOVEMBER 2006, MONDAY

  TUESDAY

  WEDNESDAY EVENING

  THURSDAY MORNING

  THURSDAY EVENING

  FRIDAY MORNING

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  DIARY OF A MURDERER, NOVEMBER 2006, FRIDAY

  FRIDAY EVENING

  SATURDAY MORNING

  SATURDAY AFTERNOON

  SATURDAY EVENING

  SUNDAY MORNING

  SUNDAY AFTERNOON

  MONDAY MORNING

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  MONDAY EVENING

  STOCKHOLM, DECEMBER 2006