Görel’s sobbing was making Rebecca feel ill. It reminded her of the grief she didn’t dare give way to.
‘After all, you were his partner.’
After all . . .
‘I just don’t feel I can leave here at the moment because of work. Going to work is a good thing; it helps . . . take my mind off things.’
Rebecca knew this sounded harsh and false, but her brain couldn’t keep up. And she was probably doing the Samuelsson household a favour. At least now they’d have something to talk about between the outbursts of weeping. Rebecca would be someone they could talk about, their words sounding kind enough on the surface, but everyone would know they held an undertone of reproach for her coldness, her exaggerated sense of purpose.
‘She’s difficult to get close to,’ Görel would say. Görel was never openly hostile. But everyone would know exactly what she meant.
And of course they had never married. Perhaps Görel didn’t know that Henrik was the one who didn’t want to. Nor did she seem to know that bottomless grief sometimes leads to a bewildered sense of despair that leaves you paralysed and mute. Rebecca put the phone down.
It was Thursday in the normal world. She had an appointment with her therapist at five o’clock in the afternoon. Rebecca had always regarded her relationship with Birger Warberg as rock solid. He knew exactly what to ask. When to keep quiet, when to speak. She could see herself reflected in his gestures, his neutral yet understanding expressions. But would she see a freshly sown seed of doubt there today?
Would he be sure that she hadn’t murdered Henrik? If he wasn’t sure, would he manage to hide that fact? Would he steal glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice before his face closed down once more?
That was what she feared.
She sat there twice a week, head down. Sometimes resigned, sometimes defensive. Rebecca had noticed how keen Warberg was to expose the areas she didn’t dare to touch upon. They talked about her fear of abandonment, her lack of trust.
But she had been abandoned. Henrik had been unfaithful. Now she knew that reality was much uglier than she could possibly have imagined. And Rebecca realised that, deep down, she had known all along. Even though Henrik had tried to blame her for all their problems, even though he had maintained they were caused by her unhealthy suspicions and the fact she was a control freak, they had been there all along.
21
They were in Pelle Höije’s office, the only place apart from the conference room that could accommodate the whole team. This was largely irrelevant at the moment because the number of those present was significantly reduced. Karlberg had prioritised his interviews with the archaeology students. Beckman was caught in traffic on the way back from Vänersborg, where she had been to visit Henrik Samuelsson’s parents and sister.
Tell was extremely annoyed, and hoped to God she actually was stuck in traffic. He made a mental note to stress the importance of full attendance at briefings, otherwise they were fairly pointless. The aim was to piece together the results of everyone’s efforts; only then could they gain an overview of the investigation so far.
He couldn’t help feeling even more irritated by the fact that his team must have looked slapdash to the chief constable. Höije was new, and all he knew of his colleagues came from daily progress reports. Tell felt a strong sense of responsibility when his team appeared in a negative light, as if he had somehow failed to create structure and efficient working practices. He couldn’t remember feeling this way under his former boss. Ann-Christine Östergren had taken early retirement the previous year due to illness; she and Tell went back a long way.
Perhaps it was just a matter of time. No doubt Höije would grow into his role. Perhaps a mutual respect would develop as they got to know each other.
Höije was listening politely to Bärneflod’s diatribe on law and order. ‘The police need to have the powers to act. Organised crime, youth gangs, everybody in fact – they all see us as a doddery, bureaucratic joke. Do you see what I’m getting at? We have no power these days, and that means no respect, no authority.’
Christian Tell chose to distract himself with thoughts of breakfast in bed with Seja.
Höije was nodding; either he was actually interested in what Bärneflod had to say, or he was a good actor. But his little finger was tapping silently on the mouse mat, a sign of impatience that Tell noted with some satisfaction.
The young, blond chief constable, who according to some women in the building was quite good-looking, had started in the new year. He wasn’t a career police officer, which was enough to upset some people. Tell hadn’t yet formed an opinion. So far Höije hadn’t been given the opportunity to show his true colours. He had been optimistic, diplomatic and well organised, albeit in a slightly self-conscious way. As if he had read about the importance of being clear and direct on some leadership blog. And he was too young to be a chief constable, but if Tell held this against him he would be hoist by his own petard.
Höije had discreetly tidied the piles of papers adorned with pie charts from his desk. There were still a couple of weeks to go until the budget submission, but Höije was conscientious and probably highly competent in this area. Didn’t he have some advanced qualification in economics? Tell was certain this was behind Bärneflod’s ridiculous lecture.
‘Gonzales, you’re from Gårdsten, you know what I’m talking about . . .’
Tell groaned inwardly, but Gonzales was polite enough to simply murmur that he actually lived in Hammarkullen.
Höije’s response was measured; he still wore that thoughtful, interested expression. I bet he learnt that on a leadership course too, Tell thought.
‘You’ve raised a number of interesting points, Bengt. I agree that it’s important to make good use of the high level of competence among our more experienced colleagues. The problem as I see it is that every concession to individual capriciousness – if you’ll forgive me for putting it like that – involves a legal risk. It’s a balancing act. As you say, an organisation which is too bureaucratic becomes noticeably inefficient.’
By now, even Gonzales was looking at his watch. Tell leant forward and read Gonzales’s notes over his shoulder. He had been interviewing individuals found in Rebecca Nykvist and Henrik Samuelsson’s address book. Gonzales had also gone through Samuelsson’s hard drive with Karen Stenhammar, their data expert. Programs: Word, QuarkXPress, Photoshop, Limewire . . . Everything was neatly logged on a page of A4 which slipped out of view as Gonzales coughed and crossed his legs.
Tell had had enough. ‘Stuff this. I’ve got loads to do. I’m going to my office – you can come and get me when you’ve finished chatting.’
He met a surprised Karlberg in the doorway. ‘Have you finished already?’
‘No, we haven’t started yet.’
‘Tell!’
Tell turned around and met Höije’s gaze, which was steady and significantly chillier than it had been.
‘Sit down.’
It was unmistakably an order.
‘Rebecca Nykvist is no longer in custody. She has been released since we are unable to establish that she actually entered the apartment which was the scene of the crime. We know that she was creeping around, we know that she lied. We are aware of her background. I think this is a borderline case. We will be keeping her under surveillance for the time being. Tell, get that sorted please. We will continue to work with no preconceptions and will review the situation so far. Do you wish to organise your presentation in any particular way?’
‘No.’
Tell, still smarting from being put in his place, had no special way of delivering reports or conducting feedback sessions with the team; everybody simply went through anything new they had discovered.
‘Right then,’ Höije said when Tell failed to expand on his answer. ‘In that case we’ll start with you, Gonzales. You’ve been working with Stenhammar, haven’t you? Were there any particular reasons why the computer was password protected? Anything Henr
ik wanted to hide? Feel free to use the whiteboard if you wish.’
Höije gestured invitingly at the board. Gonzales nodded and swallowed. He suddenly felt as though he were back at school.
‘I can’t see any reason why he chose to protect the contents of the computer hard drive.’ He started to go through his papers. ‘The programs were standard: text and image manipulation, music and film downloads. A statistics program. Lots of games, mainly with a medieval theme, good versus evil – you know the kind of thing I mean.’
Nobody moved a muscle.
‘The hard drive is divided into Henrik’s folders and Rebecca’s folders. I haven’t had time to go through hers yet. He has an extensive music collection stored on the computer. And a number of documents linked to his studies: essays and so on. Nothing out of the ordinary, apart from—’
‘Apart from what?’
‘Well, there is one document I don’t really understand. It’s just one page, with a whole lot of names and numbers. I’ve managed to identify some of them. But there are several that neither Rebecca nor Henrik’s parents can help with. We’re talking about a dozen names and numbers. It’s as if each person has a number. And it’s not a telephone number.’
‘So what is it?’
Gonzales frowned and passed a print-out of the document to Tell, who read it aloud.
‘Ma . . . 4500. Roger . . . 3000. Jessica A . . . 1500. Jerry . . . 2000.’
‘Have you tried his email contacts?’
‘I’ve gone through them and tried to match names with the other lists of people known to Henrik that we’ve compiled so far. Certain names recur on several lists, Annelie Swerin, for example. Axel Donner. Marie Hjalmarsson.’
‘And? Have you spoken to her?’
‘I’ve spoken to Hjalmarsson,’ Karlberg chipped in. ‘She seemed very sensible.’
‘Are you checking alibis?’
‘Yes, but several have yet to be confirmed.’
‘OK. Carry on, Gonzales.’
‘Hang on.’ Karlberg again. ‘Could it be a list of people Henrik owes money to?’
‘That seems like a possibility,’ said Tell. ‘All the information we have so far indicates that he had financial problems. Check with Rebecca whether he was a gambler. If that’s a list of debts, it’s worth thinking about it in terms of motive. Although the sums involved aren’t exactly significant.’
Höije turned to Tell. ‘Could I ask whether there was any sign that items might be missing from the apartment on Linnégatan?’
‘Whether anything had been stolen, you mean? Hard to say. It didn’t look as if the place had been searched. There were valuable items on show: jewellery, a mobile phone, that type of thing.’
‘The computer,’ said Karlberg.
‘You mean . . .’
‘There was no computer. What sort of academic doesn’t own a computer?’
Höije nodded thoughtfully. ‘Check this out. See if it might be somewhere else, try her office at the university as your first port of call. Otherwise it might be worth considering whether Ann-Marie Karpov’s computer could be the motive for the intrusion. Something on that computer.’
‘Speaking of searches, I would like to work from the hypothesis that the break-in at Samuelsson’s house could be linked to the murders.’
Höije gazed at Tell for a few seconds without speaking. ‘On what basis?’ he said eventually.
‘This wasn’t any old break-in. Every inch of the place seems to have been searched, but nothing of value was stolen. And the sofa cushions had been slit open, which indicates that they were looking for something specific. The break-in happened just after Henrik Samuelsson was murdered, and while Rebecca Nykvist was still in custody. There are a lot of coincidences.’
Höije nodded. ‘Indeed. In that case we will treat the link between the murders and the break-in as a line of inquiry. But we must not exclude other possibilities. As I said, we are not ruling Rebecca Nykvist out of our inquiries. Have we checked for possible witnesses to the break-in?’
‘No luck so far.’
Höije removed his glasses and placed them on the desk. ‘Who’s contacted Telia and the mobile phone operator?’
That had been Beckman’s job. Tell must remember to ring her after the meeting.
‘We’re still working on that.’
‘OK. When are we speaking to Karpov’s ex in Copenhagen?’
‘I’m going there myself,’ said Tell. ‘Tomorrow.’
‘Just for the day?’
‘I’ll catch an early train back the day after.’
Tell thought Höije had raised his eyebrow.
‘I can pay for the bloody room myself.’
He regretted his words as soon as they had come out, and he regretted ever thinking that an evening in Copenhagen would put Seja in a better mood. It wasn’t her style to reproach him, but he thought she’d been looking down lately. He might be in the habit of neglecting his women, but he wasn’t completely incapable of reading signals. He was just useless at doing anything about it.
It wasn’t long since he had promised himself not to let it happen again. Not to let Seja slip through his fingers. He might be up to his eyes in work, but a trip that combined business and pleasure had seemed like a good compromise. Now the whole thing would have to be pointlessly chewed over at length.
‘There’s absolutely no need to sound so . . .’ Höije began as he put on his glasses and took them off again, just as Beckman tended to when she was about to analyse what she presumed were Tell’s innermost thoughts.
‘Oh, so you’re taking the opportunity to have a few Carlsbergs on Strøget?’ Bärneflod had managed to make the whole thing even worse.
Tell groaned. ‘I’ve got a couple of meetings arranged in Copenhagen in the afternoon. I was intending to catch the 06.28 back to Gothenburg. But of course I will rebook that immediately.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Tell. Nobody is questioning your arrangements.’ Höije’s voice was still calm, but now he had colour in his cheeks. ‘Perhaps we should discuss this. We’re new to each other, we don’t seem to have found a way of working together yet.’
Tell wished the last five minutes of his life had never happened, mainly because he didn’t have the energy for the conversation his boss had suggested. Nor did he have the time. And it was so bloody unnecessary.
‘This is neither the time nor the place for that discussion,’ he said.
Gonzales and Karlberg looked uncomfortable and gazed out of the window; only Bärneflod appeared completely unmoved.
‘No, perhaps you’re right. But I’d still like to say that I’m fully aware of how highly you all valued Ann-Christine Östergren. It won’t be easy for me to fill those shoes.’
Höije fell silent for a moment, allowing his words to sink in.
Then he continued, ‘I am in no doubt with regard to your competence, and I have the utmost respect for you all.’
‘Thanks,’ said Bärneflod.
Tell wished he was miles away from this drivel.
‘For me, respect is all about communication,’ Höije went on, earnestly. ‘Talking and listening. I expect the same from you in return.’
Höije met each pair of eyes in the room – Karlberg and Gonzales nodded obediently – and allowed his gaze to linger on Tell for a long time.
‘And, with that, I wish you good hunting. Tell, enjoy your trip to Copenhagen.’
Tell left the car at work and walked home. Given the fine weather, Vasagatan was unusually quiet. It was hard to believe this was the same place that had been filled with demonstrators just a few days ago, but a pamphlet stuck to the sole of his shoe, and the lamp posts were still plastered with posters.
From his living-room window, Tell had been able to hear the shouts of protestors.
He had never regarded himself as a political animal; he was always more certain of what he was against than what he stood for. The idea of joining a march, and so identifying himself with the idea of the worker, did
n’t strike a chord with him. For Seja it was important to take a stand, for or against. And she had demonstrated every single year, ever since she was a toddler on her mother’s shoulders.
Nor did Tell feel an affinity with his neighbours, owners of fine apartments and summer cottages in the archipelago. He had lived in his little two-room apartment for as long as he could remember, one of the few rental properties still available in that part of town. And if he hadn’t been born in the area, he would hardly have been living there today.
He suddenly felt hungry and went over to the kiosk; he ate meatballs with mashed potato and lingonberry sauce as he walked home. The exposed parts of the street were chilly; all that remained of the light and warmth of the day were patches where the sunbeams melted into shades of red, soon to disappear.
The apartment was empty when he got home.
His first thought was that it had all been a dream. It was an irrational thought, but one he had often. Seja and that blissful, tense closeness, a feeling connected to the love–hate feelings he had about living on his own. The feelings of both freedom and loathing. The stuffiness, the smell of over-filled rubbish bags left in the hallway. Late nights eating pizza straight out of the box, the flickering blue tones of the television the only source of light. No one to share with. And no one to answer to.
These days there were still signs of Seja even when she wasn’t there, small outposts of her that dispelled his doubts. Her hair slide on the kitchen worktop. An item of clothing left on the bedroom armchair. Her toothbrush in the bathroom. She was part of the fabric of his life.
Once he had reassured himself of this fact, he welcomed the chance to be alone. He flicked through the newspaper without finding anything to engage his limited attention span. He picked up a carton of yoghurt and carried it into the living room.
He stood there at a loss.
If Seja had been home, she would probably have been sitting at the desk in the corner, bent over her laptop. If she was tired, she would be stretched out on the sofa under a blanket, perhaps lulled to sleep by a sitcom.
Reluctantly, he thought back to his conversation with Höije. It had gone badly wrong. He had felt backed into a corner, incapable of a decent response. He could have highlighted his dedication to the job by calmly mentioning the number of cases he had solved over the years, or the countless hours of overtime he had put in. The unclaimed holidays, so numerous that he would soon be able to take early retirement. He could have gone further and talked about his private life; the way it had been so completely absorbed by work that these days he felt insecure in any situation where he wasn’t first and foremost a police officer. Sometimes this was a mere inconvenience, sometimes it was utterly debilitating.
Babylon Page 11
