“They?”
“That guy and the other girl.”
“Did you ask what had happened to Tanya?”
Pettersson remained silent for a long time. “Yes. They said she’d already left.”
“Alone?”
“No.”
“Who was she with?”
“With … some guy called Sergei.”
He obviously remembered that he had mentioned Sergei’s name during his first interview, and in order to make himself appear more trustworthy, he had decided to mention it again. Perhaps he knew about the disastrous events in Tenerife. That wasn’t out of the question, if he really was involved in human trafficking. His gang had their dirty fingers in that pie as well, and in every other criminal activity that generated money.
“When you picked up Heinz Becker and Leili, there was another man with them. Do you know who he was?”
“No, they just said he was taking that girl—Leili, is that what you called her?—to Tenerife.”
“So she was going to Tenerife as well?”
“Yes. That’s what Heinz told me.”
“Were she and Tanya going to the same place?”
“How the fuck should I know? I just drove them to the parking lot at Heden. I had nothing to do with their fucking travel arrangements!”
I’m sure you know more than you’re prepared to tell me, Irene thought. However, she also realized that there was no point in pushing him any further.
Instead she went on. “So you asked Becker where Tanya was. What did he say?”
“I’ve already told you! He said she’d gone on ahead. With that Sergei guy.”
“Did he say anything about her illness?”
Pettersson rubbed his hands several times over his stubbly scalp, as if he was trying to stimulate some kind of internal activity through massage. Suddenly he lowered his hands and looked Irene straight in the eye.
“They said some guy had taken her to the doctor. And she got better—well enough to travel to Tenerife.”
The immovable eye of the vulture blinked so fast that Irene only just registered it. For a fraction of a second Joar Svanér’s inscrutable façade cracked. In that nanosecond Irene could see that he was completely unprepared for Pettersson’s revelation.
“Who took her to the doctor?” Irene asked immediately.
“Don’t know. Some fucking john.”
Now it was Irene’s turn to almost let the mask slip. This could be important, if it was true. And right now it did seem as if Pettersson had decided to tell the truth. The explanation was probably very simple: he wanted to divert the interest of the police and point them in a completely different direction.
“What makes you think it was a john?”
“He said something in the car … what was it … something about a john he trusted.”
“You don’t remember exactly what he said?”
“For fuck’s sake! It’s a long time ago! You can’t expect me to …”
A glance at his lawyer shut him up. Svanér had also realized that the tactic of introducing a new angle that led away from Pettersson’s activities might be quite useful. Particularly as the police seemed to be interested in what he had to say.
“Jesus Christ … Becker’s English was crap. But he said he ‘trusted this man,’” Pettersson said, switching to English to quote Becker, “and that he was a ‘good customer.’” Pettersson’s English pronunciation was surprisingly good.
According to what Pettersson was trying to get them to believe, a trusted client had been asked to take Tanya to the doctor. Instead of driving her to the surgery, he had forced her to perform oral sex on him. His semen was in her hair when her body was found several hours later.
Therefore, this unknown, trusted customer was in all probability her killer.
Bearing in mind what the police knew and Pettersson didn’t, what he had just told them could very well be true.
AS SOON AS the interview was over, Irene went to her office and called the hospital. The duty nurse on the orthopedic ward informed her that Gerd was still in recovery. She would probably be brought up to the ward toward evening if there was no cause for concern. But Gerd had undergone major surgery, so Irene shouldn’t worry if they decided to keep her under observation overnight. The nurse asked Irene to call back after five o’clock, by which time they would know what the situation was.
With a sigh Irene went back to her report on the events in Tenerife. She found it difficult to concentrate, and her progress was slow.
Chapter 23
GERD HAD BEEN kept under observation overnight, and wouldn’t be back on the ward until lunchtime. The nurse recommended that Irene wait until the evening to visit.
Irene put the phone down and stared unseeingly at the wall for a little while. She was bone weary after a virtually sleepless night. Worrying about her mother and thinking about Sture’s death had kept her awake.
The insistent sound of the telephone brought her back to reality, disturbing her thoughts. Before she even had time to answer properly, she heard Svante Malm’s voice on the other end of the line:
“Hi! I can’t get hold of Hannu. Can you come down? I’ve got something you’re going to find interesting.”
He ended the call before she had time to ask any questions. She had no choice but to head down to forensics.
“I HAD AN idea, and I checked it out with lost property. This was handed in on January eighteenth, the day after the girl was killed.”
With a knowing smile he handed the item to Irene. It was a brand new black Nokia with a wide matte silver border. Irene flipped it open and saw that it was switched off.
“Torleif Sandberg’s?” she asked.
“Yes. I got his cell phone’s ID number from you, and it’s a match. The battery has run out, but I had the pin code from you as well, so I checked the SIM card in another cell.”
“Where was it found?”
“On the bridle path that runs just above the TV studios. A riding instructor found it when she was out exercising the horses.”
“But hadn’t it started snowing? How come she could see it?”
“It was lying right in the middle of the path. And it didn’t snow until the following day. The path was clear.”
To think that Muesli, who had been so careful with his money, had treated himself to such an expensive phone! Irene looked at the neat little cell that fit so comfortably in her hand. She flipped it open and admired the smart design. It was high time she upgraded her old cell, which was the size of a brick. Perhaps she should get one like this, with a built-in camera.
“I thought it might be interesting to see what kind of pictures he’s saved,” Svante said, as if he had read her mind.
“Do you know what to do? I think you just have to plug the cell into a computer …”
“I’m a chemist. I’m useless when it comes to technology. This is one of the latest models. The easiest thing would be to take out the photo chip or whatever it’s called, but to be honest I have no idea how to do it. Or even if it’s possible on this kind of phone. How about you?”
“Haven’t a clue.”
Svante gave her a relieved smile. It was good to know that both of them were at a loss when it came to the latest technology.
“Taking the memory card out of a digital camera is no problem, but how a phone like this works … I’m scared of messing up. And Jens, who knows all about this kind of thing, is in the mountains this week. He won’t be back until Monday. I’ll try charging the cell, then we should be able to see his photographs, if there are any. I’ll have to find the right charger though; I’ll need a new model to match the phone. Should be sorted out by tomorrow,” Svante said.
It was bad luck that their IT genius happened to be on holiday this week. He looked like a teenage skateboarder as he ambled along the corridors, but he was almost thirty. He could work magic when it came to everything related to computers. Thanks to his skill they had succeeded in solving a very tricky ca
se where the only clue had been a few photographs of major fires, with people in the foreground silhouetted against the flames. He had managed to bring out their facial features and other important details that would have been impossible to see without his expertise.
“So what did Torleif have on his SIM card?” Irene asked with interest.
“Just one number. I checked it out, and it went straight to a banker. Did Torleif need a personal banker to deal with major financial affairs?”
“I don’t know … He’d bought a house in Thailand. Scrimped and saved for several years. It came as a complete surprise to his son. It sounds like a real luxury pad, with a swimming pool and so on.”
“Hmm. And his son didn’t know about it?”
Irene didn’t really want to pass on what Stefan Sandberg had told her about his relationship with Torleif. “They haven’t seen much of one another over the past few years. He’s a doctor up in Norrland,” she said.
Svante seemed to accept her explanation and dropped the subject. “Coffee?” he asked.
“No thanks. I’ve got to get back to my computer.” The coffee in forensics was the worst in the entire building, at least when Svante made it.
“Okay. In that case I’ll call you when we can look at the pictures,” he said with a smile.
A PALE FEBRUARY sun was shining down on the city, hidden only occasionally by thin veils of cloud. People in the street were blinking up at the sky like small creatures newly awakened from hibernation, unaccustomed to the strange light. Nobody was fooled; there would be plenty more rain and snow before spring arrived, but the sun allowed them to hope there would actually be a spring this year, too. The winter had been unusually depressing. The wind was still strong, with sudden fierce gusts, but that was a good thing; it would dry up the meltwater from the streets more quickly. The ground was frozen solid, so there was nowhere for the water to go.
Irene splashed energetically through the slush to her mother’s apartment. She had dashed out during her lunch break to pick up a few things that Gerd had asked her to take to the hospital. It would probably be a few days before she started asking for them, but it was a good idea to have them ready for when they were needed.
When Irene opened the door, the memories came flooding toward her. She had spent the first nineteen years of her life in this apartment. Gerd had lived there for almost forty-three years.
It was a small three-room apartment, or perhaps two rooms and a tiny box room just off the kitchen, which had been Irene’s for all those years. She had just managed to squeeze in a bed, a chest of drawers and a tiny desk with a shelf above. The wallpaper had originally boasted a pattern of little pink rosebuds; when she was about fourteen Irene had painted the walls a heathery purple. The first thing her father had done when she moved out was to repaint the whole room, this time beige. The purple rug and bedspread had been allowed to stay, as had the furniture. Everything was just the same. Her parents had used it as a guestroom. When the twins had stayed over with their grandmother after she was widowed, Gerd had given the girls her double bed while she moved into the little room.
Irene picked up the mail and newspapers in the hallway and went into the kitchen to fetch the watering can. Unlike her daughter, Gerd had a green thumb and loved her flowers. The windowsills were filled with beautiful potted plants. Even during the darkest time of the year, she managed to cultivate flowers to brighten the place up. Right now two glorious cerise-pink orchids were holding court in the living room window.
In the doorway of the galley kitchen she stopped and gazed at the familiar interior. Her father had painted the cupboard doors white at the same time as he had redone the walls in her room; he had redecorated the rest of the apartment too, and since then nothing had changed in her childhood home, although the cooker and refrigerator had been replaced in the mid-1980s when the newly formed residents’ association had secured a good deal with a supplier and had replaced all the white goods in the building. The stairwells and the yard had been renovated, and the general maintenance had been contracted out to a service company. Since then the snow simply lay where it fell, unless one of the council plows happened to end up in Guldheden by mistake. Irene sighed; things had been better in the past. She filled up the watering can and added a generous dose of plant food. None of Gerd’s plants was going to die of thirst during her absence. Irene was determined to make sure of that.
When she had finished she suddenly thought about Sture’s plants. Who was looking after his apartment? He had no children, and Irene hadn’t heard of any close relatives. And when should she tell her mother about Sture’s death? She reminded herself of her earlier thoughts: there was never a good time to deliver news like that. She ought to tell her as soon as possible.
“WHERE THE HELL have you been? I’ve been looking for you,” Jonny said accusingly.
“Good to see you too,” Irene replied. She had no intention of telling him where she’d been. It had nothing to do with him.
Jonny glared at her, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other before he reluctantly came out with it. “You seemed to get on well with that little shirt-lifter Niklas Ström. Tommy and I had another go at Billy, but it’s a waste of time. He’s as silent as a fucking freemason!”
Irene thought that was probably because the two police officers represented everything Billy had learned to distrust: middle-aged men, authority figures and homophobes. The latter applied primarily to Jonny.
“I’m happy to sit in when you speak to Niklas. I’ll just take off my coat,” she said, heading into her office.
“Interview room two in half an hour,” she heard Jonny’s voice behind her.
Tommy wasn’t there. It occurred to her that it had been a while since she had spoken to him. It wasn’t that she had anything in particular on her mind, but it was good to chat with old friends and colleagues from time to time. As she was hanging up her coat, the intercom crackled into life.
“Hi, Tommy. I’m on my way down.”
Irene recognized Superintendent Linda Holm’s voice, and all her instincts as an investigator kicked in. Where were Tommy and Linda Holm going? Together? She decided to find out, from sheer curiosity.
She quickly slipped into the corridor and strolled along to the exit, which was the door leading to the elevators. She could hear the sound of Linda Holm’s high-heeled boots approaching along the corridor. A few meters ahead of Irene, the superintendent of the trafficking unit swung around the corner, making for the elevators. She seemed to be in a hurry, and obviously hadn’t noticed Irene, who continued walking calmly toward the glass door. As Irene opened the door she saw Linda step into an elevator. The display showed that she had stopped on the second floor; presumably she was going to the cafeteria. Wild horses couldn’t have stopped Irene from going to the same place. It’s a free country, she thought. If I want a cup of coffee, then I want a cup of coffee, and I’m perfectly entitled to go to the cafeteria.
She spotted Tommy right in the corner. He was already sitting at a table, and he was waving. Not at Irene, but at Linda, who was holding a steaming cup in one hand and a cellophane-wrapped sandwich in the other. Irene decided to follow her example. She hadn’t had time for lunch because she’d spent her break in Gerd’s apartment.
Nonchalantly she strolled over to the counter and picked up a coffee and a cheese roll. After a brief hesitation she grabbed a liver paste sandwich as well, then she stood there holding her little tray and gazing around the way you do when you’re hoping to see someone you know. As if by chance, she glanced over toward the corner. There wasn’t much point in joining Tommy and Linda, who were already sitting opposite each other deep in conversation, maintaining eye contact. She would only be intruding.
Fortunately she spotted Hannu sitting on his own.
“Mind if I join you?”
“Not at all.”
His attempt at a smile was more of a feeble grimace. She had never seen Hannu looking so … devastated. That was the word tha
t came into her mind. Devastated.
“How’s it going?” she asked.
“Okay.”
It wasn’t much of a response, so she tried again.
“When is Birgitta coming home?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Is your mother-in-law still here?”
“Yes.”
She had grown used to Hannu and his taciturnity, but this was pushing it even for him.
“When is Birgitta coming back to work?”
“Don’t know. A week maybe.”
Things were looking up. Two sentences in a row!
“How is she?”
“Better.”
“Good.”
You’re known by the company you keep, as Gerd used to say. A glance at Hannu’s haggard face made her ashamed of her thoughts. It was hardly surprising if he didn’t feel like chatting. He had more than enough to deal with right now. The look he gave her as he put down his coffee cup was dull and weary. He rubbed one eye with his index finger.
“I’ve been thinking,” Hannu said. “He wasn’t warmly dressed.”
It took a few seconds for Irene to work out who he was talking about. “You mean Torleif.”
“Yes. He had frostbite. Because he had never intended to be outdoors.”
Irene didn’t answer, but took a bite of her cheese roll while she thought about what he had said. He would get to the point eventually.
“He knew exactly how to dress when it’s very cold. But he was forced out. And they took his car.”
“The guys who escaped from Gräskärr? Niklas and Billy?”
“Yes. That’s what must have happened.”
“I’ve been thinking along those lines as well …”
“But there’s a problem.” Hannu caught her eye. “Why didn’t he call the police?”
Irene opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. Good question. Why didn’t he call the police when someone stole his car?
“He had a cell phone. It’s been found, by the way,” she said.
The Beige Man Page 25
