“I grew up in one of those blocks over there,” Göran Jansson said, pointing in the direction of Mölndalsvägen.
He turned and pointed to Universeum and the Museum of World Culture on the other side of the roundabout. “Some of my friends lived in the timber buildings that were pulled down when the city decided we needed to start showing off.”
“Did you know anyone who lived here?” Tommy asked, nodding toward the gaping hole in front of them.
“Not really. There was some kind of office on the ground floor, though people lived here too. There were two or three apartments, I think. I remember one of the teachers from my school lived here with her sister, but they were already old back then. They’ve probably been dead for years.”
“When was this?”
Jansson thought for a moment.
“Mid-60s. I started school in ’62.”
“As I understand it, only the old man who died in the fire was living here at the time,” Tommy went on.
“Yes. There was an architect’s office downstairs; we’ve found the remains of computers, that kind of thing. But all we can do is scoop it all up and take it to the dump.”
“Everything was destroyed?”
“Yes. The fire spread in no time, and they didn’t manage to get the old guy out. The whole place was ablaze by the time the firefighters got here.”
“Do you know what caused the fire?”
Göran Jansson made a 180-degree turn and nodded in the direction of a small tobacconist and candy store at the bottom of the steps on Korsvägen.
“No idea; everything I’ve heard came from Anna, who owns the tobacconist’s over there on the corner. We were at school together.”
“So she’s stayed in the area,” Tommy said.
“Her parents bought the store. Talk about a goldmine! And she’s still in the apartment where she lived when we were kids, just over there.”
“You didn’t find anything else of interest in the remains of the fire?” Irene asked.
“No . . . Well, maybe. A room full of empty bottles. We’ve already taken them away, but the place was packed—bottles from floor to ceiling!”
“Wine and spirits bottles, I assume?”
“Exactly. Someone really went for it, there’s no doubt about it.”
“And where was this room?”
“At the opposite end of the cellar from the chimney.”
They finished their coffee and thanked the foreman.
“We’ll go and have a chat with your old school friend,” Tommy said. “What’s her surname, by the way?”
“Svensson. Anna Svensson. At least that was her maiden name. I can’t remember what her husband is called, but her daughter’s married to a nigger—I met them when I was in the store last week. I came down to check things out before we started pulling this place down.”
Irene could feel the tension in her face. She clamped her lips together to prevent the words in her mind from coming out. A nigger. She loathed the word. Irene’s daughter Katarina had been with Felipe Median for two and a half years now; his father was Brazilian, his mother Swedish. Felipe was dark-skinned, and he had been called all kinds of names. But “nigger” was the worst. It was so insulting, and had such strong negative connotations even in Sweden, where the biggest exposure to the word came from American rap music.
“Do you think this Anna Svensson, or whatever her surname is, might know something about our mummy?” Irene asked as she and Tommy made their way down the steps to Korsvägen.
“You never can tell. She ought to know if any of the tenants have disappeared over the years, since she’s lived and worked here all her life. That would save us a lot of time. And I’d like to find out more about the old guy who died in the fire.”
Tommy chivalrously held the door open for her as they entered the little store. The sweet aroma of loose candy and freshly baked buns from the oven in the corner rushed toward them, overlaid with the smell of fresh coffee. Someone had managed to cram candy, tobacco, magazines, games and a café into just a few square meters. There was even a little round table just inside the window where people could drink their coffee. The real miracle was that the place didn’t seem in the least bit crowded or untidy.
They were the only people in the store, apart from a heavily pregnant young woman. She was filling up a stand by the cash register with packs of cigarettes. Her long red hair was caught up in a high ponytail.
“Hi there,” she said with a smile.
Tommy introduced himself and Irene. He asked if Anna Svensson was available, and added that they had some questions about the fire in the old wooden building.
“Mom’s been Anna Jonsén for almost thirty years,” the young woman said as she added a few more packs of Marlboros to the stand. “I’m Petra.”
Before Tommy had the chance to repeat his question, she went on.
“Mom’s at home. Or she might be out with Felix—he’s her dog. She doesn’t start work until three o’clock.”
“Do you live nearby too?” Irene asked.
“Not far away—in Kålltorp.”
“So you didn’t see anything of the fire three weeks ago?”
“No, it happened late at night. But Mom and Dad saw it.”
“Could we have your mother’s address and telephone number? We’d really like to get these questions out of the way as quickly as possible,” Tommy said with a smile.
Petra nodded and gave him the information.
The apartment block was made of gloomy dark red brick. It looked solid, resting on its sturdy granite foundations. Above the main entrance was the year 1906. Creaking and protesting, an elevator that had seen better days carried them up to the fourth floor.
When the apartment door opened, Irene and Tommy were not welcomed by the same pleasant aroma that had met them in the store. This place was impregnated with cigarette smoke. A black miniature poodle jumped around their legs, its shrill yapping echoing in the stairwell.
Anna Jonsén’s coloring was a little paler than her daughter’s, but she had the same build. Which wasn’t a compliment, given Petra’s advanced pregnancy. But Anna had a pretty face, and she was smartly dressed in a denim skirt and light blue blouse that matched her eyes. Her smile seemed warm and genuine.
“Come on in. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can be of much help. I didn’t see . . .”
The end of the sentence disappeared in a murmur as she led the way through a long hallway and into a large living room.
“Please sit down. I’ve just made some coffee—I’m sure you’d like a cup?”
They both said yes. Irene thought that it had been a good start to the day in spite of everything; she was about to have her sixth cup of coffee before lunch.
They sat down on rococo armchairs upholstered in silk. Like the matching sofa, the faded fabric was a dismal vintage rose color. The chairs were hard and uncomfortable. A small chest of drawers with a marble top seemed to be part of the suite; it was cluttered with framed photographs and small souvenir dolls. Through an open sliding door Irene could see a soft leather sofa and a reclining armchair with a footstool. Something told her that was the TV room, where the Jonséns sat when they were alone. She could understand that, because the elegant silk-covered seats were anything but comfortable.
Anna came in carrying a tray, and placed it carefully on the little table in front of the police officers. The aroma of cinnamon rose from a pile of warm buns on a china plate. They looked very similar to the ones they had seen in the store.
“According to your old friend Göran Jansson, you’ve lived here all your life, and you know what goes on in the area,” Tommy began.
“I’m not so sure about that. It’s impossible to keep an eye on things on Korsvägen these days; there’s so much traffic, so many people . . .”
“Of course. But I was thinkin
g more about the people who live around here. You must know them pretty well.”
“Well . . . some of them, maybe.”
“We’re interested in everything you can tell us about the building that burned down, and above all we’d like to find out as much as possible about the old man who died. But please tell us a bit about yourself first.”
“Goodness me . . .”
She broke off and thought for a moment, then took a deep breath.
“We moved here from Annedal when I was five. My father bought the tobacconist’s store, and at the same time my parents got a hold of this apartment. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven—I had my very own room! We’d gone from one room and a kitchen to all this space. Can you imagine?”
She took a big bite of her bun, munching away with obvious pleasure before she went on. “My father developed heart failure, and died of a heart attack in 1973. I’d already started working in the store a year or so earlier. Mom and I ran it together until she died eleven years ago.”
She fell silent, biting her lip.
“Were you living in this apartment at the time?” Tommy asked.
A gentle smile flitted across Anna Jonsén’s face.
“I was the only child. My mom was so lovely . . . Lasse and I were living in a two-room apartment in Johanneberg. When our second child was on the way, Mom suggested we swap spots. She thought this place was too big for her, and we needed more space. So that’s what we did, back in ’82 when Jessica was born.”
“And now you’re about to become a grandmother yourself,” Irene said with a smile.
“I already am; this is Petra’s second child.”
She got up, went over to the chest of drawers and picked up a photograph.
“Axel,” she said proudly, handing the framed picture to Irene.
The boy looked about two years old. He was laughing at the photographer, his pearly white front teeth gleaming against his dark skin. He had dark brown, curly hair. His eyes sparkled with the joy of being alive. In one hand he was holding a little red car, clutching it firmly to his chest.
“Grandma’s little prince,” Anna said as she replaced the photograph. The proud smile still lingered on her lips as she sat down again.
“Do you know whether anyone in the area has gone missing?” Tommy asked.
“Missing? But when?” Anna was understandably confused.
“We’re not quite sure, but probably during the past fifty years.”
Irene was taken aback at first, then realized that he had made the time frame as generous as possible just to be on the safe side. Thanks to the windbreaker, they knew the mummy was less than fifty years old.
Anna shook her head.
“Not that I know of, and I think I would have heard something . . . but no. Unless it was before we moved here.”
Tommy nodded, but didn’t pursue the matter. Instead he changed the subject. “Tell me about the fire three weeks ago.”
“I didn’t see it start. I heard sirens just as we were about to go to bed, and I noticed that the fire engines stopped nearby. When I looked out I could see that the wooden block was in flames; the fire swept through the whole place in no time. It was terrible. And then I saw the firefighters wearing that special breathing apparatus. They tried to save Calle Adelskiöld, but it was no good.”
“Calle Adelskiöld?” Tommy made a note of the name, even though it wouldn’t be difficult to remember.
“Yes, Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. He always told us to call him Calle, with a C. He used to have a special order of cigars from me. They stopped importing the ones he smoked, so he changed to Davidoff Long Panatellas. He always used to pick them up on a Friday, and he’d hand in the week’s harness racing coupons at the same time—a whole heap of them! He started doing that as soon as he moved here.”
“And when was that?”
“1980. The year Petra was born.”
“Twenty-eight years ago,” Irene said after a quick calculation.
“Yes. He’d retired and moved back to Göteborg. He used to say it was good to be back in dear old Lorensberg.”
“Do you know anything else about him? Did he have family?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He was always alone when I saw him. Although he did have a cousin. I remember Calle telling me that both he and his cousin used to work for the Foreign Office. He used to talk about it when he came in smelling of booze, which he sometimes did. Pretty often, to be honest.”
Her tone was indulgent. It was understandable that an elderly gentleman might need to cheer himself up with a good cigar and a glass or two of Cognac now and again.
“Although in recent years his cousin used to come in quite often to pick up his cigars and hand in his coupons. After all, Calle was ninety. His cousin is no spring chicken either.”
“So he smoked cigars and drank brandy . . . and got to ninety. I wonder what the health fanatics would have to say about that?” Tommy said.
Anna Jonsén fished out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around. Both Tommy and Irene declined. Anna lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, with obvious pleasure.
“Do you happen to know the name of this cousin?”
“No. He’s not as talkative as Calle.”
Anna broke off for a minor coughing fit, then continued. “He’s not unpleasant, not at all, but he’s more . . . reserved. Kind of . . . distinguished.”
They asked a few more questions, but although Anna Jonsén did her best to be helpful, it was obvious that she didn’t know much more about the old man.
Felix started yapping again as he and his mistress showed them to the door.
As they were on their way down in the elevator, Irene said, “That dog isn’t going to live to a ripe old age. What with the air quality around Korsvägen and the smoke in that apartment, it hasn’t got a chance!”
“Jonny and I are heading out to Torslanda,” Irene said, tugging on her jacket.
“And I’ll write up the report on our visit to Korsvägen,” Tommy said, without even trying to hide the acidity in his tone. Irene chose to ignore it.
“Well, the chief did say you were to take the lead on the mummy case. Bye bye!”
With a teasing smile she slipped out of his new office. The one that was closer to the seat of power than his old office, which was now hers.
The impressive cream-brick mansion was on a hill, with a view over the roofs of the houses below in one direction, and Torslandavägen in the other. It had huge windows, and extensive patios on three sides. Irene thought it was a real seaside villa that ought to be in solitary splendor on a peninsula somewhere, but then of course it would have cost several million kronor more.
The garden was surrounded by a hedge in full bloom. There was a garage by the wrought-iron gate that separated the paved driveway from the street. Jonny pressed down the gold-painted handle and they made their way toward the blue front door, which had a round porthole window at eye level. The owners were obviously keen to stick to the maritime theme, even though they were several kilometers away from the sea.
Jonny had to keep his finger on the bell for a long time before someone answered. The man who yanked open the door was Alexandra’s father, Jan Hallwiin; they had met him the previous day. He had sat in an armchair, his face rigid as Irene told him that the police had found his daughter. His wife, Marina, had sunk down on a stool in front of the open fire and wept. Irene had found it strange that the parents remained at opposite ends of the room; when people are given that kind of news, they usually gravitate toward each other, hugging and trying to offer consolation. Jan Hallwiin had made no attempt to approach his wife. But shock can make people behave irrationally; Irene had seen many examples over the years.
“What the hell is the matter with you!” Jan Hallwiin roared at Jonny. He stood in the doorway swaying slightly. Even from several meters away,
Irene could smell the alcohol fumes.
“We’d arranged to meet at three o’clock,” Jonny said calmly.
Jan Hallwiin didn’t reply but merely glared at them with bloodshot eyes.
“May we come in?” Irene asked.
Before he had time to say anything, she and Jonny pushed past him into the hallway. They kept their jackets on, in spite of the fact that it was a warm day. Jonny turned to the man who was still holding on to the open door; he probably needed some help to stay upright.
“Is your wife home?”
Hallwiin merely pointed upward without speaking. Irene exchanged a glance with Jonny and set off up the stairs. She could hear muffled sobbing; she followed the sound and pushed open a door that was slightly ajar.
It was obviously Alexandra’s room. Her mother was sitting on the bed, her head buried in the pillow. Perhaps she was trying to suppress the sound of her weeping, or perhaps she just wanted to cling to the lingering smell of her daughter.
Irene went over and placed a hand on her shoulder. Marina Hallwiin gave a start.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Irene said gently.
“No, it’s . . . I . . .” Marina mumbled.
Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked bewildered. Irene bent down a fraction and discreetly took a deep breath. Nothing but perspiration and something unidentifiable. Did grief have an odor of its own? Marina Hallwiin hadn’t been drinking, at any rate.
The room was large and airy, with a double bed by one wall. Sheer white fabric hung from the ceiling; Irene thought it looked like a malaria net, but she knew that drapes of this kind were popular with young girls. Otherwise the colors in the room were quite bold: a cerise throw; lime green cushions; a cerise, lime green and white striped rug; and white walls. Not that there was very much white to be seen; the walls were covered with pictures of horses. All kinds of horses. One of the pictures had attracted Irene’s attention as soon as she walked into the room: a huge poster of a shimmering coal-black horse that hung above the head of the bed. It was rearing up, its mane flying against the blue of a summer sky. A young man was sitting on its back, his muscles rippling beneath his tanned skin, gleaming in the sunlight. It was clear that he was completely naked.
The Treacherous Net Page 3
