The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  She fell silent, and her gaze swept the room.

  “And not a word to the media. We need to find out how he made contact with the girls, and we need to find him fast! Because if our suspicions are correct, he will kill again. If he hasn’t done so already.”

  “The Internet,” Fredrik Stridh said.

  Several people nodded. The Internet was the most likely route if someone wanted to hook up with teenage girls.

  “There was that guy in Malmö last year, remember. He was in his thirties, but online he pretended to be a twenty-five-year-old woman looking for young models. He talked them into everything from posing naked in front of a webcam to meeting up with him. They managed to prove fifty-six cases of rape. There were probably a lot more, but the girls weren’t prepared to come forward. They were all in their teens,” Fredrik went on.

  “There are plenty of similar cases where a man has conned a girl into meeting up and then raped her, but none of them has led to murder,” Tommy pointed out.

  “Not in Sweden. Overseas. There have been several in the US,” Hannu said.

  “How can these girls be so naïve? Don’t they realize they’re arranging to meet a complete stranger? As a parent you don’t have a clue what they get up to online!”

  Jonny spread his hands wide in a helpless gesture. Irene understood how he felt; his two girls were fourteen and twelve. His boys were slightly older.

  “So it seems most likely that contact was established online,” Superintendent Thylqvist stated. She turned to Fredrik. “Could you make sure that Alexandra’s and Moa’s computers are checked?”

  “I’ll speak to Jens.”

  Jens was their IT expert, and he was highly skilled. As he sauntered along the corridors in his low-slung jeans and woolen hat he looked like a skateboarder who had left his board somewhere and gotten lost, but in fact he was thirty years old and had just become a father. Little Zelda was named after a princess in a popular video game. But then Jens was a bit different, and Irene always thought of him as their “IT oddball.”

  “Thank you, Fredrik. Apart from that, I assume you’ve got your hands full with the gang murders. Jonny, Hannu and Irene—I’d like you to work on the two girls; Tommy, you’re on the mummy. Unfortunately, I have a meeting that will take all day.”

  Efva Thylqvist got to her feet, signaling that the briefing was over.

  They divided up the twenty-three names on Irene’s list among the three of them. Only two of the men had convictions for homicide. Others were guilty of violent rape, serious assault and extreme threatening behavior. Jonny and Hannu each took one of the men convicted of homicide.

  Irene spent the rest of the day working through her eight names. Three of them were still in jail and hadn’t been out on parole, so they could be crossed off right away. She was also able to eliminate another man who was in a state psychiatric institution. If he had done half of what was in his file, he was more than qualified for the role of serial killer on the hunt for young girls, so to be on the safe side Irene checked that he hadn’t been let out for any reason toward the end of April, and he hadn’t. His case worker made it clear that it would be a long time before he was even considered for parole.

  Of the remaining four, one was held in an open jail and was on day release. He was employed in a car repair workshop and was doing well, according to the governor. On April 30 he had worked half a day and had spent the evening in front of the TV with some of the other inmates. His alibi seemed legitimate.

  The last three names were trickier. She got a hold of the youngest, an eighteen-year-old, at his mother’s house in Tynnered. After a lengthy discussion, first with the mother and then with the boy himself, they arranged to meet the following day. He was adamant that he didn’t want to come down to the police station. “I get these traumatic flashbacks,” he insisted. Someone’s obviously had therapy, Irene thought. They agreed that she would come to his mother’s apartment at ten o’clock the following morning.

  Then she hit a wall. Neither of the remaining two men answered on the number that was given in their contact details. In one case she heard an automated message informing her that this number was no longer in use, and when she dug a little deeper in the database, she discovered that the man had died two weeks earlier. The cause of death was listed as suicide. He had been released the previous month, after serving a sentence for the repeated rape of three little boys. After two years he had gotten out of jail, and a month later he took his own life.

  A guilty conscience? Hardly. Irene had interviewed enough pedophiles over the years to realize that they rarely felt guilty about what they had put the children through. They usually defended themselves by insisting that the child had been a willing participant or had even taken the initiative in the sexual transaction. They claimed that pedophilia is a sexual orientation and that it is forbidden to persecute a minority.

  It is almost always the social stigma and rejection that breaks a pedophile. They have the lowest status in jail, and are frequently subjected to harassment. It is rarely possible for pedophiles to return to their former workplaces, since most of their colleagues know what they had been up to. They often have to move because the neighbors know why they have been away. Pedophiles are abhorred everywhere, and by everyone.

  And yet there are more and more of them.

  Why? The Internet. It has brought about a revolution for pedophiles all over the world. The opportunity to access images has increased, as has the volume produced. No one needs to smuggle pictures and magazines across the border from one country to another these days. All you have to do is take pictures on a cell phone and post them on the net, where they spread at the speed of light. They will be there forever, and the victim has no way of getting them removed.

  A note further down the page caught Irene’s attention; it was a link to a site called Pedophilewatch. She clicked on the link and brought up a site showing pictures and names of men, along with the occasional woman. The rubric explained they were convicted pedophiles, exposed on the Internet. Most were Americans, since the site was based in the US, but other countries were also represented. The names were arranged by nationality, so she quickly found the page showing Swedish names. The man who had committed suicide two weeks earlier was almost at the top of the list, with his photograph, description, education and training, former workplaces, convicted crimes and his last known address. Two more of the men Irene had found through the police database were also there.

  It was obvious that the victims and their relatives were keeping the site updated. It would be virtually impossible for anyone on this particular register to find a place in the world where he or she wouldn’t have to worry about being recognized.

  The sharks that hunt in the dark depths of the cyber ocean can get caught in the net themselves, Irene thought, with no chance of escape.

  The idea didn’t give her any sense that justice was being served. Instead she was becoming increasingly aware that anyone at all can become a hunter online, and anyone can become a victim. All you have to do is click on a link, read a blog or enter a chat room. An innocent person who is hung out to dry on the net has just as little chance of escaping reprisals as a guilty person.

  The Internet is a monster with a life of its own, and it’s growing at a mind-blowing speed, beyond all human and legal rules and restrictions, she thought pessimistically.

  Jonny had three names of interest left on his list, while Hannu had two. Together with Irene’s two, that made a total of seven men they wanted to talk to about the murders of Alexandra and Moa.

  “We’ll do this together,” Jonny decided.

  “I’m meeting Tobias Hansson at his mother’s apartment on Smaragdgatan in Tynnered at ten tomorrow morning,” Irene said. “He didn’t want to come here. Said he was completely traumatized by the place.”

  “Poor bastard. What does he have on his delicate little conscience?�
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  “The rape of a thirteen-year-old girl and the attempted rape of a twelve-year-old. The twelve-year-old’s father heard her screaming and came to the rescue; he happened to be out in the garage with the door open. He was able to give a good description of Tobias, who was picked up later that same evening. At first he insisted he was innocent, but he was linked to the attempted rape through DNA. The girl had managed to scratch him and had traces of skin under her nails. There were also scratch marks on Tobias’s forearms, and his DNA was found in the sperm taken from the thirteen-year-old rape victim. When he was confronted with the DNA evidence he changed tack and claimed he had lost his memory, due to the influence of both alcohol and GHB.”

  “So his MO is a surprise attack on his victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where and when did these attacks take place?”

  “Almost exactly a year ago, both within a kilometer of the apartment where Tobias lives with his mother. He’s just been released; he was given a reduced sentence because he was under eighteen.”

  “He doesn’t really sound like our man. That kind of rape is governed by impulse, whereas Alexandra and Moa’s killer seems to have planned everything. He was very careful not to leave any traces. He was bent on homicide right from the start,” Hannu said thoughtfully.

  “I agree. Plus the fact that little Tobbe operated in his own neighborhood in both cases. Our girls were murdered in completely different parts of the city, a long way from Tynnered,” Jonny pointed out.

  “I think you’re right, but we’d better speak to him anyway so that we can eliminate him from the investigation if nothing else,” Irene said.

  Hannu nodded. “I’ll come with you.”

  “Good. In that case we might manage another name from the list for the morning,” said Jonny.

  Irene turned to him and smiled.

  “And maybe you could help me find out a bit more about this guy? I haven’t managed to track him down.”

  Jonny looked far from pleased as he stared at the piece of paper she put in front of him.

  “There’s so much to do when you’re leading a case,” Irene said, pretending to sympathize.

  Jonny snorted, but couldn’t come up with a cutting reply. For once, Hannu smiled.

  “I promise I’ll come out with you in the afternoon, just to make things fair,” Irene went out.

  “No thanks—I’ll take Hannu. You can stay here and write up your report on what you find out in the morning,” Jonny said with a triumphant grin.

  The entire apartment reeked of cat piss and cigarette smoke. After only a few minutes Irene was starting to feel slightly nauseated. A ginger cat hissed at her and slid under the tattered sofa in the living room. Perhaps it just didn’t like mornings. We grow similar to those we live with; neither Bettan Hansson nor her son seemed to be morning people.

  The mother had opened the door and sullenly introduced herself. She was a faded blonde who weighed at least 260 pounds. She had squeezed her abundant curves into a dirty pink tracksuit. The jacket was zipped only halfway up, generously exposing her heavy breasts. As far as Irene could tell, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Just above one breast was a tattoo that had presumably been a small lizard once upon a time, but Bettan’s increasing weight combined with the forces of gravity meant that it now looked more like an alligator.

  “Tobbe’s in the bathroom. He won’t be long,” she said curtly.

  She shuffled past the coffee table and sank down in a battered armchair. As the seat began to sink toward the floor with a squeak of protest, Irene realized why the cat had wisely chosen to hide under the sofa.

  “What’s this about?” Bettan Hansson asked.

  She was trying to take an aggressive tone, but the anxiety in her voice was unmistakable.

  “We just want to ask Tobias a few questions,” Irene said.

  “About what?” Bettan asked again.

  Neither Hannu nor Irene answered her. They could hear the sound of the shower from the bathroom; after a while it stopped, and they heard someone moving around, followed by a hacking cough. It was almost ten minutes before Tobias Hansson emerged. He stood in the doorway of the living room, glaring in silence at the two police officers. He was big—enormous, in fact. He was of normal height, but the width of his body meant that he could barely get through the door without turning sideways. Pumped biceps strained the sleeves of his black T-shirt, which had the logo olympic gym across the chest. He couldn’t put his arms down by his sides, but held them slightly bent outward. His black jeans hugged the muscles in his calves and thighs. Tobias was a shining example of how several hours of strenuous strength training each day could build muscle. But he was only eighteen years old; something told Irene that anabolic steroids might have a role to play here.

  His round, shaven skull looked shrunken, perched on top of his huge body, and his cherubic cheeks gave him the appearance of a giant baby. Perhaps that was why he had acquired several substantial tattoos on his arms and around his neck. White crystals sparkled in both ears, and his lower lip was pierced by a silver ring. None of which made a great deal of difference; he still looked like a grotesque baby. Perhaps the expressionless pale-blue eyes contributed to the overall impression.

  Irene and Hannu introduced themselves. As expected, they got nothing more than an inarticulate grunt in response. Tobias slowly began to shuffle toward the other armchair. Irene caught herself holding her breath as he thudded down. The chair creaked alarmingly, but it didn’t break.

  “We really just want to check where you were on Walpurgis Night,” Irene said, looking Tobias straight in the eye.

  “He was here,” Bettan Hansson said immediately, before her son even had the chance to open his mouth.

  Her hands were trembling as she shook a cigarette out of an open pack on the scratched coffee table. A fleeting expression of surprise passed across Tobias’s face, but the next moment those pale-blue eyes were blank once more.

  “Were you at home, Tobias?” Irene persisted.

  He managed a nod.

  “Were you here all evening?”

  “Yes,” Bettan snapped.

  Another nod from the giant baby in the other armchair seemed to indicate confirmation.

  “That’s unusual, a guy of your age sitting at home with his mom on Walpurgis Night,” Hannu said calmly.

  Tobias glanced at him, then quickly looked away.

  “But that’s what happened,” Bettan insisted.

  “Is there anyone else who can confirm that you were here all evening?” Hannu went on, still addressing Tobias.

  “It was just the two of us,” Bettan said firmly.

  Hannu kept his eyes fixed on Tobias, paying no attention whatsoever to his mother. She looked furious as she greedily sucked on her cigarette, spilling ash all around her. Nervous, Irene thought. Probably with good reason.

  “And what did you do the previous weekend?” Hannu asked.

  Tobias looked confused, but Bettan came to his rescue once more.

  “We were together all weekend. He went to the gym with some friends during the day, but in the evenings he was here with me.”

  “So you and Tobias are best friends?” Hannu said, turning his attention to the big woman for the first time.

  Her face immediately flushed the same color as an overripe strawberry.

  “He’d only just gotten out of jail, goddammit!” she said.

  It was true that Tobias had been released from the youth offenders’ institution on April tenth; but the two girls had been killed after that. From that point of view he remained of considerable interest.

  But we’re not going to get anything out of him with his mother hovering over him, Irene thought. She caught Hannu’s eye and they exchanged an almost imperceptible nod. They got to their feet simultaneously.

  “We’ll be in tou
ch. You’ll probably have to come down to the station,” Hannu said, his eyes fixed on Tobias, who was doing his utmost to avoid that searching gaze. Beads of sweat had appeared on the boy’s shaven head. Irene could see that he was extremely nervous too, which was interesting in itself.

  “He makes one mistake, and you keep on hassling him!” Bettan hissed.

  The smoke from her cigarette went down the wrong way, and she started coughing violently.

  Neither Irene nor Hannu bothered to reply.

  “We can’t dismiss him,” Irene said when they were back in the car. She pulled out into the stream of traffic heading for the city center.

  “No.” Hannu looked pensive. “But it’s not him. The two homicides were planned.”

  “And he’s too dumb and impulsive,” Irene agreed.

  “Exactly.”

  Even though Irene shared his view, she wanted to hear his thoughts.

  “What makes you believe the murders were planned?”

  “No witnesses have seen either of the girls with a stranger. Neither of them mentioned that they’d arranged to meet someone. No clues, no evidence. The killer has been in touch with them, arranged to meet. And persuaded them to keep quiet.”

  “What about the girls’ computers? Anything there?”

  “Jens is going through Alexandra’s computer; Moa’s is missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Yes. She had a laptop through the school. She was dyslexic, and was taking part in an experiment. She was having extra lessons with specialist teachers. According to her mother, she carried the laptop around all the time, in her rucksack. The students don’t get a new one if they lose it.”

  “So they won’t be tempted to sell it,” Irene said with a grimace.

  “Presumably.”

  They both sat in silence, thinking things over as they approached the police station.