The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  “I don’t suppose her boozed-up mother could have sold it?” Irene wondered.

  “No. Her mother said that Moa spent most of her time skipping class over the past two years, but apparently since she joined this dyslexia group, she’d pulled herself together. And it’s all down to the laptop; the girl used to spend several hours a day on it.”

  “Hmm. Why does that give me a bad feeling?” Irene said, glancing over at Hannu.

  He nodded in agreement. “We have to find Moa’s computer. Her cell phone is missing too. I’d like to try to get over to Gårdsten this morning; two colleagues are talking to Moa’s teachers and school friends, but I’d like to speak to her mother again.”

  “Poor woman. She’s lost both her kids. Her son died in a car crash, and now her daughter has been murdered.”

  “Yes, some people really do suffer. But I’m not sure it’s always a coincidence,” Hannu said.

  “You mean it’s a question of environment, that kind of thing?”

  “Yes. My impression of Moa’s mother is that she’s . . . absent. In every sense of the word.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s an alcoholic. She goes out boozing with her pals. Sometimes she’s away for several days, according to social services.”

  Irene thought about what he’d said.

  “That could be a link between Moa and Alexandra. When Jonny and I went over to Torslanda yesterday, Alexandra’s father was completely wasted. We couldn’t get a sensible word out of him. At first I thought he just couldn’t handle the grief, but . . . Her mother was a mess, but he wasn’t giving her any support. When we got there, he was downstairs and she was upstairs. It was as if they couldn’t get far enough away from each other. I got the feeling that . . .”

  She broke off, trying to find the right words before she went on.

  “The house is incredibly extravagant. Alexandra has her own horse. Jan Hallwiin was married before and has two grown-up children who were raised by their mother in Gävle. They’re about thirty now and live in Stockholm. It doesn’t sound as if they’ve had much contact with their father over the years. Alexandra’s mother is twenty-three years younger than Jan, and Alexandra is her only child. Both parents work long hours. I have a feeling that Alexandra was a lonely girl. Yes, she had a horse and loved riding, but . . . she seemed lonely.”

  Hannu nodded to show that he understood. A cop has to rely on gut feelings.

  The next person on their list was in his hair salon. He finished off a client, then showed the two officers into a small staff room, hidden away behind a rattling bamboo curtain. His name was Bengt Robertsson, and he was forty-three years old. His thin bleached-blond hair was cut very short, but he sported an impressive mustache with the ends waxed and optimistically turned upward. He had a watertight alibi for the time of Moa’s death; he had been in Thailand when she went missing and had gotten home three days before Walpurgis Night. He had spent April 30 and the May Day holiday in the company of good friends on the Stena line ferry to Kiel. Without a moment’s hesitation he gave them the names of a dozen people who could confirm he was on board the ship at the relevant time.

  The visit to the hairdresser had taken only fifteen minutes. The next person on Hannu’s list had been horrified at the suggestion that the police come and speak to him at his new workplace, so he had promised to come to the station after five o’clock. Until then Hannu would go with Jonny to see another man on their list. Once all seven had been tracked down and questioned, any possible alibis would be checked. They would then attempt to decide which of the men were still of interest and which could be eliminated from the investigation. Meanwhile they would continue to follow up any new leads or information that came in. It was tedious routine work, but it was absolutely necessary; it was the only way to solve a crime.

  “We’ve got time to go and see Moa’s mother. It’s only quarter of an hour from here. What’s her name again?” Irene asked.

  “Kristina. Known as Kicki. Thirty-nine years old. Regularly picked up for alcohol abuse ever since she was a teenager. Her parents were alcoholics. However, she has managed to look after her own children; they’ve never been taken into care.”

  “What about Moa? Has she had any dealings with the police?”

  “Nothing at all. However, the brother who died in the car crash was picked up for drunken behavior twice, and he was given a warning for aiding and abetting in the theft of a car. That was two months before he stole the car he crashed.”

  “So you don’t think it was pure chance that the son died in a car crash and the daughter was murdered. I agree with you to a certain extent, but not entirely. Not all children who grow up with parents who abuse alcohol or narcotics end up going down that road themselves.”

  Hannu glanced sideways at her.

  “The survivors. But Moa Olsson and her brother were not among them.”

  Nor was their mother, it seemed. They parked outside a two-story grey concrete block. The stairwell had recently been freshened up with pastel colors, but someone had already sprayed mdnmdnmdn all over one wall in bright purple. The letters were surrounded by small red phalluses.

  They rang the doorbell of Kicki Olsson’s apartment. When no one had answered by the fourth ring, Hannu tried the handle and the door swung open. There was a pile of shoes and outerwear in the hallway, and an unidentifiable smell with hints of garbage and sour wine.

  They stepped over the mess on the floor, and Irene called out, “Hello! Anyone home? Kicki Olsson?”

  She was in the bathroom. There was a high stool right next to the bathtub, with a drying rack propped against one wall. Kicki Olsson had tied a nylon washing line to the ceiling hook for the rack, then she had made a noose and slipped it around her neck. She had stood on the stool, then jumped into the tub. Given the way she looked, it must have happened at least twenty-four hours ago.

  “We’ve got some information about the mummy,” Tommy said.

  He took a big bite of his cinnamon bun and washed it down with a good swig of coffee. “We’re looking at a man in his forties. He’s probably been dead for between twenty and thirty years. The cause of death was three bullet wounds: one in the head and two close to the heart. We won’t know the bullet type and caliber until tomorrow at the earliest. The gun that was found with the body is interesting. It was underneath the rug the body was lying on. It seems that the rug was used to carry the body to the opening. The gun is an old model, a Tokarev. Russian. Stopped being manufactured in the mid-50s. Forensics sent a picture.”

  The image of an old-fashioned gun appeared on the white wall behind him; at first glance it resembled an FN Browning. When Irene looked more closely, she could see a five-pointed star on the butt, with the letters cccp between the points of the star.

  Tommy moved on to the next picture. “This is the rug—a valuable item, according to forensics. Ninety by two hundred and twenty centimeters. The blood on the rug presumably comes from the body, but they’re in the process of testing it. They’ll get back to us when they’ve checked the whole rug in detail.”

  Tommy leafed through the papers in front of him. “Getting back to the mummy itself: he was one hundred and eighty centimeters tall. Slim build, thinning ash-blond hair. Good teeth, but with a number of amalgam fillings. He has a small gold bridge on the upper-left-hand side, so forensics is hoping to identify him with the help of dental records. He was wearing blue Jockey underpants, white tube socks, dark blue corduroy pants, heavy black shoes, a pale blue shirt, a wine-red knit jacket with a crocodile logo on the left breast, and a dark blue Helly Hansen windbreaker with a detachable red nylon lining. On his left wrist he had a watch advertising the Reader’s Digest. We’re in the process of going through the missing persons database.”

  As usual, Irene was drinking coffee with a dash of milk and steering clear of the cakes. Out of sheer defiance, she took another bun.
When she had finished, she licked every scrap of cinnamon and sugar off her fingers. Childish, admittedly, but it made her feel much better, even though she would have to run a few extra kilometers to stop the calories from settling on her hips. On the other hand, she hadn’t had time for lunch. The unexpected discovery of Kicki Olsson’s body had meant that Hannu and Irene had gotten back to HQ only fifteen minutes ago. They would return to Gårdsten once CSI had finished with the apartment, probably the following day. There was no doubt that it was suicide, but they still needed to check the place over. They were still looking for Moa’s computer and cell phone, among other things.

  Irene felt depressed as she thought about the dysfunctional family: the son dies behind the wheel in a car crash, the daughter is murdered, and the mother takes her own life. To a certain extent she could understand Kicki’s decision. Perhaps her children had kept her more or less stable, and once they were gone, her life lost its meaning.

  “Any names that look interesting so far?” Efva Thylqvist asked.

  “I’ve only just got the names; I haven’t had time to go through them yet. But I’m optimistic; it hasn’t been that long since this guy disappeared. He must be on the list.”

  Tommy looked determined as he waved his papers.

  Nice to know that someone is feeling optimistic, Irene thought.

  As usual, Krister’s spaghetti Bolognese was a triumph. Jar sauce was banned from his cooking, of course. He made the sauce using ripe beef tomatoes, garlic, basil, a decent slug of red wine and freshly ground beef, which he bought in the market hall on Kungstorget. “I want to see the piece of meat before they grind it,” he often said. He had always felt the same, even before it came to light that the stores were re-labeling old ground beef. Food wasn’t only his profession, it was also his main interest in his leisure time. He was a master chef in one of Göteborg’s most famous gourmet restaurants, with one star in the Guide Rouge.

  “Tough day, sweetheart?” he said, topping up Irene’s glass of wine.

  “Just half, thanks . . . I’ve got to get up early . . . Yes, it’s been a hell of a day. It’s kind of got me down, actually.”

  Irene sounded off about Efva Thylqvist, who refused to lighten the department’s workload by bringing in a replacement for Birgitta. Then she quickly ran through the cases they were working on. As she was telling him about Kicki Olsson’s tragic life and death, she could feel her throat closing up. In her mind’s eye she could still see the image of the dead woman, her toes almost touching the bottom of the bathtub.

  “It’s strange; I don’t usually let things get to me, but these cases are just so tragic,” she said.

  Krister nodded sympathetically. “The two girls were so young, and then you find the mother of one of them dead. It’s just too much at once. Perhaps this case is getting to you because you’re a mother yourself. Our girls might be twenty-two, but you never stop worrying,” he said.

  “This killer worries me. I don’t want another teenage girl to go the same way, but we’re not sure how he gets in touch with them. We suspect it might be through the Internet, some youth site maybe.”

  “Like LunarStorm? I remember what the twins were like when it first appeared!”

  Krister laughed at the memory.

  “Do you remember how we used to have to nag them to come away from the computer?” he said.

  “Yes, but it didn’t last long. Just a few months, then they lost interest. And they’ve always had so much going on in their free time: Katarina had her jiujitsu, Jenny had her music. These days she devotes most of her attention to cooking, but she’s started singing with a band down in Malmö,” Irene said.

  “Has she? I didn’t know that.”

  “She mentioned it when she called last week; I must have forgotten to tell you. And she’s found a new apartment.”

  “I knew about the apartment, but not the singing.”

  “And in three weeks Katarina and Felipe will be back from Natal. It’ll be so good to see them again!”

  Krister raised his glass.

  “A toast to our wonderful daughters!”

  “They got the Hulk,” Fredrik informed the team before anyone else had time to speak at morning prayer.

  “Who? When? Is he dead?” Efva Thylqvist demanded.

  “He’s dead. I think we know who’s behind it, but we don’t have any proof; it’s probably the same guys who were responsible for the car bomb. As for when it happened: two thirty this morning. Apparently Hulk Hansson had a girlfriend nobody knew about. Including his wife, presumably. He slipped away last night without telling his bodyguards; he’d actually requested police protection himself. But I guess when you’re horny . . . He was shot as he left the apartment block after visiting his mistress. So now we have three murders,” Fredrik concluded with a gusty sigh.

  Efva Thylqvist pursed her lips, but chose to ignore the sigh. She’s starting to feel stressed, Irene thought with some satisfaction. Although it wasn’t really anything to celebrate, since she and her colleagues would end up under even more pressure.

  “They were standing outside waiting for him. Pumped several bullets into his chest. He died instantaneously,” Fredrik added.

  “You say ‘they.’ Were there any witnesses who saw more than one perp?” the superintendent asked.

  “Not saw, but heard. Several witnesses whose bedrooms overlook the street heard the shots, and at the same time they heard an engine start up, then a car door opening and closing before the vehicle took off with a screech of tires. My interpretation is that the perp who shot Hansson was standing by the door, while his accomplice was sitting in a car nearby. After the shots had been fired, the car drove up and the killer jumped in. They took off so fast it virtually melted the tarmac.”

  Efva Thylqvist stared at Fredrik, and she wasn’t studying his handsome face. Irene knew exactly what she was thinking: Fredrik was going to be completely taken up with the gang war from now on. It had escalated to such an extent that he was going to be out of action for quite some time as far as the ongoing work of the department was concerned.

  There was no sign that CSI had been in Kicki Olsson’s apartment. There were still piles of clothes on the floor. Irene and Hannu stepped over them and tried to get an overview. It was a small, three-room apartment with a kitchen and bathroom. It was light; the living room had a large south-facing window and a balcony. Not that much daylight penetrated through the filthy glass, but Irene could see the sun shining outside, and soon it would attempt to brighten the shabby room. The only piece of furniture that looked new was a big flat-screen TV on a small cabinet. In front of the TV was a worn sofa, an armchair that didn’t match and a cracked glass table. The rug had probably once been an attractive pale grey with a pattern in dark beige, but all the ingrained marks and stains had turned it to brownish red and dirty grey. The only picture in the room was a framed print of a weeping little boy.

  The kitchen faced east; the morning sun was still shining through the window, highlighting the dirt that was everywhere. On the draining board lay the flattened aluminum bag from inside a wine box; the torn box itself was on the floor, revealing that it had contained the cheapest white wine available from the state-owned liquor store.

  Irene went into Kicki Olsson’s bedroom. It contained only a king-size bed, a rickety bedside table, and a Billy bookcase from IKEA. There wasn’t a single book to be seen; the shelves were crammed with ornaments: mostly dolls and china animals. There were more clothes all over the floor, and the room smelled musty and was in dire need of some fresh air.

  Moa’s room was small and incredibly messy. Schoolbooks, empty candy and chips bags, clothes, magazines and CDs were strewn everywhere. Irene knew that CSI had gone through the room and found nothing of interest. They had focused on trying to find Moa’s computer and cell phone, but Irene wanted to know who Moa was and what she had done during the final days of her life.


  A kitchen chair next to the unmade bed served as a bedside table, with a reading lamp and an open pack of tissues. A mirror hung on the wall at the foot of the bed.

  On either side of the mirror Moa had pinned up two school photos of herself. Irene recognized one as the picture they had issued to the media. It was taken in the fall, only about six months ago. Moa was gazing straight into the camera, her expression serious. Her eyes and lips were heavily made up, and she had obviously piled on the fake tan. Her thick hair was dyed black, with a center part; it framed her face and fell below her shoulders. She looked good, even though her features were slightly too coarse for her to be regarded as pretty.

  In the other photograph Moa was smiling shyly at the camera. Her hair was significantly shorter and lighter, curling above shoulder level. She might have been eleven or twelve years old, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup. What struck Irene was the difference in the expression. The younger Moa’s smile reached her eyes; the older Moa’s gaze showed no emotion whatsoever. Was it her brother’s death that had extinguished the smile in the girl’s eyes?

  Like her mother, Moa had a Billy bookcase. One shelf was full of cuddly toys in all shapes and sizes. The other shelves contained a few schoolbooks, a pile of magazines, a new stereo, two packs of cigarettes and a small yellow plastic lighter, tons of makeup and several bottles of perfume. These attracted Irene’s attention. Six bottles, some half full, others only just started, all different brands. Expensive brands, like Dior’s J’adore and Kenzo’s beautiful bottle with the flower stopper. Each bottle must have cost at least five hundred kronor. How could Moa afford that? A thought suddenly struck Irene; if she was right, it could provide an explanation for Moa’s disappearance. Full of foreboding, she opened one closet door.

  A whole row of designer tops were arranged neatly on hangers, several of them unworn. Five pairs of new jeans—three by Armani, the other two by the hip label Acne. A black sweater in the softest angora wool. Several more beautiful sweaters that also looked as if they had never been worn. On the floor of the closet was a stack of CDs, most still in their cellophane wrapping. Two pairs of leather boots, and a pair of high-heeled ankle boots. Irene picked up the leather boots. The price tags were still on the soles; one pair had cost three thousand four hundred kronor, the other three thousand. The ankle boots were more modestly priced at one thousand two hundred kronor. In the corner of the closet was a Versace handbag.