The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  Irene and Jonny shook their heads.

  Hannu continued. “Surely he can’t have had a cast from Christmas to the end of April? Over four months?”

  “Hardly. But Borås isn’t all that far away, is it?”

  “We’re talking about a fourteen-year-old girl who lives in Torslanda, is at school and spends a lot of time riding her horse during the week and competing at weekends; she’s not going to be able to fit in a trip to Borås. The bus to the central station must take at least half an hour. Then the train to Borås . . . no, it would take too long. I think Adam’s suggestion that they meet on Walpurgis Night was quite deliberate. He knew Alexandra wouldn’t be competing then,” Irene said.

  She stared at the list again.

  “Hannu, you said he wanted her ripe for picking . . . Adam flirts with her, but he doesn’t make sexual demands for the first two and a half months. On March fourteenth he suddenly asks for a nude picture. Alexandra says no. On March twenty-first he tries again, with the same result. On April fifth Alexandra gives in and sends him pictures of her naked breasts. It took him three months to get her to that point.”

  “He knew what he was doing. I don’t think she was his first victim,” Hannu said.

  “I agree. He could have met up with girls he’s been in contact with online. Learned how to lull them into a false sense of security. He might have raped them but not killed them. We don’t have any unsolved cases of homicides involving teenage girls in western Sweden over the past few years; I’ve checked. However, there are a number of rapes where we know the girls were in touch with their attacker online. And there are probably a lot more unreported cases,” Irene said.

  “Why wouldn’t a girl contact the police if she’s been raped?” Jonny demanded.

  “They’re usually too scared of what their parents and the police will say. And they’re afraid their teachers and friends will find out what’s happened,” Irene explained.

  “We need to check the descriptions these girls have given of their attacker. And his MO,” Hannu said.

  “You don’t need a degree in criminology to work out that big brother Micke was actually doing the grooming himself,” Jonny said grimly.

  “And there’s our clue. He writes that Micke, who is supposed to pick up Alexandra from Torslanda Square, is twenty-five years old. That has to be reasonably accurate; if he’s much older, there’s a risk that Alexandra will refuse to go with him. But if a car pulls up and a guy of about twenty-five says, ‘Hi, Alexandra—I’m Micke, Adam’s brother,’ then of course the girl will think everything is okay,” Irene said.

  “He knew what Alexandra looked like because he had pictures of her,” Hannu pointed out.

  “Exactly. And there’s probably a reason why he arranged to pick her up from the square. Alexandra didn’t in fact take the bus into the city center, but everyone assumed she had gone in to meet her friends and watch the parade.”

  “The weather was terrible. The buses were packed in both directions. None of the drivers remembered her,” Jonny chipped in.

  That was why Alexandra had apparently disappeared without a trace once she had walked out through the garden gate at her parents’ house.

  “I spoke to Jens a little while ago. He suspects the killer is in contact with several girls online; that’s common practice when it comes to grooming. Jens thinks we should go public and warn teenage girls and their parents,” Irene said.

  “I’m going to chuck the goddamn computer in the trash can when I get home,” Jonny growled.

  Irene suspected that one of his daughters was spending a lot of time in front of the computer and that Jonny had no idea what she was up to. Something he no doubt had in common with most parents these days, but that was little consolation.

  “We’ll speak to Thylqvist when we meet at four,” Hannu said.

  Everyone was surprised when they walked in; there was a huge princess cake in the middle of the table, next to a pile of paper plates and an array of coffee mugs. They were even more surprised when Tommy Persson told them that Superintendent Thylqvist had provided the cake. When their former chief Sven Andersson walked in, they were completely thrown.

  “I thought there were several reasons to celebrate today,” Efva Thylqvist chirped, smiling broadly at everyone as she urged her predecessor to help himself to a slice of cake.

  “Only a small piece . . . I have to be careful with sugar,” Andersson said. He grabbed the knife and flipped a generous slice onto his plate.

  Efva Thylqvist turned to her colleagues. “I happen to know that it was Sven’s birthday last weekend, so I thought it was a good opportunity to invite him in. And we’re all under a great deal of pressure workwise at the moment, so we definitely deserve a slice of cake with our Friday coffee.”

  She smiled once again, her gaze sweeping the room. As usual her eyes slid past Irene and on to the next person. Irene suddenly had the feeling that there was something behind this “celebration,” although she couldn’t for the life of her work out what it could be.

  The atmosphere was pleasant and relaxed. Andersson seemed happy to be among his former colleagues, and even Thylqvist was at her most charming. After a short while the two of them were laughing and chatting easily with each another. Andersson was recounting anecdotes from his time in the department, and Efva Thylqvist’s bubbling laughter could be heard throughout the room.

  Suddenly Efva Thylqvist poked Andersson in the chest with a perfectly manicured nail and said, “I hear you’re brilliant when it comes to solving tricky homicides—you never give up!”

  A faint pink flush spread across Andersson’s cheeks and ears. “Oh, I don’t know about that . . . I’m no better than anyone else.”

  “That’s not true! You’re a legend!”

  It wasn’t long since Irene had heard that term used about a significantly younger man in a completely different context, but Sven Andersson was as far from Pablo Eros as it was possible to get.

  “I wouldn’t call myself a legend . . .” Andersson said, shuffling slightly. He had a foolish smile on his face, and was generally behaving the way most men did in the presence of Superintendent Thylqvist.

  “The fact is that I’ve spoken to the acting area commissioner, and we’re in total agreement. If there’s anyone who can solve the case of the mummy, it’s you!”

  The laughter and the murmur of voices stopped immediately. Before anyone had time to say a word, Efva Thylqvist directed a beaming smile at Andersson.

  “The murder of Mats Persson will be out of time under the statute of limitations in exactly six months,” she said. “It’s the perfect case for the most talented investigator with the Göteborg police service—an investigator who’s already working with the Cold Cases Unit!”

  Irene couldn’t help feeling a certain level of admiration for Thylqvist. Instead of organizing a replacement for Birgitta, she had managed to get rid of one of their most challenging homicide cases in one elegant move. It was also a low priority case. Nor had she needed to groom Sven Andersson for four months to lure him into her trap; a little flattery, a slice of cake and fifteen minutes in her company had done the trick.

  Irene remembered what Thylqvist had said to Tommy after the morning briefing when she asked him to step into her office. Of course it must have been Tommy who had told her about Andersson’s birthday. How else would she have known? Irene looked over at Tommy, who had been her best friend for so many years. His expression was unreadable.

  Superintendent Sven Andersson was not returning his successor’s beaming smile. He looked distinctly unimpressed as he pushed away his plate and his half-eaten slice of cake.

  Irene and Krister had promised to visit Irene’s mother at around ten o’clock on Saturday morning. It was time to give her apartment a good cleaning, including the windows. The home care service didn’t do that kind of thing. They cleaned the living room, be
droom, kitchen and bathroom once a fortnight. According to the Gerd’s instructions, they weren’t even allowed to touch the little bedroom off the kitchen with the vacuum cleaner, so Irene or Krister would spend a few minutes on it from time to time. It had been Irene’s room for the first eighteen years of her life; it was now Gerd’s spare room and hadn’t been used for several years.

  Gerd would be seventy-nine in September. She had always been a strong person in both body and soul, and Irene had somehow assumed that things would stay that way. Gerd had consistently supported Irene and her family, she had looked after her husband when he was diagnosed with cancer, and at the same time she had helped her own parents as they grew old and unwell. Irene’s father and her maternal grandparents had died within a twelve-month period, but somehow Gerd had coped. She had carried on working full-time behind the counter in the post office, and when she retired a few years later she had immediately joined several clubs, acquiring a whole range of new interests and plenty of friends. She had met Sture. They had never lived together, but had seen a lot of each other for many years since their apartments were just a few blocks apart. They had done a lot of traveling and shared plenty of retirement activities.

  When Sture had died suddenly two years ago, Gerd had lost her lust for life. The day he died she had slipped on that fateful patch of ice as she was on her way to see him. Losing both Sture and her health was too much for her. She rarely left her apartment these days. When Irene tried to persuade her to go out, she made excuses, blaming her dizziness and the pain in her hip. “I can’t manage the stairs anymore,” she would say with a sigh and a long-suffering expression. There was no point in trying to persuade her to move to a ground- floor apartment. “Never! You know perfectly well that intruders always go for apartments on the ground floor!” Irene had tried to tell her that wasn’t the case at all, but to no avail. She simply had to accept that her mother didn’t want to move; the very idea was just too much for her. At the same time, Irene realized that the day would come when Gerd couldn’t stay where she was, two floors up with no elevator. To tell the truth, that day had already come, since her mother could no longer manage the stairs. She couldn’t go shopping alone or out for a walk. When she had a doctor’s appointment, she couldn’t get down to the patients’ cab service. The laundry room in the cellar was completely inaccessible. In fact she needed help with most things if she had to move from one place to another, but she could still cope with personal hygiene, cooking, and light housework.

  It took several hours to clean the apartment from top to bottom; Gerd was very pleased with the final result. The smell of detergent and the sight of sparkling windows with freshly ironed curtains cheered her up enormously. Krister had brought lunch: salmon pie with spinach and cheddar cheese, accompanied by a crisp salad and homemade flatbread, to be enjoyed with a little extra-salted butter. Gerd looked very content when they had finished eating and the coffee machine had been switched on.

  “It’s so kind of you to help me. I hate always having to ask; I’m used to getting by on my own,” Gerd said.

  Krister put his arm around his mother-in-law’s thin shoulders.

  “Well, you helped us out for many years when the twins were little. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

  “It was my pleasure. They’re my grandchildren after all! To be honest, without them I would never have gotten through the period when Rune and my parents died. I went to four funerals that year: Rune, my parents and my cousin Gunnar. It was a terrible year, but the girls were a glimmer of light in the darkness.”

  She smiled and met Irene’s gaze. Suddenly she became serious again.

  “It’s such a long time ago now. Seventeen years. Time passes, and so do we,” she said wearily.

  She looked out of her clean kitchen window at the sparse leaves beginning to unfurl on the tops of the trees.

  “All these deaths . . .”

  A deep silence fell in the little kitchen. Irene looked at her mother’s lined face. How old she looked these days! Really, really old. It had happened so fast. But she didn’t say anything; it was Gerd who broke the silence.

  “I really need to see a dentist. I’ve lost a filling, and it’s painful. Could one of you go with me?”

  Irene sighed to herself. Both she and Krister were really busy with work.

  “I’ll give your dentist a call and book an appointment for when I’m free,” Krister said.

  Irene gave him a grateful smile. Her husband was an absolute rock, and she loved him for it.

  •••

  “I want to quit.”

  Irene almost ran into the car in front of them when Krister dropped his bombshell with no warning. She managed to stamp on the brake and avoided ending up in the trunk of the Renault Laguna.

  “What do you mean, quit?” she said, taken aback.

  “I’m getting sick of the job. That little TV chef spends all his time running around showing off. He’s barely turned thirty and he thinks he’s the greatest master chef ever, just because he stands in front of a camera on a local TV station once a week throwing a meal together.”

  He snorted. Krister rarely sounded bitter, but right now it was very clear that was exactly how he felt.

  “Has something happened?”

  “Not really. It’s just something that’s been growing, the feeling that I’m stuck in one place, treading water. I need to do something different, something new!”

  Irene couldn’t help clearing her throat. “Something new . . . Have you got anything specific in mind?”

  “Not yet. But I want a fresh start,” he said with a sigh.

  It wasn’t a complete shock. She had known that Krister hadn’t been entirely happy in the kitchen at Glady’s over the past few years. A new owner had taken over the restaurant, and of course he wanted to keep their star in the Guide Rouge. At the same time he had tried to keep down costs by not employing “too many” staff members. As a consequence everyone ended up doing the work of two people. Krister had suffered from burnout a few years earlier, and although he had returned to Glady’s, he had never really regained the pleasure he had found in his profession. The TV chef Krister had mentioned hadn’t exactly helped matters; he had been given more and more authority over what went on in the kitchen, and Krister felt sidelined.

  “Life is not a rehearsal. I want to do something I enjoy for the last ten years of my career. Or rather eleven,” he added.

  “If that’s how you feel, then think about what you want to do instead. We’ll manage, even if you’re earning less.”

  Irene was nine years younger than her husband, and certainly didn’t want a change of career. As she told Krister, she already had her dream job.

  “Although things aren’t great at the moment; I don’t like the new superintendent. I’ll admit she has her good points; she’s competent . . . smart . . . maybe too smart. She’s kind of . . . intriguing.”

  Irene surprised herself when she came up with that word, but it was exactly right.

  “In what way?” Krister wondered.

  She told him how Efva Thylqvist had managed to lure Sven Andersson into her trap and dump the mummy inquiry on the Cold Cases Unit. To her annoyance, Krister started to laugh.

  “She definitely sounds like a smart cookie!” he said.

  “That’s exactly what I said!” Irene snapped.

  Krister glanced at her in surprise. She had to take a few deep breaths before she was able to go on:

  “She’s so manipulative. She’s attractive, and she exploits her appearance, smiling and flirting with all the guys in the department while she doesn’t even seem to notice me—she does her best to ignore me completely!”

  To her horror she could hear the same bitterness in her own voice as she had heard in Krister’s. Suddenly his tone was deadly serious.

  “Sweetheart. I think it’s time for a change for
both of us.”

  “But I don’t want to leave my job! I’m not the one with the problem!”

  Irene was almost on the verge of tears. She swallowed several times and tried to calm down.

  “You can always look for a new restaurant, but my job is only available in one place in Göteborg, and I don’t want to move away. What I do want is a new boss.”

  “Couldn’t you apply for a transfer to a different department?”

  Irene shook her head.

  “That’s the thing . . . there’s no other department I’d want to work in. And why should I move? I’m not the one who’s creating a bad atmosphere.”

  “A bad atmosphere? You mean everyone wants this woman gone?”

  Irene remained silent for a few moments before she answered. “No. The guys like her, I think. Tommy seems to get on very well with his new chief. He’s her deputy now.”

  “Do you mean they get on too well?” Krister asked meaningfully.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t seen anything concrete, it’s just a feeling.”

  Krister laughed. “Sweetheart, I trust your feelings one hundred percent. That’s why you’re such a good cop—you go with your gut instinct. And it’s never wrong!”

  He leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. She was filled with a warm glow and a sudden surge of confidence. As long as they had each other, they could deal with any setbacks. Together they were strong.

  Over the weekend the evening papers had gone for thick black banner headlines: “killer lurks online!” “Do you know who your child is chatting to online?” “the internet—an el dorado for pedophiles!” and so on. They ran interviews with experts from the police, Save the Children and ECPAT. They offered advice to parents on how to talk to their children about the dangers associated with being contacted by someone online. Irene thought it was good that Efva Thylqvist—because it must have been her decision—had spoken to the media. There was no suggestion anywhere that Alexandra and Moa’s killer had contacted the girls online, which was also good. It was an advantage if he didn’t know they were onto him.