The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  It was a fine day, with a gentle breeze blowing in off the sound. The trees were only just starting to turn yellow, and the roses were still glorious in the beds around the station. It felt as if Göteborg were a couple weeks ahead when it came to the onset of fall. South of the Halland Ridge, a feeling of late summer still lingered. Irene slipped off her jacket as they walked toward the bus stop; her thin cotton top was warm enough in the mild weather.

  It didn’t take long to clean the room and pack Jenny’s few belongings into two suitcases and a few paper carrier bags. Irene called a cab; she thought they’d earned it.

  “Limhamn. Järnvägsgatan,” Jenny said to the driver as they got in.

  She fumbled in her wallet and found the address of her new apartment. She gave the driver the number, then sat back and relaxed.

  The cab pulled up outside a large white functionalist-style building, surrounded by an extensive garden full of slightly overgrown shrubs and trees. Irene noticed that the large vegetable plot seemed to be pedantically well tended. She paid and they got out. They walked through the open gate and up to the house; Jenny fished a key out of her purse and unlocked the door.

  “There’s an intercom system too,” she said. The name plate next to the top button was blank; soon it would say J. Huss.

  As they stepped inside, one of the doors on the ground floor flew open and a short man with a huge belly appeared. His bald head appeared to be resting directly on his shoulders, with no neck in between. In order to compensate for the lack of hair on his head, he was sporting a splendid mustache peppered with grey.

  “Welcome!” he exclaimed, beaming at them.

  They shook hands and introduced themselves; it turned out that the man was Jenny’s landlord. She and Irene made their way upstairs; Jenny unlocked her door and proudly waved Irene inside.

  The apartment was light and fresh. The wooden floor had recently been polished and varnished, and the walls and ceiling were painted white. There was a huge picture window and a glass door that led to a balcony. The small kitchen had an unusual triangular window.

  “Isn’t it fantastic?” Jenny was glowing.

  “Yes. You’re going to be very happy here,” Irene replied, and she was sure it was true.

  They were back at Malmö Central in plenty of time for their train. Irene bought an evening paper, some bananas and two bottles of mineral water. Well equipped for their journey, they boarded the train, which seemed to be full, and found their seats. Only then did Jenny ask the question Irene had been expecting all day, but had hoped to avoid.

  “So why did you actually come down today, Mom?”

  Irene quickly signaled to Jenny to lower her voice. She looked around the carriage; she could see four men working on computers, two of them palmtops. She recognized one of them from her morning trip. He was sitting diagonally opposite, and was about thirty years old. She had noticed his tall, toned body and his thick, well-cut bright red hair. His eyes were an unusual shade of green; Irene wondered if he was wearing colored contact lenses. He was dressed with casual elegance in a white polo shirt, light brown linen jacket and dark jeans. Irene knew he was Danish; he had been chatting on his phone when she passed his seat during her morning patrol. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be Mr. Groomer; then again, his handsome appearance was nothing like the facial composite they had put together.

  She could only see the back of the other man using a palmtop. He had a bald patch in the middle of his blond hair, and was getting on for forty. Irene was sure he hadn’t been on the early train, but she would take a closer look at him when she went through the train in an hour or so.

  “I was supposed to be seeing a colleague this morning, but unfortunately she couldn’t make it. She had some kind of bug, but I was already on the train when she called. So I thought you and I could spend all day together instead of meeting up after lunch. That’s why I called and asked you to come to the station.”

  Irene thought the explanation sounded flimsy at best, and that the tension in her voice was obvious as she delivered the lie, but Jenny seemed to accept it. She simply nodded, opened her mineral water and picked up the newspaper. Before long she was munching a banana, absorbed in the music-review section.

  Then Irene’s cell rang.

  “Hi, it’s Jens. He’s online now.”

  Irene glanced around, but couldn’t see anything unusual.

  “Has he just started?”

  “One minute ago.”

  Irene could feel her pulse rate increasing. She ended the call and tried to look calm. The Dane had been tapping away ever since he boarded the train twenty minutes ago, and the same applied to the other users in her carriage. Of course Mr. Groomer could have been elsewhere on the net and only just entered the chat room where he was hoping to get a hold of little Ann.

  Irene turned to Jenny, keeping her tone light. “I’m going to get a coffee. Would you like some tea or . . .”

  “No thanks,” her daughter mumbled without looking up.

  Irene set off. Her mission was the same as this morning: to make a note of the carriage number, seat number, brief description. She put a little dot beside the ones she recognized from the morning, even though she wasn’t sure that was relevant, since Mr. Groomer hadn’t been online at the time. But it was best to keep things in order.

  When she had gone all the way through the train, she locked herself in the toilet in the front carriage and quickly read over her notes.

  Twenty-nine men between age twenty and forty were using their computers right now. Nine of them had palmtops or cell phones with a wireless connection. Of the twenty laptop users Irene had been able to eliminate eleven who were watching films, playing games or working on documents of some kind. Seven of the others were writing emails. She didn’t know what the remaining two were doing; they were in first class, and she couldn’t see their screens.

  She decided to focus on the eleven men whose activities on the net she couldn’t identify. It was likely that Mr. Groomer wouldn’t want any of his fellow passengers to see what he was chatting about; two of the eleven were in her carriage: the red-haired Dane and the guy with thinning hair. Before leaving the cubicle she called Jens.

  “Is he still there?”

  “Yep. He’s suggesting they get together.”

  “When?”

  “We haven’t got that far. Ann’s not too sure. Says she’d like their first meeting to be in a café, somewhere like that.”

  “Who’s chatting, you or Åsa?”

  “Me. And I’m a smart cookie.” Jens sniggered.

  “Good. Call me when he’s done.”

  Now what? Irene thought. Any one of them could be Mr. Groomer! None of them bore the slightest resemblance to the composite, but several of them shared certain features with the man in the picture, or elements of the description. So he disguised himself when he went to pick up Lina. There should have been more of us on the train, goddammit! She took a deep breath in order to calm herself before she set off back to her seat.

  She did her very best to catch a glimpse of the suspects’ screens. She leaned right across the seats as the train lurched around a bend, she stopped to rummage in her purse, she knelt down and retied her shoelaces. In the first-class carriage she paused for quite some time to blow her nose. Her efforts produced just one result: it turned out that the blond guy in her carriage was looking for summer cottages in the Falkenberg area. She had no idea what was on the other ten screens.

  As she was about to sit down, Jenny raised her eyebrows.

  “I thought you’d gone to get some coffee?”

  Damn! She’d forgotten all about the coffee.

  “They’d run out. They’re just brewing a fresh pot. I’ll go back in a little while.” Irene leaned closer to her daughter and whispered, “I actually needed the toilet, and the one in the restaurant car was busy. I waited a
nd waited, but whoever was in there never came out, so I had to come back here.”

  That left her with no option but to go into the cubicle at the back of her carriage, but it did give her the chance to check her notes one more time.

  Ten suspects. She had their seat numbers, and had taken notes on their appearance. If Mr. Groomer was there, they would find him.

  If nothing else, her notes might give the team something to start working on: a name. Perhaps it hadn’t been a wasted journey after all.

  “Yesterday he used the Fujitsu. The palmtop. So we can rule out the two laptops, which leaves us with eight names of interest,” Jens said.

  Everyone except Hannu Rauhala was present at the Friday afternoon briefing; he had agreed to swap shifts with Fredrik Stridh, so would be on duty all weekend.

  “When can we have these names?” Tommy Persson asked.

  He looked very pleased with the results of Irene’s surveillance. Even if none of the eight men were on any of their databases, the team would take a close look at them. The chance to follow up on specific names always felt like a breakthrough in an investigation.

  “Not before the beginning of next week,” Jens replied.

  “In that case we’ll just have to be patient,” Superintendent Thylqvist said, smiling sweetly at Jens. She made a point of looking down at her wrist and her designer watch, which had no numbers on its face.

  “I have to leave very shortly, but I’d just like to say that this has been a very positive week. We might not have found Mr. Groomer, but he should be among those eight names. So next week we can put all our efforts into—”

  She was interrupted by an insistent signal from the internal telephone.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?” asked a female voice.

  “We’re in a meeting,” Efva Thylqvist replied sharply.

  “Okay. I’m calling from reception. There’s a Denzel Washington look-alike down here. He’s got a little boy with him; they’re looking for an Inspector Nyström. Do you have anyone of that name with you?”

  “Shit! It’s Jason!” Åsa exclaimed as she leapt out of her seat. She ran to the door and shot out.

  Efva Thylqvist cleared her throat, then spoke into the telephone. “Inspector Nyström is on her way down.”

  The room was utterly silent as she ended the call. After a few seconds she put into words what everyone was thinking. “A Denzel Washington look-alike?”

  Åsa’s face was bright red when she returned ten minutes later, accompanied by a little boy who gazed around with great big eyes. When he saw all the grown-ups looking at him he was embarrassed at first, but he quickly straightened up and gave a sharp salute.

  “Police cadet Elliot Abbot reporting for duty!” he said in a clear voice, before breaking into a big smile that spread all the way to his big hazel eyes. What a charmer, Irene thought. And he knows it.

  “I’m so sorry. They weren’t supposed to be here for another hour . . . Jason made a mistake with his ticket . . . his plane leaves at six, not seven . . . they have to check in an hour beforehand, and . . .”

  Åsa didn’t know what to say, which was definitely unusual for her. Irene had never seen her so off balance.

  “It’s fine. Perhaps you’d like to show our new recruit around the place,” Tommy said, smiling at Elliot and Åsa.

  Efva Thylqvist had gone off to her meeting, and in her absence Tommy was in charge of the department. He picked up the plate of cinnamon buns and offered it to the boy.

  “Would you like one?”

  “Yes, please,” Elliot said politely, picking up one in each hand just to be on the safe side. He took a big bite, and crumbs went everywhere as he announced, “I’m going to be a cop, just like Åsa. But Dad doesn’t want me to.”

  Tommy nodded. “You stick to that decision,” he said, winking at the boy.

  “I will,” Elliot said, winking back.

  He took another bite of his cinnamon bun and beamed up at Åsa, who followed him out of the room murmuring yet more apologies, her cheeks still on fire.

  “So Jason is a Negro and the kid is a half-caste,” Jonny stated. “I have to admit our temporary replacement is full of surprises.”

  As much as Irene disliked Jonny’s word choice, she couldn’t argue with the fact that Åsa definitely had hidden depths. She was an international kickboxer, and was a member of the Swedish national women’s team. Irene knew from experience how difficult it is to combine a demanding training regimen with a working family life. That was why she had withdrawn from competing in jiujitsu after the birth of the twins. Perhaps that was why Åsa’s marriage to Jason had broken down? She had never said a word about the divorce or her ex-husband, and Elliot’s name had only come up in conversation a couple of days ago. She had to agree with Jonny Blom for once; Åsa was certainly full of surprises.

  When Irene got back to her office, Elliot was sitting at Åsa’s desk, drawing. As far as Irene could see he was working on a picture of a cop car with flashing blue lights. A figure with curly dark hair was at the wheel—a figure that bore a strong resemblance to the artist himself.

  Åsa was standing with her back to him, gazing out of the dirty window. She was on her cell, and seemed to be listening intently. After a moment she said, “I’m stuck here with Elliot, but Irene’s just arrived. She can come down. Okay.”

  She ended the call and turned to Irene, tension etched on her face.

  “Jens called. Mr. Gr . . . is chatting again.”

  “Who’s Mr. Grr?” Elliot asked immediately.

  Åsa gave him a loving smile. As Irene walked out of the door she heard Åsa’s reply. “He’s just a bad-tempered guy—that’s why we call him Mr. Grr. But he doesn’t work in this department, so we don’t need to bother about him. Do you know how to play solitaire on the computer? Look at this . . .”

  Åsa would certainly have her hands full with Elliot over the weekend, but Irene had a feeling she had no objection to his company. It was obvious that she loved the little boy. She had referred to him as “the man in my life,” and any guy was going to find it hard to compete with Elliot.

  Without a word Jens pointed to the screen. Irene sat down beside him and began to read.

  x-man: have you decided if you want to meet up?

  Ann: of course i do.

  x-man: how about next friday or saturday?

  Ann: friday is better.

  x-man: ok.

  Ann: there’s a café at the central station opposite the bookshop. they do the best hot chocolate 

  x-man: sounds perfect  i’ve got your cell number. will try to get a new cell next week. only problem is i might have hockey training on friday—can you do saturday instead?

  Ann: nope, babysitting.

  x-man: i’ve got an away game the following weekend, so that’s no good. i want to see you NOW 

  Ann: i want to see you too.

  x-man: i just thought—my bro can pick you up on friday. he’s got a car, he can come and get you before he picks me up.

  Ann: so what’s his name?

  x-man: fredde.

  Ann: and he’s driving? how old is he?

  x-man: 25.

  Ann: have you got any other brothers

  or sisters?

  x-man: nope.

  Ann: big age difference.

  x-man: he’s ok though. cool guy.

  Ann: i’d rather meet you.

  x-man: and i want to see my girl of course! will try to come to the station.

  Ann: four o’clock?

  x-man: too early—six o’clock.

  Ann: we eat at half seven, that won’t give us enough time.

  x-man: we can go for a pizza, ok?

  Ann: ok.

  x-man: can’t wait to see you for real! 

  Ann: me too.

  x-man: gott
a go. Xx

  Ann: Xx

  “We couldn’t put it off any longer; he’s starting to push hard. Little Ann can’t keep on turning him down or he might just give up. We know he’s probably grooming other girls at the same time,” Jens said.

  Irene read through the conversation again.

  “In exactly one week. We might have tracked him down before Friday; if not, we have to be ready to implement plan B. Anything from the banks yet?”

  “It takes time; we won’t hear anything until Monday afternoon at the earliest. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have the first name.”

  “Excellent! Then what?”

  “I’ll run the credit cards and names against journeys between Göteborg and Malmö, check whether any of them match up with Mr. Groomer and his chats with the girls. We’ve got his conversations with Alexandra and Ann, so we know exactly when he was online. If he was booked on the train at those times, that becomes interesting. Once could be a coincidence. Twice is suspicious. Three times . . .”

  He grinned and made a victory sign in the air.

  “Is it really that simple?”

  “Sure. No problem—with a little help from my friends in the ticket office at Swedish Rail!”

  It would save an enormous amount of time if they could find a travel pattern that matched Mr. Groomer’s contact with his victims. Although little Ann was still only a potential victim, Irene corrected herself.

  Irene was feeling confident as she left the department a few hours later. Computers really are a fantastic tool when it comes to investigating people’s activities. We leave an electronic trail everywhere: debit and credit card payments and withdrawals, the use of season tickets on public transport, swipe cards for various doors and gates, e-tickets on trains and flights and so on. And most people are blissfully unaware of what’s going on. It is possible to work out a fairly detailed picture of an individual’s habits—and vices!—without him or her having a clue!