The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

  Andersson sighed. They’d gone through all this hundreds of times already.

  Fryxender ignored his colleague’s disapproval. “Needless to say, the rug was covered in dust and dirt from the demolition of the chimney breast, but forensics still managed to find quite a lot of other traces. Cigar ash, textile dust, soil, hairs from several different people, and”—he paused dramatically and caught Andersson’s eye—“cat hair! From a long-haired cat!”

  “And? We knew that right from the start. It’s not exactly news,” Andersson said wearily.

  “But there was something we didn’t know when we got the report on the rug; we didn’t know that Oscar Leutnerwall owns a Persian cat!”

  Fryxender might be long-winded, but he had always given the impression of being well balanced. Never before had he shown any sign that he’d totally lost the plot, but Andersson assumed that kind of thing could happen quickly and with no warning.

  “No goddamn cat lives to the age of twenty-five,” Andersson said, keeping his tone neutral.

  “Obviously I don’t mean that the hair came from the cat he has today. What I mean is that he owns a cat. He’s a cat person.”

  “So?”

  “We could try to find out if he had a cat twenty-five years ago. We know Calle Adelskiöld didn’t, because he was allergic. But if Oscar had a cat back then, there’s a good chance that the rug belonged to him!” A smile lit up Fryxender’s thin face.

  “So?” Andersson repeated; he still didn’t get it.

  “That would mean that Mats Persson was killed in Oscar Leutnerwall’s apartment, then moved to Calle’s cellar where he was walled up in the aperture next to the chimney breast.”

  Andersson contemplated this new scenario, then shook his head.

  “I don’t think so. It’s impossible to drive right up to the building; you have to park at the bottom of the steps on Eklandagatan. No one could have carried a body in a rug all that way without being seen! Besides which the goddamn rug was too small to roll the body in; they’d have had to use it like a hammock.”

  Fryxender looked slightly deflated. He thought for a little while, then said, “You’re right. It’s more likely that Persson was killed in the building where he was found, then carried down to the cellar. Whoever did it knew about the big wood store next to the chimney, and that there was enough space to put a body in there. The killer also knew that bricks and mortar had been left in the cellar. If it wasn’t Calle or Oscar, then that leaves us with Staffan Molander and Per-Olof Wallin.”

  “There you go; we’re back on the same track,” Andersson said with satisfaction.

  “But we’ve already pinpointed a major problem there: how could Staffan or Per-Olof have gotten a hold of the Tokarev pistol that was used to murder Elof Persson during the Second World War?”

  That was the crux of the matter. They both sat in silence for a long time, brooding on what appeared to be an insoluble mystery.

  “They couldn’t,” Andersson stated eventually.

  “No. Plus they didn’t have a motive.”

  “Jealousy.”

  “Possibly. We’ll bring it up when we speak to Staffan Molander. He told you he’d never met Mats Persson; maybe he’ll change his story when he’s had time to think about it.”

  “Otherwise we’re back with Calle and Oscar,” Andersson said.

  “The thing that really points to the cousins is the fact that they were around when both Elof and his son were killed. They might have been young when Elof died, but they were still adults. And they could have had access to the gun.”

  “But something’s not right,” Sven Andersson insisted.

  Fryxender fixed his gaze on his colleague through his thick lenses. “You think we’re on completely the wrong track.”

  “Yes. No. Maybe not. But there’s something we’re not looking at in the right way. It’s one of those pieces of the puzzle you were talking about—it doesn’t fit!”

  “Or we’re trying to force it into the wrong place.”

  “Exactly.” Andersson nodded, his expression gloomy.

  “In other words, business as usual,” Fryxender said, breaking into a grin.

  By Thursday morning the weekend’s optimism had faded significantly in the department. None of the men who had been using computers on the train had a travel pattern that synced with Mr. Groomer’s activities. The only individuals with a criminal record were a notorious speed freak who had lost his driver’s license two months earlier and another guy who had lost his due to drunk driving. All the men were commuting for work, which was why they had been on the train a week earlier.

  To Irene’s surprise, the red-haired Dane turned out to be a male stripper. This aroused quite a lot of interest; those who work with sex in some form are always worth looking at when investigating sex crimes. However, it turned out that he was part of the elite division when it came to stripping; all his performances were listed on his website. He appeared mostly at exclusive restaurants or bars and large private parties, along with other male dancers. According to his busy touring schedule, he had only performed twice in Sweden this year: once in Stockholm, and once the previous week at a restaurant in Göteborg. In front of a packed audience of enthusiastic, screaming women, according to the newspaper review reprinted on his homepage.

  No, the young Dane wasn’t Mr. Groomer, and none of the seven others from the train seemed to fit the bill. They had all been interviewed by the police; they had been able to account for their actions on the relevant dates, and had been able to provide proof of their whereabouts. Most of them had been at work or on their way home when Mr. Groomer was chatting. None of them had been on the train between Malmö and Göteborg at the times in question. Mr. Groomer was online so frequently that it would have been extremely difficult for someone to hide all the trips every week.

  “How did he do it?” Irene challenged Jens, who merely shook his head.

  “You must have missed him,” Efva Thylqvist said, staring coldly at Irene.

  “No. I moved slowly. I checked if there was anyone in the toilets. And if anyone had been in there when I went past the first time, he would have been in his seat by the time I went back.”

  “Maybe he was in the restaurant,” Tommy suggested.

  “There was nobody in there working on a computer. Too many people, and it’s too noisy. The guy behind the counter was run off his feet; the train was full,” Irene said firmly.

  “And there’s no freight car on the X2000,” Hannu chipped in.

  “Well, he must have been somewhere,” the superintendent insisted. She looked at her team and said: “What do we do now?”

  There was a long silence, then Tommy cleared his throat:

  “Plan B.”

  They only had Thursday and Friday. By six o’clock on Friday evening, everything had to be in place. My Björkman was contacted and arrived in the department an hour later. Less than five feet tall, slender and fine-limbed, from a distance she really didn’t look a day over fifteen. She sailed elegantly into the conference room in high-heeled knee-high boots, a black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and an emerald-green sweater. Her waist-length dark hair tumbled down her back like a shining waterfall. Her almond-shaped eyes looked big in her slim face, but as soon as My began to speak, the impression of a young girl disappeared completely. Her voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant, her drama training obvious.

  “I’ve known Åsa all my life. She’s my sister’s best friend, and we’ve had a lot of fun together. I understand you’re trying to track down a killer; if I can help, I’m happy to do whatever it takes.”

  She made the offer as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but the superintendent didn’t look convinced.

  “I’m not sure about this. We’re not allowed to use civilians as bait. If something goes wrong . . .”

  “I’ll take t
he responsibility,” Tommy said before Efva Thylqvist could come up with any more objections. He avoided meeting Irene’s gaze. “I was the one who put the idea to you, and I’m the one who’s discussed it with Irene and Åsa. You’ve been doubtful about this plan all along, but we still want to try it. This is our only chance of catching him, and we have to pick him up before he kills again. He’s not going to stop until he’s caught, and it’s now four months since the last one.”

  Thylqvist appeared to be considering his words.

  “Fine,” she said eventually.

  Before anyone had the chance to ask her to be more specific about what they had actually agreed on, she was gone.

  “If this goes wrong she’ll deny all knowledge,” Jonny said laconically.

  Nobody contradicted him. It was obvious that the chief didn’t want to be the one in the firing line if things didn’t work out.

  Tommy gathered everyone involved in the operation in the conference room. Including My Björkman, there were seven of them.

  “We need more people,” Jonny said.

  “I’ll try to get some help from the armed response unit; I’ll contact them as soon as we’re done here.”

  “Why not call them now, then we’ll know how many of us there’ll be?” Irene suggested.

  Tommy went to make the call. Åsa looked at My and asked: “Are you still sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, nobody would . . .”

  “I know what I’m doing. I’m in,” My replied firmly.

  Her voice didn’t betray the slightest hint of nerves. Perhaps that was because she didn’t fully appreciate the risks inherent in the operation in which she would play a key role, Irene thought. She herself felt a growing sense of unease. She could understand the superintendent’s hesitation. But time was short, and there was no plan C or D.

  Tommy looked pleased when he returned after a few minutes.

  “Good news—they’re giving us a full team of six.”

  He moved on to the strategy for catching Mr. Groomer.

  “My will be sitting inside Café Expresso. It’s directly opposite the bookshop, and it has two exits. Two officers will be posted at each exit—armed and in plainclothes, obviously. I want two officers inside the café sitting pretty close to My. As soon as Mr. Groomer turns up, you grab him. Just make sure it’s really him.”

  The armed response unit would be stationed by the Nils Ericson Terminal, in constant contact with the team inside the café.

  “It’s essential that he doesn’t suspect they’re there because of him, otherwise he’ll take off right away, so they can’t be too close,” Tommy said decisively.

  Irene understood his reasoning, but she would have felt better if the heavy mob had been a lot closer. So far the killer had proved himself capable of great guile.

  They went over the plan several times. Finally Tommy turned to My. “It’s thanks to you that we’re able to make contact with this guy. Just promise me you’ll stay in your seat and do nothing.”

  “Absolutely. But you guys have to remember to play along. You mustn’t give any sign that you know me. He could be standing outside watching me. I have to behave like a shy fifteen-year-old on my first blind date. And the longer it takes before he turns up, the greater the risk that he’s out there watching the café.”

  She spoke calmly and apparently with no fear. Irene felt a shudder run down her spine. What if something went wrong . . .

  Sven Andersson called Staffan Molander and explained that he had a few more questions. Molander was unavailable after work because he already had plans, so they arranged to meet in the hospital café at three o’clock.

  Staffan Molander was already sitting at a table when they arrived. He was wearing exactly the same clothes as last time, his tan was just as perfect, his hair equally well-groomed.

  “Sorry, I didn’t know there would be two of you—I’ll go get another cup,” he said with a smile as he shook hands with Leif Fryxender.

  He hurried over to the counter. Andersson noticed that there were already two cups of coffee and two Mazarin cakes on the table; the paper wrapper around one cake showed that it was sugar-free. It was thoughtful of Molander to remember that he was a diabetic, but it was probably because he was a trained nurse.

  “There you go,” Molander said when he returned. “Help yourselves. I guess this must be important since there are two of you.”

  Fryxender spoke before Andersson had the chance to reply. “We still don’t know if this is important; that’s why there are two of us, so that we can evaluate any information that emerges during the interview.”

  Molander nodded; he seemed perfectly calm.

  “We’ve found a witness who worked in the building where you and Per-Olof Wallin rented an apartment from Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. On August thirty-first 1983, this witness saw something interesting. A young man who lived in the building came home late that night, accompanied by an older man. The witness thought this older man was aged somewhere between forty and fifty.”

  Molander nodded, as if to confirm that he had heard what Fryxender had said.

  “My first question is: Were you the young man?”

  “August thirty-first, 1983 . . . Yes, that was me.”

  “And who was the older man?”

  Molander’s expression was serious as he carefully considered his reply.

  “That has nothing to do with what happened to that poor guy almost six months later.”

  “We think there might be a connection. Who was he?”

  Molander’s face had lost its color beneath the tan. It was clear that he hadn’t expected the conversation to go in this direction.

  “What makes you think the identity of the man is in any way relevant to your investigation? This was long before the murder.”

  He was beginning to sound distressed.

  “Because we suspect that the man you were with was Mats Persson!” Fryxender barked.

  The change was instant. Slowly the color returned to Molander’s cheeks, and he managed a faint smile. “So that’s what you think! That the guy who was murdered was . . . No. No! You’ve got it wrong. I told you I’d never even seen Mats Persson when he was alive. Nor afterward, for that matter!” he snapped.

  But Fryxender wasn’t giving up. “You don’t know what we think. So let me ask the question again: Who was the man?”

  “Just a guy I met up with a few times. It was nothing serious, just a summer flirtation.”

  “But you still maintain that it wasn’t Mats Persson.”

  “Absolutely. It wasn’t Mats Persson.”

  “So who was it?”

  Staffan Molander leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, just as his cell phone rang.

  “Excuse me,” he said, taking the phone out of the pocket of his white coat. He glanced at the display and answered cheerfully: “Hi there! No, I haven’t forgotten . . . half past five at the earliest. I don’t finish work until five . . . but you can have a shower and get changed while you’re waiting.”

  He was smiling as he listened to the person on the other end of the line.

  “Sure, but only if he asks his mom. It’s fine by me, and I’m sure Dad won’t mind either,” Molander said, ending the call.

  Andersson realized he was staring at Staffan Molander like an idiot. What kind of weird relationships did this guy have?

  “My son. I’ve got to pick him up from hockey training, and his pal wants to come home with us,” Molander said, clearly amused by Andersson’s obvious confusion. “I’m not as promiscuous as you think. I’ve been in a steady relationship for many years. But you’d already decided on your opinion of me, and you just wanted your prejudices confirmed. I thought it would be a pity to disappoint you.”

  To his chagrin Andersson could feel himself blushing. The worst thing was that Fryxender had noticed i
t too, with an amused smile. His colleague turned his attention back to Molander.

  “Since no crime is involved, there’s no reason not to reveal this man’s identity. Whoever he was, we need his name,” he said implacably.

  Molander sighed and began to fold the paper wrapper from his cake over and over again. In the end it resembled a small oval ball, at which point he raised his head and looked Fryxender straight in the eye.

  “I haven’t told you or Superintendent Andersson a single lie. But maybe I haven’t told the whole truth. I said I bumped into Calle with a man and a woman when I got home from work one afternoon toward the end of August 1983. They were going to Liseberg. What I didn’t tell you was that something clicked when the man’s eyes met mine. I carried on seeing him for a few weeks after that first encounter. It was Calle’s cousin, Oscar Leutnerwall.”

  “What the hell do we do now?” Andersson wondered.

  “I’ve no idea. It wasn’t Mats Persson who was seen with Molander, so it’s got nothing to do with his death. But it does involve Oscar Leutnerwall, and I’m sure he’s mixed up in all this one way or another.”

  Andersson and Fryxender were sitting in their office, trying to think constructively.

  “We don’t know whether Calle Adelskiöld has anything to do with the murder of Mats Persson, but I feel as if we ought to take a closer look at him,” Fryxender continued. Let’s find out as much as we can about Oscar and Astrid Leutnerwall and their cousin. Who knows, something might come up.”