Once again they were met by an unpleasant smell, but this time it was because no one had done any cleaning in a long time. The room measured approximately twelve to fifteen square meters, and there was a small window. The bathroom was immediately on the left; if you didn’t know where it was, all you had to do was follow the stench. On a desk beneath the window were a laptop and a palmtop. Dirty socks and underpants were draped over the chair, and the unmade bed was in urgent need of clean sheets. The closet was empty apart from a few used towels thrown on the floor. Irene noticed large rusty-red patches on them; it looked like dried blood. Could the towels have been lying there since the murders?
“I guess cleaning wasn’t his thing,” Åsa said.
Dirt and grit crunched beneath her feet as she walked over to open the window. They left the door wide open to create a cross draft; a breeze blew through the room, rustling all the papers pinned up on the wall.
“He’s collected everything that’s been written about the murders of Moa and Alexandra,” Åsa said. “He’s even printed stuff off the Internet. Look!”
She pointed to two color pictures of the girls; Mattias had obviously enlarged them. They were school photos, and Irene recognized them from the case. Perhaps the girls had actually sent them to Mattias, or maybe they had posted them online when they were trying to hook up with some guy on snuttis.se. Next to them were two other pictures of the girls that Mattias himself had taken after their deaths.
“I seem to remember Tommy saying that Mattias was one sick puppy; I guess he’s right,” Åsa said. She looked away from the terrible pictures and turned her attention to the computers on the desk.
“The laptop is an iBook; the palmtop is a Fujitsu Siemens Pocket. Those are probably the stolen computers he used on the train when he was chatting with the girls.”
She nodded in the direction of the window, where Mattias had neatly arranged pictures of girls between the ages of twelve and fifteen around the frame. Åsa began to count.
“Nineteen. And here’s one of My.”
Without further ado she removed the picture of My and slipped it into her pocket. Irene didn’t comment; it was just as well if My disappeared from the case as discreetly as possible.
“Eighteen. There’s Alexandra, and there’s Moa. The other sixteen must be girls he was working on. Can you see Lina Lindskog?” Irene asked.
Åsa looked carefully at each picture, then shook her head.
“No. He must have dumped her after the failed attempt to pick her up.”
“He probably thought it was too dangerous to try again—and he had plenty more.”
They looked so young, so innocent. And yet several of them were completely or partially naked in the pictures. Didn’t they realize what they were doing? If a living, breathing seventeen-year-old guy they didn’t know had walked into their room and asked them to strip, they wouldn’t have done it, but being daring in front of a webcam was more like a game; somehow it wasn’t real. They couldn’t have been more wrong. They could be seen not by just one person, but hundreds, thousands, perhaps millions. And the pictures would remain on the Internet forever.
“This is where he keeps the juicy stuff!”
Åsa started to empty the desk drawers, stacking DVDs and CDs on the desk. It looked as if he had burned most of them himself. The covers of the ones he’d bought clearly showed what kind of films were involved: the most extreme form of sadistic porn.
“We’ll leave those to forensics,” Irene said. Suddenly she felt tired of the whole thing. The police were fighting an unfair battle against new technology, and they were always light-years behind.
After nineteen years in homicide, Irene knew a great deal about different types of killers. She knew what drove them, and whether they were likely to kill again. Mattias Eriksson’s type needs to be able to feed their fantasies, and the Internet provides everything they could want. Like all addicts, they need a stronger and stronger fix in order to achieve the kick they desire. By the time they move on to acting out their fantasies, they know exactly what they want; they’ve already practiced in the virtual world. Judging by his collection of CDs and DVDs, Mattias had been very well prepared, and there was no doubt that he would have gone on killing until he was caught.
CSI arrived, and Irene and Åsa left the garage. As they were about to get in the car, Irene was suddenly overwhelmed with exhaustion.
“Åsa, would you mind driving?” she said.
Åsa glanced sharply at her. “Don’t feel well?”
Irene told her about her mother’s sudden death. She hadn’t slept well over the past few nights, and now it was catching up with her. She also explained that she was going to see the funeral director straight after work.
“Oh, that’s terrible! She can’t have been very old,” Åsa said sympathetically.
“Well . . . she turned seventy-nine a few weeks ago.”
“So she can’t have been all that young when she had you.”
“I don’t think she’d be regarded as old these days, when so many women have their first child at about thirty-five.”
“My mom had four kids by the time she was thirty-five,” Åsa said. “I was two years old at that point.”
“Didn’t you say you had three older brothers?”
“Why do you think I started boxing?” Åsa said with a smile.
“Are your parents still alive?”
“Yeah. My dad retired last year; Mom works in a store selling eco-friendly goods in Haga. She’s got two years before she retires, but I can’t see her wanting to stay at home and look after Dad. He’s taken up painting. Pictures, I mean. To be honest, they’re pretty bad, but he’s happy.”
“What did he do before he retired?”
“He was a journalist.”
“What kind? Did he write about sports or politics? Or would I have seen him on the news?”
“He wrote about culture and the arts.”
Åsa turned her head and looked out at the huge oil tanks looming at the foot of the Älvsborg Bridge on the Hisingen side. She nodded in their direction and said, “Just imagine if terrorists decided to blow up one of those! It would be a disaster!”
“Yes, but of course when they were built, they were a long way outside the city.”
It was obvious that Åsa didn’t want to talk about her parents anymore. A journalist . . . Irene’s father had been a civil servant working for the customs office. And Åsa’s mother worked in a store selling eco-friendly goods. Gerd had worked at the mail counter for thirty-five years. Irene was beginning to realize that Åsa had made some kind of journey from one class to another, which was unusual among police officers. And even if her background was different, it didn’t change the fact that Åsa was a good cop.
In a week’s time the Cold Cases Unit would have its reinforcements: one man and one woman. However, right now the team consisted of only two active investigators, so they had to make the best use of their limited resources, as Leif Fryxender put it. He and Sven Andersson had discussed at length how best to proceed, and eventually they had decided to speak to Oscar Leutnerwall again. He was the only remaining link with the past, and if anyone knew what had gone on, it was likely to be the former diplomat. The only question was whether he would be prepared to tell them what he knew.
Fryxender called to arrange a time; he tried several times, but there was no reply. Just before he was about to go home for the day, he made one last attempt. This time Oscar Leutnerwall picked up; he seemed to be in a good mood.
“Good afternoon, Inspector! I could see from the display that someone whose number was withheld had called several times, but I’ve been out playing tennis. I play twice a week, all year round. I’ve missed very few training sessions since I started back in the summer of ’32.”
Fryxender asked if they could meet again. Oscar was available for the next few days, but n
ot during the following two weeks.
“We’re having a party to celebrate Astrid’s ninetieth birthday on Saturday, then on Monday we’re going to Mauritius for two weeks. That’s my birthday present to her,” he explained.
They arranged to meet the next day. Oscar suggested they come over to his apartment, as he had a number of things to do before the party.
Oscar Leutnerwall opened the door wearing nothing but a dressing gown. It was an elegant garment made of thick silk with a paisley pattern, but it still wasn’t exactly what Fryxender and Andersson had expected. It stopped just below the knee, revealing white legs. He had black leather slippers on his feet.
“Please excuse my casual attire, gentlemen, but my tailor is here. He’s made a few minor adjustments to my dinner suit, and I’ve just been trying it on. Do come in and sit in front of the fire.”
Oscar led the way into the living room.
A large desk stood over by the tall window. It was an imposing piece, and was adorned with beautiful marquetry; the corners were gilded. Probably not from IKEA, Andersson thought.
Winston was asleep on the wine-red leather writing pad. He woke up as the men entered the room, extended his pink tongue in an elegant curve as he yawned and blinked those sapphire-blue eyes. He got up in one smooth movement, then stretched first his front legs, then his hind legs before starting to wander around.
Bursting with enthusiasm, Oscar started to talk about his preparations for Astrid’s upcoming birthday party. Andersson wasn’t really paying attention, and gazed around the room. Suddenly an object caught his eye. Or several objects, to be more accurate. A whole armory of weapons, in fact. Above the door hung two crossed sabers, with beautiful ornamentation and gold tassels. The rest of the collection consisted of guns; Andersson counted twenty around the door. Some looked very old.
“I see you collect weapons,” he said.
Oscar glanced over at Andersson, looking distinctly irritated.
“Weapons? Those aren’t really mine. I inherited them from my father; they’ve been there for many years. Some of them are extremely rare.”
“He never had a Tokarev pistol in the collection?” Andersson asked.
“A Tokarev? No. My father was only interested in older weapons; the newest item is this one.”
He went over and took down a gun that looked quite modern.
“A Colt-Browning 1911. He bought it when he was in the USA in the early twenties. It was regarded as one of the best handguns ever made. Needless to say the model has been refined since 1911; between the wars and during the Second World War, many countries produced Colt copies of various types.”
“So your father never owned a Tokarev?”
“No. Such a thing wouldn’t have interested him.”
Oscar replaced the Colt.
“Was he keen on shooting?” Fryxender asked.
“Absolutely! But he used other guns for that, not these old things.”
“Did you also learn to shoot?”
“Of course. It was part of a young man’s education. Calle and I were dragged out to the range at Delsjön to learn. We both hated it. Neither of us turned into either a sharpshooter or a huntsman; my father was both.”
Oscar pursed his lips slightly as he finished speaking. He stared at the Colt on the wall, and for a moment he seemed to be lost in memories.
The crash made all three men jump. It was totally unexpected, and Andersson felt his heart flip over in his chest.
“Winston!” Oscar said reproachfully.
The cat was sitting on the desk, meticulously licking a front paw; he seemed to have no idea how the orchid in the glass pot might have ended up on the floor. The flower had broken off, but the pot had survived.
“Thank goodness it landed on the rug,” Oscar said, sounding extremely relieved.
“These thick Persian rugs are beautiful and practical at the same time,” Fryxender commented.
“You’re right. I collect those too.” Oscar nodded.
“Did Carl-Johan collect Persian rugs too?” was Fryxender’s instant follow-up.
Oscar frowned slightly as he looked sharply at Fryxender. No doubt he sensed that there was something behind the question.
“No. Calle didn’t collect rugs. Or anything else,” he said slowly.
“I’m just thinking about the rug Mats Persson was lying on. I mean, he’d been walled up in the chimney breast in your cousin’s house, and he was lying on a genuine Persian rug.”
Oscar didn’t reply; he merely raised a quizzical eyebrow. But Sven Andersson thought there was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Fear? Surprise?
“So if cousin Calle wasn’t interested in Persian rugs, I’m just wondering how Mats Persson came to be lying on such a fine example,” Fryxender went on.
“You can’t be sure the rug belonged to Calle.” Oscar Leutnerwall’s tone was distinctly chilly.
“No, exactly. In which case the question is, who did it belong to if not Calle?”
Oscar didn’t move a muscle, and he made no attempt to answer. Fryxender smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He turned to look at Winston, who was balancing on the edge of the desk, idly batting at the lamp cable with one paw.
“Have you always had cats?” he asked.
“Yes, except occasionally when I was working overseas. My mother always had cats; Astrid and I grew up with them. Astrid’s Siamese died last summer; she’s not sure whether to get another. If you’ll excuse me I’ll just go fetch the vacuum cleaner,” Oscar said, disappearing into the hallway.
Fryxender bent down to pick up the flower and the pot. He stayed like that for a long time. Jeez, his back’s gone! Andersson thought. He looked on in surprise as his colleague reached out and removed a number of books from the bottom shelf. Slowly he straightened up and handed them to Andersson.
H.-K. Rönblom’s The Spy Without a Country, Stig Wennerström’s From Beginning to End, and John Barron’s KGB: The Secret Work of Soviet Secret Agents.
All three were covered in clear plastic and were unmistakably library books.
Several officers had interviewed every employee who had been working on the X2000 train on which Irene had traveled from Göteborg to Malmö. One of them had sent Viktor Jacobsson to police HQ, having decided that the young man had interesting information.
Jacobsson was noticeably nervous. According to Irene’s notes he was twenty-four, but looked younger. His straw-colored hair was carefully combed, Beatles style, to hide one eye. The clothes hanging off his slender frame could have come straight out of a photo from the mid-sixties: black corduroy jacket, crumpled red-checked shirt, skinny blue jeans and pointed black shoes. He sat opposite Irene scratching at the pimples covering his chin and cheeks. She tried not to think about what he did for a living.
“So how long have you worked in the restaurant car?” she asked.
“Almost three years,” he replied in a broad Skåne accent.
“As I understand it you’ve been sent to us because you have important information about Mattias Eriksson.”
“Yes. It was me who got him a job in the restaurant car. We’re related. Distantly related. Second cousins. But we’ve never hung out. He’s . . . he was . . . five years older than me. It doesn’t feel good, being related to a murderer,” he said with a nervous smile.
“So you were working in the restaurant car and you got Mattias a job,” Irene clarified.
“Yes. Two years ago. His mom asked if I could fix him up. She and my mom are cousins. There was a temporary vacancy, then when Nettan came back he filled in sometimes. Then he applied to be a conductor. He is . . . or was . . . super smart. But weird.”
Viktor started picking at an angry red spot on his neck.
“Tell me what you mean; in what way was he weird?” Irene asked.
“Well . . . he kept to himse
lf. Didn’t have any friends. I mean he spoke to the passengers, but he was kind of . . . abrupt with them. And sometimes he said weird things.”
“What kind of weird things?”
“Like ‘only virgins are pure. Everyone else is impure and should die.’ It almost sounded religious, like Muslim or something. Once he said that girls should be sub . . . sub . . . subjugated until they bleed, and that will cleanse them. He said that blood cleanses—stuff like that.”
“Did he say these things within earshot of the passengers?”
“Oh no . . . just to me. I thought it was . . . disgusting.”
“Did this happen often?”
“No. A few times. When we were, like, having our break.”
Irene brightened as a thought struck her.
“Do you have some kind of staff room in the restaurant car where you can sit during your break?”
Viktor stopped picking at the spot and looked at her in surprise.
“Yes. If we’re not too busy we can go and sit in there.”
“And did Mattias come and see you when he was traveling between Malmö and Göteborg?”
He nodded.
“Always. He said he didn’t want to sit with the riffraff, so I used to let him sit in the staff room. Although he wasn’t really supposed to because he didn’t work in the restaurant car anymore. Nettan used to let him sit there too when she was on duty.”
Irene could feel her pulse rate increasing.
“What did he do when he was in there by himself? When you were busy with customers, I mean?”
“He used to sit there tapping away on his computer. He was brilliant at that kind of stuff. He got into Chalmers to study computer science, but he dropped out. He said he already knew everything.”
Irene was growing more and more certain that she had the final piece of the puzzle in her hand.
“I believe you were working on Thursday evening almost two weeks ago. Do you remember if Mattias was in the staff room during that journey?”
Viktor thought for a little while.
The Treacherous Net Page 24
