The Treacherous Net

by Helene Tursten

“Yes, he was,” he said eventually.

  “And did he have a computer with him?”

  “Yes, a little one, kind of like a big cell phone. He often used it; he said it was easy to carry around.”

  At last she knew why she hadn’t found Mr. Groomer when she checked the train.

  “So he was sitting in a staff room where no one could see him. Viktor Jacobsson had his hands full in the restaurant car, so Mattias could chat away to his chosen girls in peace. And if anyone came in, he could shut down in a second. It’s very difficult to see what’s on those small screens,” Irene said.

  The team was gathered in the meeting room. They all felt they were well on the way to closing the case; it was just a matter of tying up the last few loose ends.

  “He’s definitely guilty of the murders, one hundred percent. Moa’s and Alexandra’s blood is in his van. His semen is in the van and on the girls’ clothing, and we found fibers from the red nylon carpet on both girls. We also have his video footage of the girls, and we have the knife. It’s watertight. We’re assuming he had the camera with him because he intended to film what he was planning to do to little Ann.”

  Tommy fell silent and looked down at the papers in front of him. He picked up one document and gazed at it for a while, then continued. “You thought there was a lot of blood on the victims’ clothes when you found them in the closet, and you said the place stank. The amount of blood didn’t match the injuries the girls had suffered. And now we know why; he poured cat blood over the clothes.”

  Tommy’s expression said it all as he put down the sheet of paper.

  “Cat blood? And is there cat blood on Moa Olsson’s body too?” Fredrik asked.

  “No, it was done after the event. Probably some kind of ritual, according to the profiler.”

  “Blood . . . His landlady’s cats disappeared; I have my suspicions about where they went. And he allegedly told Viktor Jacobsson that women should be cleansed with blood,” Irene said.

  “The guy was seriously creepy,” said Åsa. “If you ask me, there is one thing I’ve been wondering about. He was so smart, stealing computers and chatting online on the train, doing everything he could to make sure we couldn’t trace him. And Jens hasn’t found much on his computers either; he covered his tracks very skillfully. There wasn’t a thing on the laptop in Malmö to connect him to the murders, and yet he left all that evidence lying around in the garage. Why didn’t he try to hide the things he’d kept?”

  “It’s actually not all that uncommon,” Tommy replied. “Some psychiatrists believe that somewhere deep down, a serial killer wants to be caught. At the same time he feels invincible when those stupid cops can’t find anything to prove he’s guilty.”

  “So you think Mattias was a serial killer,” Åsa said.

  “Absolutely. He managed to kill two girls, but he was planning to take the lives of many more. If he had gotten to them, he would have killed them too. Thank God there aren’t many killers like him, but they do exist. According to many of our experts, the Internet has made it much easier for serial killers to find their victims, and this case is a shining example of exactly that. Unfortunately, I think we’ll find ourselves investigating plenty of similar homicides in the future.”

  “They picked up a guy not long ago who was suspected of having killed five gay men. I think they’ve found evidence tying him to two or three of the murders; all five victims had come into contact with him online,” Fredrik told them.

  “I don’t think I’m going to run out of work anytime soon,” Jens said.

  The washed-out morning light created a perfect working atmosphere for the two detectives in the Cold Cases Unit.

  “He slipped out of the net,” Andersson said gloomily.

  “Very gracefully,” Fryxender concurred.

  They were both thinking back to the events of the previous day. When Oscar Leutnerwall returned to the library, dragging a huge vacuum cleaner that would have sent the experts on Antiques Roadshow into a trance, Fryxender had confronted him with the discovery of Mats Persson’s missing library books. The former diplomat had listened expressionlessly. When Fryxender asked how the books had ended up on his shelves, he had answered calmly: “Calle gave me a lot of books for my birthday. He said he’d been to a sale at the library and picked up some interesting items. I’d already read the two books about Stig Wennerström, but I didn’t have the heart to tell him. To be honest, I just put the whole lot on the bottom shelf and forgot about them.” When asked when Calle had given him the books, he had answered with complete conviction: “Eight years ago. It was my eighty-fifth birthday.”

  So Calle Adelskiöld had allegedly had Mats Persson’s library books in his possession for sixteen years before he gave them to his cousin as a birthday present.

  “It’s Friday today. Astrid’s birthday party is tomorrow, and then they’re off to Mauritius. By the time they get back, I’ll have only three weeks to go until I retire. And I hope you’ll forgive me, but I intend to ignore this goddamn case and spend my last few days of active service showing your new colleagues in the Cold Cases Unit the ropes. This is a tough job,” Andersson said firmly.

  Fryxender was staring out of their grubby window and didn’t appear to be listening to his colleague’s statement of intent. Instead he was slowly drumming his fingers on the desk; to his surprise, Andersson realized that he recognized the beat. Beethoven’s Fifth. He was just about to ask if he was right when the phone on Fryxender’s desk rang, breaking the silence. He picked it up and listened, then suddenly froze. His answers were monosyllabic, until he eventually said, “We’ll be there at two. See you then.”

  Slowly he put down the phone. “That was Oscar Leutnerwall. He would like us to go over there for coffee this afternoon. He has something to tell us.”

  A pale sun was doing its best to filter some light through the remaining leaves on the treetops. It was a calm day, and the air felt cool. It had been a mild fall so far, and hopefully it would be a while before the last of the leaves came down. But Andersson was too old to be under any illusions; the winter would soon be here. The trip to Thailand with Elvy shimmered like a candle in the darkness. As long as it’s not too hot, he thought pessimistically from time to time.

  Oscar Leutnerwall opened the door. He was wearing dark blue chinos and a blue-and-white-striped shirt under a woolen sweater of exactly the same shade as the blue stripes. The well-worn slippers were on his feet, and even Andersson noticed that his socks perfectly matched his sweater.

  “It’s very kind of you to spare the time,” Oscar said.

  They hung up their coats in the closet, then Oscar led them into the living room. As usual the fire was blazing away, spreading a pleasant dry heat.

  Oscar had pulled another armchair up to the copper table in front of the fire. He invited the two officers to sit down in the comfortable wing-backs while he took the extra chair, where Winston lay fast asleep on his back with his paws in the air. Oscar picked up the cat and unceremoniously placed him on the floor. Winston was unimpressed and stalked off in the direction of the library, his tail in the air.

  Oscar poured coffee from the silver pot made by Vivan, or whatever the silversmith’s name was. Andersson noticed that there was a brandy glass next to each cup. Without asking if they would like a drink, the retired diplomat poured a generous amount of Cognac into each glass.

  “Please help yourselves,” he said. “Believe me, you’re going to need this.”

  Andersson thought he looked tired and hollow-eyed. For the first time Oscar Leutnerwall actually looked his age.

  “Your good health, gentlemen. Here’s to the truth, which can now be told. The time has come,” Oscar said solemnly.

  They raised their glasses. Andersson inhaled the aroma before he took his first sip. He rarely drank Cognac, but the bouquet and the rounded taste told him that this wasn’t a cheap bottle.
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  Oscar put down his glass. “Yesterday an old friend called; someone I hadn’t heard from for twenty-five years. Staffan Molander. He told me you’d found a witness who saw us together outside Calle’s house back in the summer of ’83 . . .”

  He paused and picked up his glass. With a wan smile he raised it once more and said, “Kudos to you, gentlemen. I’m impressed that you managed to dig up the information after all these years. We tend to believe that time obliterates our footsteps, but the truth is nothing disappears as long as there is someone left alive who can tell the story.”

  He nodded to the two officers and took a sip of Cognac, then cleared his throat. “I’ve had a sleepless night. You could say that I’ve been battling with my conscience. The truth has to come out sometime, and if feels as if that time is now. I’ve been wondering how to tell you what happened and have come to the conclusion that there is only one way: start at the beginning.”

  Cut the crap and get on with it, Andersson thought.

  “Astrid told you that Calle and I grew up more like brothers than cousins. We went to the same schools, and our families spent a lot of time together. Our mothers were sisters, and the fact that they had no other siblings meant they were very close. We both studied law in Uppsala, though he started a couple of semesters after me. We had a great time. The two of us also met up often and rented rooms in the same building. I lived on the top floor, Calle on the ground floor. But we also had separate groups of friends. After a while I noticed that Calle seemed particularly friendly with one of his fellow students. His name was Sverker, and he was the son of a prominent financier. One day I went to pick up a book that Calle had borrowed from me, and when no one answered, I walked in and found Calle and Sverker lying naked in his bed.

  “The general attitude in the 1930s wasn’t exactly broad-minded,” he continued, “so you might think that I reacted badly, but in fact I wasn’t so innocent myself. I had realized as a teenager that I was bisexual, even though I couldn’t put a name to it at the time. During my years at the university in Uppsala, I had many opportunities to explore my sexuality. My looks appealed to both men and women. I was always clear about who I was attracted to: individuals. I was drawn to young, good-looking individuals, not to one specific gender. That’s the way it’s always been, and it has definitely enriched my life.”

  “Why did you never marry?” Fryxender asked.

  Andersson noticed that his colleague’s glass of Cognac was still full. Good. Let him drive us back, he thought.

  “Marriage . . . It’s never appealed to me. I’ve never felt the slightest desire to tie myself down and to be faithful to just one person.”

  “But I assume Calle and Sverker were a couple?”

  “Yes. They were together. Calle told me there was a group of young men who met up from time to time; they would have parties and just hang out. That kind of thing was a normal part of student life in Uppsala; the difference with this group was that they were all homosexuals, so their activities had to be kept secret. The members were invited to join after careful consideration and with great discretion. The existence of the group wasn’t something to be publicized; after all, we’re talking about a criminal association here.”

  “Criminal? Who said it was criminal?” Fryxender sounded surprised.

  “The law. According to the law in Sweden back then, homosexuality was illegal and was punished with a jail sentence. It came under the rubric of sodomy. The law wasn’t repealed until 1944.”

  “I didn’t know it carried a jail sentence until the midforties. I just remember learning at the police academy that homosexuality was a symptom of psychosis and other serious mental illnesses,” Fryxender said.

  Oscar fell silent and gazed into the fire, which was beginning to die down. When he got up to put on more wood, Andersson noticed that his hips seemed stiff—something he hadn’t picked up on previously.

  “Yes, during the 1930s and up until 1944, convicted homosexuals were sent to jail. From 1944 to the end of the 1970s, they were admitted to a mental hospital. In other words, there weren’t too many gay pride parades,” Oscar said with a wry smile.

  “What did they call themselves? These student groups usually have a name,” Fryxender said.

  “They called themselves the Ovidii network of friends, although often they just said the Network. Their motto was Nitimur in vetitum semper cupimusque negata, which is a quotation from the poet Ovid. We are drawn to forbidden things, and always desire that which is denied to us.”

  Both officers registered the fact that he had mentioned the Network, but neither of them reacted. Instead they allowed Oscar to continue his story.

  “I was invited to some of the parties; they were very pleasant and well organized.”

  “Were you a member?” Fryxender asked.

  “In a way . . . I suppose I was. But I didn’t attend their gatherings on a regular basis. I spent time with my other friends, and I went out with girls. Which was why I wasn’t at the ill-fated midsummer party in 1941. I was in Marstrand with close friends, while Calle had stayed in Uppsala. He was supposed to be studying, because he was due to resit some exams in August. However, the real reason he was there was that Sverker was there too. Sverker was going off to spend the whole of July and the early part of August with his family at their summer cottage in Skåne, but he and Calle spent Midsummer’s Eve together, along with some of the other guys from the Network in a summer cottage out near Roslagen. For some reason Officer Elof Persson was on an assignment nearby.”

  Oscar broke off and topped off both coffee and Cognac for himself and his guests. His hands trembled as he poured the drinks.

  Andersson enthusiastically accepted another glass of Cognac, but Fryxender declined; he still hadn’t touched the first one.

  “It was a beautiful evening. Calle said that for once some of the boys were really relaxed, and drank more than they usually did. The cottage was in an isolated spot, and they didn’t think there was anyone around. They couldn’t have known that the diligent General Security Service would be working on Midsummer’s Eve . . . but Elof Persson was out there—presumably trying to track down spies. There was a lot of activity along the Swedish coast during the war years.”

  Oscar fell silent once more. His expression lost its sharpness, and he suddenly looked as if he were far away. The story was a bit too long-winded for Andersson’s taste, but in spite of himself he had been drawn in. With a glass of excellent Cognac for company, he was happy to listen to the rest of the tale.

  “The light summer night was perfect for a dip in the sea. The cottage had its own small beach and jetty; the boys ran down and jumped naked into the water. Afterward a few couples sneaked off, including Calle and Sverker. They found what they thought was a sheltered spot and had sex, but Elof Persson was lying on a hillock close by, taking razor-sharp pictures of them with a telephoto lens.”

  Oscar took a deep breath. “At the beginning of July, Elof Persson contacted Calle. He demanded five thousand kronor, otherwise he would take the photographs to the police. He had probably tried to get a hold of Sverker, but without success; he was in Skåne with his family. That’s the only explanation I can think of. Calle had no money of his own. He lived on whatever my father and Aunt Vera sent him. He managed to convince Persson that he could only get his hands on three thousand kronor, and Persson went along with it. The money and the photographs changed hands late one night in Tantolunden. Calle told me how relieved he felt, in spite of the fact that Persson spent the whole time hurling insults at him. A month later, Persson got in touch again. He hadn’t given Calle all the pictures and wanted more money. Poor Calle went into a complete panic. Somehow he managed to borrow three thousand kronor from his mother; he spun her a tale about having to travel to Moscow for an interview. He told her he might be eligible for a post at the embassy there after he graduated, so he needed the money for the journey. Luck was on
his side when he was actually posted to Moscow later on; Aunt Vera never suspected a thing.”

  Oscar paused briefly; all this talking seemed to have left him with a dry mouth. Andersson and Fryxender waited patiently for him to continue.

  “Once again the handoff took place at midnight in Tantolunden, but I don’t think Elof Persson could ever have imagined what Calle would do afterward. Persson went straight home to Hornsgatan without looking over his shoulder once. Calle snuck along behind him, and found out where his blackmailer lived.”

  Oscar took another sip of coffee.

  “When Persson got in touch the third time asking for the same amount of money again, Calle had worked out his plan. He was going to murder Elof Persson. He simply stole the Tokarev pistol from a friend of my father’s at a firing range.”

  “Didn’t this friend of your father’s wonder what had happened to his gun?” Fryxender asked.

  “Probably. But he couldn’t exactly inquire openly into its whereabouts. There was never any suspicion that Calle had stolen the Tokarev; it simply disappeared, and nobody asked any questions.”

  Oscar gazed into the fire; only Winston’s purring broke the silence in the room.

  “Elof Persson informed Calle where the meeting was to take place. Calle didn’t take any money with him for the simple reason that he didn’t have any. Instead he took the loaded gun and waited for Persson, concealed in the doorway of the neighboring apartment block. When Elof Persson emerged, Calle stepped out and shot him three times, then hurried away. The weather was bad, and it was completely dark because of the blackout. The following day the Hårsfjärden disaster took place and became the focus for all the resources of the security service. The murder of Elof Persson slipped into the background, and was never solved. And that could have been the end of the story, if it hadn’t been for Calle. And Aunt Vera.”

  He sighed, gazing into the distance once more. It was as if the old man could see people who were long dead standing here in the room. Andersson took a sip of his Cognac to chase away the ghosts.