Contents
About the Book
About the Authors
Title Page
Introduction
The Man Who Watched Women
Acknowledgements
Copyright
About the Book
As a heatwave blazes in Stockholm, a series of women are found brutally murdered and the Criminal Investigation Department is getting nowhere. The murders bear all the hallmarks of Edward Hinde, the serial killer jailed by psychological profiler Sebastian Bergman fifteen years earlier.
Sebastian desperately needs some order in his chaotic life. The revelation that he has a daughter, Vanya, could provide this longed-for stability. But should he tell her the truth and risk destroying her life and career?
Forcing his way into the investigation, Sebastian soon learns that the murders are connected to him and that no one around him is safe. Including Vanya.
About the Authors
Michael Hjorth is one of Sweden’s best-known film and TV producers, and a well-renowned screenwriter whose work includes several screenplays of Henning Mankell’s Wallander.
Hans Rosenfeldt has hosted both radio and television shows, and is Sweden’s leading screenwriter and the creator of The Bridge, which is broadcast in more than 170 countries.
Introducing the national police homicide unit, based in Stockholm – also known as Riksmord …
Torkel Höglund – Chief Inspector
Ursula Andersson – police forensics expert
Vanja Lithner – investigative police officer
Billy Rosén – investigative police officer
Sebastian Bergman – psychologist and leading criminal profiler
Trolle Hermansson – former Chief Inspector, sacked for using surveillance for personal matters and planting false evidence
Other police
Thomas Haraldsson – ex police, now governor of Lövhaga Prison
As the taxi turned into Tolléns väg just before seven thirty in the evening, Richard Granlund didn’t think his day could get much worse. Four days in Munich and the surrounding area. A sales trip. The Germans worked more or less as usual throughout July. Client meetings from morning till night. Factories, conference rooms and countless cups of coffee. He was tired, but contented. Conveyor belt systems might not be the sexiest things in the world – his work seldom aroused curiosity and was never the most obvious topic of conversation around the dinner table or with friends – but they sold well. The conveyor belts. They sold really well.
The plane from Munich had been due to take off at 9.05 a.m. He would be in Stockholm at twenty past eleven. Call in at the office and let them know how he’d got on. Home around one. Lunch with Katharina, then they would spend the rest of the afternoon in the garden. That was the plan.
Until he’d found out that the flight to Arlanda had been cancelled. He’d joined the queue for Lufthansa customer services and was rebooked on the 13.05 flight instead. Another four hours at Munich International. He wasn’t exactly thrilled at the prospect. With a resigned sigh he dug out his phone and texted Katharina. She would have to have lunch without him, but hopefully they would still be able to spend a few hours working in the garden. What was the weather like? Perhaps a cocktail on the patio this evening? He could pick up something in the airport now he had plenty of time.
Katharina answered right away. Shame about the delay. She was missing him. The weather in Stockholm was fantastic, so cocktails later sounded like a great idea. Surprise me. Love you.
Richard went to one of the shops that was still advertising duty-free, although he was convinced this was no longer relevant to the vast majority of travellers. He found the shelf of ready-mixed cocktails and picked up a bottle he recognised from the TV ads – Mojito Classic.
On his way to the newsagent’s kiosk he checked his flight on the departures board. Gate 26. He reckoned it would take him about ten minutes to get there.
Richard sat down with a cup of coffee and a sandwich as he leafed through his newly purchased issue of Garden Illustrated. The minutes crawled by. He did a little window shopping, bought another magazine, one about gadgets this time, then went to a different café and drank a bottle of mineral water. After a visit to the toilet, it was time to head for the gate at long last. There he was met by the next surprise. The 13.05 flight was delayed. New boarding time: 13.40. Estimated departure time: 14.00. Richard took out his phone again. Informed Katharina of the latest delay and expressed his frustration with air travel in general and Lufthansa in particular. He found an empty seat and sat down. He didn’t get a reply to his text.
He rang her.
No one answered.
Perhaps she had found someone to have lunch with in town. He put his phone away and closed his eyes. There was no point in getting worked up about the situation; there wasn’t much he could do about it anyway.
At quarter to two the young woman on the desk welcomed them on board and apologised for the delay. When they were settled on the plane and the cabin crew had gone through the routine safety procedures, which no one bothered to listen to, the captain spoke to them. One of the lights on the dashboard was showing a fault. There was probably something wrong with the light itself, but they couldn’t take any chances. A technician was on the way to check it. The captain apologised and asked for their cooperation. The inside of the plane quickly grew warm. Richard could feel his willingness to cooperate and his still relatively good mood seeping away at exactly the same rate as his shirt grew wetter and wetter on his back and under his arms. The captain spoke again. Good news: the error had been rectified. Not such good news: they had now missed their slot, and there were currently nine planes due to take off before them, but as soon as it was their turn, they would begin their flight to Stockholm. He apologised.
They landed at Arlanda at 17.20.
Two hours and ten minutes late.
Or six hours. Depending on your point of view.
On his way to the baggage claim area, Richard rang home again. No reply. He tried Katharina’s mobile. Her voicemail kicked in after five rings. She was probably out in the garden, and couldn’t hear the phone. Richard reached the huge hall containing the luggage carousels. According to the monitor above number 3, the bags from flight LH2416 would be delivered in eight minutes.
It took twelve minutes.
And it was another fifteen minutes before Richard realised that his suitcase wasn’t there.
Another wait in another queue to report the missing case at Lufthansa’s service desk. After handing over his luggage receipt, his address and as good a description as he could manage of his suitcase, Richard emerged into the arrivals hall and went to find a taxi. The heat struck him with a physical force as he walked out through the revolving doors. It really was summer. They would have a lovely evening. He could feel his good humour returning slightly at the thought of Mojitos on the patio in the evening sun. He joined the queue for Taxi Stockholm, Kurir or 020. As they pulled away, the driver informed him that as far as the traffic was concerned, it was hell in Stockholm today. Sheer hell. At that moment he slowed down to just below fifty kilometres per hour as they joined the seemingly endless queue of cars heading south on the E4.
So by the time the taxi finally turned into Tolléns väg, Richard Granlund didn’t think his day could get much worse.
He paid with his credit card and walked up to the house through the fragrant, beautifully tended garden. He put down his briefcase and plastic bag just inside the door.
‘Hello!’
No answer. Richard took off his shoes and went into the kitchen. He glanced out of the window to see if Katharina was in the garden, but there was no sign of her. The kitchen was empty too. No no
te where it would have been if she’d left him one. Richard took out his phone and checked it. No missed calls or text messages. The house was hot and stuffy; the sun was shining directly on the windows, and Katharina had not lowered the awnings. Richard unlocked the patio door and opened it wide. Then he went upstairs. He would shower and change. He felt dirty and sweaty, right down to his underpants. He pulled off his tie and started to unbutton his shirt as he walked up the stairs, but stopped in mid-movement when he reached the bedroom. Katharina was lying on the bed. That was the first thing he noticed. Then he realised three things in quick succession.
She was lying on her stomach.
She was tied up.
She was dead.
The subway train shuddered as it braked. The mother with the buggy in front of Sebastian Bergman clutched the steel pole a little more tightly and looked around nervously. She had been on tenterhooks ever since she’d got on at St Eriksplan, and in spite of the fact that her grizzling little boy had fallen asleep after only a couple of stops, she seemed unable to relax. It was evident that she didn’t like being in such close proximity to so many strangers. Sebastian could see a number of signs. Constantly moving her feet in order to avoid physical contact with anyone. The slightly moist upper lip. The alert expression, the eyes moving all the time. Sebastian had tried a reassuring smile, but she quickly looked away and continued to scan her surroundings.
Sebastian glanced around the crowded carriage, which had once again stopped with a metallic hiss in the tunnel just beyond Hötorget. After a few moments standing motionless in the darkness, the train slowly began to move and crawled into T-Centralen, the main station in the middle of Stockholm. He didn’t usually travel on the subway, and he never used it during the rush hour or the tourist season. It was too uncomfortable, too chaotic. He just couldn’t get used to humanity en masse, with all its noises and odours. He preferred to walk or take a taxi. Keep his distance from people. Stay on the outside. That was his normal practice. But nothing was normal anymore.
Nothing.
Sebastian leaned against the door at the end of the carriage and peered into the one next door. He could see her through the little pane of glass. The blonde hair, the bent head, reading a newspaper. He realised that he was smiling to himself as he gazed at her.
As always she changed trains at T-Centralen, walking quickly down the stone staircase to the red line. It was easy for him to follow her. As long as he kept his distance, he was hidden by the stream of travellers and by the tourists studying their maps.
When the train pulled in at Gärdet station twelve minutes later, Sebastian waited a few moments before stepping out of the carriage. He had to be more careful here. There were fewer people moving around on the platform; the majority of the passengers had disembarked at the previous station. Sebastian had chosen the carriage in front of her so that she had her back to him when she got off. She was moving fast, and was already halfway to the escalators when he caught sight of her. Gärdet had clearly been the destination of the woman with the buggy, too, and Sebastian chose to remain behind her just in case the person he was following should turn around for any reason. The woman pushed her buggy along at a steady pace behind the people hurrying towards the escalators, presumably in the hope of avoiding a crush up ahead.
As he walked along behind her, Sebastian realised how alike they were. Two people who always found it necessary to keep their distance.
A woman.
Dead.
In her own home.
Under normal circumstances there would be no need to call in the National CID murder squad, known as Riksmord, and Torkel Höglund’s team.
In most cases it was the tragic result of a family quarrel, a custody dispute, a jealous rage, a boozy evening in what turned out to be the wrong company.
Anyone who worked within the police service knew that when a woman was murdered in her own home, the perpetrator was usually to be found among those closest to her, so it was hardly surprising that when she took the emergency call just after seven thirty Stina Kaupin toyed with the idea that she was speaking to the murderer.
‘Emergency, how can I help?’
‘My wife is dead.’
It was difficult to make out the rest of what the man said. His voice was thick with grief and shock. For long periods the silence was so intense that Stina thought he had hung up. Then she heard him trying to get his breathing under control. It was a struggle to get an address out of him; the man just kept repeating that his wife was dead, and that there was a lot of blood. Blood everywhere. Could they come? Please? In her mind’s eye Stina could see a middle-aged man with his hands covered in blood, slowly but surely realising what he had done. Eventually she managed to get an address in Tumba. She asked the caller – and probably murderer – to stay where he was, and not to touch anything in the house. She would send the police and an ambulance to the scene of the crime. She rang off and passed on the message to the Södertörn police in Huddinge, who in turn dispatched a patrol car.
Erik Lindman and Fabian Holst were just finishing off a rather late fast-food dinner when they got the call telling them to head over to Tolléns väg 19.
Ten minutes later they were there. They got out of the patrol car and looked over at the house. Neither of the officers was particularly interested in gardening, but they both realised that someone had spent a considerable amount of time and money creating the idyllic splendour surrounding the yellow wooden house.
When they were halfway up the path, the front door opened. Both men reached instinctively for the holster on their right hip. A man was standing in the doorway, his shirt open, gazing at the uniformed officers with an almost blank expression in his eyes.
‘There’s no need for an ambulance.’
Lindman and Holst exchanged a quick glance. The man in the doorway was obviously in shock. Those in shock acted according to their own rules. They were unpredictable. Illogical. Lindman carried on up the path, while Holst slowed down and kept his hand close to his gun.
‘Richard Granlund?’ Lindman asked as he took the last few steps towards the man, whose gaze was fixed on a point somewhere beyond him.
‘There’s no need for an ambulance,’ the man repeated. ‘The woman I spoke to said she was going to send an ambulance. There’s no need. I forgot to tell her …’
Lindman had reached the man. He took him gently by the arm. The physical contact made the man in the doorway give a start and turn to face him. He looked at Lindman with surprise, as if he were seeing the police officer for the first time and wondered how he could have got so close.
No blood on his hands or his clothes, Lindman noticed.
‘Richard Granlund?’
The man nodded. ‘I got home and she was lying there …’
‘Home from where?’
‘What?’
‘Home from where? Where had you been?’ Perhaps this wasn’t the best time to question a man who was so obviously in a state of shock, but information obtained during initial contact could be compared with what was said during an interview at a later stage.
‘Germany. A business trip. My plane was delayed. Or rather, it was cancelled first of all, then it was delayed, and then I was even later because my luggage …’
The man fell silent. A thought or a realisation seemed to have struck him. He looked at Lindman with a clarity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
‘Could I have saved her? If I’d been on time, would she still have been alive then?’
All those ‘what-ifs’ were natural when someone died; Lindman had heard them many times. In several cases in which he had been involved, people had died because they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were crossing the road at the exact moment when a drunken driver came careering along. They were sleeping in the caravan on the very night when the bottled gas started leaking. They were walking over the railway line just as a train came by. Falling power lines, violent men who were high on something or other, cars
on the wrong side of the road. Chance, coincidence. Forgotten keys could delay a person for precisely those few seconds that meant he or she wasn’t going to make it across an unmanned level crossing. A cancelled flight could leave a man’s wife alone for long enough to give a murderer the opportunity to strike. All those ‘what-ifs’.
Perfectly normal when someone died.
Impossible to answer.
‘Where is your wife, Richard?’ Lindman asked instead, keeping his voice calm and steady.
The man in the doorway seemed to ponder the question. He was forced to switch from the experiences of his journey home and the possible guilt he had suddenly become aware of to the present moment. To the terrible thing that had happened.
The thing he had been unable to prevent.
Eventually he found his way.
‘Upstairs.’ Richard gestured towards the interior of the house and began to cry. Lindman nodded to his colleague to go upstairs, while he followed the weeping man inside. You could never be sure, you could never make that judgement, but Lindman had the distinct feeling that he wasn’t escorting a murderer into the kitchen, his arm around Granlund’s shoulders.
At the bottom of the stairs Holst drew his service weapon and held it against his leg. If the crushed man his colleague was taking care of was not the murderer, then there was just a chance that he or she might still be in the house. At the top of the stairs he came to a small area equipped with a two-seater sofa, TV and Blu-ray. Dormer window. Shelves along the walls, containing books and films. Four doors. Two open, two closed. From the top of the stairs Holst could see the dead woman’s legs in the bedroom. On the bed. Which meant that Riksmord would have to be informed, he thought as he quickly went into the second room with an open door: a study. Empty. The two closed doors led to a bathroom and a dressing room. Both empty. Holst put away his gun and approached the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway.
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