‘Truthfully.’
‘I promise.’
Hinde held out his right hand to show that they had an agreement. A handshake. All that was necessary between men.
They shook hands, then Edward shuffled back on the bed, leaned against the wall and drew his feet up onto the mattress. Relaxed. Friendly. Play down the situation. He studied Haraldsson between his bent knees. What should he begin with? He needed to get an idea of how keen the man on the desk chair was.
‘Have you got a photograph of your wife?’
‘Ye-es …?’ Hesitation in his response.
‘Can I have it?’
‘What?’ Haraldsson asked, looking slightly bewildered. ‘Just to look at, or do you want to keep it?’
‘Keep it.’
Haraldsson hesitated. This didn’t feel good. Not good at all. This wasn’t what he had thought Hinde would ask for. A longer spell in the exercise yard. Better food. Greater freedom on the computer. A beer, perhaps. Things that would improve and enhance his time in Lövhaga. Not this. What would Hinde want with a photo of his wife? According to the reports he was sexually inactive, so the idea of him masturbating over a photo of Jenny seemed unlikely.
‘What do you want it for?’
‘Is that the question you want to ask?’
‘No …’
Haraldsson was beginning to feel stressed. Should he put a stop to this right now? Could he?
It was only a picture.
Riksmord were convinced that the man on the bed was involved in four murders. If Haraldsson played his cards right, he could virtually solve the case himself. Hinde was stuck in Lövhaga. There was nothing he could do. Haraldsson didn’t even need to inform Riksmord. He could go higher up, straight to the top with his information. Keep all the glory for himself. Solve the case while others were at a loss.
It was only a picture.
He took his wallet out of his back pocket and opened it. Behind clear plastic on one side was a picture of Jenny, taken in a hotel room in Copenhagen about eighteen months ago. You couldn’t see much of the room, the picture had been trimmed to fit in the wallet, but Jenny was radiant. So happy. Haraldsson loved that picture. It captured exactly who Jenny was. But it was still on his memory card; he could print off another copy.
It was only a picture.
And yet he couldn’t quite shake off the feeling that he was making a big mistake as he placed the photograph in Hinde’s outstretched hand.
‘Are you involved in the recent murders of four women?’ Haraldsson asked as soon as the picture had a new owner.
‘Define involved,’ Hinde replied, glancing at the photograph in his hand. Just over thirty. Slim. Smiling. Brunette. He could absorb all the details later. He put the photo down on the book on his bedside table.
‘Do you know about them?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Hinde shook his head and leaned back against the wall once more. ‘That’s question number two, Thomas. But just to show you how much I appreciate the fact that you’ve come to see me, I will answer the question without asking for anything in return.’ He met Haraldsson’s eyes. Saw anticipation, hope. He was keen, there was no doubt about that. ‘Riksmord told me about the murders,’ he said eventually.
‘But before that?’ Haraldsson went on eagerly. ‘Did you know anything about them before that?’
‘The answer to that question will cost you.’
‘Cost me what?’
‘Let me think about that. Come back tomorrow.’ Hinde lay down and reached for his book. The photograph of Jenny slid down onto the table as if he had forgotten it was there. Haraldsson realised the conversation was over. He wasn’t satisfied, but it was a start. It could definitely lead somewhere. He got up, went over to the door and left the cell.
On the way back to his office, Haraldsson made two decisions.
First, he wasn’t going to tell Jenny that he had given a photograph of her to Edward Hinde. He couldn’t quite work out how he would explain it. He would print off a new copy as soon as possible and replace the old one.
Second, he decided to regard today as a success. He had been faced with difficult choices, but had made the right decision. Taken a step in the right direction.
‘That went well,’ he said to himself out loud in the empty corridor. He thought it sounded a little bit as if he were making too much of an effort to convince himself, so he cleared his throat and said it again.
Louder.
More firmly.
‘That went really well.’
In his cell, Edward Hinde was lying on his bed, studying the photograph of Jenny Haraldsson and thinking exactly the same thing.
Vanja was driving too fast. As usual. She felt full of impatient energy. She would go out for a run when she got home. It would be light for a few more hours yet, and it was already a little cooler.
She didn’t really want to go running.
She really wanted to work. Make some progress. Get somewhere. A month after the first murder, and they were still fumbling in the dark. Hinde was involved, but how? The victims were linked to Sebastian, but why? Revenge, of course. But what if Sebastian had never become a part of this investigation? After all, it had been by no means certain that he would ever work with Riksmord again. In that case they might never have made the connection, found the link between the victims. It wouldn’t be much of a revenge if the focus of that revenge never even noticed. Or had Hinde been counting on Sebastian’s involvement, sooner or later? Was that why it was so important that the murders were exact copies? That they screamed out Edward Hinde? So that Riksmord would be forced to consult Sebastian, and he would then understand the connection?
And now that Sebastian was an active part of the investigation and had grasped the personal implications, did that mean the murders would stop?
So many questions.
No answers.
Vanja put her foot down. The needle on the speedometer touched a hundred and forty. She wanted to put the wasted hours in Södertälje behind her as quickly as possible. But were they wasted, or was she the one who had wasted them? She couldn’t shake off the feeling that she had allowed her disappointment and impatience to affect her work.
She switched her phone to hands-free and made a call.
Billy was standing in the kitchen chopping broccoli, peppers and onions when the phone rang. Maya was frying chicken on one hotplate while toasting cashew nuts over a low heat on another. The chicken was supposed to be cooked in a wok, but Billy didn’t own a wok. He had been given the frying pan for Christmas by his parents many years ago. He had used it more since midsummer than he had ever used it before. Maya liked them to cook together.
‘Hi, Billy speaking,’ he said, jamming the phone between his chin and shoulder as he carried on chopping.
‘Hi, where are you?’ Vanja was calling from the car; Billy had to strain to hear her voice over the noise. Her hands-free and his awkward grip on the phone didn’t exactly help.
‘At home. Where are you?’
‘On the way back from Södertälje. Rodriguez is in a wheelchair as a result of a car accident, so it can’t be him.’
‘Hang on, let me put you on speakerphone.’ He mouthed ‘Vanja’ at Maya as he pressed the appropriate key and put the phone down on the worktop. She nodded as if she had already worked that out. ‘Okay, I can hear you again.’
‘What’s that hissing noise?’
‘The frying pan, I expect.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Cooking.’
‘Really? You’re cooking?’
‘Yes.’
There was silence at the other end of the line. Billy could understand Vanja’s surprise. He was a major consumer of fast food and ready meals; 7-Eleven and a range of frozen-food counters kept him alive. It wasn’t that he couldn’t cook, he just wasn’t interested, and thought that the time it took to prepare a meal from scratch could be put to much better use. However, his tot
al indifference wasn’t something he wanted to go into while Maya was listening. He had a vague memory of listing cooking as one of his hobbies early on the morning of midsummer’s day.
‘What was it you wanted?’ Billy pushed the vegetables to one side with his knife and glanced at Maya, who was listening to the conversation with interest. He started to finely chop a red chilli.
‘I wondered if you could find out when the accident was? The one that put Rodriguez in a wheelchair.’
‘Didn’t he know?’
‘I didn’t ask him. I was so furious that the local police hadn’t mentioned it, I just walked away. But of course he could still have something to do with the theft of the Ford, couldn’t he? He lives very close by.’
Billy stopped chopping. She was ringing to ask him to look something up. A simple task that everyone, anyone, could do. From the corner of his eye he saw Maya shaking her head. Billy put down the knife and leaned closer to the phone.
‘Hang on, have I got this right? You forgot to ask when the accident was, so you want me to check it out?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m at home.’
‘I don’t mean now – you can do it tomorrow.’
‘Why can’t you do it tomorrow?’
Silence once more. Billy knew why. Vanja wasn’t used to being contradicted or questioned. At least not by him. Well, there was always a first time, he thought; she might as well get used to it.
‘You’re better at finding that kind of thing than I am. It’ll be quicker if you do it,’ Vanja said; Billy thought he could detect a hint of annoyance in her voice.
What she said was certainly true, but it wasn’t enough of an argument. For far too long he had accepted the role of some kind of administrative right-hand man within the team. But not anymore.
‘I’ll show you how to do it.’
‘I know how to do it.’
‘Well, you do it then.’ Billy glanced at Maya, who responded with an encouraging smile.
‘Okay … fine,’ he heard Vanja say tersely. Then there was another silence, and after a second the sound of the car disappeared as well. Vanja had ended the call. Billy picked up the phone and slipped it into his pocket. Maya came over and squeezed his arm.
‘How did that feel?’
‘Good.’ Billy paused for a moment, and decided to be straight with her. ‘And a little bit petty, if I’m honest. I could do it in no time.’
‘But she knows what to do?’
‘Yes, but the thing is, now she’s mad at me for something insignificant.’
Maya squeezed between the worktop and Billy and wound her arms around his neck. She looked deep into his eyes. ‘The next time she asks you to do something, you can do it. It’s not about refusing to help one another, it’s about Vanja not taking you for granted.’
She gave him a soft kiss and stroked his cheek before returning to her pans.
Ursula was sitting at her desk. She was trying to work, but it was impossible to concentrate. Her mind kept taking her back. Not to the conversation in the dining room, but further back.
To the past.
To the two of them.
They had first met in the early autumn of 1992. Sebastian Bergman, the profiler who had trained in the USA, was due to give a lecture at the University of Gothenburg on signature behaviour and what crime scenes can reveal about serial killers. Ursula was working at the national forensics laboratory in Linköping, and had applied to attend the lecture as part of her ongoing professional development. It had been interesting and informative. Sebastian had been in his element – charming, knowledgeable, spontaneous – and the audience had listened attentively, keen to know more. Ursula sat right at the front and asked several questions.
They had had sex in his hotel room afterwards. She wasn’t expecting it to turn into anything more than that. Their professional world was quite small, and she had heard the rumours about Sebastian. So she went back to Linköping. To Micke and Bella, who had just started school. Micke took care of all the preparations for school, and was home early in the afternoon so that their daughter wouldn’t have to spend too long in day care. Ursula worked. As usual. Life went on. As usual.
Micke hadn’t had a drink for over a year. He had his own company, and worked as much as he wanted to. They had a house in a good area, they were comfortable financially, Bella was happy at school, Ursula had a stimulating career, Micke was sober. A middle-class, suburban existence. A good life. As good as it got, she presumed.
Then one day when she was on her way home, someone shouted to her in the car park. It was him. Sebastian Bergman. She asked what he was doing there.
Meeting her.
Hopefully.
She was pleased to see him. Pleased that he had come to her. More pleased than she wanted to admit. She rang Micke and told him she had to work late. They went to a motel. They were in Linköping, anyone could come along, someone might see them and recognise them. Ursula didn’t care.
Sebastian’s lecture tour was over. He was due to start back at the university later in the term, but at the moment he was free. He might as well spend the time in Linköping. If she wanted him to.
For almost two months they had seen each other as often as possible. Sometimes at lunchtime, sometimes before she started work in the morning. Usually in the evening and at night. He was always available. Always keen. She was the one who decided where, how often and how long. It suited her perfectly.
In December she had suggested to Micke that they should move to Stockholm. She wanted to apply for a post with Riksmord. She had been thinking of changing jobs for a while, she was tired of working at the lab. Tired of not being an active part of the hunt; she missed the adrenaline, being there at the conclusion of a case, the capture. Riksmord had just appointed a new boss, Torkel Höglund, a man about whom she had heard a lot of positive reports. It was time to do something new, take that step.
It wasn’t only because of Sebastian. The fact that they would end up working in the same place if she did get a job with Riksmord was a bonus. A welcome bonus, but that wasn’t the reason why she wanted to move. She wasn’t some little schoolgirl who fell head over heels in love and let her feelings dictate her actions. She knew perfectly well that it could end at any time. But the close proximity and the fact that they would see each other every day might also mean that it turned into something more, something deeper. For the first time she felt that she was capable of a different kind of relationship. A relationship where she would be able to relax, where she would no longer need to keep her distance, as she had always done in the past.
From Micke.
From Bella.
From everyone.
Besides which, her sister lived in Mälarhöjden, and her parents in Norrtälje. Perfect if they needed someone to look after Bella for a weekend. There was every reason to go, and no reason to stay.
Micke didn’t agree.
His company was well established in Linköping, and his client base was in the west of Sweden. What was he supposed to do in Stockholm? Start all over again? And what about Bella? She’d been at school for a term, made new friends, kept her old friends, and she loved her teacher. Was it right to tear her away from such a secure environment? Ursula maintained that children make new friends wherever they go, and that of course Micke could run the company from Stockholm; it would just mean a few more business trips, a few more nights away from the family. But all the time she was trying to persuade him, there was one thought in the back of her mind: it wouldn’t be a disaster if Micke and Bella didn’t come with her. It would give her peace and quiet to explore what was happening. Whether it was time for a permanent change.
She was in luck. Micke came up with the idea that she should move on her own, and that they should live apart – for a while at least. He didn’t want to stand in the way of her career, and if other people coped with commuting at weekends, surely they could do it too?
Ursula protested dutifully, but not for very long. She
talked to Bella, promised to come home as often as possible. Bella was upset, of course. It was a big adjustment, a bit like a divorce, but Ursula was certain that she would have been much more distressed if it had been Micke who was leaving. In Bella’s world, the right parent was staying.
Ursula got the job and moved. She found a two-room apartment in Södermalm, but spent as much time at Sebastian’s place as at her own, if not more. At work they were totally professional; no one would have suspected that they were anything more than colleagues. Outside work it was beginning to feel as if they were becoming more and more established together. They did things that two work colleagues might well do; they went to the theatre, to the cinema, to restaurants, but they also started spending time with Ursula’s sister and her husband. The four of them would have dinner together. Ursula still went back to Linköping almost every weekend, but it felt more and more as if she was leaving something behind rather than going to something. It didn’t feel as if she was going home. The relationship with Sebastian meant much more to her than it did to him, she was certain of it. Sometimes it frightened her how much it meant. In the spring she finally dared to put it into words in her own mind.
She was in love.
For the first time in her life.
Ursula got up from her desk. She was getting nothing done, and sitting there thinking about events that had happened almost twenty years ago was pointless. Time to go. Home, perhaps. Away from here, at any rate. Roland Johansson and José Rodriguez had both been eliminated as possible perpetrators. The prints and the sperm found at the crime scenes came from someone else. That didn’t necessarily mean that the two men weren’t involved in some other way – the car that had been used to follow Sebastian had been stolen just a few hundred metres from where Rodriguez lived, after all – but a decision on whether to pursue this angle, and if so how, could be left until tomorrow. Ursula passed Torkel’s office on the way to the lift, and looked in. Empty. A pang of disappointment. Not that she knew what she would have done if he’d been there, but it would have been nice to round off the day sitting on his sofa, perhaps deciding to have dinner together. She was hungry. Her meal had been interrupted. By the man who was standing further down the corridor, apparently waiting for her. Ursula walked past him without so much as a glance.
The Man Who Watched Women Page 23
