Focused.
Composed.
Turned in on himself.
As soon as he heard the first rumours about Ralph spreading through the unit, he had got to work. He had made it known in the vicinity of one of the guards that he wasn’t feeling well, and was therefore going back to his cell for a rest. Once he was there he closed the door firmly behind him, slid under the bed and immediately began to unscrew the cover of the air vent. He worked quickly, well aware that this was the weakest point in his plan. It was highly unlikely that one of his fellow inmates would walk in uninvited, but if they did, it would be a distraction, nothing more. If a guard opened the door, though, that would be the end of it. The stress of the situation helped him. He had never before removed the cover in such a short time. He reached in and took out the fork he had stolen from the canteen yesterday, along with the jar he had got from Thomas Haraldsson.
Seven hundred and fifty grams of pickled beetroot.
Hinde replaced the cover, but didn’t screw it in place. He got up, tucked the fork into his sock and slipped the jar of beetroot under his top. This was the next risky enterprise. Even if he kept his hands cupped around his stomach as if he was in pain, a watchful eye might spot the jar. But he had to go for it. Stooping slightly, he left the cell and hurried towards the toilets.
Hands around his stomach. Rapid, shuffling steps. A man in dire straits.
Once inside a toilet cubicle he took out the jar and placed it on the edge of the washbasin. He pulled out a thick bundle of paper towels from the dispenser and spread them out on the lid of the toilet. Then he opened the jar, fished out several slices with the fork and let them drain off before laying them on the paper towels and beginning to mash them thoroughly. When there was nothing left but mush, he scooped it up with the fork and shovelled it into his mouth. Then he repeated the process until the jar was empty. It got quite difficult towards the end. Seven hundred and fifty grams of beetroot was more than he had thought. Before he left the toilet he picked up the jar and gulped down the remaining liquid. Then he rinsed the jar, tucked it under his top once more, slid the fork inside his sock and went back to his cell. He didn’t bother hiding the jar this time, but simply placed it behind the desk. He sat down on the bed, drew his legs up beneath him and closed his eyes.
Planning. Patience. Determination.
He had now been sitting on the bed for about an hour. Roland Johansson should have completed his task in Västerås. Ready for the next job. High time for phase two.
Slowly and deliberately Hinde straightened his legs and stood up, only to slide under the bed once more and remove the bottle he had been given by Haraldsson.
Ipecac.
Two hundred and fifty millilitres.
He unscrewed the cap and knocked back the contents of the bottle in two gulps. It didn’t taste good. But that didn’t matter; he wouldn’t be keeping it down for long. Before he left the cell he decided to hide the empty bottle and the beetroot jar in the air vent after all. It would be stupid to fail just because he had been lazy and careless. However, he could feel that he wouldn’t have time to screw the cover back in place. His stomach was gurgling. He went out into the dayroom, still with his hands cupped in front of him. His jaws were tightly clenched and he could feel that he had actually started sweating. He stopped in the middle of the room.
Showtime!
When he felt the first indications that his stomach was beginning to cramp, he collapsed. Screaming. Everyone else in the room stopped dead, staring at him. Hinde clutched his stomach and writhed around on the floor. He took a breath so that he could scream again, but before he could make a sound the contents of his stomach came up in a violent cascade of vomit. The inmates standing closest to him jumped aside in disgust. The guards who had begun to move towards him when he collapsed stopped dead, unsure of what to do. It was a well-known fact that the security staff knew very little about physical complaints. Hinde was counting on it, and those who were on duty today didn’t disappoint him. They hadn’t a clue what to do. Just as he had planned. He heaved again. Through tear-filled eyes Hinde saw to his immense satisfaction that what he had produced this time was thick and almost black in colour. The right consistency, the right colour. The beetroot had had time to react with his stomach acid, and most of the red colouring had disappeared. Unless you smelled it at really close quarters, it would be impossible to distinguish from internal bleeding. Hinde calculated that no one would want to stick their nose into the substance he now brought up for the third time, with slightly less violence than before. One of the guards was speaking into his two-way radio, summoning help, while the other seemed to be wondering how to get to Hinde without stepping in the contents of his guts. The cramps began to ease. Hinde breathed in through his nose and swallowed some of the vomit that had got stuck there. It tasted of beetroot and ipecac. He bent double and screamed with pain one more time, before switching tactics; he started rolling from side to side, whimpering helplessly. One of the guards came over, crouched down and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. Hinde coughed, struggling with what appeared to be severe pain.
‘Help me,’ he snivelled feebly. ‘Please, help me.’
‘We will,’ said the guard.
Little did he know how right he was.
Haraldsson had got home in record time. Broken every speed limit and traffic regulation you could think of. His anxiety grew, pushing him on. He screeched to a halt in the drive, switched off the engine and leapt out.
The spa had been in touch. A different woman from the one he had spoken to earlier. Jenny Haraldsson hadn’t turned up. Did he know if she had just been delayed, or …? He told the truth; he didn’t think she would be coming. The woman informed him apologetically that he would be liable for seventy-five per cent of the fee, since it was such a late cancellation. He didn’t care. An unnecessary expense was the least of his problems. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside.
‘Jenny!’
Silence. Without taking off his shoes he moved through the hallway.
‘Jenny! Are you here?’
The same silence. He walked quickly through the living room, into the kitchen, glanced in the combined guest room and sewing room. Yanked open the door of the utility room and toilet.
Empty.
Silent.
He went back into the hallway and up the stairs. A few steps from the top he paused. Strange, how the brain worked. He hadn’t been thinking about anything at all. The fear had pushed everything else aside. But now he suddenly remembered. Hinde and the four murders in the nineties. All exactly the same. The copycat, Ralph Svensson. ‘The Summer Psycho’. Four women this time too. He had read about them. The MO identical.
Tied up. Raped. With their throats cut.
At home.
In their bedrooms.
Haraldsson looked up. At the bedroom. His and Jenny’s bedroom. Where they had had breakfast and made love this morning. The door was closed. It wasn’t usually closed. Why would they close it when no one was home? A small sound broke the silence, and Haraldsson realised it had come from him. A little whimper of pain. And fear. He had to force himself to carry on up the stairs. Step by step. When he reached the top he grabbed hold of the last part of the banister to stop himself from falling backwards. He couldn’t take his eyes off that closed door. Couldn’t get it out of his mind. Particularly now, at the height of summer, it would be far too hot to sleep in there at night if the door had been closed all day. She hadn’t closed it. Why would she have closed it? He took a deep breath and let the air filter out slowly between tight lips before he was able to move forward. He jumped when he heard Abba. His mobile. He grabbed it without looking at the display.
‘Haraldsson.’
He hoped it would be her. That he would hear her voice telling him that everything was fine, there had just been a silly misunderstanding.
‘It’s Victor Bäckman,’ he heard on the other end of the line. Not her. Everything wasn’t fine. The disappointment swept over
him, and he had to use all his strength to stay on his feet. He couldn’t speak, but there was no need. Victor carried straight on. ‘Edward Hinde has collapsed in the dayroom; he brought up a lot of blood.’
‘What?’
‘He seems to be in a really bad way. We can’t take care of him here. Something to do with his stomach, I think.’
‘Okay …’ Haraldsson heard what Victor was saying, but couldn’t really understand why he was being told this right now. He was still finding it difficult to process the information.
‘The ambulance will be here shortly, that’s why I’m calling you. You need to approve a transfer to the hospital.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes. Shall we transfer him?’
As if from nowhere, another thought came into his head.
An image.
A memory.
Hinde is sitting on the bed in his cell. Haraldsson is standing in the doorway. Gooseflesh on his forearms. Hinde’s quiet voice.
‘Say yes.’
‘To what?’
‘You will understand when and to what. Just say yes.’
‘Are you still there?’ Victor asked in his ear.
‘What? Yes.’
‘Do we transfer him? Yes or no?’
‘Just say yes.’
Haraldsson tried to grasp the significance of what he had just heard, the connection he had just made. Hinde had known he was going to be ill. Had known that this conversation was going to take place. That this question would be asked. He must have done. But how? Was he just faking – or did it have something to do with the things Haraldsson had given him? Beetroot and a bottle from the chemist’s. Some kind of South American name, that’s what it sounded like. Icacaca … something. Why an illness, genuine or otherwise? Because he wanted to be moved. Get out. Escape. Should he warn Victor? Tell him about his suspicions?
‘Just say yes.’
There was no scope there for a warning, an attempt to prevent something from happening. It was a simple exhortation to say one word. Give his consent. Obey orders. He tried, but he just couldn’t get his head around the consequences. Couldn’t weigh up the pros and cons. Everything was chaos. The bedroom door was closed. He took the last few steps. He had to know.
‘Thomas? Are you there?’
Haraldsson placed his hand on the door handle. Took a deep breath. Closed his eyes. Prayed to a God he didn’t even believe in. With a brief exhalation he pushed open the door. Quickly, like ripping off a plaster. Prepared for the worst, but at the same time not prepared at all.
The room was empty.
Jenny was still only missing.
‘Yes,’ he said. It sounded like a dry croak.
‘What did you say?’ Victor asked.
Haraldsson cleared his throat. ‘Yes,’ he repeated in a firmer tone of voice. ‘Transfer him.’
‘Okay. Where are you? Are you coming back later?’
Haraldsson ended the call. Put the phone back in his pocket. Stood in the doorway of his empty bedroom and began to weep.
Before Ursula finished for the day she felt she had to check with SKL, the national forensics lab in Linköping, that the two sterile packages containing DNA samples from the apartment had actually arrived. They had gone by special courier some hours ago, and the plan was that Torkel should be able to make use of a preliminary report when questioning Svensson the following day. She managed to get hold of the chief forensic pathologist, Walter Steen, who reassured her. Everything was looking good, SKL had started work already, and he would personally ensure that they delivered the necessary information the following day. That was enough for Ursula; she had known Steen for some time, and he was a man of his word. Satisfied, she left Ralph Svensson’s stuffy apartment. The relief shift had just arrived, and she had a brief word with the two new officers in the stairwell, emphasising that no one but her was to be allowed access, at least not without her permission. She left them her home and mobile numbers to be on the safe side, and went down the stairs. It had been an incredibly intense day, and she felt weary in both body and soul. She stopped outside the main door and enjoyed the summery smell of warm grass for a while. In spite of the tiredness she was content. The apartment had turned out to be a veritable treasure chest, and she had found herself having to prioritise rather than engage in a thorough search. She still had many hours of work left, but she was convinced that they had already secured sufficient evidence to ensure that Ralph Svensson would be convicted of all four murders, with or without a confession. That was her real aim: to find evidence so strong that the suspect’s own account no longer weighed so heavily. That was when she knew she had done a good job – when the truth became objective and measurable.
She set off towards her car, tentatively wondering whether to call Torkel. He and Vanja had called in after the press conference. They must have bumped into Sebastian outside, because the first thing Torkel had said was that Sebastian was off the case from now on. Vanja in particular seemed relieved. She was bubbling with energy, and spat out a few brief, brutal remarks about the impossible man she disliked so much. Ursula herself felt sad more than anything. Not because she thought Sebastian had brought anything to the table this time, but she remembered him from the old days, when he had possessed an amazing, innate power. The man who had left Ralph Svensson’s apartment with his shoulders hunched was not the same man. Nobody should have to fall so far. So hard. Not even Sebastian Bergman. So she could never share Vanja’s joy.
Before he left, Torkel had lingered in the hallway for a moment. She recognised the glow in his eyes from similar occasions when they were out on a job. It always appeared when they made a major breakthrough in an investigation; it was as if they could somehow hold on to the moment by being together.
But she wasn’t going to let it happen this time. It didn’t feel right, somehow. In some strange way, it was a completely different matter when they were in another town. It wasn’t as serious. Admittedly it was more tempting now, but it was also slightly sordid. And then there was Mikael.
She got in the car and headed into the city without really knowing where she was going. Perhaps the compromise would be to go into work, but she didn’t really want to do that. She decided to go home.
Mikael was there. He was sitting on the sofa when she walked in.
‘You look tired,’ she commented.
He nodded in response and got up. ‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
He went into the kitchen and switched on the coffee machine while Ursula sat down by the open window. It was blissfully quiet outside, and she enjoyed hearing him bustling about in the other room. She had made the right decision. Rules were rules, and just because you’d broken them once, that didn’t mean you had to do it again. She had to admit that there was something about Mikael that calmed her. He might not be the most passionate person in the world, but he always had time for her. That was worth a great deal.
‘I heard on the radio that you’d arrested someone,’ he called from the kitchen.
‘Yes, I’ve spent the whole afternoon in the suspect’s apartment.’
‘Did you find anything?’
‘Loads. He’s guilty.’
‘Good.’
Mikael came back into the living room.
‘Come and sit down,’ she said, patting the seat next to her on the sofa, but he shook his head.
‘Not right now. We need to talk.’
She was taken aback. Sat up straight and looked at him. Mikael didn’t often want to talk, or expect her to listen.
‘Has something happened to Bella?’
‘This has nothing to do with Bella. This is about us.’
She stiffened. His voice was different, somehow. As if he had practised what he was going to say. As if he had been preparing for this for a long time.
‘I’ve met someone, and I want to be honest with you.’
At first she didn’t understand what he was saying. Eventually she had to ask, even though she suspecte
d she knew the answer already. ‘I don’t really understand; are you saying you’ve met someone else?’
‘Yes. But we’re not seeing each other at the moment. I didn’t think it was fair on her. Or you.’
She looked at him in shock. ‘You’ve been with someone else and now it’s over?’
‘I haven’t been with someone else. We’ve seen each other a few times, and now I’ve put things on hold. For the time being. I wanted to talk to you first.’
She sat there, lost for words. She had no idea what to do next. Anger would have been the simplest option. Clean and cutting. But she couldn’t find it. She couldn’t actually find anything.
‘Ursula, I really have tried lately, with the trip to Paris and everything. But I haven’t got the strength anymore. I’m sorry. It’s my fault.’
His fault.
If only it were that simple.
The ambulance from Uppsala turned into Lövhaga precisely eighteen minutes after the call to the emergency services. Fatima Olsson jumped out and went round the back to get the trolley. She was glad they had arrived. On the way to the hospital she would travel in the back with the patient, which meant she could avoid sitting next to Kenneth Hammarén. She didn’t like him. For the simple reason that he didn’t like her. She didn’t know why. Maybe it was because she was born in Iraq, or because she was better qualified – she was an intensive care nurse, he was a paramedic – and therefore better paid, or because she was a woman. It could be a combination of all three, or there might be some other reason altogether. She hadn’t asked. She had been with him for two weeks now, and she intended to speak to her boss as soon as she got the chance, and to ask if she could work with someone else in future. He was reasonably good at his job, but he was bad-tempered and always negative towards her. Took every opportunity to have a go, to correct her or to criticise what she was doing. It only happened with her. She had seen him with others, and his attitude had been completely different. It was definitely her. He just didn’t like her.
The Man Who Watched Women Page 43
