‘Well done, Simon,’ he said. ‘I said you could do this.’
‘Mum explains it much better than you,’ said Simon.
‘I know,’ said Sjöberg. ‘It’s her job.’
Åsa got a kiss on the mouth.
‘Are you leaving?’ she asked.
‘The girlfriend called. She doesn’t know what happened, so we’ll have to see her now. Jens is on his way here.’
‘I see. Jens, who works part-time and is avoiding stress?’ Åsa said sarcastically.
‘Hmm.’
‘Poor thing,’ said Åsa, tilting her head.
‘Jens or me?’
‘The Filipino woman. Will you be late?’
‘I don’t believe so,’ said Sjöberg, leaving them with a hint of a wave.
* * *
Vida Johansson was a very beautiful woman in her thirties and lived in a two-room apartment with her husband, who was watching TV when the two police officers showed up. He seemed to have just showered; his hair was still damp and he smelled of perfumed soap when he got up to greet them. He appeared to be around the same age as his wife and was dressed in jeans and a checked shirt, which was unbuttoned all the way down to his navel, revealing a well-toned torso. Vida had long, shiny black hair, gathered in a thick braid. She too was dressed in jeans, with a chunky knitted jumper. She held her arms crossed over her chest and looked guarded.
‘Can we sit down somewhere?’ Sjöberg asked.
Vida nodded and looked around a little confused.
‘Should Göran stay or do you want to talk to just me?’ she asked.
‘It’s probably good if Göran is here too,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘Perhaps we can sit here?’ he suggested, sitting on the beige leather couch without waiting for an answer.
Göran reached for the remote control and turned off the TV, and sank back down on the chair. Sandén sat down beside Sjöberg on the couch and Vida perched on her husband’s footrest. She looked uncomfortable with the situation.
‘Something very unfortunate has happened,’ Sjöberg began.
Vida put her hands in front of her mouth and her eyes darted, terrified, back and forth between the two policemen. Göran raised his eyebrows in curiosity.
‘I’ve been told that you are a close friend of Catherine Larsson,’ said Sjöberg, and Vida nodded in agreement. ‘Do you know her too?’ he asked the man.
‘Sure, very well,’ answered Göran Johansson.
‘She was found dead in her apartment this morning,’ said Sjöberg.
‘Dead? No!’ Vida exclaimed. ‘She was my best friend!’
Göran looked at the policemen with alarm and pulled his wife to him. Sjöberg cleared his throat as if to brace himself and then recounted the circumstances as carefully as he was able. Göran Johansson looked at his wife, who was crying loudly, still with her hands in front of her mouth. He caressed her hair and held her tight to get her to stop shaking. When Sjöberg was finished, Vida sat motionless with her face buried into her husband’s chest. Göran Johansson had nothing to say either, and only looked imploringly from one policeman to the other. Sjöberg did not say anything for a while, letting the news sink in. He cast a resigned glance at Sandén, and finally took a deep breath.
‘We have to ask you a few questions,’ he said.
‘But we don’t know anything about this,’ said Göran Johansson.
‘And we know nothing about Catherine,’ Sjöberg retorted. ‘We need you to help us form a picture of her family life. How long have you known one another, Vida?’
Vida wriggled out of her husband’s grasp and looked at Sjöberg with clouded eyes.
‘Since 2002. We worked at the same cleaning company. We were pretty new in the country, both of us, but she had been here a few months longer than me, so she took care of me a little.’
‘Do you still work there?’
‘No, now I work in the office at Göran’s company.’
Sjöberg looked questioningly at Göran Johansson.
‘A couple of guys and I have a decorating company,’ he explained.
‘You’re not cleaning for cash in hand any longer, Vida?’ Sjöberg asked.
She stared at him in dismay without answering.
‘We’ll turn a blind eye to that sort of thing today, but you must understand we have to know the truth.’
‘I’ve stopped cleaning,’ she said quietly. ‘But Kate cleans. Cleaned. Cash in hand.’
‘Kate – is that Catherine?’
Vida nodded and ran the back of her hand under her nose.
‘Do you know who her customers were?’
‘I know a few of them. We helped each other sometimes when there was a lot to do, window-cleaning, moving furniture and so on.’
‘You’ll have to help us make a list of the customers you know about.’
‘Now?’
‘Now would be good.’
Sjöberg thought it might help to divert her thoughts for the moment. He flipped to the first clean page in his notepad and handed it to her along with his pen. She started writing.
‘Do you have any idea who might have done this? Anyone who had it in for Catherine?’
‘Had it in for her?’
‘Someone she didn’t get along with.’
‘Everyone liked Kate,’ said Vida.
Her husband nodded in agreement.
‘Tell us about her relationship with Christer Larsson,’ Sandén asked.
Vida Johansson and her husband exchanged glances.
‘He was a real wet blanket,’ said Göran at last.
‘Presumably Catherine didn’t think so, because she married him?’
‘Well, maybe that’s not always how it works.’
‘Kate liked him, she did,’ Vida interjected.
‘What do you mean, that isn’t the way it works?’ Sandén asked.
‘The Philippines is a poor country and many will do anything at all to get away from there,’ Göran explained. ‘Such as marrying a Westerner, for example.’
Both of the police officers involuntarily cast a glance at Vida, but chose not to probe deeper into the Johansson couple’s motives for having entered into marriage.
‘But Catherine and Christer Larsson liked each other?’ Sandén asked Vida instead.
‘In the beginning. Kate was never in love with him, I think, but in the beginning they liked each other. She really tried. But after a while he got strange.’
‘What do you mean, strange?’ asked Sjöberg.
‘In the beginning all four of us socialized,’ said Göran Johansson. ‘Not that Christer talked that much then either, but he was there and would laugh when you made a joke and so on. But he got more and more withdrawn and the last few times we met he sat completely silent and just stared out of the window.’
‘He reportedly suffers from depression,’ Sjöberg clarified.
‘Sure,’ said Göran Johansson. ‘Kate told us that. We tried to include him in the conversation, but, you know, finally you give up.’
Vida nodded in agreement.
‘Then he sat at home alone, didn’t want to see us any more,’ she continued. ‘Finally Kate and the children moved out.’
‘I don’t think we’ve seen Christer since Linn was a newborn,’ said Göran.
‘He’s probably not suited to being married,’ said Vida. ‘He wants to be alone. He was married before, but he got a divorce then too. Kate told us that she was the first woman he’d been with in twenty years.’
Sjöberg raised an eyebrow.
‘Was he ever threatening, aggressive?’ he asked.
‘We didn’t notice anything like that,’ Vida replied. ‘And Kate didn’t say anything. He didn’t seem to be that way.’
‘Not to the children either?’
‘He didn’t care that much about them. Kate had to take care of them herself.’
‘Did she seem unhappy?’
‘I think she was very homesick. But she probably felt that she couldn’t leave Sweden – fo
r the children’s sake.’
‘Did she ever go back to the Philippines to visit?’ Sandén asked.
‘No, it was too much money. Alone with two kids,’ Vida commented.
‘So she didn’t have much money?’
‘No, but she saved almost everything she earned. Only bought what was necessary.’
‘Where did she get the money for the apartment in Hammarbyhamnen?’ Sjöberg asked hopefully.
‘We’ve also wondered about that,’ said Göran Johansson, scratching his scalp with his index finger. ‘We couldn’t really figure that out. The apartments there are outrageously expensive.’
Vida seemed to have thought of another customer and wrote on the pad in front of her with rapid movements.
‘Did she prostitute herself?’ Sandén asked, straight to the point.
‘No, she didn’t,’ Vida said firmly, looking Sandén right in the eyes.
‘And you’re completely sure of that?’
‘Quite sure.’
She lowered her eyes back to the pad and jotted down another piece of information.
‘Did Kate meet a man who took care of her and the children financially?’ Sjöberg asked on a sudden impulse, turning towards Vida.
‘No, she –’ Göran began, but Sjöberg made a dismissive gesture at him and said in a commanding voice, ‘Vida?’
A tear dropped from her cheek on to Sjöberg’s pad and she hurried to wipe it away with the tip of her middle finger. Göran Johansson looked questioningly at his wife.
‘I promised Kate …’ she began, looking sorrowfully at her husband. ‘I promised never to tell anyone.’
‘Kate is dead,’ Sjöberg said urgently. ‘We have to find out the truth.’
Vida took a deep breath before she started her story.
‘There was a man. A man she happened to meet somewhere. He helped her one time when she was attacked by skinheads. I found this out long after,’ Vida pointed out. ‘They started meeting. Kate said they didn’t have sex, but I don’t know … What else could it have been? They used to meet outdoors, never at his home. He must have been married, but she never said anything about that. They didn’t meet at her home either – she was living with Christer at the time. Kate thought this man was really good to talk to; they talked about everything, she said. He comforted her when she had problems with Christer, and he wanted to help her when she finally decided to leave him. At first she didn’t want to accept so much money – it was more than two million kronor – but he convinced her. It would be good for the kids there, he said. Playground in the area, and a lot of friends. She was worried at first that she would be forced to do things she didn’t want to, but it didn’t turn out that way. He seemed to be an amazing person. And the kids loved him, Kate said. And he loved them. He used to take care of them sometimes when she worked long days.’
‘You’ve never met him?’ asked Sjöberg.
‘No, I wanted to, but he was a little mysterious. She felt that she was betraying him, when she told me. And I feel that way too, now I’m telling you.’
Vida started crying again and her husband stroked her hair.
‘Was this man’s name possibly Erik?’ asked Sandén.
‘Yes, his name was Erik. Do you think he’s the one who –’
‘We don’t think anything so far, but naturally it is very important that we make contact with him,’ Sjöberg replied.
He reached for the pad and pen and noted that Vida Johansson had contributed six names. After routinely taking the Johansson couple’s fingerprints, Sjöberg stood up, and Sandén did the same. Sjöberg pulled his wallet from his back pocket, took out a business card and set it on the coffee table.
‘We’re truly sorry,’ Sjöberg concluded. ‘You’ve been a great help. Please give us a call if you think of anything else.’
The rain was pattering against the windscreen and thousands of diffused light sources swept past in the darkness outside. Sandén’s controlled driving made the car seem a safe place in the late-winter evening.
‘What was it that happened before?’ asked Sjöberg. ‘At the meeting.’
Sandén did not reply at first, which convinced Sjöberg that the question was relevant. It would be heavy-handed to clarify what he meant any further; he didn’t want to risk the brief change in his colleague that afternoon being brushed off, as if it had never taken place.
‘I don’t know if I want to talk about it.’
‘That’s okay. We’ll forget it.’
In the few minutes of silence that followed Sjöberg convinced himself that there was no cause for concern. Sandén took care of himself. He was eating better, drinking less and exercising in moderate doses. Worrying yourself unnecessarily was the quickest route to the morgue. Sandén was not that type and Sjöberg too did his best to be rational.
‘I suddenly wished I hadn’t made that comment.’
Unexpectedly Sandén picked up the thread again.
‘You know me, I spit out droll remarks without thinking. It’s just words. Prostitution. But suddenly I could visualize it. And I didn’t like it.’
‘Catherine Larsson?’
‘No.’ Sandén sighed. ‘Jenny.’
Sjöberg did not understand, did not know what to think. Sandén drove on to Nynäsvägen. There was a fair amount of traffic, despite the weather and the late hour, but he took his time. He stayed in the inside lane all the way into the city, let himself be passed and splashed by motorists who were in more of a hurry. And then he told Sjöberg about those few days in September when his life had fallen apart. How his beloved daughter Jenny, vulnerable because of her learning disability, had been lured into a form of prostitution. How that utter bastard Pontus, her live-in (at the time) so-called boyfriend, had sold her for money that she herself never saw a trace of. And how this horrifying discovery almost killed Sandén, while Pontus had left his life with Jenny behind him without a backward glance or any consequences other than a considerably fatter wallet. Sandén had managed to buy him out of his life – and Jenny’s – for the hair-raising sum of 50,000 kronor, tax free, and since then fortunately he had not been seen. Sandén felt unable to initiate any legal proceedings against Pontus, mainly because certain less flattering facts about his daughter were best buried.
Sjöberg could do nothing but agree. And cross his fingers that now it all really was over, and that Jenny’s life had taken a new and better turn with the job with Lotten on reception, which he had arranged for her.
‘And you? Are you doing okay, you and Åsa?’
Sandén had had enough of his own troubles, leaving it open for Sjöberg to share what worried him. That was the closest he would come to an invitation to familiarity. Curious questions or insinuations were not something Sandén resorted to. Straight shots or complete discretion, that was Jens in a nutshell. Sjöberg had always had the feeling that his entanglement with Margit Olofsson had not passed unnoticed by his colleague as he had hoped. Sandén had been there when the relationship began; if he had the least bit of intuition, he must have noticed the spark between them there in the piano bar.
And he had, of course. Despite his boorishness Sandén was a person with a lot of warmth and a well-developed sense of nuance. He must have noticed what was happening that unfortunate evening when Åsa and the children were with her parents in Linköping. He had never said anything, but hadn’t he been unusually attentive, unusually … considerate, in his brusque way, in the months after that first transgression? Yes, that’s how it was, thought Sjöberg. Jens Sandén had been his best friend for a long time – ever since they were at the police academy – and he felt warm inside at the thought that maybe Sandén understood a little of what was going on in his lost soul. Although he had been sensitive enough all this time not to bring the subject up.
And perhaps it was the rain, the cold and the glistening lights outside, in contrast to the darkness and warmth in the car, that did it. Perhaps it was the emotional situation, or just the obvious security in a soli
d friendship of many years. But an overpowering need for complete frankness came over Sjöberg, and he told him.
When the car turned into Skånegatan, passed Nytorget and then stopped, everything had not yet been said. They remained sitting in the car for a long time, across from Sjöberg’s building. It was an evening for painful topics of conversation, and perhaps they would never be touched on again. But now the two of them could go on, a little stronger, a little richer. A little less alone.
‘No,’ Sjöberg concluded the conversation. ‘What good would it do to tell Åsa? It would only stir up emotions unnecessarily. And do damage.’
* * *
It was cold, really cold, in the shed at night. There was a little heating element in the room, but it was placed by the inside wall, where there was no window. The wintry air streamed in through the crack under the door and through the small window opening alongside it. The room was pitch black and around him it was completely silent, but in the distance he could hear the noise of the city.
He tensed all the muscles in his hands and arms and tried to prise loose the rope around his wrists. He repeated the exercise ten times, but it made no difference. There was nothing to do other than continue trying until his time was up. That was his only chance and it was as good as non-existent, he realized that.
Afterwards he lay exhausted, staring up into the darkness. The back of his head and his back both hurt, but that could not be helped. It had to hurt somewhere. It always hurt somewhere. Then the doorbell rang. He was startled by the new, modern ding-dong sound that the landlord had spoiled them with since the old doorbell fell apart. An agreeable, welcoming sound, instead of the previous angry buzzing. She rolled her eyes and looked at him with an expression that was supposed to convey resignation, but he saw only the glistening blue eyes under the blonde fringe. He did not see what she expressed, only how beautiful she was.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said with a smile, taking the few steps from the balcony door out to the hall.
The Last Lullaby (Hammarby Book 3) Page 5
