The Last Lullaby (Hammarby Book 3)

by Carin Gerhardsen

  And the punishment for defying her unspoken rules was cruel. Shunning him, not speaking, and making little digs whenever the occasion arose. Subtle and deliberate. Old-womanish. Not at all like the Petra he knew, but his transgression had obviously been serious and maybe he should be grateful that she did not punch him in the jaw. Or perhaps not. It might actually be better to clear the air and put their cards on the table.

  But the annoying thing was that the more she persecuted him, the more he wanted her back. To have her. Sick world, thought Hamad as he finally managed to outwit the complicated lock mechanisms and the gate he was trying to open gave way at last.

  He pulled a few times on the door without getting it to open before he noticed the knob right above his head – an additional security arrangement to prevent the children from slipping out in some unguarded moment. He stepped into the cloakroom, locked the door behind him and obediently placed his own boots next to the children’s.

  The first thing he saw when he looked up was a large poster on the wall with portrait photos of Catherine Larsson’s two children, framed by flowers made from small pieces of crêpe paper in various colours. Below the pictures, in gold paint, was clearly printed: ‘Tom and Linn, we miss you.’ Below the text the staff and children, to the best of their ability, had written their names. Hamad swallowed the lump in his throat. On a little table below the poster they had placed a vase with a lovely bouquet of flowers in happy colours, surrounded by stuffed animals.

  He tiptoed into the room, trying not to interrupt the activity going on inside. A woman about his own age was doing a puppet show for the children. She stood with her back to him, hidden from her audience behind a large sheet of plywood with a window cut out at face height. Her hands were stuffed into two glove puppets: a crocodile and a king, eagerly conversing with each other in funny voices. The children sitting on the floor in front of the handmade theatre looked up, wide-eyed, towards the puppets and not a sound escaped them until the crocodile suddenly made a comment that made everyone laugh. Then the preschool teacher took the opportunity to turn towards Hamad, quickly looking him over, and asked in a low voice, ‘Are you from the police?’

  He wondered to himself if it really was that obvious, but confirmed her assumption. She fixed her eyes on some indeterminate point behind him and nodded quickly in the direction from which he had come.

  ‘Maud is doing dishes out in the kitchen, talk to her,’ she whispered, whereupon she turned her back to him again and continued with her performance.

  He slipped out of the room and went past the cloakroom and the little shrine again. He heard the clatter of dishes and followed the sound along the corridor to the kitchen. At the sink stood a woman in her sixties, short-haired and dressed in jeans and a navy-blue T-shirt with rolled-up sleeves. She stood deeply immersed in her own thoughts and did not notice Hamad as he entered the kitchen. He cleared his throat as he pulled out his wallet with the police badge from his back pocket.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t notice anyone was here,’ she excused herself, letting go of the washing-up brush and plastic mug she had been cleaning, and drying her hands on her jeans.

  ‘I apologize for disturbing you,’ said Hamad, holding up his identification in front of her with his left hand and extending his right hand in greeting. ‘Jamal Hamad, from the Hammarby Police.’

  She took his hand, introduced herself as Maud Fahlander and gestured towards the chairs around the kitchen table.

  ‘Yes, nothing’s the same here,’ she sighed, sitting down on the edge of one of the chairs.

  Hamad sat down on another one.

  ‘I understand that,’ he said sympathetically, ‘and I’m truly sorry about what happened.’

  ‘You just want to stay at home and cry,’ she said, shaking her head dejectedly, ‘but all three of us are here. For the sake of the children. Almost all the children are here too. We conferred with each other and with the parents and decided that it would be best. To be able to talk about it together and explain it to the children.’

  ‘I saw the poster out there,’ said Hamad. ‘And … the shrine. It was nice.’

  He felt his eyes getting damp and tried to blink it away.

  ‘We did that this morning, with the children. As a way of processing the grief,’ Maud Fahlander explained.

  ‘How are they taking it?’

  ‘They’re so little, for most of them it’s really not so easy to take in the information. We haven’t gone into any details … about how they died and such. But you have to tell them something … They are going to hear about it anyway. We say that it was a nasty man with a knife who cut them. That has created worry, naturally, that something similar could happen to them.’

  She took a deep breath before she continued.

  ‘They ask a lot of questions. Some of the children cried. We hug a lot and talk quite a bit about Tom and Linn, in positive terms. The children are taking it well, I think, anyway. It was worse for the parents. And for us on the staff, of course.’

  She fell silent. Hamad struggled to think of anything sensible to say, so they sat for a while in silence. The door into the neighbouring section opened and shut again with a bang. The preschool teacher was startled by the sudden sound.

  ‘Are you getting anywhere?’ she asked.

  ‘Unfortunately I can’t answer that,’ said Hamad. ‘But we haven’t arrested anyone. You should know that we are prioritizing this case. And naturally you will be informed in due course.’

  Maud Fahlander sighed and shook her head despondently.

  ‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ she said. ‘Completely incomprehensible.’

  Hamad agreed.

  ‘Occasionally I’ve been involved with children who have got sick and died,’ she continued. ‘Or been in an accident. But slaughtered like this …’ She shook her head again. ‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

  A shiver passed through Hamad.

  ‘I actually have just one question,’ he said.

  * * *

  With the release of tension after his risky prying in Eriksson’s office, Sjöberg felt a headache coming on. He decided to try to cure it with a large glass of water and a couple of dry biscuits, which he got from the kitchenette. He brought them with him into his own office and sat down in front of the computer. When the glass was empty and the biscuits consumed his headache had got worse. He stared listlessly at the black screen in front of him. After some hesitation he finally decided to do something else that he did not have the right to do.

  He logged into the crime register and searched for Einar Eriksson, whose civil registration number he had by now learned by heart. He was aware that his search could be traced, and if it turned out to be unfounded – which it would be if Eriksson were to suddenly reappear – he would lose his access to the register. His suitability as a detective inspector and as a policeman would naturally be questioned. Sjöberg tried to console himself with the thought that this offence seemed relatively insignificant after the break-in and computer intrusion he was already guilty of that day. But it worried him that the offence he was now in the process of committing, in contrast to the previous ones, would probably be discovered. Fortunately Einar Eriksson had no criminal record, and Sjöberg hoped that Eriksson himself, when he showed up, would not be interested in pursuing a lawsuit against him.

  Then, without knowing what he was really looking for, he called the population registration office. He introduced himself as a chief inspector, whereupon he was asked to hang up to be called back by the official in question. After a few minutes the call came and Sjöberg discovered everything there was to know about Einar Eriksson and his wife, which was not much. He took notes while he listened and when the call was over he went through the information on his pad.

  Eriksson had no siblings and his parents were no longer alive. He was, as Sjöberg had correctly guessed, married to one Solveig Eriksson, née Jönsson, and they were born in the same year. She had no living siblings or parents either.
They had been married since 1976, had no children, and she was registered at the same address as her husband. Eriksson had changed address in April of 2006, when he moved to Eriksdalsgatan from an address in a townhouse area in Huddinge, where he had lived since 1980. Prior to this Einar Eriksson had been registered for census purposes in Arboga.

  This admittedly new but not particularly interesting information reminded him that he should once again try to get hold of Christer Larsson’s first wife, Ingegärd Rydin. He picked up the phone and entered the number, but got no answer this time either. After letting the phone ring ten times he gave up.

  Sjöberg sighed quietly, clasped his hands behind his neck and spun the office chair a quarter-turn towards the window. He stretched his legs out in front of him and tilted the backrest as far back as it would go. Spring seemed to be holding off and large snowflakes whirled around outside the window. The wind was starting to pick up. Although the days were getting longer all other signs of spring were conspicuous in their absence. He had not seen a single snowdrop so far, but perhaps he was just inattentive. The thermometer had been at minus five degrees this morning when he left his apartment on Skånegatan, and there was still ice on the Hammarby canal, even though the boats drove up the channel in the middle all the time.

  He was thinking along these lines when the phrase ‘frozen solid’ flashed into his mind. He no longer recognized himself. How could he so cold-heartedly betray his beloved Åsa? True, it had only happened a few times, but still, it had been with the same woman and that meant that it was a question of a relationship and not some isolated tryst. He tried to convince himself that he was ashamed of himself and his actions, but emotionally he was neutral. Shameless. Ice-cold. What happened was in some way inevitable and he sealed it away from himself in a way that he did not recognize. Perhaps he ought to see a psychologist, someone who could explain the constantly recurring dream to him, put labels on his emotions and give him a shove in the right direction. Or even better, a direct order, an exhortation to immediately end the relationship with that woman. ‘That woman,’ he repeated to himself. Now he had gone so far as to reduce Margit to ‘that woman’ in his thoughts. He had shifted the burden of guilt over to her.

  He sighed again. A whole family had been put to death and Einar was missing as well, and in neither case had they really got anywhere. Sjöberg was struck by a feeling of impotence. And here he sat, dwelling on his own worries. An image suddenly came to him: Einar waking up alone in his little apartment every morning, even though he had been married for more than thirty years. Einar, who every day struggled off to a job that he was obviously not happy in. But it was a job he was trained for, and work he needed so that he could pay for his wife to stay in the nursing home. It struck him that Einar Eriksson must really love his wife, in spite of the miserable circumstances, if he was prepared to spend so much money on her care. He had not put her just anywhere, instead he had chosen that ‘gem in Bergslagen, in picturesque surroundings’. Nor had he abandoned her, but instead conscientiously got in the car every Saturday morning and drove all the way to Fellingsbro. Because wasn’t that most likely how he spent his Saturdays?

  Sjöberg turned his chair back towards the computer. With his right index finger he went to the Eniro website. He clicked on the ‘Maps’ tab and after a few attempts managed to find a map of Västmanland with the little community of Fellingsbro marked on it. It turned out to be just outside Arboga, on the way to Lindesberg. Suddenly it occurred to him why Eriksson had chosen that particular area for his sick wife: that was where she came from. He wanted her to be nursed, for whatever condition she might conceivably have, in her home district. Einar Eriksson grew in Sjöberg’s estimation. But why had he moved away from there?

  A tactful knock on the doorframe woke him from his musings. Sjöberg waved in Jamal Hamad, dressed today in a pair of chinos with a wide belt and a light-blue shirt. His dark eyes flashed in the subdued lighting from the desk lamp, and Sjöberg recognized that look. It usually meant eagerness and excitement: Hamad had come across something. But despite this his steps were hesitant and Sjöberg did not see the little hint of a smile that was usually there when Hamad had made a discovery. Gesturing towards the visitor’s chair, he asked Hamad to sit down. Hamad sat, cleared his throat, but said nothing.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Sjöberg began.

  ‘Not a nibble on either the Dental Service or the Child Welfare Centre. Their calls concerned quite everyday matters and they have no Erik among their employees.’

  ‘But … ?’ Sjöberg said encouragingly.

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I can see that you have something.’

  Hamad sighed, but even though Sjöberg smiled his younger colleague did not respond to it. Instead his gaze wandered dejectedly around the room.

  ‘You’re going to be angry with me.’

  ‘Angry?’ Sjöberg laughed. ‘Good Lord, I don’t think I’ve ever been angry with you. Let’s hear it.’

  ‘It was a hunch,’ said Hamad. ‘Far-fetched, but it was just a feeling I had –’

  ‘I’m usually the one who believes in following my intuition,’ said Sjöberg, still smiling. ‘You’re supposed to represent the objective type.’

  ‘This is unfortunately probably not totally non-objective either –’

  ‘Unfortunately? Out with it now.’

  Hamad straightened up and Sjöberg could see how tense he was. He had never seen him that way before.

  ‘Conny, do you remember that jumper that was hanging in the hall at Catherine Larsson’s?’ he began.

  Sjöberg felt as if an ice-cold gust of wind rushed past him and he got goosebumps all over his body. Suddenly he knew what Hamad was going to say, and he realized that he had subconsciously had the same thought himself. Even so, before Hamad had time to continue he had already decided to oppose it. He nodded, a guarded look on his face.

  ‘I think it’s Eriksson’s jumper,’ Hamad continued, lowering his eyes.

  ‘Which damned Eriksson?’ Sjöberg spat out.

  The harsh tone riled Hamad. His eyes met Sjöberg’s defiantly.

  ‘Einar, damn it. I did say you would get angry.’

  ‘Of course I’m angry,’ Sjöberg answered condescendingly. ‘It was a completely ordinary jumper from Åhléns. How many like that do you think there are in Stockholm?’

  ‘Hundreds, perhaps thousands, I know. But I think it’s his anyway.’

  ‘And what makes this “not totally non-objective”?’ Sjöberg asked sarcastically.

  ‘I sniffed the jumper,’ Hamad replied, his eyes flashing again. ‘It smelled of Old Spice. And I can tell you that there are not many men who use that these days.’

  ‘But Eriksson does?’

  Hamad nodded.

  ‘I’m imagining that it’s roughly the same clientele using Old Spice who buy their jumpers at Åhléns,’ Sjöberg said dismissively.

  ‘That’s a bit snobbish,’ Hamad appealed, but Sjöberg was not in the mood for banter, and simply looked at him coolly without saying anything.

  ‘Erik Eriksson on Eriksdalsgatan,’ said Hamad knowingly.

  ‘Is that the objective part of your argument? A silly name game?’

  ‘Einar is Erik.’

  ‘Einar is missing.’

  ‘Which makes my discovery seem even more reasonable then.’

  ‘But Jamal, damn it! What is it you’ve discovered?’

  ‘That Einar is Erik.’

  ‘Based on the Åhléns’ jumper?’

  ‘Based on witness statements from the preschool staff.’

  Sjöberg turned completely cold inside and he felt a lump growing in his throat. He got up quickly from his chair and went over to the window. The sun was shining now from a clear blue sky, which did not match his mood. With his back to Hamad he asked in as controlled a way as he was able, ‘What have you done, Jamal?’

  ‘I’ve shown a photo of Einar to the preschool staff. And they confirmed that Einar is Erik. That
Einar definitely is Erik. There’s no question, Conny.’

  ‘You’ve defied my orders, Jamal.’

  ‘Or you could say that I’ve followed your orders and done a little extra. And I think it was a damned good thing, because now we know for sure.’

  Sjöberg put his hands in his trouser pockets and sighed dejectedly. A large crane in the industrial area on the other side of the canal swung around a half-turn with a construction shed hanging from it on a wire some fifty metres above the ground.

  ‘You felt it too, right?’ Hamad asked carefully.

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ Sjöberg replied. ‘But I understood what was coming when you started talking about the sweater. I guess it must have been gnawing away somewhere at the back of my mind.’

  He turned back to his colleague.

  ‘Why didn’t you come to me first?’

  ‘I wanted something more solid. Which was just as well, considering you reacted as expected.’

  Sjöberg sat down again. Neither of them said anything for a while. Sjöberg drummed his fingertips on the desk. His eyes were fixed on something far beyond his assistant.

  ‘What do we do now?’ Hamad finally dared to ask.

  ‘We have to put a search out for him.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘That he’s been missing for four days.’

  ‘Four – where did you get that from?’

  ‘The night between Saturday and Sunday.’

  ‘You mean when the murders were committed?’

  ‘I mean that certain investigations lead me to conclude that he came home in his car late Saturday evening, but he did not pick up Sunday morning’s Dagens Nyheter from the hall floor.’

  ‘Oh damn it,’ said Hamad with admiration.

  ‘Another of Einar’s sweaters is hanging in his office. Send it to Forensics and ask them to compare any hair strands and so on.’

  ‘So you’ve been thinking along these lines too?’

  Sjöberg did not answer the question. Suddenly he started thinking clearly.