The Last Lullaby (Hammarby Book 3)

by Carin Gerhardsen

  There was something about this that did not really add up. Einar’s disappearance and his involvement in this case were crucial to the investigation, but was he really the murderer? Sjöberg told himself that this was not so. But what had gone wrong? Had Einar simply been in the way, just happening to be the target of someone’s violent caprices? Someone who for one reason or another had a grudge against Catherine Larsson and who took the opportunity when it arose to direct the suspicions of the police at one of their own.

  But above all he wondered how those poor children came into the picture. Violence against the sleeping infants, two and four years old, was unfathomable – for a drug addict who had gone berserk, even more so for a seasoned police officer like Einar. Then only a former Congolese child soldier or someone like that remains, thought Sjöberg dejectedly. No one fitting that bill had shown up in the investigation, and in the Philippines the population’s problems were of a different nature. The children’s role in this story must be as witnesses: not witnesses to the murder of their mother, because they had been asleep, but witnesses to the murderer’s presence at the crime scene during the evening, or witnesses to something quite different, still unknown to the police.

  Unless the motive was revenge, a possibility they had touched on earlier in the investigation. Revenge would be directed either at the children’s mother, in which case it was somewhat self-defeating to kill her before the children, or at the father – not particularly well thought out either, because his interest in the children had been cool for a long time. Or, it struck Sjöberg, the target could be Einar, who now suddenly appeared to be the one hit hardest by the brutal murders. To direct the suspicions of the police against him as well would be to rub salt into his wounds.

  All at once it was clear to Sjöberg that this was the strategy they should work by. Revenge must be the obvious motive in a case where two small children were found slaughtered with such clinical coldness. No frenzy, no passion; the murderer apparently hadn’t known his victims and had not acted in anger either. The perpetrator’s emotions boiled over, but not his feelings for Catherine Larsson and her two children – with them he did only what he had to. It was in his relationship to the real object of his hatred that he abandoned himself in earnest. Sjöberg broke into a cold sweat when he thought about how Einar might be faring right now, if he was still alive. Presumably treated badly, and aware too of what had happened to Catherine Larsson and the children. He suddenly felt stressed, and an intense eagerness to move the investigation further made him step a little harder on the accelerator.

  He entered Sandén’s number on his mobile, and was answered almost at once.

  ‘Conny here. Are you finding anything?’

  ‘Not exactly. No passport, for example. Even though he reportedly has one.’

  Sjöberg sighed.

  ‘We’ve sent over a few shoes and other stuff to the crime lab,’ Sandén continued.

  ‘I heard. Bella called.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘They found strands of hair on the jumpers and there was a match. The fingerprints in the apartment likewise.’

  ‘And the shoes – was there blood on them?’ asked Sandén.

  ‘There was. And it was Catherine Larsson’s blood. Have you time to talk?’

  ‘Sure. Have you spoken to the former Mrs Larsson?’

  ‘That produced nothing. She’s dying, so we can definitely remove her from the list. She hasn’t spoken to Christer Larsson in thirty years and she had nothing bad to say about him. By the way, the paternity test showed that he was the father of the children, so we can stop speculating about that. But that wasn’t what I wanted to talk about.’

  ‘Instead?’

  ‘I’m not satisfied with how this investigation is progressing. I think that Einar is the odject of some kind of conspiracy. The whole thing is an act of revenge against him, I sense it. I refuse to believe that he is guilty.’

  ‘What happened to objectivity?’

  ‘I’m being serious. There are some things that don’t add up here and I would like to bounce those off you a little.’

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Why would Einar murder the family he devoted so much effort and money to help?’

  ‘I can imagine a number of different reasons,’ said Sandén. ‘Disappointment, revenge, jealousy. Perhaps she met someone else. Or simply broke up with him. In some way used up his confidence. And capital. He has ploughed two million into that woman, damn it. Clearly he would get angry if she betrayed him somehow.’

  ‘But it was all so clinical,’ Sjöberg objected. ‘If the motive had been one of those you listed, I think it would have been obvious at the scene. There should have been signs of frenzied violence.’

  ‘I guess he had no feelings left.’

  ‘Well, then why murder her?’

  ‘Maybe he did it for financial reasons.’

  ‘He won’t get his money back. Stop playing devil’s advocate now, Jens.’

  ‘I’m keeping myself objective,’ Sandén replied, without audible sarcasm this time.

  ‘But why kill the children?’

  ‘Because otherwise they could point him out.’

  ‘Can you picture Einar Eriksson cutting the throats of two sleeping children?’

  ‘I have a hard time picturing Einar Eriksson at all,’ Sandén said crassly. ‘Besides, I have a hard time imagining anybody on this entire planet cutting the throats of little children. But unquestionably that sort of thing happens all the time.’

  ‘It may not have been Einar who put the bloody shoes back in his cupboard,’ Sjöberg continued stubbornly. ‘He’s not stupid; do you think he is asking to be a suspect?’

  ‘It can happen, we’ve seen that sort of thing before,’ Sandén observed, and Sjöberg reluctantly had to agree with him on that point. ‘But since he had murdered his witnesses there was probably nothing to suggest that we would ever make the connection between Eriksson and Catherine Larsson, right?’

  ‘We would have,’ said Sjöberg with conviction. ‘Even if Jamal had not had his suspicions when he saw that jumper, sooner or later we would have linked them to each other. The preschool staff recognized him.’

  ‘If he stays abroad, no one will ever be able to point him out.’

  Sjöberg sighed despondently, changing gear and turning off the highway for the last four kilometres up to Solberga.

  ‘Are you acting as a sounding board, Jens, or do you truly not share my thinking?’

  ‘I think the evidence speaks for itself. If Einar’s bloody shoes are at Einar’s place, then it is Einar who has got blood on them.’

  ‘Do we know that they really are Einar’s shoes?’ Sjöberg asked hopefully.

  ‘We found the receipt.’

  ‘It would be so easy to find Einar’s shoes, use them during the murder and then replace them at his home.’

  ‘In a mystery by Agatha Christie perhaps,’ said Sandén sharply. ‘It doesn’t work that way in real life. Murderers are rash, stressed, disorganized, and often intoxicated or on drugs.’

  ‘Not this one, Jens! That’s what I’m trying to say. This murderer is ice-cold and systematic. The murders were clinically performed, without carelessness.’

  ‘Well, now you know what I think anyway.’

  Sjöberg had an uneasy feeling that Sandén was not the only one who would be against him. Maybe he alone still had hopes of Einar’s innocence. Fortunately he was the one who made the decisions, and he intended to exploit that.

  * * *

  Pontus Örstedt was not in the phone book, but it took only a few minutes for the census registry to cough up the address for Hamad. Before ten o’clock on Thursday morning he was ringing the doorbell on Surbrunnsgatan in Vasastan. The man was obviously on his guard, because he would not let Hamad in until he held his police identification up to the peephole.

  The occupant of the apartment was a few years younger than him, and answered the door clad only in underwear (he obviously kept hims
elf quite fit) and with his hair sticking up.

  ‘Night owl?’ Hamad suggested.

  ‘Pig,’ Örstedt countered. ‘What the hell is this about?’

  ‘Your website. Amator6.nu. I would like you to take some shit off there that doesn’t make anyone happy.’

  Pontus Örstedt drew a hand through his hair and laughed. Loud and sincere.

  ‘Ah, that,’ he said. ‘That site makes a lot of people happy, I can promise you that.’

  ‘It’s possible. But not the ones who are exposed.’

  ‘You know what the site is called. The name shows that it’s about amateurs. Happy amateurs who have sent those pictures to me willingly and want nothing other than to expose themselves.’

  ‘I know of at least two films where that’s not the case. And I want you to remove those.’

  ‘Otherwise what?’

  ‘Otherwise I’ll see to it that you have problems,’ Hamad replied. ‘Major problems.’

  ‘Oh, I’m really scared,’ Örstedt sneered. ‘Are you threatening me or what?’

  ‘No, I’m just stating facts.’

  ‘So what were thinking about putting me away for?’

  ‘Procuring,’ Hamad said off the top of his head.

  Örstedt’s face darkened, which Hamad assumed meant he’d hit home. Or close anyway.

  ‘Open the website,’ he ordered, and Örstedt closed the door behind them and with the policeman at his heels went into the kitchen, where a computer sat on the table.

  Hamad looked around and noted that the furnishings jarred with the impression he had of the young man who lived there.

  ‘Sub-letting?’ he guessed. ‘Nice lace curtains.’

  Örstedt did not reply but brought the site up on the computer.

  ‘What is it you’re after?’ he asked sullenly.

  ‘ “Lucy in the sky” and “Bad cop, good cop”.’

  ‘Oh, shit. Is it little Jens who sent you?’

  Örstedt had an amused expression on his face. Hamad let out a disdainful snort.

  ‘That’s no concern of yours. Where did you get that cop film from?’

  ‘Someone sent it to me, no idea who. Lucy I posted myself. And don’t tell me she doesn’t like it,’ he added with a smile.

  ‘She doesn’t understand what it’s about, as you well know. Do you have more?’

  ‘No, not really.’

  ‘Take it off then. If I catch sight of any more pictures of Jenny like that, I’m coming back. And I won’t be coming alone.’

  Örstedt did as he was told.

  ‘Remove the other film too,’ Hamad continued. ‘And find out where you got it from. Are you the one who titled it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t think so. How the hell could I know it was a cop on the film? She’s not wearing much of a uniform.’

  His smile was scornful, and Hamad had to restrain himself from giving Örstedt a karate chop on the neck. After some scrolling, Örstedt clicked on an old email with a file attached.

  ‘Here it is,’ he said.

  The film was, as he had claimed, already christened ‘Bad cop, good cop’ by the sender and was accompanied by a short text saying that he and his girlfriend would be pleased to offer curious viewers a few goodies from the bedroom at home. Hamad memorized the date and time when the message was sent. But no particular exertion was required to remember the sender’s email address.

  ‘Remove the email and empty the trash,’ Hamad ordered. ‘In Outlook and on the desktop.’

  ‘Now I think it’s starting to become clear.’ Örstedt grinned while he dutifully did as he had been told. ‘Or not …’

  Hamad defied his impulses and left Örstedt without a word and without harming a hair on his head.

  Thursday Afternoon

  After a couple of rather bland sausages with completely tasteless potatoes in white sauce at a roadside tavern, and a few moments of escape from reality into a gossip magazine, Sjöberg was back in the car. Now he was almost at Solberga and found himself on a long lane that led up to a majestic building with yellow plastered walls and white corners, flanked by two free-standing wings. The buildings were surrounded on three sides by meadowland. He guessed that the lake mentioned in the brochure was located on the far side of the estate.

  He drove on to the verge and turned off the engine. Before he continued up to the nursing home he wanted to exchange a few words with Hamad and get a progress report, so he took out his mobile and entered the speed-dial number.

  ‘Hamad.’

  ‘You answered before there was any ringtone.’

  ‘The phone buzzed. How’s it going?’

  Sjöberg gave a brief and perfunctory account of his unproductive meeting with Ingegärd Rydin.

  ‘So we can forget her. Now I’m standing outside Solberga, about to go in and talk to Einar’s wife. How’s it going with you?’

  ‘No Einar Eriksson has left the country by air anyway. He hasn’t booked boat or train tickets in his own name either, so he must have bought a ticket on site, driven a car or made use of false identity documents.’

  ‘We’re working on the assumption that he is still in the country and still alive,’ Sjöberg pointed out.

  Hamad mumbled something inaudible in response.

  ‘You’re doubtful?’

  ‘I think he’s fled the country, because the passport is gone. Or possibly he’s hiding himself somewhere in the country, but that seems a little stupid. Then we would get him sooner or later. We’re finding traces of him in particular everywhere, not of anyone else. And with the blood on the shoes too –’

  ‘Have you spoken to Sandén?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sjöberg felt a certain irritation, but didn’t show it as he presented his line of reasoning as factually as he was able for Hamad too.

  ‘I hear what you’re saying, but my experience tells me that things are usually what they seem to be.’

  At this comment, Sjöberg decided to give up trying to bring his colleagues round to his point of view and to accept their scepticism. He was the one leading the investigation anyway, and they had to follow his orders. He changed the subject.

  ‘And the computer?’ he asked.

  ‘So far I haven’t found anything of interest,’ Hamad replied. ‘But there’s a fair amount left to go through.’

  ‘I want you to go through the papers on Einar’s desk too. And the ones on the bookshelf. Investigate both the jobs he is working on now and old cases and look in particular for someone who could have a motive to get revenge on Einar.’

  Hamad let out a long sigh but Sjöberg pretended not to notice it.

  ‘Okay?’

  ‘Okay. And the interviews? What do I do about them?’

  ‘Put those off until you’re finished with the paperwork. There isn’t as much as it seems. Good luck.’

  ‘The same to you.’

  Sjöberg drove the last stretch up to the impressive manor house. He left the car in the car park outside one of the wings and walked across the meticulously raked gravel to the main entrance. The snow had melted here and there in the well-tended flowerbeds next to the wall of the house, and for the first time this year he noticed the snowdrops that stood in white clumps, announcing better times to come. It was still too early for the crocuses they would share the flowerbeds with. A few tender leaves had worked their way up out of the hard ground, but they appeared to be waiting until spring showed its intentions more clearly.

  Sjöberg went up the steps and rang the bell by the side of the door, but hearing no sound from inside he opened the door and went in.

  Now he suddenly found himself in a very ordinary reception area, which didn’t fit at all with the property’s classic exterior. Behind a semi-glazed wall sat an older woman in a white coat with a pair of glasses hanging on a cord around her neck. She looked up at him as he approached and opened the counter window with a friendly smile.

  ‘Hi,’ said Sjöberg. ‘I’m here to see Solveig Eriksson.’


  ‘Oh,’ said the nurse, with a rather surprised expression. ‘She’s in room 230. You take the lift over there up to the third floor. She has the room furthest to the left in the corridor to the right as you leave the lift.’

  Sjöberg thanked her and made his way over to the lift, past a group of sofas whose design went better with the institution itself than with the manorial architecture. On the way up it struck him that perhaps he ought to have brought something with him, flowers or a box of chocolates. He rejected the idea, however, remembering that he was there on business and had little knowledge of Solveig Eriksson’s possible allergies or her tastes in general.

  The corridor was painted white and the only window was located at the far end. Between the patients’ doors hung framed posters of classic artworks, and here and there some large potted rubber plants had been placed on the floor. Sjöberg drew a leaf between his thumb and index finger and noted that the plants were artificial. Nothing living could survive with so little sunlight. He went over to the last in the row of doors on the left and knocked. Softly at first, but when he got no answer he knocked again, with a little more authority. He got no response this time either, so he pressed down the handle and the door opened.

  Like a scene from a film he saw a woman with her back to him in a chair by the window, with a blanket over her legs and her forearms on the armrests. She sat without moving as he stepped into the light room, which to his surprise was personally furnished. It was a corner room and in both windows were living plants in attractive pots. The bed standing against the wall next to the corridor was carefully made and covered with a traditional patchwork quilt, and on the bedside table stood a wedding photo similar to the one he had seen at Einar’s, in a lovely old silver frame. By the other windowless wall was an old-fashioned dresser, and on it stood framed photographs depicting younger versions of the Eriksson couple in various situations. In the middle of the room was a neat little group of rococo-style sofas, and a table adorned with a round lace cloth and a begonia. Books and a TV, it struck Sjöberg, were all that was missing here. This woman must read books, since she was here year in and year out, mustn’t she?