Night Rounds

by Helene Tursten

  The door was thrown open, and a girl with short black hair rushed out, crying. The chief inspector stayed frozen to his chair. His emotions contained an element of terror as he heard Stridner’s voice.

  “So there you are, Andersson, taking up space.”

  Andersson looked like a student who’d just been caught sneaking around to steal the answers to an upcoming test.

  “Uhhh.…” he said lamely.

  “What do you want?”

  “Marianne Svärd … have you finished the autopsy?”

  “Of course. Come inside,” she ordered.

  Stridner turned around, and he followed her into the office. She sat down in the comfortable chair before her computer. A visitor’s chair with a worn-out red Naugahyde seat stood on the other side of her desk. It was hard and lumpy, surely on purpose. You were not supposed to feel comfortable in the presence of the professor.

  He sank into the chair, breathing hard. Stridner gave him a sharp look.

  “Isn’t there any kind of workplace health care at the police department that could organize a diet group for you? Exercise for the overweight and so forth? Or at least provide some basic nutritional information? It’d help your blood pressure enormously.”

  Andersson would not let himself be goaded. Mustering all his self-restraint, he replied neutrally, “I’m taking medicine for my blood pressure, and it’s under control. But I really came to hear what you’ve found out about Marianne Svärd.” He forced a pleasant smile.

  Stridner’s lips curled as if she doubted his statement about his blood pressure, but to Andersson’s relief she kept to the official subject. “Marianne Svärd. Livor mortis, rigor mortis, body temperature, and the temperature of the room all indicate that death occurred right around midnight. Analysis of stomach contents is still in progress, as well as blood and fluid analyses. It will take a few days before those results come in. Nevertheless, I believe they will corroborate a time of death at approximately midnight.”

  Stridner paused and looked for a long time at Andersson over the frames of her glasses before she continued.

  “Cause of death is strangulation. The noose had sunk deep into her neck and caused strong subcutaneous bleeding and damage to the musculature and circoid cartilage. Around the ligature marks are scratches, probably a result of the victim’s attempt to defend herself from the noose. Based on the appearance of the cut, I determined that the murderer stood behind the victim. It is clear to see where the noose was tied at the back of the neck. In addition, I have determined that the murderer was taller than the victim, unless the victim was seated at the time of the attack.”

  “What kind of noose was it?”

  “Thin, smooth, and strong. I found a number of fiber strands in the wound, which I have sent for analysis. An educated guess would be that it was a thin cotton rope strengthened by smooth synthetic material. Or perhaps the entire noose was purely synthetic.”

  Stridner furrowed her brows as if she were thinking about something, and then her face brightened and she said, “Speaking of fiber. I did find some strands underneath the victim’s fingernails on both the right and left hands. Dark, thin textile fiber.”

  “Wool strands.” The chief inspector sighed.

  Stridner looked at him with surprise. “Wool? That’s quite possible. Probably the victim grabbed at the murderer’s arms in an attempt to make him loosen the noose, but she only caught the fabric of his jacket sleeves.”

  “Dress sleeves,” Andersson said, depressed.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He sighed again. “We have a witness. An older nurse who insists she saw the hospital ghost at the time of the murder. The ghost is said to be a nurse who’d committed suicide fifty years ago. They say she wears an old-fashioned nurse uniform.”

  “Ridiculous! Ignore that witness completely. I can tell you that this strangulation was done by a living, breathing killer with strong arms.”

  The professor drew her eyebrows together sharply; her expression brooked no defiance. Not that the superintendent wanted to contradict her. No, for once the two of them were in complete agreement.

  “I know. But the witness was definite about what she’d seen.”

  Stridner harrumphed. “Ghosts! A ghost doesn’t drag a victim across the floor. Don’t even give a thought to such a ridiculous notion.”

  The superintendent muttered defensively that he didn’t believe that a ghost had done it either, but Stridner was not listening to him. She said brusquely, “I have to give a lecture in an hour, and I need to have lunch before then. Let’s wind this up. She was not pregnant and had never given birth. In her stomach was a rather small meal. She’d eaten approximately four hours before she died. Her food was mixed with a froth that I believe was some kind of antacid. Her stomach lining was reddened toward the pylorus, but I saw no signs of an active ulcer. I found a healed ulcer near the duodenum, but it was old. Otherwise it appears that Marianne Svärd was in perfect health. She has no other wounds besides the strangulation mark and the drag marks on her heels. I found traces of talc underneath her arms.”

  Andersson could imagine the scene. The ghost nurse, floating in her old-fashioned black dress, coming up behind the night nurse. The latter, clueless about her fate. Quickly, the ghost throws the noose over the nurse’s head and pulls tight. The panicked young woman clutches in vain at her throat and behind her head in order to stop her killer. All she can do is grab strands of cloth underneath her fingernails.

  Andersson was completely engrossed in his vision and did not hear what Stridner had just said. She frowned at him with concern.

  “Are you feeling ill? Is your head spinning? Have you ever had an epileptic attack or similar?”

  “No, I was just thinking.…”

  Stridner tapped at her watch. “Well, in that case I have no more time for you. I’ll send the written report in a few days.” She stood up and opened the door to the depressing hallway. The chief inspector could do nothing more than slink out. He mumbled a good-bye that went unheard, as the door behind him had already been shut.

  IRENE HAD PICKED up a copy of the Göteborg Times from the news rack at the same time she bought her food. She settled into her chair and began to read.

  NIGHT NURSE KILLED BY GHOST? a headline screamed. The byline attributed the article to Kurt Höök, the permanent reporter on the crime beat for GT.

  A photo of Löwander Hospital’s façade covered half the front page, which indicated they didn’t have much of a story yet. The caption beneath the photo read, “What horror hid behind the hospital’s grand façade last night? The chief of medicine refuses to comment.” A photo insert of Sverker Löwander, disheveled hair and all, had been plugged into the right lower corner of the larger image. Some of the article was completely new information to Irene, however.

  A nearby resident tells this newspaper that she saw the Löwander Hospital ghost roaming the grounds at the time of the murder. Everyone in the area, as well as in the hospital, knows the story of the nurse who committed suicide there a century ago and now returns to wreak vengeance on those who drove her to it. The witness, who asks for anonymity, describes the ghost as wearing an old-fashioned uniform and walking on the grounds around midnight. Our witness remained awake until past 3:00 A.M. and swears that no one else came or went that night.

  After this came a great deal of filler on the history of Löwander Hospital. Typical archival material. The anonymous witness wasn’t quoted again in the article.

  Irene felt shaken. Where had Kurt Höök gotten the story of the ghost nurse? He didn’t get it entirely correct; Tekla had in fact had died in the 1940s. So his information probably didn’t come from anyone inside the hospital.

  Irene sat there for a long time thinking without coming up with any new ideas. Finally she gave up and finished her coffee and cheese sandwich.

  She glanced at her watch. Quarter past twelve. It was time to pay Kurt Höök a little visit.

  TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY o
n the E6, but apart from a bit of stop-and-go near the Tingstad Tunnel, there were no major obstructions. The newspaper complex’s great grayish white buildings towered above the side of the highway. Their lighted display showed that the outdoor temperature was -8 C, the time was 12:38 P.M., and people were encouraged to buy today’s GT.

  Irene parked in a visitor’s space and got out, locking the door of her old Volvo. She entered through the triangular glass doors and was welcomed by the very proper middle-aged woman at the reception desk.

  “Good afternoon. May I help you?” She had a friendly voice and was well made up.

  “I’m looking for Kurt Höök. I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.”

  Irene held out her ID, and the receptionist took her time inspecting it. With a hint of a smile, she said, “Just a minute. Let me check if Kurt Höök is available.”

  The receptionist phoned an internal line. It appeared that Irene was in luck. The woman nodded and pointed to the glass doors of an elevator across the entrance. “Go on up. Take the elevator to the third floor. Someone will meet you at the central desk and take you to Kurt.”

  Irene headed for the elevators. She passed a splendid boat hull in many-colored glass mounted on a pedestal of black granite. Even the art on the walls indicated that this newspaper was a booming concern.

  A harried-looking woman with blue-tinted hair and reading glasses far down her nose met Irene and brought her to Kurt Höök’s desk. None of the other journalists even looked up as Irene passed their desks.

  Although Höök’s chair was empty, the woman with blue hair left Irene there. Höök’s computer was turned on, and the screen showed the article that Irene had just read during lunch. He didn’t seem to know that at three in the afternoon Superintendent Andersson was going to have a press conference and reveal the identity of the victim. Irene scanned the notes spread out over Höök’s desk in case there was a clue to the anonymous witness. She also kept one eye on the lookout and so was not surprised when Kurt Höök approached his desk. He gave Irene one of his charming smiles.

  “Hi. I remember you. You’re that female officer that the Hells Angels beat up in Billdal a few years back. You look like someone got you again.”

  This wasn’t the opening line Irene was expecting, but she kept her potentially poisonous rejoinders to herself and tried to appear friendly. The wounds beneath her bandages hurt when she tried to smile. “That’s right. I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.”

  “Of course. I can guess why you’re here. Sorry, the answer is no, unfortunately.” His apologetic words were combined with a twinkle in his eye.

  “How can you say no before I’ve even asked the question?”

  “I never reveal my sources.” He seemed to be trying to hide a smug expression.

  Irene found it extremely irritating that he was fairly good-looking. She felt that the bandages on her face were the size of beach towels. “I understand, but you must realize that an eyewitness at the time of the murder is very important to us.”

  “I do realize that, but my answer must remain no.”

  Irene cocked her head and smiled slightly. “Maybe we can come to an agreement?” Höök looked uncertain, so she continued. “If I can find out as much as possible about your anonymous witness, I’ll make sure you have an inside scoop on the next stage of our investigation.”

  Höök could hardly hide his excitement. “Concerning Löwander Hospital?”

  “Yep.”

  The journalist bit his lower lip as he considered this. Finally he said, “I assume you know that you are breaking the law when you ask me to identify a source, and I have no idea if what you’re offering would be worth it.”

  Irene couldn’t blame him for keeping his cards close to his chest, when he didn’t know if she had any aces. She decided to tempt him further. “I realize that you can’t give me the name of your source, but perhaps you can give me some hints so that I can figure it out myself. On my end … the information has to do with another nurse at Löwander Hospital and what happened to her that same night. Of course I’ll reveal the murdered nurse’s name, too.”

  The temptation was too much. Höök’s journalistic instincts took over. “All right. The ghost is yesterday’s news anyway. The headline sold well, but there’s nothing more I can get out of that witness.”

  Irene remained silent. She knew that Höök was talking mainly to himself. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, until it looked like it had been styled with an electric mixer. He gave Irene a distrustful look.

  “This particular source is rather … special.”

  Irene saw his hand move toward the tape recorder on his desk. He hesitated and looked at Irene. “Perhaps it’d be better if I gave you some background information first. Then you can listen to the tape. It’s actually not all that clear. Come with me.”

  He picked up the tape recorder, and they walked over to a nearby closed office. Höök opened the door and looked inside. The room was empty, and he ushered Irene in, carefully shutting the door behind him.

  Hesitatingly, he said, “This … source is … how can I put it? Unusual. I don’t know her name, and I don’t know where she lives.” He fell silent for a moment, then went on. “It started like this. A guy who’s given me some small tips before called me on my cell phone yesterday afternoon. He’d obviously overheard a conversation between two police officers. Since I was already in the neighborhood, I decided to hop on over and have a slice of pizza while I was at it. By the way, do you want a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” Irene said without thinking. Afterward she wished she’d bitten her tongue. Why would she need coffee just when Höök was about to identify the witness? Her longstanding caffeine addiction had won out.

  Höök left the room and returned with two cups of steaming-hot coffee in plastic mugs. “Where was I? The guy was just about to tell me this tip when the front door opened.…”

  Höök stopped in the middle of his story. He swallowed some coffee before continuing. “The smell … the smell made me turn around and look at her. The pizza place had a plastic bag full of old bread ready for her, and she sat down on one of the chairs. We ignored her, and the guy began to tell me about overhearing two officers talking about a ghost nurse who’d supposedly murdered someone at Löwander Hospital. Can you believe it? But my source was certain that’s what they’d said. Then the old hag—I mean, the old lady—butted in and said, ‘I’ve seen her. Nurse Tekla. She haunts the place to get revenge on the people who killed her!.’ At first we didn’t pay attention. She kept nattering on that she’d seen the ghost with her own eyes. And then she said, ‘I watched her come and I watched her go. Blood was dripping from her hands.’ It sent shivers down my spine. And—”

  Irene interrupted him. “Did she really say ‘Nurse Tekla’?”

  “That’s right. You’ll hear it yourself. I recorded what she said. I’m going to leave the room while you listen to the tape. Here’s paper and a pen if you need to take notes. But don’t tell anyone where you found out about this.”

  “I promise I’ll keep it confidential.”

  He turned on the tape recorder. What followed was truly strange.

  “My name is Kurt Höök. What may I call you?”

  “Call me Mama Bird. All my friends call me that. All my lovely ones. All my children. All of Mama Bird’s children.”

  “Do you have many friends and children?”

  “Millions and millions … my lovely ones, my children mychildrenmychildrenmychildren … all of my childrenmychildrenmychildren.…”

  “I see. You said you’d seen a nurse in the gardens by Löwander Hospital?”

  “Nurse Tekla! I am so scared of her. So scared, so scared. I have to keep special watch over my lovely ones. She will kill them, all of them, killkillkill … killkillkill.…”

  “Who is she?”

  Mama Bird said nothing but hummed a nursery rhyme.

  “Focus a little and I’ll give you some pizza.�
��

  “Beer and pizza is what I want. And bread for my lovely ones. My children.…”

  “I see. Anything else that you know about Nurse Tekla?”

  “She died … a hundred years ago. Deaddeaddead.…”

  “You saw her in the park?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

  “What was she doing?”

  A moment of silence and then Mama Bird’s hoarse voice: “She went into the hospital.”

  “How?”

  “Howhowhowhowhow.…”

  “How did she get inside the hospital?”

  “Through the door.”

  “Did something happen while she was in the hospital?”

  “God took away all the light. She was going to do a deed of darkness. The time had come, and all light was taken away. But I kept watch, I kept watchwatchwatch.…”

  “Did you see her come back outside?”

  “Yes, yes, yes, yes.”

  “What did she do then?”

  Another stretch of silence. “She raised her hands to God and thanked Him for revenge! Revenge! Revengerevengerevenge!”

  “And then what did she do?”

  “She took the bike. God punishes theft!”

  “She took the bike? What bike?”

  “The other one’s bike. But now she’s dead. Everyone goes to their death! Tremble! Keep watch! Pray! Deathdeathdeathdeath.…”

  “So Nurse Tekla took the bike and got out of there!”

  As a reply, Mama Bird began to sing in a way that reminded Irene of a Sami joik: “Hoyahoyahoyahoya.…”

  That’s when Höök had turned off the tape recorder. Irene rewound the tape and listened to it again without pausing. Then she rewound it yet again and began to take down the unusual conversation.

  She had listened to the entire conversation a fourth time before Höök came back.

  “You wrote an entire article based on this?” Irene asked, not trying to hide her surprise.

  “Along with my other source, who had overheard two police officers discussing the same thing. Normally I would have blown it all off. But it made sense, in a weird way. If you think about what the two officers were saying, there must have been someone else inside the hospital who’d also seen the ghost nurse. Right?”