Night Rounds

by Helene Tursten

  “I have to agree with you. Those poor nurses at Löwander Hospital are wearing themselves out, but the hospital keeps cutting staff. The ones still on the job are just getting older and more worn out, while the young folks today want to study media or music. The dream jobs seem to be hosting for a music channel or actress on a soap opera.”

  Krister laughed. “Someone in charge has made a real mess of things.”

  “What do you think the twins will want to be?” asked Irene.

  Krister thought a moment. “Katarina will probably be a gym teacher or a jujitsu instructor, if you could make a living at that. She’ll probably do languages. Jenny probably will focus on music. Maybe she’ll be a veterinarian, though she doesn’t have the grades for it—you need a fairly high grade-point average to get into vet programs. Or she’ll start farming vegetables.”

  His mood grew darker at the thought.

  “So you’re not thrilled with her becoming a vegan.”

  “Hell, no. I’m a culinary professional. We’ve always had good, well-balanced meals in this household.”

  Irene understood that Krister was taking Jenny’s veganism very hard. She tried to comfort him. “It’s probably just a phase.”

  “I certainly hope so,” he grumbled.

  • • •

  LATER THAT AFTERNOON Krister headed off to the restaurant. Sammie showed that he had to go, and there was nothing else for Irene to do but go back outside in the rain. When they returned, Sammie was wet through and through, so Irene thought she’d just as well give him a bath. It had been a while, and he was starting to smell. After the usual fight, the bathroom was soaked, so Irene decided it was a good time to clean it. The kitchen floor also needed a thorough scrubbing, but perhaps it would be better to vacuum the whole house first. She was not often hit by the urge, but today, as she felt crumbs crunching underfoot, she was seized by cleaning mania. Not to mention the piles of laundry stacking up; it was hard to imagine how high they’d get once the twins returned the next day and unpacked after their ski vacation. And the heap of ironing had become gigantic. But there Irene drew the line. Those who needed something ironed would just have to do it themselves.

  Even though Jenny and Katarina cleaned their rooms themselves as part of their allowance agreement, Irene decided she’d still vacuum in there to catch the biggest dust bunnies. Sammie was cowering beneath Katarina’s bed, so she didn’t send the hose under there. Although he happily fought cats and badgers up at their summer cabin in Värmland, he was scared to death of the vacuum cleaner. He wouldn’t come out until it was put away again.

  She did vacuum under Jenny’s bed. The vacuum cleaner hit something, and a large, gray rolled-up poster came out. Curious, Irene peeked into it. She could see handwritten red letters: SLAUGHTER IS TORTURE. She shook out the contents, four handwritten posters with various slogans: DON’T USE ANIMAL-TESTED PRODUCTS! SPRAY-PAINT FUR COATS! EAT MEAT = EAT CORPSES!

  Irene sank down onto Jenny’s bed. There was a sticker on one of the posters bearing the initials ALF. Like most police officers, she knew that ALF stood for Animal Liberation Front. It appeared that Jenny was not only a vegan refusing animal products for ethical reasons, but that she was also an animal-rights activist. Irene remembered that the shop selling fur coats in the center of Göteborg had had its windows smashed and all the fur coats on display spray-painted. Had Jenny been a part of that?

  “Give me strength. What am I supposed to do now?” she said out loud to herself.

  As she looked inside the roll again, she saw a smaller piece of paper. She pulled it out and smoothed it down.

  It was obviously a hand-drawn map. On the top was written “Liberation Zoo FS.” Irene sat for a moment studying the map and suddenly put it all together—the pet-store break-in at Frölunda Square. She got up resolutely and went to the phone in the hallway.

  She called a few colleagues in the Västra district and finally found out what had happened.

  On the morning of January 27, a report had been filed concerning a pet store at Frölunda Square. The owner had just opened the shop and had gone into the storeroom to get food for the animals. When he came back out, a youth wearing a black hoodie ran out the door. The owner tried to catch him, but he got away through the square’s automatic glass doors. There was an old VW bus outside the building. Its engine was running, and its license plate was covered with mud. It shot away toward Tynnered. The police had not found the perpetrator, the bus, or Putte, the dwarf rabbit that had been the only animal stolen.

  Jenny could hardly have been involved in this so-called liberation. She didn’t declare herself to be a vegan until two weeks later. She’d still been happily eating hot dogs and chicken at the time of Putte’s rabbit-napping. But why would Jenny have these posters and this map under her bed? Irene decided that it was clear there’d have to be a serious talk with her daughter once she’d returned.

  She finished her cleaning halfheartedly, her thoughts elsewhere.

  IRENE WAS WATCHING the news on TV when the phone rang. She put down the plate of microwaved leftover shrimp strew. She had a feeling she knew who was calling and felt a twinge of guilt. She was right.

  “Hi, Irene, it’s Mama. It’s been a while since I heard from you.”

  Irene made the usual excuses: too much work, too much stuff to do, she’d planned to call.

  Her mother would soon be seventy but was still energetic and healthy. She hadn’t married again after Irene’s father passed away ten years earlier. They agreed that Irene would come over for Sunday lunch before she’d have to go get the twins from the central train station at 4:30 P.M.

  She’d barely finished her cooled off leftovers before the phone rang again.

  “Hi, Huss. It’s me, Lund.”

  Her former colleague and old friend Håkan Lund, now superintendent of Central Station, had never called her at home before. Irene managed to hide her surprise as she said, “Hi. Nice to hear your friendly voice.”

  “Same here, but that’s not why I called. We just received a call from Löwander Hospital. There’s been a fire on the grounds. Apparently some kind of garden shed. I couldn’t contact your duty officer … let me see … Hans Borg. Since I know that you’re involved in the murdered-nurse case over there, I thought you might want to know.”

  Andersson had obviously forgotten that Hans Borg had weekend duty when he’d sent him home, and Borg’s name was still up. Not surprising. With Jonny out, too, there was a lot to keep track of. Irene debated for a moment what to do.

  “Thanks for calling, Håkan. I’ll head out to the hospital right away.”

  “Okay Hope this helps.”

  WHEN IRENE ARRIVED, the fire was out. The fire truck was parked in front of the building and the hose had been dragged around the perimeter, but the firemen were already winding it up. Irene spotted the fire chief a moment before he was about to drive away. She ran up to his red Volvo and knocked on the window.

  “What do you want?” The chief had a deep, warm voice with a touch of a Scanian accent.

  “Hi, I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss, and I’m working on the case of the nurse murdered here earlier this week.”

  “I read about that.”

  “What happened? Was anyone injured?”

  “No, no one is hurt. There was no one in the shed when it caught fire. We got here quickly, but it was thanks to the guys in the patrol car the whole thing didn’t go up in smoke.”

  “They called in the alarm?”

  “Yes, it seems they were looking for someone. As they got near the shed, they saw the fire. One of the guys ran back to the car and gave the alarm. Then he brought the tiny fire extinguisher from the patrol car. It’s not much, but it was better than nothing.”

  “And you made sure no one was in the shed.”

  “Right. There was just a heap of trash inside that was on fire.”

  “Do you think it was set?”

  “Hard to say, but I believe it was. The fire inspectors sh
ould be able to give you an answer, but they won’t be here until early tomorrow morning. Right now it’s still too hot to go inside.”

  Irene thanked him. The fire truck started its engine with a deafening rumble, and both vehicles disappeared through the front gate. After they left, the silence was palpable. Irene got her flashlight and walked toward the park behind the hospital building. It was spooky to have the large, dark building behind her. A hospital should be a hive of activity, not a monument of black silence. I imagine Nurse Tekla is making her night rounds now, Irene thought with a grimace in the darkness.

  As she rounded the building, the smell of smoke became heavy, almost suffocating. She switched on her flashlight and walked toward the overgrown garden. At the opening made by the wild lilac arbor, she turned. If Mama Bird had been standing in this spot, she would have clearly seen a person entering the hospital building, but what about when the person left? It must have been pitch-black after the electricity went out. Wait a minute. Of course, the moon, she thought. There had been a full moon that night. Siv Persson swore she’d seen Nurse Tekla in the bright moonlight. Irene shivered. All this talk of ghosts was starting to get on her nerves.

  She shone the beam of her flashlight directly through the arbor. The garden shed was still standing but appeared to be burned out. Irene tried to peer inside, but it was hopeless. Everything was black as soot. Better to let the technicians look at the residue in the morning. There was nothing she could do now. The lawn sucked at her rubber boots as she squelched back to her car.

  She pulled off her muddy boots and changed to her jogging shoes from the trunk. If the weather was going to stay like this, she wouldn’t want to go jogging. She’d have to exercise indoors instead. Tomorrow she taught a women’s group, something she enjoyed. She’d been training eight female officers in jujitsu for the past year. The suggestion had come up at last year’s annual meeting, and having Irene lead the class was a given. There was no other female black belt, third dan, in Sweden. Without giving it a second thought, Irene took on the job. Sometimes she brought Katarina with her and used her as an assistant trainer. Her pupils had been extremely hardworking, and the way they were going, they’d soon be on a par with the men.

  She sheltered from the rain in the car to dial Superintendent Andersson’s number. Ten rings, no answer. She dialed Central Station and reached Håkan Lund again. There was nothing for it but to tell Lund that she’d be on call the rest of the night. Birgitta Moberg was scheduled on Sunday. Then everything would be back to normal.

  IRENE’S PHONE RANG at 2:25 A.M. She was awake immediately and quickly threw on her clothes. Krister did not stir at the sound. He’d just gotten home one hour earlier and was in deep sleep.

  This new case was not pleasant, but not unusual. A man had beaten his wife to death in their Guldheden apartment building.

  When Irene arrived, the husband had already been taken down to the station. The woman was lying in a pool of blood in the bathroom. Her face was misshapen after a beating gone berserk. The technician was already in the middle of investigating the crime scene. Irene didn’t recognize him and decided to wait with her questions until he was finished.

  In the meantime she did a hasty reconnaissance. It was a five-room apartment, complete with kitchen. The place was tidy and well cared for. In the largest bedroom, there was a huge, unmade king-size bed. The sheets were rose-colored. There was a great deal of blood there as well. It appeared that the beating had begun in the bedroom and culminated in the bathroom. In the photo of the woman on the dresser, she seemed young and beautiful, and she was smiling at the photographer.

  The technician appeared to be wrapping it up. He stood and wearily pulled off his gloves as Irene walked toward him with a friendly nod.

  “Hi, Irene Huss. Inspector in the Violent Crime Division.”

  The young man looked at her gloomily from behind glasses as thick as bottle bottoms. Maybe it was his thin black hair, parted on the side, that made Irene think of a vampire. He was unusually tall, thin, and sallow besides.

  “Hi, I’m Erik Larsson, Åhlén’s substitute.”

  “How do you think this happened?”

  “Major trauma to the head and neck. The back of the skull is broken. The victim reeks of alcohol, as does the perpetrator.”

  “Where’s the patrol car?”

  “They got another call. I told them they could take off, since you were on the way. This lady and I could take care of ourselves in the meantime.”

  Maybe he said it as a joke, but Irene still shivered. Where had Svante Malm dug up this guy? Probably in the nearest crypt.

  The men from the funeral home arrived. They packed up the body and then drove off to Pathology. Irene left the technician in the apartment. As she walked into the hallway, a neighbor stuck her head out from her front door.

  “So did he finally beat her to death?”

  It was five in the morning, and the woman was dressed in sweats and a sloppy cotton sweater. Her hair was greasy and gathered in a ponytail. Even though she wasn’t as tall as Irene, the woman gave the impression of being fairly large. She probably weighed over two hundred pounds. Irene’s experience told her she’d found a witness eager to talk. She showed the woman her police ID by waving it just like they did in Hollywood.

  “Morning. Criminal Inspector Huss here. May I come in and have a little chat with you, as long as you’re awake?”

  “Sure.” The woman couldn’t hide her pleasure and eagerly backed up to let Irene come through the door.

  Irene automatically let her eyes sweep through the room. She concluded that this was a woman who really needed a cleaning service. The hat rack was covered in clothes, and the floor beneath it was layered in shoes of various styles. Irene’s feet crunched crumbs and other debris as she walked over the floor. In the minimal kitchen, the counter was piled with dirty dishes, which she thought might have been the source of the odd smell in the place. However, when Irene entered the living room, the smell’s origin was clear. It had probably not been cleaned in a year or more, and cats filled the place. There were at least nine that she could count. Unconsciously, she touched the surgical tape beneath her chin.

  “Please go ahead and sit down,” the woman said. She gestured toward a worn-out armchair of an indistinct gray, its seat cushion covered with stains.

  Irene gave the cat colony a mistrustful look. “No, thanks. I’m not going to stay long. Excuse me, I didn’t catch your name.”

  “I probably didn’t say it. I’m Johanna Storm.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-five.”

  “Profession?”

  “I’m studying psychology. I have one year left until I take my qualifying exams.”

  Mostly for appearance’s sake, Irene wrote the details in her notebook. “What did you mean by asking if he’d finally beaten her to death?”

  “Just what I said.”

  “So he often beat her up?”

  “Yup.”

  “How often?”

  “Since Christmas it’s been every weekend. Maria—the wife, that is—is Polish and can’t speak Swedish.”

  “When did she come to Sweden?”

  Johanna thought about it. “I don’t know. She moved in with Schölenhielm last summer. But she’s probably less than half his age. What a horny old goat!”

  “Were you the person who called the police?”

  “Yes, because it was worse than usual this time. The police have been here lots of times before. At least five or six. This time she screamed so horribly, one long scream, and then everything went totally silent. My cats got really nervous, and I just knew something terrible had happened.”

  “That was right before two?”

  “Right.”

  Johanna Storm didn’t know much more about the couple in the neighboring apartment than that Maria had stayed at home during the day and Schölenhielm was a used-car salesman. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.

  Irene de
clined politely. Although she’d recently had her tetanus vaccination, she doubted she would survive drinking tea from one of Johanna’s mugs.

  IT WAS ALMOST eight o’clock when Birgitta stuck her head through the door of Irene’s office. “Hi, what are you doing here?”

  Irene explained the unfortunate circumstances that had brought her to the office that Sunday morning. When she mentioned Hans Borg’s name, Birgitta’s face clouded over.

  “Andersson is going to let him off. He called me yesterday and said he and Bergström had decided to let Hannu Rauhala and Borg switch jobs. On paper, Borg is still with us in the Violent Crime Division. But the exchange is made already.”

  “So no internal investigation?”

  “Nope. The bosses say that there’s already too much bad publicity. It wouldn’t look good after the incident with the woman walking her dog in Stockholm.”

  “You and I both know that similar incidents happen all the time that never get reported to the media.”

  “That’s exactly what I told Andersson. Unfortunately, I got really upset and said a few things I probably shouldn’t have. But I was so damned disappointed. Andersson told me to think everything over. If I argued too much, he’d consider moving me, too.”

  Irene contemplated her colleague. “So what you’re after is revenge on Hans Borg?”

  “Of course! He made my life hellish for years.”

  “Then you want to move to another department?”

  Birgitta stiffened. “No.”

  “Well, then listen to me. Forget fantasies of revenge. Of course what Borg did was disgusting. But if bosses feel backed into a corner, they’ll lash out. At you. If you keep pushing, you’ll be transferred, and there will be a write-up in your file about how uncooperative you are to work with. They’ll bury you in the bowels of the department without a chance of any career advancement.”

  Birgitta didn’t answer.

  Irene continued calmly. “This whole time you’ve kept your cool. Wait it out. Don’t show your feelings.”

  “So if they smell blood, they’ll attack, is that what you’re saying?”