by Jon Stenhugg
The owner had put two slices of white bread on a paper plate in the refrigerator, wrapped under a plastic foil. Sara found a tiny plastic container of margarine and a portion of either orange marmalade or blackcurrant jam to choose from. Lying beside the paper plate she found the luxury of a plastic spoon and knife.
Sara watched the morning news on the TV while she ate, happy to see her case had still not been discovered by the media. At five to eight Sven called her cell phone.
“Good morning,” he said. “Is Mariefred still worth its reputation?”
“As what?” asked Sara. “The tiniest town on the planet? All I’ve seen here is a miniature room and a breakfast that defies description because it’s too small to see. The owner is nice, very friendly. I’ll remember this place the next time I need a weekend holiday, but I’ll bring my own food with me. So far the only good news is we’re still not on the news yet, as far as I can see.”
“It’s the weekend,” said Sven. “Things will change tomorrow, so let’s get as much work done as we can. The disappearance case in your vicinity yesterday was on the news, and people have been calling in all kinds of sightings and descriptions. I think we have some very good leads to work with.”
“Good. When can I leave this place?”
“You should talk to the victim’s wife first. I want you to ask her about what Hoffberg thought about the Prime Minister. Ask her if her husband had any feelings of aggression towards the PM, and if he ever spoke of threats to the government.”
“Threats?” asked Sara. “Is there something I should know before I talk to her again?”
“Just ask her about it. I’ll be out there soon, and I’ll have Ekman with me.”
“Ekman? NSS Ekman? So there is something I should know.”
“Just ask her and see what kind of reaction you get,” said Sven. “And if you have time, get over to the wife of the man who disappeared. I want to eliminate the possibility that the two cases might be related. I’ll be coming out there about lunchtime. What can you recommend?”
“I recommend you take lunch with you. Even a hamburger from the real world would be appreciated,” said Sara.
*
She was on her way across the bridge to Sela Island when her cell phone rang. It was Sven again.
“We’re out here already. Where can we meet?”
“I just finished up interviewing the wife again. I’m on my way to see if there’s any connection to the man who disappeared out here yesterday. I saw they featured it on the news.”
“Yes, and people are still calling in to us about it. How far away are the two locations?”
“Not far at all. The murder case is near the harbour and the disappearance case is out on the island somewhere.”
“We’re getting information which could be related to your murder case, although people are calling regarding the disappearance, which is good.”
“Do you know who’s working the disappearance?” she asked.
“No. One of the officers assigned to the disappearance was in the patrol boat diverted to your case. Anyway, all we know so far is the man who went missing yesterday hasn’t shown up. I spoke to his wife on the phone this morning. She’s assuming the worst. Shall we meet there?”
“Yeah, I’m almost there,” said Sara.
“I know, I see you coming.” Sven got out of his car and waved to Sara as she drove up just before the long driveway to the Spimler house. He was wearing his usual blue plaid shirt under a green army jacket. Sara had joked about it once, and he’d told her he hated to shop for clothes, so when he found something he liked he bought everything he could at the same time. The blue plaid shirt was actually one of eight, one worn each day and all seven of them washed at the end of the week while he wore the eighth.
She got into Sven’s car to discuss what they would be asking about when they met Mrs Spimler, and twisted her head around to see Ekman sitting in the back seat.
Lars Ekman stretched out his hand. “Ekman,” he said. “We’ve met before.”
“Yes,” said Sara, “I remember. The Dolphin case. Are you here because of the disappearance? Is there a connection to my case?”
“No. We’re looking at the Spimler disappearance to make sure there’s no connection, but there might be matters of national security involved in your homicide,” said Ekman. “We’re not taking over yet, but I want to be briefed about what you’ve found out so far, and be kept up to speed. I’ll tag along with you on your next interview, if you don’t mind. Did Hoffberg’s widow have anything more to say today?”
“She mentioned several arguments between the PM and her husband, but she seemed surprised by the possibility of threats to the government. We have a witness who gave us a possible vehicle used to exit the crime scene, an old Volvo, and that’s about it.”
As Sven spoke about who would begin the interview, Sara looked out the front window of his car to see the Hoffberg house on the other side of the channel. She pointed to it and said, “Sven, the Hoffberg house. That’s where the murder took place.”
*
Sara walked between Sven and Lars as they made their way up the walkway towards the Spimler house, two storeys, built nearly a hundred years ago, now a shiny yellow from a coat of fresh paint. There were several buildings scattered near the house for tractors and animal feed, and the smell of animal dung hung in the crisp autumn air. At the back of the house, facing the channel, a large patio covered in vines blazed in red leaves.
Martin Spimler’s wife answered the door and let them in, waving aside their identification cards. She was an attractive woman in her late forties, sunburned and appeared to be strong, a weightlifter of bales of hay and sheep.
“I know who you are,” she said. “Please tell me if you’ve heard anything more.”
When they got settled in the reception room, Mrs Spimler began the story again. They let her talk, listening for anything new which might be added to what she’d already provided on the telephone.
Her husband hadn’t returned from his fishing trip. He was overdue by more than four hours when she’d taken one last look towards the small ribbon of water separating Sela Island from the rest of Sweden. Her husband’s lunch had become cold and inedible several hours earlier, and he still hadn’t answered her text message. She’d keyed in the number of the local police station. An unusual lull in emergency events made it possible for her to get assistance immediately. A helicopter had been dispatched to scan the lake just west of Stockholm; a patrol boat was sent out to begin a search of the water, starting from her home. In less than two hours they’d found his workboat, the Little Miss Perfect, drifting empty in the blue waters of Lake Mälaren, just opposite City Hall, in the very centre of the city. After a while she fell silent, seemingly dwelling on what might have happened to her husband. Sara interrupted her thoughts.
“Maybe you could tell us a little about this house, how long you’ve lived here and what you and your husband normally do.”
Mrs Spimler seemed surprised at first, but then took the chance to remember something more pleasant. “This is my family home. I inherited it when my parents passed away, and Martin and I moved out here to fulfil our dream of living in the country. It’s been owned by our family for over a hundred years.”
Mrs Spimler smiled as she told of how pleased her husband had been to be able to live near the water. A Navy diver for many years, ten years ago he had been offered a job working for a private company servicing oil rigs in the Atlantic, off the Norwegian coast. The money he could make in just a few weeks usually lasted them half a year and he could spend his free time under the water, doing his own naturalistic studies of the marine wildlife of the lake outside their doors. She ran the highly mechanised farm, which didn’t require much work from either of them.
Sven asked if they knew the neighbours around the farm, and Mrs Spimler replied that out in the country, everyone knew everyone.
“And the Hoffbergs?” he asked, motioning towards the house.<
br />
“Oh, them. I don’t know them very well, but Martin knows Leo Hoffberg. Their house is over there – you can see it from where you’re sitting. They have some kind of project together regarding the environment. They speak to each other on the phone a lot. I don’t care for him, Hoffberg. He’s a pompous ass. Used to be a Member of Parliament so he thinks he’s somebody important. He made a lot of absolutely ridiculous proposals in the past. Would have ruined farming in this country, or at least for us. He isn’t a very practical person, but my husband likes him.”
They left Mrs Spimler at the door and were walking back to their cars when the patrol boat officer called Sara’s cell phone. They exchanged only a few words. She got into Sven’s car as she said goodbye to the officer.
“So there’s a link between Spimler and Hoffberg,” said Sven as she settled into her seat. “There isn’t much of a connection, but they weren’t total strangers. As far as I’m concerned, we can put Spimler on the list of suspects for the Hoffberg killing. Have you ever met Cantsten, the new Assistant District Attorney? She’s still a bit of a bureaucrat, but she’ll get over it soon.”
“I agree about Spimler,” said Sara, “but there’s more. The officer who was investigating the disappearance just got word Spimler’s boat has been searched. They found an envelope from the Defence Committee where Hoffberg worked when he was in Parliament. There was a photocopy of a map in it.”
Sven stared at the steering wheel, patiently waiting. Finally, he asked, “OK, I give up, a map of what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “He said it was just water.”
Ekman squirmed slightly in the back seat, swallowing several questions as he tried to get Sven’s attention.
“Get that map on your way back to the station and leave it at Forensics,” said Sven. “We’ve got work to do when you get there. I’ll talk to Cantsten for you and get Spimler in her sights as a suspect, and I’ll form the team for tomorrow. Anyone you would prefer?”
Sara somehow managed to stop the emotional response on its way up from her gut. Controlling her voice, she said, “I’d rather not have Robert Johnson on this case, if we can avoid it. He seems to slow things down.” Johnson had created a lot of confusion with his errors not long ago. He’d even been investigated by Internal Affairs. Since then Sara found it difficult to trust him, and when they worked together she always reduced him to a patrolman. She worked the case with one man short when he was part of the team.
“Sara, get over it and move on. If he can’t pull his own weight let me deal with it. Give him a chance again. We don’t have enough manpower so he’s on the team. End of story.”
Sara walked back to her car, mulling over the change in the investigation. She followed Sven and Ekman up to the turnoff to the Hoffberg home.
*
Ekman switched on the car radio, found a news programme and adjusted the volume.
“Keep the Terrier focused on Spimler as Hoffberg’s killer. And I want her eyes open for any connection to an explosive weapon. I’m sure the map found in Spimler’s boat is important. Send me a copy when it comes in.”
Sven nodded his head as he replied, “Sure, but you know Sara will start to work this Volvo lead.” He turned down the radio.
“Yeah. And it might get us somewhere, but it’s important we find Spimler. He must be the key.”
Sven pointed out a roadside restaurant ahead. “You hungry? It seems clear Hoffberg hid some kind of highly explosive device in the middle of the city. Don’t we have an obligation to allow people to avoid getting hurt?”
“Sven, listen carefully. The Prime Minister has said he doesn’t believe in the threat, and he works there every day. They’re searching the House of Parliament for explosives, and so far they haven’t found anything. What we have to know is who killed Hoffberg, and why. If it’s tied to some kind of threat it’ll emerge as part of the investigation, but don’t steer your team into a possible dead end. We need to know more.”
“And if the PM’s wrong?” Sven asked as he pulled into the drive-thru lane. “I mean, we’re not the only ones who work in the centre of the city.”
“The PM is wrong,” said Ekman. “And you’re right about us working close to something that might kill us and half the city. That’s why we have to locate that device before anyone else. In the meantime your team has a murder to solve, and fast. Leave the questions of security to me.”
*
Yeah, right. National Security, Sara said to herself as she watched Sven’s car disappear on the way to Stockholm. She glanced at the house across the small stretch of water and the image of Hoffberg’s corpse flashed back into her mind. I’m going to catch this murderer anyway, regardless of what the NSS thinks.
Sara left Spimler’s driveway, and took a left turn to enter the nearest neighbour’s property. No one answered her loud knocks on the door, and she turned to walk back to her car, when a small brown tourist sign indicating an ancient rune stone caught her attention. She walked the grassy path to view it. Next to the rune stone, a historical landmark plaque told her the stone was more than a thousand years old, and had been carved by Ingefrid to commemorate her father killing a man named Assur to avenge some kind of deceitful act carried out in the west. A Templar cross was engraved in the centre of the stone. Justice was a lot simpler in those days, thought Sara. You need justice? Just go to the Ting and make your case, and if you can kill the other guy, you win. Then you get to write it in stone.
Hoffberg’s house was out of view, behind the wall of trees she’d noticed on her first visit. Then she remembered the policeman in the patrol boat still waiting on the other side, and drove quickly from the island to the other side of the channel.
Hoffberg’s boat was sleek and powerful, but with barely enough room for two people on board. An open hatch led to a small crawl space forward. An enormous V-12 motor glistened in the sun, and there was a scent of oil and fuel in the air.
The police patrol boat was moored next to it, bobbing gently in the chill of the afternoon, and Burger was waiting for Sara, hunkered down in the ruff of his boat, tapping his feet to the sounds of a local country and western radio station.
“Has Forensics had a chance to examine his boat?” Sara asked the officer as she looked across the narrow channel towards the Spimler home. She saw Mrs Spimler moving about in the kitchen. When winter came and the channel was covered with ice it would be easy to walk from one house to the other.
“No.” Burger turned off his radio. “They told me they’d be taking it in on a trailer later today.”
“Well, since you’ve already been poking around on it, let’s see what you found,” she told him. “I still want Forensics to look at his boat.” She donned a pair of plastic gloves from the back pocket of her jeans. “I also want to have a look at the map you talked about. Where is it now?”
“Talk to Stockholm’s maritime police, they contacted me when they found it. It’s strange, but I found a map in this boat too. I looked around the motor first, wanted to see if there was anyone hiding there. I found the envelope and the map, and then I put it back in that compartment. I suppose I’ll have to be fingerprinted.”
“No.” Sara stooped to open the door to the compartment next to the wheel. “We’ve got your prints already. Procedure as usual. But if you’d had your gloves on we could at least have been able to process this a little bit quicker.”
“I’ll wear them to bed from now on,” said Burger.
“So tell me,” Sara asked as she pulled the map from the envelope, “what’s on this map? I don’t see anything on it at all.”
“It’s like I told you,” he said, “it’s a map of water. You can see from the coordinates it’s somewhere out in the Baltic.”
“Just water? Strange thing to have a map of.”
“Not on a boat,” said Burger.
Sara returned the map to the envelope and placed it in a plastic evidence bag. She took several digital photos of the inside and bottom of the boat for he
r own purposes. The people from Forensics were always very thorough, but they sometimes missed just the angle she would need later on. Her own images couldn’t be used in court as evidence, but they might be helpful to stimulate her thinking. She was already thinking about the map.
“I want you to stay here until the dog team has arrived. They’ll need your help to walk through the site. You can refer to me if necessary,” said Sara. “I’ll be contacting you either this afternoon or tomorrow morning.”
She began the drive back to her flat in Sundbyberg, where she could curl up in a chair with a cup of green tea while she stared at the TV and the Sunday night news.
*
Sara put her television on mute when the late news was replaced by a commercial spot advertisement. Still nothing about my case. Good. She glanced around her flat. It was simple, but at least she owned the lease on it and was not at the mercy of a greedy landlord. Sara had spent most of her summer holiday repainting the walls, and the smell of fresh paint lingered. She had arranged a number of potted plants in one corner where she could sit on a thick prayer rug that seemed to levitate her entire body when she meditated. It had become her most important pastime, a way to balance her assertive, go-for-the-throat attitude during the day, and expand her awareness. Sara had begun to realise that the peaceful contemplation just before meditation was also a method for her to analyse the complexity of the cases she worked on.
She walked over to the corner, lit a small candle to focus on and turned off the ceiling lamp before she crawled into her artificial jungle and sat on the rug. Focusing on the candle for a minute, Sara began to review her interview with the victim’s wife. She recalled the scene and was struck by the detail of Kristina Hoffberg’s account of the day of the murder. It seemed the widow could remember everything.
