The Man From Beijing

by Unknown

  ‘Where does she live?’ asked Sundberg.

  He pointed at the house next to the last one at the edge of the village.

  ‘When we moved here,’ he said, ‘Julia was married. Her husband, Rune, used to drive forestry vehicles, until he burst an artery and died in the cab of his truck. She went a bit odd after that – wandering around with her hands clenched in her pockets, if you see what I mean. I suppose we’ve always thought she should be able to die here. She has two children who come to see her once a year. They’re just waiting for their little inheritance and couldn’t care less about her.’

  Sundberg and Huddén went outside. The woman looked up when Sundberg paused in front of her, but she said nothing. Nor did she protest when Huddén helped to lead her back home. The house was neat and tidy. On one wall were photographs of her dead husband and the two children who didn’t care about her.

  Sundberg took out her notebook for the first time. Huddén examined a document with official stamps that was lying on the kitchen table.

  ‘Julia Holmgren,’ he said. ‘She’s eighty-seven.’

  ‘Make sure somebody phones the home-help service. I don’t care what time they normally come to see to her, get them here right now.’

  The old woman sat at the kitchen table, looking out of the window. Clouds were hanging heavily over the landscape.

  ‘Should we try asking her a few questions?’

  Sundberg shook her head.

  ‘There’s no point. What could she possibly tell us?’

  She nodded at Huddén, indicating that he should leave them alone. He went out to the yard. Sundberg went into the living room, stood in the middle of the floor and closed her eyes. She tried to come to terms with what had happened.

  There was something about the old woman that set bells ringing faintly in the back of Sundberg’s mind. But she was unable to pin the thought down. She continued standing there, opened her eyes and tried to think. What had actually happened that January morning? A number of people murdered in a tiny remote village. Plus several dead pets. Everything pointed towards a wild frenzy. Could a single attacker really have done all this? Had several killers turned up in the middle of the night, then disappeared again after carrying out their brutal massacre? It was too soon to say. Sundberg had no answers, only a set of circumstances and many dead bodies. She had a couple still alive who had withdrawn to this place in the middle of nowhere from Stockholm, years ago. And a senile old woman in the habit of standing in the road wearing only a nightdress.

  But there was a starting point, it seemed. Not everybody in the village was dead. At least three people had survived. Why? Coincidence, or did it have some meaning?

  Sundberg stood motionless for a few more minutes. She could see through the window that the forensic team from Gävle had arrived, along with a woman she assumed was the police doctor. She took a deep breath. She was still the one in charge – for the time being, at any rate, but she needed help from Stockholm today.

  She pulled out her mobile phone and called Robertsson, the district prosecutor, to explain the situation.

  Sundberg wondered how he would react. None of us has ever seen anything like this before, she thought.

  She went outside where the two forensic officers and the police doctor were waiting.

  ‘You need to see this for yourselves. We’ll start with the man lying outside in the snow. Then we’ll go through the houses one by one. You can decide if you’ll need extra assistance. It’s a very big crime scene.’

  Sundberg parried their questions. They had to see it all with their own eyes. She led the procession from one macabre scene to the next. When they came to the third house, Lönngren, the senior forensic officer, said he needed to call for reinforcements right now. At the fourth house, the police doctor said the same thing. Calls were made. They continued through the remaining houses and gathered once more on the road. By then the first journalist had arrived. Sundberg told Ytterström to make sure nobody spoke to him. She would do it herself as soon as she had time.

  The people standing around her on the snow-covered road were pale and silent. None of them could grasp the implications of what they had just seen.

  ‘Well, that’s the way it is,’ said Sundberg. ‘Our collective experience and abilities are going to be put to the test. This investigation is going to dominate the mass media, and not only in Sweden. We’re going to be under enormous pressure to produce results by tomorrow. At the latest. Let’s hope that whoever is responsible for all this has left traces that we can follow to catch him or them pronto. We need to try to remain calm and get help whenever necessary. District Prosecutor Robertsson is on his way here. I want him to see everything for himself, and to take charge of the investigation. Any questions? If not, we need to get down to work.’

  ‘I think I have a question,’ said Lönngren.

  He was a short, thin guy. Sundberg considered him a very efficient technician. But his weakness was that he tended to work too slowly for those desperate for answers by yesterday.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘Is there a risk that this maniac, if that’s what he is, might strike again?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Sundberg. ‘As we know nothing at all, we have to assume that anything might happen.’

  ‘There’s going to be panic out there,’ said Lönngren. ‘For once I’m relieved to live in town.’

  The group split up just as Sten Robertsson arrived. The reporter who’d been hovering outside the taped-off area immediately closed in on Robertsson as he got out of his car.

  ‘Not now,’ shouted Sundberg. ‘You’ll have to wait.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Vivi! Can’t you say anything at all? You’re not usually impossible.’

  ‘Right now I am.’

  She disliked the reporter, who worked for Hudiksvalls Tidning. He often wrote articles criticising the way the police worked. What probably irritated her most was that he was often right to criticise.

  Robertsson was feeling the cold – his jacket was far too thin. He’s vain, was Sundberg’s immediate thought.

  ‘So, let’s hear all about it,’ said Robertsson.

  ‘No. Come with me.’

  For the third time that morning Vivi Sundberg went through the entire crime scene. On two occasions Robertsson was forced to go outside, on the point of throwing up. She waited patiently for him. She wasn’t sure he was up to the task. But she also knew that he was the best of the prosecutors currently available.

  When they finally arrived back at the road, she suggested that they sit in her car. She had managed to grab a Thermos of coffee before leaving the police station.

  Robertsson was rattled. His hand holding the mug of coffee was shaking noticeably.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything like that before?’ he asked.

  ‘Never.’

  ‘Surely nobody but a lunatic could have done this?’

  ‘Who knows? I’ve asked the forensic guys to call up whatever extra resources they think are appropriate. And the doctor as well.’

  ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘A sub. This is probably her first crime scene. She’s called for help.’

  ‘And what about you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘First and foremost an indication from you if there’s anything in particular we should concentrate on. And then we have to bring in the National Investigation Department, of course.’

  ‘What should we be concentrating on?’

  ‘You’re the one in charge of the investigation, not me.’

  ‘All that matters is that we find the bastard who’s responsible for this.’

  ‘Or bastards. We can’t exclude the possibility that there’s more than one of them.’

  ‘Lunatics don’t usually work in teams.’

  ‘But we can’t exclude the possibility.’

  ‘Is there anything we can exclude?’

  ‘No. Nothing. Not even the possibility of it happeni
ng again.’

  Robertsson nodded. They sat lost in thought. People were moving on the road and between the houses. There was an occasional flash from a camera. A tent had been raised over the body discovered in the snow. Several photographers and reporters had arrived. And the first television crew.

  ‘I want you to participate in the first press conference,’ she said. ‘I can’t cope on my own. And we’ll have to hold it today. Later this afternoon.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Ludde?’

  Tobias Ludwig was the chief of police in Hudiksvall. He was young and had never been a beat cop. He’d studied law, then followed that with a course for future chiefs of police. Neither Sten Robertsson nor Vivi Sundberg liked him. He had little idea of what practical police work entailed and spent most of his time worrying about internal police administration.

  ‘No, I haven’t spoken to him,’ she said. ‘All he’ll do is urge us to be extra careful filling out the paperwork.’

  ‘He’s not that bad,’ said Robertsson.

  ‘No, he’s worse,’ said Sundberg. ‘But I’ll call him.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  She called the police station in Hudiksvall, but Tobias Ludwig was on official business in Stockholm. She asked the switchboard to contact him on his mobile phone.

  Robertsson was busy talking to the newly arrived forensic officers from Gävle. Sundberg was left standing beside Tom and Ninni Hansson in their garden. The Hanssons had donned their army-issue fur coats and were observing what was happening with interest. Start with those still alive, Vivi Sundberg thought. Tom and Ninni Hansson might have seen something without realising it.

  A killer who decides to eliminate a whole village must have some kind of plan for how to go about it, even if he’s totally crazy.

  She walked over to the road and looked around. The frozen lake, the forest, the distant mountains with all their peaks and valleys. Where had he come from? she asked herself. I think I can be certain that whoever did this was not a woman. But he, or they, must have come from somewhere, and they must have gone somewhere.

  She was just about to go back in through the gate when a car pulled up with one of the dog patrols they had sent for.

  ‘Only one?’ she asked, without trying to conceal her irritation.

  ‘Bonzo’s not feeling well,’ said the officer.

  ‘Are you telling me that police dogs can be off sick?’

  ‘Evidently. Where do you want me to start? What’s happened?’

  ‘Talk to Huddén.’

  The officer was about to ask her something else, but she turned her back on him and took Tom and Ninni Hansson back into their house. As they sat down, her mobile phone rang.

  ‘I hear you’ve been trying to contact me,’ said Tobias Ludwig. ‘You know I don’t like being disturbed when I’m at meetings of the National Police Board.’

  ‘I’m afraid that can’t be helped on this occasion.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We have several dead bodies in Hesjövallen.’

  She described the situation briefly. Ludwig didn’t say a word. She waited.

  ‘I understand. I’ll set off as soon as I can.’

  Vivi Sundberg glanced at her watch.

  ‘We need to call a press conference,’ she said. ‘We’ll time it for six o’clock. Until then I’ll just say that there’s been a murder. I won’t reveal how many victims. Come as fast as you can. But don’t crash the car.’

  ‘I’ll see if I can get an emergency car to take me.’

  ‘Preferably a helicopter. We’re talking about nineteen murdered people, Tobias.’

  They hung up. The Hanssons had heard every word she said. She could see the disbelief in their faces.

  The nightmare was expanding all the time. Reality was a long way off.

  She sat down in a chair, having shooed away a sleeping cat.

  ‘Everybody in the village is dead. You two and Julia are the only ones still alive. Even people’s pets have been killed. I can understand that you are shocked. We all are. But I have to ask you some questions. Please try to answer as accurately as possible. I also want you to try and think of things I don’t ask you about. Even the smallest thing you can remember might be important. Do you understand?’

  The response was silent, worried-looking nods. Sundberg decided to tread carefully. She started talking about that morning. When had they woken up? Had they heard anything? What about during the night? Had anything happened? Had anything been different from usual? She asked them to ransack their memories.

  They took turns replying. One filled in when the other broke off. It was obvious that they were doing their very best to be helpful.

  She went backwards, a sort of wintry retracing of steps through an unknown landscape. Had anything special happened the previous evening? Nothing. ‘Everything was the same as usual’ were the words recurring in almost every answer they gave her.

  They were interrupted by Erik Huddén. What should he do with the journalists? More kept arriving, and they were getting restless.

  ‘Hang on a bit longer,’ she said. ‘I’ll be with you shortly. Tell them there’ll be a press conference in Hudiksvall at six o’clock this evening.’

  ‘Will we be ready in time?’

  ‘We have to be.’

  Huddén left. Sundberg resumed her questioning. Another step backwards, to yesterday morning and afternoon. This time it was Ninni who answered.

  ‘Everything was as usual yesterday,’ said Ninni. ‘I had a bit of a cold. Tom spent all day chopping wood.’

  ‘Did you speak to any of your neighbours?’

  ‘Tom exchanged a few words with Hilda, but we’ve already told you that.’

  ‘Did you see any of the others?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose I must have. It was snowing. People always come out to shovel and keep the paths clear. Yes, I saw several of them without really noticing.’

  ‘Did you see anybody else?’

  ‘What do you mean,“anybody else”?’

  ‘Somebody who doesn’t live here? Or maybe a car you didn’t recognise?’

  ‘No, nobody at all.’

  ‘What about the previous day?’

  ‘I suppose it was more or less the same. Nothing much ever happens here.’

  ‘Nothing unusual?’

  ‘Nothing at all.’

  Vivi took out her notebook and a pencil.

  ‘Now I’m afraid I have to ask you something difficult,’ she said. ‘I must ask you for the names of all your neighbours.’

  She ripped out a sheet of paper and placed it on the table.

  ‘Draw a map of the village,’ she said. ‘Your house and all the rest. Then we’ll give each one a number. Your house is number one. I want to know the names of everybody who lived in each of the houses.’

  The woman stood up and fetched a bigger sheet of paper. She sketched out the village. Sundberg could see that she was used to drawing.

  ‘How do you earn your living?’ Sundberg asked.

  ‘We’re day traders – stocks and shares.’

  It occurred to Vivi Sundberg that nothing ought to surprise her any more. Why shouldn’t a pair of ageing hippies in a village in Hälsingland deal in stocks and shares?

  ‘And we talk a lot,’ Ninni added. ‘We tell each other stories. People don’t usually do that nowadays.’

  Sundberg felt the conversation was drifting away from the point.

  ‘The names, please,’ she said. ‘Preferably ages as well. Take your time so that you get it right.’

  She watched the pair of them huddled over the piece of paper, muttering to each other. The thought crossed her mind – maybe one of the villagers was responsible for the massacre.

  Fifteen minutes later, she had the list in her hand. The number didn’t tally. They were a name short. That must be the boy. She stood by the window and read through the list. There seemed to be basically three families in the village: the Anderssons, the Andréns and two people by the
name of Magnusson. As she stood there with the list in her hand, she considered all the children and grandchildren who had moved away, who a few hours from now would be hit by this terrible news. Many, many people would be affected, and the resources required would be considerable.

  All the first names flitted through her mind: Elna, Sara, Brita, August, Herman, Hilda, Johannes, Erik, Gertrud, Vendela. . . . She tried to picture their faces in her mind’s eye, but they were blurred.

  Then a thought suddenly struck her, something she had overlooked entirely. She went outside and shouted for Erik Huddén, who was talking to one of the forensic officers.

  ‘Erik, who was it that discovered all this?’

  ‘Some guy called us – had a heart attack and crashed into a truck with a Bosnian driver.’

  ‘Could he be the one responsible for all this?’

  ‘Maybe. His car was full of cameras. Probably a photographer.’

  ‘Find out what you can about him. Then we need to set up some kind of HQ in that house over there. We have to go through the list of names and find their next of kin. What happened to the truck driver?’

  ‘He was breathalysed, but he was sober. He spoke such poor Swedish they took him to Hudiksvall instead of interrogating him in the middle of the road. But he didn’t seem to know anything.’

  Huddén left. As she was going back indoors she noticed a police officer running along the road towards the village. She went to the gate and waited for him.

  ‘We’ve found the leg,’ he said, clearly shaken. ‘The dog uncovered it about fifteen yards in among the trees.’

  He pointed towards the edge of the forest. There was more, judging from his expression.

  ‘Was that all?’

  ‘I think it’s best if you take a look yourself,’ he said.

  Then he turned away and threw up. She left him to it and hurried towards the trees. She slipped and fell twice.

  When she arrived she could see what had upset the officer. In places the flesh had been gnawed off the leg to the bone. The foot had been bitten off completely.

  She looked at Ytterström and the dog handler who were standing next to the find.