The Man Who Watched Women (15 page)

Ursula went back to the Room, gathered up the autopsy report and her things, and took the lift down to the car park. She had lost the desire to carry on working tonight. She needed to sort out this business with Weber, pass it on to Torkel so that it became his headache rather than hers. They had a clear communications strategy. One person spoke to the press. Always Torkel. Other departments had designated press officers, but Torkel had declined the offer. He wanted full control.

The fluorescent lights in the underground car park came on automatically as she opened the heavy metal door and set off towards her car, which was parked virtually on its own at this hour.

In the middle of the night, in the middle of summer.

She unlocked the car, got in, inserted the key in the ignition and turned it. The car started immediately.

She didn't want to ring Torkel. Not tonight. It was too reminiscent of the past. Of hotels in other towns. He would misinterpret it. Think she was ringing about something else. She switched off the engine. Did it really matter what he thought? He could think whatever he liked. This was work, she needed to tell him about Weber. Nothing else. She decided to text him instead. She got out her mobile and quickly keyed in a message:
Weber from Expressen trying to get hold of us. Has evidently rung several times acc. R Abrahamsson.
She pressed send and put the phone down on the passenger seat. She thought about what Mikael had said to her the other day.

It's always on your terms, Ursula. Always.

This was both true and not true. She really had tried to change. She had even broken things off with her lover.

Admittedly it hadn't been because of Mikael to begin with, but because she was angry and felt let down. But then it had become for his sake. Because he deserved it. Was that really true? She leaned back in her seat and gazed blankly at the nondescript car park. After a while the lights went out; they worked on motion sensors to save energy. Ursula sat there in the darkness; the only light came from the green emergency exit signs and the display screen on the mobile beside her, faintly illuminating the interior of the car with its pale blue glow. After a while it too went off, and she was left in darkness. Mikael's words were still with her.

On your terms.

Always on your terms.

But she really had tried to find a kind of harmony with her husband. A point where they were both dictating the terms. Weekends away. Dinners. Bubble baths. But the truth was that those things, while superficially pleasant, romantic and relaxing, were just too shallow for her. It had been particularly striking during the last trip to Paris. They had strolled along hand in hand, talking. Gone for long walks down romantic boulevards, ambled around the charming tourist attractions and sought out romantic bistros with an out-of-date restaurant guide in their hands. All the things you were supposed to do in Paris. All the things you were supposed to do as a couple. But that wasn't her.

She was an angular creature in a soft world. A shape that didn't really fit into this thing that was called a relationship. She needed distance. She needed control. Sometimes she needed intimacy. But only sometimes. When it suited her. But then she needed it. Really needed it. And that was exactly what Mikael meant. He knew her so well.

The lights came on and shook her out of her reverie. Robert Abrahamsson entered the car park carrying his briefcase. Even the way he walked annoyed her; he moved with a conscious suppleness, as if he were modelling the latest summer collection rather than heading towards his car just before midnight in a grubby underground car park. He got into a black Saab a short distance away and drove off. Ursula waited until he had disappeared, then started her car and set off for home.

For a while Torkel wondered what to do with the text Ursula had sent him. Axel Weber was a good journalist, and if he was involved it was only a matter of time before he spotted the link between the murders. Perhaps he already had. Torkel sat down at the computer and checked to see whether there was anything on
Expressen
's home page, but the big news was still the heat wave. He had to scroll down to the fourth article to find a report on the latest murder.

Nothing so far, then. But Weber had been trying to get hold of him. Torkel picked up his mobile. It would have been more normal to call Weber back during the day, but it was better to find out what he knew before it went to print. The journalist's number was in his directory, and he answered right away.

‘Weber.'

‘Hi, Torkel Höglund from Riksmord. I believe you've been trying to get hold of me.'

‘That's right – good of you to call. I've just come back from a little break and … I see three women have been murdered.'

No small talk. Straight down to business. Torkel didn't say anything.
A little break
. That explained why Weber hadn't made the connection before.

‘Within a month,' Weber went on when Torkel didn't respond.

‘Yes …'

‘In the Stockholm area, I mean. I've asked around and it seems as if it's the same perpetrator, and since Riksmord are involved, I was just wondering whether you had any comment?'

Torkel thought fast. He had two choices: to confirm Weber's suspicions, or refuse to comment. Torkel tried to avoid lying to the press unless the case demanded such a course of action. This one didn't. The fact was that he had already been toying with the idea of a press conference, giving out a limited amount of information in the hope of picking up new leads. But he wanted to be better prepared, to have thought through what details they were actually going to release. He really didn't want to say too much, so he replied: ‘I can't comment at this stage.'

‘You don't want to confirm that you're dealing with a serial killer?'

‘No.'

‘Do you wish to deny it?'

‘I don't want to comment at this stage.'

Torkel knew and Weber knew that his refusal to deny or comment was the same as confirmation, but no one was ever going to be able to say that Torkel had leaked information to the press. Nor did he need to. There were plenty of other police officers who were happy to do so. Not in his team, but elsewhere in the station. So many that it had become a problem when it came to interviews and dealing with witnesses. Too many people knew too much too soon.

‘I will be calling a press conference first thing tomorrow morning.'

‘Why?'

‘Well, if you come along you'll find out.'

‘I'll be there. And I'll be making use of the information I have.'

‘I know.'

‘Thanks for calling.'

Torkel rang off. A press conference. Tomorrow. Just as well. With Weber snapping at their heels they needed to go public in order to retain some kind of control over the flow of information. It was always a balancing act. If they waited too long to share what they knew, there could be a real backlash leading to a difficult debate on public safety, and why the police had kept quiet about the fact that a serial killer was on the loose. And yes, they needed information. He would have preferred to have a few more leads to work on before the case became public property, perhaps even highlighted a few suspects so that the attention would move the investigation forward rather than simply expand it. But that wasn't the case. They had nothing. They had got nowhere. With a bit of luck the attention might lead to something positive. Because one thing Torkel knew for sure: the day the headlines began to appear, one person would read every article, notice every comment, follow every debate: the serial killer himself. Their copycat. It might push him. Make him overconfident. And then he might make a mistake.

Wishful thinking.

Torkel closed the internet browser and stretched. It had been a hard day.

Too many questions, too few answers.

His mind wandered. To his daughters, to the summer cottage and what he should do with it now the girls were getting to an age when they soon wouldn't want to go there anymore. It was mainly Elin who protested at having to spend the final weeks of the summer holiday at the cottage, but no doubt Vilma would soon be singing from the same hymn sheet. She was a teenager now. Torkel had dreaded this moment. The moment when they started to grow up. For real. When they wanted to be with their friends and live their own lives, far away from their old dad in a summer cottage in Östergötland that was far too small. It was only natural. After all, that was the aim when you were bringing up children: to make them into independent individuals. He knew he had succeeded. But that didn't make it any easier.

Although it wasn't just that. There was no one who would want to go with him to the cottage. Or anywhere else, for that matter. Yvonne had Kristoffer. Not that he would think of asking her to spend two weeks by Lake Boren, but it made him realise with even greater clarity that he was alone. Totally alone.

Torkel got up stiffly from his desk and took a walk around his apartment. He didn't like what he saw. It was messier than usual, and in spite of the late hour he decided to tidy up. He was basically a very orderly person, but these brutal murders had taken up all his time. That was usually the way of things. When a really complicated case landed on his desk, his home went into a rapid decline. There had been some improvement when he joined Riksmord, for one very simple reason. The team worked wherever they were needed, all over Sweden. The whole point was for the national CID to have a special unit to help with complex murder investigations for which the local police didn't have the resources. This meant that Torkel was often away from Stockholm and staying in a hotel during the most intense periods, so his apartment managed to survive without descending into chaos. But not this time. This time Stockholm was at the centre of the storm, and in the worst possible way. There had been no question of tidying the apartment, but now he had a choice: clean up or try to sleep.

He decided to make a start on the kitchen. The remains of the dinner he had shared with his daughters the previous week were still on the draining board and in the sink, and there were newspapers and letters strewn all over the table. He quickly got into the swing of it, and after half an hour he was happy with the kitchen. He moved into the living room, cleared the rubbish from the coffee table and armchairs and was just about to go through the post he had gathered up when the doorbell rang. He looked at the clock. It was late, so he peered out through the little peephole before he opened the door.

It was her.

He was surprised, but managed to say hello as he let her in. She walked into the hallway, and the first thing that occurred to him was how glad he was that he had cleared up the worst of the mess. She probably wouldn't care, but even so. It made him feel better. She looked at him and carried on into the living room.

‘Did you get my text?'

‘Yes.'

‘Weber's been trying to get hold of you.'

‘I know. I've spoken to him.'

‘Good.'

Torkel stood in the doorway of the living room staring at her. Was she really that interested in his dealings with Weber? ‘I'm calling a press conference tomorrow. Weber has made the connection.'

‘With Hinde?'

‘No, between the three murders.'

‘Okay …' She nodded and walked back into the hallway. ‘I just wanted to check that you'd got my text. I'll be off home now.'

She was so beautiful.

‘You could have phoned.'

‘My battery's dead.'

A lie. She could see that he knew.

‘I must go.'

He wondered what to say to make her stay.

She wondered what to say that would allow her to stay.

He was the one who broke the silence, trying to put things into words as best he could, but as usual his first question was far more banal than he would have wished. ‘So how are you really, Ursula?'

She looked at him. Sat down on the white chair by the door, the chair hardly anyone used these days. She was more direct. ‘What are we going to do?'

‘What do you mean?'

‘About you and me.'

‘I don't know.' He cursed the fact that he couldn't say what he was feeling. He decided that his next response would be more honest. Completely honest. She was looking at him, but he couldn't interpret her expression.

‘Maybe I should move to a different department?'

He felt a surge of anxiety. ‘Hang on, what are you talking about? Why?'

This wasn't going the way he'd hoped. He reached for her hand. He might not be able to say what he wanted, but perhaps his hands could show her.

‘I was in Paris a few weeks ago.'

‘With Micke, I know.'

‘It was really strange. We did everything you're supposed to do on a romantic weekend away. But the more we tried, the more I wanted to be at home.'

‘But that's not you. You're not that kind of person.'

‘What kind of person am I, then?'

Her bewilderment seemed genuine. Torkel smiled at her. Stroked her hand, which grew warm in his.

‘You're more … complicated. Never entirely satisfied, never entirely at peace. You are Ursula.'

‘Does everything happen on my terms?'

He might as well carry on being honest. ‘Yes. It's always been that way.'

‘But you don't have a problem with that?'

‘No. I don't believe I can change you. I don't think I even want to.'

She looked at him and got to her feet.

But she had no intention of leaving.