Bogman (11 page)

“He must have cleaned up before he followed Jolene into the alley,” said Peter Lundquist.

“She thinks she was on the ground for no more than five minutes before he came after her,” said Pernille. “Five minutes to clean up? He’s done this before. He’s got it down to a fine art.”

“Item one,” said Magda, holding up a bag containing a scrap of blue fabric and a button. “Jolene had this in her hand. He was wearing a blue shirt. If we can find the shirt, we can match the threads.”

“Half the men in Sweden wear blue shirts,” said Peter Lundquist. “I’m wearing one myself.”

“This is from a high quality shirt.” Magda held the bag up for inspection. “It’s very fine cotton and best quality thread. The button is pure bone, not plastic, and nicely finished around the edges.”
 

“Not like one of mine, then,” said Peter.
 

“Item two,” said Magda. “Jolene’s bra. I’ll send it to the national lab. If there’s anything on it, they’ll find it. But he was wearing plastic gloves, wasn’t he?”

“According to Jolene,” said Pernille, “he wore clear, skin-tight, plastic gloves. She didn’t notice them at first. Pity. They’d have warned her she was dealing with a pervert. Who knows how to remove all trace of himself.”
 

“He didn’t manage to remove all trace of himself,” said Magda with a satisfied air. “Item three.”
 

She held up a plastic bag containing a skein of grey-blond hairs. “They were pulled out, roots and all. Jolene had them in her left hand. They were bagged and kept by the ambulance crew. We found other hairs in and under the bed but they’d been shed naturally. You can’t get DNA from them. You need follicles for DNA. So, well done, Jolene. It will take a bit of time, but I think we’ll get DNA from these.” She waved the bag in triumph.

“He picked the wrong victim,” said Pernille. “Tenacious woman, Jolene. Did you know she used to be a female contortionist until she broke her leg?”

“I thought that stuff was all faked,” said Peter Lundquist.

“She tripped over a rope in a circus tent about ten years ago,” said Pernille. “Discovered there was more money in prostitution. What’s item four?”

“I’m not sure.” Magda opened the bag and tipped a round metal object, the size and thickness of a coin, into her gloved hand. One side was enamelled pale green. The other side had a clip.
 

“We found it in on the second sweep. It was in a gap between two floorboards. There was fluff and dust underneath it so it was dropped recently. It’s some kind of badge or clip. There are three initial letters embossed on it. I can make out an S but the surface is worn and there are scratches.” She slipped it under a microscope. “Have a look. See what you think.”
 

Pernille peered through the eyepiece. “It looks like the badge of some institution or club. I think the third letter is N.”

Peter took his turn at the microscope. “Yes. Some kind of badge.” He took his eye away from the microscope and blinked before taking a second look. “It could also be a golf ball marker.”
 

“Golf ball marker?” said Pernille.

“You use it to mark the position of your ball on the green.” Peter straightened up. “I’ve often pulled something out of my pocket and my ball marker has dropped out as well.”
 

“Jolene’s attacker was wearing chinos,” said Pernille.
 

“He might have been wearing them for golf,” said Peter. “He might have had a ball marker in his pocket. The initials could identify the club. And some companies give out golf ball markers with their company logo. It’s a form of advertising.”

“So he’s a member of a company, or organisation, or golf club with first and third initials S and N,” said Pernille.
 

“If it’s a golf club, he mightn’t be a member,” said Peter. “He might just have played there and bought the marker, or been given it on a corporate golf day, or just played at the club and picked up the marker on the course. I’m always finding markers.”

“That’s a big help,” said Pernille drily. “Tell me something useful.”

“You can also buy simple plastic markers with no logo,” said Peter. He dodged the fake punch Pernille threw at him.
 

“I’ll tell you something useful,” said Magda. “There’s half a thumb print on it.”

18.

Tobias picked up a hire car at Ostersund airport and programmed the satnav to take him to where Berit Hansdatter lived in Vasterbotten county. Aarhus to Copenhagen, then Copenhagen to
 
Ostersund. Four hours. Now he had a long drive to northern Sweden. Three and a half hours the satnav told him. And it was almost lunchtime. At least it was Spring. It would stay light until well into the evening.
 

He drove through what seemed to him a haphazard sort of area. He was on a dual-carriageway lined with factories and housing estates interspersed with forest. After about half an hour, the forest appeared to be winning. Instead of factory buildings and blocks of houses, there were clearings with cabins. Then there was only forest. The road wound round a lake. Then forest again. Forest and lakes.
 
Forest and lakes.
 

He played over in his mind the information he’d gleaned from a search for persons missing in Sweden. Three men had gone missing between 1997 and 1999. One was fifty and an alcoholic. One was from Pakistan. One was twenty-six, but he had an artificial leg. The bones of Bogman’s legs were intact. There were no Swedish citizens reported missing in Denmark, or in any other country.
 

He stopped the car in a quiet town and parked outside a lakeside bar. The interior was dark and cool. The barman handed him a menu. Tobias, who was curious about food, ordered a suovaskebab from the “local specialty” section, and a glass of beer. He usually had beer at lunchtime – and smorssbrod with herring and pickle and hard-boiled egg and salad. He looked doubtfully at what seemed to be a pitta bread sandwich when it arrived. It didn’t look very Laplandlike.
 

Tobias spoke reasonably good Swedish. “What’s in it?” he asked the barman.
 

“Smoked reindeer, cucumber, salad and garlic dressing,” said the barman. “Sami fusion cooking.”

The combination was surprisingly tasty.
 

Tobias sipped his beer and reviewed what he knew about Bogman. He wore a bracelet inscribed ‘Encircled By Your Love.’ He wore the badge of an environmental group. And yet no one reported him missing. Had his lover killed him? That was possible, yes. His lover, or maybe someone he picked up. But if it was some casual pickup, why didn’t the person who gave Bogman the bracelet report him missing? It didn’t make sense. He thought about the bracelet he had given Karren. She probably had more expensive jewellery now. He would know if Karren disappeared. Bad example. What about the women he’d been involved with since his divorce. If any of them went missing, would he know about it, if he wasn’t in the police? Hilde, of course. She was a neighbour. Of course he’d hear about it if she disappeared. Marli Andersen, with whom he was still on friendly terms. But the others? He wouldn’t notice if the librarian at Silkeborg disappeared – unless it made headlines. He’d given a necklace to a girlfriend at college. Mette Svensen. L O V E in gold letters linked by a gold chain. He’d been crazy about her for at least six months. Where was she now? He had no idea. But somebody cared enough about her, he was sure, to report her missing if she disappeared. Why had nobody cared enough about Bogman? Maybe he was a vagrant after all, and had stolen the bracelet. They’d have to trawl through all the stolen item reports in Denmark. The thought wearied him. Agnes didn’t know anything about S S N, or any other Sami group. But she’d heard that one person in the wind farm protest had been in northern Sweden helping Sami protect their reindeer herding rights. That might be worth following up, if he had no luck with the silversmith. He drained his beer glass. Here’s to Berit Handsdatter. His best bet so far.
 

He got back into the car and headed north again. The countryside changed from lake and forest to tundra. The sky was grey. A wide plain spread out before him. It looked empty, until he noticed reindeer grazing beside a lake, and one or two low wooden cabins. He passed a signpost for Asele and Umea. Less than a hundred kilometres to go.
 

Just before Vilhelmina, he stopped the car beside a lake and got out to stretch his legs. The landscape looked flat, dull, unexceptional. He was about to get back into the car when the sun came out. The air was suddenly crystal clear, luminous. The black lake turned from oily black to glittering turquoise. The grass sparkled. Yellow lichen on the grey rocks gleamed like gold. The forest looked almost fluorescent.
 

Tobias thought about Agnes protecting trees in West Jutland. Was it warmer there than it was here? The air had a definite chill in it. He could see snow on the mountains in the distance. He shivered and got back into the car. Only another fifty kilometres now.

The desk sergeant in Vilhelmina was expecting him.
 

“Chief Inspector Lange? Grete Lindberg. I’m the duty sergeant today.” They shook hands. “I’ve read the file you sent us. It’s an interesting case.” She sounded envious.

“Let’s go.” She picked up a set of keys. “It’s not far as the crow flies but the road is bad for the last ten kilometres.” She ushered Tobias out of the police station and locked the door behind them.
 

“There are only four of us,” she said. “My colleague on duty is helping to get a cow out of a ditch. The others are on the late shift. But not much happens up here. Whatever turns up can usually wait until morning. To tell the truth, I’m glad of something interesting to do.”

Berit Hansdatter’s house was a single-storey wooden house painted dark red, in a lakeside clearing. Further along the lake, were four similar houses, two painted in the same red, two painted sky blue. A shared landing stage jutted into the lake. Five rowing boats rested on the water. Tire tracks were clearly visible in the damp ground around Berit Handsdatter’s house, but there was no sign of a vehicle.
 

Tobias parked where the forest ended and the clearing began. He and the sergeant got out of the car and walked towards the house. Poppies and marguerites fluttered in the window boxes on either side of the front door. A white card with a telephone number and message in Swedish - “If I’m not here, call my mobile!“ - in bold black handwriting, was sellotaped to a window.
 

Tobias was tapping the number into his phone when an elderly red Saab came bumping down the track and parked at the side of the house. A wide-shouldered, tousled-haired woman, a good head taller than Tobias and Grete, got out. She raised the carrier bag in her hand in a kind of greeting. “Come in.”

They followed her into the house where she shook their hands and introduced herself -
 
“I’m Berit” - without waiting to hear their names, not seeming to notice the police badge on Grete Lindberg’s jacket.
 

“I assume you’ve come to collect the rings? They’re on the blue cloth. Take a look at them. I’ll just take these things into the kitchen and make coffee. When’s the wedding?”
 

She disappeared into the kitchen before either Tobias or Grete could speak.

Tobias looked at Grete and raised an eyebrow.
 

“We’re not here about wedding rings,” Grete called out. “We’re here about something else.”

Berit appeared in the kitchen doorway. “So it’s something else? Did you make an appointment? Did I send you a design? I’ll be in with coffee in a moment. Sit down.” She disappeared again.
 

Grete and Tobias took seats at a long pine table by the window. Berit returned, carrying a tray with a coffee pot, mugs, milk jug, sugar bowl and a plate of spiced biscuits.
 

 
“I don’t have a website. People steal your ideas. I send out designs on request.” She put the tray on the table and poured coffee into the cups. “Milk? Sugar? I made the biscuits this morning.” She settled herself at the table. “Now, what can I do for you?”
 

“We’re police officers,” said Grete without preamble. “I’m Sergeant Lindberg from Vilhelmina and this is Chief Inspector Tobias Lange from Aarhus. He is investigating a murder committed in Denmark.” She looked at Tobias to continue.

“The victim was a male aged about twenty. We have not yet identified him,” said Tobias. “We hope you can help us.”

Berit rocked forward in surprise. “Me?”

“We think you made a bracelet found with the,” he hesitated, “remains.” He took a photograph from his briefcase and handed it to her. “Do you recognise it?”
 

Berit studied the photograph. “Of course,” she said. “I made this bracelet about ten years ago. I remember it well.
Encircled by your love.
In Danish. The words were her idea. She wasn’t sure if it should be a necklace with the letters in silver, then they both decided on a bracelet instead.”

“She? Both?” Tobias and Grete spoke in unison.

“They were a beautiful couple,” said Berit. “Very much in love. You could see it in their eyes. It was shining out of them. I met them at a concert in Fatmomakke. They were musicians. She played the guitar and he played the fiddle. They picked up tunes as though they had heard them in the womb. She was full of life. I saw a lot of them at that time. They played many concerts. It was during the protests against nuclear waste dumping. They were involved in demonstrations about Sami grazing rights as well.”

She paused for breath.
 

Tobias said quickly, “What were they called?”

“Emily and Lennart,” said Berit. “I liked them very much.”
 

“What were their surnames?”
 

“I don’t remember,” said Berit. “I don’t know if anyone knew their surnames. We all knew them as Emily and Lennart or the Danish pair. You never saw one without the other. They were so attached to each other. They drove an old ambulance. It was painted sky blue with clouds and a rainbow. It was highly visible on the roads around here. You must have noticed it, Sergeant.”