Cinderella Girl (13 page)

‘Then can I rely on you?’ Barbro coaxed further.

‘I think you should, Mrs Dahlström. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.’

* * *

Sjöberg sat on the metro, summarizing to himself the morning’s events on
Viking Cinderella
. Hamad, Eriksson, Hansson, Rosén and he had been met by their counterpart from the Åbo police, Nieminen, and several other Finnish police officers in the company of the ship’s captain. After first taking a look at the crime scene itself, they were treated to breakfast and had a meeting in one of the conference rooms on the boat. Nieminen outlined the current situation and reported on the meagre results from the questioning so far.

It had been determined that the persons of most interest in the investigation – besides the boyfriend, Joakim Andersson, and the other young people in the party – were the man that Jennifer Johansson had been seen with in the bar and the two gentlemen in suits she met afterwards. None of these men had made themselves known during the introductory interviews, and the girl had not been observed after she had been seen with them. For that reason it was decided that the search for these three individuals should be given highest priority, from both the Finnish and Swedish side.

The bartender Juha Lehto was taking a few days off and was now with his Swedish girlfriend, who lived in an apartment by Thorildsplan. That was where Sjöberg was headed after the morning’s work on the Finland ferry. The door opened almost immediately when he rang the bell.

‘That was fast. No problems finding a parking spot?’

Lehto spoke with a lilting Finnish accent, but even though he spoke very well it was clear that Swedish was not his native language. In Nieminen’s case it had been hard to tell whether he was actually a Finnish Swede or simply spoke excellent Swedish.

‘I took the metro,’ Sjöberg answered. ‘Once you’ve found a parking spot on Söder, you don’t want to give it up.’

He hung his jacket on a hanger and, being well brought up, left his shoes on the hall mat. Lehto showed him to an armchair in the sparsely furnished living room. Although he had gone to bed early the night before, Sjöberg had not slept long. He ignored how tired he was and instead sat leaning forward with his interlaced hands hanging between his knees.

‘Coffee?’ asked Lehto, sitting down at the table when Sjöberg declined.

‘You’ve done this before,’ said Sjöberg, ‘but I want you to do it again. Tell me in your own words as much of what you recall from that evening as possible. I’m going to record our conversation. I hope you don’t mind.’

Lehto shook his head and from his trouser pocket Sjöberg pulled out the MP3 player he had got from Åsa as a birthday present and activated the voice-recording function. He had been using it more and more like a Dictaphone, and with a nod at the bartender he asked him to start.

‘It was fairly early in the evening,’ Lehto began, and
then told how Jennifer Johansson and the considerably older man had shown up in the bar at about the same time.

Lehto thought for a little while before continuing.

‘She was good-looking, that girl. Really good-looking. It probably occurred to me that she shouldn’t be sitting there with him. He was too old for one thing, and seedy besides. I’ve thought about this quite a bit, but I can’t really put my finger on what it was that made me think he looked a little down at heel. I remember that he had on a white shirt. It was probably wrinkled or dirty, otherwise I wouldn’t have thought that. And I think he was unshaven. And not in a trendy way. I don’t think he was drunk. He wasn’t fat. There was nothing special about his appearance that I noticed. That’s the best I can do, unfortunately.’

Lehto threw out his hands in an apologetic gesture and continued trying to explain what he thought seemed threatening in the situation and how the girl was then approached by another man.

‘So you think they knew each other, Jennifer and that other man?’ Sjöberg asked.

‘I got that impression, but they may have just been pretending. She went with him and sat at their table.’

‘That man at the bar, where did he go then?’ asked Sjöberg.

‘He just left. Without finishing his beer.’

‘Did he pay?’

‘I don’t remember if he left money on the bar or if he had already paid earlier. He left anyway.’

‘How old was he?’

‘He must have been fifty or sixty.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Thirty-one.’

‘Could he have been forty or seventy?’

‘No.’

‘Do you recall whether he had a dialect?’

‘I’m not good at Swedish dialects, I have to admit. I don’t think he was from Skåne anyway.’

‘Those other men then,’ Sjöberg continued. ‘Can you describe them?’

‘They were a little older than me. In their forties, I would say. Cool guys, yuppie types. Both of them had suits on, looked like businessmen. Quite handsome, both of them, it’s fair to say. I only saw them when they were ordering at the bar.’

‘What did they have to drink?’

‘The girl had an umbrella drink. I don’t recall what the guys were drinking.’

‘Do you remember how they paid?’

‘Cash.’

‘But you don’t think you would recognize either of them?’

‘Not the Finnish guys, I don’t think. Maybe the guy at the bar.’

‘And this kid?’ said Sjöberg, holding out the photograph of Joakim Andersson. ‘Do you recognize him?’

‘I’ve thought a lot about that, but I really don’t remember serving him.’

‘It was fairly early in the evening. If you had served him, would you have noticed?’

‘You mean considering the injuries on his face?’

‘Yes.’

‘You have no idea how many people I meet who look like that.’

When Sjöberg had left Lehto and made his way to the metro platform, where he was now standing, waiting for the train, he called Lotten, their cheerful receptionist.

‘Where have you been hiding? Einar’s the only one here.’

‘It piled up a little over the weekend, as you may have heard. We’re all out on the job. Do you miss us?’

‘Always,’ Lotten chirped.

‘And how’s Pluto doing?’

Lotten was an unusually enthusiastic dog person. Her dog – an Afghan whose name was not Pluto at all, but something pretentiously French-sounding – and the caretaker Micke’s standard poodle sent each other Christmas cards and even birthday cards. Sjöberg often asked himself whether these birthdays were celebrated once a year or seven times, but he never got around to asking. Presumably because he would not be able to ask without sounding contemptuous and – her dog obsession aside – he had nothing but respect for this positive, bubbly person who made any situation whatsoever easier and more pleasant.

‘ “Pluto”,’ answered Lotten with feigned annoyance, ‘has a slight cold, otherwise he’s just fine. Listen, I have a message.’

Efficient and factual as always, despite the cheerful wrapping.

‘A journalist from
Aftonbladet
called who wanted to talk about the infant in Vitabergsparken. I didn’t know whether I should refer her to you or Petra or what I should do –’

‘Wait,’ he interrupted. ‘I can’t hear anything right now.’

The train pulled into the station and Lotten’s voice was drowned in the noise of the underground. Sjöberg got into one of the carriages and resumed the call.

‘What did you say? Infant?’

‘Yes, she mentioned the infant in Vitabergsparken. I didn’t think it was officially –’

The doors closed and the train left Thorildsplan.

‘What’s her name? Telephone number?’

The receiver started to crackle.

‘… text … call back …’

‘Now I’m losing you!’ shouted Sjöberg. ‘Put Petra on it! I’ll be in after lunch!’

* * *

After checking off Wollmar Yxkullsgatan and Hornstull from her list of children’s health centres without success, Petra went back to the police building to compare notes on the situation with Eriksson and Sandén. Hopefully she would have time to consume something edible too. She had just stepped into her office when Lotten called.

‘I have a journalist from
Aftonbladet
on the line. She’s been after you all morning.’

‘Us?’ said Petra.

‘Yes, she has questions regarding the infant finding in Vita Bergen.’

‘Did she use that phrase, “the infant finding”?’

‘Yes, she did actually,’ Lotten laughed.

‘She’ll have to talk to Conny. I have no authority to speak to the press.’

‘I called Conny,’ Lotten explained. ‘He said you should do it.’

‘He did? The last time I spoke to him he thought we should keep this low profile.’

‘But now it’s already out.’

Petra sighed. Yes, apparently it was. There was always someone who couldn’t resist calling the tabloids. After brief consideration she came to two conclusions: that it must have been the young mother in the 7-Eleven who had been tempted by a little extra cash, and that a little media attention on the infant boy in Vitabergsparken was perhaps what they needed to get somewhere.

‘Okay, put her through,’ said Petra, tossing her jacket on to the desk.

She had never communicated directly with the press; Sjöberg usually took care of that. But if you were responsible for an investigation, then you were. It was just a matter of biting the bullet and being careful not to say too much. And not to leave room for personal interpretation.

‘I’ve been told that you’re the one leading the investigation,’ the reporter said after she introduced herself. ‘How do you spell your last name?’

Petra spelled her name and hoped she would not regret this conversation.

‘I’ve heard that you not only found a dead woman in Vitabergsparken last Sunday,’ the journalist continued, ‘but also an infant. Comments?’

Petra explained how it all hung together, and described the boy’s appearance and age, including clothing and the pram.

‘And no one has called in?’ asked the reporter.

‘That’s correct. But we would be grateful for any information,’ she added to forestall the journalist and at the same time seem accommodating. ‘Serious information.’

‘Do you have any photos we can publish?’

‘At the present time we’ve decided not to release any photographs,’ Petra answered in a voice she did not recognize. ‘We hope of course that very soon we will be in contact with relatives.’

‘There is apparently an older sibling in the picture?’

‘We know nothing about that,’ said Petra firmly, visualizing the young mother in the 7-Eleven taking out her phone as soon as Petra had left.

‘But the pram is a 2003 model. So it could be that way?’

‘Naturally there is such a possibility,’ Petra answered diplomatically, ‘but it may just as well be the case that the pram was borrowed or bought used.’

Then they devoted a few minutes to classifying the crime. The phrase ‘murder with robbery’ came up, but Petra tried to characterize it as ‘an alleged hit-and-run accident’.

When the call was ended, she was not sure whether she had done a good job or if it had been a complete fiasco. That probably depended on the current mood of the headline writer, she decided with a sigh, as she left the room to find her colleagues who were less burdened with responsibility.

She was starting to feel inadequate. She did not trust that Nyman at the county detective unit. What if the poor girl really had been abandoned by her parents! Then a week was too long. If only she had caller ID, she could have traced the number Hanna was calling from herself and found out where she lived. And she could have called to console her and offer help. If it were really needed. Perhaps it would turn out that the girl was not alone after all, and then the problem would be resolved. But Barbro could not get the thought out of her head; she had to do something.

The girl had talked about summer cottages in the middle of the city. Barbro came to the conclusion that she must have meant allotments. The probability that the girl would have dialled a Stockholm area code before Barbro’s own number must be very slight. On that basis she reasoned that the call was local, that the girl was in Stockholm, in an apartment with a view of allotments. Where else could she look? She had to start somewhere.

She sat down at the computer in the kitchen and turned it on. Barbro was generally not keen on technical gadgets. As long as the landline telephone worked, she kept it. What reason was there to change? And caller ID – what would she do with that? If the phone rang, she answered it, no matter who called. A mobile phone and answering
machine were not for her either. If she wasn’t home when they called, they could just try again. That had worked in the twentieth century and quite likely it still did. Besides, being retired, she did not have unlimited resources.

But it was different with the computer. She could hardly live without her beloved computer. The indispensable search engines helped her to solve crosswords, book trips and theatre tickets, and best of all kept her up to date on what was happening in cultural Stockholm. True, it was an extra expense, but it was worth every penny.

A quick search on Eniro showed that there were thousands of Bergmans in Stockholm. Couldn’t Hanna’s neighbour have been named Liljesparre instead? No, she would have to attack the problem from a different angle. Four minutes later she found what she was searching for: a list of all the allotment areas in Stockholm, on the website of the Greater Stockholm Allotment Association. There were a lot, almost eighty, but she told herself not to panic and to visit them one at a time. She could start with the ones that were closest and then work outwards; taking them one by one and keeping her eyes open for yellow castles and angry old men by the name of Bergman.

Barbro Dahlström was seventy-two years old. She had been a high-school French and English teacher, and had been a widow for thirteen years. Every autumn, together with some retired friends, she would hike in the French Alps, stay at hostels, eat and drink well. Now, at the end of September, it was time to walk off the added French pounds.

She made herself a few sandwiches and put them, along with a Thermos of coffee and a bottle of ordinary
tap water, in the small backpack that she used when she was out walking. This time however she left the walking sticks at home and went out into the mild Indian summer.

First she went towards the Eriksdalslunden allotments, to which she had walked many times. After that she intended to walk around Södermalm, clockwise. She realized that it would not be possible to do that in a single afternoon, but she had to take one day at a time. In her ears she had Radio P1. Sometimes, when she got tired of the serious voices, she changed to a music station. She had received the small portable radio from her daughter as a Christmas present a few years ago and was now so attached to it that to be on the safe side she always carried reserve batteries in her backpack.

Eriksdalslunden and the extensive Tantolunden allotments produced nothing. No yellow castles were to be seen, but she worked systematically and searched anyway for the name Bergman on the directory boards of every nearby building.

After searching without success through the allotments in Årstalund she allowed herself a rest, removed the earplugs and ate her sandwiches sitting on a park bench, accompanied by the sound of the water of Årstaviken lapping against the shore. Some ducks were rooting in the sand between two large willows that had grown in a way that made them look as if they were falling headfirst into the water, with their branches spread out, as if they were trying to catch each other in mid-fall. In her mind she constructed an image of little Hanna. How old could she be? Certainly much too young to be able to manage by herself. Five maybe? Six?

Barbro realized that it was very unlikely that she had been
left at home alone. You don’t let such a small child take care of herself, even for a short time. Not in today’s Stockholm, with all the electrical appliances, heavy traffic, criminals and paedophiles, corrosive detergents, toxic pharmaceuticals, high windows; she hardly dared think about all the hazards that might entice a curious little person without supervision. Her mother must only have been gone for a few minutes; down to the laundry room or rushed off to the store.

But what about the hash? Hanna said she had had to get food for herself. She also said that she had hurt herself and that she wanted her daddy to come home from Japan and kiss it and make it better. True, the girl could have a lively imagination, but Barbro’s instinct told her this was for real.

Barbro Dahlström finished her picnic, carefully rewrapping one of the sandwiches in foil and putting it back in the little backpack. Then she took off again. A promise was a promise.

* * *

The reception area was suddenly full of young people and Lotten had her hands full taking everyone’s information. They were all aged between fifteen and eighteen. Sjöberg had forewarned her that he had called in Jennifer Johansson’s group of friends from the Finland boat for questioning at one o’clock, and here they were, about a dozen of them. Despite the serious atmosphere, as teenagers do they took up too much space and sounded like there were three times as many. A few boys were lounging in a group of armchairs, some of the young people sat on
a pair of benches along the wall, while others wandered around. There was nonstop talking on mobile phones.

One of the girls stood crying and a couple of friends consoled her. Maybe she had more reason than the others to grieve for Jennifer Johansson, thought Lotten, or else she just wanted attention. On one bench another girl sat crying by herself. The boys tried to look neutral and carried on as usual. But Lotten saw the sorrow and consternation in their eyes, and remembered that it was not easy being a teenager. Everyone had a facade to keep up.

And then there was Joakim Andersson. He too had been called for questioning, but he did not join the others. Instead he stayed apart by the window overlooking the turning area and gazed out towards the apartment buildings by the Hammarby canal. He stood quietly with his hands in his pockets and appeared not to be affected by the tumult around the other young people.

* * *

When Sjöberg came in, aware of being a few minutes late, he took a quick look at the various constellations of young people in the reception area before he went up to Lotten.

‘Is that Joakim over there – by the window?’ he asked.

‘That’s right,’ Lotten replied. ‘He nodded at a couple of the girls when he arrived, the ones named Fanny and Malin, but except for when he came up and reported in he’s been standing over there by himself the whole time.’

‘He hasn’t talked to anyone?’

‘No. No one has approached him either. I guess they’re
afraid of being confronted with his grief. You know how youngsters are –’

‘I’m not sure I do. Maybe they’re afraid of him.’

‘I think he looks nice,’ said Lotten. ‘Nice, and sad.’

‘How can you see that behind the beard?’ Sjöberg snorted.

‘You sound a little cynical, Conny,’ Lotten said. ‘That grungy style is trendy.’

‘He’s twenty-four. What was he doing with a sixteen-year-old girl?’

‘When did you get so conservative?’

‘He’s probably the one who did it. Who else? Bear in mind, Lotten, that this prejudiced statement is based on many years of experience,’ he added jokingly. ‘This is a pretty lively group!’

‘Just be glad you’re not a teacher, like poor Åsa.’

Suddenly and unexpectedly ill at ease at the mention of his wife, he made to go.

‘Send Joakim up to me in five minutes. Jamal should start with those girls, Fanny and Malin, separately. After that, it doesn’t matter.’

He let go of the door behind him, threaded his way past the young people and took the stairs up to the second floor in a few quick steps.

* * *

‘So until that episode in the bar you considered Jennifer your girlfriend?’

‘Yes, more or less,’ answered Joakim, watching Sjöberg set an MP3 player on the table between them.

‘What do you mean by that? Did you have other girlfriends too?’

‘No, not like that –’

‘Maybe she had other guys?’

‘Maybe she did. I don’t know. I don’t think so.’

‘Now I think you should try to explain to me what kind of relationship the two of you really had.’

Joakim let out a heavy sigh. What should a relationship be like? How do you explain feelings? He was not a verbal person, but now for the first time in his life he was forced to explain things that could not be put into words.

‘What kind of relationship …’ Joakim repeated like a faint echo.

‘Well, tell me how you met. We have to start somewhere.’

Now it was easier. There were good times and actual events he could describe. Joakim told about their initial meeting, how the shopping bag fell apart, about evenings drinking at the bar, and walks hand in hand. But soon they found themselves in the grey vacuum that followed after the first few ecstatic weeks with Jennifer.

‘Do you know what I think?’ said Sjöberg. ‘I think Jennifer was your first girlfriend. Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ Joakim answered quietly, not daring to look the chief inspector in the eyes.

* * *

Sjöberg saw the boy’s eyes light up as he talked about the first few weeks with Jennifer. He had guided him out into deeper and deeper waters, and now he felt himself relenting as the
truth became clear. The boy was twenty-four and had never had a girlfriend. In light of this, it was much easier to understand how hard it was for him to describe his relationship with Jennifer. Joakim Andersson had nothing to compare it to, no tools to evaluate what they had had together.

Sjöberg could imagine how the girl gradually began to see through this inexperienced, uncertain young man. Twenty-four would sound good to an experienced sixteen-year-old, but under the tough surface, behind the beard and the sunglasses he now had pushed up on his forehead, she glimpsed something completely different and started to feel embarrassed. Perhaps what she sensed behind the facade he put up was a sensitive and delicate personality, but she needed resistance, someone as big and strong on the inside as he appeared to be on the outside.

‘It’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ said Sjöberg in an attempt to soften his earlier harsh tone. ‘Some time has to be the first time for all of us. But now I want you to describe what you were doing – in detail – from the time you woke up on Friday morning until the police knocked on the door of your cabin yesterday morning.’

‘Friday morning?’ Joakim looked perplexed. ‘What does Friday have to do with this?’

‘I’ll decide that. Let’s hear it now.’

‘I delivered papers in the morning, between four and eight. Then I was home all day. Nothing happened in particular.’

‘Delivering newspapers – that’s your job?’

‘Yes.’

‘How often do you do that?’

‘Just a few days a week.’

‘That’s not much income. What do you live on?’

‘I live at home. I don’t need that much money.’

‘So how do you spend the rest of your time?’

‘I’m mostly at home,’ he said, but Sjöberg gave him a challenging look.

‘I take care of my mum,’ he said at last. ‘She’s ill.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. What kind of illness?’

He asked because he wanted to form an image of Joakim Andersson’s life, what it was like at home, the family circumstances. He wanted to look into the dark corners, dig out secrets, penetrate into his private sphere.

‘She’s handicapped,’ Joakim answered, a little too loudly. ‘Disabled. She can’t walk!’

He spat out the words, with an almost triumphant facial expression – unexpected anger, perhaps he felt offended? Like a child who swears, thought Sjöberg, who hurls out all the bad words he knows, with the fear of repercussion shining in his eyes. The young man across from him had just said something forbidden, something he never mentioned, perhaps was not allowed to say. He had revealed a family secret.

‘Oh dear,’ said Sjöberg, trying to sound factual and neutral. ‘That must be hard for her. Is she getting the care she needs?’

‘I take care of her. I told you that.’

‘And your dad, what does he do?’

‘He works at a bank. Swedbank in Farsta.’

‘Do you help out with the care of your mother or do you do most of it yourself?’

‘Dad feeds her if I’m not home. Otherwise I’m the one who takes care of her.’