Cinderella Girl (15 page)

The police commissioner – what business in the world could he have with her?

‘You’re going to be promoted,’ Sandén had joked just a few moments earlier. You don’t get promoted because you answer a few questions from a journalist. More likely fired, she thought. But the voice sounded friendly.

‘What are you doing?’ asked the police commissioner.

Hi, this is Roland. What are you doing?
What was this really about?

‘I’m, uh, working on the Vita Bergen case,’ Petra replied uncertainly. ‘Trying to find someone who can identify the victim.’

‘Good, good. So you’re in the field?’

‘Uh, yes,’ Petra answered stupidly.

The field?
What was going on with him?

‘Would you care to drop by and see me a little later, when you’re in the neighbourhood?’

The silky smooth voice was on the border of ingratiating. Could this be the calm before the storm? Did he want to lull her into a sense of security before he dealt her the death blow?

‘Sure,’ answered Petra. ‘How long will you be there?’

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ said the police commissioner with an audible smile.

‘Okay,’ said Petra, hoping that Brandt would deliver some parting words.

He did not.

‘See you later then,’ she tried again, hearing immediately that her words didn’t sound as formal as she’d intended.

‘Okay,’ said the police commissioner softly. ‘Take care.’

And with that the call was over.

‘What the hell …?’ mumbled Petra, standing stock-still and staring foolishly at the phone in her hand.

Then she shook her head to bring herself back to reality. She put the mobile on silent and went back into the children’s health centre.

Sandén rang every doorbell in the building, but no one was home. At the last attempt, on the ground floor, he finally got a response. A man in his seventies opened the door and glared at him through bright-yellow glasses. He was skinny and a little stooped, dressed in a checked blue flannel shirt and jeans, and with a cigarette in his mouth. He might have been the caretaker, thought Sandén, if the building had one. Sandén held out his police ID and explained who he was.

‘You are Mr Bergman, I presume?’

‘Yes. What’s this about?’

‘I just want to ask a few questions. It won’t take long. The family with children who live upstairs – the Hedbergs – do you know where they are?’

‘How would I know?’

‘I need to talk to them,’ said Sandén.

‘Then ring their doorbell, not mine,’ the old man answered grumpily.

‘Of course I already have, but apparently they’re not at home,’ said Sandén, not hiding that he was now starting to get irritated. ‘That’s why I’m asking you: Do you know where they’re hiding themselves?’

‘They’re out of town, I would think.’

He seemed a little shaken after all by Sandén’s harsh tone.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because they do that every now and then.’

He took a puff on his cigarette, and without taking it out of his mouth blew the smoke out of the other side.

‘They’re probably on a “weekend away”,’ he added with contemptuous emphasis.

‘What makes you think that?’ Sandén continued unperturbed.

‘They’re so
refined
. He runs around in a suit all day.’

‘I see. Blimey. Where do they usually keep their pram?’

‘In the apartment,’ the man answered with an unwarranted smile.

‘Always?’

‘Listen, at first that damn pram was blocking the way down by the entrance, but I told them off and since then we’ve been spared that.’

Sandén sighed. Bergman had given true neighbourliness a face.

‘And when was this?’

‘Maybe six months ago.’

‘What does the pram look like?’

‘It must be black, maybe. Or blue.’

‘Is it by any chance dotted?’

‘Maybe it’s dotted. Or checked. Or striped or flowery, damned if I know.’

‘I would like you to look at a couple of photographs –’ Sandén began, but he was interrupted.

‘There’s probably no point in that, inspector, because I’m as good as blind.’

Sandén stopped mid-motion and pulled his hand back out of his inside pocket.

‘So you can’t see my face now, for example?’ he asked with surprise.

‘Exactly. I see that you have a body and a head, and we’ll have to be grateful for that.’

‘So what do you think about my suit?’

The man thought before he answered.

‘Listen, I can distinguish a white shirt from a dark suit, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

He was clearly not slow on the uptake anyway.

‘Thanks for your help then,’ Sandén ended the conversation, holding back the sarcastic tone he would have preferred.

He went back up to the fourth floor and rang the bell several more times. He crouched down and put his eye to the letter box, but inside it was completely quiet. With a muffled groan he managed to straighten his somewhat overweight body, after which he made a note on his list and hurried down the stairs.

* * *

Hanna was mumbling something in her sleep as she lay on her back, snugly encased in the two down duvets on her parents’ unmade bed. She turned on to her side and only a few wisps of tangled hair and a little foot poked out.

Late in the afternoon Hamad and Sjöberg finished the interviews with the young people, without finding out anything new. Their misgivings were not confirmed; both Jennifer’s mother and sister were at home, and fortunately they were alone in the apartment. Lena Johansson seemed almost sober and perhaps that was why today she looked, if possible, even more lost and worn out than she had on Sunday.

‘Thanks for waiting,’ Sjöberg began. ‘I’m sorry we’re so late.’

They went into the living room and introduced themselves to Elise, who looked scared, sitting curled up on the couch with her arms around her knees. She was red-eyed from crying and avoided making eye contact.

Sjöberg set the MP3 player on the coffee table and noted that someone had wiped it clean since they were last here. The kitchen, too, was somewhat more presentable, Sjöberg noticed as he passed it. He had a feeling it was the girl who had tidied up after the party the previous evening. Her mother looked like she had just woken up where she sat, collapsed at the other end of the couch, her hair in disarray. With a quick movement Elise tapped a cigarette out of the pack on the table in front of her mother and lit it with trembling hands. Her mother did not seem to notice, or else she didn’t care.

‘How do you feel today?’ Sjöberg asked carefully. ‘This must be hard for you …?’

Elise turned her eyes towards the dirty living room window. She did not react to the question, so Sjöberg let his gaze wander to the mother instead.

‘Yes,’ she answered with uncertainty in her eyes and an almost ingratiating expression on her face.

Perhaps she was making an effort now to react in the manner she thought was expected of her. Perhaps the sorrow was much greater on the inside than it appeared. Perhaps she felt no pain at all. It was impossible to know what was going on in this person’s mind. Was she accustomed to disparaging looks or was she perhaps completely dulled after years of substance abuse? This catastrophe was probably just one in a series of disasters that had struck her over the years.

‘You don’t know … You don’t really know what you should do.’

Elise was staring out the window, apparently unaffected by the conversation. Sjöberg studied her clean profile and was struck by the likeness to her sister. He wondered
about the caprice of nature: two such beautiful daughters coming out of a person like Lena Johansson. Lena Johansson could never have been beautiful. Even overlooking the wrinkles, swollen eyes, large-pored and scarred skin, what remained was average-looking at best.

‘No. It must be extremely hard to pull yourself together after something like this. We’re doing our utmost to arrest the perpetrator, if that’s any consolation. For that reason we need to ask both of you a few questions, if you’re up to it.’

‘Oh, I’m sure we’ll manage. Won’t we, Elise? We have to help the inspector now.’

She looked imploringly at her daughter, but got no response. Elise reached towards the table for the ashtray, pulled it to her and set it on her lap.

‘Tell me about her boyfriend,’ Sjöberg began. ‘Because she did have a boyfriend, didn’t she, Elise?’

Elise squirmed a little on the couch and answered quietly, her eyes moving between the cigarette and the ashtray.

‘His name is Joakim. He’s twenty-four years old, I think. But I don’t know if they were together any more. They were supposed to go out last Friday, but she decided not to, it seemed like.’

‘Did she say that?’

‘She said that
maybe
she was going to see him. If she felt like it.’

‘Have you ever met Joakim?’

‘No.’

‘What did she say about him?’

‘Nothing in particular, as far as I remember. I guess he was nice.’

‘Were you close to each other, you and Jennifer?’

‘I don’t know exactly. I don’t think so. We share a room. Shared a room.’

Elise took a few deep puffs on the cigarette and let the smoke out of her mouth in small, well-formed rings. A random thought passed through Sjöberg’s mind: Smoking is better suited to overweight, older women.

‘Well, what did she do then? Last Friday? Did she see him?’

‘I don’t know. I went out. When I came back she was here anyway.’

‘And what time was that?’

‘Twelve-thirty maybe.’

‘What were you doing?’

‘I was just out. Hung out for a bit down on Götgatan. Saw a friend. Nina.’

‘Were you at home on Friday evening?’

Sjöberg had turned to the mother, who seemed to have lost focus. She did not appear to be listening to what was being said. He could see how she pulled herself together when she was spoken to.

‘I was at home, yes. Last Friday.’

‘And Jennifer,’ Sjöberg coaxed further, ‘was she at home or did she maybe go out for a while?’

Lena Johansson looked embarrassed and answered, stammering, ‘Don’t remember … yes … no … No, I really don’t remember, I have to say.’

Sjöberg imagined that Friday evening was presumably not very different from Sunday evening. There were probably not too many evenings that Lena Johansson could actually account for.

‘Did you have guests then too?’ Hamad chimed in.

‘She always has guests,’ Elise clarified.

‘Who was here last Friday?’ Hamad continued. ‘Perhaps you remember, Elise?’

‘The usual,’ she answered tonelessly. ‘Monkan, Gordon, Peo, Solan. Dagge. Some strange guy that Solan dragged here. Bengtsson and Lidström. That tall, ugly jerk with no teeth. What the hell’s his name?’

She turned towards her mother and looked at her with a blank expression.

‘John,’ she answered, nervously picking at the cuticle of one thumb and not looking up.

‘John,’ Elise repeated. ‘And the Finn. I don’t remember any others.’

Hamad wrote down everything that was said and Sjöberg continued.

‘You and Jennifer – were you usually present at these parties?’

‘No, not that often.’

‘And what about on Friday?’

‘We sat in for a while.’

‘Did you get drunk?’

Elise hesitated, perhaps deliberating what answer would benefit her the most. The truth? Or a modified version?

‘I was drunk,’ she said. ‘Not really drunk, but a little drunk.’

‘And Jennifer?’

‘We drank more or less the same amount. Maybe she drank more after she left. I don’t know.’

‘Do you offer the girls alcohol?’ Sjöberg directed to the mother, more out of curiosity than as a reprimand.

‘They steal from me. What can I do? And you took my smokes with you when you left, didn’t you?’ she said to Elise, who did not comment on the accusation.

‘So you were in kind of a rowdy mood on Friday, Elise?’

‘Yes, but I didn’t have any money …’ Elise began, but bit her lip as she said it. ‘We were supposed to go out, but Nina and I just walked around a little. Didn’t do anything special,’ she added.

Sjöberg noted the slight change in the way she spoke, the sudden sharpness at those words. He wondered what kind of foolishness this girl had been involved in, but decided to drop the subject for the moment and only come back to it if it proved necessary.

‘Why didn’t you go on the Finland trip?’ he asked instead.

‘I guess they didn’t want me along,’ Elise answered with a shrug and looked at something outside the window, uninterested again.

‘Do you know if there was anyone who disliked Jennifer, anyone who threatened her?’

‘Who would that be? Everyone wanted to be friends with Jennifer. And all the guys were hot for her,’ she added.

‘Did she have many boyfriends?’ Sjöberg asked.

‘Before she did. Not any more, I think. She thought the boys were so childish. Well, and then there was Joakim of course.’

‘Yes, he is a little older. A little more mature.’

Sjöberg listened to the echo of his words and thought he sounded like an old man talking to a child. Empty phrases, awkward attempts to put himself on a level that actually did not suit either of them. She – a child? Hardly. And he – wise from the experiences of a long life? He dismissed the thought.

‘Hmm,’ said Elise.

‘She had nothing going with any of the blokes who always hang around here?’ Hamad suggested.

‘Hell, no!’ she exclaimed, spitting out the words. ‘If you saw them, you wouldn’t even ask.’

She cast a contemptuous look at her mother, who did not respond.

‘There were no jealous former boyfriends who bothered her?’

‘No,’ Elise answered.

Lena Johansson adamantly refused, as Sjöberg had feared, to go to Finland to identify the body. The two policemen left the Johansson family’s home without having got a single solid piece of information. Still, their picture of Jennifer was that much clearer now. A sixteen-year-old, precocious in many ways, from a broken home, with a poorly functioning family and a shaky life in other respects too. A sixteen-year-old with a mind of her own, with certain social ambitions, but apparently no occupational or academic ambitions. Accustomed to taking care of herself, unaccustomed to emotional ties. Accustomed to going her own way, unaccustomed to outside demands.