Cinderella Girl (22 page)

* * *

‘The only thing we have to go on is that there’s a big sister,’ Petra Westman stated dejectedly.

‘And that doesn’t make it any more fun,’ said Sandén.

‘No, it will probably be harder for her than for the boy to grow up without her mother. He’s not going to remember what she was like.’

Petra and Sandén were having a quick, fairly unhealthy lunch together at McDonald’s on Götgatan. Normally Sandén would at least try to take a longer break, but they were short on time and wanted to meet up anyway to summarize the investigation. They sat strategically located in one corner, near the street, speaking in low voices.

‘Have you talked to the hospital today? How’s the kid doing?’ Sandén asked.

‘He’s going to pull through,’ Petra answered. ‘He just has to gain some weight and get over the throat infection. But where in the name of God are the rest of this family hiding themselves? No one has missed the boy and his mother in four days. Tomorrow we’ll have to put photos in the newspapers, that’s all there is to it. We’ve been to all the children’s health centres in the entire inner city. All that’s left are a few sick or absent paediatric nurses that we’ll have to visit at home. That sort of thing takes for ever.’

‘We’ve knocked on virtually every door within three hundred yards of the discovery site. Same thing there: it’s
the ones who don’t open the door or answer the phone who create a bottleneck in the investigation.’

‘It’s hard to believe you can be so anonymous in this city,’ Petra sighed.

‘It doesn’t surprise me a bit. It’s stranger that no one saw anything,’ Sandén muttered.

‘Not many people go past there at that time of night. At midnight in September it’s pitch black and the park is poorly lit. Besides, the whole thing must have happened extremely fast. Think about it: he comes towards her, driving at high speed. It’s dark; presumably he doesn’t see the woman until it’s too late. She flies headfirst right into the tree, the inset flies into the bushes, the pram in a different direction. He stops the car, rushes out to see what happened and finds her dead. Panics and decides to hide the body. Then he catches sight of that sand box and drags her over there; it’s not far. Gets her down into the box, for some reason decides that he should empty her pockets – maybe to get her money, or make the police’s work harder or something. Then he runs back to the car and drives off. All in less than two minutes, the re-enactment will show.’

‘You’re forgetting the boy,’ Sandén pointed out.

‘The driver didn’t even see him. I think the insert ended up in the bushes from the collision and that the pram flew or rolled off somewhere. Then a passerby discovered the pram on the grass and pushed it up to the turning area.’

‘Or else someone ran her over on purpose,’ Sandén suggested. ‘The father, for example. Maybe they were in a custody dispute and so he did away with her.’

‘As she was pushing their son in a pram?’ Petra sounded sceptical.

‘Maybe the children have different fathers. Maybe he was only the father of the girl.’

‘You don’t believe that yourself.’

‘You’re right,’ Sandén admitted. ‘I’ll do the rounds of the paediatric nurses who are off sick in the north and west suburbs during the afternoon; you take the rest.’

‘Good,’ said Petra. ‘Tomorrow we’ll release the pictures to the press and then I’ll try to put together a reconstruction in Vitabergsparken at night. I’ll talk to Conny and see whether he has any new angles.’

‘He probably has his hands full too, I would think.’

‘I haven’t seen him since Sunday.’

‘No, we keep missing each other. And then there’s Einar, like the spider in the web,’ said Sandén with a grin.

Petra let out a hollow laugh and pretended to shudder.

‘He does what he’s supposed to anyway,’ said Sandén soothingly.

‘But not a bit more.’

‘It could be worse.’

‘I know, but I hardly dare give him any work.’

‘You’ll have to learn to, if you’re going to get anywhere.’

‘How can a person be so surly and bitter?’

‘What do we really know about what life’s like for him, what reasons he might have for his behaviour?’ Sandén philosophized. ‘If we knew what he’s experienced, maybe we’d love the guy for his positive attitude. Not everything is always as it seems, Petra, my dear.’

They gathered up the rubbish from the hamburgers on one tray, which Sandén set on top of the overflowing bin, and left the restaurant together. As they came out on
Götgatan, Petra’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and glanced at the display: ‘Blocked number.’

‘Sjöberg,’ she guessed. ‘See you, Jens.’

Sandén left her with tired steps and a hand gesture that could possibly be construed as a wave.

‘Hi, Conny, I was just about to call you.’

‘I think it’s best if you come in.’

‘Right now?’

‘No, but during the afternoon. We need to talk.’

Was that a sigh she heard? Sjöberg did not sound like himself. There was something … cordial missing from his tone.

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can,’ said Petra. ‘I –’

‘Do that.’

Impersonal. Toneless.

‘I need to talk to you too.’

‘Hmm.’

Like Eeyore, thought Petra. He sounds like Eeyore.

‘I’ll see you later,’ she said.

‘See you,’ said Sjöberg.

Her stomach knotted up as she ended the call.

* * *

‘What did you really want?’ Hamad asked.

He was sitting at his desk holding the phone between his chin and shoulder, trying to open a packet of sugar to add to his coffee.

‘Huh?’ Elise said blankly.

‘When you were here earlier and talked to me. What was the real reason?’

He wanted to give her a chance to tell him what it was about. He felt sorry for the girl. She must think it was unpleasant to have to talk to the police and it made her nervous. Hamad had no intention of putting her off balance, but he wanted to hear her tell the truth.

‘I wanted to know whether you knew who did it,’ she answered lamely.

Hamad managed to tear off one corner of the sugar packet and emptied the contents into his coffee.

‘But it wasn’t just that, was it?’

Now he was giving her a hint that he knew. If she didn’t take that bait she was an idiot. He stirred his coffee with a little plastic spoon. She did not answer.

‘Elise, I’m a policeman. If I ask you a question, you have to answer.’

He regretted calling instead of going there. He would have liked to see her reaction now.

‘I wanted to talk a bit to you or one of the others,’ was all she said.

‘And that was the only reason you came to the police station today?’

‘Yes.’

‘So when we’d had our little talk you went straight home?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Elise, I know that you went to the lost property department with a wallet. Why didn’t you tell me about that?’

‘Oh, yes, that. I didn’t even think of it. That doesn’t have anything to do with Jennifer,’ Elise said, sounding indifferent.

‘That’s not for you to decide,’ said Hamad sternly. ‘Your sister was murdered and we’re trying to solve the case. If you lie to me now or withhold something, how will I ever know if you’re telling the truth?’

‘I didn’t mean to lie. I just didn’t think of it.’

‘You’re still lying. You don’t fool me. I gave you several opportunities to talk about what’s really going on, but you didn’t take them. Now tell me about the wallet.’

There was silence on the end of the phone. Hamad did not intend to let her off the hook. He took a gulp of coffee and waited.

‘What do you mean, tell?’ she said at last. ‘I found it on the street and then I handed it in. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?’

‘Where did you find it?’

‘On the street, like I said. I don’t know the name of the street.’

‘When did you find it?’

‘A few days ago. The day before yesterday, I think it was.’

‘And you only turned it in today? Did you think about keeping the money?’ Hamad asked, straight to the point.

A few seconds of silence, then she answered. ‘Yeah, I guess I did. It was a lot of money –’

‘Three thousand kronor. Yes, that’s a lot of money. Keeping the wallet would have made you a thief, do you know that?’

‘That’s why I turned it in,’ she defended herself.

‘Who is Sören Andersson?’ asked Hamad. ‘Do you know him?’

She hesitated briefly before answering, ‘Is it his wallet? No, I don’t.’

‘Why didn’t you contact him yourself?’

‘How would I know where he lives?’

‘All that information is in the wallet. Address and phone number. And it was a lot of money. I’m sure you would have got a reward.’

‘Maybe he’s not a nice person. You have to be careful of strangers,’ she said defiantly.

‘Maybe you had a guilty conscience too, since you thought first about keeping the money.’

‘Maybe so.’

Hamad had the feeling she was keeping something from him. Her story might very well add up, but why all the secrecy?

‘Do you know what I think?’ he asked.

Elise did not answer.

‘I think you stole the wallet.’

Hamad waited for a reaction, but there was only silence. He continued.

‘You took the wallet because you needed money. Then you changed your mind, so you came and handed it in to the police. Did the owner know it was you who took the wallet?’

‘I found it, I said.’

‘Why didn’t you give the police your name? If you need money? Or you can’t get a reward.’

‘I don’t want any reward. I didn’t steal it; I found it on the street.’

‘But now
I
know who found it anyway, so I can give your name to this Sören Andersson,’ Hamad said provocatively. ‘I mean, then you can get your reward –’

‘You do that,’ said Elise.

Hamad felt a sting of bad conscience about the girl, but even so he was satisfied at having taught her a lesson.

‘You don’t need to worry,’ he said. ‘I won’t reveal who you are. But I would be grateful if you told the truth in the future.’

‘Uh-huh,’ she mumbled in response.

‘Take care, Elise, and no more foolishness now.’

After the call he remained sitting there for a while, absentmindedly fiddling with the wallet. The girl was lying, he was sure of it. In all probability she had stolen the wallet, but then she had thought better of it and that was good. Elise Johansson was simply yet another of these lost kids who thought it was easier to lie than to tell the truth. Who never hesitated to toss out a half-truth or a bald-faced lie, because it made things easier in the short run. She saw no reason to worry about repercussions or consequences; she lived for the moment with no respect for her surroundings, because she herself had never been shown any respect. Then he reminded himself that she had actually repented and turned in the money on her own initiative. Perhaps there was still hope for Elise.

Hamad glanced at the clock, sighed and got up from his chair. He decided to concentrate on the Jennifer Johansson case and leave her little sister to her fate for the moment. Then he took the wallet back down to the lost property department.

As always, he told himself that nothing was decided, there were no definite plans. That was almost true: the thought of the solitary child had only occurred to him as he was reading
Aftonbladet
on Monday evening. But once he had talked to her he could not stay away. He would simply go there and check out the mood a little and see how the whole thing turned out. It would be just that. Of course, one thing usually led to another. Maybe she would be afraid, push him away. Then maybe he would coax her, make her realize that he only wished her well. He would put her in a good mood, spoil her a little so that she would see how nice he was.

First, of course, he would call and talk to her again. Make sure the circumstances hadn’t changed. Then he would go up and ring the doorbell, hear the drumming of energetic little feet against the parquet floor as she ran up to the door to greet him. He imagined her bright little voice shrieking with delight when he arrived. Her new friend; they had a secret together. He reminded himself that before going there he would have to make sure it still was a secret, that no one else knew about her predicament and was on their way to help her.

If she was obstinate – if she changed her mind and no longer wanted him there – then maybe he would just leave. If it worked out like that naturally. He would not hit
her; he would not hurt her. It just didn’t feel right in this situation. No, he would restrain himself and give up. Or else he would whine a little, plead with her in a childish way, a way that children recognized. He might crouch down or get on his knees and put on his silkiest voice. ‘Be nice, Hanna, let me stay. I’m so lonely.’

You could always try that. Appeal to a child’s empathy. That was something they recognized, could identify with. She could be big and he would be little.

He would bring hamburgers from McDonald’s; she couldn’t resist that. He had heard how happy she sounded on the phone when he suggested that. Poor child, she obviously hadn’t eaten properly for days. But she seemed to be managing fine; she was a child with a mind of her own. He would give her sweets too. Then they would take a bath. Wash her hair if she liked that; otherwise she could skip that, for the sake of domestic tranquillity. But he wanted her clean otherwise. Clean and smooth, with her skin softened after the warm bath, tender and smelling of soap.

He got up from the chair, crossing between the desks, and went over to the cloakroom where the toilet was. He closed the door behind him and locked it. Stood in front of the sink and looked at himself in the mirror. He was a nobody. He was an observer of the world around him, but he did not belong to it. As if to confirm this, he let his fingers run along the hollow in his neck between the collarbone, along the sternum and down to his navel, where for a moment, he let his index finger playfully twirl around, and then continue its journey downward.

He closed his eyes and found himself in the draught from
the rushing train. The endless train with all its carriages, with all its windows. He could barely fix his eyes on a single one of the people sitting inside before they were gone again. Gone and forgotten.

* * *

Barbro Dahlström, private detective, she thought as she tramped through the grass around the Barnängen allotments. From there she could see apartment buildings in several different directions. One direction however interested her more than the others. As she stood outside the fence by the row of plots at the far southern end of the park, she could see a white-plastered, 1920s-style, six-storey building. Across from it was a school building. It was the large yellow edifice of the Sofia School, which occupied an entire block in the angle between Skånegatan and Ploggatan.

She felt her heart skip a beat and hurried on to the little footpath that led over to Stora Mejtens Gränd. The closer she got to Ploggatan, the more she could see of the school’s exterior facing the street. When she was finally standing outside the corner building, number 20, she could see the entire Sofia School rising up before her. It was a grand building, bright yellow and towering. The corner of the building, across from Ploggatan 20, was adorned with a number of vertical, dark-yellow ovals, which ended both above and below in a checked pattern of blue and red squares. Below these decorations the words ‘PRIMARY SCHOOL’ were written in big letters.
And then, right at the top, a tower. A tower that might possibly house a beautiful princess.

Her excitement was tangible. She turned around purposefully and found herself staring through the window at yet another entrance hall. On the wall between the entrance and the grey internal doors hung a directory. Her eyes scanned eagerly through the dozen names on the list until they stopped at the one at the bottom. There was no doubt; she could see it clearly. Plain and simple: the small, white plastic letters formed the name Bergman.

Barbro had finally come to the right place.

Energized, she tugged at the door, but it was locked and would not open. The building didn’t have an entryphone, but Barbro started to enter four-digit combinations on the code reader, hoping that someone would come through and open the door for her. At first she used only the most worn keys, but after a while she collected herself and started systematically to punch in combinations in numerical order. She realized that there were thousands of possible combinations, but she hoped in her eagerness that she would not have to try too many.

After 400 tries, with still no sign of a building resident or the postman, she was forced to give up. She wrote down all the names on the directory in the hall and started walking in the direction of the police station on Östgötagatan. With all due respect to the county detective unit, this had now become a matter for the Hammarby police.

Not until Barbro sat down did she let herself feel how her legs ached. She would not have lasted much longer, she realized that now. It had been foolish of her to go out on
this desperate odyssey among the allotments, but now it was done. She had fulfilled the mission she had taken on, and she was proud of herself. Although she was a little angry too. Angry at the police, who had not done it themselves. She should be feeling like her work was done, but she wasn’t at all. She had completed the most trying, arduous and time-consuming part, but the most important thing still remained. Now she had to get to the girl. By herself or with the help of the police.

She leaned back comfortably in one of the armchairs in the police-building lobby. She had been directed there by the pretty receptionist, as Deputy Police Commissioner Malmberg, she said, was in a meeting. Barbro had in most definite terms asked to speak with a police inspector, but the receptionist advised her not to wait for Inspector Sjöberg – who was the only chief inspector in the building at the present time – because there were already several other people in the lobby waiting to speak to him.

But Barbro insisted that come what may she wanted to speak to a person in authority, and to her surprise she was granted an audience with the deputy police commissioner himself. Perhaps this was too much, thought Barbro, but on the other hand he was a policeman too, presumably a capable one. She would not have to wait long, she was promised. The receptionist winked at her and said that she would give Barbro top priority.

‘Mrs Dahlström, you can go up to the deputy police commissioner now!’ the girl called from her place behind the counter.

Barbro nodded gratefully to her and took the lift up to the top floor, as she was told. Here there was another
reception area, and the soon-to-be-retired lady in charge directed her to a nearby office. A sign said ‘Gunnar Malmberg’ outside the door, which was open. She stepped into the room and Malmberg, who appeared to be in his fifties, looked up at her with lively blue eyes from a tidy desk.

‘Barbro Dahlström? Please sit down,’ he said, showing her to one of the visitor’s chairs.

He had a friendly, cultivated appearance; he was in shirt and tie, with his jacket hanging neatly on a hanger on the wall behind him. Barbro hoped that he would take her more seriously than his subordinate had when he had dismissed her on the phone.

‘What can I help you with?’

Barbro felt she would have to make an effort to be firm with this policeman with his disarming smile.

‘I called here on Sunday evening and spoke to one of your officers,’ she said, getting straight to the point. ‘I doubt that you heard about it, because I got the impression he didn’t take my request very seriously. He referred me to the county detective unit, which proved to be a mistake, because the matter belongs here.’

The deputy police commissioner looked at her with an unchanged expression.

‘This concerns a little girl I spoke to on the phone. She called me and asked for help.’

Malmberg leafed to a blank page on his notepad and wrote something down before he looked up at her again and said, ‘Let’s hear it. In what way did she need help?’

Barbro told about the call from Hanna while Malmberg took notes. Sometimes he smiled in recognition, and Barbro drew the conclusion that he had children himself.
When she told him about little Hanna’s food preparation arrangements and how she had hurt herself, a wrinkle of concern appeared between his eyebrows. Barbro continued her story with the long walks among the allotments of Södermalm. Malmberg dropped the pen on the pad and put his hands behind his neck. With a smile that Barbro hoped was still friendly and not contemptuous, he listened further to what she had to say.

‘I think I actually know where the girl lives,’ Barbro paused for dramatic effect, and Malmberg looked at her with interest that she hoped was genuine. ‘So now I think it’s time for you to take over this investigation.’

The deputy police commissioner appeared to take the criticism with unruffled calm.

‘Of course we will,’ he answered. ‘That was very responsible of you, Mrs Dahlström. Where do you think the girl lives?’

‘At Ploggatan 20.’

Malmberg made a notation.

‘You have to go there,’ said Barbro. ‘As soon as possible. I’m really worried about the girl.’

‘I understand that, after all you’ve done to help her. We’ll do what we can.’

Barbro got up from the chair and Malmberg followed her example, extending his hand.

‘And do keep me informed,’ she ordered with a smile, before leaving the office and closing the door behind her.

On her way to the lift she passed the receptionist and they exchanged friendly smiles. Just as Barbro was about to get
into the lift she heard the intercom on the receptionist’s desk beep, followed by a crackling order issued in the deputy police commissioner’s voice.

‘Inga, call up Holgersson. I have a job for him.’

* * *

Jamal Hamad had another gap between interviews with the solo male travellers. So far today he had done eight, and no one yet had behaved strangely or reacted unexpectedly to his now routine questions. All supplied credible accounts of their doings on the night of the murder; Sjöberg, for his part, had not stumbled across anything that aroused the slightest suspicion either.

Hamad stared blankly at the names before him. He did not know how many times he had let his eyes run over these endless lists, but he knew that somewhere here there was a significant name. He wished that one of the names would speak to him, would leap out, but the best he could do was to learn to recognize as many as possible. He hoped that sooner or later he would be rewarded for his diligence. That was how he worked: methodical, focused and persistent. Sjöberg, who lacked that sort of patience and seldom could stick to the same task for very long, relied on intuition and energy. Hamad relied on being systematic, on dogged zeal and stubborn perseverance. And as a result of these monotonous marathons, he had developed his already good memory. It was rare, but it happened and it would happen again. That creeping sensation would come over him: the seed of an idea, a sense that
he ought to react. In the beginning he would not know to what he was reacting, but gradually it would come to him.

There was half an hour before he was due to question yet another of the passengers from the Finland ferry, and he decided to plough through another two pages of names before rewarding himself with a cup of coffee. There were two names left on the page when something clicked. This time it did not creep up on him; he saw it at once. His eyes wandered across the row, from the name and personal identification number to the telephone number and address. Every detail he had in front of him tallied with what he had seen a few hours earlier. The man whose wallet Elise had turned in, Sören Andersson, born in 1954 with an address on Katarina Bangata, had been one of the passengers on the Finland boat when Jennifer was murdered.

What should he do with this information? They now had a connection between Jennifer and a previously unknown fellow passenger. A lost wallet, Sören Andersson’s wallet, handed in to the police by Jennifer Johansson’s younger sister. How had Elise come across it? Naturally, she must have found it among Jennifer’s possessions. The two sisters shared a room. Perhaps Jennifer stole it from Sören Andersson and Elise had found it and handed it in to the police.