The Beige Man (18 page)

Irene couldn’t help turning her head to look at the picture on the wall. The blonde hair fanned out around the thin face … She didn’t look a day older than eleven.

“The stomach contents consisted of a small amount of white bread and a little coleslaw: the kind of salad you get with pizza. Her last meal was consumed at least six hours before she died. She was probably too ill to eat or drink much.”

Tommy concluded his summary of the autopsy report and put down the papers on the desk in front of him.

“But she obviously wasn’t too ill to be exploited. She was
expected to oblige right to the very end!” Irene couldn’t hide the bitterness in her voice.

“Yes,” Tommy began, “but after all it was the killer who—”

Irene interrupted him. “He forced a dying child to perform a sex act. We know that the semen in her hair got there at around the time of her death. The skin fragments under her nails suggest that she tried to defend herself. Presumably he lost his temper and ejaculated all over her hair. Perhaps he strangled her at the same time!”

Irene realized she was glaring at the men around the table, an angry flush staining her cheeks red.

“Calm down. None of us killed the girl,” Jonny said nastily.

Irene could feel her pulse rate increasing, but she tried to suppress her anger. He was right. At the same time, Linda Holm’s word’s echoed in her mind:
the majority are socially well-established men with families
.

It could be anybody. Even one of her colleagues. She made a huge effort to try to push away her gloomy thoughts. It wasn’t entirely successful. Suddenly she said, “This is exactly what makes me so … furious. Swedish men know these girls are slaves. They know that the girls live in appalling conditions. In spite of that, they support the trade in human trafficking by paying for sex. I just don’t get it! You’re men. Can someone explain it to me?!”

There was silence around the table. Four pairs of eyes gazed uncomprehendingly at her. Eventually the superintendent spoke.

“So you’re getting all feminist, like those women who run around saying that all men are monsters,” he said acidly.

“I just don’t understand how a man can have sex with a person he knows has been forced into slavery,” Irene retorted.

Tommy was the first to respond. “I know what you mean. The places where the girls conduct their business are so disgusting that I don’t even know how anyone can get it up in the
first place. The stench, and those bastards hanging around … no, I just don’t understand it. But it’s important to remember that most men wouldn’t dream of having sex with a girl under those circumstances.”

“But there are still those who do,” Irene insisted.

Fredrik looked as if he was giving serious consideration to Irene’s question. “The girls supplied through trafficking are often cheaper than ordinary hookers,” he said eventually.

“So you’re telling me it’s down to financial reasons? I don’t believe …” Irene began, but she was interrupted by Jonny.

“Oh for fuck’s sake! Your normal john is a guy sitting on his own in his hotel room feeling horny. Or he’s sitting at home while his wife is off doing something else. What does he do? He gets out his laptop and opens an Internet browser. Checks out the girls that are available in town right now. Then he makes contact. If things work out he gets his rocks off, the girl gets her money, and that’s the end of that. It doesn’t do anybody any harm!”

“But what if one of those johns had sex with the little Russian a few weeks ago? Without using a condom? By now he will have infected his wife or partner with gonorrhea. Or possibly HIV. Or pubic lice.”

“Nice souvenirs you get from those ladies.” Jonny grinned.

“Can we please stop bullshitting and get back to work?” Andersson exploded.

None of the others had noticed the chief’s rising frustration, which was why his outburst was met with astonished silence.

“This nonsense has no relevance to our investigation,” the superintendent added firmly.

Irene could tell he was trying to bring his blood pressure down by taking deep breaths. He had learned this technique from a training course on crisis management a few years ago. It was more or less the only thing he remembered about the course.

Irene would have liked to contradict him, but she realized there was no point in pursuing the discussion. The problem remained; she still couldn’t for the life of her understand how men could support the existence of slavery in today’s enlightened society.

There was a knock on the door and Superintendent Linda Holm walked in before anyone had the chance to speak. She stopped dead as she picked up on the tense atmosphere, then continued into the room as if she hadn’t noticed anything.

“Sorry to disturb you, but apparently someone else has been shot. That Comandante from Tenerife has just called again. He seems a little shaken, to say the least,” she said with a grimace.

“What the hell does he expect us to do about crime in the Canaries?” Jonny asked.

“I’m not really sure. His English is terrible. Now he wants to speak to the person in charge of the homicide investigation. Which would be you, I guess,” she said, nodding to Andersson.

The superintendent squirmed uncomfortably on his chair. “What? Oh … well … yes, I suppose it would,” he said.

If there was one thing Andersson couldn’t stand, it was talking to foreigners on the phone. It didn’t matter if they were Danes, Germans or Spaniards. The main problem was that he didn’t speak very good English, but the other major issue was his hearing, which was gradually deteriorating. Over the past few years it had affected him more and more. In a large group of people he found it very difficult to make out what people were saying. Everything just merged into a hum of conversation.

“Is there anyone in the department who speaks Spanish?” he asked.

Everyone shook their heads. Suddenly Fredrik’s face lit up. “Birgitta speaks Spanish!” he exclaimed.

“She’s in the hospital. She won’t be back for at least a couple of weeks,” Tommy reminded him.

There was a brief silence, then Andersson fixed his gaze on Irene. “You talk to him.”

“Me? Why me? I can’t speak a word of Spanish, and I’m not in charge of the investigation,” she protested.

“But you can speak English on the phone,” Andersson countered.

It was true that she had spoken quite a lot of English during the Schyttelius homicide case a few years earlier. She had talked to British colleagues, both on the phone and in person in London. She was still in touch with Glen Thomsen, the superintendent at Scotland Yard. The Huss and Thomsen families had visited each other’s countries and had a very enjoyable time together.

An agitated Spanish commanding officer was something else entirely, particularly if his English wasn’t good.

“Okay. But it’s late afternoon now. I’ll call him tomorrow,” Irene said with a sigh.

“Excellent,” Linda said, passing her a yellow Post-it note.

Without looking at it Irene stuck it inside her folder. As she flicked through to find her most recent notes, the yellow scrap of paper was forgotten.

Linda Holm had only just left the room when the door flew open again. This time the visitor didn’t even bother knocking, let alone apologizing for the intrusion. It was Jonny’s temporary assistant, Jesper Tobiasson, who hurtled in looking extremely excited.

“They’ve picked up Daniel Lindgren!” he announced jubilantly.

Jonny leapt to his feet. “Where?”

“At his mom’s place in Tynnered.”

“Is he already here?”

“I don’t know, but they’re supposed to be bringing him straight in.”

“Okay. We’ll question him as soon as possible, ask him what
he’s been doing since he took off. If it’s too late he can sit and stew in a custody cell until tomorrow,” Jonny decided.

Andersson rubbed his hands with satisfaction. “Good! At least we should be able to link him to the hit-and-run or eliminate him from our inquiries,” he said, standing up to indicate that the meeting was over.

H
EAVY SLEET LASHED
against the windshield as Irene drove home. The snow that had already fallen was quickly turning into thick slush. Several drains were completely blocked, and pools of melting slush had quickly formed on the streets. In some of them the water was above the hubcaps on Irene’s car. Even though rush hour was over it was impossible to maintain the speed limit because of the flooded roads.

Irene was tired by the time she put the key in the front door. She was looking forward to an excellent dinner. Krister had been off work today; he usually took the opportunity to go into town and do some shopping at the main indoor market or the fish market. If he was inspired the result could be something really special, even though it was the middle of the week.

The wonderful aroma of fried chicken and garlic drifted toward her as she opened the door. Her mouth watered as she thought about the delights to come. She quickly shrugged off her coat and hung it up.

Jenny came into the hallway with a steaming cup of tea in one hand and a cress and tomato sandwich on a plate in the other. She stopped with one foot on the bottom step and beamed at her mother.

“Hi! I went over to Grodden today, and they have a job for me!” she informed Irene.

“Fantastic. Where’s Grodden?”

“Redbergsplatsen.”

“But why do you have to work so far away? Isn’t there a day
care center in the western part of the city that would want you? And why can’t you stay at Tomtebo?”

Jenny rolled her eyes and sighed. “Grodden isn’t a day care center, it’s a vegetarian restaurant. I’m going to be cooking! I can start at the beginning of March. And guess what the best thing is?”

She paused for effect, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. Irene shook her head wearily.

“There’s an apartment I can rent in the same building! A two-room apartment! It’s a sublet, but the tenancy agreement will be for a year!”

A lot of overwhelming good news had been delivered all at the same time. Irene went over to her daughter and kissed her on the cheek. She didn’t dare risk a hug because the hot cup of tea was balancing precariously on a saucer in Jenny’s hand.

“Congratulations, sweetheart! That’s so cool!”

Jenny beamed at her again before disappearing up the stairs.

In the kitchen Krister was busy straining freshly cooked tagliatelle, which he was planning to serve with a tasty Italian chicken casserole. It was absolutely delicious and one of Irene’s favorite dishes.

She threw her arms around him and buried her nose in the back of his neck. He smelled of garlic and the hot stove.

“So our little bundle of joy is leaving home. Imagine that,” she murmured into his neck.

He turned around and wrapped her in his arms. They stood there for a long time, holding each other close and feeling the warmth of each other’s bodies. Irene turned up her face and found his mouth. It had been a while since they had kissed so passionately—in the middle of the kitchen, on an ordinary weekday evening, stone-cold sober.

“Get a room, you two!”

Irene and Krister stopped in the middle of a kiss and
instinctively stepped apart. Katarina was standing in the doorway, laughing at them.

“I was only teasing. You’re so sweet! At your age …!” She wagged her finger jokingly at them.

“What do you mean, at our age? From a purely statistical point of view, I expect to live for another thirty years or so, and your mother will be around for at least forty-five,” Krister said.

He demonstratively pulled Irene close and gave her another burning kiss. Then he turned to his daughter and said, “What makes you think you stop loving someone just because you reach a certain age? Love is timeless, and age is irrelevant.”

“Oh, please. I’m starving. Something smells amazing!”

Katarina strolled in and sat down at the kitchen table. Irene sat down beside her and scooped a large portion of pasta and chicken onto each plate.

“How did Jenny manage to get that apartment?” she asked Katarina.

“Stoffe, the guy she’s covering for, owns the place. He’s going to work in London for a year or so—in an ordinary restaurant, but they want someone who can cook good vegetarian food. Stoffe’s girlfriend is a waitress, and she’s fixed up a job, too, so they’re leaving in two weeks. And Jenny’s asked if I want to share the apartment with her until I find somewhere of my own. I think I will. For, like, six months anyway.”

Irene paused with the fork halfway to her mouth. “So you’re moving out at the same time as Jenny.”

“I think so, yeah.”

Irene could see that this came as a surprise to Krister as well. He didn’t say anything, but nodded silently to himself several times, as if something he had long suspected had just been confirmed.

Katarina was as tall as Irene, slender and fit. A beautiful grown woman. Who would soon be leaving home. And Sammie was old, and in the not-too-distant future he too
would be gone. Suddenly there would be only Irene and Krister once more. They had known each other for just eighteen months when the twins were born, and the girls had been a part of their life together for almost twenty years.

A new phase would soon begin, with more disposable income and the chance to travel and indulge themselves with material possessions. It was a tempting prospect. At the same time, there would no longer be any kind of buffer between them. It would be just the two of them for the rest of their lives.

H
ANNU WAS QUIETER
than usual. He had answered in monosyllables when Irene asked how Birgitta was. It was obvious he wasn’t feeling too well. Birgitta’s mother had moved in temporarily to help out with little Timo. Irene had met her once, and knew that she was a determined woman with firm views on most things. She had raised Birgitta alone, while at the same time pursuing a brilliant career in banking. She had retired at the age of sixty-five after many years as a bank director, and these days she spent most of her recently acquired free time at Alingsås golf club. But now it was the middle of winter, and she could devote all of her energy to her daughter’s family. Hannu was grateful for her help, of course, but Irene knew that his relationship with his mother-in-law wasn’t always smooth sailing.