The Crow Girl (14 page)

‘What about the genitals?’

‘This boy’s genitals have also been removed.’

Ivo Andrić went on to explain that this had been done with the same precision as before. And, once again, the body showed evidence of extreme violence. There was extensive subcutaneous bleeding on the back that suggested that this boy, too, had been whipped.

‘It wouldn’t surprise me if the body also contains high quantities of Xylocain adrenalin,’ the medical officer concluded. Jeanette hoped the forensic chemistry lab would be able to analyse the samples quickly.

She realised that they were probably dealing with the same perpetrator, and so were investigating a double murder.

How many more boys would die before this was over?

The only significant evidence they had found were two shoe prints, one large and one much smaller, almost a child’s, and some tyre tracks from a vehicle of some sort. Forensics had taken casts, but these would only be useful when they had something to compare them with.

Some hundred metres from the place where the body had been found, Åhlund had noted that the same vehicle had scraped a tree, so if it was the perpetrator’s car, the car was blue.

Someone out there was abducting children no one would miss, then abusing them so severely that they died. Even though there had been a lot of coverage in the press, and they had asked the public for help identifying the boy from Thorildsplan, the tip-off lines had remained silent.

But an item on TV3’s
Crimewatch
programme had led to a considerable number of disturbed individuals claiming responsibility for the crime. Often that sort of coverage could assist a case that had ground to a halt, but on this occasion it had only wasted valuable time. All of the callers were men who, were it not for various political decisions, ought to have been in psychiatric institutions and receiving professional help. But instead they were wandering the streets of Stockholm, suppressing their demons with drink and drugs.

Welfare state – yeah, right! she thought.

‘FORGET FURUGÅRD!’ WAS
all von Kwist said on the phone.

‘What? What do you mean?’ Jeanette Kihlberg got up and went over to the window. ‘But the guy’s extremely … I don’t understand this at all.’

‘Furugård has an alibi and has nothing to do with this. I told you we should steer clear of him. It was a serious mistake on my part to listen to you.’

Jeanette could hear how upset the prosecutor was, and could see his bright red face before her.

‘Furugård’s in the clear,’ he went on. ‘He has an alibi.’

‘Really? So what is it?’

Von Kwist said nothing for a moment, then went on.

‘What I’m about to tell you is confidential and must stay between you and me. I am merely conveying a fact. Is that understood?’

‘Yes. Of course.’

‘The Swedish international force in Sudan, that’s all I can say.’

‘And?’

‘Furugård was recruited in Afghanistan, and has been stationed in Sudan all spring. He’s innocent.’

Jeanette didn’t know what to say.

‘Sudan?’ was all she managed to get out. She felt utterly impotent.

Back to square one. No suspect for the murders, and only one victim identified.

How and why Yuri Krylov, the boy out in Svartsjölandet, had come to Sweden was anyone’s guess. The Belarussian embassy on Lidingö hadn’t been particularly helpful.

The mummified boy in the bushes next to the Thorildsplan metro station was still unidentified, and Jeanette had contacted Europol in The Hague in the hope of getting some help. But it wouldn’t do any good. Europe was crawling with illegal refugee children who had no contact with any authorities. There were children coming and going everywhere without anyone ever knowing where they’d disappeared to. And even if they did know, no one did anything.

After all, they were only children.

Ivo Andrić out in Solna had told her that it looked likely that Yuri Krylov had been castrated while he was alive.

She wondered what she could deduce from that. From experience, the extreme brutality, the torture, suggested that the perpetrator was male.

But there was also something almost ritualistic about it all, so the possibility that it had been carried out by more than one person couldn’t be dismissed. Could they be dealing with human traffickers?

Right now she had to concentrate on the likeliest explanation. A lone, violent male who was probably already in their database. The difficulty with working from that presumption was that there were so many men like that.

She stared at the heaps of files on her desk.

Thousands of pages, covering about a hundred potential perpetrators.

Three hours later she found something interesting. She stood up, went out into the corridor, and knocked on the door of Jens Hurtig’s room.

‘Have you got a moment?’

He turned towards her, and she smiled at his quizzical expression.

‘Follow me,’ she said.

They sat down on either side of her desk, and Jeanette handed Hurtig a file.

He opened it, then looked up in surprise.

‘Karl Lundström? But he’s the one we raided. The one with a computer full of child porn. What about him?’

‘Let me explain. Karl Lundström has been questioned by National Crime, and in the transcript you’ve got there Lundström goes into detail about how to go about buying a child.’

He looked interested. ‘Buying a child?’

‘Yes. And Lundström seems to have detailed knowledge. He mentions precise figures, but claims he’s never had any direct involvement, although he knows people who have.’

Hurtig leaned back and took a deep breath.

‘Damn, this could be interesting. Any names?’

‘No. But Lundström’s file isn’t complete yet. In parallel with the police interviews he’s been undergoing an evaluation by forensic psychiatry. Perhaps the psychologists who’ve been talking to him can tell us a bit more.’

Hurtig leafed through the file. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes, a few more things. Karl Lundström advocates castration of paedophiles and rapists. But reading between the lines you can tell he doesn’t think that’s enough. All men ought to be castrated.’

Hurtig looked up at the ceiling. ‘Isn’t that a bit far-fetched? I mean, we’re talking about little boys in these cases.’

‘Maybe, but there are a couple more things that tell me we should still check him out,’ Jeanette went on. ‘There’s a case that was dropped, into the abduction, sexual abuse and rape of a child. Seven years ago. The girl who reported him was fourteen at the time, name Ulrika Wendin. Guess who dropped the case.’

He grinned. ‘Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist, I presume?’

Jeanette nodded.

‘Ulrika Wendin is listed at an address in Hammarbyhöjden, and I suggest we get out there as soon as we can.’

‘OK … what else?’

He looked at her inquisitively, and she couldn’t help pausing before she answered.

‘Karl Lundström’s wife is a dentist.’

He looked uncomprehending.

‘A dentist?’

‘Yes. Lundström’s wife is a dentist, meaning that he could have had access to medication. We know that at least one of our victims was given an anaesthetic used by dentists. Xylocain adrenalin. Two plus two. I wouldn’t be surprised if the test results show that Krylov’s blood contains traces of it as well. In other words, it’s not out of the question that all this is connected.’

Hurtig put the file down and stood up.

‘OK, you’ve convinced me. Lundström sounds worth investigating.’

‘I’ll call Billing,’ Jeanette said. ‘Let’s hope he can persuade the prosecutor to arrange an interview.’

Hurtig paused in the doorway and turned back.

‘Is it absolutely necessary to involve von Kwist, when it’s just a first, exploratory interview?’

‘I’m afraid so,’ Jeanette said. ‘Seeing as Lundström’s already facing one charge, we have to inform von Kwist at least.’

Hurtig sighed and walked away.

She called Commissioner Dennis Billing, and to her surprise he was unusually helpful and promised to do what he could to persuade the prosecutor. Then she called the lead interviewer at National Crime, Lars Mikkelsen.

She explained why she was calling, but when she mentioned the name Karl Lundström he laughed.

‘I don’t think so,’ Mikkelsen said, clearing his throat. ‘He’s no murderer. I’ve dealt with a lot of murderers over the years, and I recognise them. This man is sick. But he’s not a murderer.’

‘That’s possible,’ Jeanette said. ‘But I’m interested in finding out more about his contact with child trafficking.’

‘Lundström is making out that he knows a lot about how it all works, but I’m not sure you’d get much out of him. That’s an international business, I doubt you’d get much help even if you turned to Interpol. Believe me, I’ve worked with this crap for twenty years, and we’re constantly trying.’

‘How can you be so sure that Lundström isn’t a killer?’ she asked.

He cleared his throat again. ‘Well, anything’s possible, I suppose, but you’d understand if you met him. You should probably talk to the forensic psychologist instead. A woman called Sofia Zetterlund has been brought in to offer an expert opinion. But the investigation’s hardly got going yet, so you might want to wait a few days before heading out to Huddinge.’

They ended the call.

Jeanette had nothing to lose, and maybe the psychologist would be able to give her something, even if it was just a small detail. That sort of thing had happened before. The way things looked, she had every reason to call this Sofia Zetterlund.

But it was long past office hours, and Jeanette decided to hold off making the phone call. Right now she just wanted to go home.

SHE CALLED ÅKE
from the car to see if there was any food in the house, but they’d had pizza and the fridge was bare, so she stopped at the Statoil garage near the Globe and ate a couple of hot dogs.

The air inside the car was warm and she wound down the window and let the fresh breeze caress her face. As she parked the car in front of the house and walked through the garden she could smell freshly cut grass, and when she went round the corner she caught sight of Åke sitting on the terrace with a beer. He was sweaty and dirty from working in the rocky, steep garden. She went up to him and kissed his stubbly cheek.

‘Hello, handsome,’ she said out of habit. ‘You’ve made it look great. It needed it! I’ve seen the way they were sneering over the fence.’ She nodded towards the neighbours’ house and pretended to throw up. Åke laughed and nodded.

‘Where’s Johan?’

‘He’s over at the football pitch with some friends.’

He looked at her with a smile and tilted his head.

‘You’re beautiful, even if you do look tired.’ He grabbed her around the waist and pulled her down into his lap. She ran her hand over his cropped hair, pulled free and got up, and went towards the terrace door into the kitchen.

‘Is there any wine in the house? I could really use a glass right now.’

‘There’s an unopened box on the worktop, and there are some slices of pizza in the fridge. But seeing as we’re on our own for an hour or so, maybe we should go in for a bit?’

They hadn’t made love for several weeks, and she knew he took care of himself in the bathroom, but she felt far too tired. She turned and saw he was coming after her.

‘OK,’ she said, without any enthusiasm.

She heard how it sounded, but didn’t have the energy to pretend otherwise.

‘Forget it, then, if that’s how you feel.’

She turned round and saw that he’d gone back to his chair and opened another beer.

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But I’m completely exhausted, all I want to do is change into something more comfortable and relax for a bit until Johan comes home. Can’t we do it before we go to sleep?’

He looked away and muttered, ‘Sure.’

She drew a deep sigh, overwhelmed by a sense of inadequacy.

She strode purposefully back out to Åke and stood in front of him, legs spread.

‘No, that’s not good enough! I want you to shut up and come inside and give me a good seeing-to! No fucking about with foreplay!’ She took his hand and pulled him up from his chair. ‘The kitchen floor will do just fine!’

‘God, you’re so damn provocative all the time!’ Åke pulled free of her grip and walked off towards the corner of the house. ‘I’m going to fetch Johan on the bike.’

All these men, she thought, all thinking they had the right to make demands and try to make her feel guilty. Her bosses, Åke and all the bastards she spent her days trying to catch.

All of them men who had some sort of influence over her life, and without whom life would often be a hell of a lot simpler.

ONCE KARL LUNDSTRÖM
had left the room Sofia felt exhausted. Although he denied it, she could see he was consumed with shame. It was there in his eyes when he talked about the episode in Kristianstad, and was lurking behind his religious reflections and his stories about the child sex trade.

In the last of these, it was mainly about suppressing it.

The guilt and shame weren’t his, they belonged to all of humanity, or possibly the Russian mafia.

Were the stories unconscious inventions?

Sofia decided to share with Lars Mikkelsen the information that had emerged from the conversation, even if she doubted that the police would find an Anders Wikström in Norrland, let alone any videotapes in a cupboard under the stairs in his cellar.

She dialled police headquarters, got put through to Mikkelsen, and gave him a short summary of what Karl Lundström had told her.

She ended the phone call with a rhetorical question.

‘Is it really so impossible not to administer anxiety-suppressing medication in one of the largest hospitals in Sweden?’

‘Lundström was drowsy?’

‘Yes, and if I’m going to be able to do my job in the future, I really would prefer that the person I’m talking to has had a bath.’