The Crow Girl (60 page)
Authors: Erik Axl Sund
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Crime
Linnea is very frightened of being alone with Viggo. He’s nice during the day, and nasty at night, and sometimes the things he does to her mean she can’t walk without help. I ask what Viggo did to her, and Linnea replies that she ‘thinks it was his hand and his sweetie, and then he took pictures and told me not to say anything to Dad and Mum’.
Linnea repeats ‘his hands, his sweetie, and then flashes from his camera’, then she says that Viggo wants to play cops and robbers, where she’s the robber and has to wear handcuffs. The handcuffs and his rough sweetie chafe all morning even though Linnea is asleep, yet not quite asleep because the flashes from the camera are red on the inside of her eyelids when she closes her eyes. And everything is outside and not inside, like a buzzing gnat in her head …
Sofia is breathing harder and harder. She doesn’t recognise the phrases.
She sees that the rest of the text has been written with the red pen.
… a buzzing gnat that can get out if she hits her head against the wall. Then the gnat can fly through the window which can also let out the rancid smell of a German bastard’s hands that smell of pigs and his clothes that smell of ammonia no matter how much he washes them, and his sweetie that tastes of horsehair and ought to be cut off and fed to the pigs …
Ann-Britt comes into the office, waving to let her know it’s urgent. ‘You’ve got a call waiting. Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist wants you to get in touch as soon as you have a moment.’
Sofia remembers a house surrounded by fields.
She used to sit by the dirty window upstairs, watching the seabirds’ movements against the sky. The sea hadn’t been far away.
‘OK. Let me have his number and I’ll call him straight back.’
And she remembers the cold metal against her hand as she squeezed the bolt gun. She could have killed Viggo Dürer.
If she had, then Linnea’s story would have been different.
The memories fade, like an ice cube melting faster the harder you hold it.
She looks at the notes again. The last three pages are Victoria’s words. Victoria Bergman, telling the story of Viggo Dürer and Linnea Lundström.
… the bumps of his vertebrae are visible through his clothes even when he wears a suit. He forces Linnea to undress and play his games with his toys in her room where the door is always locked except once when Annette, unless it was Henrietta, interrupted them. She felt ashamed because she was half naked on the floor on all fours while he was fully clothed and said that the little girl wanted to show him she could do the splits and then they wanted her to do it again, and when she did the splits and then a backbend the pair of them clapped, even though it was actually really sick because she was twelve years old and had breasts almost like a grown-up …
Sofia recognises some of what Linnea had said, but the words are mixed up with Victoria’s memories. Even so, the text doesn’t wake up any new memories.
The lined page is covered with incoherent writing.
She dials the prosecutor’s number.
Prosecutor von Kwist briefly explains why he wanted to talk to her, about Karl Lundström’s medication with benzodiazepines, and wonders what her opinion is.
‘It doesn’t make much difference. Even if Karl Lundström said what he did under the influence of heavy medication, his story is ultimately corroborated by his daughter. She’s the important one now.’
‘Heavy medication.’ The prosecutor snorts. ‘Do you know what Xanor is?’ Sofia can hear the familiar masculine arrogance and feels herself starting to get angry.
She makes an effort to speak softly and slowly, and tries to sound pedagogical, as though she were talking to a child. ‘It’s generally accepted that patients who are prescribed Xanor for any length of time develop a dependency. Withdrawal is difficult, and however good someone feels when they take Xanor is matched by how bad they feel when it wears off. One of my clients described Xanor as a very quick ricochet between heaven and hell. That’s why it’s classified as a narcotic. Unfortunately, not all doctors choose to avail themselves of that knowledge.’
She hears the prosecutor take a deep breath. ‘Good, good. I can hear you’ve done your homework.’ He laughs and tries to smooth things over. ‘Well, I still can’t help thinking that what he said he did to his daughter isn’t right –’ He interrupts himself mid-sentence.
‘I don’t just believe that you’re wrong. I know you are.’ Sofia thinks about everything Linnea has said.
‘What do you mean? Have you got any evidence, apart from his daughter’s account?’
‘I’ve got a name. Linnea has mentioned a man called Viggo Dürer several times.’
As soon as Sofia mentions the lawyer’s name, she regrets having said it.
WHAT CAUGHT JEANETTE’S
attention in Fredrika Grünewald’s tent was a bouquet of yellow tulips, and it wasn’t just the colour that made her react, but the card attached to one of the stems.
The clock in Katarina Church strikes six muffled chimes, and Jeanette suffers a pang of guilt once more because she’s still at work and not at home with Johan.
But after her discovery in Fredrika Grünewald’s tent it’s vital to keep up the momentum. That’s why she and Hurtig are now standing outside the Silfverberg family’s exclusive apartment. They’ve called to arrange a meeting.
Charlotte Silfverberg shows them into the living room. Jeanette goes over to the large picture window and gasps at the view. Straight ahead are the National Museum and the Grand Hôtel. To the right is the sailing ship now used as a youth hostel, the
af Chapman
. She can’t imagine that there’s a more beautiful view of Stockholm from anywhere. Jeanette turns round and sees that Hurtig has already sat down in one of the armchairs.
‘I suspect this is going to be quick.’ Charlotte Silfverberg is standing next to the other armchair, with both hands on the back as if to keep her balance.
Jeanette sits down on the sofa. ‘To start with, I’d like to know why you didn’t tell me about your daughter.’ She says it as if in passing, then leans over to get her notepad. ‘Or, rather, your foster-daughter.’
Charlotte Silfverberg answers without hesitation. ‘Because she’s a closed chapter to me. She messed up once too often and is no longer welcome in this house.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ll give you the short version.’ Charlotte Silfverberg takes a deep breath before going on. ‘Madeleine came to us as a baby. Her mother was very young and also suffered from severe mental illness, so wasn’t able to look after the child. So she came to us, and we loved her like she was our own. Yes, we carried on loving her even though she was so difficult throughout her childhood. She was often sick, whining all the time. I don’t know how many nights I sat up with her while she just screamed and screamed. She was simply inconsolable.’
‘And you never found out what was wrong with her?’ Hurtig leans forward and puts his hands on the coffee table.
‘What was there to find out? The girl was … well, how can I put it – damaged goods.’ Charlotte Silfverberg purses her lips, and Jeanette feels like punching the woman in the face.
Damaged goods.
Is that what it’s called these days when you treat a child so badly that it resorts to the only defence it’s got? Screaming.
Jeanette keeps her eyes fixed on the woman and is slightly scared by what she sees. Charlotte Silfverberg isn’t just a woman in mourning. She’s also a cruel person.
‘Well, she got older and started school. Daddy’s little girl. She and Per-Ola spent all the time they could together, and that’s what went wrong. A girl shouldn’t have such a close relationship to her father. She developed such a hero complex towards him that P-O felt it was time to set firm boundaries for her. I suppose she felt hurt, and started to make up all sorts of unkind things about him to get her own back.’
‘Unkind things?’ Jeanette can no longer restrain her anger. ‘For God’s sake, the girl said Per-Ola forced himself upon her.’
‘I’d prefer it if you could watch your language when you talk to me.’ Charlotte Silfverberg holds up both hands as if to fend her off. ‘I don’t wish to talk about this any further. End of discussion.’
‘I’m afraid we’re not quite finished yet.’ Jeanette puts her notebook down. ‘You have to realise that she is under suspicion for the murder of your husband.’
Only now does Charlotte Silfverberg seem to understand the seriousness of the situation, and nods mutely.
‘Do you know where she is today?’ Jeanette goes on. ‘And can you describe Madeleine? Does she have any distinguishing features?’
The woman shakes her head. ‘I presume she’s still in Denmark. When we went our separate ways she was taken into care by social services and placed in a children’s psychiatric clinic.’
Charlotte Silfverberg suddenly looks very tired, and Jeanette can’t help wondering if she’s about to cry. But she collects herself and goes on. ‘She has blue eyes, and fair hair. Unless she’s dyed it, of course. She was very pretty as a child, and she might well have become a beautiful young woman. But of course I don’t know …’
‘No distinguishing features?’
The woman looks up. ‘She was ambidextrous.’
Hurtig lets out a laugh. ‘So am I.’
‘Jimi Hendrix was the same, so is Shigeru Miyamoto.’
‘Shigeru Miyamoto?’
‘Video game genius at Nintendo,’ Hurtig explains. ‘The man behind
Donkey Kong
, among others.’
Jeanette brushes aside these irrelevant details. ‘So Madeleine could use both hands equally well?’
‘Of course,’ Charlotte Silfverberg replies. ‘She would often sit and draw with her left hand while she was writing with her right.’
Jeanette thinks about what Ivo Andrić had said about Per-Ola Silfverberg’s stabbing. That the distribution of the blows suggested it had been carried out by two people.
One right-handed, the other left-handed. Two people, each with their own knowledge of anatomy.
Hurtig looks at Jeanette and she knows him well enough to see that he’s wondering if it’s time to show Charlotte the card. Jeanette nods discreetly and he puts his hand in his pocket and pulls out a small plastic evidence bag.
‘Does this mean anything to you?’ He pushes the bag over towards Charlotte Silfverberg, who looks uncomprehendingly at the little card inside it. On the front is a picture of three little pigs, and beneath them the words ‘CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR BIG DAY!’
‘What’s this?’ She picks up the bag, turns the card over and looks at the back. First she seems surprised, then she laughs. ‘Where did you get hold of this?’
She puts the card back on the table, and all three of them stare at the photograph attached to the back of it.
Jeanette points to the photo. ‘What’s this photograph of?’
‘That’s me – when I graduated from school. Everyone leaving had pictures of themselves, and we swapped them with each other.’ Charlotte Silfverberg smiles in recognition at the picture of herself, and Jeanette thinks she looks nostalgic.
‘Can you tell us something about the school you attended – I mean, your high school?’
‘Sigtuna?’ she says. ‘What do you mean? What could Sigtuna have to do with P-O’s murder? And where did you get that card from?’ She frowns and looks first at Jeanette, then at Hurtig. ‘That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, of course, but for a number of reasons we’d like to hear about your time in Sigtuna.’ Jeanette tries to make eye contact with the woman, but she’s still facing Hurtig.
‘I’m not deaf!’ Charlotte Silfverberg raises her voice, and now turns towards Jeanette and looks her deep in the eye. ‘And I’m not an idiot either! So if you want me to tell you anything about my schooldays, you’re going to have to clarify to me
what
you want to hear, and
why
you want to hear it.’
‘Sorry, I’ll explain.’ Jeanette glances at Hurtig for help, but he just stares up at the ceiling with a look of scorn. Jeanette knows what he’s thinking. Fucking bitch.
Jeanette takes a deep breath. ‘It’s just a way for us to find out a number of things we’re wondering about.’ She pauses. ‘We’re investigating another murder, this time a woman who I’m afraid has turned out to have a connection to you. That’s why we need to know a bit about your time at Sigtuna. She’s a former classmate of yours. Fredrika Grünewald. Do you remember her?’
‘Fredrika’s dead?’ Charlotte Silfverberg looks genuinely shaken.
‘Yes, and there are certain indications that suggest we may be dealing with the same murderer. That card was next to her body.’
Charlotte Silfverberg sighs deeply and adjusts the tablecloth. ‘One shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but she wasn’t a nice person, Fredrika. You could see that even then.’
‘How do you mean?’ Hurtig leans forward again and puts his hands on his knees. ‘Why wasn’t she a nice person?’
Charlotte Silfverberg shakes her head. ‘Fredrika is without doubt the most repulsive person I’ve ever encountered, and I honestly can’t say that I’m going to mourn her death. Rather the opposite, if anything.’
Charlotte Silfverberg falls silent as her words echo between the freshly painted walls.
What sort of person is she? Jeanette thinks. Why is she so full of hate?
The three of them sit in silence, and Jeanette looks around the spacious living room. Silfverberg’s blood is hidden by a millimetre-thick layer of the shade of paint known as ‘Stockholm white’.
Hurtig clears his throat. ‘Tell us about it.’
Charlotte Silfverberg talks about her time at Sigtuna College, and both Jeanette and Hurtig let her speak without interruption.
She strikes Jeanette as genuine. She doesn’t hide the fact that she was one of Fredrika’s underlings. Helping to bully students and teachers alike.
They listen to Charlotte Silfverberg for more than half an hour, and at the end Jeanette leans forward and reads from her notes. ‘If I were to summarise what you’ve just said, you remember Fredrika as a devious person. She got the rest of you to do things you didn’t really want to do. You and Henrietta Nordlund were her closest friends. Is that right?’
