The Man Who Watched Women (14 page)

‘So why are you here?' she went on, in a tone of voice that she felt was very natural and unforced.

‘Stefan thought I might get something out of it.'

‘What made him think that? What's happened to you?'

Sebastian looked around before replying.

‘I don't think we're quite there yet. In our relationship.'

‘No?'

‘No. But maybe we can get there.'

The directness of his answer surprised her. ‘You mean here, in the group?'

‘No, I mean somewhere else, just you and me.'

His self-confidence fascinated her. She couldn't suppress a smile as she bravely looked him in the eye. ‘Are you coming on to me?'

‘Maybe a little. Does it bother you?'

‘Most people don't come here to meet someone.'

‘Good, that means there's less competition,' he replied, taking a small but definite step towards her. She could smell his aftershave. He lowered his voice. ‘But I can leave if you think I'm overstepping the boundaries of respectability.'

Annette took the risk. She touched his shoulder and realised how long it had been since she touched another person.

‘No need. Just so you know, I'm a good listener too.'

‘I don't doubt it. But I'm not interested in talking.'

She didn't look away this time either. His boldness gave her courage.

Sebastian nodded to Stefan as he and Annette left together.

It had been a little too easy.

But he would take it.

They started kissing after only a few minutes in the taxi. Annette's kisses were tentative. She refused to meet him with her tongue. She knew she wasn't a good kisser. And she couldn't quite bring herself to believe that the man who was caressing the back of her neck really did want her. Perhaps he would suddenly break off and look at her not with warmth and desire, but with coldness and contempt. Smile at her again, but nastily this time. Ask what she thought she could possibly give him, and supply the obvious answer: nothing. If she didn't let herself go, then she could convince herself that it was of no importance to her either. It wouldn't hurt so much when he left her. It had worked before.

Sebastian felt Annette stiffen as his hand moved over her body. But she didn't push him away. A sexual neurotic, he thought wearily, wondering whether he ought to make his excuses and get out of the cab. But there was something tempting about Annette. Her vulnerability turned him on; it made him forget his own weakness and fed his ego. It didn't really matter to him if she was incapable of relaxing and enjoying herself. He wasn't there for her sake. She was a distraction.

An acceptable end to a crap day.

Part of a revenge strategy.

He kissed her again.

Annette's apartment was in Liljeholmen, five minutes from the recently built shopping mall with a view over Essingeleden. Once they were home she seemed able to relax a little. The living room was a mess, with clothes strewn around everywhere. Annette apologised; she quickly cleared the bed and ran out of the room with her arms full of clothes.

‘No need to tidy up on my account,' Sebastian said, sitting down on the bed and taking off his shoes.

‘I wasn't expecting company,' he heard her say. He looked around the room. A perfectly ordinary living room, but with details that told him something about the occupant. First of all a fairly large single bed by the wall under the window. Sebastian had noticed another room when he walked into the apartment. Why didn't she sleep in there? She had said that she lived alone, and there was only one name on the letterbox.

The second thing was a collection of cuddly toys on the shelves. Animals of every size and colour. Teddy bears, tigers, dolphins, cats. Toys and rather too many cushions, soft blankets and throws. The whole room signalled a longing for security, a desire for a warm, kind, protective cocoon to stop cold, hard reality getting in. Sebastian saw himself in the mirror that was propped up against the wall. She had invited that cold, hard reality into her life. She just didn't know it yet.

Sebastian wondered what had happened in her life to cause such poor self-esteem and this exaggerated longing for security. Some trauma, a bad relationship, the wrong life choice, or was there something worse, an attack or an abusive relationship with a parent? He didn't know, nor did he have the energy to find out. He wanted sex and a few hours' sleep.

‘Is it okay if I move the mirror?' he asked, picking it up. The thought of seeing himself having sex with her in this room almost frightened him. He would prefer it if they could slide under the covers and turn off the light before they did anything else.

‘Put it in the hallway,' she said from what he suspected must be the bathroom. ‘I usually move it into the living room when I'm trying on clothes.'

Sebastian carried it out and quickly found the hook on which it usually hung.

‘Do you like clothes?'

Sebastian turned as he heard her voice. Different. She had put on a sexy black lace dress, with dark lipstick. She looked like a different woman. A woman you would notice.

‘I love clothes,' she went on.

Sebastian nodded. ‘You look good in that dress. Really good.' He meant it.

‘Do you think so? It's my favourite.' She stepped forward and kissed him. With her tongue. Sebastian returned the kiss, but now she was the one seducing him. He let it happen. She took what she wanted from him. He tried to take off the dress so that he could feel her body against his, but she wanted to keep it on. He got the feeling that it was important to her to make love wearing that dress.

Ursula had reached the last few pages in her third reading of the preliminary autopsy report on Katharina Granlund when there was a knock and Robert Abrahamsson stuck his well-groomed head around the door. He was the surveillance team leader she had the least time for.

‘Time you fuckers dealt with your own crap.'

Ursula looked up with an enquiring expression.

‘The papers have started ringing me,' Abrahamsson went on. ‘They're saying you lot aren't even answering the phone up here.'

Ursula looked crossly at Abrahamsson: his tan a fraction too perfect, his jacket a fraction too tight. She hated being interrupted, particularly by a self-satisfied peacock like Abrahamsson. Even if it was justified. She answered as curtly as she could: ‘Take it up with Torkel. He deals with the press. You know that.'

‘So where is he then?'

‘No idea.'

Ursula went back to the report, but instead of leaving, Abrahamsson strode purposefully towards her.

‘I'm sure you have a great deal to do, Ursula, but when they start ringing
me
about
your
cases, it means one of two things. Either you're not communicating with them sufficiently, or they've found an angle they want to push. In this case I suspect it's both.'

Ursula sighed wearily. She was the team member who always ignored what the newspapers wrote; she wanted to keep to a minimum any information that could influence her ability to interpret evidence rationally. And yet she understood that this wasn't great. Riksmord were very keen to avoid the murders of the three women being linked, leading to the inevitable Serial-Killer-on-the-loose-in-Stockholm headlines. Minimising the possibility of journalistic speculation was one of Torkel's strategic cornerstones. When the press started desperately searching for sensational stories, anything could happen. Particularly within the police service itself. Everything suddenly became political, and politics could be catastrophic for an investigation. That was when ‘decisive' action was needed in order to ‘bring home results', which could lead to officers thinking less about the quantity of evidence and more about satisfying their superiors.

‘Who is it?' she asked. ‘If you give me their numbers I'll make sure Torkel rings them.'

‘There's only one. So far. Axel Weber from
Expressen
.'

Ursula took in the name and leaned back in her chair with an excessively happy smile on her face. ‘Weber! So there's probably a third reason why he chose to ring you, wouldn't you say?'

Robert went bright red. He wagged his index finger threateningly at Ursula in a gesture that made him look like a schoolmaster from some 1950s film. ‘That was a misunderstanding, as you know perfectly well. The commissioner accepted my explanation.'

‘In that case, he was the only one.' Ursula leaned forward again, suddenly serious. ‘You leaked information to Weber. In a murder enquiry.'

Robert looked at her defiantly. ‘Think what you like. This is the twenty-first century, and we have to learn to work with the press. Particularly in complex cases.'

‘Particularly if you get your picture on page seven with a story that makes you look like something of a hero for your trouble.' Ursula paused; she realised that she was on the point of being petty and cheap, but she couldn't help herself. ‘I recognise the jacket, but you must have been slimmer then. You need to think about what you're shoving in your mouth these days. You know the camera adds five kilos.'

Robert unbuttoned his jacket, but she saw his eyes darken with anger. He seemed to be gathering himself for a counter-attack, but he managed to suppress the worst of his indignation and headed for the door instead.

‘I just thought you ought to know.'

Ursula wasn't done yet. ‘That was very kind of you, Robert. And if Weber writes anything unusually intuitive about this case, we'll know where it came from.'

‘I don't know anything about your case.'

‘You're here. You've seen the board.'

Robert turned and marched away. Ursula could hear his angry footsteps as he stomped down the corridor and through the glass door at the end. She got up, went over to the door and looked out to make sure he really had gone before she left the Room and took a walk through the virtually empty open-plan office. It might be nothing, but she wanted to give Torkel the opportunity to act quickly. His room was empty. His jacket was gone and his computer had been shut down. What time was it anyway? She checked her mobile: eleven twenty-five p.m. She ought to call him, but she couldn't quite bring herself to do it. It was idiotic and pathetic and ridiculous.

But she still couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

Seeing him at the station every day was one thing; working side by side was perfectly okay. But ringing him late at night … If she rang him at night, it was hardly ever to do with work, unless it involved a new murder or a technical breakthrough in an ongoing investigation. This wasn't on that level. She could speak to Torkel about Weber tomorrow. When she rang him at night it was because she wanted him. Wanted him to come to her hotel room, or to let her come to his. She rang when she needed him. That was why she was hesitating now. Did she need him? Recently she had begun to ask herself that question. It had been easier to withdraw from their clandestine relationship than she had thought. And at first it had actually felt quite liberating. Simpler. She focused on Mikael and cut away the other part of her life. Torkel was a professional, so it made no difference as far as the job was concerned; they still worked well together. In the beginning she could feel Torkel's eyes on her, but when she didn't respond it happened more and more infrequently, which confirmed her belief that she had made the right decision.

But she still thought about him.

More and more.