The Man Who Watched Women (20 page)

‘It's not Hinde,' Vanja said.

‘I know it's not Hinde, but this is someone who is trying to imitate his crimes as faithfully as possibly. They look virtually identical! You should have brought me in right away.'

‘Why?' Vanja snapped defiantly.

She had been annoyed the second Sebastian walked through the door. Not a word about how pleased or grateful he was to be back. No polite remarks, no questions about how they all were. Nothing that a normal person might have done in his situation. He had just come marching in as if he had every right to be a member of the team. It infuriated her. And so did that crooked little smile he was wearing now, as if she was slightly stupid. The same smile Carl Wahlström had given her.

‘Why do you think?' Sebastian said. ‘I know more about Hinde than anyone else.'

‘And what's that got to do with anything?' Vanja decided to stick to her guns. How long had Sebastian been here? Two minutes? And already he was taking over the meeting, the room, the entire investigation. Time to reclaim it. ‘This is someone else with a completely different motive. Whatever you know about Hinde is of no help here.'

‘Whatever I know is always of some help. Otherwise you wouldn't have brought me in. I'm not here because you think I'm charming. So can one of you tell me what you've got?'

Billy stood up. ‘I can bring you up to date.' Without waiting for any kind of response, Billy went over to the board. Torkel looked at Vanja, who shrugged.

Sebastian pulled out a chair and sat down next to Ursula.

‘Good to see you,' he whispered. Ursula gave him a look which suggested that the pleasure was far from mutual. ‘Have you missed me?' She shook her head and turned her attention to Billy. He was pointing at a picture of one of the women, around forty years old, brown eyes under a full fringe, smiling straight into the camera.

‘Twenty-fourth of June. Maria Lie in Bromma. Single. A friend became worried when she didn't get in touch and didn't come in to work after the midsummer weekend.' Billy moved his finger from the portrait to a photograph from the scene of the crime. ‘Tied up with nylon stockings, lying on the bed on her stomach. Raped and killed with a powerful slash with a knife which severed both the trachea and carotid artery.'

Sebastian nodded to himself. Every detail was familiar. It was as if he had been transported back in time. In his mind he started to go through what he actually knew about copycat murderers. There were some, but very few who copied serial killers. It was more common in the case of school or college campus massacres, or when someone imitated individual, violent murders from films or games. The copycat had an unhealthy fascination with the original, of course, but what else? A psychological disorder, obviously, but of a different kind. Where the serial killer frequently managed to maintain a facade of normality, of being ‘ordinary', the copycat was often a more unusual character. More withdrawn. Poor self-image. Low self-esteem. A product of his or her upbringing.

As always.

A person who, like the killer he was copying, was capable of crossing the line and using extreme violence, but who wasn't strong enough to take the initiative, or imaginative enough to come up with a method and select his victims on his own. He needed a role model. It was clear in everything he did. The man they were looking for kept a very low profile.

‘No sign of forced entry,' Billy went on. ‘It seems as if she, like the others, let the killer in. However, there are signs of a struggle inside the apartment. Sperm, pubic hair and fingerprints left at the scene.'

He placed his finger on a new picture. A blonde woman, forty-five to fifty years old. Blue eyes. A small scar on her upper lip, probably from an operation to correct a harelip when she was a child. No obvious similarities to the first victim. A germ of an idea flashed through Sebastian's mind as he looked at her, but it was too small and too fast for him to catch.

‘Fifteenth of July. Jeanette Jansson Nyberg, Nynäshamn. Her husband and sons came home after a football trip and found her. She had written in her blog that she was going to be alone all weekend, “just chilling out”. Perhaps the murderer knew when to strike.'

‘Did the others write a blog? Maria Lie?' Sebastian asked.

Billy shook his head. ‘No, but she was on Facebook of course, with her status posted as single.'

Sebastian nodded. He was amazed at the amount of information people were prepared to share with strangers. These days burglars didn't need to bother finding out when a property was empty; the owner cheerfully provided the information via their blog, writing about how wonderful the coming holiday or trip was going to be. The same thing applied when it came to personal information. Single equalled alone equalled vulnerable.

‘We found a footprint in the flowerbed at the bottom of the steps,' Vanja chipped in. ‘It didn't match the husband's or sons'. Sperm from the same person as with Maria Lie.'

‘So he's deliberately leaving evidence?'

‘It seems that way,' Torkel replied. ‘Or else he's unusually inept. But if he's that useless he should have had dealings with us before, and he hasn't.'

‘He should definitely have had dealings with the police,' Sebastian nodded, looking troubled. ‘Copycats usually have some kind of criminal background. It's extremely unusual for them to start off by killing.'

‘Does the fact that he leaves forensic evidence behind mean anything?' Billy asked.

Sebastian looked at him. There was something different about him, wasn't there? Last time Billy had been content to take on responsibility for those aspects of the investigation that were to do with technology – CCTV cameras, mobile phones, call records – and he was the one everyone turned to if they thought the answer to a question might be found in a computer somewhere. But this time he seemed more engaged in questions he wouldn't even have had an opinion on before. By and large he appeared to be much more switched on than the last time they had worked together.

‘It's a demonstration of power: you can't find me even though I'm leaving clues behind … It makes him feel smarter than the police. It's also a cast-iron way of making sure all the crimes he commits are linked to him. No clever barrister is going to be able to rob him of his triumph in the future.'

‘So he wants to be caught?' Vanja asked, sounding extremely doubtful.

‘No, but if he does get caught he wants to be sure that it doesn't end there.'

‘Anyway …' Billy went on with his interrupted summary. ‘Same MO. Same nightdress.' He moved his finger to the third woman on the board. Dark hair again. ‘The day before yesterday. Katharina Granlund. Same traces, same MO, same everything. And that's all we've got.' Billy sat down.

Sebastian leaned forward. ‘He's stepping up the pace.'

‘Is that important?'

‘Hinde had a fairly consistent cooling-off period. It became only marginally shorter.'

‘What's a cooling-off period?' Billy asked.

‘The time between the murders.' Sebastian got up and started to walk around the room. Vanja watched him with obvious distaste. It struck him that he had barely given her a thought since he came into the room. The case had immediately grabbed him, pushing everything else aside for the moment. There were links to Hinde. There were links to the old Sebastian.

The better Sebastian.

The best.

‘Serial killers lie low after a murder. Partly because they're actually afraid of being caught, and sometimes they feel guilt and regret at having lived out their fantasies, but mostly it's just a period of calm. Until the desire, the compulsion, returns. The cycle gets shorter, but not this short.' He stopped and gestured towards the pictures on the board. ‘The man who's done this isn't reflecting afterwards. He isn't going through the various phases.'

‘And what does that mean?' Billy again. Definitely more switched on.

‘That the act of committing murder is not a compulsion for him. He regards it as a job. Something that has to be done.'

‘How do we stop him?'

Sebastian shrugged. ‘I don't know.' He turned to Torkel. ‘I need to visit the scenes of the crimes. At least the latest one, from the day before yesterday.'

‘We have gone over them, you know,' Ursula broke in before Torkel could speak. ‘You only have to ask if there's anything you want to know.'

‘You've missed something. If this is a real copycat.'

Ursula could feel the irritation bubbling up inside her. She missed nothing. During all the years she had worked, first of all at the national forensics laboratory in Linköping and then with Riksmord, she had never missed anything. Sebastian knew that, of course.

‘What have we missed?' She almost managed to keep the rising anger out of her voice.

Sebastian didn't answer; he simply turned back to Torkel. ‘Can I visit the scene or not?'

Torkel sighed. He knew Ursula pretty well by this stage. Calling into question her professional expertise was not something that would go unpunished. She might have other flaws and weaknesses, but she was the best at what she did, and God help anyone who claimed otherwise. Torkel got the feeling she was already regretting the fact that she hadn't opposed the idea of bringing in Sebastian.

‘Vanja, take Sebastian over to Tumba.'

Vanja stiffened. Her expression, her entire body made it clear what she thought of the idea of spending time alone in a car with Sebastian Bergman.

‘Do I have to?'

‘Yes, you do.'

‘Okay, let's go,' Sebastian said with a broad smile as he pushed open the door. He caught himself experiencing a feeling he hadn't known for many, many years as Vanja reluctantly got up from her chair.

Excitement.

He was working again, and on his very first day he would be spending time alone in a car with his daughter.

Get a life before you can be part of a life.

He had the feeling that this case really could be the road along which he would take his first steps back.

They sat in silence in the dark blue Volvo. Vanja drove out of the underground car park at Fridhemsplan, stopped briefly at the security barrier to show her ID, then turned onto Drottningholmsvägen. Sebastian looked at her closely. There was no mistaking the fact that she was sulking. Every movement was suffused with irritation – changing gear, aggressively switching lanes, the look she gave him when he opened the window, letting the warm, humid summer into the car.

‘The air con doesn't work if the window's open.'

‘Oh well, you can't have everything.'

He dangled his arm out of the open window. He liked her directness. It made her real. Alive. Strong.

He had watched her from a distance for such a long time that being so close to her now almost made him feel dizzy. He couldn't remember when he had last felt so contented, so calm. However furious she might be, he wished this time in the car with her could last forever. Even the Stockholm traffic seemed harmonious for a while. They continued south along the E4 in silence. By the time they reached the Essinge Islands she could no longer keep quiet.

‘Are you a masochist?'

Sebastian was jerked out of his daydream. He turned to face her, not really understanding the question. ‘What …? No.'

‘So why have you come back, then?' Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘Why do you insist on being in a situation where nobody likes you?'

‘Billy likes me.'

‘Billy doesn't openly dislike you.'

‘Same shit, different name.' Sebastian allowed himself a little smile. Did she really think his actions were dictated by what people thought of him?

‘Are you so used to being hated that you're happy with people who tolerate you?'

‘Probably.'

‘If you weren't such a bastard I might almost feel sorry for you.'

‘Thanks.' He gave her a grateful look. Noticed that this made her even crosser. It was a strange feeling, being so close to her and yet the only one who had the full, accurate picture of the situation.

There was so much he wanted to know about her. What did she dream about? What did she think about when she was sitting at the breakfast table in the mornings? What was it she laughed about with the man she thought was her father? Would he ever come close to getting to know her in that way?

‘Stop it,' she said with sudden fury as he scrutinised her.

‘Stop what?'

‘Looking at me like that!'

‘Like what?'

‘Like that. Like you're doing now. I don't even want to know what you're thinking about.'

‘You'd never guess …'

Vanja glared at him; she looked almost disgusted.

Sebastian turned to face the front. Without realising it she had come close to the truth, nudged it without knowing, without thinking. He wanted to carry on touching the impossible, somehow. The idea was difficult, the words even more so.

‘If you and I had met in a different …' He broke off. Started again. ‘At another time in our lives. What I mean is, there's a reason for everything, and …'

She interrupted him. ‘Sebastian?'

‘Yes?'

‘Shut the fuck up.'

He shut up.

She put her foot down.

They didn't speak for the rest of the journey.