The Treacherous Net (18 page)

“Absolutely. But Wennerström was in Moscow until the summer of ’41. There were already indications that he was showing an interest in things that didn’t concern him. Elof Persson was killed in the middle of September, barely three months after Wennerström’s return to Sweden. It’s hardly likely that within such a short time Persson would have come across something the security services didn’t already know about. They didn’t put Stig Wennerström under surveillance until the fall of ’43, remember. If you read the documents from back then, it seems as if the master spy was keeping a very low profile during the summer and fall of 1941. There’s nothing to suggest otherwise.”

“So what about the books?”

“The ones Mats Persson borrowed from the library . . . I’ve thought about them a lot, and I think they’re just another red herring. Okay, so they were about Stig Wennerström and spying and the KGB, but it’s unlikely that Mats Persson believed Wennerström had murdered his father. He was probably just interested in spies and the war. The books he ordered from the library were an inside view of the everyday lives of spies.”

Andersson wasn’t quite so convinced. “I rest my case,” he muttered, like the old Perry Mason fan he was.

“Take Stig Wennerström out of the picture,” Fryxender continued, “and it doesn’t change one iota. The master spy doesn’t belong here. Nor do the books.”

“So what about the cousins?” Andersson asked.

“They’re definitely a part of the puzzle, but they don’t really fit in with the idea of a network of spies—for the simple reason that they were too young. They’d just graduated, and neither of them had been working for the Foreign Office for long. The only thing I’ve found out that’s politically interesting is that they both belonged to the National Student Society while they were at university; it had very close links with the pro-Nazi National League of Sweden.”

“So they were both Nazis?” Andersson exclaimed with renewed interest.

“Hmm . . . in the security service reports they’re referred to as ‘brown socialists.’ This was before the war, remember, and the brown socialists had a considerable amount of support at the universities and among the Swedish public in general. And both Calle and Oscar left the organization as soon as they’d finished their studies.”

“Could Elof Persson have stumbled on a network of Nazi spies and not had time to inform the security service?” Andersson speculated.

“There’s one thing that contradicts that idea: the money he had in the bank. Two deposits of three thousand kronor, paid in during July and August. Six thousand kronor was a lot of money in those days. And he’d told his wife they were going to be able to afford a bigger apartment, which suggests he was expecting more.”

Andersson realized where Fryxender was going with this.

“Blackmail,” he said.

“That’s what I’m starting to think. It could explain why Elof was killed; blackmailers always live dangerously.”

“Maybe he found evidence that would expose Wennerström! He definitely would have had contacts who could shut Elof Persson up for good!”

“Possibly, but as I said, I don’t think so. The security service didn’t find a single piece of evidence to prove that he was working as a spy in 1941, even though they’d been tipped off. I’m sticking to my view that Wennerström doesn’t belong in our puzzle.”

There was something in what Fryxender said. He was a skilled analyst, and Andersson had learned to respect his ability to draw logical conclusions.

“Any other pieces that don’t fit in?”

“The rug,” Fryxender said, leafing through the piles of paper on the desk in front of him. He found the folder he was looking for. “I read through the forensic report again this morning,” he said. “We’re looking at a very fine authentic Persian rug, made at the beginning of the twentieth century. It’s just over two meters long, but not as wide. The measurements suggest that it was a so-called runner, a rug suitable for a hallway. All the blood that was found on it came from the murder victim, which suggests that either Persson was standing on the rug when he was shot or the killer quickly laid him down on it. We’re talking about a large quantity of blood; Mats Persson died on that rug. In fact, you could regard the rug as the scene of the crime.”

Andersson sighed. They’d gone through all this hundreds of times already.

Fryxender ignored his colleague’s disapproval. “Needless to say, the rug was covered in dust and dirt from the demolition of the chimney breast, but forensics still managed to find quite a lot of other traces. Cigar ash, textile dust, soil, hairs from several different people, and”—he paused dramatically and caught Andersson’s eye—“cat hair! From a long-haired cat!”

“And? We knew that right from the start. It’s not exactly news,” Andersson said wearily.

“But there was something we didn’t know when we got the report on the rug; we didn’t know that Oscar Leutnerwall owns a Persian cat!”

Fryxender might be long-winded, but he had always given the impression of being well balanced. Never before had he shown any sign that he’d totally lost the plot, but Andersson assumed that kind of thing could happen quickly and with no warning.

“No goddamn cat lives to the age of twenty-five,” Andersson said, keeping his tone neutral.

“Obviously I don’t mean that the hair came from the cat he has today. What I mean is that
he owns a cat
. He’s a cat person.”

“So?”

“We could try to find out if he had a cat twenty-five years ago. We know Calle Adelskiöld didn’t, because he was allergic. But if Oscar had a cat back then, there’s a good chance that the rug belonged to him!” A smile lit up Fryxender’s thin face.

“So?” Andersson repeated; he still didn’t get it.

“That would mean that Mats Persson was killed in Oscar Leutnerwall’s apartment, then moved to Calle’s cellar where he was walled up in the aperture next to the chimney breast.”

Andersson contemplated this new scenario, then shook his head.

“I don’t think so. It’s impossible to drive right up to the building; you have to park at the bottom of the steps on Eklandagatan. No one could have carried a body in a rug all that way without being seen! Besides which the goddamn rug was too small to roll the body in; they’d have had to use it like a hammock.”

Fryxender looked slightly deflated. He thought for a little while, then said, “You’re right. It’s more likely that Persson was killed in the building where he was found, then carried down to the cellar. Whoever did it knew about the big wood store next to the chimney, and that there was enough space to put a body in there. The killer also knew that bricks and mortar had been left in the cellar. If it wasn’t Calle or Oscar, then that leaves us with Staffan Molander and Per-Olof Wallin.”

“There you go; we’re back on the same track,” Andersson said with satisfaction.

“But we’ve already pinpointed a major problem there: how could Staffan or Per-Olof have gotten a hold of the Tokarev pistol that was used to murder Elof Persson during the Second World War?”

That was the crux of the matter. They both sat in silence for a long time, brooding on what appeared to be an insoluble mystery.

“They couldn’t,” Andersson stated eventually.

“No. Plus they didn’t have a motive.”

“Jealousy.”

“Possibly. We’ll bring it up when we speak to Staffan Molander. He told you he’d never met Mats Persson; maybe he’ll change his story when he’s had time to think about it.”

“Otherwise we’re back with Calle and Oscar,” Andersson said.

“The thing that really points to the cousins is the fact that they were around when both Elof and his son were killed. They might have been young when Elof died, but they were still adults. And they could have had access to the gun.”

“But something’s not right,” Sven Andersson insisted.

Fryxender fixed his gaze on his colleague through his thick lenses. “You think we’re on completely the wrong track.”

“Yes. No. Maybe not. But there’s something we’re not looking at in the right way. It’s one of those pieces of the puzzle you were talking about—it doesn’t fit!”

“Or we’re trying to force it into the wrong place.”

“Exactly.” Andersson nodded, his expression gloomy.

“In other words, business as usual,” Fryxender said, breaking into a grin.

By Thursday morning
the weekend’s optimism had faded significantly in the department. None of the men who had been using computers on the train had a travel pattern that synced with Mr. Groomer’s activities. The only individuals with a criminal record were a notorious speed freak who had lost his driver’s license two months earlier and another guy who had lost his due to drunk driving. All the men were commuting for work, which was why they had been on the train a week earlier.

To Irene’s surprise, the red-haired Dane turned out to be a male stripper. This aroused quite a lot of interest; those who work with sex in some form are always worth looking at when investigating sex crimes. However, it turned out that he was part of the elite division when it came to stripping; all his performances were listed on his website. He appeared mostly at exclusive restaurants or bars and large private parties, along with other male dancers. According to his busy touring schedule, he had only performed twice in Sweden this year: once in Stockholm, and once the previous week at a restaurant in Göteborg. In front of a packed audience of enthusiastic, screaming women, according to the newspaper review reprinted on his homepage.

No, the young Dane wasn’t Mr. Groomer, and none of the seven others from the train seemed to fit the bill. They had all been interviewed by the police; they had been able to account for their actions on the relevant dates, and had been able to provide proof of their whereabouts. Most of them had been at work or on their way home when Mr. Groomer was chatting. None of them had been on the train between Malmö and Göteborg at the times in question. Mr. Groomer was online so frequently that it would have been extremely difficult for someone to hide all the trips every week.

“How did he do it?” Irene challenged Jens, who merely shook his head.

“You must have missed him,” Efva Thylqvist said, staring coldly at Irene.

“No. I moved slowly. I checked if there was anyone in the toilets. And if anyone had been in there when I went past the first time, he would have been in his seat by the time I went back.”

“Maybe he was in the restaurant,” Tommy suggested.

“There was nobody in there working on a computer. Too many people, and it’s too noisy. The guy behind the counter was run off his feet; the train was full,” Irene said firmly.

“And there’s no freight car on the X2000,” Hannu chipped in.

“Well, he must have been somewhere,” the superintendent insisted. She looked at her team and said: “What do we do now?”

There was a long silence, then Tommy cleared his throat:

“Plan B.”

They only had
Thursday and Friday. By six o’clock on Friday evening, everything had to be in place. My Björkman was contacted and arrived in the department an hour later. Less than five feet tall, slender and fine-limbed, from a distance she really didn’t look a day over fifteen. She sailed elegantly into the conference room in high-heeled knee-high boots, a black leather jacket, black skinny jeans and an emerald-green sweater. Her waist-length dark hair tumbled down her back like a shining waterfall. Her almond-shaped eyes looked big in her slim face, but as soon as My began to speak, the impression of a young girl disappeared completely. Her voice was surprisingly deep and pleasant, her drama training obvious.

“I’ve known Åsa all my life. She’s my sister’s best friend, and we’ve had a lot of fun together. I understand you’re trying to track down a killer; if I can help, I’m happy to do whatever it takes.”

She made the offer as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but the superintendent didn’t look convinced.

“I’m not sure about this. We’re not allowed to use civilians as bait. If something goes wrong . . .”

“I’ll take the responsibility,” Tommy said before Efva Thylqvist could come up with any more objections. He avoided meeting Irene’s gaze. “I was the one who put the idea to you, and I’m the one who’s discussed it with Irene and Åsa. You’ve been doubtful about this plan all along, but we still want to try it. This is our only chance of catching him, and we have to pick him up before he kills again. He’s not going to stop until he’s caught, and it’s now four months since the last one.”

Thylqvist appeared to be considering his words.

“Fine,” she said eventually.

Before anyone had the chance to ask her to be more specific about what they had actually agreed on, she was gone.

“If this goes wrong she’ll deny all knowledge,” Jonny said laconically.

Nobody contradicted him. It was obvious that the chief didn’t want to be the one in the firing line if things didn’t work out.

Tommy gathered everyone
involved in the operation in the conference room. Including My Björkman, there were seven of them.

“We need more people,” Jonny said.

“I’ll try to get some help from the armed response unit; I’ll contact them as soon as we’re done here.”

“Why not call them now, then we’ll know how many of us there’ll be?” Irene suggested.

Tommy went to make the call. Åsa looked at My and asked: “Are you still sure you want to do this? You don’t have to, nobody would . . .”

“I know what I’m doing. I’m in,” My replied firmly.

Her voice didn’t betray the slightest hint of nerves. Perhaps that was because she didn’t fully appreciate the risks inherent in the operation in which she would play a key role, Irene thought. She herself felt a growing sense of unease. She could understand the superintendent’s hesitation. But time was short, and there was no plan C or D.

Tommy looked pleased when he returned after a few minutes.

“Good news—they’re giving us a full team of six.”

He moved on to the strategy for catching Mr. Groomer.

“My will be sitting inside Café Expresso. It’s directly opposite the bookshop, and it has two exits. Two officers will be posted at each exit—armed and in plainclothes, obviously. I want two officers inside the café sitting pretty close to My. As soon as Mr. Groomer turns up, you grab him. Just make sure it’s really him.”

The armed response unit would be stationed by the Nils Ericson Terminal, in constant contact with the team inside the café.

“It’s essential that he doesn’t suspect they’re there because of him, otherwise he’ll take off right away, so they can’t be too close,” Tommy said decisively.

Irene understood his reasoning, but she would have felt better if the heavy mob had been a lot closer. So far the killer had proved himself capable of great guile.

They went over the plan several times. Finally Tommy turned to My. “It’s thanks to you that we’re able to make contact with this guy. Just promise me you’ll stay in your seat and do nothing.”

“Absolutely. But you guys have to remember to play along. You mustn’t give any sign that you know me. He could be standing outside watching me. I have to behave like a shy fifteen-year-old on my first blind date. And the longer it takes before he turns up, the greater the risk that he’s out there watching the café.”

She spoke calmly and apparently with no fear. Irene felt a shudder run down her spine. What if something went wrong . . .