The Treacherous Net (3 page)

“So she has a serious problem with alcohol.”

“Yes. There was an older brother who died in a car accident three years ago. He was seventeen; no driver’s license, drunk at the wheel. The car was stolen from Angered Square fifteen minutes before the crash. Kicki Olsson hasn’t been able to work since.”

“What did she do?”

“She was a cleaner at IKEA in Bäckebol.”

“What about the father?”

“Out of the picture; the two kids had different fathers,” Hannu explained.

“Okay, we need to check out both fathers. And find out whether the mother has a new man on the go; if so, check him out too. What does the ME say about the cause of death?”

“Nothing definite. Decomposition had set in, and animals had been at the body. Entomological samples have been taken for testing. They estimate that she’d probably been lying there for at least a week. She seems to have been subjected to extreme sexual violence, based on the appearance of some of her injuries. She was completely naked. The dog that found the body had picked up her panties. They’d fallen off as the killer dragged her up the hill to hide her in a crevice in the rock.”

“The hill? He climbed a hill with a dead body?” Jonny exclaimed skeptically.

“A small hill, with a path leading to the top,” Hannu said.

“Can you drive there?” Tommy wondered.

“Yes. There’s a parking lot no more than a hundred meters from the spot where she was found, and a gravel path leading from there to the hill; it’s perfectly possible to drive all the way. CSI has secured several different tire tracks. The problem is all the rain we’ve had since she disappeared.”

The superintendent nodded; she realized this could cause problems. She gave a start as Irene suddenly spoke up again.

“It feels as if everything is a bit much right now. We’ve already got several ongoing investigations piled up, and now these new cases . . . I’m just wondering when we’ll be getting a replacement for Birgitta,” she said calmly.

“We don’t have time to discuss that at the moment,” the superintendent replied brusquely.

“But I think we’d all like to know where we stand in terms of reinforcements,” Irene persisted.

“Robert Backman was only available for three months,” Efva Thylqvist snapped.

“Yes, but that was before Christmas. We haven’t had anyone in place of Birgitta since then.”

You’re saving money,
Irene thought, making every effort not to show what was going through her mind. Thylqvist was starting to look uncomfortable.

“It’s not that easy; people start taking their vacations in June,” she defended herself.

“I agree with Irene. We’ve been under far too much pressure since New Year’s, and all through the spring. We need a replacement as soon as possible.”

Irene was both surprised and grateful as Tommy spoke up. By now it was clear that the superintendent was far from happy, and she couldn’t hide her annoyance.

“Every department has the same problems! There’s nobody available. Birgitta’s leave of absence ends in August; she might be back then.”

“She won’t,” Hannu pointed out.

And he ought to know. Even Efva Thylqvist wasn’t about to contradict him. Instead her face suddenly lit up. “Oh, so she’s decided to carry on with her studies?” she said in a pleasant tone of voice. “In that case we need to act in accordance with this new information.”

As if you don’t know that already,
Irene thought. Both she and Hannu knew perfectly well that Birgitta had applied for an extension of her leave of absence several weeks ago.

The internal telephone suddenly crackled to life.

“Hello? Are you there? Superintendent Thylqvist?” said a female voice.

“I’m here,” the superintendent said, leaning toward the speaker on the table.

“We’ve just had a call. A body has been found on Korsvägen, walled up in a cellar. Can you send someone over to take a look?”

No one in the room moved or even blinked. They were all dumbstruck, staring at the soulless grey plastic box as if it had suddenly turned into a hissing viper.

“You didn’t give
Efva much room to maneuver,” Tommy Persson remarked.

Irene was sitting beside him in the passenger seat. She turned and looked at his profile; was there a hint of reproach in his voice?

“Somebody had to say it. Thanks for your support,” she said, keeping her tone light.

“I agree with you—the workload is starting to become untenable. But maybe that wasn’t the right time to bring it up.”

He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Was there something he wanted to say but couldn’t quite bring himself to spit out?

“Maybe not. But right now it feels as if it’s never the right time to bring up any problems in the department. These two fresh homicides just make it all too much. That’s how I felt, and somebody had to say something.”

“Efva is extremely conscientious, and of course she wants the department’s work to flow as smoothly as possible. But she’s got a lot on her plate. I see how hard she works . . .”

Tommy left the last sentence hanging in the air. He was obviously keen to defend the superintendent, which made Irene feel a little sad, if not exactly surprised. It wasn’t unexpected. Efva Thylqvist was good at her job, and she could be immensely charming when it suited her. Irene had noticed that she was always charming toward Tommy. He had spent a year in close proximity to her by now.

“Jonny didn’t look too pleased when you said you were coming with me to Korsvägen,” he went on.

“Well, Efva told him he was working on the investigation into Alexandra’s death, so I thought it was self-evident that he ought to write the report. It’s his responsibility after all,” Irene replied, her tone completely neutral.

To tell the truth she was very pleased with the way she had handled the situation. If Thylqvist wanted Jonny to head up the case, then it was only fair that he took on the boring paperwork. She wasn’t his private secretary. He hadn’t even managed to come up with a good excuse. He had reluctantly snatched the preliminary autopsy report from Irene before she followed him out of the room, smiling to herself.

“Don’t forget where we’re going. Another body. Walled up, apparently. If we’re lucky it happened a hundred years ago, otherwise we have another homicide on our hands,” she said, trying to remain positive. It hadn’t been a long journey; it is just over a kilometer from police HQ to Korsvägen.

They climbed down
a steel ladder to reach the bottom of the cellar, and stepped over piles of debris. Göran Jansson, the foreman, led them over to the chimney. The hole in the brickwork was approximately one and a half meters in diameter, and about half a meter above the ground. The sleeve of a dark jacket was sticking out of the hole, with a shriveled hand protruding from the sleeve.

Irene and Tommy moved over to the hole and peered inside. The body was in a half-sitting position. The beam of their flashlight showed a grinning cranium with parchment-brown skin stretched over the bones. The yellowing teeth gleamed as the light caught them.

“A mummy,” Irene said.

“Male, judging by the clothes,” Tommy said.

Irene tried to see how the body was dressed. It was covered in a thick layer of dust from the demolition. The only things she could see clearly were the sleeve and dark pants.

“It’s a waterproof jacket, maybe a windbreaker. He hasn’t been here for a hundred years, unfortunately.” She sighed.

“I guess you’re right.”

“I don’t think Efva can keep on saying no. We have to have a replacement for Birgitta. Right now.”

Irene was trying not to sound too aggressive, but a sideways glance from Tommy told her that he had picked up something in her voice.

Instead of answering, he turned to Göran Jansson. “What happened when you discovered the body?”

“It was pretty gruesome. When the wrecking ball hit the chimney, it almost looked as if the guy had stuck his arm out through the hole! Like, deliberately! I saw the arm come out and and I started waving and shouting at Janne to stop him swinging the ball again. Although I expect the . . . body . . . was damaged anyway, with all the stuff that came crashing down . . .”

“Probably, but thanks to your vigilance it looks in pretty good shape,” Tommy said, smiling reassuringly at the foreman.

Göran Jansson managed a wan smile in return. Finding a body had been both surprising and stressful. Seeing that kind of thing on cop shows on TV is one thing, but experiencing it in real life is something completely different.

“Can I get you guys a coffee?” he said, pointing to a temporary office parked a short distance from the site.

“Please. We’ll need to cordon off this area until forensics has finished. They’re working on two other cases at the moment, so they won’t be here for at least an hour. Unfortunately you won’t be able to carry on working until they’re done,” Tommy explained.

Jansson’s face clouded over for a moment, but he realized there was nothing he could do. A walled-up, mummified corpse couldn’t be ignored.

They stood outside
drinking freshly made coffee. The sun was shining, and it was very pleasant in the shelter of the office. Irene leaned back against the wooden wall and turned her face up to the sun. It had been notable by its absence, as her mother, Gerd, used to say.

“I grew up in one of those blocks over there,” Göran Jansson said, pointing in the direction of Mölndalsvägen.

He turned and pointed to Universeum and the Museum of World Culture on the other side of the roundabout. “Some of my friends lived in the timber buildings that were pulled down when the city decided we needed to start showing off.”

“Did you know anyone who lived here?” Tommy asked, nodding toward the gaping hole in front of them.

“Not really. There was some kind of office on the ground floor, though people lived here too. There were two or three apartments, I think. I remember one of the teachers from my school lived here with her sister, but they were already old back then. They’ve probably been dead for years.”

“When was this?”

Jansson thought for a moment.

“Mid-60s. I started school in ’62.”

“As I understand it, only the old man who died in the fire was living here at the time,” Tommy went on.

“Yes. There was an architect’s office downstairs; we’ve found the remains of computers, that kind of thing. But all we can do is scoop it all up and take it to the dump.”

“Everything was destroyed?”

“Yes. The fire spread in no time, and they didn’t manage to get the old guy out. The whole place was ablaze by the time the firefighters got here.”

“Do you know what caused the fire?”

Göran Jansson made a 180-degree turn and nodded in the direction of a small tobacconist and candy store at the bottom of the steps on Korsvägen.

“No idea; everything I’ve heard came from Anna, who owns the tobacconist’s over there on the corner. We were at school together.”

“So she’s stayed in the area,” Tommy said.

“Her parents bought the store. Talk about a goldmine! And she’s still in the apartment where she lived when we were kids, just over there.”

“You didn’t find anything else of interest in the remains of the fire?” Irene asked.

“No . . . Well, maybe. A room full of empty bottles. We’ve already taken them away, but the place was packed—bottles from floor to ceiling!”

“Wine and spirits bottles, I assume?”

“Exactly. Someone really went for it, there’s no doubt about it.”

“And where was this room?”

“At the opposite end of the cellar from the chimney.”

They finished their coffee and thanked the foreman.

“We’ll go and have a chat with your old school friend,” Tommy said. “What’s her surname, by the way?”

“Svensson. Anna Svensson. At least that was her maiden name. I can’t remember what her husband is called, but her daughter’s married to a nigger—I met them when I was in the store last week. I came down to check things out before we started pulling this place down.”

Irene could feel the tension in her face. She clamped her lips together to prevent the words in her mind from coming out. A nigger. She loathed the word. Irene’s daughter Katarina had been with Felipe Median for two and a half years now; his father was Brazilian, his mother Swedish. Felipe was dark-skinned, and he had been called all kinds of names. But “nigger” was the worst. It was so insulting, and had such strong negative connotations even in Sweden, where the biggest exposure to the word came from American rap music.

“Do you think
this Anna Svensson, or whatever her surname is, might know something about our mummy?” Irene asked as she and Tommy made their way down the steps to Korsvägen.

“You never can tell. She ought to know if any of the tenants have disappeared over the years, since she’s lived and worked here all her life. That would save us a lot of time. And I’d like to find out more about the old guy who died in the fire.”

Tommy chivalrously held the door open for her as they entered the little store. The sweet aroma of loose candy and freshly baked buns from the oven in the corner rushed toward them, overlaid with the smell of fresh coffee. Someone had managed to cram candy, tobacco, magazines, games and a café into just a few square meters. There was even a little round table just inside the window where people could drink their coffee. The real miracle was that the place didn’t seem in the least bit crowded or untidy.

They were the only people in the store, apart from a heavily pregnant young woman. She was filling up a stand by the cash register with packs of cigarettes. Her long red hair was caught up in a high ponytail.

“Hi there,” she said with a smile.

Tommy introduced himself and Irene. He asked if Anna Svensson was available, and added that they had some questions about the fire in the old wooden building.

“Mom’s been Anna Jonsén for almost thirty years,” the young woman said as she added a few more packs of Marlboros to the stand. “I’m Petra.”

Before Tommy had the chance to repeat his question, she went on.

“Mom’s at home. Or she might be out with Felix—he’s her dog. She doesn’t start work until three o’clock.”

“Do you live nearby too?” Irene asked.

“Not far away—in Kålltorp.”

“So you didn’t see anything of the fire three weeks ago?”

“No, it happened late at night. But Mom and Dad saw it.”

“Could we have your mother’s address and telephone number? We’d really like to get these questions out of the way as quickly as possible,” Tommy said with a smile.

Petra nodded and gave him the information.

The apartment block
was made of gloomy dark red brick. It looked solid, resting on its sturdy granite foundations. Above the main entrance was the year 1906. Creaking and protesting, an elevator that had seen better days carried them up to the fourth floor.

When the apartment door opened, Irene and Tommy were not welcomed by the same pleasant aroma that had met them in the store. This place was impregnated with cigarette smoke. A black miniature poodle jumped around their legs, its shrill yapping echoing in the stairwell.

Anna Jonsén’s coloring was a little paler than her daughter’s, but she had the same build. Which wasn’t a compliment, given Petra’s advanced pregnancy. But Anna had a pretty face, and she was smartly dressed in a denim skirt and light blue blouse that matched her eyes. Her smile seemed warm and genuine.

“Come on in. Unfortunately, I don’t think I can be of much help. I didn’t see . . .”

The end of the sentence disappeared in a murmur as she led the way through a long hallway and into a large living room.

“Please sit down. I’ve just made some coffee—I’m sure you’d like a cup?”

They both said yes. Irene thought that it had been a good start to the day in spite of everything; she was about to have her sixth cup of coffee before lunch.

They sat down on rococo armchairs upholstered in silk. Like the matching sofa, the faded fabric was a dismal vintage rose color. The chairs were hard and uncomfortable. A small chest of drawers with a marble top seemed to be part of the suite; it was cluttered with framed photographs and small souvenir dolls. Through an open sliding door Irene could see a soft leather sofa and a reclining armchair with a footstool. Something told her that was the TV room, where the Jonséns sat when they were alone. She could understand that, because the elegant silk-covered seats were anything but comfortable.

Anna came in carrying a tray, and placed it carefully on the little table in front of the police officers. The aroma of cinnamon rose from a pile of warm buns on a china plate. They looked very similar to the ones they had seen in the store.

“According to your old friend Göran Jansson, you’ve lived here all your life, and you know what goes on in the area,” Tommy began.

“I’m not so sure about that. It’s impossible to keep an eye on things on Korsvägen these days; there’s so much traffic, so many people . . .”

“Of course. But I was thinking more about the people who live around here. You must know them pretty well.”

“Well . . . some of them, maybe.”

“We’re interested in everything you can tell us about the building that burned down, and above all we’d like to find out as much as possible about the old man who died. But please tell us a bit about yourself first.”

“Goodness me . . .”

She broke off and thought for a moment, then took a deep breath.

“We moved here from Annedal when I was five. My father bought the tobacconist’s store, and at the same time my parents got a hold of this apartment. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven—I had my very own room! We’d gone from one room and a kitchen to all this space. Can you imagine?”

She took a big bite of her bun, munching away with obvious pleasure before she went on. “My father developed heart failure, and died of a heart attack in 1973. I’d already started working in the store a year or so earlier. Mom and I ran it together until she died eleven years ago.”

She fell silent, biting her lip.

“Were you living in this apartment at the time?” Tommy asked.

A gentle smile flitted across Anna Jonsén’s face.

“I was the only child. My mom was so lovely . . . Lasse and I were living in a two-room apartment in Johanneberg. When our second child was on the way, Mom suggested we swap spots. She thought this place was too big for her, and we needed more space. So that’s what we did, back in ’82 when Jessica was born.”