The Treacherous Net (4 page)

“And now you’re about to become a grandmother yourself,” Irene said with a smile.

“I already am; this is Petra’s second child.”

She got up, went over to the chest of drawers and picked up a photograph.

“Axel,” she said proudly, handing the framed picture to Irene.

The boy looked about two years old. He was laughing at the photographer, his pearly white front teeth gleaming against his dark skin. He had dark brown, curly hair. His eyes sparkled with the joy of being alive. In one hand he was holding a little red car, clutching it firmly to his chest.

“Grandma’s little prince,” Anna said as she replaced the photograph. The proud smile still lingered on her lips as she sat down again.

“Do you know whether anyone in the area has gone missing?” Tommy asked.

“Missing? But when?” Anna was understandably confused.

“We’re not quite sure, but probably during the past fifty years.”

Irene was taken aback at first, then realized that he had made the time frame as generous as possible just to be on the safe side. Thanks to the windbreaker, they knew the mummy was less than fifty years old.

Anna shook her head.

“Not that I know of, and I think I would have heard something . . . but no. Unless it was before we moved here.”

Tommy nodded, but didn’t pursue the matter. Instead he changed the subject. “Tell me about the fire three weeks ago.”

“I didn’t see it start. I heard sirens just as we were about to go to bed, and I noticed that the fire engines stopped nearby. When I looked out I could see that the wooden block was in flames; the fire swept through the whole place in no time. It was terrible. And then I saw the firefighters wearing that special breathing apparatus. They tried to save Calle Adelskiöld, but it was no good.”

“Calle Adelskiöld?” Tommy made a note of the name, even though it wouldn’t be difficult to remember.

“Yes, Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. He always told us to call him Calle, with a C. He used to have a special order of cigars from me. They stopped importing the ones he smoked, so he changed to Davidoff Long Panatellas. He always used to pick them up on a Friday, and he’d hand in the week’s harness racing coupons at the same time—a whole heap of them! He started doing that as soon as he moved here.”

“And when was that?”

“1980. The year Petra was born.”

“Twenty-eight years ago,” Irene said after a quick calculation.

“Yes. He’d retired and moved back to Göteborg. He used to say it was good to be back in dear old Lorensberg.”

“Do you know anything else about him? Did he have family?”

“Not that I’m aware of. He was always alone when I saw him. Although he did have a cousin. I remember Calle telling me that both he and his cousin used to work for the Foreign Office. He used to talk about it when he came in smelling of booze, which he sometimes did. Pretty often, to be honest.”

Her tone was indulgent. It was understandable that an elderly gentleman might need to cheer himself up with a good cigar and a glass or two of Cognac now and again.

“Although in recent years his cousin used to come in quite often to pick up his cigars and hand in his coupons. After all, Calle was ninety. His cousin is no spring chicken either.”

“So he smoked cigars and drank brandy . . . and got to ninety. I wonder what the health fanatics would have to say about that?” Tommy said.

Anna Jonsén fished out a pack of cigarettes and offered them around. Both Tommy and Irene declined. Anna lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, with obvious pleasure.

“Do you happen to know the name of this cousin?”

“No. He’s not as talkative as Calle.”

Anna broke off for a minor coughing fit, then continued. “He’s not unpleasant, not at all, but he’s more . . . reserved. Kind of . . . distinguished.”

They asked a few more questions, but although Anna Jonsén did her best to be helpful, it was obvious that she didn’t know much more about the old man.

Felix started yapping again as he and his mistress showed them to the door.

As they were on their way down in the elevator, Irene said, “That dog isn’t going to live to a ripe old age. What with the air quality around Korsvägen and the smoke in that apartment, it hasn’t got a chance!”

“Jonny and I
are heading out to Torslanda,” Irene said, tugging on her jacket.

“And I’ll write up the report on our visit to Korsvägen,” Tommy said, without even trying to hide the acidity in his tone. Irene chose to ignore it.

“Well, the chief did say you were to take the lead on the mummy case. Bye bye!”

With a teasing smile she slipped out of his new office. The one that was closer to the seat of power than his old office, which was now hers.

The impressive cream-brick
mansion was on a hill, with a view over the roofs of the houses below in one direction, and Torslandavägen in the other. It had huge windows, and extensive patios on three sides. Irene thought it was a real seaside villa that ought to be in solitary splendor on a peninsula somewhere, but then of course it would have cost several million kronor more.

The garden was surrounded by a hedge in full bloom. There was a garage by the wrought-iron gate that separated the paved driveway from the street. Jonny pressed down the gold-painted handle and they made their way toward the blue front door, which had a round porthole window at eye level. The owners were obviously keen to stick to the maritime theme, even though they were several kilometers away from the sea.

Jonny had to keep his finger on the bell for a long time before someone answered. The man who yanked open the door was Alexandra’s father, Jan Hallwiin; they had met him the previous day. He had sat in an armchair, his face rigid as Irene told him that the police had found his daughter. His wife, Marina, had sunk down on a stool in front of the open fire and wept. Irene had found it strange that the parents remained at opposite ends of the room; when people are given that kind of news, they usually gravitate toward each other, hugging and trying to offer consolation. Jan Hallwiin had made no attempt to approach his wife. But shock can make people behave irrationally; Irene had seen many examples over the years.

“What the hell is the matter with you!” Jan Hallwiin roared at Jonny. He stood in the doorway swaying slightly. Even from several meters away, Irene could smell the alcohol fumes.

“We’d arranged to meet at three o’clock,” Jonny said calmly.

Jan Hallwiin didn’t reply but merely glared at them with bloodshot eyes.

“May we come in?” Irene asked.

Before he had time to say anything, she and Jonny pushed past him into the hallway. They kept their jackets on, in spite of the fact that it was a warm day. Jonny turned to the man who was still holding on to the open door; he probably needed some help to stay upright.

“Is your wife home?”

Hallwiin merely pointed upward without speaking. Irene exchanged a glance with Jonny and set off up the stairs. She could hear muffled sobbing; she followed the sound and pushed open a door that was slightly ajar.

It was obviously Alexandra’s room. Her mother was sitting on the bed, her head buried in the pillow. Perhaps she was trying to suppress the sound of her weeping, or perhaps she just wanted to cling to the lingering smell of her daughter.

Irene went over and placed a hand on her shoulder. Marina Hallwiin gave a start.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Irene said gently.

“No, it’s . . . I . . .” Marina mumbled.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, and she looked bewildered. Irene bent down a fraction and discreetly took a deep breath. Nothing but perspiration and something unidentifiable. Did grief have an odor of its own? Marina Hallwiin hadn’t been drinking, at any rate.

The room was large and airy, with a double bed by one wall. Sheer white fabric hung from the ceiling; Irene thought it looked like a malaria net, but she knew that drapes of this kind were popular with young girls. Otherwise the colors in the room were quite bold: a cerise throw; lime green cushions; a cerise, lime green and white striped rug; and white walls. Not that there was very much white to be seen; the walls were covered with pictures of horses. All kinds of horses. One of the pictures had attracted Irene’s attention as soon as she walked into the room: a huge poster of a shimmering coal-black horse that hung above the head of the bed. It was rearing up, its mane flying against the blue of a summer sky. A young man was sitting on its back, his muscles rippling beneath his tanned skin, gleaming in the sunlight. It was clear that he was completely naked.

On the desk some loose cables and a lonely printer bore witness to the fact that forensics had taken the girl’s computer.

“Will we . . . will we get her things back?” Marina snuffled.

Irene could see that she was trying to pull herself together. Once again she placed her hand on Marina’s shoulder.

“Yes. Everything will be returned once we’ve gone through it. We’re most interested in her computer since we haven’t found her cell phone. Did Alexandra have her own computer?”

Irene asked the question even though she already knew the answer. Marina Hallwiin nodded and swallowed hard, pointing to her daughter’s desk with a trembling hand.

“There. That’s where . . . the computer was.”

Irene looked around as if she had just noticed all the pictures.

“Alexandra seems to have been pretty keen on horses,” she said.

“Yes . . . She has her own horse—Prince. The two of them . . .”

Marina’s voice broke and she let out another sob. She pointed to the wall above the white bookcase, where rosettes of every color were displayed behind a bank of cups of varying sizes.

“Talented . . . so talented,” Marina murmured, her voice thick with tears.

“Absolutely. How long had she been riding?”

“Since she was seven.”

“But she hasn’t had Prince for that long?”

“No, he . . . she’s had him for three years.”

All Irene knew about horses was that one end could bite you and the other end could kick you. Keeping a conversation about horses going felt like tiptoeing across very thin ice. As far as she was concerned, she had already exhausted the topic, so instead she decided to broach a question she had been pondering ever since the morning briefing.

“Where does Alexandra keep her underwear?” she asked.

Marina gave a start; she looked directly at Irene for the first time. Slowly she got to her feet and nodded, as if she understood why Irene had asked. She pushed a mirrored sliding door to one side, revealing a stack of wire baskets.

“That’s something I’d . . . wondered about . . .” she whispered.

Irene pulled out the baskets one by one until she found one containing bras and thin socks. There were five bras, all size 70A: one red, one black, one pale blue and two white. They were all very similar: the material was smooth and shiny, the cups padded and firm.

“Did Alexandra have any other type of bra?” Irene asked.

“No . . . she always thought her bust was too small. She bought these at Lindex . . . I’ve been thinking about it since yesterday . . . that bra she was wearing when she . . . It wasn’t hers!”

The last few words were almost a scream, and they confirmed what Irene had been thinking. The bra Alexandra had been wearing when she was found was unusually sexy for a fourteen-year-old girl obsessed with horses. It was made of see-through black lace with tiny embroidered roses between the cups; it was very low cut, leaving the nipples partly exposed.

“So you’ve never seen Alexandra with a bra like that?”

“Never!”

The response was unequivocal, and Marina Hallwiin unconsciously stood up a little straighter.

“Do you know which bra she was wearing when she disappeared?”

“It must have been a black one. I bought her two of those, and there’s only one here.”

When Irene had shown the parents a photograph of the lace bra the previous day, neither of them had reacted. The shock of being told their daughter was dead was too great. Both of them had simply shaken their heads and said they didn’t recognize it, but now Marina had had time to digest the information, and she had reached the same conclusion as Irene: when Alexandra was found, she was wearing a bra that didn’t belong to her. The killer must have forced the girl to put on the sexy scrap of lace, or else he had done it himself after the murder. Or she could have put it on of her own free will. That seemed unlikely, but it couldn’t be ruled out at this stage of the investigation.

According to her details, Marina Hallwiin was forty-three, but right now she looked significantly older. Her husband was fifty-six.

“Do you have any other children?” Irene asked.

“Janne has two, but they’re grown up. Thirty-one and twenty-nine.”

“Do they live here in Göteborg?”

“No, they stayed with their mother in Gävle, and now both boys live in Stockholm. Janne moved here . . . when we got together.”

The tears spilled over once more.

“Perhaps we should go downstairs?” Irene suggested, turning toward the door.

“Perhaps . . .” Marina said. She slipped into the bathroom opposite Alexandra’s room. Irene heard her blowing her nose, followed by the sound of running water.

As always in cases involving young homicide victims, Irene felt powerless. There were no words to lessen the grief, no words to bring solace.

“Miserable bastard,” Jonny
said, sounding his horn crossly as a cab pulled out in front of their car.

Irene knew he was referring to Jan Hallwiin rather than the cab driver.

“Because he was drunk?”

“Because he was so aggressive and stupid. Although that was probably because he was drunk. It’s still no excuse.”

Irene noted his point of view with a certain amount of satisfaction. A few years earlier Jonny himself had had major problems with alcohol. Rumor had it his wife had given him an ultimatum: stop drinking, or I’m leaving and taking the four kids with me. Irene had to give him credit for the fact that he seemed to have managed it so far. Over the past three years she had never seen him under the influence or hungover.

“He didn’t have anything interesting to say?” she asked.

“No. He just kept sounding off about how incompetent the cops are, about this pathetic society of ours that lets killers out of jail after twelve months. They don’t face any real punishment nowadays. You know how it goes—same old same old.”

Irene nodded. She had heard it all before, many times.

Was it possible that Alexandra’s murderer had a record? He might not have killed before, but could he be a rapist who had been released? She decided that her priority for the rest of the day would be to check Alexandra’s homicide against previous cases where the victim had sustained similar injuries, but not necessarily been killed.