The Treacherous Net (6 page)

The entire apartment
reeked of cat piss and cigarette smoke. After only a few minutes Irene was starting to feel slightly nauseated. A ginger cat hissed at her and slid under the tattered sofa in the living room. Perhaps it just didn’t like mornings. We grow similar to those we live with; neither Bettan Hansson nor her son seemed to be morning people.

The mother had opened the door and sullenly introduced herself. She was a faded blonde who weighed at least 260 pounds. She had squeezed her abundant curves into a dirty pink tracksuit. The jacket was zipped only halfway up, generously exposing her heavy breasts. As far as Irene could tell, she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Just above one breast was a tattoo that had presumably been a small lizard once upon a time, but Bettan’s increasing weight combined with the forces of gravity meant that it now looked more like an alligator.

“Tobbe’s in the bathroom. He won’t be long,” she said curtly.

She shuffled past the coffee table and sank down in a battered armchair. As the seat began to sink toward the floor with a squeak of protest, Irene realized why the cat had wisely chosen to hide under the sofa.

“What’s this about?” Bettan Hansson asked.

She was trying to take an aggressive tone, but the anxiety in her voice was unmistakable.

“We just want to ask Tobias a few questions,” Irene said.

“About what?” Bettan asked again.

Neither Hannu nor Irene answered her. They could hear the sound of the shower from the bathroom; after a while it stopped, and they heard someone moving around, followed by a hacking cough. It was almost ten minutes before Tobias Hansson emerged. He stood in the doorway of the living room, glaring in silence at the two police officers. He was big—enormous, in fact. He was of normal height, but the width of his body meant that he could barely get through the door without turning sideways. Pumped biceps strained the sleeves of his black T-shirt, which had the logo
olympic gym
across the chest. He couldn’t put his arms down by his sides, but held them slightly bent outward. His black jeans hugged the muscles in his calves and thighs. Tobias was a shining example of how several hours of strenuous strength training each day could build muscle. But he was only eighteen years old; something told Irene that anabolic steroids might have a role to play here.

His round, shaven skull looked shrunken, perched on top of his huge body, and his cherubic cheeks gave him the appearance of a giant baby. Perhaps that was why he had acquired several substantial tattoos on his arms and around his neck. White crystals sparkled in both ears, and his lower lip was pierced by a silver ring. None of which made a great deal of difference; he still looked like a grotesque baby. Perhaps the expressionless pale-blue eyes contributed to the overall impression.

Irene and Hannu introduced themselves. As expected, they got nothing more than an inarticulate grunt in response. Tobias slowly began to shuffle toward the other armchair. Irene caught herself holding her breath as he thudded down. The chair creaked alarmingly, but it didn’t break.

“We really just want to check where you were on Walpurgis Night,” Irene said, looking Tobias straight in the eye.

“He was here,” Bettan Hansson said immediately, before her son even had the chance to open his mouth.

Her hands were trembling as she shook a cigarette out of an open pack on the scratched coffee table. A fleeting expression of surprise passed across Tobias’s face, but the next moment those pale-blue eyes were blank once more.

“Were you at home, Tobias?” Irene persisted.

He managed a nod.

“Were you here all evening?”

“Yes,” Bettan snapped.

Another nod from the giant baby in the other armchair seemed to indicate confirmation.

“That’s unusual, a guy of your age sitting at home with his mom on Walpurgis Night,” Hannu said calmly.

Tobias glanced at him, then quickly looked away.

“But that’s what happened,” Bettan insisted.

“Is there anyone else who can confirm that you were here all evening?” Hannu went on, still addressing Tobias.

“It was just the two of us,” Bettan said firmly.

Hannu kept his eyes fixed on Tobias, paying no attention whatsoever to his mother. She looked furious as she greedily sucked on her cigarette, spilling ash all around her.
Nervous,
Irene thought.
Probably with good reason.

“And what did you do the previous weekend?” Hannu asked.

Tobias looked confused, but Bettan came to his rescue once more.

“We were together all weekend. He went to the gym with some friends during the day, but in the evenings he was here with me.”

“So you and Tobias are best friends?” Hannu said, turning his attention to the big woman for the first time.

Her face immediately flushed the same color as an overripe strawberry.

“He’d only just gotten out of jail, goddammit!” she said.

It was true that Tobias had been released from the youth offenders’ institution on April tenth; but the two girls had been killed after that. From that point of view he remained of considerable interest.

But we’re not going to get anything out of him with his mother hovering over him,
Irene thought. She caught Hannu’s eye and they exchanged an almost imperceptible nod. They got to their feet simultaneously.

“We’ll be in touch. You’ll probably have to come down to the station,” Hannu said, his eyes fixed on Tobias, who was doing his utmost to avoid that searching gaze. Beads of sweat had appeared on the boy’s shaven head. Irene could see that he was extremely nervous too, which was interesting in itself.

“He makes one mistake, and you keep on hassling him!” Bettan hissed.

The smoke from her cigarette went down the wrong way, and she started coughing violently.

Neither Irene nor Hannu bothered to reply.

“We can’t dismiss
him,” Irene said when they were back in the car. She pulled out into the stream of traffic heading for the city center.

“No.” Hannu looked pensive. “But it’s not him. The two homicides were planned.”

“And he’s too dumb and impulsive,” Irene agreed.

“Exactly.”

Even though Irene shared his view, she wanted to hear his thoughts.

“What makes you believe the murders were planned?”

“No witnesses have seen either of the girls with a stranger. Neither of them mentioned that they’d arranged to meet someone. No clues, no evidence. The killer has been in touch with them, arranged to meet. And persuaded them to keep quiet.”

“What about the girls’ computers? Anything there?”

“Jens is going through Alexandra’s computer; Moa’s is missing.”

“Missing?”

“Yes. She had a laptop through the school. She was dyslexic, and was taking part in an experiment. She was having extra lessons with specialist teachers. According to her mother, she carried the laptop around all the time, in her rucksack. The students don’t get a new one if they lose it.”

“So they won’t be tempted to sell it,” Irene said with a grimace.

“Presumably.”

They both sat in silence, thinking things over as they approached the police station.

“I don’t suppose her boozed-up mother could have sold it?” Irene wondered.

“No. Her mother said that Moa spent most of her time skipping class over the past two years, but apparently since she joined this dyslexia group, she’d pulled herself together. And it’s all down to the laptop; the girl used to spend several hours a day on it.”

“Hmm. Why does that give me a bad feeling?” Irene said, glancing over at Hannu.

He nodded in agreement. “We have to find Moa’s computer. Her cell phone is missing too. I’d like to try to get over to Gårdsten this morning; two colleagues are talking to Moa’s teachers and school friends, but I’d like to speak to her mother again.”

“Poor woman. She’s lost both her kids. Her son died in a car crash, and now her daughter has been murdered.”

“Yes, some people really do suffer. But I’m not sure it’s always a coincidence,” Hannu said.

“You mean it’s a question of environment, that kind of thing?”

“Yes. My impression of Moa’s mother is that she’s . . . absent. In every sense of the word.”

“What do you mean?”

“She’s an alcoholic. She goes out boozing with her pals. Sometimes she’s away for several days, according to social services.”

Irene thought about what he’d said.

“That could be a link between Moa and Alexandra. When Jonny and I went over to Torslanda yesterday, Alexandra’s father was completely wasted. We couldn’t get a sensible word out of him. At first I thought he just couldn’t handle the grief, but . . . Her mother was a mess, but he wasn’t giving her any support. When we got there, he was downstairs and she was upstairs. It was as if they couldn’t get far enough away from each other. I got the feeling that . . .”

She broke off, trying to find the right words before she went on.

“The house is incredibly extravagant. Alexandra has her own horse. Jan Hallwiin was married before and has two grown-up children who were raised by their mother in Gävle. They’re about thirty now and live in Stockholm. It doesn’t sound as if they’ve had much contact with their father over the years. Alexandra’s mother is twenty-three years younger than Jan, and Alexandra is her only child. Both parents work long hours. I have a feeling that Alexandra was a lonely girl. Yes, she had a horse and loved riding, but . . . she seemed lonely.”

Hannu nodded to show that he understood. A cop has to rely on gut feelings.

The next person
on their list was in his hair salon. He finished off a client, then showed the two officers into a small staff room, hidden away behind a rattling bamboo curtain. His name was Bengt Robertsson, and he was forty-three years old. His thin bleached-blond hair was cut very short, but he sported an impressive mustache with the ends waxed and optimistically turned upward. He had a watertight alibi for the time of Moa’s death; he had been in Thailand when she went missing and had gotten home three days before Walpurgis Night. He had spent April 30 and the May Day holiday in the company of good friends on the Stena line ferry to Kiel. Without a moment’s hesitation he gave them the names of a dozen people who could confirm he was on board the ship at the relevant time.

The visit to the hairdresser had taken only fifteen minutes. The next person on Hannu’s list had been horrified at the suggestion that the police come and speak to him at his new workplace, so he had promised to come to the station after five o’clock. Until then Hannu would go with Jonny to see another man on their list. Once all seven had been tracked down and questioned, any possible alibis would be checked. They would then attempt to decide which of the men were still of interest and which could be eliminated from the investigation. Meanwhile they would continue to follow up any new leads or information that came in. It was tedious routine work, but it was absolutely necessary; it was the only way to solve a crime.

“We’ve got time to go and see Moa’s mother. It’s only quarter of an hour from here. What’s her name again?” Irene asked.

“Kristina. Known as Kicki. Thirty-nine years old. Regularly picked up for alcohol abuse ever since she was a teenager. Her parents were alcoholics. However, she has managed to look after her own children; they’ve never been taken into care.”

“What about Moa? Has she had any dealings with the police?”

“Nothing at all. However, the brother who died in the car crash was picked up for drunken behavior twice, and he was given a warning for aiding and abetting in the theft of a car. That was two months before he stole the car he crashed.”

“So you don’t think it was pure chance that the son died in a car crash and the daughter was murdered. I agree with you to a certain extent, but not entirely. Not all children who grow up with parents who abuse alcohol or narcotics end up going down that road themselves.”

Hannu glanced sideways at her.

“The survivors. But Moa Olsson and her brother were not among them.”

Nor was their
mother, it seemed. They parked outside a two-story grey concrete block. The stairwell had recently been freshened up with pastel colors, but someone had already sprayed
mdnmdnmdn
all over one wall in bright purple. The letters were surrounded by small red phalluses.

They rang the doorbell of Kicki Olsson’s apartment. When no one had answered by the fourth ring, Hannu tried the handle and the door swung open. There was a pile of shoes and outerwear in the hallway, and an unidentifiable smell with hints of garbage and sour wine.

They stepped over the mess on the floor, and Irene called out, “Hello! Anyone home? Kicki Olsson?”

She was in the bathroom. There was a high stool right next to the bathtub, with a drying rack propped against one wall. Kicki Olsson had tied a nylon washing line to the ceiling hook for the rack, then she had made a noose and slipped it around her neck. She had stood on the stool, then jumped into the tub. Given the way she looked, it must have happened at least twenty-four hours ago.

“We’ve got some
information about the mummy,” Tommy said.

He took a big bite of his cinnamon bun and washed it down with a good swig of coffee. “We’re looking at a man in his forties. He’s probably been dead for between twenty and thirty years. The cause of death was three bullet wounds: one in the head and two close to the heart. We won’t know the bullet type and caliber until tomorrow at the earliest. The gun that was found with the body is interesting. It was underneath the rug the body was lying on. It seems that the rug was used to carry the body to the opening. The gun is an old model, a Tokarev. Russian. Stopped being manufactured in the mid-50s. Forensics sent a picture.”

The image of an old-fashioned gun appeared on the white wall behind him; at first glance it resembled an FN Browning. When Irene looked more closely, she could see a five-pointed star on the butt, with the letters
cccp
between the points of the star.

Tommy moved on to the next picture. “This is the rug—a valuable item, according to forensics. Ninety by two hundred and twenty centimeters. The blood on the rug presumably comes from the body, but they’re in the process of testing it. They’ll get back to us when they’ve checked the whole rug in detail.”