The Treacherous Net (7 page)

Tommy leafed through the papers in front of him. “Getting back to the mummy itself: he was one hundred and eighty centimeters tall. Slim build, thinning ash-blond hair. Good teeth, but with a number of amalgam fillings. He has a small gold bridge on the upper-left-hand side, so forensics is hoping to identify him with the help of dental records. He was wearing blue Jockey underpants, white tube socks, dark blue corduroy pants, heavy black shoes, a pale blue shirt, a wine-red knit jacket with a crocodile logo on the left breast, and a dark blue Helly Hansen windbreaker with a detachable red nylon lining. On his left wrist he had a watch advertising the
Reader’s Digest
. We’re in the process of going through the missing persons database.”

As usual, Irene was drinking coffee with a dash of milk and steering clear of the cakes. Out of sheer defiance, she took another bun. When she had finished, she licked every scrap of cinnamon and sugar off her fingers. Childish, admittedly, but it made her feel much better, even though she would have to run a few extra kilometers to stop the calories from settling on her hips. On the other hand, she hadn’t had time for lunch. The unexpected discovery of Kicki Olsson’s body had meant that Hannu and Irene had gotten back to HQ only fifteen minutes ago. They would return to Gårdsten once CSI had finished with the apartment, probably the following day. There was no doubt that it was suicide, but they still needed to check the place over. They were still looking for Moa’s computer and cell phone, among other things.

Irene felt depressed as she thought about the dysfunctional family: the son dies behind the wheel in a car crash, the daughter is murdered, and the mother takes her own life. To a certain extent she could understand Kicki’s decision. Perhaps her children had kept her more or less stable, and once they were gone, her life lost its meaning.

“Any names that look interesting so far?” Efva Thylqvist asked.

“I’ve only just got the names; I haven’t had time to go through them yet. But I’m optimistic; it hasn’t been that long since this guy disappeared. He must be on the list.”

Tommy looked determined as he waved his papers.

Nice to know that someone is feeling optimistic,
Irene thought.

As usual, Krister’s
spaghetti Bolognese was a triumph. Jar sauce was banned from his cooking, of course. He made the sauce using ripe beef tomatoes, garlic, basil, a decent slug of red wine and freshly ground beef, which he bought in the market hall on Kungstorget. “I want to see the piece of meat before they grind it,” he often said. He had always felt the same, even before it came to light that the stores were re-labeling old ground beef. Food wasn’t only his profession, it was also his main interest in his leisure time. He was a master chef in one of Göteborg’s most famous gourmet restaurants, with one star in the
Guide Rouge
.

“Tough day, sweetheart?” he said, topping up Irene’s glass of wine.

“Just half, thanks . . . I’ve got to get up early . . . Yes, it’s been a hell of a day. It’s kind of got me down, actually.”

Irene sounded off about Efva Thylqvist, who refused to lighten the department’s workload by bringing in a replacement for Birgitta. Then she quickly ran through the cases they were working on. As she was telling him about Kicki Olsson’s tragic life and death, she could feel her throat closing up. In her mind’s eye she could still see the image of the dead woman, her toes almost touching the bottom of the bathtub.

“It’s strange; I don’t usually let things get to me, but these cases are just so tragic,” she said.

Krister nodded sympathetically. “The two girls were so young, and then you find the mother of one of them dead. It’s just too much at once. Perhaps this case is getting to you because you’re a mother yourself. Our girls might be twenty-two, but you never stop worrying,” he said.

“This killer worries me. I don’t want another teenage girl to go the same way, but we’re not sure how he gets in touch with them. We suspect it might be through the Internet, some youth site maybe.”

“Like LunarStorm? I remember what the twins were like when it first appeared!”

Krister laughed at the memory.

“Do you remember how we used to have to nag them to come away from the computer?” he said.

“Yes, but it didn’t last long. Just a few months, then they lost interest. And they’ve always had so much going on in their free time: Katarina had her jiujitsu, Jenny had her music. These days she devotes most of her attention to cooking, but she’s started singing with a band down in Malmö,” Irene said.

“Has she? I didn’t know that.”

“She mentioned it when she called last week; I must have forgotten to tell you. And she’s found a new apartment.”

“I knew about the apartment, but not the singing.”

“And in three weeks Katarina and Felipe will be back from Natal. It’ll be so good to see them again!”

Krister raised his glass.

“A toast to our wonderful daughters!”

“They got the
Hulk,” Fredrik informed the team before anyone else had time to speak at morning prayer.

“Who? When? Is he dead?” Efva Thylqvist demanded.

“He’s dead. I think we know who’s behind it, but we don’t have any proof; it’s probably the same guys who were responsible for the car bomb. As for when it happened: two thirty this morning. Apparently Hulk Hansson had a girlfriend nobody knew about. Including his wife, presumably. He slipped away last night without telling his bodyguards; he’d actually requested police protection himself. But I guess when you’re horny . . . He was shot as he left the apartment block after visiting his mistress. So now we have three murders,” Fredrik concluded with a gusty sigh.

Efva Thylqvist pursed her lips, but chose to ignore the sigh.
She’s starting to feel stressed,
Irene thought with some satisfaction. Although it wasn’t really anything to celebrate, since she and her colleagues would end up under even more pressure.

“They were standing outside waiting for him. Pumped several bullets into his chest. He died instantaneously,” Fredrik added.

“You say ‘they.’ Were there any witnesses who saw more than one perp?” the superintendent asked.

“Not saw, but heard. Several witnesses whose bedrooms overlook the street heard the shots, and at the same time they heard an engine start up, then a car door opening and closing before the vehicle took off with a screech of tires. My interpretation is that the perp who shot Hansson was standing by the door, while his accomplice was sitting in a car nearby. After the shots had been fired, the car drove up and the killer jumped in. They took off so fast it virtually melted the tarmac.”

Efva Thylqvist stared at Fredrik, and she wasn’t studying his handsome face. Irene knew exactly what she was thinking: Fredrik was going to be completely taken up with the gang war from now on. It had escalated to such an extent that he was going to be out of action for quite some time as far as the ongoing work of the department was concerned.

There was no
sign that CSI had been in Kicki Olsson’s apartment. There were still piles of clothes on the floor. Irene and Hannu stepped over them and tried to get an overview. It was a small, three-room apartment with a kitchen and bathroom. It was light; the living room had a large south-facing window and a balcony. Not that much daylight penetrated through the filthy glass, but Irene could see the sun shining outside, and soon it would attempt to brighten the shabby room. The only piece of furniture that looked new was a big flat-screen TV on a small cabinet. In front of the TV was a worn sofa, an armchair that didn’t match and a cracked glass table. The rug had probably once been an attractive pale grey with a pattern in dark beige, but all the ingrained marks and stains had turned it to brownish red and dirty grey. The only picture in the room was a framed print of a weeping little boy.

The kitchen faced east; the morning sun was still shining through the window, highlighting the dirt that was everywhere. On the draining board lay the flattened aluminum bag from inside a wine box; the torn box itself was on the floor, revealing that it had contained the cheapest white wine available from the state-owned liquor store.

Irene went into Kicki Olsson’s bedroom. It contained only a king-size bed, a rickety bedside table, and a Billy bookcase from IKEA. There wasn’t a single book to be seen; the shelves were crammed with ornaments: mostly dolls and china animals. There were more clothes all over the floor, and the room smelled musty and was in dire need of some fresh air.

Moa’s room was small and incredibly messy. Schoolbooks, empty candy and chips bags, clothes, magazines and CDs were strewn everywhere. Irene knew that CSI had gone through the room and found nothing of interest. They had focused on trying to find Moa’s computer and cell phone, but Irene wanted to know who Moa was and what she had done during the final days of her life.

A kitchen chair next to the unmade bed served as a bedside table, with a reading lamp and an open pack of tissues. A mirror hung on the wall at the foot of the bed.

On either side of the mirror Moa had pinned up two school photos of herself. Irene recognized one as the picture they had issued to the media. It was taken in the fall, only about six months ago. Moa was gazing straight into the camera, her expression serious. Her eyes and lips were heavily made up, and she had obviously piled on the fake tan. Her thick hair was dyed black, with a center part; it framed her face and fell below her shoulders. She looked good, even though her features were slightly too coarse for her to be regarded as pretty.

In the other photograph Moa was smiling shyly at the camera. Her hair was significantly shorter and lighter, curling above shoulder level. She might have been eleven or twelve years old, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup. What struck Irene was the difference in the expression. The younger Moa’s smile reached her eyes; the older Moa’s gaze showed no emotion whatsoever. Was it her brother’s death that had extinguished the smile in the girl’s eyes?

Like her mother, Moa had a Billy bookcase. One shelf was full of cuddly toys in all shapes and sizes. The other shelves contained a few schoolbooks, a pile of magazines, a new stereo, two packs of cigarettes and a small yellow plastic lighter, tons of makeup and several bottles of perfume. These attracted Irene’s attention. Six bottles, some half full, others only just started, all different brands. Expensive brands, like Dior’s J’adore and Kenzo’s beautiful bottle with the flower stopper. Each bottle must have cost at least five hundred kronor. How could Moa afford that? A thought suddenly struck Irene; if she was right, it could provide an explanation for Moa’s disappearance. Full of foreboding, she opened one closet door.

A whole row of designer tops were arranged neatly on hangers, several of them unworn. Five pairs of new jeans—three by Armani, the other two by the hip label Acne. A black sweater in the softest angora wool. Several more beautiful sweaters that also looked as if they had never been worn. On the floor of the closet was a stack of CDs, most still in their cellophane wrapping. Two pairs of leather boots, and a pair of high-heeled ankle boots. Irene picked up the leather boots. The price tags were still on the soles; one pair had cost three thousand four hundred kronor, the other three thousand. The ankle boots were more modestly priced at one thousand two hundred kronor. In the corner of the closet was a Versace handbag.

Hannu came into the room. “Anything interesting?”

“Yes. This isn’t right. Moa had jeans that cost two thousand kronor, boots at around three thousand a pair, and expensive perfumes. This handbag would have cost several thousand.”

“Shoplifting?”

“Maybe some of this stuff, but not all of it. The stereo, the perfumes, the makeup . . . the tops . . . look at this one, it’s still got the price tag on it. Eight hundred and ninety-nine kronor!”

Irene shut the closet door and opened the other one, revealing a stack of wire baskets. She started to go through them, and in the top one she found what she was looking for. She pulled it out and put it on the bed. She took out several pairs of old sweats and laid them on the dirty sheet; concealed among the sweats were four sets of underwear. It looked as if Moa had deliberately hidden them.

“Bingo,” Irene said grimly.

Hannu reached down and checked the label.

“Sexy Thing,” he said, holding up a dark red set in see-through lace.

“It’s the same as the girls were wearing, but a different color!” Irene exclaimed.

She couldn’t suppress her excitement. They took a closer look at the thong and the skimpy bra. It definitely looked like the same style; the tiny roses were there too. The word
Saturday
was embroidered on the front of the thong.

The other sets were different brands, but certainly not the kind of thing you would expect a fifteen-year-old to own.

“She could have bought them online,” Hannu said.

“I think Moa did all kinds of things online,” Irene said. “We have to find her computer.”

She gazed pensively at the see-through underwear.

“I think Moa was wearing the black Sexy Thing set when she met her killer. He took the bra with him, and forced Alexandra to put it on. Or maybe he put it on her himself afterward. The black bra was the only thing she was wearing when she was found.”

“We still haven’t found the rest of the girls’ clothes,” Hannu said.

Their eyes met; each knew what the other was thinking.
This investigation is turning into a nightmare
. And in the worst-case scenario, this was just the beginning.

“We’ve got an
ID on the mummy!” Tommy announced triumphantly.

His colleagues sat up a little straighter, noticeably encouraged by the news. It was Friday morning, and they’d all had a tough week. Irene was already on her fourth mug of coffee, and was gradually starting to feel human.

“His name is Mats Persson—no relation, I should add. Date of birth March fifteenth, 1942. He disappeared without a trace on the evening of Wednesday, November ninth, 1983,” Tommy went on.

“Did he go missing in the vicinity of Korsvägen?” Irene wondered.

“The last time he was seen alive was just before six o’clock at the city library on Götaplatsen. He spoke to one of the librarians as they were just about to close, and she saw him leave. And that was the last anyone saw of him. A woman waiting outside the city theater saw a man who might have been Mats Persson, but she couldn’t be sure. If it was him, he walked past the steps and around the corner, heading toward the back of the theater.

“Well, he certainly turned a corner,” Jonny Blom said, dunking a cookie in his coffee.

“There was an extensive investigation into Persson’s disappearance. I spoke to Olle Nordlund, who retired a few years ago. He remembered the case very well; he told me it was given high priority, because Persson’s father was murdered during the Second World War. It was in the fall of 1941, six months before Mats was born. His father was shot, and there was some suspicion that Russian spies were involved. The father used to work for the Swedish security service—SÄPO’s predecessor, which makes him one of Sweden’s first modern security agents. This is all according to Olle Nordlund.”

Superintendent Efva Thylqvist had remained silent until now, listening attentively to Tommy’s report.

“So that means the case notes from ’83 should still be here in the building?” she said.

“Should be,” Tommy agreed.

The superintendent didn’t say any more, but Irene could see that she was mulling something over. At the end of morning prayer, Thylqvist turned to Tommy.

“Could you come to my office? There’s something we need to discuss with regard to the mum . . . Mats Persson.”

“Jens wants one
of you to go down. He’s found something on Alexandra’s computer,” Fredrik said as he left the department.

“I think we should all go,” Irene said. “It could give us a lead on Moa.”

Jonny, Hannu and Irene made their way down to the technical department.

“I’ve found the contact,” Jens said, pointing to a pile of printouts. On the top was an enlarged picture of a smiling young man in a white T-shirt. He was strikingly good-looking, with sparkling brown eyes and perfect white teeth. His medium-length hair was dark, with a few streaks of blond. He was probably between sixteen and eighteen years of age.

“I’ve checked out the picture; it’s on the net, but this one has been cropped. He’s actually sitting there jerking off. It’s on several gay porn websites.”

“How the hell do you know that?” Jonny snapped.

Jens looked at him in surprise, then shrugged.

“It’s my job. The first contact with Alexandra was made at the beginning of January on the youth site snuttis.se. He says he’s a seventeen-year-old guy named Adam. Claims he broke his leg while he was snowboarding during the Christmas holidays. He’s looking for a girlfriend. Alexandra answered. Nothing of note happens during January; he flirts a little and she seems interested. In the middle of February he asks her to send him a picture of her face. She takes one using the webcam on her computer. At the beginning of April she sends pictures of herself stroking her breasts. He’d been flattering her, asking her to do it. And he wants to get together. They arrange to meet up on Walpurgis Night.”

“Really?” Irene said.

“Yep. It’s him. Typical online grooming.”

“Have you traced his computer?” Jonny asked.

Jens gave him a look that made his opinion of that particular question very clear. However, there was nothing in his voice when he spoke. “He uses two. They were reported stolen from a car parked outside the Chalmers University of Technology just before Christmas: a Fujitsu Siemens palmtop and an iBook. He hasn’t contacted Alexandra from a fixed broadband connection; he uses free public Wi-Fi zones. They’re available in most hotels, at airports and some larger train stations and on some trains and buses. Or you can surf using 3G, but that doesn’t work so well on trains, because they’re moving, and several people will be using the net. A satellite connection is better.”

“Can you trace where he was when he was online?” Irene asked.

“It’s difficult if it was a satellite connection, but I’ll see what I can do.”

They would have to be content with that for the time being. Irene picked up the pile of printouts and left the office with Hannu and Jonny following in her wake.

“We’ll split them
between us. Make a note of anything that looks interesting,” Irene said as they were on their way up to the department in the elevator. She divided the pile into three, and they went to their offices to work through the material.

Irene had the last third, covering the period from March 21 to April 29. Tense with anticipation, she began to read:

Alexandra:
hi. what are you doing?

Adam:
looking at the pic of you and getting
. . .

what about you?

Alexandra:
soooo bored. good friday! going to skåne tomorrow with mom and dad, gymkhana. don’t know why they bother when they’re getting divorced anyway. keeping up appearances.

Adam:
it’ll be better when they split—that’s what happened with mine.

Alexandra:
when was that?

Adam:
2 yrs ago. i was same age as you. have you got brothers or sisters?

Alexandra:
2 brothers but they’re grown up & live in stockholm.

Adam:
i’ve got an older brother. he’s 25, has an apartment in gbg. i’m going to take it over when he moves


Alexandra:
so when’s he moving?

Adam:
don’t know. he finishes his business course in a year so he might get a job somewhere else. hope so!


Alexandra:
what are you doing on easter?

Adam:
thinking about you! can’t you send me a sexy pic? feel i need it!

[Eight minutes elapse.]

Alexandra:
no time. got to go to stables. Xx.

Adam:
Xx.

The next contact is on March 25. Alexandra complains about a miserable Easter weekend in Skåne. The gymkhana went well, but her parents spent most of the time quarreling. She is sick and tired of their constant arguing. Adam is sympathetic, and talks about how things were when his parents were in the process of separating. There is nothing of a sexual nature in their conversation over the next few days, but he becomes more persistent at the beginning of April.

Adam:
can’t you send me some sexy pics to keep me going til we meet? you look gorgeous in the pics you’ve already sent, but i want to see more. your breasts for example. please?

[Five minutes elapse.]

Alexandra:
ok, but you better not show them to anyone else.

Adam:
of course not! you’re my girl!

Alexandra poses briefly in front of the webcam. She takes off her top and bra and touches her breasts.

Adam:
you’re so beautiful! as soon as my leg’s better we can get together! nothing wrong with other parts though, if you know what i mean!


Alexandra:
i want to see you too.

They chat frequently over the next few days. The sexual references become increasingly overt, and Alexandra starts to become bolder. On Saturday April 26, Adam suggests a meeting.

Alexandra:
it’s a long way to borås.

Adam:
my brother is coming home for walpurgis night, so you could come with him. it’s only an hour by car.

[Three minutes elapse.]

Alexandra:
can’t stay over. competition the following day.

Adam:
that’s cool, he’s going back late in the evening, he’s got to study for an exam.

Alexandra:
my parents are going out for the evening—when is he coming back to gbg?

Adam:
around midnight. he’ll drive you home, you don’t need to say anything to your parents, they’ll never know you’ve been away.


Alexandra:
as long as i’m home by 12 at the latest. i’ll tell them i’m going to watch the parade with my friends, then back to someone’s house.

Adam:
sounds good.

Over the next few days the tone of their conversation is light, and the planned meeting is not mentioned. However, on April 29 Adam spells out the details.

Adam:
my brother’s name is micke. he’ll pick you up in the car from Torslanda Square at 6 tomorrow—you’ll be here at 7 and he’ll leave here at 11 at the latest to take you home. mom has promised to cook dinner for us, do you like grilled chicken?

Alexandra:
sure. i like everything except mashed turnips and broccoli.

Adam:
same here, but i don’t like peas and beans either. i like you though!


Alexandra:
and i like you!


Adam:
Xx. can’t wait to see you!

Alexandra:
same here! Xx.

Irene sat there for a long time, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. Alexandra had walked straight into a trap. She had allowed herself to be drawn into the treacherous net. Easy prey for the skillful Adam, who had so successfully played the unhappy fourteen-year-old longing for love and friendship. He had realized how naïve she was, and had exploited her loneliness. She had been carefully selected. Groomed . . . he had gently nudged her along until she was exactly where he wanted her, preparing her for his ultimate goal: a face-to-face meeting. Adam had intended to kill her all along.

Irene decided she needed to speak to Jens. She gathered up the papers and ran down the stairs to his office. He was still sitting at his computer; he looked up from the screen and nodded to her as she walked in.

“Sorry to disturb you, Jens, but I need to know more,” she began.

“No problem. Shoot.”

“Who’s the guy in the picture? You said he was on gay porn sites . . .”

“He called himself Pablo Eros. An Italian gay porn star, kind of a legend. The picture is at least ten years old. He killed himself two years ago; there’s a whole heap of grieving fans out there. This particular picture is all over the Internet.”

“So he’s still alive on the net,” Irene said.

Jens nodded. “Forever and ever, amen.”

He waved her over to look at the screen so that she could see the original version.

“So Adam took the picture of this good-looking guy, cropped it and sent it to Alexandra. She must have thought she’d hit it off with every girl’s dream,” Irene said.

“There’s no risk in using this picture. Teenage girls are unlikely to be on sites like this; they’re real hard-core stuff.”

“Do you think Adam contacted more girls online?”

“Absolutely! They always do. Then they choose their victim. Or victims.”

“So he might have had several girls on the go at the same time?”

“More than likely.”

“Any chance of finding out whether Moa had been in touch with Adam online?”

Jens shook his head.

“That’s tricky. She could have been in contact with him on a different site, and of course he could have used a different name. And so could she.”

“But Alexandra didn’t.”

“She was the perfect victim. Completely clueless.”

“Jens, I’m worried that our killer might already be in touch with his next victim. He might have already met up with her and killed her. Is there any way you can look . . . is there any chance . . .”

She left the sentence hanging in the air and made a helpless gesture.

“No way. These sites have hundreds of thousands of users every day. I’ve already searched for Adam on snuttis.se, but I didn’t find anything of interest. He’s probably using a different name, which makes it impossible to track him down. You’ve got to use the mass media to warn kids,” Jens said.

“I think you’re right. It’s time to warn young people and their parents. The disadvantage is that the killer will realize that we know how he got in touch with Alexandra.”

“True, but it’s the only way,” Jens said, his expression grave.

“I had the
first third, so I’ll start,” Jonny said. He looked down at a piece of paper with various scribbled notes on it.

“My section runs from January seventh to February tenth. In his very first message the guy says he’s seventeen and at high school, specializing in sciences and technology. He lives outside Borås and had a fall on a ski slope in Sälen over winter break, although he was actually snowboarding. Sustained a complex lower leg fracture. He’s bored and wants to get in touch with a girl online. Alexandra replies. After a week or so she sends him a photo of herself taken using her webcam. Adam tells her his camera is broken, but he’s sending her a picture that was taken before Christmas. Which is the picture of our gay porn star, of course. He doesn’t really give much more information about himself.”

Irene jotted down a few notes.

Hannu took over. “February eleventh to March twentieth. There’s no contact the first week because it’s the mid-semester break; Alexandra is away at a riding camp in Kungsbacka. When she gets back she asks if they can call each other on their cell phones. Adam claims he lost his in the snowboarding accident. That was the third phone he’d lost since last summer; his mom was furious and told him he had to save up for a new one himself. He doesn’t want to use the landline because she’s always complaining about the phone bills. ‘My mom’s crazy,’ he writes on February fifteenth. Alexandra replies, ‘my mom is always worrying about stuff, she nags me all the time. Dad is crazy.’ She doesn’t give any explanation for that comment, and Adam doesn’t ask.”