Frozen Moment (45 page)

    Not
that Beckman was prepared to go along with the myth of the happy whore. There
was all the proof in the world that the opposite was true here in this airless
narrow hallway.
An overwhelming smell of unwashed bodies and
stale alcohol.
She noticed that no one seemed willing to meet her eye,
and at first she thought it must be obvious that she was a police officer,
although she couldn't for the life of her work out why. The girl with
the bunches
said, 'You need to sign in,' just as Beckman was
about to introduce herself.

    For
a moment she didn't know what to say. She felt a childish urge to protest at
having been taken for a homeless person, but realised this would be ridiculous,
not to mention offensive to those around her. Instead she discreetly showed her
ID, as she had planned to do from the start. The tips of the girl's ears went
bright red, but she quickly pulled herself together.

    'Margareta
said you were coming. If you follow me, I'll show you where she is.'

    She
went ahead of Beckman along a corridor which, judging by its fitted
cupboards,
had once been a service passageway. The girl was
clearly upset by her mistake.

    'This
is a lovely building,' said Beckman, smoothing things over and breaking the
embarrassing silence.

    'It
used to be two huge apartments, but they were knocked into one. We've made some
alterations, but we've tried to keep the old charm.'

    
We,
thought Beckman - she didn't look a day over twenty-five.

    'Have
you worked here long?'

    The
girl, who according to her name badge was called Sandra, stopped outside a
door. A red light showed that the occupant was engaged.

    'I've
been here for eighteen months, since I graduated.' She made an apologetic
gesture. 'So many people come here, it's impossible to recognise them all. Of
course I could see straight away that you're not-'

    'It's
fine,' Beckman broke in. 'Have you come across Susie - Susanne Pilgren, or
Jensen, while you've been here?'

    .
'We've got a Susanne Jensen. She comes here one or two nights a week for a
while,
then
she disappears. Then she comes back.'

    'What's
your impression of her?'

    'As
a person, you mean? Well… often we don't know much about the women who stay
here,
it's not our job to find out. That's why they choose
this place - they're left in peace and nobody pries. Susie isn't much of a
talker anyway: she signs in, goes to bed,
then
leaves
early in the morning. She's never caused any trouble.'

    'Is
she always on her own? What's she like when she arrives?' asked Beckman.

    Behind
the closed door they could hear Margareta Skaner's voice increasing in volume,
then falling silent, as if she was ending a call after letting the person on
the other end of the line know exactly what she thought.

    'Yes,
she's always on her own. Are you asking if she takes something? Most of the
women who stay here are users. Some places won't let them in if they're under
the influence, but we don't have that rule. It wouldn't be much help to them -
the most vulnerable women would be left to their own devices. So yes, she's
often in a bad way, but she doesn't kick off like some of them do.
Not here, anyway.'

    Beckman
nodded. There was still silence on the other side of the door. In spite of the
red light she rapped hard with her knuckles and pushed it open.

    Margareta
Skaner looked up in surprise from her polished desk.

    'Excuse
me?'

    
'Karin Beckman from the police.
We spoke on the telephone.'

    Sandra
mumbled something about going back to reception. Margareta Skaner nodded
briefly in her direction.

    'Of
course, it was about Susanne Jensen. You've heard that she's gone off again.
Sometimes the women who stay here have a kind of sixth sense when it comes to
the guardians of the law. Perhaps I can be of some help?'

    Just
as Beckman sat down, there was a discreet knock, and Sandra's face reappeared
in the doorway.

    'Sorry,
I just wanted to say that Susie's back. She's in the kitchen.'

    'I'm
going to be busy in a little while,' Margareta said quickly when she saw that
Karin Beckman was getting up. 'Perhaps we could have a chat before you go to
see Susanne?'

    Beckman
hesitated. 'I'll come back to you another day if necessary,' she decided in the
end. 'I think it might be best to have a chat with Susanne straight away. As
you said, the smell of the police spreads fast.'

    Through
the glass panel in the upper half of the door Beckman could see that the
kitchen was as big as that of a restaurant. The smell of food being cooked on
the hob seeped out through the door, along with the aroma of several large
dishes of lasagne. A note attached to a piggy bank said that the lasagne cost
ten kronor per portion. Three women were already sitting at the table, eating
in silence. One of them was reading a newspaper and talking to herself in an
agitated way.

    'Susie's
the one with short hair and the red jumper.'

    Sandra
took hold of Beckman's arm. 'Do you think you could be a bit… gentle? It's just
that one of the good things about this place is that the women feel safe here.
I don't think there are many places in town where they feel safe.'

    Beckman
smiled.

    'I
promise to be as gentle as I can.'

    As
soon as she introduced herself, she realised that Susanne Jensen probably
didn't even know her brother was dead. She had yanked her arm away when Beckman
touched her and asked her to come to another room where they could talk in
private. However, Jensen had obviously wanted to avoid a scene and had
accompanied Beckman to the room where she would be sleeping later.

    It
was a small room, furnished only with two bunk beds and a desk, but the
white-painted walls and tall windows made it feel pleasant and airy. The beds
were made up with starched white sheets. When Beckman saw them she felt an
overwhelming desire to lie down on the bottom bunk and just sleep, without a
husband or children demanding her attention. Then she was struck by her
inability to feel grateful for her privileged existence, in spite of its
problems. Exhaustion really did blind you to the important things in life.

    Susanne
Jensen sat cross-legged on the bed, staring at her socks. She didn't resemble
her brother at all. At least she didn't look anything like the photograph of
Olof Bart on the whiteboard in the conference room. He was dark and she was fair,
although perhaps they shared the same slim build. Susanne Jensen's face was
almost transparent and she had purple rings beneath her eyes, as if she'd slept
badly her whole life.

    'First
of all I have to tell you that your brother Olof is dead,' said Beckman
quietly. Instinctively, she tried to place her hand on Jensen's knee. Susanne
pushed it away,
then
sat completely motionless, giving
no indication whatsoever that she had understood what Beckman had said. 'I'm
very sorry.'

    For
a second Beckman detected the hint of a scornful smile on the face of the woman
sitting opposite.

    'I
imagine you might have had some bad experiences with the police in the past,'
she continued, 'and you don't want to talk to me, but I just want to say that
anything you choose to tell me could be important in helping us catch the
person who killed your brother. I don't know how much contact you had with each
other after you were placed in foster homes, but I know almost nothing about
Olof s life. Perhaps you could tell me whether he had any enemies, anyone who
might have wished him ill.'

    She
stopped speaking and waited for a reaction. It didn't come.

    'Susanne?'

    Jensen
really did look as if she was frozen: her shoulders were hunched up by her
ears, her jaws were clamped together, and her hands were clenched into fists.

    Beckman
pulled back. She had to respect the fact that this woman did not want to be
touched.

    'If
I sit here for a while, perhaps you'll decide to say something,' she ventured.
'And if you can't think of anything you want to say while I'm here, then maybe
you could ring me, or write to me. I'll give you my number. I'd also like you
to think about whether you've ever heard the name Lars Waltz mentioned in
connection with your brother. But don't worry about that too much. It's just
one line of enquiry we're following.'

    Karin
Beckman sat opposite a silent Susanne Jensen for almost three quarters of an
hour before she got up and stretched her legs as one of them had gone to sleep.

    'I'm
going now.'

    She
gently placed her card next to Susanne Jensen. The woman turned her head and
met Beckman's eyes briefly before returning her attention to her hands, which
were now tightly locked around her shins. She was sitting in a kind of foetal
position, and if you screwed up your eyes she looked no more than twelve years
old.

    Beckman
wasn't screwing up her eyes, and she felt as if she was seeing Susanne Jensen
more clearly than she could cope with.

    'Please
get in touch,' she said eventually.
'Even if you don't want
to talk about your brother.'

    When
Beckman went through the entrance hall it was empty, and the ten lines in the
signing-in book were full. She felt a weight on her chest as she let herself
out on to the cobbled street winding down towards the northern part of town. A
narrow strip of blue-grey sky was just visible between the silhouettes of the
hundred-year-old stone buildings. At the end of the alleyway the sale signs on
Femmanstorg shone out.

    Ann-Christine
Ostergren was standing by the window of her office. Some building work was
going on down around Ullevi, but he guessed that was not what was occupying her
attention. It struck him that lately he had often seen her like this, deep in
her own thoughts. She was twirling a strand of hair between her thumb and index
finger and looked more tired than she had ever done.

    She
only had a couple of years to go before retirement, but this was a fact that
few of her subordinates could take seriously.
Ostergren as
anything other than a police officer, as a pensioner, embroidering cushions in
her holiday cottage?
It was impossible to visualise. 'You wanted to talk
to me,' he said.

    She
didn't seem in the least surprised when his voice broke the silence.

    
'Christian, thank you for coming.'
She gestured to him to
sit down. 'You look like a schoolboy standing outside the head teacher's
office.'

    Tell
smiled stiffly. He felt as if he had lost every scrap of social competence. Perhaps
this pretence would end here and now, if the meeting was about the issue he
feared. In a way it would be good to get it all over and done with.

    He
sat down in one of the two easy chairs and crossed his legs. For appearance's
sake he had brought with him material concerning the Jeep murders and the arson
attacks on which they had been working intensively before the murder in
Olofstorp took priority.

    When
Ostergren didn't say anything, he made a stumbling attempt to update her on the
situation, but she waved his efforts away.

    She
took a packet of cigarettes out of a drawer in her desk, her expression a
mixture of a question and pure defiance.

    'Absolutely,'
said Tell.

    Smoking
inside the building was strictly forbidden since the smoking rooms had been
replaced by the healthier so-called relaxation rooms - although of course the
smokers didn't find them relaxing - so the balcony was often a refuge for
nicotine addicts hell-bent on breaking the rules.

    Ostergren
opened the balcony door a little way and pulled her chair closer to the fresh
air before taking a drag with immense pleasure.

    'I
know I shouldn't but it's so bloody difficult to give up!'

    Tell
nodded. He knew all about that particular scenario. The room quickly filled up
with cold air and smoke, and he thought back to the days when he would try
desperately to get fresh air into his room when his mother or father knocked on
the door.