The Blood Spilt (33 page)

That brought the meeting to an end.

* * *

Before Sven-Erik went to his office he called by to speak to Sonja on the exchange.

“Listen,” he said. “If anybody rings and says they’ve found a gray tabby cat, let me know.”

“Is it Manne?”

Sven-Erik nodded.

“It’s a week now. He’s never been away that long.”

“We’ll keep our eyes open,” promised Sonja. “He’ll be back, you’ll see. It’s still warm. He’s probably out courting somewhere.”

“He’s been neutered,” said Sven-Erik gloomily.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll tell the girls.”

* * *

The woman from the national police profiling team answered her direct line straightaway. She sounded cheerful when Sven-Erik introduced himself. Far too young to be working with this kind of crap.

“I suppose you’ve read the papers?” said Sven-Erik.

“Yes, have you found him?”

“No, he’s still missing. What do you think, then?”

“What do you mean?”

Sven-Erik tried to marshal his thoughts.

“Well,” he began. “If we assume the papers have got it right.”

“That Stefan Wikström has been murdered and we’re dealing with a serial killer,” she supplied.

“Exactly. But in that case, this is peculiar, isn’t it?”

She didn’t speak. Waited for Sven-Erik to carry his thought through to its conclusion.

“What I mean,” he said, “is that it’s peculiar that he’s disappeared. If the murderer hung Mildred up from the organ, why doesn’t he do the same thing with Stefan Wikström?”

“Maybe he needs to scrub him clean. You found a dog hair on Mildred Nilsson, didn’t you? Or maybe he wants to hang on to him for a while.”

She broke off and seemed to be thinking.

“I’m sorry,” she said at last. “When the body turns up—if it turns up, he might have gone of his own accord—we can talk again. See if there’s a pattern.”

“Okay,” said Sven-Erik. “He could have gone of his own accord. He hadn’t been completely honest in his dealings with a foundation that belonged to the church. Then he found out that we were on the trail of his grubby little story.”

“His grubby little story?”

“Yes, it was a matter of about a hundred thousand kronor. And it’s doubtful there would have been enough to make a case. It was a study trip that was actually more of a private holiday.”

“So you don’t think that was any reason for him to run?”

“Not really.”

“So what if it was just the fact that the police were getting closer that frightened him?”

“What do you mean?”

She laughed.

“Nothing!” she said, stressing the word.

Then she suddenly sounded formal.

“I wish you luck. Let me know if anything happens.”

As soon as they’d hung up, Sven-Erik realized what she’d meant. If Stefan had murdered Mildred…

His brain immediately started to protest.

If we just assume that’s what happened, Sven-Erik persisted. Then he would have been scared enough to run if the police were getting closer. Whatever we wanted. Even if we just wanted to ask him the time.

Anna-Maria’s phone rang. It was the woman from the science fiction bookstore.

“I’ve found something out about that symbol,” she said, coming straight to the point.

“Yes?”

“One of my customers was familiar with it. It’s on the cover of a book called
The Gate.
It’s by Michelle Moan, that’s a pseudonym. There isn’t a Swedish version available. I haven’t got a copy, but I can order one for you. Shall I do that?”

“Yes please! What’s it about?”

“Death. It’s a book of death. Really expensive—fifty-two pounds. And then there’ll be the postage on top of that. I actually rang the publisher in England.”

“And?”

“I asked if they’d had any orders from Sweden. A few—and one in Kiruna.”

Anna-Maria held her breath. Long live amateur detectives.

“Did you get a name?”

“Yes, Benjamin Wikström. I got an address too.”

“Don’t need it,” said Anna-Maria. “Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

Sven-Erik was standing by Sonja on the exchange. He hadn’t been able to stop himself going out to ask.

“What did the girls say? Had any of them heard anything about the cat?”

She shook her head.

Tommy Rantakyrö suddenly materialized behind Sven-Erik.

“Has your cat gone missing?” he asked.

Sven-Erik grunted in reply.

“He’ll have moved in with somebody else,” said Tommy breezily. “You know what cats are like, they don’t get attached to anybody, it’s just our own… projectifi… that you read your own feelings into the situation. They can’t feel affection, it’s been scientifically proven.”

“You’re talking crap,” growled Sven-Erik.

“No, it’s absolutely true,” said Tommy, not reading the warning in Sonja’s eyes. “When they start rubbing up against your legs and winding themselves round you, they’re only doing that to mark you with their scent, because you’re a sort of restaurant and resting place that belongs to them. They’re not pack animals.”

“No, maybe not,” said Sven-Erik. “But he still comes up and sleeps in my bed like a baby.”

“Because it’s warm. You don’t mean any more to the cat than an electric blanket.”

“But you’re a dog person,” Sonja cut him off short. “You can’t go making all these statements about cats.”

To Sven-Erik she said:

“I’m a cat person too.”

At that precise moment the glass door flew open. Anna-Maria came hurtling in. She grabbed hold of Sven-Erik and dragged him away from reception.

“We’re going to the priest’s house at Jukkasjärvi,” was all she said.

* * *

Kristin Wikström opened the door wearing her dressing gown and slippers. Her makeup was smudged beneath her eyes. Her blonde hair was tucked behind her ears and lay flat and uncombed at the back of her head.

“We’re looking for Benjamin,” said Anna-Maria. “We’d like a word with him. Is he at home?”

“What do you want?”

“To talk to him. Is he at home?”

Kristin Wikström’s voice went up a notch.

“What do you want him for? What do you want to talk to him about?”

“His father’s disappeared,” said Sven-Erik patiently. “We need to ask him one or two questions.”

“He’s not home.”

“Do you know where he is?” asked Anna-Maria.

“No, and you should be looking for Stefan. That’s what you two should be doing right now.”

“Can we have a look at his room?” asked Anna-Maria.

His mother blinked tiredly.

“No, you can’t.”

“In that case we’re very sorry to have disturbed you,” said Sven-Erik pleasantly, dragging Anna-Maria to the car.

They drove out of the yard.

“Fuck!” Anna-Maria burst out once they were through the gateposts. “How could I be so stupid as to come out here without a search warrant?”

“Pull up a bit further on and let me out,” said Sven-Erik. “You drive like hell and get the warrant sorted out and then come back. I want to keep an eye on her.”

Anna-Maria stopped the car, Sven-Erik slid out.

“Get a move on,” he said.

* * *

Sven-Erik trotted back to the priest’s house. He positioned himself behind one of the gateposts where he was hidden by a rowan bush. He could see both the outside door and the chimney.

If there’s any smoke, I’m going in, he thought.

After quarter of an hour Kristin Wikström came out. She’d changed from her dressing gown into jeans and a sweater. She was holding a garbage bag in her hand, tied at the top. She was heading for the garbage can. Just as she lifted the lid, she turned her head and caught sight of Sven-Erik.

Only one thing to do. Sven-Erik hurried over to her and held out his hand.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll take that.”

She passed him the bag without a word. He noticed that she'd dragged a brush through her hair and put a little bit of color on her lips. Then the tears began to flow. No gestures, hardly even a change of expression, just the tears. She might just as well have been peeling onions.

Sven-Erik undid the bag. It contained cuttings about Mildred Nilsson.

“Now now,” he said, pulling her toward him. “There now. Tell me where he is.”

“In school, of course.”

She let him put his arms around her, let herself be held. Wept silently into his shoulder.

“But what is it you’re thinking?” asked Sven-Erik as he and Anna-Maria were parking the car outside the Högalid school. “Do you think he murdered Mildred Nilsson and his father?”

“I don’t think anything at all. But he’s got a book with the same symbol that was on that threatening drawing sent to Mildred. Presumably he drew it. And he had a load of cuttings about her murder.”

The headteacher of the school was a charming woman in her fifties. She was slightly plump, and was wearing a knee-length skirt with a dark blue jacket that didn’t match. She had a bright scarf around her neck, like a piece of jewelry. The very sight of her cheered Sven-Erik up. He liked women who seemed to crackle with energy.

Anna-Maria explained that she would like Benjamin Wikström to be sent for without any fuss. The head took out a timetable. Then she rang the teacher taking Benjamin’s class and had a brief conversation.

While they were waiting, she asked what it was all about.

“We think he might have been threatening Mildred Nilsson, the priest who was murdered last summer. So we just need to ask him a few questions.”

The teacher shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I find that very difficult to believe. Benjamin and his friends—they look appalling. Black hair, white faces. Their eyes sooty with makeup. And sometimes when you look at their tops! Last term one of Benjamin’s friends was wearing a top with a picture of a skeleton eating newborn babies.”

She laughed and pretended to shudder. Became serious when Anna-Maria failed to smile.

“But they’re really nice kids,” she went on. “Benjamin had a few problems last year, but I’d happily let him babysit my children. If I had small children, that is.”

“What do you mean, he had problems?” asked Sven-Erik.

“His schoolwork wasn’t going very well. And he became so very… They want to be different, mark themselves out by the way they dress and so on. Sometimes I think they actually wear their sense of being outsiders. Make it their own choice. But he didn’t feel good. He had lots of little sores on his arm, and he was always sitting there picking the scabs off. He ended up with a patch of sores that just wouldn’t heal. Then sometime after Christmas things straightened themselves out. He got a girlfriend and started a band.”

She smiled.

“That band. My God, they did a gig here at the school last spring. Somehow they’d got hold of a pig’s head, and they stood there on the stage hacking at it with axes. They were ecstatic.”

“Is he good at drawing?” asked Sven-Erik.

“Yes,” said the headteacher. “Yes, he is actually.”

There was a knock at the door and Benjamin Wikström walked in.

Anna-Maria and Sven-Erik introduced themselves.

“We’d like to ask you a few questions,” said Sven-Erik.

“I’m not talking to you,” said Benjamin Wikström.

Anna-Maria Mella sighed.

“In that case I shall have to arrest you on suspicion of making illegal threats. You’ll have to come down to the station.”

Eyes fixed on the ground. The lank hair hanging in front of the face.

“Whatever.”

“Okay,” said Anna-Maria to Sven-Erik. “Shall we talk to him, then?”

Benjamin Wikström was sitting in interview room one. He hadn’t uttered a single word since they picked him up. Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria had got themselves a coffee. And a Coca-Cola for Benjamin Wikström.

Chief Prosecutor Alf Björnfot came cantering along the corridor toward them.

“Who’ve you picked up?” he panted.

They told him.

“Fifteen,” said the prosecutor. “His guardian has to be present, is his mother here?”

Sven-Erik and Anna-Maria exchanged glances.

“Get her here,” said the prosecutor. “Give the kid something to eat if he wants it. And ring social services. They need to send a representative as well. Call me later.”

He disappeared.

“I don’t want to do all that!” groaned Anna-Maria.

“I’ll go and get her,” said Sven-Erik.

* * *

After an hour they were sitting in the interview room. Sven-Erik Stålnacke and Anna-Maria Mella were sitting on one side of the table. On the other side sat Benjamin Wikström, with a representative from social services on his left. On his right was Kristin Wikström, her eyes red-rimmed.

“Did you send this drawing to Mildred Nilsson?” asked Sven-Erik. “We’ll have prints from it very shortly. So if you did do it, we might as well talk about it.”

Benjamin Wikström maintained a stubborn silence.

“My God,” said Kristin. “What’s going on, Benjamin? How could you do something like this? It’s just sick!”

Benjamin’s cheeks stiffened. He looked down at the table. Arms pressed tightly against his body.

“Maybe we should take a little break,” said the woman from social services, putting her arm around Kristin.

Sven-Erik nodded and switched off the tape recorder. Kristin Wikström, the social services woman and Sven-Erik left the room.

“Why don’t you want to talk to us?” asked Anna-Maria.

“Because you don’t understand anything,” said Benjamin Wikström. “You don’t understand anything at all.”

“That’s what my son always says to me. He’s the same age as you. Did you know Mildred?”

“It’s not her on the drawing. Don’t you get it? It’s a self-portrait.”

Anna-Maria looked at the drawing. She’d assumed it was Mildred. But Benjamin had long dark hair too.

“You were friends!” exclaimed Anna-Maria. “That’s why you had those cuttings.”

“She understood,” he said. “She understood.”

Behind the veil of hair, slow tears dripped onto the surface of the desk.

* * *

Mildred and Benjamin are sitting in her room at the parish hall. She’s invited him for meadowsweet tea with honey. She’s been given the tea by one of the women in Magdalena who picked the leaves and dried them herself. They’re laughing because it tastes bloody awful.