The Crow Girl (24 page)

She realised that she missed her conversations with Victoria Bergman.

MEANDERING ACROSS SVARTSJÖLANDET
was empty for a long time, but eventually she found a boy.

Alone at the side of the road with a broken bicycle.

In need of a lift.

Trusting everyone.

Had never learned to recognise people who have been let down.

The room was lit up by a bulb in the ceiling, and she watched the performance from a chair in one corner.

In the wall opposite the hidden door to the living room she had mounted a sturdy iron boathook.

They had undressed the boy, put a choker chain around his neck, and tied him to the hook using a two-metre-long chain.

He had four square metres to move around in, but had no chance of reaching her.

On the floor beside her lay the electric cable, and in her lap she had the taser that, if necessary, could fire two metal projectiles. When they hit the boy, fifty thousand volts would pulse through his body for five seconds. His muscles would cramp and he would be rendered completely harmless.

She gave Gao the signal that the performance could begin.

He had used the morning to purify himself and, through hour after hour of meditation, to minimise his thought processes. There must be no logic left to distract him from doing what he had been trained to do.

Now, in the seconds before the performance began, he needed to eradicate the very last remnants of thought.

He must be a body, with only four life-sustaining requirements.

Oxygen.

Water.

Food.

Sleep.

Nothing else.

He is a machine, she thought.

The plastic on the floor rustled when the boy began to move. He was still confused and bewildered from being unconscious, and looked around uncertainly. He tugged rather feebly at the chain around his neck, but he had already realised that it was pointless trying to get loose, and therefore crept backwards warily, getting to his feet and standing with his back to the wall.

Gao moved to and fro in front of the naked, helpless boy.

With a carefully aimed kick to his stomach he made him sink to his knees, gasping for breath. Then he kicked him hard on one ear and the boy collapsed, whimpering.

There was a cracking sound and blood ran from the boy’s nose.

She realised that the fight was too uneven and loosened the boy’s chains.

The bulb was swaying gently from the ceiling and the shadows played over the back of the crawling boy. Gao had read the situation and knew immediately what was expected of him. But the other boy thought that his begging and sobbing would save him, and so never realised the gravity of the situation.

He lay on the floor kicking his legs, like a submissive puppy.

She wondered if it was because this was the first time he had ever felt real physical pain, and therefore had no access to the necessary survival instincts. Perhaps he had been raised to believe in people’s innate goodness? That delusion meant that he never had a chance to defend himself.

Gao was raining down blows and kicks on him.

In the end she tried to even the odds by giving the boy a knife, but he just threw it away and howled in horror.

She got up from her chair and gave Gao the water bottle containing the amphetamine. He was sweaty and the muscles of his torso rippled with his deep breathing.

She and he would become something perfect, something whole.

In the shadows they were one being.

Openings and closings.

Blood and pain. Electrical impulses.

Slowly she began to whip the boy’s back with the electric cable, gradually increasing the pace and hitting him with growing fury.

The boy’s back was bleeding badly.

She picked up one of the syringes, but as she was about to inject the anaesthetic into his neck, she realised that he was no longer alive.

It was over.

KARL LUNDSTRÖM WAS
the only interesting name on the list of suspects at the moment. Jeanette Kihlberg was both surprised and grateful that Sofia Zetterlund had got in touch. Maybe she could bring something new to the investigation?

It was desperately needed. Everything had ground to a halt.

Thelin and Furugård had long since been written off, and questioning the suspected rapist Bengt Bergman had been pointless.

Jeanette had found Bergman a particularly unpleasant individual. Emotionally unpredictable, but at the same time cold and calculating. He had talked about his great powers of empathy several times, while simultaneously demonstrating the exact opposite.

She couldn’t help seeing the similarities to what she had read about Karl Lundström.

It was Bergman’s wife who had given him an alibi each time he had been suspected of anything. Jeanette had angrily pointed this out to von Kwist when she suggested they should talk to him again. She had also mentioned the similarities with Karl Lundström and his wife, Annette, who had taken his side even when they were dealing with the abuse of their own daughter.

As usual, the prosecutor had been immovable, and Jeanette had to admit to herself that she’d been taking a chance with Bengt Bergman anyway.

A gamble that hadn’t paid off.

But it was clear to Jeanette from the short telephone conversation she’d had with his daughter that Bengt Bergman had a lot on his conscience.

Jeanette realised wearily that she wouldn’t be at all surprised if the prosecutor decided to drop the case relating to the aggravated rape of Tatiana Achatova, the prostitute.

What chance did a middle-aged prostitute with several drug convictions behind her stand against a senior official from the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency? Her word against his. And it didn’t take much to work out who Prosecutor von Kwist was going to believe.

No, Tatiana Achatova didn’t stand a chance, Jeanette thought.

Once again she felt tired, and would much rather be taking a break from work, to enjoy the summer and the heat. But Åke had gone to Kraków with Alexandra Kowalska, and Johan was up in Dalarna with some friends. She realised she’d only end up feeling lonely if she took her holiday now.

‘You’ve got a visitor.’ Hurtig stepped into the room. ‘Ulrika Wendin is sitting down in reception. She doesn’t want to come up, but says she wants to see you.’

The young woman was standing out in the street smoking. In spite of the heat she was wearing a thick black padded jacket, black jeans and a pair of heavy, military-style boots. She had her hood pulled up, and beneath it was wearing a large pair of black sunglasses. Jeanette went up to her.

‘I want my case to be reopened,’ Ulrika said, stubbing out her cigarette.

‘OK … Let’s go somewhere we can talk. I’ll buy you a coffee.’

They walked down Hantverkargatan in silence, and Ulrika managed to fit in another cigarette before they reached the cafe. They each ordered coffee and a sandwich before sitting down on the outdoor terrace.

Ulrika took off the big sunglasses and Jeanette realised why she’d been wearing them. Her right eye was swollen and blackish purple in colour. A black eye as big as a fist and, to judge by the colour, no more than a couple of days old.

‘What the hell is that?’ Jeanette exclaimed. ‘Who did that to you?’

‘Don’t worry about that. Just a guy I know. Pretty nice guy, actually. When he’s not drinking, I mean.’ She smiled awkwardly. ‘I was the one offering booze, and we had an argument when I wanted to turn down the volume of the stereo.’

‘Damn it, Ulrika. That hardly makes it your fault! What sort of people are you hanging out with? Some guy who hits you because you don’t want the music so loud that the neighbours complain?’

Ulrika Wendin shrugged her shoulders, and Jeanette realised she wasn’t going to get any further.

‘So …’ she said instead. ‘I can help you organise the legal side if you want to petition for a new trial against Lundström.’ She assumed that von Kwist was unlikely to take the initiative. ‘What made you change your mind?’

‘Well, after we talked,’ she began, ‘I realised I’m not done with this. I want to explain everything.’

‘Everything?’

‘Yes, it was so hard back then. I felt ashamed …’

Jeanette studied the young woman and was struck by how fragile she looked.

‘Ashamed? What for?’

Ulrika squirmed. ‘They didn’t just rape me.’

‘What haven’t you told us?’

‘It was so humiliating,’ Ulrika eventually said. ‘They did something that made me lose all feeling below my waist, and when they raped me …’ She fell silent again.

Jeanette jumped in. ‘What?’

Ulrika stubbed out her cigarette and immediately lit another.

‘It just poured out of me. Shit, I mean. Like a fucking baby.’

Jeanette could see that Ulrika was close to bursting into tears. Her eyes were shining and her voice trembling.

‘It was like some sort of ritual. They were enjoying it. It was so fucking humiliating, I never told the police.’

Ulrika wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her jacket.

‘You mean they drugged you with some sort of anaesthetic?’

‘Yes, something like that.’

She looked at Ulrika’s bruise. From her right eye the almost black broken blood vessels formed a network leading down towards her ear.

Recently beaten by a so-called boyfriend. And raped and humiliated seven years ago by four men – one of them Karl Lundström.

‘Let’s go up to my office, then you can give me a detailed statement.’

Ulrika Wendin nodded.

Anaesthetic? Jeanette thought. No one outside the investigation could know that the bodies of the dead boys contained anaesthetic. That couldn’t be a coincidence.

Jeanette felt her pulse rate increase.

WHEN THE PHONE
rang Sofia Zetterlund was deep in thought. The shrill ringing tone almost made her spill her coffee. She had been thinking about Lasse.

‘Jeanette Kihlberg here. Is there any chance you could take an early lunch, to give us a bit longer to talk? I can get some Chinese on the way and see you down at the Zinkensdamm sports complex. Do you like Chinese, by the way?’

Two questions and one presumption, all in the same breath. Jeanette Kihlberg didn’t mince her words.

‘That sounds good. The Olympics are in Beijing this year, and I could use the practice,’ Sofia joked.

Jeanette laughed, and they hung up.

Sofia found it hard to concentrate. Lasse was still on her mind.

She opened the desk drawer and took out his photograph.

Tall and dark, with intense eyes. But what she remembered most clearly were his hands. Even though he worked in an office, it was as if nature had equipped him with a pair of sturdy, gnarled hands made for manual labour.

She was also grateful that she had managed to suppress any sense of missing him and replaced it with ambivalence. He didn’t deserve to be missed.

She recalled what she had said to him in the hotel room in New York before everything collapsed.

I’m giving myself to you, Lasse. You get me, all of me, and I trust you to take care of me.

So naive. She’d never make that mistake again. No one would get that close.

Sofia pulled her jacket on and walked out.

‘
AH, SO I
can put a face to the voice at last,’ Jeanette Kihlberg said, holding out her hand in greeting.

Smile.

‘Indeed,’ Sofia Zetterlund replied with a smile. The detective was in her forties, and considerably shorter than Sofia had been expecting.

Jeanette turned, and Sofia followed in her lithe, confident steps. They sat down on the big, new concrete stand at the Zinkensdamm sports complex and looked out across the artificial turf.

‘An unusual place for lunch,’ Sofia said.

‘Zinken’s classic territory,’ Jeanette said, returning her smile. ‘It would be hard to find a nicer place. Maybe Kanalplan, I suppose.’

‘Kanalplan?’

‘Yes, Nacka used to play there, back in the day. These days the Hammarby women’s team plays there. Sorry, I’m getting sidetracked, we’d better start. You’ve probably got an appointment booked?’

‘No problem, we can sit here all day if necessary.’

Jeanette concentrated on chewing a chicken wing. ‘Good, this might take a while. Lundström isn’t an easy man to understand. And there are also a number of things that aren’t quite clear in the facts that have emerged.’

Sofia put her bag down on the next seat.

‘Have you managed to find that Wikström, Lundström’s friend in Ånge?’

‘No, I talked to Mikkelsen this morning. There does appear to be an Anders Wikström in Ånge. Or rather an Anders Efraim Wikström. But he’s over eighty and he’s been living in an old people’s home outside Timrå for the past five years. He’s never heard of a Karl Lundström, and can hardly have anything to do with this.’

Sofia wasn’t surprised by what Jeanette had said. It matched what she had thought all along. Anders Wikström was a product of Karl Lundström’s imagination.

‘OK. Anything else you’ve found out?’

Jeanette dropped the last of her food in the bag.

‘Lundström’s got plenty more baggage. Yesterday evening a young woman gave a statement that could be of interest to my case. I can’t say any more at the moment, but there’s a connection to the murders I’m investigating.’

Jeanette lit a cigarette and coughed.

‘God, I really should quit … Would you like one, by the way?’

‘Thanks, I would …’

Jeanette passed her the lighter.

‘Have you asked his wife if she knew about the films?’

Jeanette was silent for a moment before she replied.

‘When Mikkelsen asked her, he only got a very confused reply. She doesn’t know, she can’t remember, she wasn’t there, and so on. She’s lying to protect him. As for Karl Lundström’s story, I’m having trouble getting it to fit together. All that talk about Anders Wikström and the Russian mafia. Mikkelsen thinks it’s all a pack of lies.’