The Crow Girl (4 page)

Jeanette certainly didn’t miss the monotony of the sort of investigative work that usually got dumped on less experienced officers.

The main priority was getting the boy’s identity confirmed, and Hurtig was given the job of contacting refugee centres around Stockholm. Jeanette herself was going to talk to Ivo Andrić.

After the meeting she went back to her office and called home. It was already after six o’clock, and it was her night to cook.

‘Hi! How’s your day been?’ She made an effort to sound cheerful.

As a couple, Jeanette and Åke were fairly equal. They shared the everyday chores: Åke was responsible for the laundry and Jeanette for the vacuuming. Cooking was done according to a rota that involved their son, Johan, as well. But she was the one who did all the heavy lifting when it came to the family finances.

‘I finished the laundry an hour ago. Otherwise pretty good. Johan just got home. He said you promised to give him a lift to the match tonight. Are you going to make it in time?’

‘No, I can’t,’ Jeanette sighed. ‘The car broke down on the way into the city. Johan will have to take his bike, it’s not that far.’ Jeanette glanced at the family photograph she’d pinned up on her bulletin board. Johan looked so young in the picture, and she could hardly bear to look at herself.

‘I’m going to be here for a few more hours. I’ll take the metro home if I can’t get a lift from someone. You’ll have to phone for a pizza. Have you got any money?’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Åke sighed. ‘If not, there’s probably some in the jar.’

Jeanette thought for a moment. ‘There should be. I put five hundred in yesterday. See you later.’

Åke didn’t reply, so she hung up and leaned back.

Five minutes of rest.

She closed her eyes.

Hurtig came into Jeanette’s office with the recording of that morning’s anonymous phone call to the emergency call room. He handed her the CD and sat down.

Jeanette rubbed her tired eyes. ‘Have you spoken to whoever found the boy?’

‘Yep. Two of our officers – according to the report, they arrived on the scene a couple of hours after the call was received. Like I said, they took a while to respond because the emergency operator got the address wrong.’

Jeanette took the CD out of its case and put it in her computer.

The call lasted twenty seconds.

‘One-one-two, what’s the nature of the emergency?’

There was a crackle, but no sound of a voice.

‘Hello? One-one-two, what’s the nature of the emergency?’ The operator sounded more circumspect now, and there was the sound of laboured breathing.

‘I just wanted to let you know there’s a dead body in the bushes near Thorildsplan.’

The man was slurring his words, and Jeanette thought he sounded drunk. Drunk or on drugs.

‘What’s your name?’ the operator asked.

‘Doesn’t matter. Did you hear what I said?’

‘Yes, I heard that you said there’s a dead body near Bolidenplan.’

The man sounded annoyed. ‘A dead body in the bushes near the entrance to the
Thorildsplan
metro station.’

Then silence.

Just the operator’s hesitant ‘Hello?’

Jeanette frowned. ‘You don’t have to be Einstein to assume that the call was made somewhere near the station, do you?’

‘No, of course. But if –’

‘If what?’ She could hear how irritated she sounded, but she had been hoping that the recording of the call would answer at least some of her questions. Give her something to throw at the commissioner and the prosecutor.

‘Sorry,’ she said, but Hurtig just shrugged.

‘Let’s continue tomorrow.’ He stood up and headed for the door. ‘Go home to Johan and Åke instead.’

Jeanette smiled gratefully. ‘Goodnight, see you in the morning.’

Once Hurtig had shut the door she called her boss, Commissioner Dennis Billing.

The chief of the criminal investigation department answered after four rings.

Jeanette told him about the dead, mummified boy, the anonymous phone call, and the other things they’d found out during the afternoon and evening.

In other words, she didn’t have much of any significance to tell him.

‘We’ll have to see what the door-to-door inquiries come up with, and I’m waiting to hear what Ivo Andrić has discovered. Hurtig’s talking to Violent Crime, and, well – all the usual, really.’

‘Obviously it would be best, as I’m sure you realise, if we could solve this as quickly as possible. As much for you as for me.’

Jeanette had a problem with his arrogant attitude, which she knew was entirely due to the fact that she was a woman. He had been among those who didn’t think Jeanette should have been promoted to detective superintendent. With the unofficial backing of Prosecutor von Kwist, he had suggested another name: a man, obviously.

In spite of his explicit disapproval she had been given the job, but his unfavourable attitude towards her had tainted their relationship ever since.

‘Of course, we’ll do all we can. I’ll get back to you tomorrow when we know more.’

Dennis Billing cleared his throat.

‘Hmm. There’s something else I’d like to talk to you about.’

‘Oh?’

‘Well, this is supposed to be confidential, but I dare say I can bend the rules slightly. I’m going to have to borrow your team.’

‘No, that’s not possible. This is an important murder investigation.’

‘Twenty-four hours, starting tomorrow evening. Then you can have them back. In spite of the situation that’s arisen, I’m afraid it can’t be avoided.’

Jeanette was too tired to protest further.

Dennis Billing went on. ‘Mikkelsen needs them. They’re mounting a series of raids against people suspected of child pornography offences, and he needs reinforcements. I’ve already spoken to Hurtig, Åhlund and Schwarz. They’ll do their usual work tomorrow, then join up with Mikkelsen. Just so you know.’

There was nothing more for her to say.

TOWARDS THE END
of the blood-soaked eighteenth century, King Adolf Fredrik lent his name to the square now known as Mariatorget, on the condition that it never be used for executions. Since then no fewer than one hundred and forty-eight people have lost their lives there in circumstances more or less comparable to an execution. In that respect it hasn’t really made much difference whether the square was known as Adolf Fredriks torg or Mariatorget.

Numerous of these one hundred and forty-eight murders occurred less than twenty metres from the building in which Sofia Zetterlund had her private psychotherapy practice, on the top floor of an old building on Sankt Paulsgatan, next to Tvålpalatset. The three residential apartments on that floor had been rebuilt as offices, and were rented out to two dentists, a plastic surgeon, a lawyer and another psychotherapist.

The decor of the shared waiting room was cool and modern, and the interior designer had chosen to buy a couple of large paintings by Adam Diesel-Frank, in the same shade of grey as the sofa and two armchairs.

In one corner stood a bronze sculpture by the German-born artist Nadya Ushakova, of a large vase of roses that were on the point of wilting. Around one of the stems was a small engraved plaque bearing the inscription
DIE MYTHEN SIND GREIFBAR.

At the opening ceremony people had discussed the meaning of the quote, but no one managed to come up with a plausible explanation.

Myths are tangible.

The pale walls, expensive carpet and exclusive works of art, taken as a whole, breathed discretion and money.

After a series of interviews a former medical secretary, Ann-Britt Eriksson, had been employed to serve as the shared receptionist. She organised appointments and took care of certain administrative duties.

‘Has anything happened that I should know about?’ Sofia Zetterlund asked when she arrived that morning, on the dot of eight o’clock as usual.

Ann-Britt looked up from the newspaper spread out in front of her.

‘Yes, Huddinge Hospital called, they want to bring forward your appointment with Tyra Mäkelä to eleven o’clock. I told them you’d call back to confirm.’

‘OK, I’ll call them at once.’ Sofia headed towards her office. ‘Anything else?’

‘Yes,’ Ann-Britt said. ‘Mikael just called to say he probably won’t make the afternoon flight, but should be at Arlanda first thing tomorrow morning. He asked me to say that he’d like it if you stayed at his apartment tonight. So you have time to see each other tomorrow.’

Sofia stopped with her hand on the door frame.

‘Hmm, when’s my first appointment today?’ She felt annoyed at having to change her plans. She had been thinking of surprising Mikael with dinner at the Gondolen restaurant, but as usual he had upset her plans.

‘Nine o’clock, then you’ve got two more this afternoon.’

‘Who’s first?’

‘Carolina Glanz. According to the papers she’s just got a job as a presenter, travelling around the world interviewing celebrities. Isn’t that funny?’

Ann-Britt shook her head and let out a deep sigh.

Carolina Glanz had crashed into the nation’s consciousness on one of the many talent shows that filled the television schedules. She may not have had much of a singing voice, but according to the jury she had the necessary star quality. She had spent the winter and spring appearing at small nightclubs, lip-syncing to a song that a less beautiful girl with a stronger voice had recorded. Carolina had got a lot of exposure in the evening tabloids, and the scandals had followed, one after another.

Now that the media’s interest was focused elsewhere she had started to question herself and her choice of career.

Sofia didn’t like coaching pseudo-celebrities, and had trouble motivating herself for the sessions, even if she needed the money. She felt she was wasting her time. Her talents were better employed seeing clients who were seriously in need of help.

She’d much rather deal with real people.

Sofia sat down at her desk and called Huddinge straight away. Bringing forward the appointment would mean that Sofia only had an hour or so to prepare, and when she put the phone down she pulled out her files on Tyra Mäkelä.

All in all, almost five hundred pages, a bundle of paper that would at least double in size before the case was finished.

She had read everything twice from cover to cover, and now concentrated on the central aspects. Tyra Mäkelä’s mental state.

Expert opinion was divided. The psychiatrist in charge of the investigation, along with the counsellors and one of the psychologists, was in favour of imprisonment. But two psychologists were opposed to this, and advocated secure psychiatric care.

Sofia’s task was to get them to unite around a final verdict, and she realised it wasn’t going to be easy.

Together with her husband, Tyra Mäkelä had been found guilty of the murder of their eleven-year-old adopted son. The boy had been diagnosed with fragile X syndrome, a disability that led to both physical and mental problems. The family had lived an isolated existence in a house out in the country. The forensic evidence was conclusive, and documented the cruelty the boy had been subjected to. Traces of excrement were found in his lungs and stomach, he had cigarette burns, and he had been beaten with the hose of a vacuum cleaner.

The body had been found in a patch of woodland not far from the house.

The case had got a lot of media coverage, not least because the boy’s mother was involved. An almost unanimous general public, led by several vociferous and influential politicians and journalists, was demanding the harshest punishment available under the law. Tyra Mäkelä should be sent to Hinseberg Prison for as long as was legally possible.

But Sofia knew that secure psychiatric care often meant that the prisoner ended up being locked away for longer than if they served a prison sentence.

Could Tyra Mäkelä be regarded as mentally competent at the time of the abuse? The evidence suggested that the boy had suffered at least three years of torture.

Real people’s problems.

Sofia wrote a list of questions that she wanted to discuss with the convicted murderer, but then was interrupted when Carolina Glanz swept into the office in a pair of thigh-high red boots, a short, red, vinyl skirt, and a black leather jacket.

SOFIA ARRIVED AT
Huddinge just after half past ten and parked in front of the vast complex.

The entire building was clad in grey and blue panelling, in sharp contrast to the surrounding houses, which were painted in a range of bright colours. She had heard that during the Second World War this was meant to confuse any potential bombing raid on the hospital. The intention had been to make it look from above as if the hospital were a lake, and the buildings around it were supposed to look like fields and meadows.

She stopped in the cafeteria and bought coffee, a sandwich and the evening papers, before heading towards the main entrance.

She left her things in a locker, then went through the metal detector and on into the long corridor. She walked past Ward 113, and as usual heard shouting and fighting inside. That was where they kept the most difficult patients, under heavy medication, while they were waiting to go to one of the other care facilities around the country.

She walked along the corridor, then turned right into Ward 112 and made her way to the consulting room that the psychologists shared. She glanced at the time and noted that she was fifteen minutes early.

She closed the door, sat down at the desk and compared the front pages of the two evening papers.

MACABRE FIND IN CENTRAL STOCKHOLM
and
MUMMY FOUND IN BUSHES
!

She took a bite of the sandwich and sipped the hot coffee. The mummified body of a young boy had been found out at Thorildsplan.

More dead children, she thought with a heavy heart.

The door was opened by a thickset psychiatric nurse. ‘I’ve got someone out here that I gather you’re supposed to talk to. Nasty piece of work, with a load of shit on her conscience.’ He gestured over his shoulder.