The Crow Girl (45 page)

The author Ivar Lo-Johansson wrote about the street, about the bohemians of the Klara district, and the prostitutes who lived and worked there.

During the sixties, when the city centre shifted south towards Hamngatan, the street began to decline, but after the renovations of the eighties it regained a little of its earlier status.

Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist gets off the metro at Hötorget and, as usual, has trouble getting his bearings. There are far too many exits, and his sense of direction doesn’t work underground.

A few minutes later he’s standing outside the Concert House.

It’s raining and he puts up his umbrella and slowly begins to walk west, up Kungsgatan.

He’s in no hurry.

In fact he’s rather reluctant to arrive early to his office at the Public Prosecution Authority.

He’s worried. No matter how he looks at the matter, it goes wrong. No matter what he does, he’s going to end up as the loser.

He crosses Drottninggatan, Målargatan and Klara Norra Kyrkogatan.

What will happen if he does nothing at all and simply hides the documents underneath everything else in the bottom drawer of his desk?

There’s a chance that she’ll never get to hear about them, and over time new cases will arise and the old ones will be forgotten.

But seeing as he’s dealing with Jeanette Kihlberg, he doubts that she’ll just move on.

Her involvement with the dead boys has been too great, and she’s far too stubborn. Far too devoted to her work.

In his search for compromising facts about her, he hasn’t found a thing.

Not a single complaint about her work.

She’s a third-generation police officer. Both her father and her grandfather served in the Western District, and there was nothing of note in their files either.

He passes the Oscar Theatre and the Casino Cosmopol, in the former premises of the dance restaurant Bal Palais.

The whole thing’s a complete mess, and right now he’s the only person who can solve the problem.

Unless there’s something he hasn’t thought of?

An approach he’s missed?

For the time being Jeanette Kihlberg is fully occupied with her son, but once he’s better she’ll be back at work, and sooner or later she’s going to find out about the new information.

There’s nothing he can do to stop that.

Is there?

THERE’S A KNOCK
on her door and Commissioner Dennis Billing steps into her office.

Jeanette notes that he looks suntanned.

‘So, you’re back?’ he pants as he pulls up a chair and lowers his tall, heavy frame onto it. ‘How are you?’

Jeanette suspects that this last question covers more than just her well-being.

‘Under control. I’m waiting for Hurtig to report on his Bandhagen case.’

‘So what are you doing now?’ He opens the door to the corridor, where Hurtig is waiting to come in.

‘Have you got anything new for us?’ Jeanette leans back and stares at the broad rear view of Billing. There’s a large patch of sweat just above his trousers. A clear sign that he spends too much time sitting down, she thinks.

‘No, not exactly. Things are pretty calm right now, so maybe the pair of you could get back to your respective holidays.’

Jeanette and Hurtig shake their heads simultaneously, but Hurtig speaks first. ‘Absolutely not. I’ll take mine in the winter instead.’

‘Me too,’ Jeanette adds. ‘Taking time off is far too much hassle.’

Billing turns and looks at her. ‘Well then. Spend a few days playing solitaire until something happens. Reinstall Windows. Take it easy, basically. Bye.’ Without waiting for a reply he forces his way past Hurtig and walks off.

Hurtig closes the door behind him with a grin, and pulls out the chair by the desk.

‘Has the Bandhagen rapist confessed?’ Jeanette leans back and stretches, then puts her hands behind her head.

‘Case closed.’ Hurtig sits down and goes on. ‘He’s going to be charged with several counts of rape against his wife, for assault on her, and, if he sticks to his story, for one case of deprivation of liberty.’ Hurtig stops, and seems to be thinking. ‘I think he found it a relief to have the chance to tell someone.’

Jeanette has trouble feeling any sympathy for a man like that.

Feeling rejected is no excuse, she thinks, as she sees Åke and Alexandra in her mind’s eye. It’s just part of life.

‘Good, then we can put him to one side and get back to the case of the dead boys.’

She opens one of her desk drawers and pulls out a bright pink folder that makes Hurtig chuckle.

She smiles. ‘I’ve learned how to make important things look uninteresting. No one would ever bother to open this.’ She leafs through the documents.

‘There are a few things we need to follow up on,’ she says. ‘Annette and Linnea Lundström. Ulrika Wendin. Kenneth von Kwist.’

‘Ulrika Wendin?’ Hurtig looks surprised.

‘Yes, I don’t think she’s told us everything. We need to go with gut feeling.’

‘And von Kwist?’ Hurtig throws his hands up.

‘There’s something funny about von Kwist and the Lundström family. I don’t know what it is yet, but …’ Jeanette takes a deep breath before she goes on. ‘Then there’s one more name we need to check out.’

‘Who?’

‘Victoria Bergman.’

Hurtig seems taken aback. ‘Victoria Bergman?’

‘Yes. A day or two before Johan went missing I had a visit from a community officer based out in Värmdö. A Göran Andersson. I haven’t had time to look into the information he gave me because of all the chaos with Johan, but he told me Victoria Bergman doesn’t exist.’

‘Doesn’t exist? But we spoke to her!’

‘Exactly, but I’ve checked that number again and it’s no longer in use. She’s alive, but using a different name. Something happened twenty years ago and she disappeared off all the registers. Something happened to make Victoria Bergman go underground.’

‘Her dad? He was abusing her.’

‘Yes, it’s probably something to do with him. But something’s telling me that the Bergman line of inquiry isn’t quite dead.’

‘The Bergman line of inquiry? Is there really any connection to our cases?’

‘I’m going by gut feeling again. I can’t help wondering why these two names should show up at virtually the same time. Fate? Coincidence? Not that it matters. There’s some sort of link between our cases and the Bergman and Lundström families. Do you know they both used the same solicitor, had done for years? Viggo Dürer. That can hardly be a coincidence, so I’ve got Åhlund checking Dürer out.’

Jeanette can see that Hurtig appreciates the significance of what she’s saying.

‘Both Bengt Bergman and Karl Lundström abused their own daughters, but also other children as well. You remember Bengt Bergman and the Eritrean kids? A twelve-year-old girl and a ten-year-old boy? As usual, Birgitta Bergman gave him an alibi. Same thing with Annette Lundström, always protecting her husband, even if he himself admitted to being involved in the sex trade in children from the Third World.’

‘I get it. There are threads leading somewhere. I suppose the only difference is that Karl Lundström confessed, whereas Bengt Bergman denied the allegations.’

‘Yes. It’s one hell of a tangle of threads, but I think they all come together somewhere. All of this fits, and it fits together with our cases. The whole thing screams cover-up. We’re talking about successful men, Bergman at the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency, and Lundström at Skanska. A lot of money. Shame in their families. And we’re talking about legal cases that were handled badly, and possibly even intentionally mismanaged.’

Hurtig nods.

‘And there are people around these families who don’t exist,’ she goes on. ‘Victoria Bergman doesn’t exist. And a nameless child you can buy on the Net, then castrate and dump in the bushes, a child like that doesn’t exist either.’

‘Are you a conspiracy theorist?’

If there was any sarcasm in Hurtig’s comment, it passed her by completely.

‘No, I’m not. Maybe a holist, if there’s such a word.’

‘Holist?’

‘I believe that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. If we don’t understand the context, we can never understand the details. Don’t you think?’

Hurtig looks thoughtful. ‘Ulrika Wendin. Annette and Linnea Lundström. Viggo Dürer. Victoria Bergman. Where do we start?’

‘I suggest we start with Ulrika Wendin. I’ll call her straight away.’

Assaults on children, she thinks. From beginning to end, everything comes back to those cases. Two children with no identity, the Belarussian boy Yuri Krylov, and Samuel Bai, the former child soldier from Sierra Leone. And three women who were subjected to sexual abuse in their childhoods. Victoria Bergman, Ulrika Wendin and Linnea Lundström.

There’s a knock on the door, and Åhlund comes into the room.

‘That was quick,’ she says, looking at him expectantly.

‘Yes, it was quick because Viggo Dürer’s dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, his body was found next to his wife’s after a fire on their yacht two weeks ago. Off Simrishamn.’

‘An accident?’

‘Yes, a leaking gas pipe. The boat went up in a matter of seconds. They didn’t stand a chance.’

Åhlund hands her a note with a phone number on it. ‘Call and have a word with the officer in charge of the investigation,’ he says. ‘Gullberg, I think his name was.’

Jeanette dials the number. It’s just as well to get it out of the way at once.

Gullberg turns out to be a talkative, amiable man with a strong Skåne accent. He tells her that the coastguard got an emergency call from Viggo Dürer’s phone two weeks ago. According to Dürer, the boat was on fire and he needed help. But when they got there the boat was already fully ablaze and the two bodies pretty much charcoal.

At the small boat marina they found a car registered to Henrietta Dürer, as well as a bag of the pair’s belongings, including identification documents.

‘What finally confirmed that they were the Dürers was their wedding rings.’ Gullberg sounds pleased with himself. ‘With their names and the date engraved on them. Seeing as they didn’t have any family, the bodies were cremated as soon as the coroner was satisfied.’

‘And it was an accident?’ Jeanette asks.

‘Forensics says the fire started in the gas tank. Old boat. Dodgy pipes. We don’t suspect any sort of crime, if that’s what you’re implying.’

‘I’m not implying anything,’ Jeanette says, and ends the call.

WHEN ULRIKA WENDIN
walks into the little bar next to the Zinkensdamm sports complex, Jeanette notices at once that the girl has dramatically lost weight. She’s wearing the same top as when they last met, only now it looks like it’s several sizes too big.

Ulrika sits on the chair opposite Jeanette. ‘Fucking buses,’ she says, tossing her bag down. ‘I’ve just spent half an hour with some bastard ticket inspector who wouldn’t accept my ticket. It cost me twelve hundred fucking kronor because some stupid bus driver had the wrong time on his stamp.’

‘What can I get you?’

The smile on the girl’s thin face looks strained, her gaze is flitting about and her body language is anything but relaxed. ‘I’ll have whatever you’re having.’

They order, and Jeanette leans back on the sofa.

‘Is it OK to have a cigarette while we’re waiting for the food?’ Ulrika gets up before Jeanette has time to reply. Restlessness seems to be the girl’s defining characteristic.

‘Fine.’

They go out. Ulrika perches on the window ledge outside the bar, and Jeanette offers her a cigarette. ‘Ulrika, I understand that this might be difficult, but I’d like to talk about Karl Lundström. You said before that you wanted to tell me everything. Have you done that?’

Ulrika Wendin lights the cigarette, then looks wearily at Jeanette through the smoke. ‘What does it matter. He’s dead now, isn’t he?’

‘That doesn’t mean we have to stop. Have you ever talked to anyone about what happened?’

The girl takes a deep drag and sighs. ‘No, they dropped the preliminary investigation. No one believed me. I don’t think even my mum did. The prosecutor kept going on about how there was a social safety net for people like me, but it turned out he just thought I should get psychological help for my attention-seeking behaviour. I was just a stupid teenage whore. And as for that fucking lawyer …’

‘What about him?’

‘I read his summary. The defence statement, von Kwist said it was called.’

Jeanette nods. Occasionally a defence lawyer is brought in during the preliminary investigation, even if that’s fairly unusual. ‘Of course, the defence statement. Go on.’

‘He wrote that I lacked all credibility, that I had nothing but problems … With everything, from school to alcohol. Even though he’d never met me, he made out that I was nothing. Worth absolutely nothing. I was so upset that I promised myself I’d never forget his name.’

Jeanette thinks about Viggo Dürer and Kenneth von Kwist.

Abandoned cases.

Are there more? She realises that they’re going to have to check. The backgrounds of both lawyer and prosecutor would have to be thoroughly looked into.

‘Viggo Dürer’s dead,’ Jeanette says.

‘And mourned by nobody.’ Ulrika stubs her cigarette out on the window ledge. ‘Shall we go in?’

Their food is on the table and Jeanette starts to eat, but Ulrika doesn’t so much as glance at the plate of French fries. Instead she looks out of the window, clearly thinking about something and drumming her fingers restlessly on the table.

Jeanette says nothing. Waits.

‘They knew each other,’ Ulrika says after a while.

Jeanette puts her knife and fork down and gives her a look of encouragement. ‘What do you mean? Who did?’

Ulrika Wendin hesitates at first, then takes out her mobile phone. One of the latest models, more like a little hand-held computer.

How could she afford something like that?

Ulrika touches the screen a few times, then turns it towards Jeanette.

‘I found this on Flashback. Read it.’