The Crow Girl (5 page)

She didn’t like the language the nurses used among themselves. Even if they were dealing with serious criminals, there was no reason to be offensive or condescending.

‘Show her in, please, then you can leave us alone.’

AT TWO O’CLOCK
Sofia Zetterlund was back in her office in the city. She still had two appointments left before the day’s work was over, and she realised it was going to be hard to stay focused after her visit to Huddinge.

Sofia sat down at her desk to formulate a recommendation that Tyra Mäkelä be sentenced to secure psychiatric care. The meeting of the members of the consultative team had led to the lead psychiatrist moderating his position somewhat, and Sofia was hopeful that they would soon be able to make a final decision.

If nothing else, then for Tyra Mäkelä’s sake.

The woman needed treatment.

Sofia had presented a summary of the woman’s background and character. Tyra Mäkelä had two suicide attempts behind her: as a fourteen-year-old she had taken an intentional overdose of pills, and she was put on disability benefit at the age of twenty as a result of persistent depression. The fifteen years she had spent with the sadistic Harri Mäkelä had led to another suicide attempt, then the murder of their adopted son.

Sofia believed that the time she had spent with her husband, who had been deemed sufficiently sane to be sentenced to prison, had exacerbated the woman’s condition.

Sofia’s conclusion was that Tyra Mäkelä had in all likelihood suffered repeated psychotic episodes during the years in which the abuse took place. There were two documented visits to a psychiatric clinic during the past year that supported her thesis. In both cases she had been found wandering the streets and had to be hospitalised for several days before she could be discharged.

Sofia also saw other mitigating factors regarding Tyra Mäkelä’s culpability in the case. Her IQ was so low that it meant she could hardly be held responsible for murder, a fact that the court had more or less ignored. Sofia saw a woman who, under the ever-present influence of alcohol, idealised her man. Her passivity might mean that she could be regarded as complicit in the abuse, but at the same time she was incapable of intervention because of her mental state.

The verdict had been upheld at the highest level, and all that remained now was the sentence.

Tyra Mäkelä needed treatment. Her crimes could never be undone, but a prison sentence wouldn’t help anyone.

The cruelty of the case mustn’t be allowed to cloud their judgement.

During the afternoon Sofia completed her statement about Tyra Mäkelä, and got through her three and four o’clock appointments. A burned-out businessman and an ageing actress who was no longer getting any parts and had fallen into a deep depression as a result.

When she was on her way out at five o’clock, Ann-Britt stopped her in reception.

‘You haven’t forgotten that you’re going to Gothenburg next Saturday? I’ve got the train tickets here, and you’re booked into the Hotel Scandic.’

Ann-Britt put a folder on the counter.

‘Of course not,’ Sofia said.

She was going to see a publisher who was planning to print a Swedish translation of the former child soldier Ishmael Beah’s
A Long Way Gone
. The publisher was hoping that Sofia could use her experience with traumatised children to help them check some of the facts.

‘What time am I going?’

‘Early. The departure time’s on the ticket.’

‘Five-twelve?’

Sofia sighed and went back into her office to dig out the report she had written for UNICEF seven years before.

When she sat down at her desk again and opened the file, she couldn’t help wondering if she was actually ready to return to her memories from that time. She still dreamed about the child soldiers in Port Loko. The two boys by the truck, one with no arms, the other with no legs. The UNICEF paediatrician, murdered by the same children it was his calling to help. Victims turned perpetrators. The sounds of singing,
‘Mambaa manyani … Mamani manyimi.’
Seven years, she thought.

Was it really that long ago?

THE FOLLOWING DAY
Jeanette systematically worked her way through the documents Hurtig had given her. Interviews, reports from investigations and judgements, all of them dealing with abuse or murders involving an element of sadism. Jeanette noted that in every case but one the perpetrator was male.

The exception’s name was Tyra Mäkelä, and she and her husband had recently been found guilty of the murder of their adopted son.

Nothing she had seen at the crime scene out at Thorildsplan reminded her of anything she had experienced before, and she felt she needed assistance.

She picked up the phone and called Lars Mikkelsen at National Crime: he was responsible for violent and sexual offences against children. She decided to give as brief an outline of the case as possible. If Mikkelsen was in a position to help her, she could go into more detail later.

What a fucking awful job, she thought as she waited for him to answer.

Interviewing and investigating paedophiles. How strong did you have to be to cope with watching thousands of hours of filmed abuse and several million pictures of violated children?

Could you actually have children of your own?

After her conversation with Mikkelsen, Jeanette Kihlberg called another meeting of the investigating team, where they attempted to piece the facts together. They didn’t have that many lines of inquiry to follow up at the moment.

‘The call to the emergency operator was made from an area close to the DN Tower.’ Åhlund held a sheet of paper in the air. ‘We should know where, soon.’

Jeanette nodded. She went over to the whiteboard, where a dozen photographs of the dead boy had been pinned up.

‘So, what do we know?’ She turned to Hurtig.

‘On the grass and in the dirt where he was found we’ve secured tracks from a pushchair, as well as others from a small vehicle. The tyre tracks belong to a lorry, and we’ve already spoken to the refuse collector driving it, so we can write that off.’

‘So someone could have used a pushchair or shopping trolley to get the body there?’

‘Yes, definitely.’

‘Could the boy have been carried there?’ Åhlund asked.

‘If you’re strong enough it wouldn’t be a problem. The boy didn’t weigh more than forty-five kilos.’

The room fell silent, and Jeanette presumed that like her the others were imagining someone walking around carrying a dead boy wrapped in a black garbage bag.

Åhlund broke the silence. ‘When I saw how badly abused the boy was, I immediately thought of Harri Mäkelä, and if it weren’t for the fact that I know he’s locked up in Kumla, well –’

‘Well, what?’ Schwarz interrupted with a grin.

‘Well, I’d have said he was the man we are looking for.’

‘You reckon? And you don’t think that thought’s already occurred to the rest of us?’

‘Stop squabbling!’ Jeanette leafed through her papers. ‘Forget Mäkelä. I’ve got information from Lars Mikkelsen at National Crime about a Jimmie Furugård.’

‘So who’s this Furugård?’ Hurtig asked.

‘A former UN soldier. First two years in Kosovo, then one in Afghanistan. He last served with the UN three years ago, and left with decidedly mixed references.’

‘What makes him of interest to us?’ Hurtig opened his notebook and leafed through to a fresh page.

‘Jimmie Furugård has several convictions for rape and violent assault. Most of the people he assaulted were either immigrants or homosexual men, but it looks as if Furugård also has a habit of beating up his girlfriends. Three rape charges. Found guilty twice, cleared once.’

Hurtig, Schwarz and Åhlund looked at one another, nodding slowly.

They’re interested, Jeanette thought, but not really convinced.

‘OK, so why did our little hothead stop working for the UN?’ Åhlund asked. Schwarz glared at him.

‘From what I can see, it came shortly after he was reprimanded for using prostitutes in Kabul on several occasions. No other details.’

‘And he’s not locked up at the moment?’ Schwarz asked.

‘No, he was released from Hall Prison at the end of September last year.’

‘But are we really looking for a rapist?’ Hurtig said. ‘Anyway, how come Mikkelsen mentioned him? I mean, he works with crimes against children, doesn’t he?’

‘Calm down,’ Jeanette said. ‘Any sort of sexual violence could be of interest to our investigation. This Jimmie Furugård seems to be a pretty unpleasant character who’s not above attacking children. On at least one occasion he was suspected of assaulting and attempting to rape a young boy.’

Hurtig turned to look at Jeanette. ‘Where is he now?’

‘According to Mikkelsen he’s disappeared without a trace, so I’ve emailed von Kwist about issuing an arrest warrant, but he hasn’t replied yet. I imagine he wants more to go on.’

‘Unfortunately, we don’t have much to go on from Thorildsplan, and von Kwist isn’t the smartest prosecutor we’ve got –’ Hurtig sighed.

‘Well,’ Jeanette interrupted, ‘for the time being we go through the usual routine while forensics do their thing. We work methodically, and without any preconceptions. Any questions?’

They all shook their heads.

‘Good. OK, everyone back to work.’

She thought for a moment, tapping her pen on the desk.

Jimmie Furugård, she thought. Evidently something of a split personality. Doesn’t seem to regard himself as gay, and struggles with his desires. Full of self-loathing and guilt.

There was something that didn’t make sense.

She opened one of the two evening papers she’d bought on the way to work but hadn’t had time to read. She’d already noticed that they had pretty much the same front page, apart from the headlines.

She closed her eyes and sat completely still as she counted to one hundred, then picked up the phone and called Prosecutor von Kwist.

‘Hello. Have you read my email?’ she began.

‘Yes, I’m afraid I have, and I’m still trying to work out your thinking.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean is that it looks like you’ve completely lost your mind!’

Jeanette could hear how upset he was.

‘I don’t understand …’

‘Jimmie Furugård isn’t your man. That’s all you need to know!’

‘So …?’ Jeanette was starting to get angry.

‘Jimmie Furugård is a dedicated and well-regarded UN soldier. He’s received a number of commendations, and –’

‘I do know how to read,’ Jeanette interrupted. ‘But he’s also a neo-Nazi and has several convictions for rape and violent assault. He used prostitutes in Afghanistan and –’

Jeanette stopped herself. She realised that the prosecutor wasn’t going to listen to her opinion. No matter how badly mistaken she thought he was.

‘I have to go now.’ Jeanette regained control of her voice. ‘We’ll have to pursue other lines of inquiry. Thanks for your time.’

She hung up, then put her hands down on the table and closed her eyes.

Over the years she had learned that people could be raped, abused, humiliated and murdered in countless different ways. Clenching her hands in front of her, she realised that there were just as many ways to mismanage an investigation, and that a prosecutor could obstruct the work of an investigation for reasons that were anything but clear.

She got up and went out into the corridor, heading for Hurtig’s office. He was on the phone, and gestured to her to sit down. She looked around.

Hurtig’s office was the antithesis of her own. Numbered box files on the bookshelves, folders in neat piles on the desk. Even the plants in the window looked well cared for.

Hurtig ended the call and put down the phone.

‘What did von Kwist say?’

‘That Furugård isn’t our man.’ Jeanette sat down.

‘Maybe he’s right.’

Jeanette didn’t answer, and Hurtig pushed a pile of papers aside before he went on.

‘You know we’re going to be a bit late starting tomorrow?’

Jeanette thought Hurtig looked rather embarrassed. ‘Don’t worry. You’re only going to help bring in a few computers full of child porn, then you’ll be back.’

Hurtig smiled.

JEANETTE KIHLBERG LEFT
police headquarters just after eight in the evening of the day after the body was found at Thorildsplan.

Hurtig had offered to give her a lift home, and she had thanked him but declined, on the pretext of wanting to walk down to Central Station before catching the train out to Enskede.

She needed to be alone for a while. Just let her mind float.

As she was heading down the steps to Kungsbro strand her mobile buzzed to say she’d got a text. It was from her dad.

‘Hi,’ he wrote. ‘Are you OK?’

By the time she approached Klarabergsviadukten her thoughts were back on the job again.

One family with three generations of police officers. Grandad, Dad and now her. Grandma and Mum had been housewives.

And Åke, she thought. Artist, and housewife.

Once her dad had realised she was thinking of following in his footsteps, he had told her plenty of stories intended to put her off. About broken people. Drug addicts and alcoholics. Pointless violence. The idea that people never used to kick someone when they were down was a myth. People had always done that, and would go on doing it.

But there was one particular part of the job that he hated.

Stationed in a suburb south of Stockholm, close to both the metro and the commuter rail lines, at least once a year he would have to force himself to go down onto one of the tracks to pick up the remnants of a person.

A head. An arm. A leg. A torso.

It left him a complete wreck each time it happened.

He didn’t want her to have to see everything he had had to see, and his message to her could be summarised in one sentence: ‘Whatever you do, don’t join the police.’