The Crow Girl (63 page)

Jeanette understands. A panic attack, a teenage boy full of hormones. Obviously everything has a chemical explanation.

‘So, these new cases?’ Sofia looks curious. ‘Brief me about where you are. What have you got?’

Jeanette spends twenty minutes telling Sofia about the two latest cases. Sofia listens intently, and nods with interest.

‘The first thing that strikes me about Fredrika Grünewald,’ Sofia says when Jeanette has finished, ‘is that faecal matter is involved. Shit, basically.’

‘And …’

‘That seems symbolic. Almost ritualistic. As if the perpetrator is trying to say something.’

Jeanette recalls the flowers found inside the tent, next to the dead woman.

Karl Lundström had received yellow flowers as well, but that could be coincidence.

‘Have you identified a suspect?’ Sofia asks.

‘Nothing definite yet,’ Jeanette begins. ‘But we’ve got a link to a foundation called Sihtunum i Diasporan. Both Lundström and Silfverberg were involved with it. And there’s a lawyer, Viggo Dürer, who’s mixed up in it as well. But he’s dead too, so we can forget him.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes, a few weeks ago. He died in a fire on his boat.’

Sofia looks taken aback, and Jeanette thinks she can see something in her eyes. Eventually she says, ‘I had a strange phone call the other day,’ and Jeanette can see she isn’t sure if she should go on.

‘In what way was it strange?’

‘Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist called me and implied that Karl Lundström had been lying. That he had made everything up under the influence of his medication. I couldn’t work out what he was getting at.’

‘That’s not too difficult. He wants to save his own skin. He ought to have ascertained that Lundström wasn’t on any medication before the interview. If he missed that, he’s screwed.’

‘I think I made a mistake.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mentioned one of the men Linnea says assaulted her, and I got a feeling he recognised the name. He went very quiet.’

‘Can I ask who it was?’

‘You just mentioned him. Viggo Dürer.’

Jeanette realises at once why Kenneth von Kwist had sounded odd. She doesn’t know if she should indulge in schadenfreude, because Dürer seems to have been a nasty piece of work, or just feel sad, because of the revelation that he had evidently assaulted a little girl. ‘I’ll bet my right hand that von Kwist is going to try to hush this up. It’s no exaggeration to think he’d be seriously damaged if it got out that he was involved with paedophiles and rapists.’

She reaches for the wine bottle.

‘Who is this von Kwist, anyway?’ Sofia holds out her empty glass and lets Jeanette refill it.

‘He’s worked at the Public Prosecution Authority for over twenty years, and the Ulrika Wendin case isn’t the only one that got tossed out at the preliminary investigation stage. And just because he works for us doesn’t mean he was the smartest law graduate of his year.’ She laughs, and when she sees the puzzled look on Sofia’s face, she explains: ‘It’s no secret that it’s the least talented of the successful graduates who end up working for us in the police, or for the enforcement agency or the national insurance office.’

‘How come?’

‘Simple. They’re not smart enough to become business lawyers for some big export company, or to run their own firms for much higher salaries. Von Kwist probably dreams of becoming a hotshot criminal lawyer, but he’s far too stupid.’

Jeanette thinks of her ultimate superior, the county police commissioner for Stockholm, one of the most high-profile police officers in the country. Who never takes part in serious debates on criminality, but is happy to appear in gossip magazines and go to gala premieres in expensive outfits.

‘If you want to put the squeeze on von Kwist, I can help you with evidence,’ Sofia says, tapping her glass with her fingernail. ‘Linnea showed me a letter in which Karl Lundström implies that Dürer had abused her. And Annette Lundström let me take photographs of some drawings Linnea did when she was little. Pictures describing the abuse. I’ve got it all with me, if you’d like to see it?’

Jeanette nods mutely as Sofia gets out her handbag and shows her Linnea’s drawings and a photocopy of the letter from Karl Lundström.

‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘This will definitely come in useful. But I’m afraid it’s more circumstantial than definite evidence.’

‘I understand,’ Sofia says.

They sit without saying anything for a while before Sofia goes on. ‘Apart from von Kwist and Dürer … Are there any more names?’

‘Yes, there’s one more that keeps cropping up. Bengt Bergman.’

Sofia starts. ‘Bengt Bergman?’

‘He was reported for the sexual abuse of two children. A boy and girl from Eritrea. Children without papers who don’t officially exist. Case dropped. Signed off on by Kenneth von Kwist. Bergman’s lawyer was Viggo Dürer. Do you see the connection?’

Jeanette leans back and drinks a large gulp of wine. ‘There’s another Bergman. Her name was Victoria, and she was Bengt Bergman’s daughter.’

‘Was?’

‘Yes. About twenty years ago she ceased to exist. There’s nothing after November 1988. But I’ve spoken to her on the phone, and she wasn’t exactly reticent about her relationship with her father. I think he abused her sexually and that’s why she disappeared. And Bengt and Birgitta Bergman no longer exist either. They died recently in a fire. Poof, and then they were gone as well.’

Sofia’s smile is hesitant. ‘You’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t understand.’

‘Lack of existence,’ Jeanette says. ‘The common denominator for the Bergman and Lundström families is their lack of existence. Their histories are blacked out. And I think both Dürer and von Kwist participated in that.’

‘And Ulrika Wendin?’

‘Yes, you know her, of course. Raped by a number of men, including Karl Lundström, in a hotel room seven years ago. They injected her with an anaesthetic. Case dropped by Kenneth von Kwist. Yet another case blacked out.’

‘Anaesthetic? Like those dead boys?’

‘We don’t know if it was the same anaesthetic. There was no medical examination conducted.’

Sofia looks irritated. ‘Why not?’

‘Because Ulrika waited more than two weeks before going to the police.’

Sofia appears thoughtful, and Jeanette waits, realising that she’s weighing something up.

‘I think Viggo Dürer tried to bribe her,’ she says after a while.

‘Why do you think that?’

‘When she was with me she had a new computer and a whole lot of money. She managed to drop a few 500 krona notes on the floor. And she caught sight of a picture of Viggo Dürer that I’d printed out and left on my desk. When she saw it she flinched, and when I asked if she knew him she denied it, but I’m fairly certain she was lying.’

THE RESIDENTIAL AREA
of Gamla Enskede was laid out in the early years of the last century, so that ordinary people could have their own house with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a cellar and a garden, all for the same price as a two-room apartment in the city.

It’s early evening and the clouds are building. A grey darkness settles over the suburb and the big green maple turns black. The mist over the lawn is steely grey.

She knows who you are.

No. Stop it. She can’t know. That’s impossible.

She doesn’t want to admit it to herself, but somewhere Sofia suspects that Jeanette Kihlberg has a hidden agenda, and is drawing her into a trap.

Sofia Zetterlund swallows. Her throat feels like someone’s rammed a dry apple into it.

Jeanette Kihlberg swirls the last of her wine around the glass before drinking it. ‘I think Victoria Bergman is the key,’ she says. ‘If we can find her, we solve the case.’

Take it easy. Breathe.

Sofia Zetterlund takes a deep breath. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘Just a feeling,’ Jeanette says, scratching her head. ‘Bengt Bergman used to work for the Swedish International Development Cooperation Agency, in Sierra Leone among other places. The Bergman family lived there for a while during the late eighties, which feels like yet another coincidence.’

‘I’m not with you.’

Jeanette laughs. ‘Well, Victoria Bergman was in Sierra Leone and Samuel Bai was from Sierra Leone. And it’s struck me that there’s you as well, you’ve been there too. You see, it really is a small world.’

What does she mean? Is she implying something?

‘Maybe,’ Sofia says thoughtfully, while her insides are churning with anxiety.

‘One or more of the people we’re looking into knows the murderer. Karl Lundström, Viggo Dürer, Silfverberg. Someone in the Bergman or Lundström families. The murderer might just as easily be someone inside that constellation as outside it. Either way. I still think Victoria Bergman knows who the murderer is.’

‘And what are you basing that hypothesis on?’

Jeanette laughs again. ‘Instinct.’

‘Instinct?’

‘Yes, I’ve got three generations of police blood in my veins. My instinct’s hardly ever wrong, and in this case I get a strong feeling whenever I think about Victoria Bergman. Call it my cop’s blood, if you like.’

‘I’ve had a first go at putting together a psychological profile of the perpetrator. Do you want to see it?’ She reaches for her bag, but Jeanette stops her.

‘I’d love to, but first I want to hear what you’ve got to say about Linnea Lundström.’

‘I saw her recently. For therapy. And I think she was exploited by more than just her dad.’

Jeanette looks at her intently. ‘And you believe her?’

‘Absolutely.’ Sofia considers the situation. And feels that the moment has arrived when she could open up and reveal parts of herself that she has kept hidden up to now. ‘I had therapy myself when I was younger, and I know how liberating it can be to get the chance to talk about everything. Being able to talk about what you’ve been through without any inhibitions and interruption, and to have someone who really listens. Someone who may have been through the same thing but has devoted a lot of time and money to educating themselves to understand the human psyche and who takes your story seriously and is there for you and helps to analyse things, even if it’s just a drawing or a letter, and who can draw conclusions and isn’t just wondering what drugs it might be suitable to prescribe, and who isn’t necessarily trying to find fault, find a scapegoat, even if –’

‘Hey,’ Jeanette interrupts her. ‘What’s going on, Sofia?’

‘What?’ Sofia opens her eyes and sees Jeanette in front of her.

‘You disappeared for a moment.’ Jeanette leans across the table and takes Sofia’s hands. Strokes them gently. ‘Is it difficult to talk about?’

Sofia feels her eyes pricking as tears well up, and she wants to give in. But the moment has passed and she shakes her head.

‘No. What I was trying to say is that I think Viggo Dürer was involved.’

‘Yes, well, that would explain a whole lot.’ She pauses, and seems to be choosing her words.

Wait, let her go on.

‘Go on.’ Sofia hears her own voice as if she were standing alongside. She knows what Jeanette’s about to say.

‘P-O Silfverberg lived in Denmark. Viggo Dürer too. Dürer defends Silfverberg when he’s accused of abusing his foster-daughter. He defends Lundström when he is accused of raping Ulrika Wendin.’

‘Foster-daughter?’ Sofia is having trouble breathing, and reaches for her wine glass to hide her agitation. She raises it to her lips, and sees that her hand is trembling.

Her name is Madeleine, she’s got fair hair and she likes it when you tickle her tummy.

Screaming and crying when she was welcomed into the world with a blood test.

The little hand clutching a forefinger.

SHE DIDN’T HAVE
to make an effort, because the stories seemed to come by themselves, and sometimes it was like she predicted the truth. She would come up with a lie, and then it happened. She liked having such a strange power.

As if she could steer the world around her with her will, just by lying and having her lies come true.

The money lasts all the way home from Copenhagen to Stockholm, and she gives the eighteenth-century music box that she stole from the farmhouse in Struer to a drunk outside Central Station. At a quarter past eight in the morning Victoria gets on the bus from Gullmarsplan to Tyresö, sits down right at the back and opens her diary.

The road is in a poor state because of all the construction, and the driver is going far too fast. That makes it hard to write. The letters get very shaky.

Instead she sinks into the notes of her sessions with the old psychologist. Everything is recorded in her diary, every single one of their meetings. She puts her pen back in her bag and starts to read.

3 March

Her eyes understand me, and that feels safe. We talk about incubation. That means waiting for something, and maybe my incubation period will soon be over?

Am I waiting to get ill?

Her eyes ask me about Solace and I tell her that she’s moved out of the wardrobe. We share the bed now. The stench from the sauna has accompanied us to bed. Am I already ill? I tell her that the incubation period started in Sierra Leone. I was carrying the illness in me when we left, but I didn’t get rid of it when we got home.

The infection remained inside me and made me mad.

His infection.

Victoria prefers not to call the psychologist by her name. She likes thinking about the old woman’s eyes; they make her feel safe. The therapist
is
those eyes. And in them Victoria can also be herself.

The bus stops, and the driver gets out and opens a hatch on the side. There seems to be something wrong. She seizes the opportunity, grabs her pen and starts to write.

25 May