The Gallows Bird (35 page)

‘Congregation?’ said Patrik. ‘What sort of congregation?’

‘The Cross of the Virgin Mary,’ Gerda replied. ‘A Catholic congregation.’

‘Catholic?’ said Martin. ‘Was she from some southern country?’

‘There are Catholics in Scandinavia too,’ said Patrik, a bit embarrassed at Martin’s ignorance. ‘That form of Christianity is practised all over the globe, and there are several thousand Catholics here in Sweden.’

‘Quite right,’ said Rickard. ‘There are actually about a hundred and sixty thousand Catholics in Sweden. Elsa had been a member for many years, and the congregation was basically her family.’

‘Didn’t she have any relatives?’ asked Patrik.

‘No, we weren’t able to find any close relations,’ said Gerda. ‘We conducted many interviews with members of her congregation to see whether there was any schism there, anything that might have led to Elsa’s murder. But we drew a blank.’

‘If we wanted to talk with somebody in the congregation who was close to Elsa, who would that be?’ Martin held his pen ready to take notes.

‘The priest, without a doubt. Father Silvio Mancini. And he
is
from southern Europe.’ Gerda winked at Martin, who blushed.

‘From what I gather, the victim in Tanumshede also bore traces of having been tied up?’ Rickard directed the question to Patrik.

‘Yes, that’s true. Our ME found cord grooves on both the arms and wrists. Was that one of the things that led you to designate Elsa’s death as a homicide straight away?’

‘Yes.’ Gerda took out a photo and slid it across the table to Patrik and Martin. They looked at it for a few seconds and saw that the cord marks were very evident. Elsa Forsell had without a doubt been tied up. Patrik also recognized the odd blue marks around her mouth. ‘Did you also find traces of tape?’ He looked at Gerda, who nodded.

‘Yes, adhesive from ordinary brown tape.’ She cleared her throat. ‘We’re very interested in seeing all the information you have regarding these homicides. We will of course share everything we have. I know that sometimes there’s a certain rivalry between police districts, but we sincerely hope that we can all cooperate and keep the channels open between us.’ This was not an appeal but a cold statement. Patrik nodded without hesitation.

‘Naturally. We need all the help we can get. Including yours. So by all means let’s share copies of whatever material we both have. And we can stay in touch by phone.’

‘Good,’ said Gerda.

Patrik couldn’t help noticing the admiring glance she got from her husband. Patrik’s respect for Rickard Svensson grew. It took a real man to appreciate having a wife who had climbed higher on the career ladder than he had.

‘Do you know where we can get hold of Father Mancini?’ said Martin as they stood up to leave.

‘The Catholic congregation has premises downtown.’ Konrad jotted down the address and gave the slip of paper to Martin. He also told them how to find their way there.

‘After you’ve talked with Father Silvio you can come back and pick up a packet with all the material at reception,’ said Gerda as she shook Patrik’s hand. ‘I’ll see to it that copies of everything are made for you.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ said Patrik, and he meant it. Cooperation between districts was, as Gerda had pointed out, not always favoured by the police, so he was very glad that this investigation would be taking a different tack.

‘When are you going to stop all these stupid goings-on?’

Jonna shut her eyes. Her mamma’s voice on the phone was always so harsh, so accusatory.

‘Pappa and I have talked, and we think that it’s irresponsible of you to waste your life like this. And we have our reputations at the hospital to think of as well; you have to understand that you’re making fools of us too!’

‘I knew this would have something to do with the hospital,’ Jonna muttered.

‘What did you say? You have to speak up so I can hear what you’re saying, Jonna. You’re nineteen years old now, and you have to learn to articulate properly. And I have to say that these latest newspaper articles have been especially upsetting for Pappa and me. People are starting to wonder what sort of parents we are. And we’ve done our best, I can assure you. But Pappa and I have an important job to do, and you’re old enough now, Jonna, that you really should understand that. You need to show more respect for what we do. You know, yesterday I operated on a little Russian boy who had come here for treatment to repair a serious heart defect. He couldn’t get the operation he needed in his homeland, but
I
was able to help him! Because of me he will survive and live a worthwhile life! I think you ought to display a bit more humility towards life, Jonna. You’ve always had it so easy. Have we ever denied you anything? You’ve always had clothes on your back, a roof over your head, and food on the table. Think of all the children who haven’t even had half, no, a tenth of what you’ve enjoyed. They would be grateful to be in your position. And they wouldn’t keep doing such stupid things and injuring themselves. No, I think you’re being selfish, Jonna. It’s high time for you to grow up! Pappa and I think that –’

Jonna cut off the call and sank slowly down to sit with her back against the wall. The anxiety grew and grew until it felt as though it wanted to pour out of her throat. It filled every part of her body, making her feel she was going to explode. The feeling of not having anywhere to go, anywhere to flee, overpowered her as it had so many times before. With trembling hands she took out the razor blade that she always kept in her wallet. Her fingers were now shaking so hard that she dropped the blade, and with a curse she tried to pick it up from the floor. She cut her fingers several times trying, but eventually she picked it up and moved it slowly down the underside of her right forearm. With deep concentration she looked at the razor blade as she lowered it towards the scarred, damaged skin that looked like a lunar landscape of alternating white and pink flesh, with sharp red ridges like tiny rivers. When the first blood trickled out she felt the anxiety subside. She pressed harder and the rivulet became a red, pulsing stream. Jonna watched it with relief written all over her face. She lifted the razor blade and drew a new river among the scars. Then she raised her head and smiled into the camera. She looked almost blissful.

‘We’re looking for Father Silvio Mancini.’ Patrik held up his police identification to the woman who opened the door. She stepped aside and called, ‘Silvio! The police are here about something!’

A white-haired man dressed in jeans and a sweater came towards them. Patrik had expected him to appear in full priestly regalia, not in everyday clothes. He knew that the priest couldn’t go about in his clerical garb all the time, but it still took him a second to recover from his surprise.

‘I’m Patrik Hedström, and this is Martin Molin,’ he said, pointing to his colleague. The priest nodded and showed them to a small sofa group. The sanctuary was small but well kept, and there were plenty of the attributes that Patrik with his layman’s knowledge associated with Catholicism, such as pictures of the Virgin Mary and a big crucifix. The woman who had opened the door for them brought in coffee and cakes. Father Silvio thanked her warmly. She smiled in response but then retreated. Father Silvio turned his attention to them and asked in perfect Swedish, but with an unmistakable Italian accent, ‘So, what can I do for the police?’

‘We’d like to ask a few questions about Elsa Forsell.’

Father Silvio sighed. ‘I was hoping that sooner or later the police would find some sort of lead. Even though I truly believe in the flames of purgatory, I would prefer that the murderer receive his punishment while still in this life.’ He smiled, showing humour and empathy at the same time. Patrik got the impression that he and Elsa had been close, which was confirmed by Father Silvio’s next comment.

‘Elsa was a good friend for many, many years. She was very involved in the work of the congregation, and I was also her father confessor.’

‘Was Elsa born Catholic?’

‘No, she was not,’ Father Silvio said with a laugh. ‘Few people are in Sweden, unless they have family that have immigrated from a Catholic country. But she came to one of our services, and yes, I believe she felt as though she’d found a home. Elsa was . . . what you might call a damaged soul. She was searching for something, and she felt she had found it with us.’

‘And what was she looking for?’ said Patrik. The priest’s whole demeanour bore witness to the fact that he was a man of great empathy, a man who radiated calm and peace. A true man of God.

Father Silvio sat quietly for a while before he replied. He seemed to want to weigh his words, but at last he looked Patrik straight in the eye and said: ‘Forgiveness.’

‘Forgiveness?’ asked Martin.

‘Forgiveness,’ Father Silvio repeated calmly. ‘It’s what we all seek, most of us without even knowing it. Forgiveness for our sins, for our failures, for our shortcomings and mistakes. Forgiveness for things we have done . . . and for things we didn’t do.’

‘And what was Elsa Forsell seeking forgiveness for?’ Patrik said quietly, looking hard at the priest. For a moment it seemed that Father Silvio was on the verge of telling them something. Then he lowered his eyes and said, ‘Confession is a sacrament. And what does it matter? We all have something to be forgiven for.’

Patrik sensed that there was something more behind his words, but he knew enough about a father confessor’s vow of silence not to try and press the priest.

‘How long was Elsa a member of your church?’ he said instead.

‘For eighteen years,’ said Father Silvio. ‘As I said, we became very close friends over the years.’

‘Do you know whether Elsa had any enemies? Did anyone want to harm her?’

Again the priest hesitated, then shook his head. ‘No, I know nothing about anything like that. Elsa had no one besides us, either friend or foe. We were her family.’

‘Is that usual?’ asked Martin, who couldn’t hide a sceptical tone.

‘I know what you’re thinking,’ the silver-haired man said calmly. ‘But we have no such exclusionary rules, or restrictions, for our members. Most of them have both families and friends, like any other Christian congregation. But Elsa had only us.’

‘Regarding how she died,’ said Patrik. ‘Someone poured a large quantity of alcohol down her throat. What was Elsa’s attitude towards alcohol?’

Once more Patrik thought he sensed a hesitation, a reluctance to speak, but instead the priest said with a laugh, ‘Elsa was probably like most people on that point. She would have a glass of wine or two on Saturday evening sometimes. But never in excess. No, I would say that she had a quite normal attitude towards alcohol. I taught her to appreciate Italian wines, by the way, and we occasionally had wine tastings here. Very popular.’

Patrik raised an eyebrow. The Catholic priest was truly surprising him.

After pausing to consider whether he had anything more to ask, Patrik placed his business card on the table before them. ‘If you think of anything else, please give us a ring.’

‘Tanumshede,’ said Father Silvio as he read the card. ‘Where is that?’

‘On the west coast,’ said Patrik as he got up. ‘Between Strömstad and Uddevalla.’

Patrik watched in amazement as all colour drained out of Father Silvio’s face. For a moment he looked as pale as Martin had been during the ride to Lund the day before. Then the priest regained his composure and nodded curtly. Bewildered, Patrik and Martin said goodbye, both with a feeling that Father Silvio Mancini knew considerably more than he was saying.

There was an air of anticipation at the station. Everyone was eager to hear what Patrik and Martin had found out during their weekend excursion. Patrik had driven straight to the station when they returned from Nyköping and had spent a couple of hours preparing for the meeting. The walls of his office were covered with photos and notes, and he had jotted down remarks and drawn arrows here and there. It looked chaotic, but he would soon bring order to the confusion.

It was a tight squeeze when they all crowded into his office, but he hadn’t wanted to put up the investigative material anywhere else, so that’s where they had to meet. Martin arrived first and sat down at the back, then Annika, Gösta, Hanna and Mellberg arrived. No one said a word as they all surveyed the material taped to the walls. Each of them was trying to find the red thread that would lead them to a killer.

‘As you know, Martin and I visited two cities this weekend, Lund and Nyköping. Both of these police stations had contacted us because they had cases that matched the criteria we had set up based on the murders of Marit Kaspersen and Rasmus Olsson. The victim in Lund,’ he turned and pointed to a photo on the wall, ‘was named Börje Knudsen. He was fifty-two years old and a confirmed alcoholic. He was found dead in his flat. He had been dead so long that unfortunately it was impossible to find any physical traces of the type of injuries we’ve documented for the other victims. On the other hand’ – Patrik paused to take a drink of water from a glass on his desk – ‘he did have this in his hand.’ He pointed to the plastic bag pinned to the wall next to the photo, with the page from the children’s book.

Mellberg raised his hand. ‘Did we hear from NCL whether there were any fingerprints on the pages we found next to Marit and Rasmus?’

Patrik was surprised that his boss was on the ball for once. ‘Yes, we did get an answer, and the pages were returned.’ He pointed to the pages pinned up next to the photos of Marit and Rasmus. ‘Unfortunately there were no prints on them. The page found with Börje was never examined, so it will be going off to NCL today. However, the book page found with the victim in Nyköping, Elsa Forsell,
was
examined during the investigation. With a negative result.’

Mellberg nodded to indicate that he was satisfied with the answer.

Patrik went on, ‘Börje’s case was classified as an accident; they believed he had simply drunk himself to death. Elsa Forsell’s death, however, was investigated as a homicide by our colleagues in Nyköping, but they never found a perpetrator.’

‘Did they have any suspects?’ asked Hanna. She looked resolute and focused, but a bit pale. Patrik was worried that she might be getting sick. He couldn’t afford to lose any resources in this situation.