Dark Secrets (54 page)

She walked over to one end of the cordon. Poked at the soft ground. Vanja, always the most alert, moved cautiously across and crouched down to get a proper look.

“Tire tracks.”

“Probably a Pirelli P7; I recognize that zigzag strip down the center. A car was parked here. It drove away over there.” Ursula pointed at the marks in the grass, leading to a narrow, churned-up forest path. She smiled at them with a certain amount of triumph in her expression.

“I would say that what we have here is a crime scene. The lab will need to confirm that it’s Roger’s blood, but I don’t expect there are many other people in Västerås who have lost several liters recently.” She paused for dramatic effect and gazed out over the glade.

“But he wasn’t murdered here.”

“I thought you said this was the crime scene,” Torkel began.

“It is a crime scene. But it’s not the scene of a murder. He was dragged here. Look.”

Ursula gingerly led the three of them along the path, back toward the soccer field. Past the cordon and farther on.

“Try to keep to the side of the path. It’s bad enough that we’ve walked along it once.” They carried on in silence and soon saw what Ursula had found. Clear traces of blood in the pale yellow grass.

Torkel waved over the uniformed officer. “We need to extend the cordon.”

Ursula took no notice and simply carried on past bushes and undergrowth, up the slope and onto the field.

“Someone dragged him. From over there.” She pointed at the field, and when they looked hard they could see faint marks in the gray gravel around the edge. Marks left by what could only have been a pair of heels. They all stood motionless, weighed down by the seriousness of the moment; they had never been this close. There was magic in the way an ordinary, boring spot could become charged with significance, just because they were seeing it through Ursula’s eyes. Those small, almost invisible spots became blood; broken twigs became the impression of the dead body, and the dirty gravel was no longer merely chippings but the place where a young boy’s life had been extinguished for good.

They were moving even more slowly now, keen to go on, but cautious. Their main concern was to avoid destroying any evidence, but they also wanted to hold on to that illuminating, liberating magic.

Torkel took out his phone and called Hanser. He needed more resources; the search area needed to be expanded significantly. Just as Hanser answered they reached the place where the almost invisible marks ended, to be replaced by a dark, circular stain that could mean only one thing. They were standing in the place where a sixteen-year-old boy had died. Where it all began, and where it all ended.

Torkel realized he was whispering as he told Hanser where they were.

Sebastian looked around. This was an important discovery. Not just a few random clues—an entire event. Now they needed to take the next
step. Drag marks and traces of blood were one thing, but they had to read the significance, start to get inside the murderer’s head. The scene of the crime was one of the most important components in a murder investigation. They knew quite a lot about Roger’s final journey. But what did the scene tell them about the murderer?

“It’s an odd place to shoot someone. In the middle of a soccer field,” Sebastian said after a while. Ursula nodded.

“Particularly with those apartment blocks over there.” She pointed to the three huge gray tower blocks on a hill not far away.

“This supports the theory that it wasn’t planned.” Sebastian moved a few steps away from the dark patch, eager to go through the possibilities.

“Roger is shot here. Once he is lying dead, the murderer realizes he has to remove the bullet. To do so he chooses a more secluded place. He goes for the closest spot—that choice doesn’t tell us anything.”

The others nodded.

“We know that Roger was shot in the back, right? In that case, there are two alternatives. Either Roger knew he was in danger and was running away from it, or he was shot down without any idea there was a threat.”

“I think he knew,” Ursula said firmly. “Definitely. He was running away.”

“I agree,” Vanja chipped in.

“What makes you think that?” Torkel asked.

“Look at the scene of the murder,” Ursula explained. “We’re down at one end of the field. If I felt threatened, I would run toward the forest. Particularly if someone was pointing a gun at me.”

Torkel looked around. Ursula was right. The rectangular soccer field lay before them. A large open parking lot ran along one of the longer sides, a tall fence with a road a dozen or so yards behind it and a field beyond that. The apartment blocks were opposite, on the other longer side. The shorter lengths of the field had a clubhouse on one end and forest on the other. It was logical that the forest would appear to
offer the most protection, if you had to make a snap decision. Of course, you could say that Roger would have been equally safe among the apartment blocks, but they were up on a hill and resembled an impregnable fort more than a good hiding place. Besides which, the need to run uphill would mean losing speed.

Sebastian had been silently gazing at the surroundings, and he now raised his hand discreetly.

“Allow me to put forward a different theory.”

“There’s a surprise,” Vanja said in a stage whisper. Sebastian pretended not to hear.

“I agree with Ursula and Vanja.
If
Roger saw the threat. In that case I’m sure he would have run toward the forest. But I don’t see how he could have done that.” Sebastian paused. He had everyone’s full attention.

“We are assuming that Roger came here by car. The parking lot is over there.” Sebastian pointed toward the clubhouse and parking lot, where several police cars now were.

A number of civilian cars turned in and parked. Men got out and were immediately stopped by the police. The press had found their way to the scene.

“Would Roger walk all this way with someone who was carrying a gun?” Sebastian went on.

“But there were tire tracks in the forest as well,” Ursula piped up.

“You mean he wasn’t on his way into the forest, he was on his way out?” Torkel wondered.

“It’s possible,” Ursula replied.

“Possible but highly unlikely.” Sebastian shook his head. “It’s an inaccessible, remote, secluded place. Why would someone drive a car down there and park unless they were planning to harm Roger? We are in agreement that this was not the case, aren’t we?”

The others nodded. Sebastian made a sweeping gesture.

“Look at this place. It’s pretty isolated. A good place to drop someone off in secret, and aren’t we quite close to Roger’s home?”

“Yes, I think so; he must live somewhere behind those.” Vanja pointed in the direction of the apartment blocks. “Half a mile, maybe.”

“So this is a pretty good shortcut, wouldn’t you say?” said Sebastian.

The others nodded again. Torkel looked at him. He scratched his cheek and realized he’d forgotten to shave this morning.

“What do you think? Someone gave Roger a ride here, and…?”

Everyone’s eyes were on Sebastian. Just the way he wanted it.

“Lisa said Roger was going to meet someone. The driver, who in the not-too-distant future will become the murderer, is waiting in the car and gives a quick beep on the horn when he sees Roger walking on the opposite side of the road. Roger crosses the street and after a conversation through the wound-down side window he gets into the Volvo, which drives off. As they are driving they have a discussion. They can’t agree. The driver heads down to the parking lot by the soccer field and Roger gets out. Perhaps he has misjudged the situation and is feeling sure of victory. Perhaps he thinks the encounter has been unpleasant and hurries across the field toward home. Whichever of these is the truth, he cannot imagine what is happening behind his back. The driver thinks through the situation. Can’t see any way out. Or, rather, he can see only one way out. He makes a quick decision without thinking it through, gets out of the car, opens the trunk, and takes out a gun. Roger is on his way across the soccer field, unaware that someone is aiming a gun at his back from the parking lot. The distance is not too great. Particularly if you are used to a gun, perhaps for hunting or competitive shooting. The driver fires. Roger falls to the ground. The driver knows, of course, it will be possible to trace the bullet. He runs across the field, drags Roger into the shelter of the forest. Runs back, drives the car around, digs out the bullet, inflicts multiple stab wounds on the body, bundles it into the car, and drives it to the dumping ground.”

Sebastian fell silent. The odd car passed by out on the road. A lone bird was singing in the forest. It was Torkel who broke the silence.

“You mentioned competitive shooting. Do you still think it’s the principal?”

“It was just a theory. And now I’m going to let you get on with your forensic examination without me.” Sebastian set off toward the apartment complex. Torkel looked at him.

“Where are you going?”

“I want to speak to Lena Eriksson, find out if Roger used this shortcut. If he did, it backs up my theory and increases the chances that somebody might have seen him and the car here on another occasion.”

The others nodded. Sebastian stopped and turned around, waving one hand in an inviting gesture.

“Anyone want to come with me?”

No one volunteered.

Sebastian quickly found the narrow, well-worn trail leading up to the hill where the gray apartment complex stood. The trail soon joined a paved path that wound its way upward between the buildings. Sebastian felt fairly sure that these apartments had been built when he was still a student at Palmlövska High, but he had never been this close to them. They were on the wrong side of town, besides which his parents had had an automatic middle-class aversion to rented apartments. The
right
sort of people lived in houses.

Behind him, down by the soccer field, he could see still more police cars arriving. He knew they would be there for a long time. He had mixed feelings when it came to the forensic side of police work. Intellectually, he knew how important it was; it generated hard evidence that was usually crucial in court, and led to more convictions than his own specialty. The evidence he produced—if it could even be called evidence—was much softer; it could be called into question, twisted, and contradicted, especially by a skillful defense lawyer. His evidence was more like a series of working hypotheses and theories about the dark impulses that drive people, more user friendly during the preliminary investigation than under the bright lights of the courtroom. But for Sebastian the evidence had never been the most important thing; he wasn’t driven by the desire to contribute to a conviction. His aim was to get inside a perpetrator’s head. The chance to predict a person’s next move was his reward.

Once upon a time it had been all he thought about, all he longed for, and he realized now that he missed it. Over the past few days he had tasted that feeling again, even though he had barely been operating at half speed. It was something to do with the focus. For a second he almost forgot the grief and the endless pain. He stopped and tasted the realization for a moment. Could he find his way back?

Find his motivation.

His obsession.

Shift his focus.

Of course not. Who was he trying to kid? It could never be like before.

Never.

The dreams would see to that.

Sebastian opened the glass doors leading into Lena’s apartment building. In Stockholm there would have been a keypad requiring an entry code, but here you could just walk in. He couldn’t remember which floor Lena lived on. The board in the entrance hall informed him that it was the third floor. He began to climb, his heavy footsteps echoing through the depressing, dirty white stairwell. When he reached the third-floor landing he stopped dead. Strange. The door of Lena Eriksson’s apartment was ajar. He moved forward. Rang the doorbell while at the same time cautiously pushing the door open with his foot and calling out.

“Hello?”

No reply. The door slowly swung open, and soon he could see the narrow hallway. Shoes on the floor, a brown chest of drawers with an untidy pile of junk mail on top.

“Hello? Anyone home?”

Sebastian walked in. On the left was a door leading to the bathroom. Straight ahead was the living room with its IKEA furniture. The place stank of cigarette smoke. The blinds were drawn, which made the apartment dark, particularly with all the lights off.

Sebastian went into the living room and noticed an overturned chair and some broken china on the floor. He stopped, with a growing sense
of unease. Something had happened here. Suddenly the silence in the apartment seemed ominous. He moved fast, into what he assumed must be the kitchen. Then he saw Lena. Lying on the linoleum floor. Bare feet, the soles facing toward him. One leg under the other. The kitchen table had tipped over.

Sebastian ran to Lena and bent over her. He could see the blood that had come from the back of her head. Her hair was sticky, and the blood had gathered in a round, shiny little pool beneath her. Like a halo of death. He felt at her white throat for some sign of a pulse, but the chill under his fingertips could mean only one thing. He was too late.