Death Angels (37 page)

Authors: Ake Edwardson

They would do the same with Svensson, Jamie’s boss. He might be able to recognize the face of the new customer who had popped up at his bar from time to time.

“It’s important to find exactly the right ones,” Winter said.

“You mean the decoys?”

“Yes.”

“That goes without saying.”

They couldn’t very well put Vikingsson next to seven homeless people. Finding the right combination was always a nightmare.

“Cohen is going to question Vikingsson again,” Ringmar said.

“I know. I’m about to head for his office now.”

“We’ve found out a little more about Vikingsson’s background, or personal life.”

“He hasn’t got a family, from what I’ve heard.”

“Neither a wife nor children, if that’s what you mean by family.”

“Yes.”

“He’s not gay.”

“I thought so at first,” Winter said.

“Really?”

Winter remembered the unauthorized search he and Macdonald had conducted in London. No need to mention it, not yet at least. He had seen certain signs, little details that were familiar to him. He thought of Mats. “It doesn’t mean much one way or the other,” he said.

“Except that all the victims were young males.”

“And that there might be a sexual motive that has escaped us thus far.” Winter suspected that such a motive did exist, at least indirectly. The murderer had taken advantage of the victims’ confusion, their search for a sexual identity. It was the simplest thing in the world to do. They might call themselves the ironic generation, or maybe it was adults who referred to them that way. Perhaps they had it together on the outside, but they were looking for something deeper. Beneath it all was a kind of faith. That was both their salvation and their vulnerability. “Kids are so defenseless,” he said.

“Only kids?”

“They’re the easiest people to lead astray.”

“You’re not so old yourself.”

“People take advantage of me, but not that way.”

“You mean it’s all society’s fault.”

“Certainly.”

“Has it always been like that, do you think?”

“Society ends up with the adults it deserves. It’s just a little more obvious nowadays.”

“So there’s nothing left to hope for?”

“I don’t know, Bertil.”

“What are you doing next New Year’s Eve?”

“If you’re asking whether I’ll have a reservation at a restaurant, the answer is no.”

“You’ll sit in your living room and play Coltrane for a beautiful woman.”

“That’s a pretty safe bet.”

“Which reminds me. We’ve already talked to a couple of Vikingsson’s female acquaintances in Gothenburg. He’s got his share.”

“I saw that in the report. Does he sleep around?”

“You’re thinking about another time.”

“What time was that?”

“Just before a homosexual flight attendant brought HIV from Africa to New York.”

“Have you asked him about that urban legend?”

Winter felt Vikingsson’s eyes on him as he walked into the interrogation room. He was taller, his hair longer, than the photos had suggested, and he looked like someone who could account for his actions. He’s got a good memory, Winter thought.

Cohen shuffled his papers. Winter nodded briefly and sat down. Vikingsson fidgeted in his chair, searching for the right defensive posture.

“This is Chief Inspector Erik Winter,” Cohen said. “He’ll be sitting in on our conversation.”

Winter nodded again. Vikingsson raised his index finger as if to say he had decided to play along.

Cohen began this interrogation the same way he had so many before. He focused on what Vikingsson was doing at the time of the murders.

At several points, Vikingsson apologized sarcastically for not having walked around with a diary strapped to his chest.

COHEN:
The friend you claim to have been with on Saturday is unable to confirm that you spent the whole evening together.

VIKINGSSON:
Nobody’s got a perfect memory.

COHEN:
Are you saying she forgot what happened?

VIKINGSSON:
Yes.

COHEN:
Okay, we’ll get back to that. Tell us what you did on the twenty-fourth.

VIKINGSSON:
I had just returned from London and picked up a few things at my apartment.

COHEN:
What kinds of things?

VIKINGSSON:
Toiletries.

COHEN:
You have two apartments, is that correct?

VIKINGSSON:
You already know . . .

COHEN:
I didn’t catch your answer.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s not something you have to ask me.

COHEN:
How long have you had two apartments?

VIKINGSSON:
I wouldn’t call it an apartment.

COHEN:
What wouldn’t you call an apartment?

VIKINGSSON:
The place in Gothenburg. It’s more of a . . .

COHEN:
I didn’t hear what you said.

VIKINGSSON:
It’s a crash pad.

COHEN:
How long have you had it?

VIKINGSSON:
A while. You can check up on that easier than I can.

COHEN:
I’m going to ask you again how long you’ve had the apartment.

VIKINGSSON:
Six months, maybe.

COHEN:
Why did you rent it in the first place?

VIKINGSSON:
The pad in Gothenburg?

COHEN:
Yes.

VIKINGSSON:
I wanted somewhere to get together with friends when I wasn’t working.

COHEN:
But you don’t get together with friends in Gothenburg.
VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
You can’t prove that you were with anyone at the times we asked about.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s your misfortune.

No, it’s your misfortune, Winter thought. He scrutinized Vikingsson. There wasn’t a drop of sweat on his forehead, nor was he squirming in his chair anymore. No nervousness to his gestures. Winter wondered how crazy he actually was.

COHEN:
You said you rented the apartment so you could get together with friends.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s right.

COHEN:
Where do you see your friends?

VIKINGSSON:
What kind of question is that?

COHEN:
Give us an example of where you meet your friends.

VIKINGSSON:
At somebody else’s place, not at mine because it’s not very big.

COHEN:
Have you ever had any guests there?

VIKINGSSON:
Only a woman or two who weren’t in the mood for their husbands.

COHEN:
Your neighbors say that people often come to see you.

VIKINGSSON:
Not when I’m there, anyway.

COHEN:
Do you work out much?

VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
Do you spend a lot of time at the gym?

VIKINGSSON:
No.

COHEN:
Are you sure?

VIKINGSSON:
I get all the exercise I need on the job.

COHEN:
On the job?

VIKINGSSON:
Yes, I spend the whole flight going up and down the aisle.

COHEN:
So you don’t work out at all?

VIKINGSSON:
Once or twice, but that was a long time ago. Anyone who claims that he’s seen me at a gym is lying.

COHEN:
Nobody has claimed that.

VIKINGSSON:
Good.

COHEN:
On the other hand, you’ve been spotted with a big duffel bag more than once.

VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
You heard what I said.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s for the stuff I carry between Gothenburg and London.

COHEN:
We didn’t see it in your Gothenburg apartment.

VIKINGSSON:
It’s in London.

COHEN:
We couldn’t find it there either.

VIKINGSSON:
Did you go into my London apartment?

COHEN:
Assistant Chief Investigator Ringmar informed you that we searched it.

VIKINGSSON:
Like hell he did.

COHEN:
You’ve been informed of everything you need to know.

VIKINGSSON:
This is nuts.

COHEN:
Just tell us where your duffel bag is.

VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
Where is your duffel bag?

VIKINGSSON:
If I had to guess, I’d say that one of your men got his grubby fingers on it.

COHEN:
Do you ever keep it anywhere else?

VIKINGSSON:
It’s in London, for God’s sake. The other flight attendants can verify that I had it the last time I was there. Yesterday, I mean.

COHEN:
It’s not in your apartment.

VIKINGSSON:
Then the cops have it.

COHEN:
We talked to the other flight attendants, and none of them saw you carrying a duffel bag.

VIKINGSSON:
Then they must have had more important things on their mind.

COHEN:
Do you have two duffel bags?

VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
Just answer my question.

VIKINGSSON:
Are you guys starting to see double?

COHEN:
Cut it out.

VIKINGSSON:
The answer is no.

COHEN:
Do you own a car?

VIKINGSSON:
No.

COHEN:
Is there a car in Gothenburg that you drive occasionally?

VIKINGSSON:
Do I ever borrow somebody else’s car? Sure, once in a while.

COHEN:
Any car in particular?

VIKINGSSON:
I don’t understand what you’re talking about.

You understand exactly what he’s talking about, you bastard, Winter thought. Hold on a minute and you’ll understand even better.

COHEN:
Is there any particular car in Gothenburg that you borrow on a regular basis?

VIKINGSSON:
No.

COHEN:
You never drive a 1988 white Opel Kadett Caravan, license plate number ANG 999?

VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
Just answer the question.

VIKINGSSON:
What was the question again?

COHEN:
Do you ever drive an Opel Kadett Caravan, license plate number ANG 999, recently reregistered?

VIKINGSSON:
No.

COHEN:
We found it a couple of blocks from your apartment in a paid parking spot on Distansgatan Street.

VIKINGSSON:
And?

COHEN:
The parking spot belongs to an acquaintance of yours named Peter Möller. According to him, you sublease it from him.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s a lie.

COHEN:
It’s a lie that you sublease it?

VIKINGSSON:
It’s a lie.

COHEN:
So you’ve never seen the car?

VIKINGSSON:
Nope.

COHEN:
It’s registered in the name of Viking Carlsson.

VIKINGSSON:
You don’t say?

COHEN:
Is that a coincidence?

VIKINGSSON:
Is what a coincidence?

COHEN:
The name of the owner.

VIKINGSSON:
What was his name again?

COHEN:
Viking Carlsson.

VIKINGSSON:
I don’t have a clue.

COHEN:
You don’t own the car?

VIKINGSSON:
For the umpteenth time, no. You just said who the owner was.

COHEN:
We found fingerprints in the car that match yours.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s a lie.

COHEN:
We also found bloodstains in the trunk and other places in the car.

VIKINGSSON:
I don’t know anything about that.

COHEN:
You have no idea where the bloodstains might have come from?

VIKINGSSON:
Not the slightest.

COHEN:
Why are your fingerprints in the car?

VIKINGSSON:
The only explanation I can think of is that I rode in it. I’ve taken a few illegal taxis in my day.

COHEN:
So you’re saying you might have ridden in it?

VIKINGSSON:
How else would my fingerprints have gotten there? All I can come up with is that it was an illegal taxi.

COHEN:
Why is your acquaintance lying about the parking spot?

VIKINGSSON:
What?

COHEN:
Why do you think your acquaintance claims that you rent the parking spot from him?

VIKINGSSON:
Wait. Now I remember . . .

COHEN:
I didn’t hear what you said.

VIKINGSSON:
My God, I had forgotten all about it. I rent it from him and sublet it to someone else.

COHEN:
You’re sub-subletting a parking spot?

VIKINGSSON:
Certainly.

COHEN:
Can you give us the name of this other person?

VIKINGSSON:
Sure, but the problem is I haven’t heard from him for months. He hasn’t been paying.

COHEN:
But you’ve continued to pay on your sublease?

VIKINGSSON:
Yes, I don’t want to lose the spot.

COHEN:
And you haven’t heard from the person who rents it from you?

VIKINGSSON:
Not in the last few months.

COHEN:
Meanwhile, there’s a car standing in a parking spot that you don’t know anything about, a car that’s got your fingerprints on the wheel and door handles.

VIKINGSSON:
Wonders never cease.

COHEN:
Our tests show that the bloodstains in the car match some of the blood we found in your Gothenburg apartment.

VIKINGSSON:
How many blood types are there altogether? Three?

COHEN:
We also have witness statements that there were bloody clothes in your apartment.

VIKINGSSON:
Who says that?

COHEN:
According to witness reports, a garbage bag in your apartment had bloody clothes in it.

VIKINGSSON:
That’s a lie.

COHEN:
Where did the blood come from?

VIKINGSSON:
What blood?

COHEN:
The bloodstains.

VIKINGSSON:
Okay, I might as well come clean before we go any further.