Authors: Camilla Ceder
He
switched on the radio and caught the latest news bulletin. So far the media
hadn't paid any attention to the murder of Olof Bart. As long as they didn't
get wind of the connection between Bart and Waltz, they were unlikely to make a
fuss. And that was probably for the best: as long as the murderer didn't know
that they had linked the two deaths, they had an advantage.
It
was dusk, and as always during the Swedish winter the darkness came quickly. By
the time they drove into Ulricehamn, it had settled over the town.
'I
don't know about you,' said Tell as he pulled into the car park of the first
pizzeria he spotted, 'but I'm bloody starving.'
Gonzales
nodded gratefully. His stomach had been grumbling for quite some time about the
ridiculously low-calorie canteen lunch he had bolted down before they left.
Just
as they were about to take the four steps in two strides, the door was opened
from the inside by a stout man in his forties.
'I'm
just closing,' he said, rattling his bunch of keys. 'Excuse me.'
He
stood patiently on the top step as Tell blocked his way.
'What
do you mean?' He was unable to hide his agitation. 'When do you think people
actually eat pizza - for breakfast? What kind of bloody pizzeria closes before
six o'clock in the evening?'
'A
lunch pizzeria,' said the man tersely. He moved Tell firmly to one side and
marched down the steps.
Tell
was therefore in a particularly bad mood when they eventually found Johansson
Johansson. The car rental company was located on a small industrial
estate on the way out of town, directly opposite a paint shop and a locked
warehouse. Light from the sparse street lamps was reflected in puddles of
petrol and melted snow. They parked outside the entrance and Tell took a quick
drag on his cigarette, sniffing the air like a tracker dog. A smell like burnt
plastic pervaded the whole area.
Berit
Johansson had obviously been waiting for them: there was a pot of coffee and a
plate of cakes and biscuits on the desk.
'I'll
close up,' she said. She locked the door then went and sat opposite Tell and Gonzales,
who had already helped themselves to cakes.
'Help
yourselves
,' she said ironically.
'You
rented out a Grand Cherokee during the period we're interested in,' said Tell,
his mouth full of Swiss roll. He was far too tired and hungry to bother with
small talk.
'Yes,'
said the woman, opening out a sheet of paper she had been keeping in the breast
pocket of her shirt. She put on her glasses and began to read.
'He
was here between five thirty and six on the Wednesday. I stay open until seven
on Wednesdays. And I open between Christmas and New Year - that's always a good
time for us. Lots of people hire a car to visit friends and relatives over the
holiday.'
Tell
nodded pensively. If this was their man, it meant he had hired the car the day
before he went to see Olof Bart. He thought about what this might mean. That he
lived in the Ulricehamn area? On the other hand, would he have been so stupid
as to hire a car from a local firm? Tell wouldn't have done that if he was
about to go and murder somebody.
'Go
on.'
'He
was medium height and he had blue eyes. Light-coloured hair, I think. He kept
his hat on.
Indoors as well.'
She
looked up from the sheet of paper.
'I
made a note of all the details I could remember after I spoke to you on the
telephone,
herr
Gonzales.'
Gonzales
nodded to her to continue.
'He
was quite untidily dressed. I think he was wearing some kind of dark
tracksuit.'
'How
did he get here?' asked Tell.
'Er…
I don't know. On foot, I think. Sometimes clients leave their own vehicle in
our car park, for example if they're hiring a bigger car, but I know the car
park was empty at the time. So he must have come on foot.'
'Is
there a bus that comes out this way?' asked Gonzales.
She
nodded. 'There's a bus stop about a kilometre from here, Majga-tan, the number
12. It doesn't run all that often though.'
Bus/driver
no. 12
wrote Gonzales on his pad, followed by
Door to door in area.
But first they needed to find out the name used to hire the car.
'I
assume you keep a record of rentals,' Tell went on, biting into another ginger
biscuit despite the fact that he was beginning to feel quite ill.
Berit
Johansson had obviously been waiting for this question, because she produced
the receipt showing that a certain Mark Sjodin, born 18 July 1972, had hired a
Jeep Grand Cherokee between Christmas and New Year.
'He
had ID of course. We always insist on that. And I did try to contact him
afterwards with regard to the insurance, because there was some damage to the
front of the car when it was returned. He just left it in the car park with the
keys in the ignition, but I never managed to get hold of him.'
She
passed the A4 sheet to Tell. The receipt was signed by both Berit Johansson and
the man who claimed to be Mark Sjodin.
Unless of course this
was a perfectly genuine Mark Sjodin who had nothing whatsoever to do with the
murders.
The
signature was printed in small, disjointed letters.
Written by someone who
wasn't used to that name?
But of course that was just speculation; Mark
Sjodin could easily be dyslexic.
'Is
the car here? Good. We'd like to take a look at it, if you don't mind.'
Berit
Johansson looked unsure of herself.
'It's
been hired out since, I mean… We didn't know… It's been cleaned, several times.
And it had been thoroughly washed when the client returned it - it was shining,
in fact.'
'We'd
still like to see it,' said Tell.
He
stood up and dusted the crumbs off his jacket.
'No
problem.
This way, gentlemen.'
As
radio station P3 played 'Have I Told You Lately That I Love You' by Van
Morrison just outside Bollebygd, Gonzales fell asleep. He didn't even wake up
when Bärneflod called Tell's mobile to report on his visit to the car hire firm
on Molndalsvagen. He informed Tell that a Ralf Stenmark had rented a Jeep from
them between Christmas and New Year. The description provided by the staff was
in direct contrast to those given by Berit Johansson and Ann-Cathrine Hogberg,
since everyone who had been working on the afternoon in question had stated
that Stenmark was tall and slim, dark, and wearing a suit.
Tell
ended the conversation and thought about what it all meant.
The
Jeep Berit Johansson showed them had certainly been thoroughly cleaned. Two
clients had had it after Sjodin, so it had been vacuumed inside three times,
which had probably reduced their chances of finding decent fingerprints to
zero. And of course any murderer would have wiped the steering wheel and
instrument panel before returning the car. According to Berit Johansson, the
car had never been so clean.
They
had walked around the vehicle several times and made a note of the damage Berit
Johansson had mentioned, a dent in the side of the bonnet. Berit was sure the
dent had not been there before the car was signed over to Sjodin.
They
told her the car had to remain where it was until they decided whether to have
it brought in for forensic examination. Tell reassured her that if Mark Sjodin
did exist and could give a reasonable explanation as to why he had hired the
Jeep, along with a valid alibi for the night of the murder, then Johansson
Johansson would immediately be given the go-ahead to start renting out
the car once again. It was clear that from a financial point of view the
company needed to have all its vehicles available. However, if Sjodin did not
exist, that was another matter altogether. The car would then be regarded as a
probable source of evidence, and would be examined meticulously, along with the
area around Johansson Johansson.
Tell
tried Karlberg's extension in the hope that he would be in the office, which he
was.
'Will
you be there for a while?'
'I
should think so.'
'Mark Sjodin and Ralf Stenmark.
See what you can find.'
'Is
this from the car
hire
companies?'
'Yes, Ulricehamn and Molndalsvagen.'
Beside
him, Gonzales shifted position, allowing his chin to fall heavily on to his
chest. He started to snore.
It
was late by the time Tell pulled in behind the Co-op in Ham- markulletorget and
parked across two spaces. Gonzales jumped at the sound of Tell's hands clapping
rapidly.
'Time
to wake up, Sleeping Beauty. Bloody good job I didn't let you drive.'
He
winked at Gonzales' bewildered expression.
'This
is where you live, isn't it?'
Gonzales
nodded in some confusion, rubbing his eyes. He couldn't believe he'd fallen
asleep - it must have been lack of food that had made him so tired.
'I'm
not used to skipping meals,' he apologised, and started gathering his things
from the back seat.
Tell
stretched awkwardly and rubbed his aching back. Gonzales felt guilty that he
hadn't offered to drive back, particularly since Tell had been kind enough to
drive him to his door. Tell seemed to know what he was thinking.
'It's
OK. As a punishment I'll come in with you for a couple of minutes. I've
been needing
a pee ever since Borås.'
In
the darkness the huge buildings seemed to lean over the square, as if the
windows and satellite dishes were eyes and ears, watching and listening.
Gonzales said hello to a group of young lads who, despite the late hour, were
hanging around outside Maria's Café in the community centre. In accordance with
the dictates of fashion, they were all displaying the brand name of their
underpants in the gap between their short jackets and their jeans, the crotch
of the jeans hanging somewhere down by their knees. The cafe was closed, but
the kids were taking advantage of the lights inside, which were left on around
the clock.
The roof extending out over the main entrance
provided shelter if it rained.
Unfortunately there wasn't much they
could do about the cold, thought Tell, other than go home to their bedrooms and
play with their train sets. That's what he'd done at their age.
Every
one of them had a cigarette dangling from his lips.
'What
makes young lads hang about in the cold at this time of night? Are they
planning to mug a few pensioners?' Tell mumbled. A series of muggings had
recently been carried out by a gang of small boys, and because of the brutality
involved, the attacks had attracted a certain amount of media attention. He
glanced at the gang, now ambling across the square towards a hot-dog stand.
'Haven't they got anywhere to go?'
Gonzales
laughed.
'That lot?
They wouldn't dare mug a squirrel.
Sweet as lambs, every last one of them.
It's the kids over
in Biskopsgarden who are mugging old
ladies
. There are
only well-behaved blacks here.'
'For
God's sake, that's not what I meant,' said Tell, put out.
Oil
Gonzales
chortled again.
'I
know.'
When
they met a group of noisy young men on their way out of the Somali club, which
was in a small cellar bar on Bredfjallsgatan, Gonzales couldn't help
whispering, 'Hold on to your wallet, Grandad.'
There
was a smell of food and a hint of dampness on the landing outside the Gonzales
family apartment on the eighth floor. The hallway was cluttered with furniture.
On a battered pink corduroy sofa a note from the
landlord
threatened dire consequences if the furniture wasn't removed within a week. The
bass beat of Latino pop poured out through the letter box, filling the
stairwell when Gonzales opened the door.