Authors: Helene Tursten
Tommy looked at the doctor in surprise. “Why is all this coming at once?”
Sverker Löwander stood up, mumbled an excuse, and went into the bathroom. The two police officers could hear him blow his nose and turn on the faucet. When he came out, Irene noticed that he’d washed his face and tried to fix his hair by wet-combing it. The result was not successful. But his eyes.… For a second, Irene met his gaze and found herself swirling into their sea-green depths. The man was dangerous!
An instant later that impression was gone; the man who drew up a chair appeared anything but a heartbreaker. Irene was ashamed of her thoughts and sat up straight.
Just like a romance novel
, she thought. She had to pull herself together and be professional. But before she was able to collect herself enough to ask a halfway intelligent question, Löwander began to speak.
“My father took care of all the investments and the renovations. He put a great deal of money into building that new stairwell so we could have a true hospital elevator. We moved the operation ward to the upper level and built the ICU,” he said.
“When was this?” Irene asked.
“Late fifties. He managed the financial side until his death, about fourteen years ago.”
Irene felt she had to ask another question to quell her curiosity. “Why is Källberg Hospital in the black while you’re in the red?”
“They have much greater resources. They have specialists in all areas. They had money and investments and made their renovations before the crisis in health care. Now they are one of the most modern hospitals in Göteborg.”
“And Löwander Hospital?”
“Basically, we’re bankrupt.”
A long silence followed this revelation. Irene broke it by saying, “So what are you going to do?”
“No idea. No one wants to buy the building to run it as a hospital.” He laughed dryly. “Carina has the idea of opening a fitness center here.”
“What do you think about her idea?” asked Irene.
“The way I feel now, I don’t give a damn.” He covered his face and bent forward.
Tommy and Irene shared a look over Löwander’s back. Using the most comforting voice she could muster, Irene said, “We understand that you’ve been under a great deal of stress. First all your worries about the hospital and now these murders. If you would like to take a break, we can continue later this afternoon.”
Löwander nodded. His head down, he disappeared into the bathroom again. Irene and Tommy stood but waited for him to return.
When he reappeared, he looked totally beaten.
“Would you like a lift home?” asked Irene.
“No … thanks. I’ll stay here and try to pull myself together.”
“Would it be all right if we came back at three this afternoon?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
WHEN THEY REACHED
the landing outside the care ward, Irene said thoughtfully, “He looks like he’s heading for a nervous breakdown.”
“No kidding.”
“What do you think about these kinds of private hospitals?”
“Not a good thing. But if the public system can’t provide good health care, it shouldn’t stand in the way of our getting help elsewhere. Even going to private doctors. Dying while waiting in a line for care is completely crazy.”
They continued in silence down the stairs to Folke Bengtsson’s domain.
THE DOOR WAS
wide open. They found an empty office. Everything looked the same, except that the cardboard box marked
Flags
was on the desk. Irene was looking inside when they heard Bengtsson’s heavy tread on the stairs. He sounded rushed. Irene took a step back and turned toward the doorway as Bengtsson appeared. He was out of breath and seemed agitated.
“Finally! Somebody who will listen,” he exclaimed.
He headed straight for the desk and opened the cardboard box. Triumphantly, he pulled out a roll of white rope.
“Look! What did I say?”
“Excuse us, Folke, but what did you say?”
Bengtsson looked from Irene to Tommy uncertainly. “But … I thought they sent you here to check it out.”
“Check what out?”
“The rope! The flag rope!” Bengtsson exploded.
“What about it?”
“Someone has cut off a huge length of the rope. I went up to the attic, but the police wouldn’t let me look. I said I had to see, but they still wouldn’t let me in.”
“Why did you need to see Linda?”
“Not Linda! The rope. The rope she hung from. I believe it’s a piece of this.”
He held out the coil to Irene, who took it with surprise. The rope was strong but soft and supple. Perfect for strangling someone. She didn’t remember what the rope around Linda’s neck looked like, but she needed to check it out immediately.
“You’re probably correct. We’ll go right away and see.”
“I’ll go. You two talk,” Tommy said. He took the rope and headed out the door.
Bengtsson dried his face with a reasonably clean handkerchief that he pulled from one of the many pockets in his blue overalls. He blew his nose while he was at it. Then he smiled weakly at Irene. “Want a cup of coffee?”
“Thanks, I would.” What a saint!
It was certainly past time to have a cup
, Irene thought.
“Make yourself at home.” Bengtsson pointed at the rickety rib-backed chair and went to fill the coffeepot.
As the water began to percolate and the room filled with the blessed aroma of brewing coffee, Bengtsson searched for mugs and cookies. He exhibited a restlessness he hadn’t last time they were here. He put his white mug with the English
I’m the Boss
on the table, sank down into his desk chair, and pulled out his handkerchief again, repeating the face-wiping procedure.
“You have to understand.… This morning a policeman came with the wire cutters, which they’d found in the stream. Near the dead … Mama Bird. Who for the love of Christ would ever kill that poor woman?” He kept dabbing at his forehead. “The wire cutters belong to the hospital. I’m absolutely sure of it. Earlier I was searching down here for something that Marianne’s killer could have used to sabotage the reserve generator. Then I wasn’t able to find the wire cutters. They were missing from the toolbox.” Bengtsson pointed indignantly at the toolbox on a nearby shelf.
“So they’ve been missing since Marianne was murdered,” Irene concluded.
“Right.”
Bengtsson got up to pour the coffee. “Last night I couldn’t sleep. All sorts of thoughts were tumbling through my head—you know, Marianne’s murder … the bird lady—and I thought it was nasty that the killer had been in here, in my room, and found himself a weapon.”
Bengtsson stopped when he heard noise at the door. It was Tommy returning.
“You were right,” Tommy said, his face grave. “It’s the same rope.”
Bengtsson nodded grimly, as if he’d been sure the whole time. He poured coffee into another mug for Tommy and took up his tale again.
“This morning I overslept, which is unusual. When I arrived at the building, I ran right into a German shepherd in the hallway. I asked the officer with the dog what they were up to, and the guy said they were looking for Linda. It was such a shock. That she’d still be in the building. Then I heard all the commotion in the surgical ward.…”
“Did you know Linda well?”
“I know everybody here. We would chat now and then. She was always energetic and happy. I can’t understand why anyone would do that to her. Or the other two, for that matter. Unbelievable.” Bengtsson shook his head sorrowfully.
“So how did you think of the flag rope?” Irene asked.
“Oh, yeah, that. I’d rushed upstairs and heard that she was … hanging in the attic. One of the operation nurses told me. Then I thought of something.” Bengtsson paused, then spoke each word with emphasis. “I thought that if that devil had stolen one murder weapon from my room, he could steal another. I remembered the rope for the flag that I bought last fall.” He said nothing for a moment. “I came down here and pulled down the box. When I bought the coil of rope, it was twenty meters long. Now it’s hardly fourteen. I’d measured with my thumb, you see.”
“So six meters are missing,” Tommy said.
“Right.”
They finished their coffee and found nothing more to say.
“
IT’S ALMOST TIME
for lunch,” Irene said. “There’s something we can do between lunch and when we meet Löwander at three.”
Tommy sighed. “It’s been my experience that your little ideas tend to take more time than we expect.”
“Not this one. You and I should go see the old nurse who was working the night Marianne was murdered.”
“The old lady who saw the ghost? Siv What’s-Her-Name?”
“Siv Persson. Remember the brooch found in the shed? At the time I didn’t recall this, but now I remember that Siv Persson wore a similar brooch that morning after Marianne’s murder.”
SIV PERSSON LIVED
in a four-story apartment building of yellow brick only a few blocks from Löwander Hospital. Irene had called ahead from the Chinese restaurant where they’d had lunch—beef with bamboo shoots—to make sure she’d be home.
Siv Persson welcomed a visit from the police. Apparently she’d heard about the murder of Gunnela Hägg and was worried about Linda. Irene did not mention that Linda had been found dead. She decided it would be best to tell her in person.
SIV PERSSON LIVED
on the fourth floor. The building had no elevator. After trudging up three flights, Irene rang the doorbell next to the teak door. It was a while before they heard noises inside. Irene put on a friendly expression, knowing they were being scrutinized through the peephole. When the door finally opened a few inches, Irene was reminded of a little mouse peeping from its hole. Nurse Siv was wearing the same gray woolen poncho she’d worn the first time Irene met her. Her hair seemed to be made from the same skein of the yarn. Underneath was a beige-brown dress. Even the most charitable person would not be able to say the dress was attractive. The only touch of color came in the light blue frames of her glasses, and even they looked faded.
“Good day, Nurse Siv. I’m Inspector Irene Huss. I just phoned you. And this is Inspector Tommy Persson.”
“Good day.” Nurse Siv opened the door and invited them in.
The hallway was so tiny that Nurse Siv had to back into the kitchen to give Tommy and Irene enough room to take off their coats. From her spot in the miniature kitchen, she said, “I remember you, Detective Huss, from that horrible morning after … the murder. But I’m sorry to say I do not remember Inspector Persson. There was so much going on. Please, though, let’s not stand on formalities. Would you like some coffee?”
“Thanks, I’d love some. That is, if you were going to make some for yourself,” Irene added quickly.
Siv Persson smiled weakly and turned on her coffee machine. She’d obviously prepared everything needed for a proper coffee hour. The living room’s well-polished coffee table was set neatly with coffee cups and chocolate-filled cookies.
“I’m sorry, I have no coffee cake and didn’t have time to run out and buy some.”
“This is fine.” Tommy smiled. “We’re used to simple spreads with our coffee.”
Siv Persson seemed pleased and tripped along to the kitchen. She returned with a sugar bowl and a creamer.
The moss green sofa with its beige armchairs—all straight lines and shining polished armrests—brought Irene back to her childhood living room. The low oval table matched the wood on the arms of the furniture. The pile on the shag carpet was red and green. The entire living room breathed the fifties. It wouldn’t have surprised Irene for a second if Bill Haley’s “Rock Around the Clock” suddenly blared from the speakers.
The art on the walls shattered that impression. The pieces could be measured in square yards and all seemed to be painted by the same artist. The color scale was strong and saturated, gorgeous landscapes with bluish mountains and lush green valleys.
The late-model TV had the largest screen Irene had ever seen. On both sides of the screen were huge speakers.
“My brother painted them.” Siv nodded proudly at the artwork.
“They’re wonderful. Was he abroad when he painted them?”
“Yes, he lived in Provence during the last twenty years of his life. He died ten years ago.”
Was there a colorful person behind Siv Persson’s gray exterior? When she sank her thin body into the beige armchair, it seemed as if she melted into it and disappeared. Only the light blue frames of her glasses remained floating in midair. Irene shook the image from her brain and decided it was time to get down to reality.
“As you probably figured out, we’re here for something more concrete about what you saw the night of the murder,” she began.
“I’ve told my story several times,” Siv Persson said. There was a hint of worry in her voice.
“Of course. But now a week has gone by. Perhaps some things have gotten clearer to you or some new detail came to mind?”
The nurse pressed her lips together and shook her head slightly. Irene did not let herself be dismissed.
“Have you heard about the garden-shed arson?”
“Yes, it was in the paper … but that can’t have anything to do with Marianne’s murder, can it? Or Linda’s disappearance? I didn’t even know there was a garden shed back there.”
“I assume that you know about the murder of the homeless woman.”
“Yes, that was also in the paper. What is going on at Löwander Hospital?”
“That’s exactly what we’re trying to find out. And we need your help.” Irene let her last sentence sink in. Then she said emphatically, “The murdered homeless woman lived in that shed.”
Siv Persson’s expressions ranged from suspicion to surprise. She wrinkled her forehead. “That can’t be possible, can it? Living in a garden shed during the middle of winter?”
“She was probably grateful to have a roof over her head. Have you ever seen her around the hospital grounds?”
“What did she look like?”
“She was short and very thin. She wore a large man’s coat held together by a piece of rope. Pink knitted cap.”
“No. I’ve never seen anyone who looked like that. I certainly would remember it if I had,” Siv Persson said firmly.
“Back to the fire on Saturday night. It was arson. The homeless woman had a bed of blankets and a sleeping bag. The arsonist set fire to everything after he’d put a black wool nurse’s uniform on top. We also found a nurse’s brooch among the remains. It belonged to a nurse who graduated from the Sophia nursing school. I remembered you had a brooch that matched.”