The Crow Girl (103 page)

And now for the very worst thing of all, he thinks, and walks towards the middle of the room as he looks at the young forensics officer, who is taking down the photographs with his back to him. ‘In the middle of the floor …’ Ivo Andrić begins, but then speech fails him.

He shuts his eyes and tries to find the right words. What he’s looking at can scarcely be described verbally. ‘In the middle of the floor,’ he tries again, ‘is a construction consisting of body parts that have been sewn together.’ He walks around the hideous sculpture. ‘Here once again the technique is taxidermy using clay, as well as traditional embalming.’ He stops and stares at the head, or, rather, the heads.

An insect from hell, he thinks.

He wants to look away, but one detail remains.

‘The body parts are joined together with coarse thread, probably a sturdy sort of fishing line. As far as the limbs are concerned, arms as well as legs, they all appear to belong to children, and have been joined in a manner that resembles –’

He breaks off suddenly, because he usually refrains from personal observations of the objects he’s documenting. But this time he can’t help it.

‘Resembles an insect,’ he says. ‘A spider or a centipede.’

He breathes out and switches off the recorder as he turns towards the young man. ‘Have you got the photographs I picked out?’

A short nod in response, and Ivo shuts his eyes for a moment of silent contemplation.

The Zumbayev brothers, he thinks. And Yuri Krylov and the as yet unidentified body, the boy from Danvikstull. He recognised all four of them from their photographs. He has examined their desiccated bodies so thoroughly that there’s no doubt whatsoever that it really is them, and in some way it feels like a relief. ‘And the fingerprints,’ he says, opening his eyes again. ‘Can I see the pictures once more?’

A hundred digital images of the same, blank, cancer-eaten fingertips that they had previously found on the fridge in Ulrika Wendin’s flat.

The fingerprints are all over the place in here, and Ivo Andrić realises that the end is close.

SINCE JEANETTE AND
Hurtig got back to police headquarters they’ve avoided talking about what they found in Dürer’s cellar, but they’re united in the tacit realisation that the investigation that has gone on all spring and summer is finally heading towards a conclusion.

Now we just have to find Ulrika, Jeanette thinks.

‘Where do you think that is?’ Hurtig asks thoughtfully as he looks at the photograph they found under Dürer’s garage.

‘Could be anywhere.’

The police up in Norrbotten have just told them that the Lundström family’s old house in Polcirkeln has been demolished, and that the same thing applies to the property Dürer owned in Vuollerim.

‘Looks like Norrland,’ Hurtig goes on, ‘but I’ve seen houses down in Småland that look the same. A run-of-the-mill forester’s house. There are thousands of them, all around the country.’ He puts the photograph down and tips his chair back with one foot on the floor.

‘Give it here,’ Jeanette says, and Hurtig passes her the photograph.

Viggo Dürer is sitting on the veranda in front of a small cottage, looking into the camera. He’s smiling.

To his right is a small window with the curtains drawn, and in the background the edge of a forest. It looks to Jeanette like a perfectly ordinary holiday snap. But there’s something about it that she recognises.

She lights a cigarette and blows the smoke out through the gap in the small side window, nervously tapping the cigarette with one finger even though there’s no ash to knock off.

‘I think I saw it on one of Lundström’s videos,’ she says.

They’re interrupted when the door opens and Schwarz comes flying in, closely followed by Åhlund. They’re both drenched. The water from Schwarz’s cropped head forms a small pool on the floor.

‘Christ, it’s coming down,’ Åhlund says, tossing his wet coat over an empty chair and squatting down while Schwarz leans against the wall and looks around the room.

‘So what have you got?’ Jeanette asks.

Åhlund tells them that among Hannah Östlund’s possessions was a deed of gift declaring that Hannah was assuming ownership of a house in the village of Ånge, south of Arjeplog in Lapland.

‘And that’s not all,’ Åhlund goes on. ‘Hannah Östlund in turn donated the house to Sihtunum i Diasporan. For the foundation “to use as necessary,” I think it said.’

‘Why didn’t we see it when we went through the foundation’s assets?’ Hurtig asks.

‘Probably because it was never legally ratified. According to the land registry it’s still in Hannah Östlund’s name.’

‘So who gave the house to Hannah in the first place?’ Jeanette asks eagerly, getting the feeling that things were really moving now.

‘His name was Anders Wikström,’ Schwarz says.

Jeanette walks round the desk and goes to stand by the window. ‘The same Wikström who took part in raping Ulrika,’ she says, lighting another cigarette.

What was wrong with all those men? she wonders, aware that she’ll probably never get an answer to that.

‘So what’s the connection between Anders Wikström and Karl Lundström?’ Schwarz asks.

Hurtig explains how it all fits together. ‘Lundström said they recorded one of the films in Wikström’s cottage in Ånge, outside Sundsvall, because that’s where Wikström lived. But there’s evidently another Ånge, in Lapland.’

Only now does Jeanette realise what it was that she recognised. The curtains, she thinks, picking up the photograph they found at Dürer’s home once more.

‘Do you see?’ she says, pointing animatedly at the picture. ‘In the window behind Dürer?’

‘Red curtains with white flowers,’ Åhlund says.

Jeanette gets her phone out and dials the prosecutor’s number. ‘I’ll call von Kwist and arrange transport to Lapland. I just hope we aren’t too late.’ Her thoughts go to Ulrika, and she prays that she’s still alive.

THERE ARE STILL
two hours to go before the plane takes off when Madeleine completes her electronic check-in and heads towards the security control. She’s travelling light and the only things the customs officers have to check are her handbag and cobalt-blue coat. She’s forced to abandon her cup of ice before she gets to the desk.

Frozen water can be explosive, she thinks as she tips out the last pieces of ice. In some ways that’s true.

She closes her eyes as she passes through the metal detector. For some reason the magnetic field always affects her and the scar at the back of her head tingles. Sometimes it even gives her a headache.

She gets her bag and coat off the conveyor belt and goes into the departure hall. Large groups of people unsettle her. Too many faces, too many possible life stories, and the people are all so tragically unaware of their own vulnerability. She speeds up and heads directly to passport control.

As she waits in the queue her headache arrives. The magnetic field has done its thing and she reaches for a pill from her bag and swallows it as she runs her fingers over the scar beneath her hair.

The border police officer examines her papers, a French passport in the name of Duchamp and a one-way ticket to Kiev, Ukraine. He scarcely looks at her before handing the documents back. She notes the time and checks the screens. The departure looks like it’s going to be on time, in ninety minutes, and she settles down to wait in a corner at the back of the lounge.

After Kiev and her appointment at Babi Yar she’s going to leave everything behind her. Her agreement with Viggo is the conclusion to it all. Now that Victoria Bergman has gone for good, there’s nothing left to do.

She’s tired, terribly tired, and the sound of all the voices is horribly irritating. An unholy mix of banal conversations and noisy arguments that only make her headache worse.

She tries to listen to the noise without hearing individual words and sentences. But it doesn’t work, there are always voices that take over.

She gets her mobile out of her bag, puts on the headphones and selects the radio option. She tunes into a frequency with nothing but static. A low, soothing hiss, and now she can hear herself think.

I’m down at the beach at Venø Bay, collecting stones, she thinks.

The sound of the sea and the wind is mine alone. I’m ten years old and I’m wearing a red jacket, red trousers and white wellington boots.

The hissing in her headphones is the sea, and her thoughts drift off. The Åland Sea a few days ago.

The woman who called herself my mother couldn’t bear the shame, she thinks. I showed her pictures of her just standing by and watching without doing anything.

Pictures of children screaming in pain, pictures of children who don’t understand what’s happening, pictures of me, ten years old, naked on a blanket on the beach.

She couldn’t bear it, and took her shame with her down into the depths.

There’s a sudden change in the static and Madeleine remembers the faint sound of a motorway somewhere in the background. A smell of shampoo and fresh sheets. She shuts her eyes and lets the images come. The room is white and she is small, just a few days old, lying in someone’s arms. Women in neatly pressed white uniforms, some with masks over their mouths. She’s warm, full, content. She feels safe and doesn’t want to be anywhere but there, with her ear against a chest that rises and falls in time with her own breathing.

Two hearts beating the same pulse.

A hand stroking her belly, it tickles, and when she opens her eyes she sees a mouth in which one of the front teeth is chipped.

THE WATER WAS
lapping under the jetty and he curled up close to Victoria. He didn’t understand how she could be so warm even though she was only wearing underpants.

‘You’re my little boy,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘What are you thinking?’

The boats sailed past slowly, and Victoria waved at the men steering them. He liked motorboats, and would have liked to have one, but he was too little. Maybe he’d have one in a few years, when he was as big as she was. He imagined what the boat would look like and soon he remembered what his cousin had promised him.

‘How much fun it’s going to be moving to Skåne. My cousin lives in Helsingborg and we’ll be able to play nearly every day. He’s got a really long car track and he’s going to give me one of his cars. Maybe a Ponsack Farburg.’

She didn’t answer, but he thought her breathing was a bit funny. Jerky and fast.

‘Next summer we’re going abroad. The new au pair’s going to come too.’

Martin was thinking about boats, cars and planes, and knew he wanted them all as soon as he got a bit bigger. He’d have lots of land and more than one garage and maybe his own pilots, chauffeurs and boat captains. Because he didn’t think he’d be able to drive them himself. After all, he couldn’t even tie his own shoelaces, and sometimes the other children said he was stupid. Although really he was just a bit slow developing, like his mum always said.

Suddenly there was a strange noise from the bushes on the slope behind them. A squeak, like a little mouse, then a sound like his mum’s pinking shears sometimes made, the ones he wasn’t allowed to cut paper with. Victoria turned round and he shivered when she got up and the warmth from her body disappeared.

She put on her top and pointed towards the bushes. ‘Do you see, Martin …?’

There was more rustling. A bird came hopping out on one leg, and it didn’t look very well. It appeared all messed up and its other leg was missing. ‘She can’t fly,’ Victoria said, creeping towards it. ‘Her wings are broken.’

He thought the bird looked mean. It was staring at him, and its head was lowered, and if you looked like that then you had to be horrid.

‘Make it go away, please.’ He tried to hide under the towel, but it didn’t help. The bird was still there. ‘Make it go away, Victoria …’

‘All right …’ He heard her sigh, and then he peeped round the edge of the towel and saw her stretching out her hand towards the bird, slowly, and it was sitting completely still now, as if it wanted to be caught.

Finally she grabbed it and picked it up off the ground. He couldn’t understand how she could be so brave. ‘Take it away, a long way away,’ he said, feeling safer.

She laughed at him. ‘What? Are you scared of it? But it’s only a bird!’

‘Take the horrid bird away,’ he said loudly. ‘Put it in a bin so it dies!’

Victoria patted the bird’s head and it pecked gently at her fingers, but she didn’t seem to mind. Martin hoped it would bite her so she realised how dangerous it was.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘Stay there and don’t fall in the water.’

‘I promise,’ he replied. ‘Hurry back.’

He lay down on his stomach, crept to the edge of the jetty and watched the boats again. There was one with an old lady rowing, then two motorboats. He waved at the drivers, but neither of them saw him.

Then he heard the sound of voices and bicycle tyres on the path and looked up.

There were three of them coming along the path, one on a bike and two walking. He recognised all three from school and he didn’t like them. They were much bigger and stronger than he was, and they knew it. They caught sight of him and came down towards the jetty and stopped.

Now he was properly scared. The bird was better than this, and he hoped Victoria would soon be back.

‘Little Martin!’ This from the biggest one, and he was grinning. ‘What are you doing down here all on your own? The river monster might get you.’

He didn’t know what to say, so he just stood and looked at them.

‘Can’t you speak, or what?’ One of the others this time. They looked very similar and Martin thought they might be twins. They were in year 5, anyway, and the biggest one was in year 6.

‘I …’ He didn’t want to seem cowardly, so he decided to say he’d done something that he hadn’t actually dared to do. ‘I’ve been for a swim,’ he said.

‘You’ve been for a swim?’ This was the biggest one again, and he tilted his head and frowned. ‘Well, we don’t believe you. Do we?’ He turned to the others, and they joined in when he started laughing. ‘Go swimming again, and we’ll believe you. Jump in!’ He walked out onto the jetty and it started to sway, making the wood creak.