The Crow Girl (22 page)

Jeanette picked up the file at once and began to leaf through it. ‘Damn, Hurtig. I’m glad I work with you. Let’s see … Here it is!’

She pulled out a thin document and glanced through it.

‘June 1999. The girl twelve, the boy ten. Extreme violence, wounds from being whipped, sexual assault, children with a foreign background. Case dropped because of … what does it say? The children weren’t thought to be credible because their testimonies didn’t match. And his wife gave him an alibi once again. It might be hard to link him to our cases. We need more than this.’

Hurtig had already thought of that.

‘We could take a chance,’ he said. ‘In Bergman’s file I found the name of his daughter. Maybe we could try giving her a call?’

‘I’m not with you. How do you think she could help?’

‘Who knows, maybe she isn’t as willing to give her father an alibi as his wife seems to be. OK, it’s a shot in the dark, but it’s worked before, hasn’t it? What do you say?’

‘OK. But you make the call.’ Jeanette passed him the phone. ‘Have you got her number?’

‘It wasn’t in the file, but …’ Hurtig said, turning to a page of his notebook with an extravagant gesture before dialling the number. ‘It’s a mobile phone, no address, sadly.’

Jeanette chuckled. ‘You knew I’d agree to this.’

Hurtig smiled at her as he waited in silence.

‘Yes, hello … I’m trying to get in touch with a Victoria Bergman. Is this the right number?’ Hurtig looked surprised. ‘Hello?’ He frowned. ‘She hung up,’ he said.

They looked at each other.

‘We’ll leave it a while, then I’ll try talking to her.’ Jeanette stood up. ‘Maybe she’d rather talk to a woman. Anyway, I could do with a coffee now.’

They went out into the corridor and off towards the kitchen.

Just as Jeanette had taken the hot plastic cup from the machine, Schwarz came racing in, closely followed by Åhlund.

‘Have you heard about the security van robbery on Folkungagatan?’ Schwarz adjusted his holster. ‘Billing wants us to head over and help out. Looks like they’re short of people.’

‘Yeah, yeah. If that’s what he says, then you’d better get going.’ Jeanette shrugged.

Ten minutes later Hurtig passed Jeanette the phone, and she glanced at the time on her computer, then made a note: TEL BENGT BERGMAN’S DAUGHTER.

After three rings a woman answered.

‘Bergman.’ The voice was deep, almost like a man’s.

‘Victoria Bergman? Bengt Bergman’s daughter?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Right, hello, my name’s Jeanette Kihlberg, I’m calling from the Stockholm police.’

‘I see. So how can I help you?’

‘Well … I’ve actually been given your phone number by your father’s lawyer, who’s wondering if you’d be able to act as a character witness for your father in a forthcoming trial.’

Hurtig nodded and smiled in approval at her lie. ‘Smart,’ he whispered.

There was silence on the line before the woman answered.

‘I see. So you’re calling me for that?’

‘I understand if you think it’s uncomfortable, but according to what I’ve been told you have things to say about your father that might help him. Presumably you know what he’s been accused of?’

Hurtig shook his head. ‘Christ, you’re crazy!’

Jeanette held up a hand to shut him up, and heard the woman sigh.

‘No, I’m sorry, but I haven’t spoken to either him or Mum for over twenty years, and to be honest I’m surprised he thinks I’d want anything to do with him.’

The woman’s reply made Jeanette wonder if Hurtig had been right.

‘Ah, that doesn’t quite fit what I’ve heard,’ she lied.

‘No, but there’s nothing I can do about that, is there? If you’re interested, I could tell you instead that he’s bound to be guilty. Especially if it’s got anything to do with what’s between his legs. He forced that on me from when I was three or four years old.’

The candour of the woman’s response left Jeanette speechless, and she had to clear her throat.

‘If what you’re saying is true, I can’t help wondering why you never reported him.’

What the hell is this? she wondered, as Hurtig gave her a thumbs up and smiled in triumph.

‘That’s something I prefer to keep to myself. You’ve got no right to call this number and ask questions about him. He’s dead to me.’

‘OK, I understand. I won’t disturb you again.’

There was a click, and Jeanette put the phone down.

Hurtig sat in silence waiting for her to say something.

‘We bring him in,’ she eventually said.

‘Yes.’ Hurtig stood up. ‘Do you want to interview him, or do you want me to do it?’

‘I’ll take it, but you can sit in if you like.’

Her phone rang just as Hurtig shut the door behind him, and Jeanette saw that it was her boss.

‘Where the hell are you?’ Billing sounded cross.

‘In my office. Why?’

‘I’ve been waiting for you for almost fifteen minutes. Had you forgotten that we’ve got a steering-group meeting?’

Jeanette put a hand to her forehead. ‘No, not at all. I’m on my way.’

She hung up and, as she half ran to the conference room, thought that it was going to be a long day.

WHEN JEANETTE WAS
having breakfast the next morning and opened the paper and saw the picture, she felt ashamed for the second time in as many days.

In the sports section of the morning paper was a photograph of Johan’s team.

Hammarby had won the final against Djurgården 4–1, and Johan had scored two of the goals.

Jeanette was mortified that she’d forgotten to call the previous evening to ask how the match had gone, even though he had said it was a cup final and everything.

The steering-group meeting had dragged on, because Billing was so long-winded, then the rest of the afternoon had been spent trying to get hold of Bengt Bergman and interviewing the prostitute who had reported him. She had been very terse, and merely repeated what she had said in her original report. It was eight in the evening by the time Jeanette left police headquarters. She fell asleep on the sofa in front of the television before Åke and Johan came home, and by the time she woke up after midnight they had already gone to bed.

Jeanette realised that the dead boys she was working on were getting more of her attention than her own living son. But at the same time there was nothing she could do about that. Even if he was upset today, and was justified in thinking that she was neglecting him, hopefully one day he would realise that that wasn’t the case. And understand that things hadn’t been so bad for him. A roof over his head, food on the table, and parents who might have been absorbed in their own affairs but still loved him more than anything else.

But what if he grew up not seeing it like that, and only remembering the things he thought were wrong?

She heard Johan emerge from his room and go into the bathroom as Åke came down the stairs. Jeanette stood up and got two more plates and mugs out.

‘Good morning,’ Åke said, getting the orange juice out of the fridge and drinking a few mouthfuls straight from the carton. ‘Have you spoken to him?’

He pulled out a chair, sat down and looked out the window. The sun was shining and the sky was clear blue. A few swallows were swooping over the lawn, and Jeanette was thinking of suggesting they have breakfast in the garden.

‘No, he’s only just up. He’s in the shower at the moment.’

‘He’s very disappointed in us.’

‘Us?’ Jeanette tried to catch his eye, but he went on staring out the window. ‘I thought I was the only one he was pissed off with?’

‘No.’ Åke turned round.

‘So what have you done to make him pissed off with you?’

Åke put his mug down with a bang, pushed his chair back and stood up abruptly.

‘Pissed off?’ He leaned across the table. ‘Is that what you think it is? That Johan’s pissed off with us?’

Jeanette was taken aback by the sudden outburst.

‘But –’

‘He’s not angry, and he’s not pissed off. He’s sad and disappointed in us. He thinks we don’t care about him, and that we argue all the time.’

‘Weren’t you at the match yesterday?’

‘No, I couldn’t make it.’

‘What do you mean, you couldn’t make it?’ Jeanette realised she was about to transfer her own shortcomings onto Åke. At the same time she still thought it was his responsibility to make sure that everything functioned at home. She worked as hard as she could, and when that wasn’t enough she called her parents and asked them for money. All he had to do was sort out the dishes, occasionally do some laundry, and make sure that Johan did his homework.

‘No, I couldn’t make it! As simple as that!’

Jeanette saw that he was seriously upset now.

‘I have work to do, you know,’ he went on, throwing his arms out. ‘God, you’re suffocating.’

Jeanette could feel herself getting angry. ‘So do something about it then!’ she yelled. ‘Get yourself a proper job instead of lazing about at home!’

‘What are you fighting about?’ Johan was standing in the doorway. He was dressed, but his hair was still wet. Jeanette could see how sad he was.

‘We’re not fighting.’ Åke went over to the coffee machine. ‘Your mum and I were just talking.’

‘It didn’t sound like it.’ Johan turned to go back to his room.

‘Come and sit down, Johan.’ Jeanette let out a heavy sigh and glanced at her watch. ‘Dad and I are sorry we missed the match yesterday. I see you won. Congratulations!’ Jeanette held up the paper and pointed to the picture.

‘Oh,’ Johan said, and sighed, sitting down at the breakfast table.

‘You know,’ Jeanette began, ‘we’ve both got a lot on our minds at the moment, your dad and I, with work and …’ She started to make a sandwich as she searched for words that weren’t there. They had let him down, and there were no good excuses.

She put the sandwich in front of Johan, who looked at it with distaste.

‘Everyone else’s parents were there, and they all have jobs as well.’

Jeanette looked at Åke for some support, but he was still standing and looking out the window.

Unconditional love, she thought. She was the one who was supposed to be the bearer of that, but without noticing it she had somehow shifted the burden to her son’s shoulders.

‘But you know,’ she said, giving Johan a beseeching look, ‘Mum goes out catching bad guys so you and your friends and their parents can sleep soundly at night.’

Johan glared at her, and in his eyes was a flash of fury that she’d never seen before.

‘You’ve been telling me that since I was five years old!’ he yelled, getting up from the table. ‘I’m not a bloody child any more!’

The door to Johan’s room slammed.

Jeanette sat with her cup of coffee between her hands. It was warm. The only thing that was warm at that moment.

‘How did it come to this?’

Åke turned and looked at her thoughtfully. ‘I can’t remember it being any other way,’ he said, and looked away, then glanced back at her. ‘I’m going to start the washing machine.’

He turned his back on her and walked out.

Jeanette buried her face in her hands. Tears were burning behind her eyelids. She could feel the ground giving way beneath her feet. Everything she had taken for granted was being shaken to its foundations. Who was she really, without them?

She pulled herself together, went out into the hall, grabbed her jacket and left without saying goodbye. They didn’t want her there.

She got in the car and drove off to what was left of her life.

WHILE SHE WAS
waiting to get hold of von Kwist she read everything she could find about anaesthetics in general, and Xylocain in particular.

At half past ten she finally managed to reach the prosecutor by phone.

‘Why are you so insistent?’ he began. ‘As far as I’m aware, you’ve got nothing to do with that case. It’s one of Mikkelsen’s, isn’t it?’

Jeanette felt herself getting annoyed at his authoritarian tone.

‘Yes, that’s true, but there are a number of things I’d like to get clear. Things he said in his interviews that I’ve been wondering about.’

‘I see – like what?’

‘The most important is that he claims to know how to go about buying a child. A child that no one would miss, which you can later pay to get rid of. Then there’s a couple of other things I’d like to get clear with him.’

‘Such as?’

‘The dead boys had been castrated, and their bodies contain an anaesthetic used by dentists. Karl Lundström has fairly extreme views about castration, and, as I’m sure you’re aware, his wife is a dentist. In short, I believe he’s of interest to my investigation.’

‘Excuse me …’ Von Kwist cleared his throat. ‘But I think it sounds very hazy. Nothing concrete. And there’s also something you don’t know.’ He fell silent.

‘Really? What is it I don’t know?’

‘That he was under the influence of strong medication during those interviews.’

‘OK, but surely that doesn’t explain –’

‘My dear,’ he interrupted her, ‘you don’t know which medication we’re talking about.’

The prosecutor’s patronising arrogance made her boil with rage, but she realised she had to keep her cool.

‘No, that’s true. Which medication are we talking about?’

She heard him rustle some papers.

‘Does the name Xanor ring any bells?’

Jeanette thought.

‘No, I can’t say –’

‘I thought as much. Because if it did you wouldn’t be taking Lundström’s claims seriously.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Xanor is the same drug that made Thomas Quick confess to pretty much every murder that’s ever been committed. If they’d asked him, he’d probably have taken responsibility for Palme’s murder and the Kennedy assassination as well. Maybe even the Rwandan genocide.’ Von Kwist chuckled at his own joke.

‘So you mean –’

‘That there’s no point in you taking this any further. Let me put it this way: I forbid you to take this any further.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Of course I can. I’ve already spoken to Billing.’