The Crow Girl (90 page)

‘I told you that someone had hanged him and then thrown hydrochloric acid at him. We assumed there were at least two perpetrators because Samuel was too heavy for one person. I know I told you the rope was too short. It takes a certain length of rope for the person hanging themselves to be able to reach up to the noose from whatever they’re standing on.’

Sofia’s face is ashen. ‘Are you sure you told me all that?’ she says, almost in a whisper.

Jeanette is getting worried, and puts her arm around Sofia. ‘I felt I could tell you. We talked for quite a long time, because you told me you had treated a woman who was suspected of having murdered her husband the same way. Probably the same woman that Rydén, the medical officer, mentioned.’

Sofia’s breathing is fast and shallow. What’s going on? Jeanette wonders.

‘Thanks,’ Sofia says. ‘Let’s go back to your place.’

Jeanette strokes her hair. ‘Are you sure? We can skip the taxi and walk for a bit longer, if you’d rather?’

‘No, I’m fine. Let’s go.’

As Sofia makes a move to go back to the taxi she suddenly bends over and throws up over her shoes. Three pints of Guinness and four bites of Västerbotten cheese pie.

You gotta stand up straight unless you’re gonna fall,

then you’re gone to die.

And the straightest dude I ever knew,

was standing right for me all the time.

SHE WAS ON
her way to the Forensic Psychiatry Department in Huddinge to meet a woman who was suspected of murdering her husband. She was having trouble concentrating, and felt tired and overworked. She was looking forward to having a holiday, a few days off in New York. She turned up the volume of the stereo and began to sing along.

Oh, my Coney Island baby, now. I’m a Coney Island baby, now.

She thought about the man who had just been to see her in the practice. His wife was going to leave him if he didn’t do something about his sex addiction. He himself thought that his desire for sexual stimulation was all to do with how potent he was, and boasted about how sly he was when it came to deceiving his wife. How good he was at coming up with alibis. On several occasions he had said he was working outside the city and would be home late. At Central Station he would buy a train ticket with cash. With his ticket firmly in his hand he would board the train and find the conductor before getting off at the next station. When he got home that night he would leave the stamped ticket in a dish in the kitchen, well aware that his wife would check to see if his story was true.

Sofia parked outside Huddinge Hospital. She got out of the car and walked in through the main entrance. After a routine security check she was allowed through to the visiting room. The woman suspected of murder was already seated on a chair at the table.

‘This whole thing’s a miscarriage of justice,’ the woman began. ‘I had nothing to do with my husband’s death. He committed suicide, and then they arrest me. Is that really how it works?’

‘Yes,’ Sofia replied. ‘I’m afraid it is. But I’m not here to look at the question of guilt, but to see how you are. Do you know why you’re under suspicion?’

‘Yes and no. I’d been working in Gothenburg for a few days, and on the way home we had a bit of wine in the dining car. I took a taxi home, and when I got back to the apartment he was hanging there. I tried to lift him down, but he was too heavy, so I called for the police and an ambulance. While I was waiting I started tidying up, and of course in hindsight I can see that that was a stupid thing to do.’

‘Why was it stupid?’

‘When I found him the phone books were on the floor under the chair he’d been standing on. I don’t know why, but I picked them up and put them back in their place.’ The woman started to cry. ‘The police said the rope was too short and that it was impossible for him to have hanged himself without help.’

Sofia listened to the woman’s story with mounting resignation. It seemed clear that her husband had discovered that the rope was too short, and had put the phone books on top of the chair before he climbed up. But instead of trying to comfort her, the police had cuffed her and taken her off to prison, under suspicion of murder.

THEY WALK UP
the drive from the taxi towards Jeanette’s house. She’s ashamed that the garden looks such a mess, the grass hasn’t been cut and there are fallen leaves everywhere.

Jeanette smiles at Sofia, and as they go in a text message reaches her phone. ‘They’ve made it to the hotel,’ she says with relief once she’s read the short message from Johan.

‘I said there was no need to worry. Do you think Åke’s taken Johan with him because he feels guilty about something?’ Sofia says.

Jeanette looks at her. The colour has returned to her face and she looks much more alert.

She hangs up her jacket, then takes Sofia’s. ‘Who isn’t feeling guilty?’

‘Well, the man you’re trying to find, for instance,’ Sofia shoots back instantly, evidently keen to return to the conversation they had had in the pub. ‘But if someone’s capable of abusing and murdering children, then they’d probably have to have a rather more relaxed conscience than usual.’

‘Yes, that would have to be true.’ Jeanette goes into the kitchen and opens the pantry.

‘If the person in question is also living a normal life at the same time, then –’

‘Could he, though? Live a normal life?’ She gets out a bottle of red wine and puts it on the table as Sofia sits down.

‘Yes,’ Sofia says. ‘But it takes a huge amount of effort to keep the different personalities apart.’

‘So you mean a serial killer could have a wife and children, be conscientious in his job and see his friends, without revealing his double life?’

‘Absolutely. A loner is much easier to find than someone who seems completely normal from the outside. At the same time, that normality itself might be what triggered the sick behaviour.’

Jeanette pulls the cork out of the bottle and pours two glasses. ‘You mean all the demands of everyday life need some kind of vent?’

Sofia doesn’t answer, just nods as she takes a sip of wine.

Jeanette does the same before going on. ‘But someone like that would surely have to stand out somehow?’

Sofia looks thoughtful. ‘Yes, some obvious signs would be, for instance, that his eyes might flit about nervously, and he might prefer not to make eye contact, which in turn would make those around him regard him as slippery and difficult to get close to.’ Sofia puts her glass down. ‘I’ve recently read a book about a Russian serial killer, Andrei Chikatilo, and his former workmates said they had only very hazy memories of him, even though they had worked together for several years.’

‘Chikatilo?’ Jeanette doesn’t remember the name.

‘Yes. The cannibal from Rostov.’

Suddenly Jeanette recalls with revulsion a documentary she saw on television a few years ago.

She had changed channels somewhere in the middle.

‘Please, can’t we change the subject …?’

Sofia gives her a strained smile. ‘OK, but not entirely,’ she says. ‘I’ve got an idea about the perpetrator that I’d like your opinion about. We won’t say any more about cannibalism, but I’d still like you to bear it in mind while I tell you what I think might be going on. OK?’

‘OK.’ Jeanette drinks some more wine. Red as blood, she thinks, and seems to detect a hint of iron somewhere behind the taste of grapes.

‘Something happened to the perpetrator in his childhood,’ Sofia says. ‘Something that influenced him for the rest of his life, and I think it’s got something to do with his gender identity.’

Jeanette nods. ‘Why do you think that?’

‘I’ll start with an example. There’s a genuine case of a fifty-year-old man who abused his three daughters, and wore women’s clothes while he did so. He claimed he had been forced to dress as a girl when he was a child.’

‘Like Jan Myrdal,’ Jeanette interjects with a laugh. She can’t help it, and she knows why. Laughter as a defence against unpalatable subjects. If she’s supposed to sit here and keep the thought of cannibalism at the back of her mind, then she can permit herself a laugh or two.

Sofia loses her thread. ‘Jan Myrdal?’

‘Yes, experimental child rearing. It got quite common again in the seventies, if you remember? Sorry, we’re getting off the subject. I interrupted you …’

The joke seems to have fallen flat. Sofia frowns before going on.

‘It’s an interesting element in a certain type of offender mentality. The perpetrator returns to childhood, to the time when he first became aware of his own sexuality. The fifty-year-old claimed that his real gender identity was female, a young girl’s, and he was convinced that the games he introduced his daughters to were entirely normal in a relationship between child and parent. Through those games he could both relive and sustain his own childhood. And what he perceived to be his true sexual identity.’

Jeanette raises the glass to her mouth again. ‘I get it. I think I can see what you’re getting at. The castration of the boys is a ritual, and it’s about reliving something.’

Sofia looks at her sharply. ‘Yes, but not just anything. It’s a symbol for the loss of sexuality. Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the perpetrator in this case is someone who at an early age went through a change of sexual identity, either voluntary or involuntary.’

Jeanette puts her glass down on the table. ‘You mean a sex change?’

‘Maybe – if not physically, then definitely mentally. The murders are so extreme that I think you ought to be looking for an equally extreme offender. Castration symbolises a loss of sexual identity, and embalming is the technique used to preserve what the perpetrator regards as his work of art. Instead of painting with oils, the artist uses formalin and embalming fluid. Just as I said earlier, it’s a self-portrait, but not just of shame. The central motif is a loss of sexual belonging.’

Interesting, Jeanette thinks. It sounds logical, but she’s still dubious. She still doesn’t understand why Sofia began the conversation by talking about cannibalism.

‘Wasn’t it the case that the dead boys were missing their genitals?’ Sofia says.

Then she understands, and suddenly feels nauseous again.

IF SWEDEN APPEARS
to outsiders to consist of equal parts of freedom, state-run off-licences and high income tax, then Stockholm appears to city planners to consist of one-third water, one-third parks and one-third buildings.

In the same way, a sociologist can divide Stockholm’s inhabitants into poor, rich and very rich. In this last group, however, the division is rather different.

The properly rich do everything they can not to flaunt their wealth, while those living in the suburbs compete to look and behave like multimillionaires. In no other city the size of Stockholm do you see so few Jaguars and so many Lexuses.

In the bar where Prosecutor Kenneth von Kwist is well on his way to getting seriously drunk on rum, cognac and whisky, the clientele consists of the rich and the very rich. The only thing spoiling the socio-economic structure is a group of Japanese men who look like they’re on a field trip to an exotic zoo. Which, in a way, they are.

The delegation is here at the invitation of the Stockholm judicial system, and is from the office of public prosecutions in Kobe. The conference is taking place in the first hotel in the world to have a bar where it’s always winter.

The glass in von Kwist’s hand is made entirely of ice, and is currently full to the brim with whisky from the distillery in Mackmyra, a drink that seems to appeal greatly to their Japanese guests.

What a bunch of fucking puppets, he thinks, looking around hazily. And I’m one of them.

Their party consists of twelve young Japanese lawyers, and with him and his colleagues from the Public Prosecution Authority, there are fifteen of them in total, all wearing thick silver outfits with hoods and heavy gloves that make the below-freezing temperature inside the bar bearable long enough for them to empty their wallets. The cold blue lighting from the blocks of ice that make up the interior of the bar gives a surreal impression, and it feels like he’s in a cartoon series about futuristic Michelin men.

The visit to the ice bar is the culmination of the ten-hour-long conference programme, and, if the prosecutor has learned anything during the day, it’s that it isn’t possible to learn anything on days like this.

‘Another one,’ he mutters to the bartender, putting his glass down hard on the bar.

The prosecutor sips his fourth or fifth whisky of the evening, feels his mood getting steadily worse, and knows he needs a break from this.

He decides to have a cigar before taking his leave. He needs to think, even if somewhere behind the fog of alcohol he realises that no matter what he might think in his current state, he won’t remember it tomorrow. But he still excuses himself, pushes his way through the almost-full bar, hands over his gloves and the bulky silver jacket, and goes out onto the street to be alone for a while.

But he gets no further than lighting the cigar before he is interrupted by a tap on the shoulder.

He turns round and is about to say something cutting when he is hit in the face by a clenched fist. His cheek burns from the lit end of the cigar, which crumbles and falls to the ground while he himself stumbles from the blow and loses his balance.

Someone’s holding him in a tight grip, and puts their knee on his back. The prosecutor is lying helpless with his face against the pavement.

Von Kwist’s body immediately activates the defence mechanism that is managed by its fastest and most durable muscles. The ones in charge of his eyes.

He shuts them tight and begs for his life.

The grip soon relaxes. Ten seconds later he dares to open his eyes and gets to his knees.