Authors: Hakan Ostlundh
“Yes, I have something interesting here,” she said, holding up the folder. “A picture of the perpetrator.”
There was total silence in the room. Everyone watched as Eva took a printout on shiny photo paper from the folder and handed it over to Göran. The head of the squad inspected the picture and then handed it on to the prosecutor.
“I got a tip that a number of alarms with cameras have an internal control function,” Eva related while Klint inspected the picture. “Even if the alarm is not activated, the cameras take a still picture once a minute that is stored in the memory, but which are then deleted, or rather written over, when the alarm is activated and starts storing video images. There is no function on the menu to display these images, but with a little support from the manufacturer I’ve managed to extract them.”
“Is this the only one you produced?” he asked.
“No,” said Eva, “but the only one that shows the perpetrator.”
“So now we have an exact time,” said Göran. “I assume that you’ve checked that the alarm’s clock was right?”
“I’ve done that,” said Eva with a smile.
Fredrik got the picture after the prosecutor. In the bottom right-hand corner the date and time were indicated: 18:36:23. The picture covered the whole hall with the front door farthest away in the picture. In the middle of the picture someone in a light jacket or sweatshirt with a hood was seen leaning over Malin Andersson. The hood on the jacket was pulled up. It was not possible to see any of the hair or face, but it was quite obviously a woman. The shoulders were narrow, the hips broader, and in the forward-leaning position the rear end had a form that Fredrik at least had never seen on a man. The color reproduction was poor and leaned sharply in the blue-violet direction. Presumably the jacket, or sweatshirt, was light gray or possibly pink. On the back it said NYU in big letters. The person in the picture had both arms in front of her, so probably it had been taken just when a blow struck Malin Andersson’s head.
“Bring in Henrik Kjellander for questioning,” said Klint. “Maybe he knows who it is.”
Fredrik handed the picture over to Sara. He had a hard time taking his eyes from it. Far out on the left-hand edge of the picture the head of a little boy was visible and a pair of terrified, wide-open eyes.
Henrik Kjellander pushed back his hair with a hand that was clearly shaking. It was as if the seriousness in the room had affected him before they even said why they had asked him to come in.
Fredrik was again sitting in front of Henrik in the big interview room at the far end of the corridor, this time along with Sara Oskarsson. Henrik appeared to be feeling a little better than on Saturday, or at least seemed more present, which was not necessarily the same thing.
Fredrik set the green plastic folder out on the table with the printed-out photo from the surveillance camera upside down.
“We have a picture we want to show you,” said Fredrik.
Henrik looked worriedly at the folder under Fredrik’s hand.
“Is it a suspect?” he said.
“The picture comes from one of the cameras that are connected to the alarm in the house.”
Henrik looked at Fredrik with surprise. It was evident that he did not really understand how it all fit together and Fredrik explained the situation with the control function that Eva Karlén had discovered.
“I see, so … what does it show?”
“The picture shows the perpetrator.”
Henrik gave a start, almost jumping backward in the chair.
“The one who … You’re quite sure of that?”
“Yes, there is no doubt that this is the perpetrator,” said Fredrik. “But the person in the picture has his or her back turned toward the camera. It’s not possible to identify him or her. Or in any case, we can’t. We thought that possibly you could help us.”
Henrik raised his hand as if to push back his hair again, but the movement stopped level with his forehead without his fingers touching his hair.
“The picture was taken while the crime was committed,” Sara clarified. “We understand that it may be extremely hard for you to look at this. You don’t see much of Malin in the picture, but even so … And, of course, it’s up to you whether you want to look at it.”
“Up to me?” said Henrik.
He took a deep breath and audibly exhaled through his nose.
“Do I have any choice, I mean…”
He fell silent and looked first at Sara and then at Fredrik.
“This may be decisive,” said Sara.
Henrik forced a tight smile and cleared his throat.
“Okay,” he said. “It’s just as well to get it over with.”
Fredrik nodded, took out the picture, and placed it in front of Henrik.
“But,” he said immediately and then abruptly fell silent.
He looked up at Fredrik and Sara, then at the picture again.
“But that’s … that’s Maria. Or I think it’s her sweatshirt. I don’t get it. It can’t be Maria, can it?”
No, it could not be Maria, thought Fredrik, they had already ruled her out. It could not be her. Assuming that the neighbor’s information was correct.
Henrik laughed.
“Or what? This is absurd. It’s impossible.”
He reached out his hand and carefully brushed the picture as if the touch could reveal something more.
“It just can’t be her,” he said again.
“You’re sure that this is her sweatshirt?” said Sara.
“Yes,” he said with clear certainty. “She’s been wearing it ever since she got here. It doesn’t show very well on the picture, but it’s pink … those letters … yes, that’s it. There’s a zipper in front.”
But if it wasn’t Maria in the picture, thought Fredrik, why did the murderer have her sweatshirt on?
“When did you last see her wear the sweatshirt?”
“No,” Henrik screamed loudly.
Both Fredrik and Sara recoiled from the sudden outburst.
“No, no, no,” whimpered Henrik.
He leaned over the table and tenderly stroked his fingers over the left edge of the picture, right next to his son’s staring eyes.
“No, no, no.”
His eyes filled with tears and despair cut into Henrik’s words.
“He’s alive. Look, he’s alive.”
Fifteen minutes later Fredrik and Sara were standing in Göran Eide’s office. The sky had turned cloudy above the courtyard’s glass covering. The roof lighting formed shadows on their faces.
“It can’t be Maria Andersson,” said Fredrik. “The picture was taken at six thirty-six and Ann-Katrin Wedin saw Maria and Ellen pass before the Channel 4 local news had started. She’s quite sure of that.”
“You’ve double-checked it?”
“Yes.”
Eva had checked the alarm’s time indicator yet again. Fredrik had called and questioned the neighbor once more to rule out any possible mistake. Sara had even checked with TV4 that the program truly had been broadcast at the scheduled time.
“The perpetrator may have put on the sweatshirt to conceal her own clothes,” Göran suggested.
“Or to get Malin Andersson to think it was Maria who had come back,” said Fredrik. “That could explain how she got in.”
Sara picked up the picture, which was lying on Göran’s desk.
“But then she must have been certain that it was Maria’s sweatshirt.”
“We can forget about the motive right now,” said Göran. “We have a picture of a sweatshirt that, if it’s not burned up, is probably lying in a trash barrel or wastebasket somewhere here on Gotland. Or possibly tossed by a road somewhere. The perpetrator must have taken it with her in her car, otherwise we would have found it. And she can hardly have risked keeping it in the car very long.”
“If we find it that may be the key that connects the perpetrator with Malin and Axel,” said Sara.
“I’ll go to the media with it, so maybe we’ll get a little help,” said Göran. “You can question Maria and try to get some clarity in how the perpetrator may have acquired the sweatshirt.”
He reached for the picture that Sara was holding and put it back in the folder.
“The garbage in Stina Hansson’s building has been checked,” he said. “Nothing there.”
He drummed with irritation against the desk with his index and middle finger.
“If it’s Stina Hansson or one of the half sisters, we’re going to be able to prove it sooner or later, I’m sure of that. But if it’s someone else this is moving much too slow.”
Fredrik agreed. They were holding one person, but that track was not being developed. They had to go further. With Stina Hansson or someone else.
“I’ve talked with Peter and we’ve decided to arrange a meeting on Fårö,” said Göran. “At the community center. Today is too late, but tomorrow evening at seven o’clock. We will draw on every conceivable contact and set up posters. We have to get them to tell what they know. Someone must have seen something, that’s just how it is.”
“Is it really true, that business that Fårö residents are so bad at cooperating with the police?” Sara asked.
“As long as it concerns testifying against other Fårö residents, yes,” said Göran and smiled back. “On Fårö and in När they’re the trickiest. All old policemen on Gotland know that.”
* * *
Maria Andersson sat completely mute and observed the picture that Fredrik had set out on the table. The blood vessels were clearly visible under the thin skin below her eyes and her hair was flat and heavy on her head. She had set her hands on either side of the picture, lightly clenched.
“What do you say?” said Sara at last.
Maria looked up, blinked a couple of times.
“Huh?”
Maria turned her eyes toward Fredrik, as if she was pleading for help.
“Isn’t that your sweatshirt?” said Sara, pointing at the picture with a white ballpoint pen.
Maria looked at the picture.
“I have a sweatshirt like that, I do have, but…”
“According to Henrik you were wearing it on Friday morning,” said Sara.
Maria opened her mouth and closed it again without saying anything. She was reminiscent of a fish on dry land.
“It must be your sweatshirt, right? It can’t very likely be a coincidence,” Sara pressed on.
She looked up, met Sara’s gaze.
“Do you think it’s me? That I killed Malin? And—”
Maria silently shook her head.
“We just want to know how the murderer happens to have your sweatshirt on.”
“I don’t know. How should I know that?”
She shook her head, but then her hands flew up in the air.
“Wait,” she said. “Wait now.”
She waved her hands defensively toward them, as if to gain time and space to think.
“It’s true that I was wearing it the morning when Henrik left. Then we were outside. It got hot in the sun when I was running around in the garden with Ellen and Axel. I took off the sweatshirt and hung it on a chair. I must have left it there when we went in. Then we changed into swimsuits and put bathrobes on, so then I didn’t think about it.”
“So you think that the sweatshirt was still hanging on the chair and that the murderer put it on before she went into the house.”
“Yes, it must have happened like that.”
She looked in distress at the picture that depicted her sister’s final seconds in life.
Yes, thought Fredrik. That was no doubt the simple explanation. For a brief moment, just like Henrik Kjellander, he had thought that Maria might be the murderer, however strange that seemed. But she had neither opportunity nor motive.
Before the day’s end there was one more setback. The technical investigation of Stina Hansson’s car produced nothing that could bind her to the murders or in any other way prove that she had been in the house in Kalbjerga. Fredrik wondered whether Klint really could get her remanded.
He got away earlier than the day before and was at home in time to see the news. They included the sweatshirt in their story about the Fårö murders.
“How are you?” said Ninni when he had turned off the TV.
“Good.”
“You seemed completely absent over the weekend.”
“I know,” he said. “There were some long days.”
Ninni looked at him as if she expected something more.
“What?”
“No, nothing.”
Fredrik got up and went into the kitchen.
“There’s food in the fridge. I didn’t know when you would be coming so I put it in there.”
“Thanks. I’ll see if I can manage to warm it up.”
He opened the refrigerator door.
“Is it the casserole dish with the blue cover?” he called.
“You don’t have to shout. I’m here.” She had followed him out into the kitchen. “Yes, it is.”
He took out the plastic dish and raised the lid. Mashed potatoes, Salisbury steak, and green peas. An unusually light Salisbury steak.
“Veal burger?”
“Yes.”
“Advanced.”
He turned on the oven and transferred the food to an ovenproof glass dish. While the food heated, he went up to Simon. For once he was not sitting in front of the computer. He was semi-inclined on the bed and writing with barely legible letters on a piece of notebook paper with dotted lines.
Fredrik decided not to offer any sententious advice about the advantage of sitting at a desk when you write. It was not that easy to keep quiet, but he succeeded.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Religion.”
“We can look through it later.”
“Sure.”
* * *
When Fredrik came back, Ninni was still sitting in the kitchen, browsing through the newspaper. She put it aside as Fredrik set out the food and sat down.
“I saw some pictures today, of the ones who were murdered up there,” he said.
Ninni wrinkled her nose.
“Ugh.”
“Yes, exactly. I thought it was really unpleasant.”
“Yes.”
“Although I don’t always think that. True, they were autopsy pictures…”
“But stop. Do you have to talk about that when we’re eating?”
“So what? I’m the one who’s eating, not you.”
“But I think it’s horrid,” said Ninni.
Fredrik took a big bite of the veal burger. Perhaps it wasn’t possible to explain to someone who wasn’t a police officer. Not even to Ninni. The point was not that it was horrid. The point was that he normally didn’t react to pictures of dead, mutilated people. Looking at that sort of thing was part of his job. It was a means to achieve a goal. Just as well to forget it.