The Treacherous Net (16 page)

“Did you meet Stig Wennerström when he worked at the embassy there?”

“No,” Oscar said firmly.

“Did you meet him during the summer of 1941?”

“No.”

“Had you met him previously?”

“No, absolutely not. Even if we’d been working in Moscow at the same time, I very much doubt that we would have gotten to know each other. He was almost ten years older than me, and he was a military attaché. He would have had far more important things to do than to spend time with the underlings at the embassy. Wennerström was recalled to Sweden in the summer of ’41, and he didn’t return to Moscow. I arrived at the beginning of October, and Calle in December that same year. So we never met the future master spy.”

“So both you and Calle were in Stockholm at the time of the Hårsfjärden disaster?”

“Yes. It was terrible. Total chaos.”

Oscar Leutnerwall had confirmed what they already knew: Stig Wennerström, Carl-Johan Adelskiöld and Oscar had all been in Stockholm when Elof Persson was murdered.

Oscar picked up the beautiful silver coffeepot to top off their cups. The lid was shaped like a gentle wave, while the knob and handle were made of dark polished wood.

“What did you and your cousin do in Moscow?”

“We worked at the embassy, dealing with a range of issues involving Swedish interests—usually private individuals or business matters.”

“So you were never what we might refer to as spies?”

“Never. It was more the military personnel attached to the embassies who went in for that kind of thing.”

“Like Stig Wennerström?”

“Like Stig Wennerström.”

“So you and Wennerström never met in Stockholm during the war?”

Fryxender maintained the same calm, neutral tone, but Andersson could actually feel the tension emanating from his colleague. His own palms were sweating.

“No. If I’d bumped into him on the street, I wouldn’t have known who he was.”

“What about your cousin? Did he know Wennerström?”

Oscar shook his head.

“No. He would have told me, certainly when the Wennerström affair hit the headlines. Calle would never have been able to keep something like that to himself.”

“And after Moscow you both had glittering careers. I assume that the years in Russia were extremely beneficial?”

“Being in Moscow during the war was very educational. We learned a great deal.”

“Did you and Calle keep in touch?”

“We called each other now and again, and exchanged Christmas and birthday cards. But we could go for two or three years without meeting up.”

“But you both moved back to Göteborg after you retired?”

“Yes—we had our apartments here, after all. Aunt Vera lived to the age of ninety-four. Calle had the place renovated after her death, and moved in a few years later. He loved that building.”

There was a brief pause as they remembered what had happened to the building and its owner. Andersson thought about what had been found in the cellar after Carl-Johan’s death.

Fryxender broke the silence. “Did you and Calle ever meet a man named Elof Persson in Stockholm during that last summer, before you went to Moscow?”

Oscar frowned. “Elof Persson . . . Not as far as I recall. The name doesn’t ring any bells.”

“What about Mats Persson?”

“Mats Pers—but wasn’t that the name of the man they found walled up in the . . . I saw the name in the paper. Neither Astrid nor I have ever known anyone named Mats Persson. We discussed it when we read the article, but I’ve been wondering ever since why he ended up in Calle’s cellar,” Oscar said.

“We’ve never known a Mats Persson,” Astrid confirmed.

“So who’s Elof Persson?” Oscar asked, giving Fryxender a sharp look.

“Mats Persson’s father.”

The siblings looked puzzled when no explanation was forthcoming.

Eventually Astrid spoke up. “And why are you asking questions about him?”

“He was murdered too.”

In the stillness that followed they could all hear Winston, purring away contentedly.

Once again Astrid was the first to speak. “When?”

“In the fall of 1941. In Stockholm.”

“And why would you think that Calle or I knew this Elof Persson?” Oscar asked.

“Your names came up, along with Stig Wennerström’s name, in the papers Mats Persson left behind. He had been doing some research of his own, trying to find out the truth behind his father’s death. Unfortunately it looks as if he found it,” Fryxender said dryly.

Oscar and Astrid stiffened. Neither of them moved or said anything for a long time.

Eventually Oscar cleared his throat. “And what was the truth?”

“We’re not quite sure, but obviously it was dangerous,” Fryxender replied.

“I imagine this Mats had been reading too many spy stories from the Second World War,” Astrid said firmly. “Maybe he’d just jotted down the names of some of the people who worked at the Swedish embassy in Moscow in 1941.”

Oscar looked pensively at his sister. “I think Astrid is on the right track. As I said, Calle and I never met Wennerström during the war, or afterwards. We might have said hello at some reception or other during the ’50s, but I have no recollection of that. We just didn’t have any contact with him.”

“And I’ve never met him either. Which is perhaps regrettable—he was a very handsome man,” Astrid said.

“In that case I’d like to ask you a few questions about Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. Who was he? What was he like?” Fryxender presssed.

“We were almost the same age, and we often played together when we were children. And of course we saw a lot of each other when we were growing up—no one was as much fun as Calle! He was tremendous company, the heart and soul of any party,” Astrid said with a smile.

“And did you keep in touch over the years?”

Astrid’s expression grew serious and she chewed her lower lip. Before she could work out what to say, her brother leapt in:

“Astrid finds this difficult to say, but Calle had problems with alcohol from an early age—while he was a student, in fact. His father was a drinker, and unfortunately Calle inherited the trait.”

Astrid lowered her head and nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Did that affect the amount of time you spent together?” Fryxender asked.

Astrid nodded. “Yes. He could be unpleasant at times. Not often, but occasionally when he’d had too much to drink. He and my husband, Harald, fell out at a New Year’s Eve party, and I didn’t hear from Calle for several years—not until Harald and I divorced, in fact, when he sent me a congratulations card. And I forgave him—that’s the way things were with Calle. You couldn’t stay angry with him for too long. There was something about him . . . something sweet and childish . . . vulnerable, perhaps.”

Fryxender turned to Oscar. “So you and Calle were in and out of touch during your careers. But you re-established contact when you both retired?”

Oscar answered with a smile. “Of course. We spent a lot of time together in those first few years. Astrid and I would take him to the theater or restaurants, to art exhibitions and concerts. Calle was a keen opera fan.”

“I often asked him over to dinner,” Astrid said. “The three of us would meet up in my apartment at least every other Sunday. Oscar’s a really good cook, but we couldn’t come here because Calle was allergic to cats. And it was no good going to Calle’s place—he hardly had enough kitchen equipment to boil an egg!”

Fryxender considered what he had heard, then asked, “You said you spent a lot of time together in those first few years. Did something happen to change that?”

Oscar sighed deeply before he answered. “You could say that. Calle’s drinking problem got worse and worse. He became very moody; he didn’t want to go out and socialize. For the last ten years he lived more or less as a recluse.”

“But you called round to see him now and again?” Andersson chipped in.

“Of course. He needed help with practical matters, shopping and so on. He had a cleaner once a week, and she did his laundry as well. Unfortunately she left last Christmas, and we didn’t manage to find a replacement before . . . before the fire,” Oscar said.

He sounded tired and upset. It was clear that the conversation was taking its toll.

Fryxender exchanged a glance with Andersson, who realized that they were approaching the tricky stuff. He felt his heart rate increase. It was important to register the siblings’ reactions now. If they tried to hide something in order to protect their cousin, he needed to spot it.

Fryxender’s approach was deceptively calm as he asked, “How do you think Mats Persson’s dead body ended up in Calle’s cellar?”

Both Oscar and Astrid fixed him with a sapphire-blue gaze.

“How many times do you think we’ve asked ourselves that very question?” Astrid countered.

Andersson noticed that the atmosphere in the room suddenly seemed more highly charged. Oscar and Astrid were preparing themselves for awkward questions.

“Mats Persson was murdered on November ninth, 1983. Your cousin was living in the apartment at that time. Did he ever say anything that could explain the presence of Persson’s body in the cellar?” Fryxender went on.

Both siblings shook their head decisively.

“We’ve given the matter a great deal of thought. He never said anything. Not one word!” Astrid insisted.

“It occurred to me . . . Perhaps Calle never knew that Persson had been walled up,” Oscar said slowly.

“But that’s impossible—he was always home!” Astrid objected.

“True, but he wasn’t always
compos mentis
. When he was drinking he could be virtually unconscious for several days.”

Oscar sounded serious; he really was making an effort to be constructive, Andersson thought. Before anyone else had time to speak, he asked, “You mean someone could have sneaked in with the victim and walled him up, without your cousin knowing anything about it?”

“I think that would have been entirely possible,” Oscar replied calmly. He leaned back on the sofa and began to massage his temples with his slender fingertips. “My memory isn’t what it was . . . but I think Calle had the old boiler changed in the early ’80s. It could well have been summer ’83. I do remember he had it done in the summer. The chimney breast was also redone at the time. But Calle was just the way he was, and I don’t think he ever . . . Well, I know he never sorted out the cellar after the builders had gone. I’m sure there were bricks and mortar lying around.”

“So someone could have gotten into the cellar and walled up this Persson without Calle noticing! If, as you say, Calle was in the middle of one of his drinking bouts,” Astrid said.

“Or else it was Calle who shot Persson and walled him up,” Andersson said.

“Why would he have done that? He didn’t even know the guy,” Oscar said wearily.

“Are you absolutely sure of that?”

“Yes. Calle had a very limited social life when he came back to Göteborg. That was the way he wanted it. He was kind of . . . broken.”

Oscar fell silent; for the first time he looked as if he regretted what he had just said.

“Broken? In what way?”

Astrid pursed her lips and answered in her brother’s place. “He was sacked. Or asked to retire. He’d made a complete spectacle of himself, got as drunk as a skunk at a big reception. And it wasn’t the first time.”

“That’s right. He had to leave immediately. Needless to say he was embarrassed and ashamed. He really only saw Astrid and me. He spent his time in front of the TV, or in his armchair with a book.”

There was a long silence. Andersson heard a clock strike three somewhere deep inside the apartment. Winston had curled up and was still purring happily as Oscar stroked him.

“You’re absolutely certain that no one ever visited Calle? And that he never mentioned Mats Persson’s name?” Fryxender said eventually.

Oscar nodded.

“But he did have tenants!” Astrid pointed out. “Have you checked to see who was living there in ’83?”

Andersson and Fryxender looked at each other; Andersson sighed.

“How do we find that out? Do you know who the tenants were?”

Shaking heads and mumbled apologies.
Back to the goddamn archives,
he thought gloomily.

“I’m afraid you must excuse me—I have to get back to my own apartment,” Astrid said suddenly.

She got to her feet and held out her hand in a gracious gesture. For one confused moment Andersson thought she might be expecting him to kiss the back of it, but Fryxender rescued him by leaping to his feet, grabbing her hand and shaking it firmly. He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling behind his thick glasses. Astrid Leutnerwall smiled back. It seemed as if nothing could shake that lady’s composure.

Oscar Leutnerwall also stood up and accompanied them to the door.

“Please don’t hesitate to get in touch if anything comes up that you think I might be able to help you with,” he said.

Well, you could try telling us the truth, Andersson was tempted to say. Even though the siblings had given the impression that they were answering honestly and openly, he had the feeling that they were hiding something. And who would be more adept at concealing the truth than a career diplomat? Possibly someone who had been a lawyer for sixty-five years.

“Can anyone swap
shifts with me this weekend?” Fredrik Stridh asked during the afternoon coffee break on Wednesday.

The whole team was there, apart from Hannu Rauhala and Efva Thylqvist. Hannu was at home because his son was ill, and the superintendent was at one of her innumerable meetings.

Two weeks earlier Fredrik had become the father of a little miracle named Agnes. Everything had gone well, and Fredrik had been like a positive ray of sunshine around the department ever since. Mother and baby had now been home for a while, and Fredrik wanted to take a few days off to spend with his little family. He had plenty of time to take, but unfortunately the gang war had escalated again following the summer lull, with two cases of serious assault and another car bomb. The car owner had survived; his injuries were serious but not life-threatening, and he was still in intensive care. Fredrik’s temporary placement with the special unit monitoring the gangs was looking increasingly permanent.

“I’m on duty next weekend, and I’m too old to work three weekends in a row,” Jonny Blom said quickly. He didn’t look too upset about this sudden descent into old age; in fact, he was only a year or so older than Irene and Tommy.

“I can’t help you either, I’m afraid. Jenny’s found an apartment in Malmö and I said I’d drive her down there. Krister’s working, so it’s just me and Jenny. We’ve hired a huge trailer, about the size of a horse box,” Irene said.

Katarina and Felipe couldn’t help because they were in the process of moving themselves. To the astonishment of her parents, Katarina had gained a place at the teacher training college in Göteborg. She wanted to teach sports, Spanish and Portuguese at high school; she had picked up Portuguese during her three extended trips to Brazil. Felipe had finally gotten into Chalmers University of Technology to study architecture; this had been his fourth application, and he had almost given up hope. At the same time they had managed to find an apartment in a privately owned house in Kålltorp. They would be renting the whole of the top floor—two rooms with a kitchen, shower and toilet. The rent was very reasonable, and in return they were expected to cut the grass and clear the snow. The lawn was no more than fifty square meters, and the stretch of sidewalk they would have to clear wasn’t very long, so they felt like they’d won first prize in the housing market; none of their friends had been so lucky.

Irene was pleased for them. At last things had started to fall into place, after several years of living for the moment. They definitely hadn’t been wasted years; the young couple had worked and traveled a great deal, gaining job experience and getting to know other countries and cultures. It seemed to Irene that they had matured into two responsible adults.

Tommy’s voice brought her back to reality. “I was on duty last weekend. How about you, Åsa?”

“I’ve promised to look after Elliot from Friday evening until Monday morning. My weekend is fully booked, in other words.”

“And who’s Elliot? A dog, a cat, a budgerigar . . .”

Tommy smiled at Åsa, full of sympathy that as a newly single woman she felt the need to fill her lonely weekends with something like looking after someone’s pet.

Åsa leaned forward and whispered loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear. “Elliot is the man in my life.”

Tommy couldn’t hide his disappointment. In order to smooth over his embarrassment, he forced a smile and said in a casual tone of voice, “Oh, so you’ve already found someone new?”

“New? Not exactly—we’ve known each other for five years.”

“Five years! No wonder your old man had had enough and wanted a divorce!” Jonny snorted, staring at Åsa with renewed interest. She beamed at him.

“Wrong. Thanks to Elliot I stayed in our marriage for longer than I would have if he hadn’t been around,” she said calmly.

“I guess a love triangle can be fun . . .” Jonny said, raising his eyebrows meaningfully.

“Hardly. Elliot is eight years old. He’s my ex-husband’s son.” Åsa turned to Fredrik. “Have you checked with Hannu? He might be able to work the weekend, since he’s home now.”

Fredrik’s gloomy expression lifted. “Good point! I’ll give him a call.”

He knocked back the last of his coffee and rushed out of the room. Irene realized she had her fingers crossed, hoping that Hannu would be available.

On Thursday morning
Irene was on board the X2000 train that departed from Göteborg at 6:55, destination Malmö. In order to make the best use of her time she had brought some paperwork with her. With the cooperation of Swedish Rail’s ticket office, she had been given a seat right at the back of the very last carriage, and the same applied to her return journey on the express leaving Malmö at 5:55
p.m
.
, when Jenny would be with her. They had made the arrangements at the last minute the previous evening, when Irene found out that she was traveling to Malmö on Thursday. The idea was that Jenny would come home with her and spend Friday loading her possessions into the trailer and throwing away anything she didn’t want to take with her, which meant they would be able to leave early on Saturday morning.

Irene was planning to go through the whole train at least once on the way down, and the same again on the return journey, discreetly trying to see if there were any men in the twenty-to-forty age group chatting online. If she spotted anyone, she would memorize the carriage number, seat number and description. If possible she would take a picture with her cell phone. If he had booked his seat they would be able to find out his name from the central ticket office because virtually every ticket is purchased using a credit card these days. The man would be unable to deny that he had been on board because Irene would be a witness.

She expected to find several men who fit the profile, so she had a tiny notepad and pencil in her pocket. Jens had offered to lend her a palmtop, but she had refused, thinking that would make life too complicated. Jens would be keeping an eye on the Internet while Irene was on the train, to see if X-man tried to get in touch with shy little Anna. If he started chatting with her, Jens would contact Irene so that she could take a walk and look for someone who might be of interest.

She didn’t have high hopes. Tommy Persson and Efva Thylqvist had come up with the plan, but it felt like a shot in the dark. At best it might give the police a face or a name to look out for when they switched to plan B. Tommy was probably trying to avoid plan B at all costs. He still wasn’t convinced, but the only alternative he had come up with so far was the train journey. However, he had tentatively begun to outline plan B to Efva Thylqvist. He realized it was essential to make the superintendent believe she had been involved in the proposal right from the start. My Björkman might be a brilliant actress who could convincingly play a shy fifteen-year-old, but Tommy didn’t want to be left holding the baby if something went wrong.

Irene was well aware that she wasn’t at her best in the mornings, so she had brought along a thermos of strong coffee. Even the aroma as she unscrewed the lid made her feel better.

Three cups of coffee and two ham sandwiches later she was beginning to feel almost human. She looked at her watch and decided to start her walk through the train in exactly one hour. Until then she would plow through the paperwork she had brought with her; she rarely had time to sit down and tackle everything that piled up on her desk.

When she had finished her hour of admin, Irene started her patrol, moving slowly along the aisle. The carriages were almost full, and several of the passengers had their laptops open on the table in front of them. The train was lurching from side to side, so she didn’t have to pretend that progress was difficult and was able to take her time. Whenever the train rounded a bend she took the opportunity to lean a little further to check a screen. Some people were watching films, while others were busy with documents that looked as if they were work-related. Several were chatting online or writing emails. Irene paid particular attention to this category; she stopped in the area between carriages to jot down the relevant seat numbers and a brief description. To be on the safe side she included women at first, but quickly decided to ignore them. Mr. Groomer was definitely a man.

She reached the end of the train and slipped into the toilet cubicle to check her notes before returning to her seat.

The train was made up of five carriages, of which one was first class. There were thirty-two men using computers on board, twenty-seven of whom fell into the relevant age bracket. She had been able to establish that at least twelve of them were writing emails or chatting, but it could have been as many as twenty. The uncertainty arose because of a problem the police hadn’t foreseen: eight of the “interesting” men were using various types of palmtop or cell phones with an Internet connection. It had been impossible to see what was on the tiny screens.

Irene took out her cell and called Jens.

“Hi, Jens. Any activity?”

“Nope.”

She put her phone away, feeling disappointed. He might not even be on the train. Or maybe he was reading. Or sleeping. In spite of her doubts, she made her way back just as slowly, then checked her notes once more. Nothing new. At the same time, she realized that if this exercise was to have had any chance of succeeding, they would have needed at least three investigators. But they had neither the manpower nor the money for that. She sighed, and closed her eyes for the final stretch of the journey.

Thirty minutes later the train reached Malmö Central.

Jenny was waiting
on the platform, her blonde hair shining in the sun. She waved and made her way through the crowd of disembarking passengers. As Irene hugged her daughter, she took the opportunity to take a look around. Everyone who was getting off the train seemed just as stressed and focused as you would expect; no one attracted her attention for any reason. Either her gut instinct wasn’t working today, or Mr. Groomer wasn’t there. She decided to forget about him until she was on her way home.

Jenny had taken both Thursday and Friday off; they had agreed that Irene would help her clean her student room, then they would go and see the new apartment. They were going to have lunch at Jenny’s school, which was open to the public on certain days.

It was a fine day, with a gentle breeze blowing in off the sound. The trees were only just starting to turn yellow, and the roses were still glorious in the beds around the station. It felt as if Göteborg were a couple weeks ahead when it came to the onset of fall. South of the Halland Ridge, a feeling of late summer still lingered. Irene slipped off her jacket as they walked toward the bus stop; her thin cotton top was warm enough in the mild weather.

It didn’t take
long to clean the room and pack Jenny’s few belongings into two suitcases and a few paper carrier bags. Irene called a cab; she thought they’d earned it.

“Limhamn. Järnvägsgatan,” Jenny said to the driver as they got in.

She fumbled in her wallet and found the address of her new apartment. She gave the driver the number, then sat back and relaxed.

The cab pulled up outside a large white functionalist-style building, surrounded by an extensive garden full of slightly overgrown shrubs and trees. Irene noticed that the large vegetable plot seemed to be pedantically well tended. She paid and they got out. They walked through the open gate and up to the house; Jenny fished a key out of her purse and unlocked the door.

“There’s an intercom system too,” she said. The name plate next to the top button was blank; soon it would say
J. Huss
.

As they stepped inside, one of the doors on the ground floor flew open and a short man with a huge belly appeared. His bald head appeared to be resting directly on his shoulders, with no neck in between. In order to compensate for the lack of hair on his head, he was sporting a splendid mustache peppered with grey.

“Welcome!” he exclaimed, beaming at them.

They shook hands and introduced themselves; it turned out that the man was Jenny’s landlord. She and Irene made their way upstairs; Jenny unlocked her door and proudly waved Irene inside.

The apartment was light and fresh. The wooden floor had recently been polished and varnished, and the walls and ceiling were painted white. There was a huge picture window and a glass door that led to a balcony. The small kitchen had an unusual triangular window.

“Isn’t it fantastic?” Jenny was glowing.

“Yes. You’re going to be very happy here,” Irene replied, and she was sure it was true.

They were back
at Malmö Central in plenty of time for their train. Irene bought an evening paper, some bananas and two bottles of mineral water. Well equipped for their journey, they boarded the train, which seemed to be full, and found their seats. Only then did Jenny ask the question Irene had been expecting all day, but had hoped to avoid.

“So why did you actually come down today, Mom?”

Irene quickly signaled to Jenny to lower her voice. She looked around the carriage; she could see four men working on computers, two of them palmtops. She recognized one of them from her morning trip. He was sitting diagonally opposite, and was about thirty years old. She had noticed his tall, toned body and his thick, well-cut bright red hair. His eyes were an unusual shade of green; Irene wondered if he was wearing colored contact lenses. He was dressed with casual elegance in a white polo shirt, light brown linen jacket and dark jeans. Irene knew he was Danish; he had been chatting on his phone when she passed his seat during her morning patrol. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t be Mr. Groomer; then again, his handsome appearance was nothing like the facial composite they had put together.

She could only see the back of the other man using a palmtop. He had a bald patch in the middle of his blond hair, and was getting on for forty. Irene was sure he hadn’t been on the early train, but she would take a closer look at him when she went through the train in an hour or so.

“I was supposed to be seeing a colleague this morning, but unfortunately she couldn’t make it. She had some kind of bug, but I was already on the train when she called. So I thought you and I could spend all day together instead of meeting up after lunch. That’s why I called and asked you to come to the station.”