The Treacherous Net (9 page)

Over the weekend
the evening papers had gone for thick black banner headlines:
“killer lurks online!” “Do you know who your child is chatting to online?” “the internet—an el dorado for pedophiles!”
and so on. They ran interviews with experts from the police, Save the Children and ECPAT. They offered advice to parents on how to talk to their children about the dangers associated with being contacted by someone online. Irene thought it was good that Efva Thylqvist—because it must have been her decision—had spoken to the media. There was no suggestion anywhere that Alexandra and Moa’s killer had contacted the girls online, which was also good. It was an advantage if he didn’t know they were onto him.

There was an article in
Göteborgs Tidningen
about a man who worked as an Internet analyst, with youth sites as his specialty. He often pretended to be a twelve- to fourteen-year-old boy or girl. On certain sites he was contacted by adult males as frequently as every two minutes! For the past few years he had been traveling around the country giving talks to students in schools, to parents, teachers, social workers, police officers and judges about the methods used by men who exploit the Internet to try to establish sexual contact with children. He also mentioned the fact that in the UK anyone convicted of online grooming can be sent to jail, while in Sweden it is still legal for an adult to build a close relationship with a child online, with the aim of progressing to sexual abuse at a later stage. Only after the abuse has taken place is it regarded as a criminal offense.

At one point in the interview he said:

I know several young people who have been lured into prostitution through these youth sites. They often come from dysfunctional families with a low income. The children received money for supplying sexual services, but some of them were just lonely to begin with, and were slowly drawn into the empathetic web of the man who was grooming them. Eventually he had them exactly where he wanted them. Afterward they felt soiled; they almost had a kind of compulsion to carry on meeting men online. I have encountered several girls in this situation over the years, and even one or two boys. They were all under the age of seventeen.

Irene put down the newspaper and stared into space as she thought about what she had just read. Kicki Olsson had been very short on cash, yet her fifteen-year-old daughter had an entire closet filled with expensive designer labels—clothes, shoes and bags worth several thousand kronor. Irene did a quick mental calculation, and came up with a figure approaching twenty thousand. A mind-blowing amount for any fifteen-year-old, and completely unattainable for a girl in Moa’s situation. Had she turned to prostitution via the Internet? Was that what she had used her laptop for? It wasn’t out of the question. That would explain how Moa had managed to acquire the money to buy all those exclusive clothes she could never have worn. Her school friends would have started to wonder what was going on if she had turned up in a pair of boots worth three thousand kronor, not to mention designer jeans. Had her mother noticed anything? Maybe not; Kicki Olsson had probably had enough problems of her own.

“Prostitution? That had
crossed my mind,” Hannu said. He pointed to the notebook by his phone. “Forensics just called. They’ve found fibers on the underwear. Nylon fibers probably from a bathroom mat or something similar. Red, around three centimeters long. There were three caught in the hook and eye of the bra Alexandra was wearing, and five in the lace of Moa’s thong.”

“So that proves the connection. Where do we go from here?” Irene wondered.

“We speak to your friend,” Hannu said with a smile.

“My . . . Who?”

“Linda Holm.”

Of course. Why hadn’t she thought of it herself?

They headed down the corridor to the Trafficking Unit. Linda Holm was just leaving her office.

“Hi there! It’s been a while,” she said, her face lighting up when she saw Irene. She said hi to Hannu as well, then looked slightly indecisive.

“I guess you want to talk to me, but I’m kind of in a rush right now. Can it wait an hour or so?”

“Sure. Come along to my office when you get back and we’ll have a coffee,” Irene suggested.

“I’ll be there—two hours max.”

Linda hurried away, her high-heeled boots tapping purposefully on the floor; she was definitely a woman on a mission. As usual she was smartly dressed in a black pencil skirt and a pale grey sweater, matching perfectly with her eyes and her blonde hair. Jonny usually referred to her as “Blondie” with a contemptuous snort whenever her name came up in conversation. He couldn’t cope with her appearance—or her competence. It was strange that he didn’t react to Efva Thylqvist in the same way, Irene thought. The only thing that could be interpreted as a criticism was a certain amount of whining because Thylqvist still hadn’t sorted out a replacement for Birgitta Moberg-Rauhala; otherwise Jonny seemed perfectly happy with a female boss, which Irene found surprising.

•••

On the floor
below Irene’s office, her former boss was laboring under the weight of two big boxes of case notes from the cellar. With a great deal of grunting and groaning he managed to get them into the room he shared with his two colleagues in the Cold Cases Unit. The two brown boxes took up the entire surface of his desk. He stared gloomily at them. To tell the truth, he was deeply hurt. He had really believed that his former colleagues wanted to invite him in for a slice of cake in honor of his birthday. That Thylqvist woman had taken him by surprise. She had actually said that Per-Eric Wallin, the acting area commissioner, thought the Cold Cases Unit ought to take over the investigation.

Sven Andersson knew that Wallin always had coffee at exactly ten o’clock in the big staff room. They had known each other since the ’60s, when they had worked together out in Hisingen. It was a placement for the real tough cops, with all the drunks, whores and criminals who hung out around the docks. The two young officers had had their hands full during every shift. They had relied on each other to get through, and had developed a friendship that was still just as strong today. Which was something that lying witch probably didn’t know.

Andersson picked up his coffee cup and sugar-free cookie and sat down at the same table as Per-Eric Wallin. “So was it you who suggested that the Cold Cases Unit should take over the mummy investigation?” Andersson asked, the very picture of innocence.

“Hell, no! It was that pretty little superintendent . . . Thal . . . no, Thylqvist! She came up with the idea of handing it over to you. They’re on their knees with this business of the gang war, the two teenage girls who’ve been murdered, and God knows what else. And since the body has been identified and the statute of limitations on the case runs out in November . . . I told her to have a chat with you, see what you thought. It was good of you to take it on.”

Sven Andersson was so furious he could only nod in response. That bloody woman! Instead of “having a chat” with him and asking if the unit would take on the case, she had presented it as a fait accompli, as if Per-Eric Wallin had already made the decision.

When he got back to his office, Andersson realized that he would have to deal with the case himself. His two colleagues were tied up with a ten-year-old homicide: a thirty-year-old mother with young children. He stared at the boxes without enthusiasm. They contained the usual crap: papers from the preliminary investigation and various jars and tubes containing evidence. There didn’t seem to be any kind of order. Andersson always maintained that the biggest obstacle when it came to solving cold cases was the cops who had handled the investigations over the years. Material went missing or was destroyed due to a lack of care. Of course there was one major mitigating factor: as recently as ten years ago, investigators could never in their wildest dreams have imagined how the technology involving DNA would evolve. Today a barely visible drop of bodily fluid was enough to create a DNA profile.

It would take at least eight files to sort all the paperwork in the first box. Which wasn’t actually all that many; major investigations could fill more than twenty. In the second box he found several smaller boxes containing old letters and envelopes. There was no evidence, of course—there had been no crime scene, no homicide victim. To Andersson’s surprise these smaller boxes were marked
e.p. sept 16, 1941
. What were they doing here? And how come a disappearance twenty-four years earlier had generated so much paperwork? Reluctantly he had to admit that he was beginning to feel a certain amount of curiosity.

At the top of his in-tray lay an internal envelope containing a tape of Tommy Persson’s conversation with the mummy’s widow. She had agreed to the interview being recorded when she had been informed a few days ago that the mummy had been identified as her missing husband.

I must stop thinking about the victim as the mummy,
Andersson decided. Mats Persson. He smiled as he thought back to Jonny’s comment on the victim’s real name:
“Persson? So you’ll be researching your family tree, Tommy!”
Andersson had laughed at the joke; as usual Tommy had smiled politely without in any way revealing what he actually thought.

A sudden noise in the doorway interrupted his train of thought.

“Morning, Sven! What the hell is all this crap?” Superintendent Pelle “The Wrestler” Svensson demanded with a laugh.

He was from Vänersborg, and worked with the Cold Cases Unit three days a week. He had acquired the nickname “The Wrestler” back in the ’70s, when the wrestler Pelle Svensson had been a major star within his sport. Pelle Svensson the cop had never in his life tried a headlock on anybody, but he had had to put up with the nickname. He was powerfully built, and he was steadily putting on weight. His jackets strained across his back, his shirts across his gut. Andersson would often note with a certain satisfaction that Pelle was fatter than him. He appreciated Pelle’s good humor and booming laugh. He was also a conscientious cop from the old school, which Andersson valued highly.

The man in Pelle Svensson’s wake was his direct opposite: tall, thin and almost completely bald. His glasses had unusually thick lenses that served to enlarge his eyes significantly. His dark blue designer sweater and pale grey chinos hung loosely on his skinny body. His shirt collar was far too wide for his scraggy neck, and his Adam’s apple looked disproportionately large. Superintendent Leif Fryxender was the team’s analyst. He had lived in Göteborg for thirty-five years and still spoke with a marked Värmland accent. Fryxender was quiet and reflective. He was also the youngest member of the team at fifty-eight.

“New case?” Leif Fryxender ventured, nodding in the direction of the boxes.

“Yes, it’s the guy they found walled up on Korsvägen. The cause of death turned out to be three bullet wounds. He’s been identified as one Mats Persson, who disappeared without a trace twenty-four and a half years ago. The statute of limitations on the case runs out in six months. Efva Thylqvist, my successor, thought we should take it on,” Andersson explained.

“So this will be the first case where we get to conduct the actual homicide inquiry,” Leif Fryxender said.

His thin cheeks were flushed.
He thinks this case is going to be interesting,
Andersson thought in surprise. Reluctantly Andersson had to admit he was right; this was an extraordinary case, and an ideal opportunity to show that the old guys still have what it takes. Admittedly they had cracked cases in the past, but as Fryxender pointed out, they had had to rely on data collected by other people. This time they would have to try to gather new information themselves, which was unlikely to be easy after almost twenty-five years. The witnesses might have died or gone senile, while others would be unsure of the facts after such a long time. On the other hand, they were used to working on this type of investigation. Perhaps the Thylqvist woman had a point after all. Although Andersson had no intention of forgetting that she had lied to him.

Decisively he placed the recording of Tommy’s interview with Mats Persson’s widow in one of the boxes. As with all other cold cases, he would start by organizing the material, then he and one of his colleagues would go through everything with no preconceptions. The next step was to transfer all relevant information to IBASE, a data system that had been developed in Göteborg. It was used in investigations where there were a large number of witnesses and leads.
I hope we can get all this done before the vacation,
Andersson thought.
When we come back feeling rested and refreshed, the hunt for Persson’s killer can begin.

“It’s Jens. Have
you got a minute?”

Irene jumped as the internal telephone crackled into life. She leaned closer to the little grey plastic box on the table.

“Sure.”

“Can you come down?”

“On my way.”

She flicked the switch and left her office. As she was hurrying along the corridor she almost bumped into Jonny Blom.

“Jeez, where’s the fire?” he exclaimed.

“Sorry. Jens wants to see me.”

“Is it about Alexandra?”

“I don’t know; he didn’t say.”

“Come and tell me if it’s about her or the other girl.”

Irene nodded.

He really is bone lazy
, she thought crossly as she ran down the stairs. On the other hand she was quite pleased that he hadn’t insisted on going with her; he could be incredibly annoying when the mood took him.

“Hi,” Jens said as Irene walked into his office.

“Hi yourself. Have you found something?”

He nodded and tapped the computer screen. “Do you recognize him?”

Irene moved closer; Pablo Eros was smiling at her. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Pablo.”

“Yep, but this time he’s calling himself Ivar.”

“Is he chatting with someone?”

“Yes. The girl is thirteen. Alarm bells rang when her mother read those newspaper articles. She had noticed that her daughter was spending more and more time on the computer, so she checked her browser history and found this contact. He’s asked the girl to pose naked in front of her webcam. Her mother went crazy.”

“How did you get a hold of this?”

“Lots of anxious parents have been in touch following the press coverage; anything that looks as if it could be related to online grooming has been passed on to me. Seventeen cases.”

“Wow!”

“That’s just the tip of the iceberg, believe me.”

“How long has this contact been going on?”

“Since Easter.”

Which was when Alexandra had been in Skåne with her parents. Adam had used the time to link up with at least one new girl who would be lulled into a false sense of security, ready to be persuaded to meet up when the time was right. Although this time he was calling himself Ivar.

“He’s chatting with another one,” Jens informed her calmly.

“Another one?”

“Yep.” He pressed a key and once again Pablo’s smiling face filled the screen. “This girl is fourteen. She called us herself; she was starting to get suspicious. He’s asked her for nude pictures several times. This contact has been going on since February. This time he’s Gustav.”

Adam. Ivar. Gustav. Something was beginning to stir in Irene’s memory. Those names . . . Adam. Gustav. Ivar.

“I think I’m onto something!” she explained, gazing eagerly around the sparsely furnished office. “Can you look up the phonetic alphabet? The one they use in the military? Isn’t it Adam for A, Bertil for B, something like that?”

Jens quickly typed “Swedish phonetic alphabet” into the search box, and the list appeared on the screen.

Irene found it difficult to hide the excitement in her voice as she read the names aloud:

“Adam, Bertil, Cesar, David, Erik, Filip, Gustav, Helge, Ivar . . . that’s what he’s using!”

Jens gazed at the list and nodded. “Looks that way. But we’ve only got three names.”

“Can you search for the others? Something tells me you might be able to find Bertil and Cesar; they’re not exactly common names for teenage boys.”

“I’ll do my best, but there’s no guarantee you’re right.”

“No, but it’s worth a try.”

Irene felt a dash of hope. This could be a lead. Ivar. If he had started off by calling himself Adam, that meant he was grooming at least nine victims online. Two of them were already dead. If he had groomed Moa, of course; he might just have contacted her directly online and arranged a time for a sexual transaction.

“Alexandra’s killer got in touch with her on snuttis.se. It’s highly likely that he also contacted Moa online. Bearing in mind his MO and the fact that the sexy lingerie set probably belonged to Moa, we know that the murders are connected. Do you think we should go public with what we know?” she asked.

Jens thought for a moment.

“If we do, he’ll just keep a low profile until the media interest switches to something else. Then he’ll come back. They always do. We have to catch him.”

Irene felt a chill that reached to her very marrow. Whatever they did, there was a risk that they were making a mistake, and the wrong decision could mean death for another girl. Trying to hide her fears, she kept her tone neutral. “Hannu and I just caught up with Linda Holm from the Trafficking Unit. She’s promised to go through the relevant sites and look for Moa. We suspect she might have been selling sexual services online.”

Jens nodded. “If she’s checking sex sites, then I’ll check the youth sites. Let’s see what else I can find.”

When Irene called
into Jonny’s office to tell him what she and Jens had worked out, he was on the phone. She stepped back, but he frantically waved her in. His cheeks were flushed, and he was scribbling in his notebook for all he was worth. The sight of this sudden burst of energy was enough to make Irene stay. She sat down opposite him.

“A dark-colored van. Black or dark blue. Shit! Sorry . . . my pencil broke . . .” Angrily he tossed the offending item aside and grabbed a new one from the top drawer of his desk.

“. . . black or dark blue. Possibly dark green or dark grey . . . It was nighttime and it was pouring rain . . . of course, I understand. And you say this was almost exactly eleven thirty on Walpurgis Night. Okay.”

Jonny grinned and gave Irene a thumbs-up sign.

“In that case I’d appreciate it if you could come in today to take a look at some pictures. Many thanks.”

He ended the call and rubbed his hands together.

“A pensioner called Nils Lindberg was out looking for his skiff, which had come adrift some time during the afternoon. He walked along the shore from Björlanda marina down toward Lilla Hästholmen. There was no sign of the skiff, so he went back to his car, which he’d parked at the end of Store Udds Väg. When he’d driven about fifty meters, he met a dark-colored van. He’s not sure of the make or the exact color. It carried on past him and stopped by the water, where the road comes to an end. He looked in his mirror and saw the rear lights go out. He remembers thinking: Who the hell drives down to the sea in such bad weather and at this time of night? He looked at the clock, which is why he’s sure it was almost eleven thirty.”

“Why has he only just gotten in touch?”

“He didn’t connect the van with the murder of Alexandra; after all, her body was found almost a kilometer away. But now he’s had time to think, and decided it was best to mention what he saw that night.”

“So it could have been the killer, driving down there to dump Alexandra’s body in the water.”

“Exactly. Although we can’t be sure, of course. It could have been a couple that just wanted some . . . privacy,” Jonny said, raising his eyebrows.

“There are nicer places on a cold, wet night.”

“It’s out of the way. Nobody around. Definitely not on a night like that.”

“Ideal for someone who doesn’t want to be seen, in other words,” Irene said thoughtfully.

This could be important,
she thought.

“Meeting room,” she said.

They went along to the main incident room for the investigation into the deaths of the two girls. There was a map on the wall, with red pins marking the spots where Alexandra’s and Moa’s bodies had been found.

“Store Udds Väg runs along the point that forms the south side of Björlanda marina,” she said. “It’s pretty wide, which means there’s a distance of several hundred meters between Store Udds Väg and the small boat harbor.”

Irene quickly measured the distance on the map before she continued.

“Almost four hundred meters as the crow flies. You can drive right down to the water’s edge. There are some buildings down there, but very few houses where the road actually ends. If the body was dumped there, that means it drifted . . .”

She checked another measurement.

“. . . almost eight hundred meters in five days. We need to check how that fits in with currents and wind speed. Did this pensioner see who was in the van?”

“No. He said it was too dark and the rain was too heavy. He couldn’t even make out if there was one person or two in the front.”

“If it was the killer’s van, then there was only one. Alexandra was already dead,” Irene said grimly.

“Probably. But he’s coming in this afternoon to make a statement; I’ll try to get him to remember what make of van it was,” Jonny said.

Irene told him what Jens had found online and about her own flash of genius with regard to the phonetic alphabet.

“Adam, Bertil, Cesar. Can he really use those names if he’s supposed to be a teenager? Nobody’s called their kid Cesar for at least a hundred years,” Jonny objected.