Killer's Island Page 10

  “No, that would be too much for me. It’s terrible but I can’t even cope with my own children for very long. They’re mainly with their mother, though I try to have them every other weekend. She often has to come and pick them up earlier than we said.”

  Anders Ahlström got out his pad, wrote out a prescription, and gave it to Arvidsson. “You have my telephone number. Call me if something comes up, promise?”

  Afterwards, when Per Arvidsson had left the room, Anders Ahlström was not sure if he’d done the right thing. There was always a risk that people with suicidal tendencies, people who’d been apathetic in their depression, suddenly experienced a new surge of life after the new medication began to kick in – and that was when they finally got the energy to kill themselves. The first month on medication is delicate. Per Arvidsson should not be left alone. On the other hand, he had taken medication before. Anders Ahlström went to the sink and washed his hands, as if to exonerate himself. He grimaced at himself in the mirror. All doctors made mistakes. Sooner or later it happened. There was no way one could watch every patient twenty-four hours a day to make sure no one came to any harm. Some ten to twenty percent of patients who were dealt with in a hurry ran the risk of incorrect treatment. In real terms they would have been better off staying at home.

  The telephone rang, interrupting his thoughts again. With a deep sigh he picked up. He really didn’t have time for any calls now.

  “Dad. I’m going home. I don’t want to be in school. The girls are so nasty; they say I smell bad because I don’t want to shower after P.E. I don’t have time to shower because then I don’t have time to go with the others to the cafeteria and then I have to sit by myself. Because they don’t give me a space at the table. And anyway I’ve got a stomach ache.”

  “But darling, have you told your teacher?”

  “She doesn’t get it.” Julia was almost in tears.

  “What about that teaching assistant, can’t you talk to him?”

  “Only by email. He’s not here today. I’m going home now.”

  “What about the school nurse or some other grown-up?”

  “The nurse only comes in when we’re having vaccinations, stupid. I don’t want to be here. I hate school!”

  Anders Ahlström walked into the overflowing waiting room and called in the next patient.

  CHAPTER 14

  HARRY MOLIN HAD BEEN thinking long into the early hours about the dangers of borrelia and at dawn he called to book an emergency appointment. The woman at the call center had been on summer assignment, and thus considerably more helpful than the usual hags. One look at his bulky file had been enough to convince her he was a very sick man. He’d been given an early appointment at ten in the morning.

  There was time to take out his dogs. They had been very restless that night. He did not know for sure whether he’d been bitten by ticks, but he’d read an article from Vallhagar in Fröjel about a family that had been assailed by hundreds of them. Their feet were speckled with their black nymphs. It was an image of such horror that it quite destabilized him. Suppose one in five ticks were contagious? This could be a question of TBE or borrelia or streptococcus or staphylococcus or some other terrible thing he did not even know the name of, and therefore even more frightening than anything already known to him. He had gone to Vallhagar to see the old barrows about ten years ago and ever since the symptoms had come and gone, mutating and changing all the time. Tiredness. Flu symptoms. Slight pain in the neck and back. Typical borrelia. But no red marks, as far as he could remember. Because of this he had rejected the possibility; until he read the report that night. Science moves on, new knowledge is always emerging. In the old days they used to say borrelia sufferers were just hypochondriacs. Had anyone received an apology about that? Now we knew better. For instance, we knew that one in four people did not end up with a distinctive ring around the bite. He had read that both on the Internet and in the brochure. So how was one to know if one had been infected?

  “And if the tick bites your scalp or your back, how are you supposed to know if you’ve been bitten at all? What do you think?” he said to the Labrador Mirabel, as she curiously sniffed her way along. Borrelia would explain why he had not been feeling well. The doctor could at least give him a blood test.

  “It doesn’t exactly fill you with respect for the medical profession when all the time you have to think for them, find things out and make suggestions, without bringing them down a peg,” he explained to the dog.

  Mirabel wagged her tail, glad of the attention.

  “How difficult can it be, figuring all this out?” he said and tugged on Gordon’s lead. The Alsatian had clearly picked up some trail, and was pulling with all his might. “Doctors don’t figure anything out by themselves, you see Mirabel.” The Labrador pricked up its ears and barked. “That’s what I like to hear.” Of course there were exceptions. He almost worked himself into a fury when he thought about that young whippersnapper of a doctor who’d been interning last summer when Harry consulted him about a problem he’d been having with his urination. There had not been a proper consultation room available, and Harry had been ushered into a corner by a window and exhorted to drop his pants. The young doctor had muttered something inaudible, then shoved his finger up Harry’s anus. Just like that. It was nothing less than goddamn molestation and if the nurse had not been there to step between them he would have punched him in some place where it hurt. When it came to humiliation, they certainly didn’t hold back.

  Harry stopped his dogs. They were pulling frantically. “Sit, sit, I said!” They were absolutely determined to get into Linn Bogren’s garden. The garden gate was open, and there were long strips of material flapping from the trees in there. What manner of spectacle was this? It looked utterly bonkers. Maybe it was her birthday? He remembered his own thirtieth birthday. His friends had organized a yard sale with all the useless junk they had at home, and he was supposed to sell it and the money he made was his to keep. He made almost two thousand kronor – a really good present, as he’d also been allowed first choice from the bric-a-brac. Yes, the nurse was probably having a birthday party, that was it. He could bring a bunch of flowers from his garden, congratulate her and at the same time ask whether she knew anything about borrelia. If the gate was open she was probably at home. Gordon gave a low, guttural growl. It was difficult getting his unruly dogs home again; their walk was over before it had scarcely begun.

  Harry picked a lovely bouquet of lilies of the valley and forget-me-nots and then added three sprigs of budding bleeding hearts. It looked sweet. He wrapped the whole thing in butcher paper the way his grandmother had taught him. It always made it look more elegant, like bought flowers.

  The gate was still open, also the kitchen door, which surprised him as he walked into the nice inner courtyard. It looked pretty amusing, those strips of cloth flapping about all over the place. He tied the dogs to the banister by the front steps. Gordon gave him a reproachful look, but Harry looked away. Mirabel whined and barked. “Be quiet!” He walked round the white coffee table of cast iron, and knocked on the door. No answer.

  “Hello!” Surely the nurse had to be at home? Her door was open. “Hello? Anyone home?” He didn’t want to startle her or surprise her in the midst of some embarrassing situation; he made as much noise as possible so she’d hear him. Maybe she wasn’t dressed yet, it was only eight in the morning. It might turn out to be embarrassing, he realized. There was no one in the kitchen. On the table was an abandoned mug with a tea bag next to it. There were some crumbs where a sandwich had been. The floor had probably not been mopped all week. Harry washed his floor every night. One had to keep things clean.

  He started feeling a little ill at ease about not finding her. “Hello!” He listened as hard as he could, but he couldn’t hear a sound. If she were in the shower he should have been able to hear the water running. He went back to the front door. The morning sun was shining directly into the living room. The furniture wasn’t arr
anged symmetrically. It looked as if someone had started rearranging things and then changed their mind. There were moving boxes on the floor. Were they moving? Claes had not mentioned it. They were filled with books, mostly. Harry sat himself down in the sofa and tried to think. Maybe they were taking the books into the attic? He also found it difficult throwing things away, particularly books. Once you’d read them you were a part of their story – you sort of fuse with a book when you read it, adding your own thoughts and reflections and afterwards it is difficult getting rid of it. He noticed something glittering on the floor. What was it? Had the rain come in or had someone been careless while watering the plants in the window? One shouldn’t be so careless, it could leave ugly marks in the floor. He stood up to get a better look. In fact they were shards of glass. The window of the door to the terrace had been shattered. How odd.… Now he was starting to feel properly uneasy.

  The dogs were whining out there. What was the matter with them? They didn’t usually carry on like this. It had been the same all night.

  “Be quiet, I said! Quiet!” Had the nurse been home she’d have heard him shouting at them. Surely nothing could have happened to her? This was starting to feel eerie. Harry stood up and was just about to leave the house when he saw the stain by the bedroom door. A red splash just by the threshold. How very careless and filthy not to wipe the floor when you spilled something. It could be wine or cranberry juice… then as he drew closer he smelled a sweet, nauseating odor pressing out of the dark bedroom. He poked his finger into the gooey mess and smelled it. His flowers fell unnoticed to the floor. He fumbled with his sticky hand for the light switch by the door and suddenly the room was bathing in white, merciless light. He thought he’d pass out. He mustn’t pass out. He must get out of here. Quick. Away. Out. The white comforter covers were covered in big blood stains and the creamy white wall behind the headboard was spattered with an intense, brown-red color. The bride and groom in the picture above the bed were plastered in blood. In the bed lay an electric chainsaw. The blade was bloody. Harry’s legs lost all their remaining strength and he stumbled out. His fingers would not obey him when he tried to untie his dogs. The harder he tugged at the knot, the more it tightened. There was a hissing sound in his head. Maybe the slaughterer who had done this perverse deed was still there, waiting for his next victim. For a split second he thought about leaving his dogs and ensuring his own safety. But he changed his mind. If the perpetrator were still nearby it would be safer to keep the dogs with him. He felt he was going to vomit. He must vomit. But first get himself safe. Lock the door. Cold sweat ran down his body. Into his house, he had to get inside and lock the door. Shut out the evil. There was blood on his hands… what if the police thought he’d done it? How could he prove he’d just been walking past with the dogs? And where was Linn? What had the murderer done with the body? No one could survive such an enormous loss of blood. She must be dead.

  Once back home, he washed and disinfected his hands and put the dog leashes and his clothes directly into the washing machine. His nausea churned in his throat. Taking Gordon with him, he searched his house before he was brave enough to lock the front door. The kitchen entrance would serve as an escape route if the murderer came. He sat on a kitchen chair, keeping his skittish dogs close. He held them hard and tried to think, but his common sense was abandoning him and he curled up in his suffocating fear, which gradually turned into palpitations and breathing difficulties. What would he do if they started thinking he was the one who had done it? If they interrogated him to find out where the body was? How could he have been so stupid that he washed his clothes? They’d never believe him now. The best thing would be if someone else found the blood, if he didn’t have to meet them and tell them about it. But of course they’d come knocking on everyone’s doors, they’d speak to all the neighbors. Someone might even have seen him walking out of her home with the dogs. The police would press him until he confessed.

  He’d seen that in a film. It’s possible to inflict terrible pain on someone without leaving any marks. There are rotten eggs in the police force, there are some police officers who show a blind eye to such things. No one would believe him, he was convinced of it now. He had demonstrably been on the crime scene. They needed a guilty party. The public would demand someone’s head for this.

  Good Lord! He’d left his fingerprints all over Linn’s home. On doorframes and handles, and those flowers were from his garden. If they got some lead on him they’d easily be able to see that he’d been there and then it would all be over. It would be prison for him and he’d no longer be able to choose his own doctor. From there on he’d get a prison physician. Where could he escape to, where could he go? He had a sister in Arboga, but they had only had sporadic telephone contact these past few years. She would smell trouble if he wanted to come and stay with her for a while.

  No, he must calm down. And think logically. If he could just carry on living like normal, he wouldn’t give any cause for suspicion. Like normal? How would that be possible? He must summon all the strength he had in his body, steel himself. When they interviewed him he had to answer and come across as natural. He had to think of an alibi. Do his homework, watch the news carefully so he could say he’d seen it on television. But the fingerprints! He had to go back and tidy up. The chainsaw belonged in the shed. It was usually sitting in the window. He had to wipe down all the surfaces he’d touched. He was good at disinfecting things. Remove the flowers. Tidy up. And be quick, before someone else came along and saw the blood. He had to save himself, even if it meant sabotaging the police. One could never trust people in positions of authority. Linn was anyway beyond all hope. She was dead. He understood that; there was nothing he could do about it now.

  CHAPTER 15

  THE COLD FLUORESCENT LIGHT at the pathologist’s made the badly mutilated body look even more grotesque than in the Pavilion on Tempelkullen. Even though the head had been reattached to the body by means of small, neat stitches, the sight was unbearable. When the green cloth was removed they all involuntarily stepped back. Detective Inspector Maria Wern saw the color drain from Claes Bogren’s face. His ash-blond hair lay in damp strips across his brow.

  “There she is. There’s Linn.” His voice was scarcely audible. He swayed on his feet and supported himself with his hand against the wall.

  “Come on, let’s go and sit down in the room next door.” Maria gripped his arm gently and ushered him out of the morgue. His muscular body gave way to her. With a great deal of effort he stumbled outside unsteadily and sank into the chair pushed forward for him.

  “It’s not true. I spoke to her last night. It just can’t be true. She mustn’t be dead! She can’t be dead!” He rested his head between his knees. Maria looked round for something into which he could vomit, and picked up a kidney-shaped dish from the sink. She held it at the ready. In spite of the low temperature in the room, the smell had been taxing.

  “How do you feel? You want some water?”

  He shook his head. Maria parted the curtains and threw the window wide open. Outside, the happy laughter of children could be heard, as if from an entirely different world.

  “Can I do something for you?” Maria put her hand on his back. His body was shaking. His breathing was deep and tremulous. She kept her hand there, and slowly he regained his self-control.

  “I’m okay.” He sat up and mopped the cold sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. “Ask whatever you need to know.” His body made an involuntary jerk.

  “You were a great help to us when you identified her. We’ll take one question at a time, at a pace you can manage.” Maria sat down on the other side of the small table, straightening the crooked tablecloth. She waited for a moment, then took out a pen and notepad from her briefcase.

  Claes Bogren was a neat and proper man, in a white T-shirt and Armani jeans; a good-looking man, someone who might attract glances in town. Decent haircut, tanned, although a nuance of something pallid seemed to be shining t
hrough. Two hours ago he had come back to his wife after a month at sea, he said. He could easily be the guilty one. But Maria hoped he wasn’t. She felt she should be able to sense if he were capable of such a heinous deed. The murderer really had to be a lunatic.

  “It was so goddamn terrifying coming home. The blood! Blood everywhere in the bedroom. First I thought maybe she was pregnant and had a miscarriage. So I called the emergency room, but they hadn’t taken in anyone called Linn Bogren. I searched the house, the street, I asked the neighbors. But she wasn’t anywhere. I didn’t know what to do.”

  “They contacted us from the hospital. They heard on the news about what had been found in the Botanical Gardens, and they assumed you might be her husband. Your first names were engraved in her rings. Until then we didn’t know who she was or who her next of kin were,” said Maria, as a little prod to make him continue his story.

  “I called from Gothenburg. Last night. I spoke to her late last night. She answered in such a strange way, so held-back. I mean, I did wake her…. I felt worried. She wasn’t like she usually is…. There was something …something not right. She was very short….”

  “What time?”

  “It was quarter to twelve.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I asked her if she loved me….” His voice broke and tears welled up. He rubbed his eyes frenetically, rubbed and pressed to stop the tears. He didn’t want his feelings to get in the way. He wanted to explain and get it out of the way. “She said yes, she did. And then we spoke about the rain. She said it was good that it was raining.”

  “Were there any other sounds in the background?”

  “I didn’t notice anything. If I’d caught a plane back she might be alive now. Either that or we’d both be dead….” Wild-eyed, he stared at Maria. “Do you understand what I mean? If I’d taken the plane….”