Killer's Island Read online

  “Were you going to?”

  “No. I wanted to get home as quick as possible, but that’s not the way we do it.”

  “So how do you usually do it?”

  “We pulled into Gothenburg Harbor at about 23:00 hours. When we’re at sea we’re not allowed any alcohol unless we’re under Russian command, then we’re expected to drink like men. So we usually celebrate once we’re ashore. I caught the train to Nynäshamn at about six this morning.”

  “What time did the ferry leave?” Probably he’d had time to be on the 12:50 sailing, Maria guessed, but she wanted to hear him say it himself.

  “12:50. It was delayed. We should have landed at 16:05 but there was a hard wind and we weren’t ashore until almost five.”

  “Did you meet anyone you knew on the ferry?”

  “No, I took a cab. I needed a shower and some sleep.”

  “Do you still have your tickets?” She saw the consternation in his eyes. “I have no reason not to believe you, it’s just routine procedure to back up all information with receipts or tickets. For your own sake. I can understand it feels invasive, but it helps our investigation if we can have them.”

  “Sure. I’ll try to dig them out.”

  “How did you get back to the house?” Maria made a note in her pad.

  “I walked back from the terminal. I hurried up so she wouldn’t start wondering where I was. I tried to call a few times, but there was bad reception on the ferry and when the signals went through she didn’t answer.”

  “What did you think about that?”

  “I thought it was strange. Because she would have been expecting me to call. I usually call when the ferry’s getting close to shore, so she knows it’s time to put the spuds on to boil and open a bottle of wine. We usually have a nice dinner and celebrate a bit when I come home.” He stood up, closed the window, and then sat down again with his arms wrapped hard round his body.

  “Did you run into anyone on your way home from the ferry?”

  “I wasn’t thinking about it. I just hurried up. My sailor’s sack was heavy. I had to put it down for a moment by the Ordnance Tower. No, no one I can remember. There were probably people about but I don’t recall anyone in particular.”

  “And when you got home… ?”

  “The gate was closed but not locked. There were strips of material hanging from the tree. I thought: What the hell! What’s this? I called out her name. It was a funny way of welcoming your husband home, but she sometimes got funny ideas like that. She wanted to surprise me sometimes.” He stopped and bit his knuckle hard, to hold the excruciating pain inside in check. “That’s how she was. So sweet, and considerate. She wanted me to be happy.” The tears came. The flowing tears he’d fought to keep inside, the tears he so badly needed to release.

  “We have lots of time.” Maria stood up to hand him a couple of tissues and he gripped her hand and pulled her close so she’d hug him. And wouldn’t let her go. He cried and whimpered and made the table jump when he struck it with his fist.

  “She can’t be dead. I loved her. Loved her so, so much.”

  Love has its price and that price is sorrow, Maria thought to herself. If one does not have the courage to love, then everything is lost from the very beginning. But she did not say this out aloud. No one ever grew wise from listening to the experiences of others.

  “Sorry.” He brushed the arm of her sweater, which was drenched in tears, then blew his nose in the tissue. “Sorry. I’m not myself.”

  “Are you all right to carry on? We can take a break if you want to. I can get you a hot drink. Tea or coffee? What do you say?”

  “We’ll keep going.” He blew his nose again. “I want to do everything I can so you catch the fucker who did this.”

  Maria sat down at the table again and scrutinized him.

  “You came home… there were strips of material hanging from the trees.…”

  “It was so weird. I called out, but she didn’t answer. So I went inside.… The door wasn’t locked so I assumed she was at home and planning some surprise. She wasn’t in the kitchen. I went into the living room to see if she’d laid the table in there. There were moving boxes on the floor. She’d packed the encyclopedia and her favorite books. I went cold as ice. I don’t understand why she packed them. The furniture was rearranged in a funny way. She often wanted to move things round.… How can I ask her now what she had on her mind? Just think if I never find out what she was going to do?”

  “Was there anything else she’d packed? Clothes? Toiletries?”

  “I don’t know. I have no idea. As I was standing there I heard a car stopping outside in the street, and I hurried out. I thought it was her, I thought this was the surprise and that we were going out to eat in some fancy restaurant or something. But it wasn’t her. I came in again and then I noticed the door to the terrace was broken. Only then did I start feeling scared. I went into the bedroom, the only place I hadn’t been in yet, and in there… that’s where all the blood was. Shiiiit!” He was overwhelmed again, his tears came in painful bursts, utterly taking him over. Maria waited. She was ready to postpone the session if necessary. Then suddenly he got himself under control and he gave her an insistent look.

  “Why? Why her? So much blood. I called the emergency room and you know the rest. I don’t understand who could have done it. A madman.… Everyone liked Linn. I don’t know anyone who could have wanted to do her any harm. Do you know? Have you got any ideas? Was she… raped?”

  “We can’t say anything about that until the medical examiner is done. I’m sorry.”

  “You said they found her in the Botanical Gardens, in the Pavilion? Why? So she was murdered at home and then moved? Is there any kind of understandable reason for that?”

  Maria indicated with a shake of the head that it was also beyond her comprehension. Linn had been dressed as a bride. That was the feeling Maria got when she looked at her. She had been wearing a white, lacy nightie and there was a bouquet of flowers in her hand. Had she dressed herself up like that, or had someone else done it?

  “The white nightgown she was wearing, was that her own? Did you recognize it?”

  “She used to wear it when I came home. I gave it to her on her twenty-fifth birthday. Silk. She loved it.…”

  “Did you have time to notice anything that was missing in your home, something someone had removed?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, maybe the computer. The computer wasn’t there when I was looking for the phone number of the hospital. I just had a total brain breakdown and was going to check it online. No, actually it’s being repaired, I remember she told me.” Slowly he breathed out through half-closed lips, a moaning sound. Suddenly he looked incredibly old. Maria tried to make her questions more focused.

  “I’d like the names of her closest friends. The ones she really trusted. Colleagues? Close relatives? Was there some girlfriend of hers, or some friend she was particularly close to, someone she might tell things she hadn’t even told you about yet?”

  “Sara Wentzel.” His answer came without hesitation.

  CHAPTER 16

  ERIKA LUND OPENED the bedroom door without backing away from the smell of blood, which had intensified in the heat. Somewhere, instinctive and deep-rooted, the feeling was there: for the smell of blood triggers fear just as much as the color red. Fight or flee. Many years of training had taught her to turn off her sense of smell and feeling of repulsion. She couldn’t explain how she managed it, only that it always worked when she got on with her task and focused on the details.

  There wasn’t enough light for the photographs she needed to take. She pulled up the roller blind and angled up the Venetian blind. Outside, two colleagues were securing shoeprints. The ground was still soft after the rain on the night of the murder, and there were good prospects of finding something of interest. It was something, at least. Rarely in all her years in the technical division had Erika seen such a carefully tidied crime scene. All the door handles, doorf
rames and surfaces one usually touches were carefully wiped down, almost disinfected. Everything had been tidied away except for the blood, which was on show in an almost demonstrative manner. A remarkable combination of lunacy and perfection. When she saw the mark on the wallpaper, she thought at first it was a coincidence, a lighter band in the blood on the wall that had ended up there after the deed. But then she saw. Someone had daubed a barely visible “K” in the blood.

  In the shed they found a chainsaw, with enough dried blood on the blade to rehydrate and analyze. But no damned fingerprints. Everything pointed to this being a scrupulously planned murder. Someone with enough presence of mind to cover every trace of himself afterwards. The perpetrator must have come through the veranda door after smashing the window, then left the house via the kitchen door which stood open. Did the murderer know that Linn Bogren was at home by herself? Did they know each other?

  There was still not enough natural light, so Erika rigged up a couple of spotlights from the curtain rail. Only now did she notice the kitchen knife on the floor. The implement was partially under the bed, hidden under the sheet which had slipped down. Carefully she held up the knife against the light. The gleaming blade had clear fingerprints on it. Carefully she inserted it into a plastic bag and sealed it without any exaggerated hopes of the fingerprints being those of the murderer, who in every other respect had been so careful in his desire to cover every trace of himself. She went back to her photography. The mattress had soaked up blood. Blood had also spattered over the wall, over the headboard and the wedding photo. A beautifully smiling couple under a triumphal arch of red roses and oak foliage. He wore a tailcoat and she a wonderful cream-white dress of silk, with a plunge-cut back. Erika’s gaze was fixed on the bride’s face, which was eerily similar to her own as she used to be many years ago. The hair and eyes. The bridal bouquet consisting of red roses and white freesia. The flowers placed in the dead woman’s hand had been lilies of the valley. Did this have some significance? What reason could there be for dragging a body to the Tempelkullen? The blood and the placing of the body seemed to point to some nightmarish ritual, the significance of which was difficult to interpret for any outsider. Erika tried to form a picture of the murderer. A madman working alone, with the ability to think and predict the consequences of his actions? Or a group of people using murder as a performance to frighten others into obedience?

  It felt strange, coming into such close proximity to the private habits of others. Silently she asked the dead woman’s forgiveness before opening her bedside table. For your own sake, so that whoever did this to you gets their punishment, she thought to herself. At the same time she realized that their detailed investigation into her private life was actually another violation. Erika thought with horror of all the things the police would find in her drawers, if compelled to search them. Things would be held up and dissected in the clear light of day. Certain off-the-cuff comments would certainly pass between the police, while exchanging smiles and glances. Not least for Claes Bogren this was a deep incursion into the sanctity of their private lives. It had been even more unfathomable to him that he could not touch anything in his own home, not even his own computer which they picked up from the repair place.

  She found the victim’s purse on the floor in the hall. It was unzipped. There was a wallet inside containing about eight hundred kronor, credit cards, keys, and a comb and mirror. If the murderer had been after money, he would have noticed the purse – but nothing seemed to have been touched.

  There were two wardrobes in the bedroom. One contained men’s clothes while the other one, oddly enough, was almost empty. A red bathrobe hung from a hook; on the shelf above was a sweatshirt covered in paint. Was it in fact as Claes had feared – that she had been on the point of leaving him? In which case, where were the clothes? In one corner stood a dusty computer table with a computer screen and keyboard, two used mugs, a plate, and a lot of other detritus: a hairbrush, CDs, an abstract ceramic sculpture, two pairs of glasses, and a mass of desk paraphernalia. Maria Wern had immediately ordered telephone lists of outgoing and incoming calls both on the landline and Linn’s cell phone, still on the bedside table beside the wine glass.

  When Erika had finished in the bedroom she continued in the kitchen. There was a lone teacup on the table, a used tea bag beside it and some crumbs from a piece of wholegrain bread. Had Linn been too tired to put these away and wipe down the table, or did she usually leave chores like this at night? Erika opened the fridge. Claes Bogren had been expecting a nice dinner when he came home from his month at sea. But in the fridge there was only milk and yogurt, ketchup, sandwich toppings, a number of jars of gherkins, jam, and taco sauce, and an almost squeezed-out tube of dill caviar. Cooking up a feast with the ingredients in this fridge would be a real challenge. There were two empty bottles of wine in the trash and a corkscrew on the kitchen bench.

  Jesper Ek popped up in the doorway.

  “We’ve found Linn Bogren’s car parked outside the Ordnance Tower. A Nissan Micra. The back seat is full of stuff. At least two leather bags and a loads of plastic bags.”

  “So she was probably clearing out. I’ll go through the bags later. We’ll take the whole car down to the station.”

  “Maybe the clothes were being taken to the Red Cross collection in Kupan or something,” Ek suggested optimistically.

  “No, the wardrobe is empty. I think she was leaving him.”

  “We were just wondering, will you be there for the three o’clock run-through… if anything new comes up?” Jesper looked at the pile of sealed plastic bags with various objects inside. “Hartman’s going to make sure you get some reinforcements, he said.”

  “I could certainly do with some. I want to carry on here until I’m done. If I find anything I’ll call.”

  “Okay.” Jesper’s cropped head disappeared round the corner and she heard him whistling. An irritating vice of his; she was glad he took the sound away with him when he left.

  The living room did not offer up any surprises. Jesper Ek had taken away the shattered glass from the broken window of the veranda door to check the shards for signs of blood. It would have been a stroke of luck if the murderer had smashed through the pane with his bare fist, thus cutting himself. The furnishings were old-fashioned rococo pieces in wine-red velvet, the covers replicated in the curtains. Inherited stuff or things they’d picked up together at auction? Four modern bookshelves in oak lined one of the long walls, beneath them two small boxes filled with books. Erika tried them for their weight. Most likely Linn would not have managed to pick them up herself. Was she waiting for someone to help her with the move? Where was she going to, and why?

  In the shelf furthest toward the window were a couple of photo albums. Erika leafed through them. An entire life. A little dark-haired girl in grandmother’s lap. Class photos from first grade. A toothless, blithe girl with pigtails sitting on a swing, tightly clutching a doll. The next album was red with pink hearts. This one featured a lanky teenage girl, slightly knock-kneed, her long hair reaching down to the hem of her mini-skirt. Mountain trekking, two heads jutting out of a tent, a smoking camping stove in the foreground. Then the wedding photo and, on the same page, a photo of the two of them sitting on the front step of their house inside Visby’s city walls. End. No photos after that. Maybe afterwards they bought a digital camera or grew tired of taking photographs?

  Erika felt uncomfortable rifling through the trash in the bathroom. This was nothing less than snooping in a person’s most intimate sphere. What would she find? Something with fingerprints on it? A condom with DNA of interest to them? All the secrets would be brought into the full light of day. When the medical examiner was done with his investigation they would know if Linn had been raped. All the disgusting stuff in the trash could be of immense value. Erika pulled out yet another bag, securing and sealing the contents of the trash. There were expensive perfumes in the bathroom cabinet, possibly presents from the husband who may have bought them o
n his trips abroad. At the back was a carton with a card of sleeping pills, four gaping holes and six pills still there. The pills had been prescribed as recently as two days ago by Anders Ahlström. It was unexpected seeing his name turning up in this context.

  There were any number of nooks and crannies to go through in the house. Thousands of things without any significance had to be checked to find the needle in the haystack that would tip the scales in the courtroom and convict the murderer. It was rarely down to the guns and bullets, Erika thought to herself – if she could put it like that. Extracting the right evidence was all about patience, scrupulousness, and yet more patience. Then and only then could the right person be put behind bars. The broom closet was her next challenge. She stood slightly to one side so she wouldn’t block the light. A bucket with a mop. She unscrewed the mop from the handle. Checked the handle for fingerprints. She did the same with the broom, studying the bristle and noticing some short, red-brown hairs stuck in the dust. Dog hairs? The Bogrens did not have a dog as far as she knew. Would the murderer, or murderers if there were more than one, have brought along a dog? Not very likely, and yet if that were the case there was material here for backing it up. The most likely thing was, of course, that some friends had visited – friends with a dog. Another question for Claes Bogren. There were also plant remains in the broom. Small, half-dried leaves and a little white flower petal, possibly from a lily of the valley. Erika held it up against the light. Yes, that was certainly from a lily of the valley.

  CHAPTER 17

  LATER THAT EVENING when Erika was at the movie theater with Anders, she had problems concentrating on the movie. “Archive X” seemed fairly eventless and pale in comparison to the reality she found herself in at this time. But she didn’t care. It might as well have been some mid-50s movie about housewives, as long as he held her hand and kissed her in the dark. This was the only thing that made any difference to her. In a way they were a couple and in a way not. It felt slightly uncertain, exciting, nerve-racking, and disorienting. It was Anders who’d called to ask if they could meet. She would have liked to ask him if he wanted to be with her. She still felt a bit bruised after the conversation with his daughter. He’d consoled her, telling her it was nothing personal. “Julia is guarding over my virtue,” he said, “it’s quite a responsibility.” Hearty laugh. “She won’t let anyone across the bridge right now, but if we give her a bit of time to get used to it, everything will work out just fine.” Erika wondered if he really believed that himself. He hadn’t suggested they should see each other at his home, so how was Julia supposed to get used to it? If he really wanted them to be together he had to do better than that. Erika was long since fed up with half-hearted relationships ending up nowhere because of each party keeping up their guard and watching over their own interests without having the guts to go for it. Little input, bad odds, nothing gained. She couldn’t help but admire Maria in this sense, because she went in with everything she had, wholeheartedly and without any reservations. Right now she was unhappy, but that was the price of passion. Life is short. Moments of total happiness are priceless – those moments when one knows oneself to be unconditionally loved while at the same time giving back the same love. Am I so different? she self-interrogated. There were things from her past she had not dared tell him; things that grew increasingly difficult the more she fell for him. Would he walk away if he knew?