Killer's Island Read online

  “So what do you think about us, then?” Erika felt as if she’d had a cold shower. Wasn’t he serious, then? Didn’t he even want to try? Her disappointment turned into an ache in her stomach. She hoped he wouldn’t begrudge himself some life just because one time he’d made a mistake. This wasn’t good for him, and not for Julia, either.

  “I want to try. But you’re going to have to be patient with me and Julia. I’m crazy about you. I want to be with you. Who knows, you might be the good genie who releases me from the curse.”

  So send the kid to a finishing school, stop talking nonsense about genies, and come over and make love to me, Erika wanted to say. But she held her tongue, of course. It would have to take its time. She would be patient. Something told her he was worth it.

  CHAPTER 9

  MARIA WERN HAD GRITTED her teeth at the pain and taken extra shifts over the weekend. Her colleagues thought she should go on sick leave, but Maria had refused – anything not to have to think about the assault. It was more than enough to be constantly dreaming about the dead boy and waking up with grinding jaws and stomach aches. Then all the brooding about the possibility of infection – what if she were infected and got so ill that she couldn’t take care of her children? And what if she died and disappeared from them? She made herself push the thought away. There was still all the paperwork to get through. She worked out at the gym as much as she could despite the broken ribs and swellings. If she worked until she was worn out in body and spirit she might be able to sleep. The others had long since gone home. The fans whirred in the office at the police station, where she sat typing with her right hand – the left was still too swollen. An interview with a car thief. The work pushed away her brooding about the test results she was waiting for: HIV, hepatitis, or a clean bill of health?

  The car thief she’d questioned had been found asleep in a stolen car at an industrial park. The trunk was completely stuffed with cans of diesel fuel, which he’d most likely siphoned from other vehicles and machines. When the staff arrived at their workplace in the morning, they’d knocked on his window to wake him up. He’d locked himself in his car before falling asleep, heavily hung over. When they managed to rouse him he tried to start the car to get out of there, which was impossible, because he’d filled the gas tank with diesel. In his dazed state he’d admitted to a crime. This was not the first time, not even the first time this week, he’d been caught. Twice before he’d tried the same thing and blown it. Every time a new interview report had to be carefully drafted, which the crook thereafter had to approve word by word. At this point he grew stickier than chewing gum. When the first theft was brought before the court he denied the accuracy of the report and said he’d been pressed too hard by the police. Maria couldn’t stop herself from laughing. The guy was like a mountain and the woman police officer who’d interviewed him measured no more than 5’3” without her shoes. The best option would obviously have been to bring him down to the police station, write down the sequence of events, and let him sign it directly, page by page. If a police officer does not report a crime, he can have his salary docked, but if he does report it, an avalanche of paperwork follows. Is it reasonable to report a graffiti offender for the sixteenth time when the maximum sentence gets handed out after five offenses? Is it reasonable to write reports for half of one’s working hours? To Maria, it all felt more and more frustrating. Then there was another car that had been stolen outside the Department of Technology, for just a few hours, only to be found a block away. A report that was very unlikely ever to lead anywhere.

  Hartman had told her about a time when there used to be a whole room of typists at the police station. Civilian employees who were laid off in the general enthusiasm for budget-slashing. What sort of budgeting could ever work as long as police officers had to type out their own reports with two fingers? Not even tape-recorded interviews were particularly easy to document, because every ah and hm had to be transcribed and every silence pointed out.

  But right now it was work she needed. Work, to dull her thoughts. Hartman was running the investigation into the lethal assault and she knew he was doing it competently. Nonetheless it was frustrating not being able to take part in the process. It was as if the three men had been swallowed up by the ground. Very likely they had committed crimes before. Someone had probably run into them before. If people had the guts to report these things, there’d be more clues and a significantly improved possibility of catching them

  Maria quickly checked the news on the Internet. New excavations had started on Galgberget. Judging by the findings, the place had already been in use in medieval times. Some thirty bodies had been found, including one interesting discovery of two wooden coffins. One of them contained two bodies. It was not known why they had been interred in a single coffin. There were no votive offerings that might indicate their gender. But surely this could be determined by the pelvis, thought Maria.

  Maria had been on Galgberget quite recently. The old place of execution was barren, a scene of natural beauty. Situated on the ridge above Visby, with a view of the sea and the red brick buildings of the hospital, there were three stone pillars that had once born up the beams from which the prisoners were hanged. Through the ages people had sat there watching the executions as entertainment – dismemberment and whippings of the unfortunates, or bodies broken on the wheel. Most, however, were hanged and then mutilated and buried on the spot.

  The online publication also reported on a landlord who’d been in touch about a bucket of bones discovered under the stairs. He thought they might be human remains and that a murder had been committed. But when the police arrived on the scene it was found that one of the participants in the excavations had taken the bones home, intending to pass them on. Because, for the moment, there was no other safe place to keep them.

  The next headline on the site was about Gotlanders, and how the incidence of drinking and driving was lower there than anywhere else in Sweden. Maria wondered how the study had been conducted? Last summer, when four-fifths of the islanders were from the mainland, or even during Stockholm Week when the entire population of the exclusive bars around Stureplan were blowing their minds with drugs. There were 448 crimes that week alone. Rape, robbery, vandalism, drug offenses. Half of the reports went straight into the archives without any investigation, because of a lack of leads. If there’s nothing to go on, no witnesses, there’s nothing to investigate. If anything else happens the investigation can be reopened, but unfortunately many of the crimes are never cleared up.

  Maria packed up her things and left the police station. Dusk had fallen. It felt unpleasant walking home alone, even though it was such a short distance. There were plenty of people around, but she could not be sure anyone would intervene if she were attacked. A couple of youths in a group were hanging round and pushing each other a bit outside McDonalds. Maria felt her discomfort intensifying under her skin. She stood there observing them for a while, her heart in her throat. One of them was somehow similar to the leader of the gang who’d assaulted her and the boy. Something in his bearing, the long, lanky body. She felt herself breaking into a cold sweat. But when he turned around she saw that his eyes were not at all right. Nauseous and weak, she carried on. When she thought about it she’d only eaten a salad that day, and it was almost nine o’clock. Probably she had another sleepless night ahead of her. She’d called Per Arvidsson, but he didn’t have the energy to see her, and considering how rude he’d been the last time she saw him it didn’t bother her so very much. He was the one who needed help. She would have liked to be there for him, if he let her. The relationship was entirely on his terms.

  Maria continued down Östra Tullgränd along the city wall and turned off into Klinttorget towards Norra Murgatan 14. There were a lot of people on the move. She covered her bruised, swollen face as well as she could, not enjoying all the staring eyes. She had never before realized how unpleasant it was to get so much unwanted attention. She was ashamed of her appearance, even tho
ugh it was not her fault.

  Once she got home, Maria sank into the sofa in front of the television. She did not feel like turning it on. A sharp telephone ring cut through the silence and almost made her scream. It took a while to extract the cell phone from her pocket.

  “Maria Wern,” she answered, out of breath. No one answered but she could hear someone breathing. “Who is this?”

  “Uffe, Linus’s dad. It wasn’t easy finding your number, but I managed.” His voice was slightly out of control. Maria suspected he wasn’t sober.

  “What can I do for you?” His enormous loss made her feel inadequate.

  “What’s going on at the police? Why don’t you bring the bastards in? I called your boss, you know. He had nothing to say for himself. Nothing at all. I can’t wait any longer. I don’t give a shit what happens to me, as long as I get hold of the people who killed my boy.”

  “I can understand how you feel. But it’s better if you work with the police. Hartman is a good investigating officer, the best.”

  “Like hell I will, when they don’t work with me. They haven’t even interviewed Linus’s friend Oliver. The police are just digging about in the media spotlight. Now that it’s not first-page news any more, you’re dropping the whole thing. I can see it.” He hung up. Maria called him back, but he’d turned off the telephone.

  CHAPTER 10

  ERIKA LUND PUT ON a CD of Regina Spektor. The loneliness of her little house in Lummelunda felt more oppressive than ever. Everything had been prepared for an evening of togetherness. Wine in the cooler. The food ready to be put in the oven. She’d never ever do this again for the sake of a man. Next time, Anders would just have to take things as they were. What was she supposed to do now? Stare at the box? Tidy up her wardrobe? So hopelessly boring. Going out and meeting people would have been more appealing, but not by herself. Admittedly she could call Maria and suggest going out, but most likely Wern would not be in the mood for bars, not until the ugly bruises on her face had disappeared.

  They had spoken just a few hours ago before Erika went off to meet Anders. But unfortunately there had been nothing new for Erika to report. They’d found some fragments of skin under Maria’s nails, and she was sure she’d scratched the tallest of them – the one known as Roy, apparently their leader – on the left side of his torso between the hem of his pants and his t-shirt. Even if it had been difficult for Maria to give a description, the DNA would speak very clearly if they could only get their hands on him. Commissioner Hartman hadn’t skimped on his energy in trying to apprehend the hooligan. But none of the trustworthy informers had come up with any leads, not even when they were offered reduced charges and other incentives.

  Maria had really pushed herself to try and remember.

  “I’m not even sure I’d recognize him if we ran into each other in town. All I can remember is… the syringe and the blood and the label on his jeans. Kilroy. His expensive boots. I checked them, they were Dr. Martens. Leather jacket and a gold chain round his neck. A guy with money? That’s what I thought even at the time. Rich parents or the proceeds of profitable criminal activity?”

  Hartman had checked passenger lists on planes and ferries. “Roy” as a forename or surname. Ronald, Roland, Robert, Ronny, and probably many other possibilities. The most likely thing was that he’d left the island. If not earlier, then certainly when the newspapers reported that the boy had died of his injuries.

  Erika had personally checked the spot where the assault took place. For the sake of the parents they had to catch the assailant. The wait was also unbearable for Maria. She had carried on working as usual, but she was not her normal self. Quieter, more brooding. Erika decided to call her after all. She hadn’t already gone to bed, surely?

  “Just calling to see how things are. Have you got time to talk?”

  “All the time in the world. The kids are with my parents and Per can’t cope with seeing me. You know, Erika, sometimes I have my doubts that anything will ever change. He’s just lying in bed staring at the ceiling. He needs to see a doctor and start taking medication, but he hasn’t got the energy to care. I’ve offered to go with him, but he pushes it away and says there’s nothing wrong with him. His ex-wife is a doctor, she could help him with medicine. But he refuses to see her at all. I shouldn’t have told him about the assault and my fears of being infected. It was too much for him. Maybe it was selfish of me. I needed a pair of strong arms, somewhere to find consolation. But he didn’t have the energy to listen at all. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Force him to take the medication for his own sake. You can’t carry on like this, Maria. And you know it’s not your fault. Even if you hadn’t told him about the assault he would still have found out at work or read about it in the newspaper. Of course he had to hear it from you.”

  “I could be infected, I have to be celibate for six months. In three months I’ll find out if I’m probably not infected, but probably is not good enough. Anyway, he doesn’t want it. He doesn’t want me any more.” Maria burst into tears. “What am I going to do?”

  “Come over, Maria. I’ve got wine and loads of beef Wellington. Come over and we’ll talk.”

  “Thanks. Sounds like a dream. Roast beef on a weekday.”

  Maria Wern leaned back in the armchair and watched Erika, who was clearing the table and pouring a little more wine. “I’m worried about what Linus’s father’s going to do. Linus was their only child. Ulf says he doesn’t have anything more to lose. Not a thing. That’s why he’s so dangerous. He doesn’t give a damn if he ends up in prison or even dies himself. I think he’s capable of killing someone if he thinks he’s found the guilty man.”

  “There’s a risk he’ll go for the wrong person. If he just hears a rumor it might be enough. He’s a ticking bomb.” Erika sat down in the sofa and sipped her wine thoughtfully. A decent Shiraz.

  “What do we have to offer him, then? What sort of punishment would satisfy him? Do we have anything to bring to the table?” Maria had a strong feeling that Linus’s father would not consider a prison sentence sufficient punishment. He wanted them to suffer like his kid had suffered – to die while pleading for mercy.

  “Not much so far. We’ve checked the shops selling Dr. Martens boots, but no one remembers any particular purchaser. Those jeans you described, Kilroy, sell in the thousands in Sweden. A scratch to the upper body is a distinguishing feature, but easy to hide. We can only move on once we have a suspect. You scratched him and we got his DNA. If we bring in the right person we’ve got him. Sometimes I think it’s a real pity we’re not allowed to use hospital blood samples from newborns’ PKU tests to run DNA analysis. I mean, DNA is there in the government biobanks, but we can’t get to it.”

  Maria looked thoughtful. “It’s both good and bad. Once the police are allowed to use it, insurance companies may start thinking they also have the right to the information… so they can exclude insurance applicants if they have a higher risk of catching some hereditary illness.”

  “Yes, and many fathers would be surprised to learn they’re not the fathers of their children. But we should be able to get around personal privacy when it’s about heavy crime.”

  “Right now I agree with you,” said Maria. “I can’t stop myself puzzling over why he went for Linus. I’ll go crazy if I don’t get a plausible explanation. The meaninglessness is the worst thing of all. If the victim was random then no one is safe. I mean, if the attacker has an overwhelming need to cause harm and that’s the whole thing. Someone gets in the way and so he gets sacrificed. But the need must have come from somewhere.… How do you get like that?”

  “According to the latest research there are bullies who feel actual lust when they’re intimidating other people. They’ve checked the brain, and the pleasure receptors are actually affected. Before, we used to think it was about lack of empathy… we said they didn’t know any better. If they could just reach some sort of insight they’d empathize and become good. It felt better thinking t
hat way. But it’s not the truth.”

  “An individual somewhere is sick in the head, fair enough. But how does he get other people to join in with the violence?” Maria felt her muscles tensing to defend herself when she thought of the kicks and blows.

  “One of them tried to stop Roy. He didn’t want to join in, but he didn’t help us, either. It’s cowardly but human. But how do you become totally emotionally cold like Roy? Is it just biology or has he been subjected to terrible abuse and deceit as a small child?”

  “It could be both. I don’t know how much you’ve read of John Bowlby’s Attachment Theory? We used to believe that the first moment of attachment between mother and child was crucial, but later we’ve found out that adopted children can also attach strongly, and other adults around the child can play an important role. I hope it’s true.” Suddenly Erika looked very fragile.

  Maria noticed the change in Erika. She never spoke about her two children, but Maria had nonetheless picked up on the fact that they were with her ex-husband in Motala and that she had no contact with them. “What do you think, then?”

  “I think it’s dangerous for a child to be left in the care of a psychotic or drug-using mother. It can cause irreparable damage if there’s no other adult the child can measure reality against and find security with.” Erika choose not to get more personal than this, but Maria sensed that the words covered a huge well of first-hand sorrow. There was a long silence and then Erika said: “Do you think his name is Roy or do they just call him Roy?”

  “The name ‘Roy’ makes me think of Kilroy. ‘Kilroy was here,’ you know. Maybe that’s why he chose that brand of jeans?”