Trapped, page 14
Gunnar had been a priest for more than forty years, but in his old age he had practically ceased speaking to God. Not that he no longer believed – his faith was stronger than in his youth, when he’d been an enthusiastic newly ordained priest. No, it was more that he had begun to take Him for granted, assuming that He was there by his side, following his footsteps, watching over him, without Gunnar needing to do anything in return. Perhaps it was his arrogance that was now being punished. He didn’t know. All he knew was that he hadn’t stopped praying since the boat had come back without her. Even then he’d known that she had somehow been lost to them.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, stepping diffidently up to the window.
A young woman with kind eyes was sitting behind the glass. Ordinarily, her smile would have warmed his heart – other people’s happiness sustained him and he had always tried to spread as much hope and joy around him as he had been able to, in both his professional and private life. But today there was no space in his breast for any joy. Or any hope. He knew that Märta still harboured hopes, and he wished so deeply that she would turn out to be right and he would be wrong. But he had felt the silence strike him when he had cried out his despair, his prayer for assistance. For the first time, God had not answered his prayers. He could no longer feel God’s presence, no matter how much he prayed. He felt only emptiness.
‘We want to report someone missing,’ he said, drawing Märta closer so that she was also within the receptionist’s field of vision.
‘Who do you want to report missing?’ said the woman, her friendly smile replaced by warm sympathy.
She must be used to cases like this, Gunnar thought to himself. What misery didn’t she see and hear on a daily basis in her work? Even so, she couldn’t understand how deep the pit of their despair was. And what if she didn’t take them seriously?
Märta stuck her hand in her handbag and pulled out a photo that she slipped through the slot at the bottom of the window without saying a word. They had picked it together. Gunnar had taken the photo in the park near their terraced house in Upplands Väsby. She was sitting with the boy in her arms on one of those wooden horses that rocked back and forth on a huge spring. She had been so happy that day.
Her eyes shone – both due to the sun and because of what was inside her – what he had always described as God’s light. She hadn’t been a believer. Not in the way that he and Märta were. Perhaps a childish faith, diluted to no more than a Christmas service and their Easter celebrations together. But she had still liked it when he said it – even when she was little. That she bore God’s light within her. He hoped that the woman behind the glass could see it too. That she would understand that no one with light like that, and with a boy like that in her arms, could go missing of her own free will.
‘This is our granddaughter and our great grandchild. She was meant to go travelling on a boat for a few weeks but she never came back from the trip. And now we’ve found out that she never left. That means she went missing a month ago. Linus, that’s her son, has been staying with us all along. But he needs his mother.’
‘And there’s nothing to suggest she may have gone missing of her own volition?’ said the woman.
Now she had a deep frown between her eyebrows and a soft expression in her eyes that he thought might be empathy. Thank God. She was taking them seriously.
‘We need to speak to someone. In the police,’ said Märta in a fragile voice, swaying.
Gunnar instinctively held out his arm and caught her. The relapses had got worse in the last twenty-four hours. Anxiety and MS were uncomfortable bedfellows. He supported his wife while the woman looked at the photo.
‘You can speak to one of our officers,’ she told him. ‘What’s your granddaughter’s name?’
‘Tuva,’ said Gunnar. ‘Her name is Tuva.’
28
At least they hadn’t opted for a security guard who resembled a bodybuilder. He had to be satisfied with that. For his show to work, the audience needed to relax. More than that, he needed a pliable audience. Comfortable and in a good mood. A muscle mountain with arms folded at the side of the stage would have the opposite effect. But Umberto didn’t think they had any choice.
He greeted the guard, whose name was Ola.
‘She always comes after I’ve gone off,’ Vincent said. ‘So I don’t know exactly what happens. But apparently she gets up onto the stage as soon as the curtain falls, to try and find the backstage area and me.’
‘What is it she wants?’ said Ola.
Vincent shrugged. He stepped onto the stage and inspected the props for the evening’s performance.
‘I’ve never met her,’ he said. ‘The stagehands always catch her when she tries to cross the stage. She hasn’t acted threateningly towards them, but that doesn’t mean anything. She’s extremely focused. Last week we tightened the security. She still managed to get through. I’m mostly worried that she’s going to break something. Or hurt herself.’
Vincent adjusted a stack of Rubik’s cubes and a few decks of cards with pictures of celebrities on the back.
‘Doesn’t sound right,’ said the guard.
‘That’s why you’re here.’
‘But I don’t get it,’ said Ola, folding his arms. ‘I mean, I’m happy to stand here for the rest of the tour and make sure no unauthorized persons get up here during or after the show. That’s my job. But if she’s so keen to meet you, why doesn’t she go to the stage door and wait for you there? Sooner or later, you’ve got to come out.’
Vincent wished Ola hadn’t folded his arms across his chest. Nothing said ‘guard’ like that did. What was more, there were studies showing that people got worse at taking in information from the outside world, such as what others were saying to them, when they folded their arms. The gesture was so strongly associated with thinking that the brain automatically retreated inwards whenever the arms were folded. And Ola needed to understand.
‘Could you hold this for a second?’ he said, passing the guard a deck of celebrity cards.
That was all it took to get Ola to unfold his arms.
‘I had the same thought,’ said Vincent. ‘Why doesn’t she just go to the performers’ entrance? The only reason I can think of is that the action isn’t planned. Despite it being repeated. She sees the whole show – tonight it might be the tenth time – and when it ends she has such a strong emotional impulse to get up onto the stage that it takes over completely. She can’t help herself. It’s completely spontaneous. Suddenly she’s convinced that this time it might work.’
He looked at Ola gravely.
‘The definition of madness is doing exactly the same thing over and over and thinking you’ll get different results to last time. I can’t see that it’s anything other than her having certain mental … challenges. What’s more, I received this.’
He pulled a crumpled envelope from his jacket pocket.
‘A letter?’ said Ola in surprise. ‘Do people still send those?’
‘It’s often older people who do it,’ Vincent said. ‘But not this time.’
He unfolded the first half of the letter so that Ola could read it. While it was passionately written, the hand that had held the pen had been anything but shaky. On the contrary, the handwriting was almost chilly.
I saw you on Nyhetsmorgon, it said. You were there with Jenny and Steffo. And as ever, your signals to me were clear. I only wish I’d understood them sooner. You’re right – you and I belong together.
‘Wow,’ said the guard, shaking his head.
‘So far, it’s just a confused person projecting their needs onto someone they saw on TV,’ said Vincent. ‘It’s a well-known psychological phenomenon. It’s not uncommon for people to become convinced that people on TV, even fictional characters in TV series, are their actual friends in real life. And these days, with streaming services making it possible to binge whole series in one go, it’s getting more and more common. The brain is simply not built to distinguish between real and made-up relationships. If you also happen to be a bit depressed, a one-way relationship like that can become vital. It may even be perceived as bidirectional, as the letter writer says.’
‘Do you think this is from the woman who comes to your shows, then?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps. If it had just been this, I wouldn’t have been worried. But this is the second letter I’ve received from the same person. One letter can be sent in a state of temporary confusion. But two letters feels like a plan. You haven’t read it all yet. It’s what comes next that leaves me struggling to sleep at night.’
He unfolded the bottom half of the letter. Ola’s eyes widened.
But since then you haven’t been on Nyhetsmorgon again. It’s been too long for it not to be on purpose. At the very moment that I realize we belong together, you turn your back on me. I won’t tolerate this.
‘No explanation of what she means with that last bit,’ he said. ‘Or how serious the threat is. I know I sound like a self-obsessed artiste climbing onto his high horse, and I don’t know for sure that it’s dangerous. But this is not a person I want to meet. And I can’t have anyone going near the props I use onstage when I’m not there.’
Ola handed back the deck of cards.
‘Don’t worry about sounding OTT,’ he said. ‘People are weird. And I’ve done security for Sannex gigs. Talk about crazy fans! Your little stalker is a sweetheart in comparison.’
29
Julia stuck her head into Ruben’s office.
‘Drop whatever you’re doing and come to the meeting room now,’ she said, and vanished before he could react.
He looked at the message that he had been deftly crafting.
Sofie, it was great to meet you yesterday. I’m afraid I’ve just been summoned to report for a secret assignment abroad and will be gone for six months. But I’d love to get in touch when I’m back home again, he’d written thus far. It was important not to be too available to begin with. If they had to work for it, they always came running. It never failed. He just needed to sign off with something sexy. Perhaps something about not being sure he’d survive?
‘Ruben!’ Julia yelled sternly from the corridor.
He sighed and held down the delete key until the message was gone. Not answering at all was an effective strategy too.
Waiting in the meeting room were Mina, Christer and Julia. Peder was probably napping in a corner somewhere. Julia’s cheeks were slightly flushed, as if she had been running. Which in fact she had been. But Ruben still couldn’t help fantasizing about other reasons for the pink cheeks. He’d seen her blush before. When she’d been wearing rather fewer clothes and he’d been lying underneath her with his hands on her hips … He sat down and flashed a smug smile at Julia, who ignored him completely.
He wondered what the meeting was about and why it was so urgent. After all, there had been a brief catch-up only an hour earlier, in which Mina had informed them about the request to exhume Agnes Ceci’s body.
‘We’ve confirmed the identity of the woman in the sword box,’ said Julia, standing at the head of the table. ‘Her name was Tuva Bengtsson, she was twenty-five years old and lived in Hägersten. Her closest relations were her maternal grandparents and her three-year-old son Linus. Tuva’s parents aren’t in the picture and haven’t been for a long time,’ she added, in reply to Christer’s quizzical expression. ‘We’ve just had the grandparents here and they were able to confirm that Linus’s father, Tuva’s ex-boyfriend, is in London and has been for the last three years. Of course, we’ll double-check that. We haven’t been given any contact details for friends, but she worked at a cafe called Fab Fika in Hornstull. Closest colleague is called Daniel. No last name.’
‘I’ll go to the cafe right away,’ said Mina, before Ruben even had time to open his mouth.
Julia looked doubtful. She leaned on the table with her hands and Ruben couldn’t help but notice how good the curve of her behind looked when she leaned forward. He tried to glimpse a trace of the edge of her panties through the denim but could see nothing. She was probably wearing a thong today. It wouldn’t surprise him if it was for his benefit.
‘Are you sure?’ Julia asked Mina. ‘You’re great at a lot of things, but new contacts are perhaps not your strongest suit? You’ll need to speak to people who don’t know that Tuva is dead, and you can’t tell them that she is, either.’
‘What can you possibly mean, Julia?’ said Ruben, leaning back with his hands behind his head. ‘Mina’s always so warm and fluffy. But I’d be happy to go instead. I can get anybody to open up. As you know.’
He looked meaningfully at his boss.
‘Ruben, you’ve just convinced me,’ said Julia. ‘Mina’s going.’
Mina nodded, got to her feet and left the room.
‘You two see what else you can find out about Tuva Bengtsson,’ said Julia to Christer and Ruben. ‘You’ll find her social security number and other details in the DurTvå database.’
Ruben made to leave, but Julia stopped him with a hand on his arm. She waited until Christer was in the corridor.
‘Ruben,’ she said in a low voice. ‘I know you think you’re God’s gift to women, but one more comment like that and “working from home” will take on a completely new meaning – assuming you still have a job. You’ve been given a lot of chances already. This team might be your last. I don’t believe the Swedish Police Authority has any further training courses on equality it can offer you.’
With that she let go of his arm and walked ahead of him into the corridor. He stared at her receding back. Suddenly he had no desire at all to look at her arse. Aggressive women were so damn unsexy.
30
Hornstull lay just across the Västerbron bridge, practically within walking distance of police headquarters. Nonetheless, Mina took the car. She immediately spotted Fab Fika on the right-hand side. The sun was reflecting off the windows, making it impossible to see who was inside. She drove on, away from the cafe and towards Gullmarsplan, where she’d arranged to pick up Vincent. She’d called him as soon as the meeting had ended and asked him to come with her when she went to meet Daniel. It was always a smart move to have an observer in interview situations and she needed someone who would spot things in Daniel’s behaviour that she might miss. She couldn’t see Ruben filling that role. Besides, work was a lot more fun when Vincent was around.
She pulled over in the square at Gullmarsplan and there he was, wearing his black jacket and black polo neck. Brown shoes. She smiled to herself. He couldn’t look more like a mind reader if he tried. Or an undercover cop, she realized. The TV version, that is. She would have to suggest that he change channels. He caught sight of her and grinned.
‘So this guy we’re going to meet,’ he said as he got into the car. ‘Is he a suspect?’
‘Hello to you too,’ she said, with a meaningful look. ‘How are you? And are you OK with me driving?’
At first he looked completely thrown. Then he frowned.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Of course I want to know how you are. You just sounded so enthusiastic on the phone. It was infectious. But hello. Hello, Mina.’
‘Hello, Vincent.’
She pulled out of the square and drove towards Södermalm. He shifted in his seat, which rustled underneath him.
‘Do you have … is there plastic on the seat?’ he said.
‘It’s so that I can murder people in the car without leaving any stains. Guess why you’re sitting there.’
Vincent burst into laughter while she concentrated on the traffic.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘So, what do you think we’ll find out from Tuva’s workmate?’
‘I doubt we’ll learn much about Tuva. When we question friends and acquaintances, it’s surprising how little they know about the life of the victim. Despite being close to them, often they can’t even tell us what the victim was like. Their accounts rarely correlate with what we discover when we search the victim’s home.’
‘What do you look for there?’ said Vincent, gripping the edge of his seat as Mina rapidly changed lanes.
‘Well, if there’s not much in their fridge then it means they often eat out. Which forms both a predictable pattern and an occasion to meet strangers – such as the murderer. And if we look at what’s missing from the fridge, we also get an idea of whether it’s breakfast or dinner that they eat elsewhere. You have to develop a sense of what’s significant. Musical instruments and half-finished paintings might suggest a hobby. Tuva and Agnes might have been members of the same club or taken a course together where they met the murderer. Sex toys are also a good indicator.’
‘Sex toys?’ Vincent said in surprise.
She shrugged. She’d long ago stopped being surprised by what you found in people’s homes. You had to steel yourself before looking under the bed or in the headboard cavities. The worst time had been when they’d found nothing but a toilet roll. That meant you could be sure there were other things hidden elsewhere.
‘We know that Tuva was single,’ she said. ‘We haven’t been told that Agnes was in a relationship. If we find sex toys with a domination theme, it could indicate a lifestyle that played out in particular clubs. Places where they may have met each other as well as the murderer.’
Vincent nodded thoughtfully.
‘Sherlock Holmes’s skills may have been exaggerated,’ he said. ‘But in 1956 Brunswick formulated a model for the link between the items we choose to have around us in our homes and the way others see us. Since then, Baumeister and Swann have explored the way we communicate with symbols when we decorate, and in 1997 Sam Gosling began to map the link between different personalities and specific objects in people’s bedrooms. Fascinating stuff.’
