Trapped, page 3
‘No problem,’ she said, discreetly changing position on the hard chair.
She stared down into her Coke and shut out Vincent’s voice as he spoke to his wife. Instead, she pictured the box they had found a week earlier. The box that had looked like it ought to be covered in glitter and featured in a magic show in Las Vegas. She imagined a sequinned assistant (a woman obviously; it was always women who were degraded in magic tricks) crawling into the box and a magician (a man, naturally) inserting long swords through the openings in it while the audience ooohed and aaahed. She had googled it. The woman-hostile stage trick was known as the sword box illusion, or sometimes as the sword cabinet, sword casket or sword basket. Apparently the thing had a plethora of names. In the original version, it hadn’t even been a box – just a small basket. With a child in it. Awful. Yet the illusion was considered a classic. Women and children. Always its victims.
But she wasn’t sitting in a Harrys in Gävle on a freezing cold night waiting for Vincent Walder because her colleagues had found some magician’s home-made equipment. She was there because of the body they had found inside the box. A body that they still hadn’t been able to identify. And she was there because they had hit a dead end. They had followed standard procedure in pursuing every lead and it had got them nowhere. In the end, she and her boss, Julia, had concluded that if they were to have any hope of solving the case they would have to resort to less conventional methods.
Mina sucked the fizzy drink through her straw and fixed her gaze on the conference delegates at the bar – anything to stop the gruesome images flashing through her mind. She didn’t want to be reminded of them, but they were there, as vivid as the first time. It was rare that a case got to her this badly, but then she’d never dealt with a murder as sadistic as this one.
The box had been found with sword hilts sticking out of the top and the left-hand side, with the tips of the swords protruding from the bottom and right-hand side. Inside the box, suspended on the sword blades like a grotesque marionette, was a young woman. Mina screwed up her eyes. Too late. It was always too late.
A week had gone by and they still hadn’t established who the woman was. They had no suspect either. Milda Hjort had been as thorough as ever, but the autopsy results contained no revelations that would help them solve the case. Forensics were still working on the box, but Mina didn’t hold out much hope of them finding some vital clue that would unmask the killer. The method was the key to this crime – she was convinced of it.
Suddenly aware that Vincent had finished talking to his wife and was now looking at her, Mina cleared her throat and pushed the images out of her head.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘But now I’m all yours. I can tell you’re not from around here. I guess you work in Stockholm? And yet you’re here in Gävle. Late on a Thursday night. And you want to talk about magic and the human psyche with a mentalist. You said that someone advised you to talk to me? I’m very curious about what that means.’
Vincent leaned forward, as if to demonstrate his interest. She decided to let him wait. She needed to get him properly engaged.
‘I saw you pulled the autograph stunt at the end of the show,’ she said, smiling as warmly as she could. ‘An artist apparently signs all his works.’
He looked confused and then laughed.
‘You mean the nail? I know, it’s so clichéd. But what can I say? The audience expect me to sign – ever since that TV show. And I don’t want to disappoint them. After all, they’ve invested both their time and money in the evening.’
Vincent’s shoulders sank as he relaxed. If he’d had his guard up, it was now lowered. For the time being.
‘You were right, by the way,’ she said. ‘I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important. You see, we have a case I don’t understand. We’ve managed to keep it out of the press so far, but it won’t be long before you read about it in the papers.’
He cut a piece of the hamburger. She was beyond relieved to see him eating it with a knife and fork. If he’d picked up the greasy burger in his hand she would have got up and left.
‘Sorry,’ said Vincent, waving a chunk of hamburger on his fork, ‘but what’s that got to do with me?’
Instead of answering, Mina pulled a manila envelope out of a folder and took out the photographs. She thumbed through them until she got to one that didn’t show the lacerated body but only the box it had been found in, along with the swords. She put the photo on top and then put an elastic band around the bundle. Vincent really didn’t need to see the other photos.
‘Do you know what this is?’ she asked, pointing at the picture.
Vincent’s fork stopped a centimetre from his open mouth.
‘Sword casket,’ he said. ‘Sometimes they call it a sword box. But what … how … I don’t understand.’
The hamburger chunk entered his mouth.
‘Nor do I,’ she said. ‘Well, rather, we have a perpetrator that I don’t understand. But I think you might. Given … well, your particular skills. So I want to ask for your help. Let me put it like this: the box was not empty when we found it. It took time to free her from the swords.’
Vincent stopped chewing and visibly paled.
‘We haven’t got anywhere with identifying the victim,’ Mina added. ‘I think the only way to find the person who did this is to know how he or she ticks. I wish I could tell you that mutilated bodies were a rare find, but I’m afraid that’s not true. At least, not as rare as I’d like. But in a magic box? That’s new. Who would even come up with such an idea? And why? That’s where you come in. I saw your show. You know how people think. More than most people. So help me to understand who this is.’
Vincent leaned back and looked surprised.
‘But surely you’ve got your own criminal psychologists for that kind of thing,’ he said. ‘What do you think I’ll bring to the table that they can’t offer? Profiling criminals isn’t exactly my nine-to-five.’
He dipped a few fries in the mayonnaise before popping them into his mouth.
‘As I said, you are familiar with the psyche and with magic. Our criminal psychologist isn’t. What’s more …’
She looked around before continuing in a low voice.
‘What’s more, the most recent profile compiled for us by our criminal psychologist told us we were looking for “a middle-aged Greek man accustomed to mixing in high society”. It turned out the perp was actually a young Swedish woman who worked in a warehouse.’
Vincent managed to put a napkin to his mouth before laughing the fries out of it.
‘It still sounds like a weird setup,’ he said. ‘From what I know, the police don’t usually look too kindly on civilian involvement. And I don’t have any training in profiling. I’ve learned a lot about how people function, but I base my conclusions solely on basic psychology, my own observations and general statistical probabilities.’
‘And what do you think criminal psychologists do?’
‘But I’m an entertainer. No one gets hurt if I make a mistake in a performance.’
‘Except you,’ she said. ‘You trust your own ability to read other people enough to risk sticking a nail through your hand.’
He smiled weakly.
‘Which I really shouldn’t,’ he said. ‘But OK. Although I don’t quite get what my role in this would be and why you’ve come to me.’
‘We …’ Mina hesitated. ‘Our team is in a somewhat unusual position in the police. We’re outside the regular organizational structure.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, our boss Julia is the daughter of the police commissioner and …’
‘Nepotism?’
She flared up at that.
‘Absolutely not! Julia is incredibly competent, a natural leader, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she becomes police commissioner herself someday. But she’s as frustrated as the rest of us about the rigid and unwieldy organization we have to work in. And it’s actually more in spite of the fact that she’s the commissioner’s daughter that she managed to persuade the chiefs to appoint a more … independent team, which she leads and serves on.’
‘The best of the best?’
‘Hmm,’ Mina said drily. ‘That might be pushing it a bit. More like, beggars can’t be choosers.’
‘A specialist team without specialist expertise?’ Vincent said, somewhat surprised.
Mina could understand where he was coming from, but couldn’t quite see how to explain. She made an attempt:
‘Everyone has their particular talent. But people are people and there are a thousand reasons why a police unit would willingly allow a member of personnel to be seconded to a new team.’
‘And why are you on secondment?’ Vincent said, the corners of his mouth twitching.
‘I don’t actually know why. I know what my assets as a police officer are. I’m stubborn, driven and dare to think laterally.’
‘But …?’ said Vincent, reaching for another fry.
‘But the team I was on before seemed to have a hard time dealing with me. I’ve no idea why. I didn’t have a problem with them. I don’t have a problem with any team. It’s teams that have problems with me.’
She cleared her throat before carrying on.
‘Anyway, my boss has approved us taking on an external consultant on this case. I’m afraid we can only pay a modest fee. But you’ll be involved in something that could make a difference.’
‘Unlike being on stage, you mean?’ he said, pushing the photographs back to her. ‘I think you’ve got “The Master Mentalist” confused with reality. I’m sorry you’ve had a wasted trip. But there’s something you have to understand: I’m an entertainer. My job is to amuse people. “The Master Mentalist” is a character, nothing more. What I do on stage … it stays there. It’s not for real. It might seem as if I have unique or special abilities, but the truth is that anyone can learn them. You’re talking about compiling psychological profiles. Of murderers. I don’t know anything about murderers. Once again, there are people who do that for a living. People who – what did you say? – want to “make a difference”.’
He didn’t return her eye contact. This wasn’t what she had been expecting. She had thought he would say that he didn’t have time or that he had more important things to do. She had been prepared to stroke his ego. But she hadn’t thought he would lie to her.
‘I understand,’ she said, getting up.
Time for a new strategy.
‘I must have been mistaken. You’re just so very convincing on stage. I’m sorry. It was only an idea. I’ll pay the bill on my way out – I think I left it on the bar by those guys from Skåne.’
‘Helsingborg,’ he said wearily, resuming his prodding of the hamburger. ‘They’re from Helsingborg. Here for a conference on electrical safety. You can see the logo on their name tags. And I wouldn’t bother them if I were you. The tall woman with her back turned to us has just started talking to a man – it’s the first conversation tonight where she hasn’t had to hunch her back to make herself smaller so that the man dares to stick around. Pity that he’s married. I don’t get men who think they look single simply because they’ve taken off their ring. As if you can’t tell from a mile off that they’re married anyway. I digress. I don’t think those two want to be interrupted and she looks like she needs it.’
Mina struggled to hide her smile. Vincent didn’t seem to be conscious of what he’d said.
‘And there’s no need for you to pick up the tab,’ he said. ‘I’ve already paid.’
‘How many steps from the stage down into the green room at the Gävle Theatre?’ she said briskly.
Vincent looked up with a puzzled expression.
‘Eight,’ he said. ‘But why do you ask?’
‘It’s actually seven. If you don’t take an extra step to finish on an even number.’
Vincent’s jaw dropped. She had his attention. He wasn’t used to other people noticing his predilections. She sat back down again and smiled openly this time.
‘So,’ she said, pushing the photographs back towards him. ‘Any ideas?’
‘OK,’ said Vincent. ‘You win. At least for now.’
The top photo had slid to one side, revealing part of the photograph underneath. She wasn’t quick enough to stop Vincent pulling out the picture.
‘Jesus Christ!’ he said, grimacing.
‘Yes. That’s the entirely appropriate reaction.’
Vincent squinted at the photo, as if gradually growing accustomed to seeing the horror of it.
‘What’s that?’ he said, pointing to an object in a plastic bag positioned by the body.
‘The victim’s watch. The clock face was smashed with the hand at three o’clock, and that seems to correlate with the time of death. Three in the afternoon, that is.’
‘No, not the watch. That.’
He pointed at the lines that had been carved into one of the woman’s thighs just below the hole where the sword entered. Two longer lines connected by three shorter ones, all at an equal distance. Mina thought it resembled a ladder.
‘Cuts,’ she said. ‘A knife or something like it. Probably to terrorize the victim. A taste of what was to come.’
‘It’s been very carefully done,’ he said, ‘and it’s completely at odds with how violently the body has otherwise been penetrated. I don’t think it’s torture. I think that “ladder” is a symbol.’
‘For what?’
‘Hmm, well, several religions have ladders. In the Bible, Jacob’s ladder goes up to heaven. Freud thought the ladder was linked to the sexual act itself. Don’t ask me why. But I think this is something more straightforward.’
He turned the photo ninety degrees and pointed at the carved ladder, which was now on its side.
Mina realized she was no longer looking at a ladder.
She was looking at the Roman numeral III.
They were both silent for a long time. The hum of the group at the bar drowned out her own thoughts.
After a while, Vincent said: ‘I don’t really want to ask, but …’
Mina nodded.
‘I know what you’re thinking,’ she said. ‘If this is three, then where are one and two?’
4
Vincent always struggled to orient himself in the morning. Those seconds between sleep and wakefulness when all he knew was the feeling of the sheets against his skin, a ray of sunshine dazzling him, the stale aftertaste of the sleeping tablet. No room, no space, no perception of time or where in the universe he might be. A vacuum of a few blessed seconds in which he could simply exist.
Then reality slowly began to make itself known. The sound of clinking crockery. A bird defying winter to twitter on the bird feeder that Maria had built. The voice of his son Aston rising and falling, switching from delight to fury within an interval of a few seconds.
Vincent sat up and pulled away the duvet. He set his feet down on the floor. Left foot first. He put on his trousers and yesterday’s shirt – he had only used it in the evening and was going to put it in the wash later. He ignored the top button as if it didn’t exist and buttoned up the other six. Just as it was supposed to be. He didn’t understand why all shirts came with seven buttons sewn on. They must be designed by psychopaths.
When he emerged into the kitchen, everyone was sitting at the table. Everyone except Rebecka.
‘Go and tell your teenage daughter that it’s time for breakfast,’ Maria said, without looking at him.
Vincent tried to remember a time when the words passing between them hadn’t been filled with unspoken meaning and hidden significance. He failed. Life, the daily humdrum, the rows and the suspicion had slowly and reticently eroded what had once been there. It was impossible to set an exact time for when that had happened.
Maria cut up pieces of apple for Aston, who was stirring a spoon in his yogurt with great intensity. The green tea in the mug beside her had gone cold long ago. Benjamin was slowly peeling his two eggs while doing his best to look as if he were still asleep. One side plate for the eggshells, another for the eggs. Vincent went to knock on Rebecka’s door.
‘Rebecka? Come out and eat!’ he shouted at the door.
He already knew what the answer would be.
‘I’m not hungry!’ said Rebecka’s voice from the other side of the door.
‘You’ve got to eat. Come out now.’
He returned to the kitchen without waiting for a reply. As he sat down at the kitchen table, he heard the door open behind him. And then close with a slam. Benjamin looked towards Rebecka in irritation but said nothing.
‘Muuuummmmm!’ Aston suddenly shouted. ‘The bits are too big! You’ve made the bits too big!’
Aston pushed the bowl towards Maria so hard that a little yogurt splashed onto the table.
‘No, I haven’t, sweetheart, they’re just the same as usual. See for yourself.’
Maria picked up one of the pieces with her fingertips, which became covered in yogurt. She looked annoyed but Aston burst into laughter.
‘Mum, you can’t eat yogurt with your fingers!’ he said. ‘That’d take a hundred years!’
‘They are actually a bit bigger,’ said Vincent, reaching for the bowl.
He took a knife and began to cut the messy chunks of apple into smaller pieces. Vincent glanced at his wife. She still looked annoyed as she licked her fingers. He weighed up whether to say something. With Maria, it always came down to whether she was receptive in the moment. Whether it was her sender or receiver that was plugged in. Sometimes he guessed right. Sometimes not.
‘Pick your battles,’ he finally said to her. ‘Your tea’s going cold.’
He received a devastating look in reply. He had apparently guessed wrong.
