Calle looked for support from Mehmet, but he seemed completely engrossed in his fantasy book. Calle felt once more how sick he was of this shit. He didn’t even know why he’d auditioned in the first place. Survivor had been one thing, but this! Locked up with these losers. He demonstratively slipped in his earphones and lay back, listening to music on his iPod. The high volume mercifully drowned out Uffe’s babbling, and he let his thoughts roam free. He was inexorably drawn back in time. The earliest memories first. Images from his childhood, grainy and jerky, as if played on Super-8 film. Himself running straight into his mamma’s arms. The smell of her hair, which was mixed with the fragrance of grass and summertime. The feeling of security as her arms wrapped around him. He also saw his pappa laughing and looking at them with love in his eyes, but he was always on the way out, on the way somewhere else. Never any time to stop and share in their embrace. Never any time for him to smell Mamma’s hair. The scent of Timotej shampoo, which he could still recall so strongly.
Then the film wound forward until it stopped at an image that was much more distinct. Fully in focus. The image of her feet when he opened the door to her bedroom. He was thirteen. It was many years since he had run into her arms. So much had happened. So much had changed.
He remembered that he had called out. A bit annoyed. Asked why she didn’t answer him. But when he pushed open the door, he felt the oppressive silence and the first icy sensation in his stomach that something was wrong. Slowly he had approached her. She looked like she was asleep. She was lying on her back, her hair that had been long when he was little was now short. There were lines of weariness and bitterness etched into her face. For a second he thought she really was sleeping. Sleeping deeply. Then he caught sight of the empty pill bottle lying on the floor next to the bed. It had fallen out of her hand when the pills started to work, and she was finally able to flee from the life that she could no longer handle.
Ever since that day he and his father had lived side by side, in silent hostility. Nothing had ever been said about what happened. Nothing had ever been mentioned about his father’s new woman moving in a week after his mother’s funeral. Nobody had ever confronted the truth about the harsh words that had led to his mother’s final act, the way she’d been tossed aside like an old winter coat.
Instead, money had done all the talking. Over the years it had grown to an enormous debt, a debt of conscience that seemed to have no end. Calle had accepted the money, he had even demanded it, but without mentioning what they both knew was the reason for all the payments. That day. When the silence had echoed through the house. When he had called out but received no answer.
The film was winding backwards again. It sucked him back, faster and faster, until the grainy, jerky images were again what he saw in his mind’s eye. In his memory he ran toward his mother’s outstretched arms.
‘I’d like to have a meeting at nine o’clock. In Mellberg’s office. Can you let the others know?’
‘You look tired; were you out partying last night?’ Annika looked at him over the top of her computer glasses. Patrik smiled, but his smile didn’t reach his weary eyes.
‘If only. No, I sat up half the night reading through reports and documents. And that’s why I need to call a meeting.’
He walked toward his office and looked at his watch. Ten past eight. He was dead tired, and his eyes felt gritty after too much reading and too little sleep. But he had fifty minutes to collect his thoughts; then he would have to tell them about what he’d found.
Fifty minutes went by much too fast. When he entered Mellberg’s office, the whole team was gathered. He had briefed Mellberg by phone on his way into the station this morning, so the chief knew more or less what Patrik was going to say. The others looked mystified.
‘In recent days we’ve put too much emphasis on the investigation of Lillemor Persson’s murder, at the expense of our investigation of the death of Marit Kaspersen.’ Patrik stood next to the flip chart, with his back to Mellberg’s desk, and gazed with a serious expression at his colleagues. No one was missing. Annika had brought pen and paper and was taking notes as usual. Martin sat next to her, his red hair standing on end. His freckles shone against his winter-pale skin, and he waited eagerly for what Patrik had to say. Next to Martin sat Hanna, as cool, calm and collected as they had come to expect from her during the two weeks she’d been working with them. It felt as though she’d been there much longer. Gösta as usual sat slumped in his chair. There was no spark of interest in his eyes; he looked as though he wished he were somewhere else entirely. But that’s how Gösta always looked outside the golf course, Patrik thought in annoyance. Mellberg, on the other hand, had leaned his big body forward as a sign that he was paying close attention. He knew where Patrik was going with this; not even he could ignore the connections that Patrik had uncovered.
‘As you know, at first we regarded Marit’s death as an accident. But the forensic examination and autopsy showed that this was not the case. Someone tied her up, forced an object of some kind into her mouth and down her throat, then poured a large quantity of alcohol into her, which by the way was the cause of death. Then the perpetrator, or perpetrators, placed her body in her car and attempted to make the crash look like an accident. We don’t know much more than that. Nor have we made any great effort to look into anything further, since our more …’ Patrik searched for the right word, ‘media-related investigation has taken up all our energy. Consequently, we’ve allocated our resources in a way which in hindsight I find extremely unfortunate. But it’s no use crying over spilt milk. We’ll simply have to make a greater effort and try to make up for the time we’ve wasted.’
‘You did have a tentative lead –’ Martin began.
Patrik cut him off impatiently. ‘Indeed, I found a possible connection and I followed up on it yesterday.’ He turned round and picked up the stack of papers he had put on Mellberg’s desk.
‘I went to Borås yesterday and met with a colleague named Jan Gradenius. We both attended a conference in Halmstad two years ago. At that time he recounted the details of a case in which he’d been involved, where he suspected that the victim had been murdered but there was insufficient evidence to prove it. I was given access to all the information about the case, and …’ Patrik paused for effect and looked out over the small gathering, ‘and that case happens to have remarkable similarities to the circumstances leading to Marit Kaspersen’s death. That victim also had an absurd amount of alcohol in his body, including his lungs. And this in spite of the fact that the victim never drank alcohol, according to testimony of his next of kin.’
‘Was there the same physical evidence?’ Hanna asked with a frown. ‘Bruises round the mouth, tape residue, et cetera?’
Here Patrik, frustrated, scratched his head. ‘Unfortunately we don’t have that information. This victim, a thirty-one-year-old man by the name of Rasmus Olsson, was judged at the time to have committed suicide by first guzzling a bottle of vodka and then jumping from a bridge. So the investigation was based on that assumption. And they weren’t as exacting with the evidence as they should have been. But there are photos from the autopsy, and I’ve been allowed to see them. From a layman’s point of view it looked as though there were traces of bruises around the wrists and around the mouth, but I sent the photos to Pedersen for his evaluation. Then I sat up all last night studying the material I was given, and there is no doubt in my mind that some sort of connection exists.’
‘So what you’re saying,’ said Gösta in a sceptical tone, ‘is that somebody first murdered this guy in Borås a couple of years ago, and then decided to kill Marit Kaspersen here in Tanumshede. Sounds a bit far-fetched if you ask me. What sort of connection is there between the victims?’
Patrik understood Gösta’s scepticism, but it still irritated him. He was convinced that there was a link.
‘That’s what we have to find out,’ said Patrik. ‘I thought we’d begin by writing down what little we know, then maybe together we can find a way to proceed.’