Dark Secrets Read online

  “No, it wasn’t me.”

  Hanser sat in silence, studying his face. Not without a certain level of satisfaction. Haraldsson didn’t know it but he had just made a solid start on digging his own grave. She didn’t say a word, convinced that he would carry on shoveling.

  Haraldsson was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He hated the way she was looking at him. He hated the silence, which clearly said that she didn’t believe him. And wasn’t that a little smile playing around her lips? He decided to play his trump card right away.

  “How could I chase anyone, when I can hardly limp to the bathroom?”

  “Because of your foot?”

  “Exactly.”

  Hanser nodded. Haraldsson smiled at her. There you go, sorted. Hanser would realize how impossible the suggestion was and leave him alone. To his surprise she stayed where she was, still leaning forward.

  “What kind of car do you drive?”

  “Why?”

  “Fru Holmin said that the man who chased Johansson got out of a green Toyota.”

  Okay, thought Haraldsson, time to play the slightly weaker cards in his hand: dark, tired, short-sighted, and senile. How far from the building had he been? Twenty to thirty yards. At least. His face broke into a disarming smile.

  “Not that I wish to discredit Fru Holmin, but if we’re talking about last night then I presume it was dark, so how could she have seen what color the car was? And how old is she—getting on for eighty? I have spoken to her, and I must say she didn’t seem all that reliable. It would surprise me if she could distinguish between different makes of car.”

  “It was parked under a streetlamp and she had a pair of binoculars.”

  Hanser leaned back, her eyes fixed on Haraldsson. She could practically see his brain working. Like a cartoon, with the cogs spinning faster and faster. She was a little surprised; surely he could see where she was going with this?

  “Well, I’m hardly the only person who owns a green Toyota. If that’s what it was.”

  Obviously not, thought Hanser. Not only was Haraldsson still digging, he had jumped down into the grave and started filling it in.

  “She wrote down the license plate. You’re the only person who has that number.”

  Haraldsson was at a loss for words. He couldn’t come up with a thing. His head was empty. Hanser leaned right across the desk.

  “Now Axel Johansson knows we’re looking for him, and he will probably make even more of an effort to stay away.”

  Haraldsson tried to respond, but the words wouldn’t come. Nothing. His vocal cords refused to cooperate.

  “I will have to inform Torkel Höglund and his team about this. It. Is. Their. Investigation. I’m putting it as clearly as possible, since you don’t seem to have grasped the idea yet.”

  Hanser stood up and looked down at Haraldsson, whose eyes were darting all over the place. If it hadn’t been such a gross error of judgment and, to be honest, if it hadn’t been Haraldsson, she would have felt a little sorry for him.

  “We also need to discuss exactly where you were when you should have been at Listakärr. Desiré Holmin said the man who chased Axel Johansson wasn’t limping. Quite the opposite, in fact. He was really fast.”

  Hanser turned and left. Haraldsson watched her go, his face expressionless. How had that happened? He was supposed to have gotten away with it. Damage control was the worst-case scenario. This wasn’t even on the map. The chief superintendent’s speech was a long, long way away. Haraldsson could feel the downward spiral that was his life spinning faster and faster, growing steeper and steeper. And he was falling. Helplessly.

  Ursula already knew Sundstedt. He had been an investigator for the Swedish Accident Investigation Board for a while before returning to his profession as a firefighter. They had met when she was working at SKL during a complex investigation involving a private plane that had crashed in Sörmland; it was suspected that the pilot had been poisoned by his wife. They had gotten on well from the start. Sundstedt was exactly like Ursula: not afraid to get stuck in. Didn’t take any crap. He had spotted her as soon as she got out of the car and given her a friendly wave.

  “My, we are honored!”

  “Kind of you to say so!”

  A warm hug, a quick word about how long it had been since they’d seen each other. Then he gave her a hard hat and led her over to the ruined house.

  “So you’re still with Riksmord?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you here about the murder of that boy?”

  Ursula nodded. Sundstedt waved in the direction of the still-smoking house.

  “Do you think there’s a connection?”

  “We don’t know. Have you removed the body?”

  He shook his head and took her around the house. He opened the door of his car, dug out a big fireproof jacket, and held it out to her.

  “Put this on. I might as well show you where the body is; you’ll only moan if you’re not involved from the start.”

  “I don’t moan. I complain. With good reason. There’s a difference.”

  They smiled at each other and continued on toward the house. They went in through the opening where the front door had been; it now lay to one side in the hallway. The kitchen furniture was untouched by the flames, and it looked as if it were just waiting for someone to come and sit down for lunch; the floor, however, was covered with filthy, sooty water that was still dripping from the ceiling and trickling down the walls. They went up the stairs, which were also slippery with water. The acrid smell grew stronger, making Ursula’s nose tingle and bringing tears to her eyes. In spite of the fact that Ursula had seen more than her fair share of fires, she was always fascinated. Fire transformed everyday objects in a terrifying and almost seductive way. An undamaged armchair stood among the debris. Beyond it, where there used to be an outside wall, she could see the garden and the house next door. The transience of life met the remains of normality. Sundstedt slowed down and began to move forward more carefully. He waved to Ursula to stay where she was. The floor creaked ominously beneath his weight. He pointed to a white cover lying beside what remained of the bed. Parts of the roof had fallen in, and they could see the sky above them.

  “There’s the body. We need to make the floor safe before we can move it.”

  Ursula nodded, crouched, and took out her camera. Sundstedt knew what she wanted to do, and without a word he reached down, got hold of the end of the cover, and pulled it away. Beneath it lay charred wooden rafters, along with broken and unbroken tiles from the collapsed section of the roof. But protruding from under the rubble was something that was clearly a foot. It was blackened by the fire but the flesh had not been burned away. Ursula took a number of pictures, starting with the wider shots. As she cautiously moved in to take close-ups she became aware of a sweeter aroma coming through the pungent smell of the fire, like a combination of the mortuary and a forest fire. It was possible to get used to many things in her job, but the smells were always the most difficult.

  She swallowed.

  “Judging by the size of the foot it’s probably an adult male,” Sundstedt began. “Shall I help you take a tissue sample? There are some soft parts left around the ankle.”

  “I can do that later if necessary. At the moment it would be more helpful if I had something to compare with dental records.”

  “It’s going to be a few hours before I can move the body.”

  Ursula nodded.

  “Okay, if I’m not here then, call me right away.” She dug her card out of one of her pockets and handed it to Sundstedt. He tucked it in his pocket, replaced the cover over the body, and got to his feet, as did Ursula.

  Together they began to investigate the cause of the fire. Ursula was no expert, but even she could see that a number of details in the bedroom indicated that the fire had spread extremely rapidly. Far too rapidly to be natural.

  Rolf Lemmel was devastated. A close friend had rung to tell him about the fire at Peter’s house. Howev
er, he didn’t know that a body had been found in the bedroom, and when Vanja told him, he turned even paler. Flopped down on the sofa in the waiting room with his head in his hands.

  “Is it Peter?”

  “We don’t know yet, but it’s a strong possibility.” Lemmel’s body twisted, as if it didn’t know where to go. His breathing was heavy and labored. Sebastian fetched him a glass of water. Rolf took a few gulps, which seemed to calm him a little. He looked at the two officers. Realized that one of them had been looking for Peter earlier in the day, when he still believed his colleague had merely been delayed. At the time he had found her quite irritating. Now he felt as if he hadn’t understood the seriousness of her visit.

  “Why were you here this morning? Could it be to do with this?” he asked, looking deep into Vanja’s eyes.

  “We don’t know. I needed to know if a particular person had been seeing Peter as a patient.”

  “Who?”

  “His name is Roger Eriksson. He’s a sixteen-year-old from Palmlövska High.”

  Vanja reached for the photo of Roger, but it wasn’t necessary.

  “The boy who was murdered?”

  “Exactly.”

  She handed him the picture anyway, just to be on the safe side. He stared at it and thought long and hard; he wanted to be sure.

  “I don’t know. I mean, Peter had a counseling arrangement with the school, so lots of the kids came here. It’s possible.”

  “Every other Wednesday at ten o’clock this term? Was he here then?”

  Lemmel shook his head.

  “I work here only three days a week; I’m at the hospital on Wednesdays and Thursdays, so I don’t know. But we can check Peter’s room. His notebook will be in there.”

  “Don’t you have a receptionist?” Sebastian wondered as they walked through the glass doors and along a small corridor.

  “No, we can manage things ourselves; it would be an unnecessary expenditure.” Lemmel stopped at the second door on the right and took out his keys. He looked a little surprised when he tried to turn the key and the door suddenly opened.

  “That’s odd…”

  Sebastian pushed the door right back. Their eyes were met by a scene of utter chaos, with files and papers all over the place. Drawers pulled out. Folders emptied on the floor. Shattered glass. Rolf looked shocked. Vanja quickly pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

  “Stay where you are. Sebastian, call Ursula and tell her she’s needed here as soon as possible.”

  “I think it might be better if you called her.” Sebastian attempted a smile.

  “Tell her what it’s about. She might hate you, but she’s a professional.”

  Vanja turned to Lemmel.

  “So you haven’t been in here today?”

  He shook his head. She started to look around.

  “Can you see Peter’s notebook anywhere?”

  Lemmel was still in shock and his answer was slow to come.

  “No, it’s a big green book with a leather cover.”

  Vanja nodded and began hunting carefully among the discarded papers. It was no easy task, because she didn’t want to crash about too much and run the risk of destroying any possible forensic evidence. At the same time she felt it was of the utmost importance to find out if there was a link between Peter Westin and Roger Eriksson. Because if there was, it would mean the investigation had taken an unexpected turn.

  After ten minutes Vanja gave up. As far as she could see, there was no notebook in the room. But she couldn’t turn everything upside down and search the whole place. Ursula had called back to say that she would be tied up at Rotevägen for the next few hours, but she had spoken to Hanser, who had promised that the Västerås police would send their best CSI technician. Ursula didn’t like it, but how hard could it be to secure one room? Vanja locked the door with Lemmel’s key and went to have another word with him. He was back on the sofa, talking to someone on the phone. His eyes were full of tears, his tone of voice controlled but full of sorrow. He caught sight of Vanja and tried to pull himself together.

  “I have to go, darling. The police want to speak to me again.”

  “A technician is on the way. No one is allowed in that room. May I keep your keys?”

  He nodded. Vanja looked around.

  “Where’s my colleague?”

  “He said he was going to check on something.” Vanja sighed and took out her cell, then realized she didn’t have Sebastian’s number. She had never expected to need it.

  Sebastian walked into the cafeteria at Palmlövska High. In his days as a pupil there had been no warm and cozy venue resembling a coffee shop on the ground floor. At that time this space had been a study room for those wishing to do extra homework. The walls had not been white with little spotlights. Nor did he recall any black leather armchairs, low tables made of pale wood, or small wall-mounted speakers playing lounge music. As far as he remembered, the walls had been lined with bookshelves and on the floor there had been long tables with hard chairs. Nothing else.

  Sebastian had grown tired of playing second fiddle at the psychologists’ practice. He had battled all day to fit in, not to go too far, to be a team player and all that crap. It hadn’t been particularly difficult—all he’d had to do was drift along and keep his mouth shut in most cases. But it was boring; it was so fucking soul-destroyingly mind-numbingly boring. Even though he had managed to score a few points off Vanja in the car, it hadn’t gone far enough. It was like existing at subsistence level, and Sebastian just didn’t do that.

  As he had watched Vanja cautiously moving papers around amid the chaos of Peter Westin’s room, to avoid ruining things for Ursula later, he had decided to fly solo for a while. There was information everywhere. Somebody knew something about everything. It was just a matter of knowing who to ask.

  Which was why he was standing here gazing around the cafeteria. He spotted Lisa Hansson sitting a short distance away chatting to her girlfriends, empty latte cups on the table in front of them. He went over. She didn’t exactly look pleased to see him. But there was acceptance in her eyes. That would have to do.

  “Hi, Lisa. Can you spare two seconds?”

  The other girls looked at him in surprise, but he didn’t wait for a reply.

  “I could do with your help.”

  When Sebastian walked back into Westin & Lemmel’s psychology practice twenty-two minutes later, he had received confirmation from two sources that Roger Eriksson had been seeing Peter Westin every other Wednesday at ten o’clock. As with all clearly defined groups with strong internal control (and there are fewer groups with a more effective system of keeping a check on one another than teenagers), it would have been impossible for Roger to sneak off to see a counselor without anyone finding out. Lisa had no idea who Roger had been seeing every other Wednesday, but she was familiar with the hierarchies within the school and had proved very helpful in finding someone who did know. A sophomore girl had seen him, and another girl in Roger’s class confirmed it. They had met in the waiting room on two occasions.

  Vanja was on the phone. She looked at Sebastian with a sour expression as he strolled nonchalantly into the room. He smiled at her. He noticed that a technician was dusting the door frame to Westin’s room for fingerprints. He had timed it perfectly. He waited until Vanja finished her conversation.

  “How’s it going? Found any forensic evidence?”

  “Not yet. Where have you been?”

  “Doing a little job. You wanted confirmation that Roger came here every other Wednesday at ten o’clock. He did.”

  “Who says?”

  Sebastian gave her the names of the two students; he had even written down what they said on a little piece of paper for her. He knew that would annoy her even more.

  “Give them a call and check if you like.”

  She looked at the piece of paper.

  “I will. Later. Right now we’re going back to the station. Billy’s found something.”

  Torkel hop
ed it was something good. He needed progress, something to smile about. In fact, he was ready to settle for something that wasn’t heading straight down the pan. He had just been in a meeting with Hanser. After a polite exchange along the lines of “thank you for dinner” and “it was very nice,” she had told him about Thomas Haraldsson. It didn’t matter how well meaning his efforts had been. The incompetent asshole had probably managed to get their one and only suspect so far to go underground. Which meant that the information they had acquired from the lists of phone calls and the retrieved text messages were now almost worthless. On top of all that, it looked as if Roger’s counselor had been murdered. Well, he was dead, they knew that much. Torkel had been doing this job for too long to think it was just an unfortunate coincidence.

  So now they had a double murderer. It was small consolation that Sebastian didn’t believe the first murder had been planned. The second one definitely was. Westin had presumably died because of something he knew about Roger Eriksson. Torkel swore to himself. Why hadn’t they been quicker? Why hadn’t they got there first? Nothing was going their way in this bloody investigation. It wouldn’t be long before the press made the connection between the deaths; it was just what they needed to keep the story going.

  And Ursula was angry with him.

  Mikael was on his way.

  He pushed open the door of the conference room. Ursula was still at the scene of the crime, but the others were already there. Billy had called them all. Torkel sat down and nodded to Billy to start. The projector on the ceiling hummed into life, so Torkel assumed they would be looking at more CCTV footage. Correct. Roger came ambling in from the right.

  “At nine twenty-nine Roger Eriksson was here.” Billy circled a street on the map on the wall. “Just about a mile from Gustavsborgsgatan. As you can see, he crosses the road and disappears. I mean, really disappears.” Billy rewound the video and froze the image just before Roger disappeared behind a parked car.