Dark Secrets Page 30

  Sebastian walked down the long corridor and came to a common room containing a coffee machine and a large, battered fridge. Two large glass cabinets full of trophies and medals took center stage in the room. In front of the cabinets were a number of plain chairs and tables marked with cigarette burns, from the days when men with guns didn’t have to go outside for a smoke. Sebastian ambled into the room. A girl of about thirteen was sitting at one of the tables with a can of Coke and a cinnamon roll in front of her. She gave Sebastian a noncommittal teenage look. He nodded to her, then went over to the cabinet containing the gold-colored trophies. He was fascinated by the way in which people insisted on rewarding victory in any sport with ridiculously huge golden trophies. It was as if the participants actually suffered from extremely low self-esteem, and deep down they were aware of the total pointlessness of what they were doing. Their way of denying this truth and showing the world how important their activities really were resulted in total trophy inflation. In terms of both size and luster.

  The walls were adorned with photographs of individual club members and groups. Here and there was a framed news placard or newspaper article. It was a classic club room, in fact. Sebastian glanced idly at the pictures. The majority showed proud men holding their guns, legs apart, beaming at the camera. There was something about those smiles that looked ridiculously false, he thought. Was it really so terrific to be holding those guns, that trophy? He felt the girl’s eyes on his back and turned to face her. She still had that same look on her face. Then she spoke.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  “At what?”

  Sebastian glanced briefly at her.

  “I’m a police psychologist. What are you doing?”

  “I’ve got a training session soon.”

  “Are you allowed to shoot at your age?”

  The girl laughed.

  “We don’t shoot at each other.”

  “Not yet… Do you enjoy it?”

  The girl shrugged her shoulders.

  “It’s more fun than running around after some stupid ball. Do you enjoy being a police psychologist?”

  “It’s okay. I’d rather be shooting at things, like you.”

  The girl looked at him in silence and went back to her Danish. Obviously the conversation was over. Sebastian returned to his contemplation of the wall. His eyes settled on a picture of six cheerful men standing around one of those enormous trophies. A small gold plaque above the picture described the moment as NATIONAL CHAMPIONSHIPS—BRONZE 1999. Sebastian peered more closely at the photograph. Particularly at one of the six men. He was standing on the left, looking especially cheerful. Big smile. Lots of teeth. Sebastian took down the picture and left the room.

  By the time Ursula left Rotevägen, she and Sundstedt had become more and more convinced that the fire at Peter Westin’s home had been deliberately lit. The fact that it had started in the bedroom was beyond doubt. The wall behind the bed and the floor beside it showed clear signs of an explosive development of the fire. Once it had taken hold, the flames had spread hungrily to the ceiling and been fed with fresh oxygen when the bedroom windows were blown out by the heat. There was nothing around the bed to explain the rapid spread. When they examined the area more closely, they found clear traces of an accelerant. Definitely arson, then.

  Westin’s actual cause of death was still unknown, but Sundstedt had managed to get the body out from beneath the rubble. It had taken several hours, because it had been necessary to prop up the damaged floor from below before they could make a start. Ursula made sure the body was carefully packed into a body bag and decided to go along to the forensic lab herself to attend the autopsy. Sundstedt promised to get his report in as soon as possible.

  At the lab they had raised their eyebrows slightly at her presence, but she took no notice. Ursula had promised herself that this time she was going to stay at the center of things. Otherwise this could turn into a real nightmare for them. A comparison with the dental records she had requested quickly established that the body they had found in the half-burned-out house was definitely Peter Westin, which meant Ursula was pretty certain that one murder had become two and that they were now dealing with a double killer. She also knew that someone who is capable of murdering twice could do it over and over again. Each time it would be a little easier.

  She called Torkel.

  Billy and Vanja didn’t get much further with Ubbe Lindström. He became more and more defensive as the conversation went on. They had found out the most important thing: Ragnar Groth had a gun that matched the one that took Roger’s life, at least as far as the caliber was concerned. Ubbe kept on trying to get them to reveal the reason for their interest in one of the club’s most loyal and successful members. The fewer answers he got, the more terse and reluctant to respond he became. Vanja realized that Ragnar Groth and Ubbe Lindström were probably more than just fellow members; she got the feeling they were friends, and was growing concerned that Ubbe would call his friend and tell him about their visit the minute they left.

  “As I’m sure you’re aware, your gun license has to be renewed every five years. If it comes to my attention that this confidential discussion wasn’t quite so confidential, then…” Vanja let the rest of the sentence hover unspoken in the air.

  “What do you mean?” said the club secretary, fury in his voice. “Are you threatening me?”

  Billy smiled at him.

  “All she means is that this conversation is just between us. Okay?” Ubbe’s eyes darkened and he nodded irritably. At least they had tried, and he had been warned. Sebastian lumbered into the office.

  “Just one more thing.” He placed the framed photograph in front of Ubbe. Pointed at something in the picture. “Who’s that? Top left?”

  Ubbe leaned forward and peered at the photograph. Billy and Vanja moved forward and caught a glimpse of the man with the broad smile.

  “That’s Frank. Frank Clevén.”

  Vanja and Billy recognized him at once. His picture was already on the wall back at the station. Minus the broad smile, admittedly, but there was no doubt that this was the man who had booked a room in a run-down motel the previous Friday.

  “Is he a member here as well?”

  “He was. Moved away the year after they took bronze. He lives in Örebro now, I think. Or Eskilstuna. Is he involved as well?”

  “Nobody is involved in anything. Just think about your license,” Vanja replied curtly, then left with the others. All three of them walked back to the car much more quickly than usual. This was turning out to be a really good day.

  Frank Clevén lived on Lärkvägen in Eskilstuna. Billy couldn’t get an answer on the landline, however, and they couldn’t find a cell number registered in his name. After a little research Billy found the name of Frank’s employer, a building firm known as H & R Bygg. He worked as a construction engineer and had a work cell. Billy called him. Frank was very surprised to hear that the police were looking for him, but Billy stressed the fact that they just wanted to ask him a few questions.

  Which they would like to do at his place of work.

  In thirty minutes.

  They insisted on it, in fact.

  Vanja and Sebastian were already in the car halfway to Eskilstuna when they got the call from Billy, who had stayed back at the station. He read out the brief details available on Frank Clevén. They didn’t reveal much. Fifty-three years old, born in Västervik, moved to Västerås at a young age. Four years studying technical options at high school, military service with KA3 Gotland, gun license for both a pistol and a rifle since the end of 1981, still current. No criminal record, no bad debts. Nothing of note. But they did get an address.

  Just outside Eskilstuna they pulled into a building site where a shopping center was under construction. With girders sticking up where the walls would be, it didn’t look much like a future temple of consumerism at the moment, but the huge concrete base was almost finished. Some distance
away they could see a group of workers busy with a big yellow machine. Sebastian and Vanja headed over to the builders’ huts, where they found someone who appeared to be the foreman. “We’re looking for Frank Clevén.”

  The man nodded and pointed to one of the huts in the middle. “He was over there last time I saw him.”

  “Thanks.”

  Frank Clevén was one of those people who looked better in real life than in a photograph. His features were finely chiseled, even though his skin was lined from spending so much time outdoors. Sharp eyes, screwed up in the manner of the Marlboro Man as he shook hands with Sebastian and Vanja. They didn’t see that broad smile from the photograph once during their conversation. He suggested they should go into his small office in one of the other huts, where they would be able to talk without being disturbed. Vanja and Sebastian followed him, and it seemed to Vanja that his shoulders grew heavier and heavier with every crunching step across the gravel. They were on the right track, she could feel it.

  At last.

  Clevén unlocked the door and invited them in. The gray daylight seeped in through two windows white with dust as they stepped into the cramped hut. There was a pungent smell of tannin. A coffee machine occupied the tiny hallway linking two small rooms. Clevén’s office was the first. The only furniture was an impersonal desk covered in drawings, and a few chairs. The walls were bare apart from old tape marks and last year’s calendar. Clevén looked at the two officers, who remained standing even though he had offered them a seat. He also chose to stand.

  “I don’t have a great deal of time, so this will have to be quick.” Clevén tried to keep his voice calm, but failed. Sebastian noticed that Clevén’s upper lip was beaded with sweat. The room was not warm.

  “We’ve got all the time in the world, so it’s up to you how quick this is,” Sebastian replied, making it perfectly clear that this meeting wasn’t going to be conducted on Frank’s terms.

  “I don’t even know why you’re here. Your colleague just said you wanted to speak to me.”

  “If you’d like to sit down, my colleague will explain.” Sebastian looked at Vanja, who nodded but waited for Clevén to sit down. After a short silence he decided to cooperate. He sat down. Right on the edge of the chair. As if he were perching on needles.

  “Could you tell us why you stayed in a motel in Västerås last Friday?”

  He looked at them.

  “I didn’t stay in a motel last Friday. Who says I did?”

  “We do.”

  Vanja didn’t say any more. Under normal circumstances the person they were questioning would begin to talk of his own accord at this stage. When he was presented with facts. Surely he ought to realize they wouldn’t have come all the way to Eskilstuna if they didn’t have solid evidence? Confirm or explain away, those were the usual options. Or there was a third choice. Silence. Clevén went for the third option. He glanced from Vanja to Sebastian but didn’t say a word. Vanja sighed.

  “Who were you meeting? What were you doing there?”

  “I wasn’t there, I tell you.” His expression was almost pleading. “You must have the wrong person.”

  Vanja looked down at her papers. Mumbled to herself. Took her time. Sebastian didn’t take his eyes off Clevén. He was licking his lips as if they had suddenly gone dry. A bead of sweat began to emerge just on his hairline above his forehead. The room still wasn’t warm.

  “Aren’t you Frank Clevén, ID number 580518?” Vanja asked, her tone neutral.

  “Yes.”

  “Didn’t you pay seven hundred seventy-nine kronor for a room using your debit card last Friday?”

  Clevén blanched.

  “It’s been stolen. My card’s been stolen.”

  “Stolen? Have you reported it to the police, and if so, when?”

  He fell silent; his brain seemed to be working overtime. A bead of sweat trickled down his cheek, which had grown significantly paler.

  “I haven’t reported it.”

  “Have you stopped it?”

  “I might have forgotten, I don’t know…”

  “Oh come on, you don’t seriously expect us to believe your card has been stolen?”

  No reply. Vanja decided it was time to let Frank Clevén know just how bad things looked for him at the moment.

  “This is a murder investigation. That means we will look into every piece of information you give us in detail. So let me ask you again: Did you stay in a motel in Västerås last Friday, yes or no?”

  Clevén looked shocked.

  “A murder investigation?”

  “Yes.”

  “But I haven’t murdered anyone.”

  “So what have you done?”

  “Nothing. I’ve done nothing.”

  “You were in Västerås on the night of the murder, and you’ve lied about it. That sounds rather suspicious to me.”

  Clevén jerked, his whole body twisting. He found it difficult to look at the two people sitting in front of him. Sebastian leaped to his feet.

  “Bugger this. I’m going to your house to ask your wife if she knows anything. Will you stay here with him?”

  Vanja nodded and looked at Clevén; he was staring wanly at Sebastian, who was slowly heading for the door.

  “She doesn’t know anything,” he sputtered.

  “No, perhaps not, but she’ll know whether you were at home or not, won’t she? Wives usually have a pretty good idea about that sort of thing.” Sebastian’s extra broad smile showed how happy he was at the very thought of going to Clevén’s house to see his wife and children and ask the question. He managed a few more steps before Clevén stopped him.

  “Okay, I was at the motel.”

  “I see.”

  “But my wife doesn’t know anything.”

  “So you said. Who did you meet there?”

  No reply.

  “Who did you meet? We can sit here all day. We can send for a squad car to come and take you away in handcuffs. It’s up to you. But let me make one thing very clear: we will find out eventually.”

  “I can’t say who it was. It’s out of the question. Things will be bad enough for me if this comes out, but for him…”

  “Him?”

  Frank fell silent and nodded in embarrassment. Suddenly everything became clear to Sebastian.

  The gun club.

  The embarrassed look on Frank’s face.

  Palmlövska High, riddled with lies.

  “You were meeting Ragnar Groth, weren’t you?”

  Frank nodded quietly.

  He lowered his eyes.

  And his world came crashing down.

  In the car on the way back Sebastian and Vanja were almost elated.

  Frank Clevén and Ragnar Groth had been involved in a relationship for quite some time. They had found each other at the gun club. Fourteen years ago. Tentatively at first, then their liaison had become all absorbing. Destructive. Clevén had even moved away from Västerås to try to put an end to the relationship he was so ashamed of. After all, he was married. He had children. He wasn’t a homosexual. But he hadn’t been able to stay away. It was like a poisonous drug.

  The pleasure.

  The sex.

  The shame.

  Around and around it went. They had continued to see each other. It was always Groth who called and suggested they meet, but Clevén never refused. He longed for their encounters. Never at Groth’s home. The motel became their oasis. The cheap room. The soft beds. Clevén always made the reservation and paid. He had had to come up with excuses, constantly trying to mitigate his wife’s suspicions. It was easier when he didn’t stay over. Coming home late was easier than not coming home at all. Yes, they had met up on that Friday. At about four o’clock. Groth had been almost insatiable. Clevén hadn’t left the motel until just before ten. Groth had departed just about half an hour earlier.

  Shortly after half past nine.

  Just when Roger was probably walking past the building.

  Chap
ter Seventeen

  ALL FIVE of them could feel the sense of expectation in the air. They recognized it and welcomed it. This was how it felt when they had made a breakthrough, when the investigation gathered momentum, when in the best-case scenario they could begin to sense the end. For several days every clue, every idea, had led to a dead end, but Ragnar Groth’s tryst at the motel had provided them with completely new pieces of the puzzle to work with. Pieces that seemed to fit together very well.

  “So the principal of a private prep school with a Christian set of values and ethos is homosexual.” Torkel contemplated his team. In their eyes he could see and feel the fresh energy permeating the room. “It’s not too far-fetched to think that he was ready to go quite a long way to hide that fact.”

  “Killing someone isn’t going quite a long way, it’s going a hell of a long way.” That came from Ursula. Torkel thought she looked tired. True, she had been tied up with the fire and the presumed murder of Westin all day, but he still couldn’t help wondering whether she had slept as badly as he had.

  “No one was ever meant to die.” Sebastian plucked a pear from the fruit bowl. He took a big, noisy bite.

  “Aren’t we assuming that the person who murdered Roger Eriksson also killed Peter Westin?” Ursula wondered. “Surely nobody thinks that was an accident too?”

  “No, but I still maintain that Roger’s murder wasn’t planned.” It was slightly difficult to make out the words as they got caught up in the half-masticated pear. Sebastian took a few seconds, finished chewing, and swallowed. Started again.

  “I still maintain that Roger’s murder wasn’t planned. We are, however, dealing with a person who will do whatever it takes to get away with it.”

  “So Roger’s murder may have been an accident, but he’s prepared to kill in cold blood so that nobody will find out he did it?”

  “Yes.”

  “How does he square that?” Billy wondered. “With his conscience, I mean.”

  “He probably regards himself as being of supreme importance. Not necessarily for selfish reasons. He might believe that one or more people would be harmed if he were caught. Would suffer for his sake. He might have a job he thinks no one else could do, or a task he must complete. At any price.”