Cinderella Girl (18 page)

‘You are
doing
an excellent job, Petra,’ he said, extending his left hand towards her.

Her own hands were hanging loosely by her sides and she left them there.

‘As proof of my appreciation I was thinking about treating you to dinner this evening,’ he said, smiling at her as if he were Santa Claus.

‘That’s not necessary,’ Petra said quickly. ‘I’m glad you like what I’m doing, but I have to work this evening.’

He took her hand in his and pulled her to him. Petra did not dare resist, because doing that would be to officially acknowledge that she took the whole thing as a pick-up attempt and not as a friendly gesture.

‘Like what you’re doing,’ Brandt oozed. ‘Yes, I’d say that, Petra. And there are others who can work tonight. I’ve already reserved a table for us at Mathias Dahlgren this evening at eight o’clock. That’s not something you say no to.’

‘I’ll have to do that anyway, Roland,’ said Petra, hearing how strange that sounded; of course she was not on first-name terms with him. ‘I have other plans this evening.’

Now she felt a tug on her arm. What was he trying to do? Completely unbelievable; he was trying to pull her down on to his lap. She made herself strong, unwavering, and remained braced against the floor, hand in hand with the police commissioner. This sort of thing does not happen in reality.

‘I do too, Petra. I was thinking that we could continue up a few floors once we’ve eaten.’

A few floors up? Petra did not understand what he was talking about. But she had no doubt about his intentions when his hand released hers and instead took hold of her right buttock. That was the last straw. She took a step back, out of reach of the police commissioner who was puffed up in the armchair with a satisfied grin.

‘I’m sorry I need to say this,’ said Petra, no longer hesitant, ‘but I can only interpret this in one way. You’re coming on to me. And that last thing could be considered sexual harassment.’

Then she turned away from him and headed for the door.

‘Are you joking with me, Petra?’ said the police commissioner.

Petra pushed down the handle.

‘I thought you said I was sexy?’ he continued with something in his voice that Petra could only take to be triumph.

The door opened.

‘That’s not what I said,’ Petra answered, ice cold. ‘Someone else put those words in my mouth.’

Petra left Roland Brandt and went out into the corridor without turning around. The words ‘don’t leave room for free association’ echoed in her ears.

Sjöberg had a headache. He’d been in bed by eleven the night before, after wolfing down some leftover fish fingers and macaroni from a container in the fridge. Exhausted, out of pure habit he solved the daily puzzle in the newspaper before turning off the bedside lamp. He had been so tired that he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

Five hours later he was woken by his own scream. Margit Olofsson’s face, beautifully framed by the abundant red hair like flames around her head, was there again with its tranquil expression. Puzzled, she looked at him, and danced a few steps up in the window, and then he fell. Released his hold on the world and fell.

Even though he still felt completely wiped out he could not go back to sleep. The morning paper had not yet arrived, so he got up and turned on the TV, clicking between vapid programmes on the cable channels before he heard the thud in the hall and wondered whether it might be Joakim Andersson putting the newspaper through the letter box. After reading every page of the newspaper in the total silence of an empty apartment and then eating a hearty breakfast in peace and quiet, he got dressed and went to work.

Now he was drawing up guidelines for the day’s interviews while he massaged his temples. It was just past seven and it would be as well to try to reach as many of
these single gentlemen as possible before they left for work. He had actually meant to assign this task to Lotten, but she wasn’t in yet, so he might as well do it himself. Just as he was about to pick up the receiver, his mobile phone rang. It was the medical examiner, Kaj Zetterström, calling from Åbo, where he had gone to take part in the autopsy and arrange transport home for the body.

‘Are you awake this early?’ asked Sjöberg.

‘We’re an hour ahead of you. Are
you
awake this early?’ Zetterström countered.

‘Yes, today I am. Why’d you call, by the way, if you didn’t think I was in?’

‘You
aren’t
awake. I called your mobile. Meant to leave a message. I don’t even know where you are.’

‘I give up, you win. How’s it going over there?’

‘Have you talked to Nieminen?’

‘Today? No, not yet. Should I have?’

‘He tried to contact you on your mobile. I’m sure he left a message.’

‘That damn provider!’ Sjöberg swore. ‘The voice messages seem to get stuck along the way somewhere. Sometimes I don’t get them for hours. Okay, you tell me instead.’

‘The reason I’m calling is to tell you that the boyfriend’s – Joakim Andersson’s – DNA doesn’t match the semen.’

‘Oh boy. I don’t know if that’s good or bad, but at least he’s telling the truth. On that point,’ added Sjöberg.

‘But not on all points, it appears,’ said Zetterström. ‘What Nieminen had to tell you was that they’ve located those men in suits. The ones she was sitting with in the bar.’

‘Good work! Finally, a breakthrough.’

‘Wait, let me tell you. Nieminen is a sharp guy; he didn’t know for sure it was them, but he had a feeling, so he told them that they’d been seen in the bar with the girl.’

‘Did he question them together?’ Sjöberg asked.

‘Yes, he saw them at work. They’re consultants of some kind – whatever that means – and share an office. The Finns will look into their business and see what they really do. Anyway, Nieminen had a mental advantage, so to speak, because he caught them in a lie about the girl. They had said earlier, of course, that they didn’t recognize her. That was a little dodgy to say the least under the circumstances. Suddenly they both confessed, not only that they’d been with her in the bar but also that they’d had intercourse with her in their cabin. Both of them.’

‘I’ll be damned. How old are they?’

‘In their forties.’

‘Poor kid. Why put yourself in such a situation? Did they rape her, do you think?’

‘There are no signs of rape, and both these customers deny it consistently. But it’s impossible to say. She had a blood alcohol concentration of 0.15.’

‘So why did they lie about that?’ Sjöberg asked. ‘It just makes the situation worse for them.’

‘Because she was sixteen and they are forty, maybe,’ Zetterström replied cynically. ‘Or maybe because they’re both married.’

‘Or because they’re involved in shady dealings and don’t want to attract attention,’ Sjöberg suggested.

‘The Finns are checking up on that, as I said.’

‘You said that Joakim doesn’t seem to have told the truth on all points. What did you mean by that?’

‘Those gentlemen – Helenius and Grönroos are their names – say they went out again, when they were finished with the girl, and partied some more. When they came out into the corridor, a man was standing there. They maintain, and are quite convinced, that he was the man in the photograph they were shown – Joakim Andersson, that is. They say it was obvious that he had been waiting outside, but when they came out he immediately started to walk away, pretending he was on his way somewhere.’

‘And they’ve withheld that information from us!’ Sjöberg exclaimed with irritation. ‘The girl they’d just had sex with has been murdered and they keep silent about something that could possibly convict the murderer. What bastards. “Didn’t want the wife to know …” No, put those bastards away. I hope they’re smuggling dope or something.’

‘Maybe they’re lying,’ Zetterström interjected. ‘They might have made that up, just to direct suspicion elsewhere.’

‘All the better in that case,’ Sjöberg muttered. ‘Listen, the forensic techs over there, are they doing a good job? Or shall we send Hansson over?’

‘I don’t think that’s necessary. They seem serious.’

‘Everything found inside that loo should be analysed. To the minutest detail. Everything should be matched against those men in suits and Joakim.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Zetterström defended himself. ‘I’m just the messenger.’

‘I’ll talk to Nieminen. Is he there?’

‘We’re not working in the same part of the city.’

Sjöberg thanked him for the information and ended
the call. Then he dialled Nieminen’s number and discussed what he had learned from Zetterström. Nieminen also told him that five hundred kronor had been found in Jennifer Johansson’s jeans pocket. That was not by any means an eye-catching sum of money, but the thought still struck Sjöberg that perhaps she had sold herself to the two Finnish men. He asked Nieminen to send over pictures of them. They agreed that Stockholm would continue working on the man in the bar and also apply further pressure to Joakim Andersson, while the Åbo police would question all the single male travellers who left the boat in Åbo, and of course follow up on Helenius and Grönroos.

Hamad showed up at the door, fresh and well-pressed as always.

‘Slept well?’ he asked.

‘No, damn it. I have such weird dreams. But you look energetic. Did you stay long last night?’

‘I stared at those lists for a while longer.’

‘How do you manage it? And why?’

‘I don’t know. It’s like I want to savour the names. So that they’re there if I need them. Maybe see if any bells start ringing.’

‘So, did they?’

‘No, but you never know. Sooner or later maybe.’

‘I’ve spoken to Zetterström and Nieminen. Come in and sit down and I’ll tell you about it. Is Eriksson here yet?’

‘Think so. I’ll go get him.’

Sjöberg reported on the current situation for his two colleagues, after which Eriksson slunk away. Sjöberg
realized that he had a lot to do on the Vita Bergen case so he let him go when he had finished his summary.

‘We have to call in Joakim Andersson,’ Hamad suggested.

Sjöberg shook his head. ‘I’m curious about that family, so I think I’d rather go to him. Check out the atmosphere. Meet the mother. If I’m lucky maybe I’ll see that brute of a father too, if he hasn’t left for work yet.’

Sjöberg glanced at his watch. Half past seven.

‘You know the kind of hours they have at the bank. He might very well be home still,’ he continued. ‘I suggest you get to work on those solo travellers immediately. Call them or get help from Lotten and bring them in at, say, fifteen-minute intervals. I’ll aim to be back from the school around twelve, so count me in after that and we’ll divvy up the job.’

‘Speaking of families,’ said Hamad. ‘When you think about the Johansson family … What a strange group! Those girls have grown up in that environment; they don’t know anything else. In Sweden you’re so vulnerable. Even if there isn’t a dad, there should at least be grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, neighbours, whatever. There ought to be someone who cares. I think it’s the welfare state’s fault. It’s like you don’t need to be responsible for anyone else. Society does it for you.’

He was silent for a few moments, as if considering what he had said. Sjöberg waited for him to continue.

‘I guess what I’m getting at is that maybe it isn’t a coincidence that something like this happened to Jennifer Johansson in particular. Who knows what trouble she invited? Home for her was an environment where all the individuals were dangerous in their own way, to themselves and to others. How could she distinguish something
really dangerous from what was run of the mill to her? She could have ended up in any sort of company, done any kind of stupid thing. Maybe she did do something incredibly stupid or saw something really ugly.’

‘And so she only had herself to blame?’ Sjöberg said provocatively, as if to take the edge off the seriousness of it all.

‘More like the other way round. She had no chance to defend herself. That’s what I mean. That story with the Finns in the cabin. How much do you know about life if you go along with something like that?’

‘Way too much,’ Sjöberg said.

‘Or too little. I’m not so sure this incident really has anything to do with the murder, but it’s an indication if nothing else. An indication that Jennifer Johansson was capable of quite a lot.’

‘Or that she wasn’t capable of anything,’ said Sjöberg. ‘That she was a reed in the wind. Being blown around, unable to control her own fate.’

‘Is that the impression you have of her? That she was a victim who let herself be controlled by others?’

‘No, it’s not. But whatever happened to her, she was innocent.’

‘She was sixteen. Just a kid. We’ll get him, Conny.’

‘We’ll get him,’ Sjöberg agreed.

* * *

When Barbro had arrived home at her apartment on Doktor Abelins Gata on Monday evening it was already getting dark. She was tired, hungry and dissatisfied. After a quick
dinner, she fell asleep like a clubbed ox and slept for the whole night without interruption.

When she woke up she was rested and angry. Mostly at herself because she had not got going earlier the day before and had to give up her search after the Zinken allotments. But also at the whole situation. If a little three-year-old girl really had been abandoned by her parents, how could the police not take it more seriously instead of simply shifting the responsibility on to an overloaded telephone service provider? Deep down she knew the answer. It was no more complicated than that they didn’t believe her, and perhaps they were right not to.
Hopefully
they were right in this particular case. She wanted nothing more than for Hanna simply to be a child with a lively imagination who made crank calls and invented scary stories while her mother was in the laundry room. At the same time, Barbro did not like the idea that she might be perceived as a confused old lady, just seven years after retiring as a hard-working academic and pillar of society. She felt hurt, in short. Her nose had been put out of joint.

Now a full day had passed since she talked to that Nyman fellow at the county detective unit, and Barbro did not intend to leave him alone. It would be best to act before her fury subsided. She remembered a story she had recently read on the Internet, about a man who woke up in the night and discovered that there were thieves in his garage. He called the police and told them what was going on, but they answered that they had a lot to do and no cars were available. A little later the man called again and said that the police could cancel his previous report,
because he had shot the intruders. Two minutes later six cars showed up and the crooks were arrested.

‘I thought you said you’d shot the thieves?’ said one of the policemen.

‘I thought you said you didn’t have any available cars,’ the man replied.

The idea crossed Barbro’s mind that she should blow the whole thing up. Pretend that the girl said her mother was dead in the apartment. But she dismissed that idea. If it turned out the whole thing was a misunderstanding, she might be taken to court for false reporting and she was not prepared to take that risk.

She imagined that Nyman – by his tone alone – judged her to be a hysterical version of Miss Marple, and she intended to convince him otherwise. Now she would take on the role of angry terrier. Still in her pyjamas, she steeled herself and reached for the phone with her teeth bared.

‘This is Barbro Dahlström. We spoke yesterday, as I’m sure you recall, and now I want to know whether you’ve managed to locate that call I received on Sunday evening.’

Pure facts, no prattle about little girls left alone – that would only make her seem emotional and unreliable.