Night Rounds (5 page)

A pleasant female voice picked up. “Svärd, attorney-at-law, secretary Lena Bergman here. How may I help you?”

“Good morning. My name is Inspector Irene Huss. I’m looking for Andreas Svärd.”

The secretary gasped audibly before she answered, “I’m sorry, he’s not in today. He’s gone to Copenhagen for a seminar, and he won’t be back until this evening. I imagine this must be about that horrible thing that happened to Marianne.”

Irene was surprised. So far there’d been nothing in the news about the murder, though it would certainly be in the evening papers. They’d only sent out an initial communiqué that morning.

“How did you know?” Irene asked sharply.

“Marianne’s mother called just a minute ago for Andreas … I mean, Mr. Svärd. She was completely beside herself and weeping. When I asked what was wrong, she told me about the murder. How awful.”

“Yes. Murder is always awful. Did you know Marianne personally?”

“No, I’ve only been working here for two years. They were already divorced when I started.”

Irene thought about the date. Two years. The same length of time that Marianne had been working at Löwander Hospital. Coincidence?

“Were you acquainted with Mr. Svärd before you took this job?”

“No. I answered an ad in the paper, just like everybody else.” Lena Bergman sounded surprised and slightly insulted at the same time. Irene thought that she was probably telling the truth, but she decided she’d question the secretary again another time. They said their good-byes, and Irene hung up.

She felt that her body and brain needed at least three cups of coffee as soon as possible. Once she’d had them, she’d head over to Östra Hospital and try to find out the story behind the man that Marianne could not stand to see.

THE SILHOUETTES OF
the three yellow-brick buildings stood out against the blue February sky. Irene parked close to the largest building, the central complex. She guessed that Marianne had worked in this building. The other two contained the gynecological units and the maternity ward. Irene had given birth to her twins here, because they’d been living close by on Smörslottsgatan at the time.

Irene heard the sound of air pressure as the entrance doors swished open for her. She stopped for a moment to admire the tapestry on the wall before looking for a map to direct her to the ICU. She saw she had to cross the entrance to the elevators on the other side, and as she walked, she passed a large café, a hair salon, and a convenience store. An employee was just setting out the evening papers, whose headlines screamed,
NURSE MURDERED
. There was more, but Irene didn’t bother to read it. She already knew what it would contain.

She rode the elevator to the ICU. The doors were locked, and a sign asked visitors to press the button for the doorbell. Irene rang the bell, and a nurse wearing a mask came to open it.

“Yes?” the nurse said. It was apparent she was stressed.

“Hi. I’m Inspector Irene Huss, and I’m looking for the head of the ICU.”

“Dr. Alm is in surgery right now.”

“Perhaps there is someone else I could talk to? This concerns a nurse who used to work here, Marianne Svärd.”

The nurse pulled her face mask under her chin and looked at Irene with surprise. “Marianne? Why would the police need information on Marianne?”

“Do you know her?”

“Yes, we worked together.”

“Was Marianne on the day shift or the night shift while she worked here?”

“The day shift. Why do you need to know?”

“Unfortunately, she’s been the victim of a crime. How long did you two work together?”

“Two years before she took the job at Löwander.”

“Why did she leave?”

The nurse bit her lower lip. Finally she smiled and said, “Even though you’ve got quite a collection of bandages, I don’t think you need intensive care.”

Unbelievable how much people made fun of a few bandages. Irene wasn’t sidetracked, however. It was clear that the nurse hoped to avoid the question. Irene replied evenly, “You’re right, I don’t need intensive care, thank you. I do need information regarding Marianne Svärd, so I’ll ask the question one more time. Why did Marianne leave this department?”

The nurse pulled her face mask back over her mouth. “Let me … go get the department head,” she mumbled, and quickly shut the door.

As seconds turned into minutes, Irene felt her irritation grow. At last she heard steps approaching, and the door was forcefully flung open by a man who looked like Adonis. At least Irene thought so. This was the second deeply tanned person she had had run across in the past twenty-four hours. The man, lithe and muscular, was as tall as Irene was, and he wore his thick, honey-blond, and highlighted hair in a ponytail. His amber eyes were pricked with darker splashes. His face had beautiful classic features, and when he smiled, showing shining white teeth, the effect was irresistible.

“Hi. I take it you’re from the police.”

“Yes, I’m Inspector Irene Huss.”

“Niklas Alexandersson. Head of ICU.”

He held out his hand and gave her a dry, firm shake. Irene noticed that he had many tiny gold rings in both ears. He was older than she’d thought at first glance, closer to thirty than twenty.

She decided to waste no time and got right to the point. “I need someone to talk to me about Marianne Svärd. Did you work with her?”

The effect on the man was astonishing, as if Irene had switched off a light. The beautiful face lost its glow. He stood silent for a while. At length he said, “Let’s go into the conference room.”

Alexandersson closed the ICU door behind them and walked over to a door in the hallway, which he then unlocked. He gestured Irene in.

The room was furnished with an oval conference table, matching wooden chairs, and the obligatory overhead projector. Niklas Alexandersson walked over to a telephone next to the window, pressed a number, and spoke into the microphone: “This is Niklas. I’ll be in the conference room if someone needs me, but I don’t want to be disturbed except for an emergency.”

“All right,” a woman’s voice answered.

He turned back to Irene. “Why do you need information about Marianne? And what kind of information do you want?”

“I need to know as much as possible. To start, what do you think of her as a person?”

The department head glanced sharply at Irene before putting a quick smile on his face. This one was not dazzling, but downright nasty. “Harmless and kind.” It was obvious from his tone that he did not like her.

“Were you displeased with her work as a nurse?”

“No, she was competent and careful.”

“She never made any serious mistakes? No mistreatments?”

Niklas Alexandersson looked surprised. “No. What do you mean?”

“Well, her colleagues at Löwander Hospital said she’d quit her job here suddenly two years ago. Do you know why?”

“I can’t see why that would involve the police.”

Irene captured his godlike amber gaze. Without breaking eye contact, she said slowly, “Marianne Svärd was murdered last night.”

Color drained from his face, and his tan faded to a sickly gray. He looked about to faint until he reached for a chair and sank into it.

Irene continued mercilessly. “This is why the police are involved. I will now repeat my question: Why did Marianne Svärd quit her job here?”

Niklas put his elbows on the table and let his face fall into his hands. A few moments later, he rubbed his eyes and miserably replied, “She said she wanted to try something new.”

“That’s not what her colleagues at Löwander told us.”

He stiffened but did not say a word.

Irene continued. “They said there was a man here she wanted to avoid.”

He still did not flinch or answer.

Irene decided to take a chance. “If you are not prepared to respond, I believe I will have to speak with Dr. Alm.”

He gestured tiredly. “No need. Everybody here already knows that I was the person she couldn’t stand.”

Irene was surprised. He didn’t seem to be her type. “Why did she dislike you?”

A weak reflection of his mean smile returned. “I took her guy, Andreas, away from her.”

“You mean … you and Andreas were …?”

“That’s right. He left her for me. Are you shocked?” As he said this, he lifted a disdainful eyebrow and looked right into her eyes. His color was starting to return.

“No, I’m not. Are you two still together?”

“Yes. We live together.”

“How did Marianne react to your relationship?”

Niklas Alexandersson snorted. “She wouldn’t let go of him. She was more dependent than I realized. It was hard on Andreas. And on me.”

“How was it hard for Andreas?”

“She didn’t give up. He didn’t want to make her unhappy. And his family wouldn’t accept our relationship either. She made them believe that this was just a temporary phase and Andreas would soon come back to her. She’d say, ‘I’ll forgive him for everything.’ ” As he imitated Marianne, his voice rose to a falsetto that sounded very much like a deep female voice, his hand fluttering. When he switched off the imitation, all the fake femininity vanished from his body language.

The intercom beeped. “Niklas?”

“Yes?”

“X-ray called regarding the CVC. It’s the pneumothorax. He’s taken a bad turn, and his blood gases are much worse.”

“Not good. Have you contacted Alm?”

“No, he’s still in surgery.”

“All right. Call him and get him over here as soon as he’s finished.”

“Right.”

Niklas stood up and tried to look regretful. “As you’ve heard, I have to go.”

Irene felt as if she were caught in an episode of
General Hospital
without understanding a word. She found it tiresome. Was it truly necessary for Niklas to leave, or was it just an excuse?

“Really serious?”

Niklas stopped. “A punctured lung is life-threatening for such a sick patient. Please excuse me.…”

Irene was not about to let him go that easily. “When do you get home?”

It looked for a second as if he was debating whether to tell the truth. Finally he shrugged and said, “Right before six.”

“Is Andreas also home then?”

“Yes, he’s returning from a seminar this afternoon.”

Irene thought quickly. “Here’s what we’ll do. Have your dinner in peace and quiet, and I will come by at seven-thirty.”

“Is this really necessary?”

“Yes, it is. We are looking for a murderer.”

He flinched at that last word but said nothing. He sized Irene up as he held the door open for her,
a gentlemanly gesture you don’t often see anymore
, she thought.

BACK DOWN IN
the grand entrance, people were having coffee at the tiny café tables. Irene found an empty table and sat down. A cup of coffee and a sandwich would be perfect right now. She hung her jacket on the back of one of the chairs and walked to the counter to place her order. She glanced at the convenience store and the newspaper headlines on display.

At first she thought it was a joke, but as she reread the banner, she realized that the
Göteborg Times
headline really did read,
WITNESS SAYS: GHOST KILLED NIGHT-SHIFT NURSE
.

Chapter 7

C
HIEF
I
NSPECTOR
A
NDERSSON
hated going to Pathology. Even more, he hated talking to pathology professor Yvonne Stridner. Most of all, he abhorred entering the autopsy room, but this was the only way to get a quick response.

When Andersson asked for the professor, the security guard pointed up the stairs with a burly, body-built arm. The chief inspector was relieved that Stridner was in her office and not in the middle of an autopsy. He tapped on her closed door.

Beeeep! A red light next to the text occupied lit up. A yellow light, indicating please wait, was beside it, as well as a green one stating come in. Even though he’d spent time driving here, Andersson was glad to accept the red light and the yellow. He sat down on the uncomfortable wooden chair against the wall. He could clearly hear the professor’s voice: “… the worst oral examination I’ve ever heard! You must study and be thoroughly prepared, even for an oral examination. It’s incredible stupidity to believe you’d pass just because you gabbled on and on. You have to know what you’re talking about. Obviously you haven’t studied. Or else you haven’t understood what you were studying. The latter would be even worse. The former is fixable: Go home and study properly and I will give you another examination in three weeks with every question you failed. And that exam will be written.”

The door was thrown open, and a girl with short black hair rushed out, crying. The chief inspector stayed frozen to his chair. His emotions contained an element of terror as he heard Stridner’s voice.

“So there you are, Andersson, taking up space.”

Andersson looked like a student who’d just been caught sneaking around to steal the answers to an upcoming test.

“Uhhh.…” he said lamely.

“What do you want?”

“Marianne Svärd … have you finished the autopsy?”

“Of course. Come inside,” she ordered.

Stridner turned around, and he followed her into the office. She sat down in the comfortable chair before her computer. A visitor’s chair with a worn-out red Naugahyde seat stood on the other side of her desk. It was hard and lumpy, surely on purpose. You were not supposed to feel comfortable in the presence of the professor.

He sank into the chair, breathing hard. Stridner gave him a sharp look.

“Isn’t there any kind of workplace health care at the police department that could organize a diet group for you? Exercise for the overweight and so forth? Or at least provide some basic nutritional information? It’d help your blood pressure enormously.”

Andersson would not let himself be goaded. Mustering all his self-restraint, he replied neutrally, “I’m taking medicine for my blood pressure, and it’s under control. But I really came to hear what you’ve found out about Marianne Svärd.” He forced a pleasant smile.

Stridner’s lips curled as if she doubted his statement about his blood pressure, but to Andersson’s relief she kept to the official subject. “Marianne Svärd. Livor mortis, rigor mortis, body temperature, and the temperature of the room all indicate that death occurred right around midnight. Analysis of stomach contents is still in progress, as well as blood and fluid analyses. It will take a few days before those results come in. Nevertheless, I believe they will corroborate a time of death at approximately midnight.”

Stridner paused and looked for a long time at Andersson over the frames of her glasses before she continued.

“Cause of death is strangulation. The noose had sunk deep into her neck and caused strong subcutaneous bleeding and damage to the musculature and circoid cartilage. Around the ligature marks are scratches, probably a result of the victim’s attempt to defend herself from the noose. Based on the appearance of the cut, I determined that the murderer stood behind the victim. It is clear to see where the noose was tied at the back of the neck. In addition, I have determined that the murderer was taller than the victim, unless the victim was seated at the time of the attack.”

“What kind of noose was it?”

“Thin, smooth, and strong. I found a number of fiber strands in the wound, which I have sent for analysis. An educated guess would be that it was a thin cotton rope strengthened by smooth synthetic material. Or perhaps the entire noose was purely synthetic.”

Stridner furrowed her brows as if she were thinking about something, and then her face brightened and she said, “Speaking of fiber. I did find some strands underneath the victim’s fingernails on both the right and left hands. Dark, thin textile fiber.”

“Wool strands.” The chief inspector sighed.

Stridner looked at him with surprise. “Wool? That’s quite possible. Probably the victim grabbed at the murderer’s arms in an attempt to make him loosen the noose, but she only caught the fabric of his jacket sleeves.”

“Dress sleeves,” Andersson said, depressed.

“What do you mean by that?”

He sighed again. “We have a witness. An older nurse who insists she saw the hospital ghost at the time of the murder. The ghost is said to be a nurse who’d committed suicide fifty years ago. They say she wears an old-fashioned nurse uniform.”

“Ridiculous! Ignore that witness completely. I can tell you that this strangulation was done by a living, breathing killer with strong arms.”

The professor drew her eyebrows together sharply; her expression brooked no defiance. Not that the superintendent wanted to contradict her. No, for once the two of them were in complete agreement.

“I know. But the witness was definite about what she’d seen.”

Stridner harrumphed. “Ghosts! A ghost doesn’t drag a victim across the floor. Don’t even give a thought to such a ridiculous notion.”

The superintendent muttered defensively that he didn’t believe that a ghost had done it either, but Stridner was not listening to him. She said brusquely, “I have to give a lecture in an hour, and I need to have lunch before then. Let’s wind this up. She was not pregnant and had never given birth. In her stomach was a rather small meal. She’d eaten approximately four hours before she died. Her food was mixed with a froth that I believe was some kind of antacid. Her stomach lining was reddened toward the pylorus, but I saw no signs of an active ulcer. I found a healed ulcer near the duodenum, but it was old. Otherwise it appears that Marianne Svärd was in perfect health. She has no other wounds besides the strangulation mark and the drag marks on her heels. I found traces of talc underneath her arms.”

Andersson could imagine the scene. The ghost nurse, floating in her old-fashioned black dress, coming up behind the night nurse. The latter, clueless about her fate. Quickly, the ghost throws the noose over the nurse’s head and pulls tight. The panicked young woman clutches in vain at her throat and behind her head in order to stop her killer. All she can do is grab strands of cloth underneath her fingernails.

Andersson was completely engrossed in his vision and did not hear what Stridner had just said. She frowned at him with concern.

“Are you feeling ill? Is your head spinning? Have you ever had an epileptic attack or similar?”

“No, I was just thinking.…”

Stridner tapped at her watch. “Well, in that case I have no more time for you. I’ll send the written report in a few days.” She stood up and opened the door to the depressing hallway. The chief inspector could do nothing more than slink out. He mumbled a good-bye that went unheard, as the door behind him had already been shut.

IRENE HAD PICKED
up a copy of the
Göteborg Times
from the news rack at the same time she bought her food. She settled into her chair and began to read.

NIGHT NURSE KILLED BY GHOST
? a headline screamed. The byline attributed the article to Kurt Höök, the permanent reporter on the crime beat for GT.

A photo of Löwander Hospital’s façade covered half the front page, which indicated they didn’t have much of a story yet. The caption beneath the photo read, “What horror hid behind the hospital’s grand façade last night? The chief of medicine refuses to comment.” A photo insert of Sverker Löwander, disheveled hair and all, had been plugged into the right lower corner of the larger image. Some of the article was completely new information to Irene, however.

A nearby resident tells this newspaper that she saw the Löwander Hospital ghost roaming the grounds at the time of the murder. Everyone in the area, as well as in the hospital, knows the story of the nurse who committed suicide there a century ago and now returns to wreak vengeance on those who drove her to it. The witness, who asks for anonymity, describes the ghost as wearing an old-fashioned uniform and walking on the grounds around midnight. Our witness remained awake until past 3:00
A.M
. and swears that no one else came or went that night
.

After this came a great deal of filler on the history of Löwander Hospital. Typical archival material. The anonymous witness wasn’t quoted again in the article.

Irene felt shaken. Where had Kurt Höök gotten the story of the ghost nurse? He didn’t get it entirely correct; Tekla had in fact had died in the 1940s. So his information probably didn’t come from anyone inside the hospital.

Irene sat there for a long time thinking without coming up with any new ideas. Finally she gave up and finished her coffee and cheese sandwich.

She glanced at her watch. Quarter past twelve. It was time to pay Kurt Höök a little visit.

TRAFFIC WAS HEAVY
on the E6, but apart from a bit of stop-and-go near the Tingstad Tunnel, there were no major obstructions. The newspaper complex’s great grayish white buildings towered above the side of the highway. Their lighted display showed that the outdoor temperature was -8 C, the time was 12:38
P.M
., and people were encouraged to buy today’s GT.

Irene parked in a visitor’s space and got out, locking the door of her old Volvo. She entered through the triangular glass doors and was welcomed by the very proper middle-aged woman at the reception desk.

“Good afternoon. May I help you?” She had a friendly voice and was well made up.

“I’m looking for Kurt Höök. I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.”

Irene held out her ID, and the receptionist took her time inspecting it. With a hint of a smile, she said, “Just a minute. Let me check if Kurt Höök is available.”

The receptionist phoned an internal line. It appeared that Irene was in luck. The woman nodded and pointed to the glass doors of an elevator across the entrance. “Go on up. Take the elevator to the third floor. Someone will meet you at the central desk and take you to Kurt.”

Irene headed for the elevators. She passed a splendid boat hull in many-colored glass mounted on a pedestal of black granite. Even the art on the walls indicated that this newspaper was a booming concern.

A harried-looking woman with blue-tinted hair and reading glasses far down her nose met Irene and brought her to Kurt Höök’s desk. None of the other journalists even looked up as Irene passed their desks.

Although Höök’s chair was empty, the woman with blue hair left Irene there. Höök’s computer was turned on, and the screen showed the article that Irene had just read during lunch. He didn’t seem to know that at three in the afternoon Superintendent Andersson was going to have a press conference and reveal the identity of the victim. Irene scanned the notes spread out over Höök’s desk in case there was a clue to the anonymous witness. She also kept one eye on the lookout and so was not surprised when Kurt Höök approached his desk. He gave Irene one of his charming smiles.

“Hi. I remember you. You’re that female officer that the Hells Angels beat up in Billdal a few years back. You look like someone got you again.”

This wasn’t the opening line Irene was expecting, but she kept her potentially poisonous rejoinders to herself and tried to appear friendly. The wounds beneath her bandages hurt when she tried to smile. “That’s right. I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss.”

“Of course. I can guess why you’re here. Sorry, the answer is no, unfortunately.” His apologetic words were combined with a twinkle in his eye.

“How can you say no before I’ve even asked the question?”

“I never reveal my sources.” He seemed to be trying to hide a smug expression.

Irene found it extremely irritating that he was fairly good-looking. She felt that the bandages on her face were the size of beach towels. “I understand, but you must realize that an eyewitness at the time of the murder is very important to us.”

“I do realize that, but my answer must remain no.”

Irene cocked her head and smiled slightly. “Maybe we can come to an agreement?” Höök looked uncertain, so she continued. “If I can find out as much as possible about your anonymous witness, I’ll make sure you have an inside scoop on the next stage of our investigation.”

Höök could hardly hide his excitement. “Concerning Löwander Hospital?”

“Yep.”

The journalist bit his lower lip as he considered this. Finally he said, “I assume you know that you are breaking the law when you ask me to identify a source, and I have no idea if what you’re offering would be worth it.”

Irene couldn’t blame him for keeping his cards close to his chest, when he didn’t know if she had any aces. She decided to tempt him further. “I realize that you can’t give me the name of your source, but perhaps you can give me some hints so that I can figure it out myself. On my end … the information has to do with another nurse at Löwander Hospital and what happened to her that same night. Of course I’ll reveal the murdered nurse’s name, too.”

The temptation was too much. Höök’s journalistic instincts took over. “All right. The ghost is yesterday’s news anyway. The headline sold well, but there’s nothing more I can get out of that witness.”

Irene remained silent. She knew that Höök was talking mainly to himself. He ran his fingers through his hair a few times, until it looked like it had been styled with an electric mixer. He gave Irene a distrustful look.