The Beige Man (31 page)

“No, it was empty. I think. I mean, it was very dark; some of the nearby street lamps were out. But I didn’t notice anything to suggest that there was anyone around.”

“What kind of car was it?”

“I don’t know. I think it was a pale color, and a pretty big model. I don’t know what make it was. It was parked facing toward us.”

Martin Wallström fell silent and stared almost defiantly at Irene. When he didn’t show any signs of continuing, she asked, “Why didn’t you contact us until now?”

He shuffled uncomfortably. “I should think that’s obvious,” he snapped.

“No. Please explain,” Irene said politely.

“We hadn’t decided what to do about the future and … everything. But now my wife has found out about us. From a friend who had seen us. So there’s no turning back. We’re both going to get a divorce and try to build a new life together.”

Irene almost asked whether he had actually discussed this with his new woman, but she managed to stop herself. Instead she said, “But you must have realized that what you had seen was important.”

“Well, yes. But for the reasons I’ve already given, I didn’t want to speak to you. There was a risk that our respective partners would find out that we’d been sitting there in the car … 
they’d want to know what we’d been doing and why … you understand what I mean.”

Irene decided to let it go, in spite of her annoyance. “So you didn’t see anyone in the vicinity of the light-colored car?”

“No. But when we were driving back down Delsjövägen, we heard a siren in the distance. It was coming from the direction of the city, and we could see the flashing blue lights. We didn’t want to be held up, so we turned onto Bögatan and headed down to Sankt Sigfridsplan. Then we drove straight home along Sankt Sigfridsgatan,” Wallström explained.

The siren they had heard was probably the police car pursuing the stolen BMW. Wallström and his squeeze had missed the accident in which Torleif Sandberg was killed by just a few seconds. Or maybe they just hadn’t noticed it.

“You didn’t see a car coming along Delsjövägen from the opposite direction? I’m thinking about the vehicle the police were pursuing,” Irene said.

“No. I’ve tried to think, but I don’t remember a car coming the other way. Although of course I was upset … as I said, we’d been talking about some life-changing stuff … I probably wasn’t paying much attention. My only thought when I saw the blue lights and heard the siren was that I didn’t want to get stuck. We had to get home before it got too late.”

Irene nodded to show she understood. “I’ll need to speak to the woman who was with you,” she said.

He glanced over at the window again. “It’s not that simple. Her husband has taken this very badly. She’s moved back home to her parents’. Only temporarily, until we can move into the new house I’ve bought. The children are still with him, but that’s probably not such a good …” His voice tailed away, and he looked tormented.

“Does she have a name?”

The question sounded more acidic than Irene had intended.

“What? Who? Oh … sure. Marika. Marika Lager.” He took
out a business card and scribbled something on the back before handing it to Irene. “That’s her cell number. She’s out sick from work at the moment. My number is on the card as well. It’s best to call my cell.”

He got to his feet, suddenly looking as energetic and decisive as he had when he walked in.

“You’ll have to excuse me, but I need to get back to work. I have a meeting.”

He held out his hand and pumped Irene’s hand up and down several times, then quickly left the room.

“I
CALLED
M
ARIKA
Lager and she confirmed what Martin Wallström said. She didn’t have anything to add; quite the reverse, in fact. She recalled seeing the parked car, but nothing else. She couldn’t even remember whether it was a dark or light color.”

Andersson nodded and folded his hands over his belly. “So the only thing we know for sure is that there was a car parked up by the barrier,” he said.

“Yes. Just below the slope where the root cellar is,” Irene confirmed.

“The bastard could have been hiding in the car. He might have already stowed the little Russian in the cellar, but didn’t have time to get away before Wallström and his girlfriend turned up. Or maybe he dumped her in there as fast as he could once the turtledoves had left,” Jonny said.

“We don’t even know if it was the killer’s car, but I think we can safely assume that it was since the driver hasn’t come forward,” Irene said.

“Even if he dumped the body quickly after they’d left, he didn’t have much time to play with. If Wallström drove off at around half past nine, that means the murderer had something like ten minutes to carry the little Russian up the slope to the cellar, break open the door and put the body inside. And he
must have gotten away before the BMW arrived, otherwise it would have blocked him in,” Fredrik said.

“What if he didn’t get away? What if our two little hit-and-run drivers actually arrived before he had time to get away?” Tommy said thoughtfully.

Irene considered what he had just said, and realized where he was going with this.

“You mean in that case they know who he is, or at least what he looks like,” she said.

“Yep.”

Everyone turned to Jonny. “Okay, I’ll try the little shits again. And that particular spot seems to be a popular spot for lovers,” he said with a smirk.

“Although there wasn’t a lot of lovemaking going on in this case,” Irene said sharply.

“Enough! Get back to the interviews,” Andersson said in a voice that brooked no contradictions.

“Y
EP
!” T
OMMY SAID
with the phone pressed to his ear. He grinned at Irene and gave her a thumbs-up sign. “You’ll email it to me right away? Great!”

He put down the phone with a flourish. He was still smiling as he said, “I think you and Fredrik have the ammunition you need against Anders Pettersson.” He paused dramatically, his eyes twinkling teasingly as he made her wait.

“Out with it!” she said impatiently, since that was clearly what was expected of her.

“The lab has compared the DNA from the semen we found on Tanya with Pettersson’s DNA profile. And they’ve found a match!”

Irene stared at him, lost for words. “In her hair … and the skin fragments under her nails?” she managed eventually.

“No. Not the killer’s DNA. But one of the stains on her jacket!”

The grubby pink jacket had had several semen stains that pre-dated the murder. And one of them matched Pettersson’s DNA. Slowly Irene began to see the opportunities this presented.

“So one of the semen stains comes from our good friend Pettersson. We can prove it, and he can’t get away from that fact. We know it’s not the killer’s DNA. But Pettersson has no idea that we know that,” she said, her smile as broad as Tommy’s.

“Exactly.” He got up and headed for the door, but stopped halfway and turned back to Irene. “And Svante said we forgot to cancel the DNA comparison between Andres and Leili Tamm. It confirms what we already knew: they’re not related.”

A
NDERS
P
ETTERSSON HAD
been deeply shaken when he was re-arrested, this time on suspicion of murder. His lawyer, Joar Svanér, had shown up right away, insisting that his client be released immediately. However, when faced with the fact that Pettersson’s DNA had been found on the dead girl’s jacket, even Svanér had realized the gravity of the situation. He had demanded and been granted time alone with his client; immediately following their meeting, Svanér informed the police that Anders Pettersson was prepared to talk.

Irene and Fredrik were already waiting in the interview room. As on the previous occasion, Pettersson was accompanied by two custody officers. This time the escort also included Svanér.

Irene had always thought he looked more like a superannuated disco dancer than a lawyer. The mid-length hair was colored dark brown and slicked back with generous amounts of gel. Today he was wearing a black leather jacket over a pink shirt with no tie. A wide black belt with a shiny silver buckle rested on his hips. Given the size of the buckle, it was a wonder it wasn’t weighing down the elegantly tailored
black pants rather than holding them up. In spite of the current fashion for drainpipes, there was definitely the hint of a flare at the bottom. On his feet he was wearing heeled cowboy boots, which were every bit as impractical in the pouring rain as the brown suede coat he was carrying over one arm. He hung the coat over the back of a chair in the interview room. It would have been easy to dismiss Joar Svanér as over the top and foolish had it not been for the look in the eyes behind the yellow-tinted glasses.

Irene had once seen a nature program about the role of scavengers in the wild. The cameraman had filmed a huge Egyptian vulture as it sat watching the death throes of an injured goat. From time to time the vulture lifted its wings threateningly to scare off smaller birds and other predators. Otherwise it sat there motionless, its gaze fixed on its prospective meal. Only the indifferent eyes moved when it became necessary to monitor some approaching competitor. Irene remembered that look: it registered everything and missed nothing. It revealed no emotion whatsoever.

Joar Svanér had exactly the same look in his eyes.

“My client is prepared to tell the truth about his association with the homicide victim,” Sanér stated without preamble.

“Good. Start talking,” Irene said, nodding to Anders Pettersson.

He looked haggard, and had made no attempt to hide it. His expensive designer top stank of sweat, and his baggy jeans were filthy. The stubble on his chin was slightly longer than the emerging hairs on his shaven head. His bloodshot eyes peered out from his puffy face. He looked like a mental and physical wreck. His dealings had finally caught up with him. This was probably what he had feared most: the discovery that he had been associated with Heinz Becker and his shady dealings.

Narcotics offenses attract severe sentencing. Human trafficking has also caught the attention of the media in recent
times, but the sentences handed down are still relatively lenient compared with those for drug crimes. Pettersson’s activities were mainly drug-related, and he was acutely aware of the lengthy jail sentence that awaited him if he was convicted.

“I … I had a … I’m not sure how to put this … I had contact with the girl.”

Pettersson fell silent and stared down at the table. His face was beaded with sweat even though the room wasn’t especially warm. He was confessing to a crime as far as the law regarding prostitution was concerned, but it wasn’t going to land him behind bars. However, he was noticeably tense and uncomfortable.

“Start from the beginning. How did you get in touch with Heinz Becker?” Irene asked.

“I called when I saw the advertisement. The one about the girls.”

“And where did you see this advertisement?”

“In … in a newspaper,” he answered evasively.

“Which newspaper?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What did the ad look like?”

Pettersson looked completely bewildered. “What kind of a stupid fucking question is—”

“It’s important for our investigation,” Irene interrupted.

Not least because he had already come out with the first lie. Heinz Becker had advertised only on the Internet. Pettersson had no reason to know this since Becker had probably contacted him directly for narcotics and aphrodisiacs.

“I don’t remember,” Pettersson replied truculently.

“So you had never had any contact with Heinz Becker in the past?”

“No.”

“So why did he get in touch with you now?”

“You misunderstand, Detective Inspector,” Joar Svanér interjected. “My client called a telephone number that was given in an advertisement for willing girls.”

“That’s right.” Pettersson nodded.

Irene pretended she hadn’t heard, and carried on. “When was this?”

“I’ve already fucking told you! The Saturday before … before you picked me up for drunk driving! I mean the Saturday of the week before. That’s what I mean.”

So you remember the first interview
, Irene thought.
And you remember the date when you met Tanya. Not bad
,
considering how much of a drug-induced fog you’ve been in over the past few weeks
. Irene suspected that Anders Pettersson and Joar Svanér had carefully worked out exactly what he was going to say. And what he was definitely not going to say.

“So you called the number in the ad,” Irene said.

“Yes. If you’re horny, you’re horny!” He was trying to act like his usual bumptious self, but even he could hear how ridiculous it sounded. Irene gave him an icy stare. His attempt to play the ordinary john who just happened to end up in the brothel in Biskopsgården was utterly pathetic.

“Then what happened?”

“When I got there he said … Becker … that the little whore had an infected pussy. She’d caught something disgusting, so she was only doing blow jobs. There were guys already waiting for the other hooker, so I said what the hell, let’s go for the blow job.”

He sounded a little more sure of himself, and Irene had a feeling that he was suddenly telling the truth.

“How did Tanya seem when you met her?”

“How did she … I don’t … she was cold, so she kept that fucking jacket on. That’s how she got my spunk on her. And I had nothing to do with her death, for fuck’s sake!”

It was probably true that Pettersson had had oral sex with
Tanya, and Saturday could well fit in with what they already knew. Forensics had already established that the stains on the jacket were a couple of days older than the semen in her hair, so Pettersson was probably telling the truth about his encounter with Tanya.

“So Tanya kept her jacket on. Weren’t you indoors?” Irene asked.

“Yes.”

“Where were you?”

“In … in Biskopsgården.”

“And did you think it was cold in the apartment?”

“No. But she must have thought it was fucking freezing.”

“Why do you say she must have thought it was freezing?”

Both Pettersson and his lawyer looked confused. Even Fredrik gave her a sideways glance as he wondered where she was going with this.