The Dangerous Game (23 page)

‘We’ve already thought of that. The club has cameras at the front entrance, but we didn’t see anything of interest. We’re checking the whole area and should have more information later in the day. We can only hope we find something useful.’

‘What about the other tenants in the building?’ said Jacobsson. ‘Did anyone see or hear anything?’

Kihlgård was starting to look annoyed.

‘We don’t know yet. Robert Ek’s body was only found last night, damn it. Of course, we’ve got officers knocking on doors and questioning the neighbours.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Jacobsson waved her hand, trying to calm him down.

Kihlgård drank some coffee and leaned back in his chair.

‘Naturally, our first thought was that the murder of Robert Ek and the assault on Markus Sandberg must have something to do with the fashion world,’ said Wittberg.

‘I agree. And Jenny Levin is involved in both cases,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I wonder how she figures in the whole thing.’

‘Sure. But it could also be a coincidence. All these people work together. And the attacks might have nothing to do with the fashion industry. The motive could have something to do with women. Ek has a reputation for being a ladies’ man, just like Sandberg. And what about Ek’s wife, Erna Linton? She’s also an ex-model. What was her relationship with Sandberg? It’s clear that she had a motive for killing her husband. Or at least the desire to do so – if she knew about his escapades.’

‘Does anyone know how he’s doing now?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘I’m talking about Markus.’

‘I spoke to the hospital this morning,’ said Kihlgård. ‘His condition is unchanged, so it’s impossible to question him. And, apparently, there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, so to speak. Unfortunately. As for Erna Linton, so far we’ve only conducted a brief interview with her. We’re going to meet with her here after lunch. You can sit in as witnesses, if you like. But she does have an alibi. She was visiting her parents in Leksand all weekend.’

‘But the murder occurred well after midnight,’ countered Wittberg. ‘How long does it take to drive from Leksand in the middle of the night when there’s no traffic? Three hours? Let’s suppose that she left around eleven or twelve on Friday night. Arrived in Stockholm around two or three in the morning. Maybe she’d pretended to be someone else in order to set up a rendezvous with Ek at the agency. And then she killed him. Afterwards, she drove back. If she left the city around three thirty, she’d be back in Leksand by six thirty. She could have done it.’

‘You could be right,’ Kihlgård admitted. ‘We’ll have to take a closer look at her alibi. And I have no idea where she was when Markus Sandberg was assaulted.’

He gathered up the papers lying on the table.

‘So, are you starting to get hungry? There’s a new place down on Kungsholmstorg that serves great home cooking.’

‘Just a minute,’ said Jacobsson. ‘There’s one more thing. I was thinking about that Finnish model Marita Ahonen. The one that Markus got pregnant. Do you have any material from the agency here? A catalogue showing the models and information about them? I’m thinking in particular about their shoe size.’

‘We confiscated all sorts of material – computers, and the like – yesterday. It’s over in the technical department,’ said Kihlgård, clearly worried that lunch might be delayed another hour. ‘Wait here.’

He left the room, grabbing another saffron bun on his way out. A few minutes later he was back, his face flushed.

‘I found out about that Marita Ahonen. She wears a size five and a half shoe.’

KARIN JACOBSSON WAS
sweating in the lift on her way up to the fifth floor. This was the first time she’d been invited to her daughter’s flat. Even the front entrance had made her nervous. It had to be one of the poshest buildings in all Stockholm, with its stucco flourishes and embellishments. A thick red carpet adorned the steps of the grand marble staircase in the vestibule, and on display in one corner towered a stately Christmas tree decorated with ornaments and lights. Marble sculptures stood in several niches, and a crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. She had never seen anything like it. Thankfully, she knew that Hanna was not a pretentious person, or she would have been terrified.

On the top floor of the building there were two flats. One of them belonged to Hanna.

Jacobsson smoothed down her hair, took a deep breath, and rang the bell. She was clutching a bouquet of white tulips, which she held out in front of her.

The heavy door opened almost at once.

‘Hi, Karin. How nice. Welcome!’

Hanna’s sunny smile calmed her, and the warm hug helped even more. The dog came over, wagging his tail, clearly delighted with the visitor as he leapt about on his long legs.

‘Okay, Nelson. That’s enough.’

Karin handed over the bouquet.

‘Thank you. Come in.’

Hanna led the way to the kitchen, which faced Mariatorget. Karin couldn’t help pausing on the threshold. It was as far from a traditional kitchen as it could possibly be. A long counter made of black marble against a bright-yellow mosaic wall, an inverted zinc basin that served as the ceiling lamp. And the walls were decorated with old-fashioned Swedish enamel signs trumpeting various products such as Mazetti cocoa eyes, the orange soda Loranga, oatmeal from AXA and Tre Ess margarine. No refrigerator, freezer, or kitchen cabinets in sight.

Hanna pulled on a handle that was the same colour as the mosaic to reveal a spacious, ultra-modern fridge. Karin realized then that all the appliances and cabinets were built into the walls. Hanna took out a bottle of white wine.

‘Would you like a glass?’

Karin nodded.

‘What a beautiful kitchen. And there I was thinking you had simple tastes.’

‘Appearances are deceptive,’ replied Hanna, laughing.

They went from room to room. Karin saw that the flat was even bigger than she’d thought. The grand balcony that she’d seen from the street ran the full length of the flat. They took a tour of the dining room, living room, home office, guest room and bathroom. A lovely oak staircase led up to the floor above. There, Karin saw two large bedrooms, a huge bathroom with a sauna and its own little balcony, and yet another living room, which looked more like a library, with a fireplace and countless bookshelves holding both books and DVDs.

‘This is amazing,’ said Karin with a sigh. ‘How big is this flat?’

‘Just over 250 square metres,’ said Hanna. ‘I inherited it from my uncle. He died of cancer three years ago, and he insisted that I should have it. We were very close. The one condition was that I had to take care of his dog and stay here for as long as Nelson is alive. So I can’t sell the flat. He didn’t want Nelson to have to move. He thought it was traumatic enough for the dog to lose his master. He was a bit eccentric, my uncle. But he had a heart of gold. He also left money in a bank account that was to be used for only one purpose. To renovate the entire flat according to my own taste, because he knew I’d want to do that. He hadn’t done a thing to the place in thirty years, so it was really run-down and outdated. And he also made sure that the managing agents’ fees were paid for the next twenty years. He overdid things a bit. I realize that. He knew that Nelson couldn’t possibly live that long.’

‘What an incredible story. And what about your parents? How are they doing? If it’s okay for me to ask,’ she hurried to add.

‘Of course. They still live in our house in Djursholm, where I grew up with my little brother, Alexander. He’s two years younger than me. They’d been trying for years to have a baby when they adopted me. And it wasn’t that long after they brought me home that Mamma got pregnant. They’re still married.’

‘What sort of work do they do?’

‘Pappa has his own company. He’s in the construction business. Mamma is the head of an advertising firm. We get along well, and I’m especially close to my father. It’s largely because of him that I became a structural engineer. I suppose I’ve always been Pappa’s little girl. But now I think the food is probably ready.’

They went back to the kitchen. Hanna busied herself at the hob while Karin sat down at the counter.

‘We’re having vegetarian lasagne. I haven’t eaten meat in ten years.’

‘Okay. Why not?’

‘I don’t like the way the animals are treated. I won’t eat anything that has a mother or father.’

‘But where do you draw the line? For example, do you eat eggs?’

‘No. And not shrimp, either. They have parents.’

‘Right.’

Karin sipped her wine. There was so much they didn’t know about each other. They were strangers. Even so, she felt an odd sense of connection. Maybe it was just her imagination, but she wanted to hang on to the feeling. Savour it as she sat here, in Hanna’s kitchen. She could sit here for all eternity, just looking at her daughter. Fixing her eyes on her.

For as long as possible.

ROBERT EK’S WIFE
was an attractive woman, tall and elegant, dressed in a bright-pink rib-knitted tunic that reached almost to her knees and heavy turquoise tights that were barely visible above her black, high-heeled boots. Her taste in clothes is just as colourful and striking as her husband’s, thought Jacobsson.

Erna Linton sat down on a chair in the interview room, which was similar to the one in Visby, although bigger and with a view of Agnegatan. Wittberg and Jacobsson were seated in a corner of the room and would take part only as witnesses. Detective Inspector Martin Kihlgård was handling the interview. He’d arranged for coffee, water, and a plate of ginger biscuits. Typical Kihlgård, thought Jacobsson. Always so thoughtful.

Even though they’d worked together many times, she’d never sat in on an interview with Kihlgård. This opportunity excited her almost as much as the thought of hearing what Erna Linton was going to say.

‘Would you care for milk or sugar?’ asked the inspector.

‘Milk, please. Thank you.’

Erna crossed her long legs and stirred her coffee. She blew on the hot liquid for a moment before raising the cup to her lips. Only then did she look Kihlgård in the eye. Her expression changed from wary to slightly alarmed when Kihlgård calmly dipped a biscuit in his coffee and then took a bite of the soggy
pepparkaka
. He gave the woman across from him a kindly smile.

‘Tell me about Robert. What was he like?’

Erna’s slender white hand shook as she considered the question.

‘What do you mean?’

‘What sort of interests did he have? What did he enjoy doing in his spare time? What did the two of you do together for fun?’

‘I don’t really know,’ she replied hesitantly. ‘He worked so much at the agency. And we have four children, so they take a lot of my time. There’s not much left over for anything else.’

‘I see.’

Kihlgård fell silent for a few moments. Erna picked at a cuticle, then shifted her position.

‘Have a biscuit.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘A little sugar can be very soothing.’

‘Okay.’

She bit into the biscuit and then proceeded to eat the whole thing.

‘How are you holding up?’ he asked with a friendly expression.

‘Not so good.’

‘I understand.’

Again, silence.

Erna’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are we waiting for?’

Kihlgård shrugged without speaking. Jacobsson and Wittberg exchanged glances. What was he up to? In front of him sat a woman who had just lost her husband in the most brutal and awful way imaginable.

Erna moistened her lips with her tongue before she spoke again.

‘So maybe you think that I’m the one who did it?’ she said, clearly ready for a fight. ‘Is that why you’re using this silence tactic? You think that if you just wait me out, I’ll confess? Or else what the hell are you doing? I have four children at home who are very upset. I don’t have time to sit here and stare at the walls. So tell me, what do you want? What do you want me to say?’

She threw up her hands and half rose from her chair. Kihlgård didn’t take his eyes off her face. But still he said nothing. The seconds ticked by.

‘Okay, I was fucking furious with him. He was unfaithful to me, but I’m sure you already know that, don’t you?’ She turned to look at Jacobsson and Wittberg, who were huddled in the corner. ‘I was totally furious with him! Our youngest child is only nine years old, for God’s sake! But he didn’t care about that. He just followed his prick wherever it took him, without a thought for me or the children. His family! Then he liked to come home and sit down at the dinner table to play the darling father. And what’s the last thing that he does? The very last thing? He goes and gets himself murdered. And what does he leave behind? A sex orgy in our home, and preparations for a romantic interlude at the office, while the children and I are away at a family gathering. That’s what he leaves behind for me. That’s the last memory I’ll have of him.’

Erna Linton sank back in her chair. Tears were running down her cheeks. Kihlgård reached out and patted her hand.

‘There, there.’

‘He was unfaithful,’ she sobbed. ‘All the time. There were always new women.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I’ve known for a long time. I’d have had to be blind and deaf not to know. He would stay over at the office, he smelled of perfume, he had an unreasonable number of late business dinners or parties he had to attend. New models he had to take care of. My God. I was in the fashion business myself for ten years, so I know how things work.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Come on, now. You can’t be that naive. It’s all very competitive. You have to make an impression and meet the right people, cultivate the best contacts, get powerful men on your side, make them like you and value you so that you’ll get the choice assignments. They’re the ones who can boost your career. And a model is always hungry. It can drive even the smartest and most grounded person insane. If you want to be a model, you have to be prepared to be constantly hungry for at least ten years, or however long your career lasts. To satisfy the ideal of the world’s biggest fashion designers, you have to have the hip measurements of a twelve-year-old. How do you think all those models accomplish that? Not by eating full meals every day. Hunger is blind and deaf and drives a person to do the most hair-raising things. Why do you think my husband, who was almost fifty, was able to sleep with models who were only eighteen or nineteen? Do you think it was because of his fabulous personality? Hardly!’