The Man Who Watched Women (62 page)

Haraldsson heard every single word. Heard, but didn't understand.

‘What?'

‘I keep my promises, Thomas. You said yes, which was what I wanted, and for that I will answer a question.'

‘What have you …'

‘Wait, Thomas,' Edward interrupted him. Haraldsson immediately stopped speaking. ‘I'm not telling you what to do,' Edward went on softly, ‘but if I were you I would ask: “Where is my wife?”'

Haraldsson closed his eyes and saw flashing lights. He was afraid he might faint. He couldn't do that. If he passed out he would never know. Silent tears poured down his cheeks.

‘Where is my wife?'

His voice only just held. Hinde began to tell him.

Every single window in the apartment was wide open.

But it was still hot.

Sticky.

Stuffy.

Vanja was sitting on the sofa, channel hopping. It was painfully clear that nobody broadcast their best programmes at this time of day. She switched off the TV, threw the remote control down beside her and picked up the special supplements that had come with both evening papers.
Expressen
had ten pages on the arrest of Ralph Svensson, with an exclusive on the first page adorned with a large picture of him. Unmasked beneath the banner headline:
THE FACE OF THE SUMMER PSYCHO
. At the top of the page it said ‘The police suspect that this is' in significantly smaller letters. Ralph hadn't even been charged as far as Vanja knew, but he had already been hung out to dry by the press. Restricting the publication of names and photographs was out of fashion these days. The early identification of suspects was ‘in the public interest'. Which meant that nobody was prepared to pay for a pixellated image. Besides the fact that she herself thought it was unethical, it also made their work more difficult sometimes. Identity parades suddenly became a lot less valuable when the suspect's face had been staring out from every front page.

The picture in
Expressen
was from Ralph's passport; it wasn't particularly flattering. He looked just as crazy as everybody else did in their passport photograph. Inside the paper his entire life story was laid out. His mother's illness, the fact that his father had remarried, his new mother, her kind relatives, the moves from one place to another, money, school, employment. They had found some classmates who remembered Ralph Svensson as quiet and withdrawn. A bit odd. Difficult to get to know. Spent most of his time alone. That might have been true, Vanja had no idea, but she wondered if the newspaper would have got the same response if they had called and said that Ralph Svensson had won the Nobel Prize, rather than that he was a suspected serial killer. It kind of fitted the image. The lone wolf. The recluse. The oddball. Vanja thought the former classmates, who almost certainly hadn't given Ralph a thought over the past twenty years, had simply bowed under the weight of expectation. After the exposure of Ralph's entire life, leaving aside any possible dreams, hopes, wishes and any other distractions that might just humanise him, the paper had just as much information about Edward Hinde. The journalists were lucky: Ralph was a copycat, so they could reprint the news from 1996 all over again. Vanja couldn't bring herself to read all of it. She tossed the paper aside and went into the kitchen for a glass of water. It was just after half past six. It would be another two hours before the sun went down, but at least the temperature outside was beginning to feel bearable. A balmy breeze found its way in through the open window.

She was restless.

A pleasant weariness normally came over her when they had completed an investigation, as if both body and brain were able to relax at last, after weeks of tension. She was usually happy to order a pizza, drink a little too much wine, and chill out on the sofa. But not this time.

They had brought in the right man, she was sure of it. Sebastian Bergman had been completely outmanoeuvred, which was another positive. She couldn't imagine that he would be able to worm his way in again. Torkel had made it clear that enough was enough, and even Sebastian seemed to have reached the same conclusion. Yes, it had been a job well done, taken all round. A good day. So why couldn't she relax?

Because things weren't right between her and Billy. Now the case was entering a less frenetic phase, she was able to focus on their damaged relationship. Ever since she had said in the car that she was a better police officer than he was, things had been strained. Not surprisingly. Before that, too, if she was honest with herself, but since her poisonous comment in the car it had been open warfare.

At least that was how it seemed to her. He had started whatever was going on between them, but she had escalated it all with her stupid remarks, and she would be the one who put a stop to it. But things couldn't carry on like this; Billy was too important to her. At this rate, one of them would end up asking to leave the team, and that was the last thing she wanted. She had to get the situation back to normal. She went back into the living room and picked up her mobile.

Maya opened the oven and took out the gratin of pork tenderloin. Billy put out the dish of couscous and sautéed vegetables. They were having an early dinner. Since he now had the evening off, they had decided to go to the theatre. It hadn't been his idea originally, but they had made the decision together. Billy didn't know the company at all; according to Maya they were an English theatre group called Spymonkey, who were performing on four evenings that week. Physical comedy drama, she said.

Billy couldn't picture it.

‘Like a cross between Monty Python and Samuel Beckett.'

Okay, a reference he understood. He liked Monty Python. Some of it, anyway. Not all of it. It was a bit dated. But it was only fair that she choose what they were going to do. He had opted for the cinema last time, plus he had been working such long hours that they had hardly seen each other. He could put up with a couple of hours of British physical comedy if it meant being with her. He poured them both a glass of wine and sat down at the table. His eating habits had improved beyond recognition since he met Maya. He liked it. He liked a lot of things when it came to Maya. Everything, in fact. His phone rang and Billy checked the display. Vanja.

‘I have to take this.'

‘Okay. Don't be long.'

Billy went into the other room. He hadn't told Maya about his conversation with Vanja in the car. He liked both of them, and he wanted them to like each other. The chances of that would be significantly reduced if Maya found out about the exchange which had already destroyed so much. He sat down on the sofa as he took the call.

‘Hi, it's me,' Vanja said.

‘I know.'

‘What are you doing?'

Billy thought quickly. How should he handle this? Tell the truth as far as possible, he decided.

‘We're just about to have dinner.'

‘You and Maya?' Was there a hint of distaste in the way she said the name? Had she emphasised the
y
a little too much?
Mayyyya
. Or was he just imagining things? Looking for problems? Possibly.

‘Yes. Me and Maya.' He looked over towards the kitchen where Maya was sipping her wine. She was obviously waiting until he came back before she started eating. ‘It's on the table; was there something you wanted?' Billy was doing his best not to sound dismissive.

‘How about coming for a run?'

‘Now?'

He hadn't been expecting the question. Hadn't thought she would want his company.

‘In a while. After you've eaten. It's not too hot outside now.'

‘I don't know …'

‘I thought we could have a little chat. About us.'

Billy didn't answer immediately. There it was. The first step. Vanja had taken it. Billy looked over towards the kitchen again. Maya met his eyes and smiled, but at the same time her hand formed a mouth that was talking and talking. He smiled back and rolled his eyes to indicate that the person on the other end was babbling away, while he quickly went through the options in his mind. He wanted to go for a run. He definitely wanted to talk to Vanja. About their relationship. But he wouldn't have time to do that and go to the theatre. He didn't want to go to the theatre, but he did want to be with Maya. He wanted to drink wine and spend time with his girlfriend. He was going to have to make a choice. He and Vanja would sort out their problems, he felt sure. He knew it. But not tonight. He was going to choose Maya, and Vanja would just have to accept it.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, and meant it. ‘I can't.'

‘So what are you going to do?'

Did she sound disappointed? This time he didn't think it was his imagination.

‘We're going out. To see a play.'

‘A play?'

He realised how it must sound. She knew his views on the theatre. He had chosen the worst thing he could think of, over her. That was how it sounded. But that wasn't the case. He might have been choosing Maya over her, but he didn't want to say that.

‘Yes, we arranged it ages ago.' He had booked the tickets less than an hour ago, but it was time to abandon the truth. Save what could be saved.

‘Okay. Some other time.'

‘Yes.'

‘Have fun. Say hi to Maya.'

‘Will do. Listen, I really do want us to …' But she had ended the call. Billy wondered briefly if he should ring her back and finish the sentence. He decided to leave it for now, but he would definitely tackle the issue at work tomorrow. He would call her if she didn't come in; sometimes she took the day off after they had made an arrest.

Billy went back into the kitchen.

‘Who was that?' Maya asked as she started to eat. She really had been waiting for him.

‘Vanja.'

‘What did she want?'

‘Nothing.'

He sat down and picked up his glass of wine. It wasn't true. That wasn't what Vanja had wanted, that was what she had got.

This wasn't how he had imagined their wedding anniversary at all. Not at all.

After Edward Hinde's call, Haraldsson had raced out to the car and entered the GPS coordinates. The map quickly came up. Out past Surahammar and Ramnäs, left, into the forest, down towards Lake Öje. He had asked if Jenny was still alive, but hadn't received an answer. That was the second question; he was only allowed one, Hinde had said, and ended the call.

As he drove, Haraldsson tried to tell himself that there was no reason for Hinde to tell him where Jenny was unless he was going to be able to save her. The logical move would be to let her go; she had fulfilled her role as a means of pressurising Haraldsson. There was nothing to be gained by hurting her. But however hard he tried to convince himself, there was always, deep down, the knowledge that Hinde did not act logically, did not need reasons. That was why he had been sitting in Lövhaga for fourteen years.

He was a psychopath.

Haraldsson followed the GPS. The roads grew narrower and narrower, the forest more and more dense. Then he saw water between the trees, and the track came to an end. He parked next to an enormous rhododendron and got out of the car. A summer cottage. Built on the slope leading down to the lake. Many years ago, no doubt; no one would get permission to build so close to the shore these days. He walked over to the house and tried the door. Locked. He peered in through a window. The kitchen. There was obviously no water or electricity; he could see a wood-burning stove and washing-up bowls turned upside down on the small draining board. No taps, just a large metal bucket containing a ladle on a stool beside it. Picturesque, but empty.

‘Jenny!' he shouted.

No reply.

Haraldsson carried on walking around the house, looking through each window in turn. Nothing. He stopped and gazed around. The garden wasn't very large, but it was a beautiful setting. Lawns on three sides. A badminton net on the one leading down to the lake. Garden furniture and a flagpole on another. Someone enjoyed the good life out here.

‘Jenny!'

Somewhere high above the lake a bird answered him. Haraldsson could feel the panic growing. There was an outside toilet a short distance away on the edge of the forest; he went to check, but that too was empty. Apart from a cloud of buzzing flies. He closed the door and had just decided to break into the house when he noticed an unnaturally rounded hillock beyond the flagpole. A path through the blueberry bushes leading to it. Big stones sticking up between the long grass and the turf at the sides. A food cellar. Haraldsson hurried across. As he got closer he could hear the faint sound of banging. He stopped. Was it true, or just his imagination? No, someone was definitely banging. From inside the earth cellar. It wasn't very loud, but even so. Haraldsson was there in seconds. The sound grew louder as his hopes grew.

‘Jenny!'

He ran around the small hillock and ended up outside a large dark wooden door. Turned the key and flung it open. A kind of lobby approximately a metre in length, then another door. The banging was loud and strong now. She was alive, at least. The thick stone walls had done a good job of muffling the sound before, but now he could hear it clearly. A key in the lock. Haraldsson turned it and opened the door.