The Treacherous Net (17 page)

Irene thought the explanation sounded flimsy at best, and that the tension in her voice was obvious as she delivered the lie, but Jenny seemed to accept it. She simply nodded, opened her mineral water and picked up the newspaper. Before long she was munching a banana, absorbed in the music-review section.

Then Irene’s cell rang.

“Hi, it’s Jens. He’s online now.”

Irene glanced around, but couldn’t see anything unusual.

“Has he just started?”

“One minute ago.”

Irene could feel her pulse rate increasing. She ended the call and tried to look calm. The Dane had been tapping away ever since he boarded the train twenty minutes ago, and the same applied to the other users in her carriage. Of course Mr. Groomer could have been elsewhere on the net and only just entered the chat room where he was hoping to get a hold of little Ann.

Irene turned to Jenny, keeping her tone light. “I’m going to get a coffee. Would you like some tea or . . .”

“No thanks,” her daughter mumbled without looking up.

Irene set off. Her mission was the same as this morning: to make a note of the carriage number, seat number, brief description. She put a little dot beside the ones she recognized from the morning, even though she wasn’t sure that was relevant, since Mr. Groomer hadn’t been online at the time. But it was best to keep things in order.

When she had gone all the way through the train, she locked herself in the toilet in the front carriage and quickly read over her notes.

Twenty-nine men between age twenty and forty were using their computers right now. Nine of them had palmtops or cell phones with a wireless connection. Of the twenty laptop users Irene had been able to eliminate eleven who were watching films, playing games or working on documents of some kind. Seven of the others were writing emails. She didn’t know what the remaining two were doing; they were in first class, and she couldn’t see their screens.

She decided to focus on the eleven men whose activities on the net she couldn’t identify. It was likely that Mr. Groomer wouldn’t want any of his fellow passengers to see what he was chatting about; two of the eleven were in her carriage: the red-haired Dane and the guy with thinning hair. Before leaving the cubicle she called Jens.

“Is he still there?”

“Yep. He’s suggesting they get together.”

“When?”

“We haven’t got that far. Ann’s not too sure. Says she’d like their first meeting to be in a café, somewhere like that.”

“Who’s chatting, you or Åsa?”

“Me. And I’m a smart cookie.” Jens sniggered.

“Good. Call me when he’s done.”

Now what?
Irene thought.
Any one of them could be Mr. Groomer!
None of them bore the slightest resemblance to the composite, but several of them shared certain features with the man in the picture, or elements of the description. So he disguised himself when he went to pick up Lina.
There should have been more of us on the train, goddammit!
She took a deep breath in order to calm herself before she set off back to her seat.

She did her very best to catch a glimpse of the suspects’ screens. She leaned right across the seats as the train lurched around a bend, she stopped to rummage in her purse, she knelt down and retied her shoelaces. In the first-class carriage she paused for quite some time to blow her nose. Her efforts produced just one result: it turned out that the blond guy in her carriage was looking for summer cottages in the Falkenberg area. She had no idea what was on the other ten screens.

As she was about to sit down, Jenny raised her eyebrows.

“I thought you’d gone to get some coffee?”

Damn! She’d forgotten all about the coffee.

“They’d run out. They’re just brewing a fresh pot. I’ll go back in a little while.” Irene leaned closer to her daughter and whispered, “I actually needed the toilet, and the one in the restaurant car was busy. I waited and waited, but whoever was in there never came out, so I had to come back here.”

That left her with no option but to go into the cubicle at the back of her carriage, but it did give her the chance to check her notes one more time.

Ten suspects. She had their seat numbers, and had taken notes on their appearance. If Mr. Groomer was there, they would find him.

If nothing else, her notes might give the team something to start working on: a name. Perhaps it hadn’t been a wasted journey after all.

“Yesterday he used
the Fujitsu. The palmtop. So we can rule out the two laptops, which leaves us with eight names of interest,” Jens said.

Everyone except Hannu Rauhala was present at the Friday afternoon briefing; he had agreed to swap shifts with Fredrik Stridh, so would be on duty all weekend.

“When can we have these names?” Tommy Persson asked.

He looked very pleased with the results of Irene’s surveillance. Even if none of the eight men were on any of their databases, the team would take a close look at them. The chance to follow up on specific names always felt like a breakthrough in an investigation.

“Not before the beginning of next week,” Jens replied.

“In that case we’ll just have to be patient,” Superintendent Thylqvist said, smiling sweetly at Jens. She made a point of looking down at her wrist and her designer watch, which had no numbers on its face.

“I have to leave very shortly, but I’d just like to say that this has been a very positive week. We might not have found Mr. Groomer, but he should be among those eight names. So next week we can put all our efforts into—”

She was interrupted by an insistent signal from the internal telephone.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” asked a female voice.

“We’re in a meeting,” Efva Thylqvist replied sharply.

“Okay. I’m calling from reception. There’s a Denzel Washington look-alike down here. He’s got a little boy with him; they’re looking for an Inspector Nyström. Do you have anyone of that name with you?”

“Shit! It’s Jason!” Åsa exclaimed as she leapt out of her seat. She ran to the door and shot out.

Efva Thylqvist cleared her throat, then spoke into the telephone. “Inspector Nyström is on her way down.”

The room was utterly silent as she ended the call. After a few seconds she put into words what everyone was thinking. “A Denzel Washington look-alike?”

Åsa’s face was
bright red when she returned ten minutes later, accompanied by a little boy who gazed around with great big eyes. When he saw all the grown-ups looking at him he was embarrassed at first, but he quickly straightened up and gave a sharp salute.

“Police cadet Elliot Abbot reporting for duty!” he said in a clear voice, before breaking into a big smile that spread all the way to his big hazel eyes.
What a charmer
, Irene thought.
And he knows it
.

“I’m so sorry. They weren’t supposed to be here for another hour . . . Jason made a mistake with his ticket . . . his plane leaves at six, not seven . . . they have to check in an hour beforehand, and . . .”

Åsa didn’t know what to say, which was definitely unusual for her. Irene had never seen her so off balance.

“It’s fine. Perhaps you’d like to show our new recruit around the place,” Tommy said, smiling at Elliot and Åsa.

Efva Thylqvist had gone off to her meeting, and in her absence Tommy was in charge of the department. He picked up the plate of cinnamon buns and offered it to the boy.

“Would you like one?”

“Yes, please,” Elliot said politely, picking up one in each hand just to be on the safe side. He took a big bite, and crumbs went everywhere as he announced, “I’m going to be a cop, just like Åsa. But Dad doesn’t want me to.”

Tommy nodded. “You stick to that decision,” he said, winking at the boy.

“I will,” Elliot said, winking back.

He took another bite of his cinnamon bun and beamed up at Åsa, who followed him out of the room murmuring yet more apologies, her cheeks still on fire.

“So Jason is a Negro and the kid is a half-caste,” Jonny stated. “I have to admit our temporary replacement is full of surprises.”

As much as Irene disliked Jonny’s word choice, she couldn’t argue with the fact that Åsa definitely had hidden depths. She was an international kickboxer, and was a member of the Swedish national women’s team. Irene knew from experience how difficult it is to combine a demanding training regimen with a working family life. That was why she had withdrawn from competing in jiujitsu after the birth of the twins. Perhaps that was why Åsa’s marriage to Jason had broken down? She had never said a word about the divorce or her ex-husband, and Elliot’s name had only come up in conversation a couple of days ago. She had to agree with Jonny Blom for once; Åsa was certainly full of surprises.

When Irene got
back to her office, Elliot was sitting at Åsa’s desk, drawing. As far as Irene could see he was working on a picture of a cop car with flashing blue lights. A figure with curly dark hair was at the wheel—a figure that bore a strong resemblance to the artist himself.

Åsa was standing with her back to him, gazing out of the dirty window. She was on her cell, and seemed to be listening intently. After a moment she said, “I’m stuck here with Elliot, but Irene’s just arrived. She can come down. Okay.”

She ended the call and turned to Irene, tension etched on her face.

“Jens called. Mr. Gr . . . is chatting again.”

“Who’s Mr. Grr?” Elliot asked immediately.

Åsa gave him a loving smile. As Irene walked out of the door she heard Åsa’s reply. “He’s just a bad-tempered guy—that’s why we call him Mr. Grr. But he doesn’t work in this department, so we don’t need to bother about him. Do you know how to play solitaire on the computer? Look at this . . .”

Åsa would certainly have her hands full with Elliot over the weekend, but Irene had a feeling she had no objection to his company. It was obvious that she loved the little boy. She had referred to him as “the man in my life,” and any guy was going to find it hard to compete with Elliot.

Without a word
Jens pointed to the screen. Irene sat down beside him and began to read.

x-man:
have you decided if you want to meet up?

Ann:
of course i do.

x-man:
how about next friday or saturday?

Ann:
friday is better.

x-man:
ok.

Ann:
there’s a café at the central station opposite the bookshop. they do the best hot chocolate


x-man:
sounds perfect

i’ve got your cell number. will try to get a new cell next week. only problem is i might have hockey training on friday—can you do saturday instead?

Ann:
nope, babysitting.

x-man:
i’ve got an away game the following weekend, so that’s no good. i want to see you NOW


Ann:
i want to see you too.

x-man:
i just thought—my bro can pick you up on friday. he’s got a car, he can come and get you before he picks me up.

Ann:
so what’s his name?

x-man:
fredde.

Ann:
and he’s driving? how old is he?

x-man:
25.

Ann:
have you got any other brothers
or sisters?

x-man:
nope.

Ann:
big age difference.

x-man:
he’s ok though. cool guy.

Ann:
i’d rather meet you.

x-man:
and i want to see my girl of course! will try to come to the station.

Ann:
four o’clock?

x-man:
too early—six o’clock.

Ann:
we eat at half seven, that won’t give us enough time.

x-man:
we can go for a pizza, ok?

Ann:
ok.

x-man:
can’t wait to see you for real!


Ann:
me too
.

x-man:
gotta go. Xx

Ann:
Xx

“We couldn’t put it off any longer; he’s starting to push hard. Little Ann can’t keep on turning him down or he might just give up. We know he’s probably grooming other girls at the same time,” Jens said.

Irene read through the conversation again.

“In exactly one week. We might have tracked him down before Friday; if not, we have to be ready to implement plan B. Anything from the banks yet?”

“It takes time; we won’t hear anything until Monday afternoon at the earliest. I’ll be in touch as soon as we have the first name.”

“Excellent! Then what?”

“I’ll run the credit cards and names against journeys between Göteborg and Malmö, check whether any of them match up with Mr. Groomer and his chats with the girls. We’ve got his conversations with Alexandra and Ann, so we know exactly when he was online. If he was booked on the train at those times, that becomes interesting. Once could be a coincidence. Twice is suspicious. Three times . . .”

He grinned and made a victory sign in the air.

“Is it really that simple?”

“Sure. No problem—with a little help from my friends in the ticket office at Swedish Rail!”

It would save an enormous amount of time if they could find a travel pattern that matched Mr. Groomer’s contact with his victims. Although little Ann was still only a potential victim, Irene corrected herself.

Irene was feeling
confident as she left the department a few hours later. Computers really are a fantastic tool when it comes to investigating people’s activities. We leave an electronic trail everywhere: debit and credit card payments and withdrawals, the use of season tickets on public transport, swipe cards for various doors and gates, e-tickets on trains and flights and so on. And most people are blissfully unaware of what’s going on. It is possible to work out a fairly detailed picture of an individual’s habits—and vices!—without him or her having a clue!

Sven Andersson and
Leif Fryxender had spent many hours trying to track down the residents of the building on Korsvägen in 1983. They had eventually come up with a list of names: Signe Kjellberg, Staffan Molander, the Workers’ Educational Association—known as Arbetarnas Bildningsförbund or ABF—and Carl-Johan Adelskiöld. ABF had rented the offices on the ground floor from 1978 to 1985. A call to ABF produced the names of five women who worked on the admin side of the organization. Three of these women had since passed away, and the remaining two were both over eighty years old.

Signe Kjellberg had rented a three-room apartment that she had shared with her sister Rut. They had lived there since 1960, but in May 1983 Rut had died at the age of seventy-eight. On October 1 that same year Signe moved into an assisted-living facility. The Kjellberg sisters were hardly relevant to the investigation, but interestingly their apartment had been under renovation when Mats Persson was murdered on December 9.

Two trainee nurses had lived in the third apartment: Staffan Molander and Per-Olof Wallin. Staffan had been twenty-two and Per-Olof thirty at the time. The rental agreement had been in Molander’s name from 1982 to 1984.

Andersson and Fryxender decided to split the work between them. Andersson would take Staffan Molander, while Fryxender would try to get a hold of the two elderly ladies from ABF.

After some difficulty Andersson finally managed to track down the right Staffan Molander. He was working as a senior charge nurse in a post-operative care unit at Sahlgrenska University Hospital. He told Andersson that it would be difficult to find somewhere in the unit where they could talk undisturbed, so they arranged to meet in the café by the main entrance.

Staffan Molander came
rushing in a few minutes after the agreed time. He apologized, and sank down on the chair opposite Andersson, puffing and panting. The superintendent had already bought two cups of coffee and two Mazarin cakes; his own was sugar-free, of course. It was obviously the right choice because Molander thanked him profusely and devoured his cake in no time. He was slightly below average height, but slim and toned. His highlighted hair was thinning on top but was well-cut and styled. He looked fit and tan against the white coat he wore over his white T-shirt and jeans. On his feet he had white clogs.

After outlining the details of the case, Sven Andersson got straight to the point.

“We’d like to know if you or Per-Olof Wallin saw or heard anything that could be linked to the murder,” he said.

Molander sat in silence for quite a long time, considering the question carefully before he spoke. “It’s hard to remember after so many years. But Perra . . . Per-Olof and I were together for almost two years. We split up in the summer of ’84. I moved in with my new partner, and Perra moved to Stockholm. He died in September ’94.”

AIDS,
Andersson thought.

“The Estonia disaster,” Molander said, compressing his lips into a narrow line. His blue-grey eyes darkened as he looked at Andersson.

“Did either of you see or hear anything unusual on November ninth, 1983?” Andersson continued blithely.

“Not that I can recall. Things were a little . . . turbulent back then. We argued all the time. I used to take off and stay over with a friend when things got really bad.”

“What did you argue about?”

“Perra was pathologically jealous.”

Could Mats Persson have been gay? Or did he swing both ways, bearing in mind that he was married? Was that why he had snuck off to the house on Korsvägen? And been murdered in some dramatic relationship tangle?

Andersson was quite overcome by this unexpected train of thought. He sat there with his mouth half-open, his vacant gaze fixed on the ice-cream display at the other end of the room. Under normal circumstances he was an extremely methodical person who didn’t allow himself to be swayed by anything but the facts, but this was a burst of creative imagination!

Suddenly he became aware that Molander was talking to him.

“Hello! Anyone home?”

“Sorry—I just had a thought.”

Andersson looked at the man opposite with renewed interest.

“Did you or Per-Olof have . . . relations with Mats Persson?”

Molander looked surprised at first, then he tilted his head to one side. “I’ve had
relations
with lots of people, but not with Mats Persson. I can honestly say I never met the guy, and I’m sure Perra didn’t either.”

“You don’t think Per-Olof might have arranged to meet up with Mats Persson?”

“Why would he have done that?” Staffan countered immediately.

“I don’t know . . . Maybe you’d taken off after an argument and he wanted to make you jealous, so—”

Staffan interrupted him: “No chance.”

“How come?”

Andersson was reluctant to give up on the new hypothesis that had begun to take shape in his mind.

“Perra liked really young guys. I was starting to get close to the borderline. He wasn’t a pedophile, absolutely not, but he wanted them between eighteen and just over twenty. Twenty-five at most. And as far as I remember, this Mats Persson was around forty. There’s no way Perra would have gone for someone that old,” Staffan said with utter conviction.

“And what about you? Did you go for older guys?”

“Age has never been important to me. I’m only interested in good looks and good sex,” Staffan replied with a smile. Then he became serious once more. “I saw a photo in the paper of that poor guy who got killed, and I can tell you there was nothing about him that would have turned me on. I was twenty-two, for God’s sake!”

Reluctantly Andersson had to admit that there was something in what Staffan Molander said. And when he thought about it, he realized there was a weak link in his brand-new theory: How could Staffan or Per-Olof have gotten a hold of the pistol that had been used to kill Elof Persson in 1941? No, it just didn’t work.

“So you never saw Mats Persson visiting someone else in the building, maybe walking around outside . . .”

“No. I’ve got an excellent memory for faces. The only time I’ve seen him was in that photograph in the paper a few months ago,” Staffan said firmly.

Andersson considered his next question.

“What was your landlord, Carl-Johan Adelskiöld, like? As a person, I mean.”

“He was a nice old guy. He mostly kept to himself, but he was never unfriendly in any way. He invited us for coffee and Cognac once. But it never happened again.”

Andersson pounced on the snippet of information, sensing possible discord. “Why’s that?”

Staffan shrugged. “I don’t know. The age difference, maybe. I mean, we returned the invitation—mulled wine and gingerbread cookies at Christmas. He came along; there were quite a lot of people there. But he didn’t stay long, said it was too noisy. But the truth was that he’d knocked back a hell of a lot of wine.”

He fell silent, and seemed to be wondering how to go on.

“Calle . . . he wanted us to call him Calle . . . had a bit of a drinking problem. To be honest, the guy was an alcoholic. Sometimes he was in a really bad way,” he said seriously.

That fit with what Oscar and Astrid Leutnerwall had said. Andersson decided to change the subject.

“As we understand it, the boiler in the cellar was changed in the summer of ’83, and apparently the builders left piles of bricks and sacks of mortar down there. Do you remember if that was the case?”

“I’ve no idea. I never went down there, not even when I moved out. The few possessions I had were in the apartment, and I had a little washing machine in the bathroom. I believe there was a laundry room in the cellar, but as I said, I never went down there.”

“What about Per-Olof?”

“Hardly. We used our own washing machine and hung the laundry on a drying rack over the bathtub. The Kjellberg sisters did the same thing.”

Sven Andersson realized there was something very obvious that he had forgotten to ask. “Did Adelskiöld know that you and Per-Olof were . . . gay?” He could hear his hesitation over the last word; it annoyed him that he couldn’t just come out with it in a natural way. Staffan gave him an amused look before he replied.

“He never asked us, and he never said anything. To be honest, I don’t think he cared as long as we behaved ourselves and paid the rent.”

Andersson nodded and moved on. “Did you notice whether Adelskiöld had visitors?”

“I guess he must have, but I only remember one occasion. There was some kind of musical event at Liseberg, and a man and a woman came to see Calle. I think he said they were relatives.”

“Do you remember when this was?”

“The summer of ’83. I spent that whole summer working as a junior nurse at Vasa Hospital; when I got home that day I bumped into Calle and his relatives by the front door. They were just on their way out.”

Oscar and Astrid Leutnerwall,
Andersson thought.

It seemed as if Calle Adelskiöld had lived a pretty reclusive life in his house on Korsvägen. From choice, according to his cousins. So that he could please himself and drink in peace, if you listened to Staffan Molander. All three of them were probably right.

It was pouring
as Andersson parked the car. These days it was almost impossible to find a space within walking distance of police HQ; the whole area was more or less under construction.

Andersson was soaked to the skin by the time he reached the station. He swiped his security card and headed toward the elevators. As he was waiting, a large puddle formed around his feet.
A wet but pretty useful day
, he thought.

In spite of the fact that he had only recently left the hospital café, he went straight to the nearest coffee machine as soon as he had removed his sodden outerwear. He took two mugs along with him; Fryxender usually enjoyed a coffee during their conversations.

As expected Andersson found his colleague in the Cold Cases Unit’s office. He relayed the key points of his conversation with Staffan Molander. When he had finished, Fryxender gazed thoughtfully at him, then let out a gentle sigh. He didn’t comment on anything Andersson had said, however, but went on to report on his own investigations.

“One of the old ladies can’t talk. She’s in assisted living, and apparently she has Alzheimer’s. So that just left one.”

“And where was she?”

“In Sydney. Australia.”

“What the hell is she doing there?”

“That’s where she lives. Both her daughters are over there, so she emigrated fifteen years ago. Wise decision,” Fryxender said, nodding toward the window. “She doesn’t have to put up with this crap weather. I managed to get a hold of her phone number and called her late last night. She was having breakfast. There’s a time difference.”

“I know that,” Andersson said. His colleague could be pretty long-winded, but there was no point in trying to hurry him along; Leif Fryxender proceeded calmly and methodically, at his own pace.

“Her name is Margit Olsson and she’s eighty-four years old. Sharp as a tack. She remembered Carl-Johan Adelskiöld very well, and confirmed what we already knew: that he was seen under the influence, but very rarely. Otherwise she and the other ladies who worked at ABF regarded him as a pleasant gentleman who kept to himself. She can’t remember anything in particular happening during 1983, except for the boiler being replaced. She said they were working all through August, and made a hell of a noise. But”—Fryxender paused and took a swig of his coffee—“she did actually remember one thing. She worked late on the last day of August 1983. She’s certain of the date because she didn’t go in the following day; her car had been stolen, and that happened during the night of August thirty-first. As she was locking the office, she saw one of the young guys who rented one of the apartments come in with an older man. They went in together without noticing her. She said they were making out. It was pretty dark, and she only saw them for a little while by the light of the lamp above the front door. The older man was smartly dressed; she couldn’t recall anything else.”

“Smartly dressed? But it wasn’t Adelskiöld?”

“No, she would have recognized him. She thought this guy was between forty and fifty.”

“The only person we’re aware of in this investigation who was the right age at the time is Mats Persson,” Andersson pointed out. As he spoke a feeling of triumph began to grow inside him. It was just as he’d thought! It could be down to those two fairies and their unnatural behavior!

“It could have been anybody. All we know is that one of the guys brought home an older man,” Fryxender said calmly.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been Per-Olof Wallin. According to Molander he always went for younger guys. Nothing over twenty-five.

“It must have been Molander!” Andersson exclaimed. “He told me he’s only interested in appearance and sex. No . . . good looks and good sex, that’s what he said! He’s obsessed with sex!”

“Sounds to me as if those are the criteria most people apply,” Fryxender said dryly. He thought for a moment, then continued. “We’ll have to speak to Staffan Molander again. It’s probably a good idea if I see what he’s like as well.”

Andersson shrugged. He knew exactly what he thought.

“I’ve been thinking about the pieces of the puzzle that don’t fit,” Fryxender said. “Whichever way you turn them, they just don’t fall into place. In fact, they don’t even seem to belong to this particular puzzle.

Since he wasn’t quite sure what his colleague was talking about, Andersson simply made vague noises of agreement.

“For a start, there’s this business of Stig Wennerström. As far as the time frame goes, he could fit in, but from a purely factual point of view, he doesn’t. We know he was active as a spy during the Second World War, so it’s possible that Elof Persson picked up a clue back in 1941, which he somehow revealed to Wennerström, who made sure he was taken care of. Elof Persson’s last words to his wife about some group calling themselves ‘the net’ could refer to a network of spies.”

“That sounds reasonable to me,” Andersson said. “There must have been spies everywhere in Stockholm during the war.”