Babylon (13 page)

‘More than one person?’

‘Yes, it’s an incredibly thorough job even for two people.’

Tell took the snuff tin out of his breast pocket, inhaled, then tucked a pinch under his top lip.

Beckman’s expression was now one of amusement. ‘So is it working? No cigarettes hidden in your desk drawer?’

‘Not so far. But, as you know, it all depends on how the case goes.’

She patted him on the shoulder. ‘I wish you were joking. But I’ll be the first one to snatch the cigarette out of your hand. You might not believe it yet, but it’s definitely worth the trouble. You’ll think so the first time you walk up those stairs at home without getting out of breath.’

‘I have a lift,’ said Tell.

Beckman clapped her hands. ‘So, what now? We can’t touch anything here, the place needs to be gone over properly. By the way, did we hear any more from Forensics about Linnégatan?’

Without replying, Tell walked over to the window and parted the curtains. A middle-aged man was getting out of a Renault Mégane on the other side of the low fence between the gardens.

‘Here come the neighbours. You ring the station. I’ll go over and ask if they happened to see a gang of masked men turning this place upside down.’

19

Karlberg was interviewing students and members of staff in the archaeology department. The interviews he had conducted so far hadn’t yielded much information beyond what they already knew. Nothing about the lives of the two victims seemed unusual at first glance. That was to be expected; shady goings-on generally took place behind closed doors. Everybody had something to hide, a skeleton in the cupboard. Or at least dirt swept under the carpet. And people really did make an effort to hide whatever they were ashamed of, regardless of whether this had anything to do with an ongoing police investigation. Sometimes police officers felt that their authority was being eroded, but the fact remained that Joe Public wanted to appear irreproachable in the eyes of the law. Of course this could send the police in completely the wrong direction.

Of the four members of Henrik Samuelsson’s study group that Karlberg had managed to speak to so far, one hadn’t seemed very clear on who Samuelsson was, while another had tried to be a gentleman and drew a veil over his affair. When Karlberg tartly pointed out that the police were well aware of what had been going on, the young man insisted he had acted with the best of intentions. He just wanted to protect Henrik Samuelsson’s partner from the knowledge that her recently deceased boyfriend had been unfaithful.

The woman who came in next, Marie Hjalmarsson, had already heard about the ‘tragedy’. It was undeniably a tragedy, but her choice of word also seemed to be a way of keeping violent death at arm’s length. Refusing to use the word murder. Or killing.

She was the first to mention the study trip.

‘The main people who knew that Ann-Marie had started a relationship with a student were on the study trip. There was lots of gossip, of
course. We weren’t a very big group, and we grew quite close.’

‘Gossip?’

‘Yes, on the trip. It became very obvious that there was something going on between them.’

‘In what way?’

Marie Hjalmarsson looked doubtfully at Karlberg. ‘Well . . . in the usual way? The way they looked at each other. The way they kept trying to slip away from the rest of the group. They stayed out until everybody else had gone home. There were a few instances of inappropriate touching by the end of the week. It almost seemed as if they didn’t care if other people knew.’

‘Did anyone react badly to this?’

‘I think we were all influenced by the fact we were in a foreign country. There was a kind of rebellious, un-Swedish spirit pervading the whole trip. We sat outside drinking wine. We went out every night. I think the atmosphere made us more tolerant. Because actually, if you ask me, it’s not OK for a tutor to get together with a student. Ann-Marie was a respected member of the university staff. Besides which, Henrik had a partner. And Ann-Marie was a good deal older than him.’

She hesitated. ‘A teacher is supposed to set a good example, even if he or she works at a university, don’t you think?’

‘OK,’ said Karlberg. ‘So you didn’t approve?’

‘People can do as they please. But I was the only one, apart from maybe Axel Donner, who questioned the relationship, or . . . saw it as a problem. Axel was Henrik’s friend, and I don’t think he liked what was going on. Although it could just have been because he’d lost an ally. I might have hinted at what several of the others were thinking, or wanted to think, but didn’t quite have the nerve. They were afraid of being called narrow-minded.’

‘It sounds like there was bit of a conflict going on.’

‘Not really; it wasn’t an argument, more a matter of discussion.’

‘Discussion about what precisely?’

Marie squirmed. ‘I don’t really like the idea that everything I say is being written down.’

‘But there’s a risk that I’ll misinterpret what you say if you just drop hints.’

‘Surely you’re not allowed to do that?’

‘I’m only human. Hints and things you don’t say could well influence what I take from this interview. By the way, who would you say knew Henrik best among your fellow students?’

‘Axel Donner and Annelie Swerin, definitely. Axel was like a fly buzzing around Henrik. OK, I’ll tell you. Annelie had an affair with her former boss.’

‘Was he on the trip as well?’

‘No. But she talked about it, she said it was hard. He was married, and . . . There were a number of tensions within the group. I said something about infidelity which she misinterpreted and took as a personal criticism. This business with Henrik and Ann-Marie had happened. There was a peculiar atmosphere between Annelie and Axel. I don’t think Annelie particularly likes Axel. He’s a fairly quiet person, but he can be quite difficult, and with her he was even trickier, somehow. Perhaps he had a bit of a thing for her and didn’t know how to show it. Or she didn’t know how to handle it. Oh no, this is all getting too messy. I don’t know what happened in Istanbul, just that Axel somehow overstepped the mark. It wasn’t just him, they were all pretty drunk. They made a joke of it later, but I think Annelie was upset.’

‘And you don’t know what actually happened?’

‘No. I’d already gone back to the hotel that night.’

Nothing but a vague stream of information. ‘Axel and Annelie,’ said Karlberg. ‘They’re on the group list, are they?’

Hjalmarsson nodded. ‘I’m sure they are. But there’s no point trying to get hold of Annelie at the moment. She’s gone to some place in India to volunteer on a dig. I don’t think she’ll be back for a while. Anyway: I can understand why Ann-Marie Karpov was attracted to Henrik. It’s not that I begrudged her good sex or Henrik
even more
female attention, but . . . If it had been a male lecturer carrying on with a twenty-two-year-old girl, there would have been an outcry, wouldn’t there? People would have called him a dirty old man.’

Henrik Samuelsson was no twenty-two-year-old, thought Karlberg, and started wondering why tutors – male or female – started relationships with their students. Was it out of the question that these two really had fallen in love?

As if Marie Hjalmarsson could read his mind, she said, ‘It all comes down to power. Even in a relationship between two people who are in
love and believe themselves to be equals. And if you think the word power is too strong, then you could say instead that in
any
social interaction, all parties are aware of their status. Like you and me, just now.’

Karlberg couldn’t help himself: ‘You don’t think it’s rather cynical to assume that everything comes down to sex and power?’

‘All I’m saying is that you can’t suddenly change your status, just because you happen to be in love. But being with Henrik must have made Ann-Marie feel young. In the end it comes down to whether you think people can consciously
allow
themselves to be exploited. Is that OK, as long as they get something out of it too?’

‘Otherwise every relationship would be doomed,’ said Karlberg.

She tilted her head to one side. Karlberg suddenly realised her smile was quite appreciative, because his ears began to burn; those reddening ears were the last vestige of an agonising teenage tendency to blush. He went back to his script.

‘Did you know Henrik Samuelsson well?’

The answer came quickly. ‘Not well.’

‘How would you describe him?’

She squirmed again. ‘Hmm. Most people liked him. He was good at making other people feel as if he was really paying attention to them, whether it was true or not. He was charismatic and committed and he knew a lot, but perhaps not always as much as he liked to suggest. He seemed to need to stand out, to show how special he was. He was one of those people who always has to express an opinion, preferably one which goes against what everybody else thinks. He could be a bit of a know-all sometimes. Vain. And maybe he was also a bit . . . no.’

Marie Hjalmarsson waved away what she had been about to say.

‘Go on, tell me what you were thinking,’ Karlberg leaned forward as if he wanted to draw the words out of her.

‘His style seemed to work, on the whole. You know, the jazz musician thing: pretty laid-back, left-wing of course . . . but he still wore expensive designer 1950s suits. He was popular with the girls, but . . . It’s all a matter of taste and opinion. I thought he could be a bit sleazy sometimes. One of those “handsome” guys with long hair who doesn’t quite get the fact that he’s not so young any more, and is still on the prowl for twenty-something girls.’

‘You mean he tried it on with you?’

‘No, no! Heavens, no, I knew I should never have mentioned it. He never did anything, it was just the way he looked at me. As if he was kind of thinking things.’

Marie Hjalmarsson started rummaging in her bag, obviously embarrassed. As Karlberg scratched the back of his neck, he realised he needed a haircut. His encouraging smile gradually faded.

20

Rebecca Nykvist had almost been dreading the moment she was to be released. Suddenly she was no longer in custody but free to go. One hundred and twenty-nine square metres of chaos and emptiness just a short taxi-ride away.

She had been warned that the house had been turned upside down, but she was still shocked when she walked through the door. The cold fury discernible in every room: someone had searched her home.

She stood there quietly, contemplating the dirt that had appeared, the dust from hidden corners that had been disturbed and was now visible on the floor. The clothes that had been touched and strewn everywhere.

She would need to wash those.

Private papers and letters, tossed all over the place.

When the telephone rang, she had just started to tackle the mess. It was Henrik’s mother; Rebecca wished she hadn’t answered.

She turned down the invitation to her in-laws’ house in Vänersborg. Görel Samuelsson’s voice intoned empty phrases such as ‘there is no strength in being alone’, and insisted that they ought to, they
must
, share their grief. Be there for each other.

‘We’re all here. Everyone came as soon as they found out. Lennart’s ordered food so we don’t have to bother with anything. We don’t have the strength, it’s all been so ghastly. The police came and spoke to us, it was almost like an interrogation, but we felt so helpless, after all we don’t know anything about . . .’

Rebecca didn’t know how things stood. Did Görel know that her
daughter-in-law had been held in custody on suspicion of the murder of her son, and subsequently released due to lack of evidence? It was best not to say anything – in any case, Rebecca had no idea what to say.

She could hear a tissue rustling and held the phone a little further from her ear. In the background she could hear the low hum of voices. Should she hire a car? The thought of a long drive with the wind in her hair was tempting, but the sobbing at the other end of the line disrupted her thoughts.

‘We’d like everybody to gather here before the funeral. We have plenty of room, you can stay as long as you like.’

Görel’s sobbing was making Rebecca feel ill. It reminded her of the grief she didn’t dare give way to.

‘After all, you were his partner.’

After all
. . .

‘I just don’t feel I can leave here at the moment because of work. Going to work is a good thing; it helps . . . take my mind off things.’

Rebecca knew this sounded harsh and false, but her brain couldn’t keep up. And she was probably doing the Samuelsson household a favour. At least now they’d have something to talk about between the outbursts of weeping. Rebecca would be someone they could talk about, their words sounding kind enough on the surface, but everyone would know they held an undertone of reproach for her coldness, her exaggerated sense of purpose.

‘She’s difficult to get close to,’ Görel would say. Görel was never openly hostile. But everyone would know exactly what she meant.

And of course they had never married. Perhaps Görel didn’t know that Henrik was the one who didn’t want to. Nor did she seem to know that bottomless grief sometimes leads to a bewildered sense of despair that leaves you paralysed and mute. Rebecca put the phone down.

It was Thursday in the normal world. She had an appointment with her therapist at five o’clock in the afternoon. Rebecca had always regarded her relationship with Birger Warberg as rock solid. He knew exactly what to ask. When to keep quiet, when to speak. She could see herself reflected in his gestures, his neutral yet understanding expressions. But would she see a freshly sown seed of doubt there today?

Would he be sure that she hadn’t murdered Henrik? If he wasn’t sure, would he manage to hide that fact? Would he steal glances at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice before his face closed down once more?

That was what she feared.

She sat there twice a week, head down. Sometimes resigned, sometimes defensive. Rebecca had noticed how keen Warberg was to expose the areas she didn’t dare to touch upon. They talked about her fear of abandonment, her lack of trust.