Dark Secrets (16 page)

The doorbell rang, and the next second they heard the sound of the front door opening. Torkel shouted a greeting and appeared. He turned to Clara.

“We’re done now, so you can go home. I apologize if we’ve caused you any inconvenience.”

It was impossible to detect any real regret in Torkel’s voice. Correct as always. Sebastian shook his head almost imperceptibly. “Inconvenience.” That particular phrase must have been included in some set of regulations, or a handbook on how a police officer should behave toward
members of the public, in around 1950. Obviously he had caused Clara inconvenience. He had taken her son in for questioning and turned her home upside down. Clara, however, didn’t appear to react. She got up and turned to Sebastian, almost as if she was making a point.

“Thank you for lunch. And for the company.” Then she left the kitchen without so much as a glance at Torkel.

When the front door had closed behind Clara, Torkel took a step into the kitchen. Sebastian stayed where he was, leaning against the draining board.

“I see you haven’t changed a bit. Still the ladies’ knight in shining armor.”

“She was standing outside, shivering.”

“If it had been Leo Lundin’s father, he would still have been standing there. May I?” Torkel gestured toward the coffee machine, which was still on with coffee left in the pot.

“Sure.”

“Cups?”

Sebastian pointed to one of the kitchen cupboards and Torkel took out a red-striped Iittala mug.

“It’s good to see you again. It’s been too long.”

Sebastian feared this could be an introduction that would end up with Torkel suggesting a get-together or a beer after all. He played it cool.

“Well, it’s certainly been a long time.”

“What are you up to these days?”

Torkel poured the last of the coffee into his mug and switched off the machine.

“I’m living on royalties and my wife’s life insurance. And now my mother’s died, so I’ll sell this place and live off her for a while. But to answer your question: nothing. I’m not up to anything these days.”

Torkel had stopped dead. A lot of information all at once, and not the standard “oh, just the usual, you know” that he’d probably been
expecting, Sebastian thought. But total disengagement combined with deaths in the family might put Torkel off seizing the opportunity to “catch up.” Sebastian glanced at his former colleague and saw a look of genuine sorrow in his eyes. Empathy had always been one of Torkel’s finest qualities. Formal but sympathetic. In spite of everything he had seen in the course of his work.

“Your wife’s life insurance…” Torkel took a sip of his coffee. “I didn’t even know you’d gotten married.”

“Yes, indeed, married and widowed. A lot can happen in twelve years.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“Thanks.” Silence fell. Torkel sipped at his coffee, pretending it was hotter than it really was so that he could avoid trying to kick-start their awkward conversation. Sebastian jumped in and saved him. Torkel was obviously seeking contact and his company. For some reason. Sebastian could afford another five minutes of feigned interest after twelve years.

“So, what about you? How’s it going?”

“I got divorced again. Just over three years ago.”

“Shame.”

“Yes. Otherwise, everything’s fine, I suppose. I’m still there. With Riksmord.”

“Yes, you said.”

“Yes…”

Another silence.

Another sip of coffee.

Another rescue. Lowest common denominator. The job.

“So did you find anything in the Lundins’ place?”

“Even if we did I couldn’t tell you.”

“No, of course not. I’m not really interested. Just making conversation.”

Was that a hint of disappointment on Torkel’s face? Whatever it was, it was there for only a brief second before Torkel glanced at the clock and stood up straight.

“Time I made a move.” He put the half-full cup on the draining board. “Thanks for the coffee.”

Sebastian followed him into the hallway. He leaned against the wall with his arms folded as he watched Torkel pick up a shoehorn that was hanging on the hat stand and slip on his loafers, which he had taken off just inside the door. Suddenly Sebastian saw a somewhat graying, aging man, an old friend who had only meant well, and toward whom Sebastian had behaved with a rather dismissive brusqueness.

“I could have sent a postcard or something.”

Torkel stopped in the middle of putting on his shoes and looked at Sebastian with an almost quizzical expression, as if he hadn’t heard properly.

“What?”

“If you’re thinking it’s your fault that it’s been such a long time, that we lost contact. I’m saying I could have gotten in touch if I’d thought it was important.”

It took Torkel a few seconds to take in Sebastian’s words as he replaced the shoehorn.

“I don’t think it was my fault.”

“Good.”

“Not only my fault, anyway.”

“That’s all right, then.”

Torkel hesitated for a moment with his hand resting on the doorknob. Should he say something? Should he explain to Sebastian that if you tell a person you think your relationship with them was unimportant, not worth maintaining, it doesn’t come across as some kind of consolation, even if that’s how it was meant? Quite the opposite, in fact. Should he say it? He dismissed the idea. He shouldn’t have been surprised. They had joked about it many times, the fact that for a psychologist Sebastian didn’t really understand other people’s feelings. Sebastian had always countered with the assertion that understanding feelings was overrated. It’s the motives that are interesting, not the emotions—those are just waste products, he used to say. Torkel smiled
to himself as he realized he was probably just a waste product in Sebastian’s memory right now.

“See you,” said Torkel, opening the door.

“Maybe.”

The door closed behind Torkel, and he heard the key being turned. He set off, hoping that Ursula had waited for him with the car.

Torkel got out at the station while Ursula went to park the car. They hadn’t talked about Sebastian. Torkel had made an attempt, but Ursula had made her feelings very clear, and for the rest of the journey they had discussed the case. A preliminary analysis of the bloodstained T-shirt had been completed, and Ursula found out via her cell that the blood came from only one person. Roger Eriksson. Unfortunately the amount of blood was more in keeping with Leo’s explanation of how it had gotten there during their fight than with the theory that it might be the result of a violent and frenzied stabbing.

In addition, the boy’s truculence had given way to weeping and sobbing in the latest round of interviews, and Torkel found it more and more difficult to imagine that the pathetic figure in front of him could be capable of something so considered and well planned as placing the body in a pool. Using a car he didn’t have. No, it was too weak. In spite of the fact that they had found the T-shirt in Leo’s house, it just wasn’t realistic.

They weren’t, however, ready to write off Leo completely. Enough mistakes had been made in this investigation. They would keep Leo in custody overnight, but if they didn’t find anything else it would be difficult to get the prosecutor to agree to his arrest. Torkel and Ursula decided to gather the whole team to see if between them they could come up with a way forward.

It was with this thought in mind that Torkel pushed open the front door of the police station, but the woman at reception waved him over.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she said, pointing to the green seating area by
the window. An overweight, badly dressed woman was sitting there. She stood up when she saw the receptionist pointing to her.

“Who is she?” asked Torkel quietly, keen not to be taken completely unawares.

“Lena Eriksson. Roger Eriksson’s mother.”

The mother, not good
, Torkel just had time to think before she tapped him on the shoulder.

“Are you the one who’s in charge? Of finding out who murdered my son?” Torkel turned around.

“Yes. Torkel Höglund. My condolences on your loss.”

Lena Eriksson merely nodded.

“So it was Leo Lundin who did it?” Torkel met the woman’s eyes as she stared at him, her expression challenging. She wanted to know. Of course she wanted to know. Knowing that the murderer had been identified, caught, and convicted meant a lot in the process of working through grief. Unfortunately, Torkel couldn’t give her the answer she wanted to hear.

“I’m sorry, I can’t discuss the details of the investigation.”

“But you’ve arrested him?”

“As I said, I can’t discuss that.”

Lena didn’t even appear to be listening. She took a step closer to Torkel. Too close. He resisted the impulse to back away.

“He was always having a go at Roger. Always. It was his fault Roger moved to that stuck-up school.”

It had definitely been his fault. Leo Lundin. Or Leonard, whatever fucking kind of a name that was. Lena didn’t know how long it had been going on. The bullying. It had started in junior high school, she knew that, but Roger hadn’t said anything at first. Hadn’t said anything about the name-calling and the shoves in the corridor, the torn books and the fact that his locker was broken into. He’d made excuses when he’d come home without his T-shirt or with soaking-wet shoes after school; he hadn’t told her that his T-shirt was ripped or that he’d found his shoes down the toilet after gym. He’d come up with explanations
when his money and his things disappeared. But Lena had had her suspicions, and eventually Roger had admitted a certain amount.

It was okay, though.

Under control.

He could take care of it himself. If she got involved things would only get worse. But then the violence started. The blows. The bruises. The split lip and the black eye. The kicks to the head. At that point Lena had contacted the school. She had a meeting with Leo and his mother and realized immediately after the meeting, which lasted almost an hour in the principal’s office, that no help would come from there. There was no mistaking who was in charge in the Lundin household.

Lena knew she wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer from an academic point of view, but she understood power. She was good at identifying power relationships, seeing structures. The boss wasn’t necessarily the person who made the decisions. The parent wasn’t always the one who had the authority. The school principal may not be the leader of his staff. Lena found it easy to tell who really held the power, how it was used, and how she should behave in order to gain as many advantages as possible. Or to avoid disadvantages, at least. Some people probably regarded her as scheming; some might say that she changed according to which way the wind was blowing, and some almost certainly thought she was just an ass-kisser. However, that was how you survived when you spent your whole life surrounded by power but never had any yourself.

That’s not true, though
, said the little voice inside her head that had been with her all day.
You did have power.

Lena pushed the little voice away; she didn’t want to listen. She wanted to hear that Leo had done it. It was him! She knew it. It had to be true. She just needed to get the well-dressed man in front of her to understand that.

“I’m sure it was him. He’s hit Roger before. Beaten him up. We never reported it to the police, but you can check with the school. It was him. I know it was him.”

Torkel understood her stubbornness, her conviction. He was seeing what he had seen so many times before. The desire not only for a solution but for an understanding of what had happened. The person who had been bullying and tormenting her son overstepped the mark. That was understandable. It made sense. It would make reality a little more real again. He also knew they wouldn’t get much further in this conversation. He placed a hand on Lena’s arm and steered her gently and almost imperceptibly toward the door.

“We’ll have to see where the investigation leads. I’ll keep you informed every step of the way.”

Lena nodded and started to head for the glass doors under her own steam. But then she stopped.

“One more thing.”

Torkel walked over to her.

“Yes?”

“The newspapers keep ringing.”

Torkel sighed. Of course they did. In her darkest hour. When she was at her most vulnerable. It didn’t matter how many times the press promised to put its house in order after publishing interviews with people who were obviously off balance, obviously not really aware of what they were getting into. People in shock and the deepest sorrow.

It was like a law of nature.

A child is murdered.

The newspapers ring.

“In my experience, most people who talk to the press in a situation like yours regret it afterward,” Torkel said honestly. “Just don’t answer the phone, or refer them to us.”

“But they want an exclusive interview and they’re prepared to pay for it. I just wondered if you knew how much I should ask for?”

Torkel looked at her with an expression that Lena took to mean he didn’t understand. Which he didn’t, in fact, but not in the way she imagined.

“I mean, you’ve been involved in this sort of thing before. How much can I ask for?”