Grendel's Game (22 page)

As Ekman looked around the table, the others nodded their agreement.

“You may be right, Alrik. Enar's theory could explain a lot of what's been happening. And the connections we've found among the missing men are sketchy right now. But there still seem to me too many coincidences to just ignore. So let's keep on with both tracks for a while.

“Are there any other comments or questions? No? We're making real progress, thanks to the good work all of you have done. We'll meet again tomorrow,” Ekman said, getting to his feet.

As the others trickled out, Enar followed Ekman into his office. “Do you think my idea is dead wrong, Chief?” Holm asked.

“No, Enar, not at all. It clarifies a great deal, just not everything. What we need to keep looking for is a way of explaining every element of what I think is a single case. Perhaps Lindfors will provide the answers we need. You and Gerdi keep a close eye on her. Let's find out where she goes, what she does, who she sees. Then we may get a better understanding of what's going on.”

“We'll be watching her every move, Chief,” said Holm, leaving.

36

The Adulterer

A
s Ekman reached for the phone to call Westberg, it rang. It was Ingbritt.

“Walther, I'm calling from Carla's. The trip here was uneventful. How are you doing?”

“Missing you, already.”

“You're a terrible liar, Walther Ekman,” she said with a laugh. “You're wrapped up in that case of yours and haven't thought about me at all.”

“That's just not true. I've thought about you at least twice since kissing you good-bye.”

“Well, that's better than not at all. I guess I'll have to settle for that. All right, I'll let you get back to what you were doing. Remember, call me tonight when you get home. It doesn't matter if it's late.”

“I won't forget. Have a good time. I wish I were there,” Ekman said, and meant it.

They hung up and he called Westberg.

“Herr Westberg, it's Walther Ekman. I know this is a difficult time for you, but you can help with our investigation. Yes, it won't take long, I have just a few questions. No, I think it would be better if I speak with you in person rather than over the phone. At your home, in an hour? I'll be there.”

Ekman was just about to leave when the phone rang again.

“Walther, it's Ludvig. I have some answers for you on that gruesome package you sent. There are no fingerprints, and the knot again is a bowline. We're still working on the DNA and I should have something for you soon. Whoever the genitals are from, it was done post mortem. And it wasn't done with surgical precision. I'd say he used a large scissors of some kind. Perhaps, garden or kitchen shears.”

“I don't know whether I'm relieved or not. Now we're definitely dealing with a homicide, rather than a maiming. At least we don't have to worry about what kind of condition the victim is in.”

“I know what you mean. How is the case going?”

“We may have a potential suspect, and there are a lot of disjointed leads. But it's progressing. I feel better about it than when we last spoke.”

“That sounds encouraging. The sooner you catch this madman, we'll all breathe easier. Good hunting.”

W
hen Ekman pulled up in front of Westberg's house, the door opened and Westberg came out to meet him.

“God morgen, Herr Ekman,” he said, shaking hands. “I didn't want you to ring the doorbell, my wife is resting. The doctor had to give her a sedative.” His face was drawn and red-eyed. He looked like he hadn't slept either, Ekman thought, and could use a sedative himself.

“We can talk in my study,” Westberg said, leading the way down the wide hallway to a large, book-lined room in the rear of the house.

When they were seated in chairs facing each other, Ekman said, “Again, Herr Westberg, I apologize for disturbing you, but you may have information that can help with our investigation.”

“I don't know what that could be, but of course, I want to do anything I can to help.”

“I have just a few questions. They may seem unconnected to your son's disappearance, but you can be sure any information you provide will assist us.”

“Yes, go on,” said Westberg, shifting in his chair.

“Did your son like to go to the movies?”

“Why on earth can that matter?” Westberg replied, exasperated. Ekman realized that this irritability was not really directed at him. It was just a way of releasing pent-up anger over his lost son.

“Please answer the question,” said Ekman in a mild voice.

“As a matter of fact he dislikes films. He prefers the theater. He thinks most movies today are garbage. I agree with him.” Ekman noted that Westberg was still using the present tense. He hadn't accepted that Rodger was dead.

“Thank you, that's useful to know. And does your son like chess?” asked Ekman, using the present tense on purpose.

“He's a chess enthusiast. I taught him to play when he was seven. He's been an active player ever since. He's quite good too,” Westberg said with pride.

“Is he a member of a local chess club?”

“Why, yes, he is. They meet every third week.”

“If you have the name and address of the club, and a phone contact, that would be helpful.”

“I'll get that for you,” Westberg said, going to his desk and rummaging in a drawer for his address book. He took out a piece of paper and jotted down the information.

“Is that all you wanted?” asked Westberg, handing him the paper.

“There's just one other thing,” said Ekman in an offhand manner. “Do you know how Rodger met Stina Lindfors?”

“Stina? Why do you need to know that?”

“In a homicide investigation, anything may be important.”

Westberg was silent for a moment. “Is she a suspect?”

“At this stage, Herr Westberg, I wouldn't say that. We're simply gathering information of all kinds, as you can tell from the questions I've asked.”

“I introduced them.”

“How did you first meet Froken Lindfors?”

“Her company did some accounting work for my firm. She was one of the junior accountants assigned to the job.”

“When was this?”

“I first met her about two years ago.”

“What was your impression of her then?”

“She's intelligent, quite charming, and of course, very good looking, as I mentioned when you were here the other day. She was also good at her job.”

“Did you meet with her often?”

“A few times, as the accounting work required. Is this much detail really needed?” He paused, frowning. “What are you really asking?” He got up, and going to the door, closed it.

“I'm sorry to pry into personal matters, Herr Westberg, but I'm sure you can understand this is a necessary part of my job. Your answers will be kept confidential.” Ekman knew he wouldn't be able to keep this promise, but he needed Westberg's cooperation.

“You want to know about our relationship, Stina and me?” Westberg responded in a low voice. His usually aggressive manner with Ekman had vanished.

“Yes, please,” said Ekman.

“I'll tell you right out then. We were lovers. I'm not proud of it. It started one evening when we were working late.”

“How long did this relationship continue?”

“About four months. Then I broke it off. Nothing could come of it. It couldn't go on any longer without arousing my wife's suspicion. And I could never leave her, we've been together too long. She doesn't know anything about it.” Ekman wondered if his wife's unreasonable aversion to Lindfors wasn't instinctive dislike of a rival.

“Did Froken Lindfors suggest you should leave your wife for her?”

“No, never. It was my idea. I thought about it briefly and decided I couldn't do it.” Maybe he was deceiving himself, thought Ekman. The idea may have been so subtly planted he thought it was his.

“After the affair ended you introduced Stina Lindfors to your son?”

“Yes. Rodger needs to settle down, to marry. She's perfect for him.” You should know, after you gave the car a test drive, Ekman couldn't help thinking.

“Did you know that three months ago your son altered his will?”

“No,” said Westberg, his face showing his surprise. “How did he change it?”

“Rodger left everything to Froken Lindfors,” Ekman replied, watching Westberg's face, which betrayed astonishment and then dismay that changed rapidly to anger.

“That scheming bitch. I've been an imbecile, an absolute imbecile,” Westberg said, turning his anger on himself as he got up and paced about the room. It's suppressed guilt, as much as anything else, Ekman thought.

“Everything, even the trust fund?”

“Yes,” said Ekman, standing and facing him.

“That's family money and meant to stay in the family. I won't accept this. Rodger will have to change his will again. Most of what he has is money I settled on him when he turned thirty.” His expression was pained.

“I certainly understand your feelings.”

Westberg pulled himself together, trying to restore his frayed dignity and sense of self-importance. “Have I now told you all you wanted to know, Herr Ekman?”

“You've been very helpful, Herr Westberg. Thank you for speaking so frankly. I won't trouble you further.”

Westberg walked him to the front door.

“This was a private conversation, Herr Ekman. I was open with you only because my son is in danger. You will remember that, won't you?”

“Of course, Herr Westberg,” said Ekman as he left.

At the bottom of the front steps, he turned and saw Westberg looking after him with narrowed eyes and tightly compressed lips. I've made an enemy, Ekman thought. He's told me too much.

37

Rystrom

O
n the way back to headquarters, Ekman called Rapp.

“I have some information for you and Mats,” he said, reading from the paper with the chess club details Westberg had given him. “Find out all you can about Rodger Westberg's involvement with this club. Also, we can forget about the missing men's interest in movies being a common link. Westberg wasn't a fan.”

Garth Rystrom was waiting for him in his office. At fifty-three, he looked more like forty. Six feet tall and very fair, with thick blond hair that hadn't begun to gray, he had light blue eyes and pale skin. A snub nose on an unlined face, and an energetic manner, added to the youthful impression.

“Walther,” he said smiling, as he got up and came toward Ekman with hand extended, “it's good to see you.”

“Thanks for coming down, Garth,” replied Ekman, shaking his hand.

Once they were seated, Rystrom said, “It sounds like you have an intriguing case on your hands.”

“Perhaps too intriguing. We can really use your help.”

Ekman began to describe, in more detail than he had in their phone conversation, what had happened since last Tuesday when the first letter arrived.

“I'd like to take a look at the letters you've received.”

“I thought you'd like to see everything, so I've a complete file for you, including a psychological profile of Grendel, photos, and my memoranda, right here,” he said, taking out of a drawer the three-ring binder he'd had Holm prepare, and handing it to him.

“I'll need to study this. Why don't you go ahead and fill me in?”

As Ekman spoke, Rystrom leaned forward in his chair.

“Fascinating,” he said. “Unlike anything I've heard of.”

“You and me both,” said Ekman, as he told Rystrom of the personal turn the case had taken since it began.

“But there seems to be no reason for this apparent fixation?”

“None we've been able to discover, and we've even looked at twenty years of cases for an old enemy,” replied Ekman.

“You've taken precautions, I assume?” Rystrom asked, concerned for his friend.