Grendel's Game (6 page)

“You're right. Karlsson was agreeing with my assumption, but we can't assume anything,” said Ekman.

“If he's for real, where would he live?” asked Bergfalk.

“He may have an apartment,” Holm responded. “But I don't think this sort of crime would have been committed there. Too messy, too much risk in moving bodies.”

“I think you're right,” said Bergfalk. “Also, the smell would give him away. He'd need a really big refrigerator,” he added with a crooked grin at Ekman.

“So, he may be well-off enough to own his own house, or at least a weekend cabin,” said Rapp.

“These are all good ideas that should help us narrow down suspects. When, of course, we have suspects,” said Ekman. No one smiled. “Do the rest of you want to proceed as Gerdi suggests?”

Rapp and Bergfalk nodded agreement.

“Enar?”

“I agree we should focus on unsolved missing-person cases.”

Holm and Vinter echoed Ekman's thinking.

The others exchanged glances, and Rapp said, “That seems the way to go, Chief.”

“Very well then, we're agreed. Alrik and Mats, I'd like you to look at criminal and mental hospital records going back three years. If access is refused, call me. Gerdi, you and Enar take unsolved missing persons using that time frame. We'll meet here again tomorrow, same time.”

Ekman stood up, “I'll need to brief Prosecutor Edvardsson. Let me know right away if you turn up anything. Of course, all of this is confidential. Others may wonder what's going on and ask you, but it's not to be discussed with anyone outside the team. And you need to safeguard the documents. Keep them locked up. Understood?”

Ekman thought the meeting had been successful. The steps he'd outlined to Malmer were moving forward. The three-year time frame made the most sense. There was little point in going further back.

Ekman called Edvardsson, who'd been appointed ten months earlier in January. Their relationship was professional, but cordial. Because a prosecutor had ultimate responsibility and could take over a police investigation at any time, he wanted to make sure she always felt confident enough to let him proceed.

“God morgen, Malin, it's Walther Ekman. If you have some free time today, I'd like to come over and brief you on a new case. Yes, eleven would be fine. See you then.”

Holm came in as he hung up. “Here's the first report from Rosengren and Alenius,” he said, handing it to Ekman.

“Thanks. Sit down, Enar. Let me take a minute to go over this. You've already read it?”

Holm nodded.

Although the report was signed by both inspectors, Ekman knew it had been written by Alenius. He recognized his style: matter-of-fact and concise. Rosengren tended to wander before reaching the points he was trying to get across.

The Westberg break-in had occurred Monday, sometime between two and three in the afternoon. Westberg had been at his insurance office, and his wife was out shopping. She'd left at two and returned about an hour later. She only noticed the rear door had been forced after first going upstairs and not finding some jewelry she knew she'd left on her dresser. A family photo had also been taken from the living room.

A crime scene team had photographed the broken doorjamb, and several pictures were attached to the report. A crowbar or tire iron appeared to have been used. They'd dusted for fingerprints, but could immediately identify only those of the couple, whose prints they'd taken for elimination purposes. Hair and fibers had been vacuumed and preserved for a possible future match once a suspect was found.

The Westberg house was in one of the best residential neighborhoods in the city. It sat toward the back of a two-thousand-square-meter lot, shielded from its neighbors on three sides by tall yew hedges. They'd found a break in the rear hedge where the intruder forced a path after coming through a small patch of woods behind the property. The ground was hard and left no footprints.

They believed this was a carefully planned burglary. The thief hadn't just randomly picked the Westberg place, and he'd been patient. He had to watch the house to know when it was vacant and then had to act quickly. He'd probably been in a vehicle parked where he could see the house. Alenius and Rosengren planned to canvass neighbors and ask about an unfamiliar car or van on the street. The report concluded that after that they would begin to question “the usual suspects.”

“They also need to compare this break-in with the recent others to see if a pattern emerges,” said Holm.

“Exactly. That's really the next stage. Let them know that's where I think they should head after they canvass the neighborhood. A pattern might indicate the most likely suspects.”

“I'll tell them,” said Holm, as he got up.

“And Enar, send the report up to Malmer, and put a note on it from me about what we propose to do next.”

10

Edvardsson

E
kman saw he had more than half an hour before his meeting with Edvardsson. He decided to first take a break and get an espresso. Putting his hat and coat on, he glanced at the drawer containing his gun, but decided not to take it. Edvardsson's office was just four blocks away in the courthouse. He picked up a handout package, putting the rest in a desk drawer, and following the advice he'd given, locked it.

The papers were stowed in an expensive-looking black leather briefcase with polished brass fittings and
W. F. E
., for Walther Forstan Ekman, embossed in gold on the lower right corner. It was that year's birthday present from Erick.

It had become a brilliant day, almost cloudless, with a slight, fresh breeze. Last night's snow was rapidly vanishing from the sidewalk, and traffic had turned it to gray slush in the roads. Ekman was glad he'd chosen short, waterproof boots that morning. In Kopmangatan, just off the central square, was a small coffee shop he sometimes patronized.

He exchanged “god morgen” with the owner, a rotund, middle-aged woman with a pretty face, named Karin. Ekman didn't know her last name. He was the only late-morning customer and ordered a double espresso and biscuit.

He wondered about how Edvardsson would react to their new case. She was usually very cooperative, but because they had no evidence of a crime, she could be reluctant to let them go ahead. He might have to persuade her.

Looking at the clock on the wall, he saw it was time to go. He got up, collected his briefcase, and walked over to where Karin, in her long white apron, stood behind the counter at the espresso machine, and left thirty-five kronor.

“Thanks, Chief Superintendent,” she said with a smile.

Ekman was surprised. He hadn't realized she even knew he was a police officer, let alone his rank. He nodded without saying anything and headed down the street. This was in some ways still a small town where word got around. Perhaps she'd seen his photo in a newspaper or on television. More likely, she'd asked one of her customers, a uniformed officer, if he knew who was the big man dressed in black. His size had always made him stand out in any crowd, but he'd now become personally recognizable, and that was something he hadn't appreciated before.

He turned onto Biblioteksgatan, walking past the large, stone library building, before entering Fridhems-plan. Across the wide square was the handsome, four-story, Beaux-Arts courthouse designed by Isak Gustaf Clason in the late 1890s. It was the finest building in the city. A far cry, Ekman thought, from the modern monstrosity he worked in.

The police officer at the metal detector knew him and saluted as Ekman, walking around the security post, waved a vague salute back, and headed toward the ornate, gilded elevator. Creaking, it rose slowly to the third floor. Edvardsson's office on the east corner of the building was a short way down the white marble-floored corridor.

Opening the door, he saw that the receptionist was a pretty, slender brunette he hadn't met before.

“God morgen, I'm Walther Ekman,” he said. “Fru Edvardsson is expecting me. You're new here.”

“God morgen, Herr Ekman,” she replied, getting up from her desk, and with a friendly smile, extending her hand. “I'm Ide Sundquist. Fru Edvardsson hired me last week. Her other receptionist moved to Malmö. I'll tell her you're here, but first let me take your hat and coat.”

After hanging Ekman's things on a corner rack, she buzzed Edvardsson who immediately came out of the inner office.

“God morgen, Walther, it's good to see you,” she said, with a warm smile. Malin Edvardsson seemed an unlikely person to have a well-founded reputation as one of the most able and aggressive prosecutors in the country. She was a small, wizened woman of fifty in a simple black dress with a starched, white lace collar. She had a slightly hunched back. The handshake she offered Ekman was firm and dry, her fingers gnarled by arthritis.

“Please come in,” Edvardsson said, leading the way into her office. “Why don't we sit on the couch over here? It's more comfortable.” She tended to conduct business informally, rather than from behind her large desk. Her attitude was at the opposite end of the spectrum from Malmer's.

Before closing the door, she said, “Can I get you something, some coffee?”

“No thanks, I'm fine,” said Ekman, sitting down.

She joined him on the couch and turned toward him. “So, Walther, what is it you wanted to see me about?”

Ekman responded by taking the papers he'd brought out of the briefcase at his feet and handing them to her.

“This letter came yesterday, addressed to me,” he said. “I've obtained a possible profile of the writer and have put together a team. Malmer and the commissioner have, of course, been briefed. Please read these and let me know what you think.”

Edvardsson put on her horn-rimmed reading glasses and they sat there in silence as she read.

Ekman looked around the office, noting the framed letters of commendation, a floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled with sets of law books on the facing wall, and a few family photos arranged on a credenza behind the desk. The corner office had large, sunlit windows overlooking a small park.

“Well, Walther,” she said, putting the papers in her lap. “You're taking this very seriously.”

“Yes, I am. Do you think I'm wrong?”

“Not wrong, exactly, but perhaps . . .” she hesitated, looking for the right word, “overreacting.”

“I've worried about that too, Malin, but I thought it was better than waiting for something awful to happen. I could never forgive myself if there was a tragedy that could have been averted.”

“That's important, although you realize you're using resources that might be better employed where a crime has actually been committed. I'm just saying there are costs, as well as potential benefits, to the path you're taking.”

“Do you think I should stop?” Ekman asked, knowing the prosecutor could halt the investigation right now.

“No, I value your instincts on this, but I think we should agree on a time frame. If nothing else turns up at the end of that, it might be best to put this on hold.”

“That seems reasonable, Malin. What would you suggest?”

“Let's say, one week from yesterday, if nothing else happens? Of course, if you find evidence of a crime, the time limit is dropped.”

“That would make it the eighteenth. Like you, I don't want this to drag on, eating up manpower. But I also don't want to ignore it.”

“So,” Edvardsson said, “we're agreed. Now fill me in on what your team will be doing.”

Ekman sketched out the tasks they'd started that morning.

“All of that seems eminently sensible to me,” she said. “I couldn't add anything. Let me know in a couple of days how things are going, okay?”

Standing up, she took Ekman's papers and leading him to the door, opened it and said, “Ide, please put these in my locked cabinet,” handing the papers to the receptionist before turning to say good-bye to Ekman.

On the way out, Ekman picked up his hat and coat and also said good-bye to Froken Sundquist who smiled brightly in reply, then turned, and started filing the papers away.

11