Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (3 page)

Lena scans the street through the clouds of steam from her breath. Behind her, a police officer makes sure only residents enter the block. Those who leave are pressed for statements.

Two officers have joined Agnes in the flat along with the forensic team. Three police cars and one ambulance are parked in clumsy angles between the vehicles along the sidewalks, slowing down traffic to a zigzag crawl. Their lights turn the area into a spinning inferno of blues and reds.

The snowfall makes it impossible to see car number plates more than a dozen metres away, so Lena zips up her jacket and walks down the street, peering at the cars while whispering the license plate number she found on the receipt in the flat. Six damned characters and she struggles to remember them. Her short-term memory has always been bad, and lack of sleep does not help. The car probably will not be here, but staying in the flat was unbearable. This is a good excuse to get out.

The phone in her pocket buzzes. She stops, digs it out, and shields the screen from the snow with her hand. Her superintendent calling from the headquarters in the city. She takes the call.

“Franke,” Lena says and continues down the sidewalk. Three more cars, then she will cross the street and double back.

“This is Gren,” her commander says. “Are you preparing the briefing?”

“I’m still at the scene.”

There is a long pause, but Lena knows what he will say. Gren wants her to set up the meeting, but he knows she wants to scour the area first. In the silence she hears the background mumble of the office, and she pictures Gren sitting straight-backed behind his desk, wearing his crisp shirt and his permanent, slightly pained grimace.

She checks the next number plate while she waits for Gren to respond. The superintendent is by-the-book and overprotective, but to his credit, he trusts and listens to his people.

He is also plagued by self-blame, even though he thinks no one knows. Perhaps Lena can see through his façade more easily than most others could; after all, she is the cause of some of his angst.

“All right,” Gren says eventually. “What do you have so far?”

“A lot of statements.” Lena is surprised he doesn’t insist on her setting up the briefing quicker. “One of them is pretty extensive,” she says. “Lots of details. Agnes did a good job.”

“That’s good news.”

“A neighbour gave a clear description of the suspect,” Lena says, “although he didn’t see the man’s face. Not tonight, that is. But the suspect is – I mean, was – Molly’s boyfriend, so the neighbour has met him before. And we’ve got a car registration number that we’re looking up.”

“Understood,” Gren says. “Any fingerprints? Anything that can tie the suspect to the shooting? Are the forensics done?”

“Nothing definite yet. I’m looking for the car as we speak. We found the numbers on a receipt in the flat.” She watches snowflakes arc down through the glow of the street lights. A long, peaceful flight, a moment in the light, and it is over. No such luck for the woman in the flat.

“Have you talked to the prosecutor?” Gren asks.

Lena shakes her head and sighs. Sometimes she wonders if her boss is paid on the basis of how many questions he asks per day.

“I’ll call him.” She stops and turns to cross the street. “Eight officers are searching for the suspect at the moment. Like I said, we have a close description. He might still be armed.”

“Thanks. Anything else?”

“He’s in his socks.”

“Come again?”

“The suspect took off his shoes before he fled the scene. They were bloodied, so I think he was afraid he’d leave tracks.”

“I see,” Gren says. “That’s a pretty calculating thing to do after shooting someone.”

“And stupid,” Lena agrees, although the thought does not sit right with her. A panicked idiot would not have made it far in this weather, but so far, he is eluding her.

“I have to go,” Gren says. “I’m already getting phone calls from above. I’ll call back soon.”

“Right.” Lena ends the call, pockets her phone, and slows down near a white car. It is parked outside the entrance of a small convenience store, not far from the flat. She looks at the plates and runs through the numbers in her mind. They match.

The car is a white Opel delivery van. Apart from a few scratches, it looks almost new. A large logotype on the van’s side reads
Argenti Advertising
in blue letters. She circles the van and glances through its windows to make sure the vehicle is empty. At least the front seats; one or more people could easily fit inside the windowless loading compartment.

She keeps her eyes on the van while she presses a key on her phone.

Agnes answers almost immediately. “Have you found anything?” she asks.

“His van’s right outside,” Lena says.

“I’m on my way.”

Thirty seconds later, Agnes trudges through the snow and stops next to Lena. “Is this the one?” she asks, nodding at the white Opel.

Lena nods. “Did you tell the forensics?”

“They’ll be here in a few minutes.” Agnes studies the van in silence. “Do you think he panicked?”

“The killer?” Lena crosses her arms across her chest and rubs her arms. “Probably,” she says. “That would explain why he left his shoes behind. But unless he’s back indoors, he’ll soon freeze his feet off.”

Several witnesses have pointed down the street towards the underground station, so she sent four officers that way. She has also alerted the underground management to make sure no trains stop at Brommaplan. Another escape route cut off.

Buses leave the terminal near the underground station in all directions, but the gridlock means most buses drive at less than walking speed. A warning has been issued over radio to all drivers. The shooter will not get away by public transport.

“Do you reckon he’ll come back here?” Agnes asks.

“There’s no telling what’s going through his mind,” Lena says. “But yes, he might come back. At any rate, he’ll break down as soon as his pain outgrows his panic. He might even turn himself in.”

Statistically, it was almost certain that the boyfriend was the murderer, and this had all the hallmarks of a jealousy crime. But a stubborn edge of unease tells her that the scenario is more fractured. She needs to shake the kaleidoscope to get a better picture.

Lena’s phone beeps: a text message. She checks it and then touches Agnes’s arm to get her attention. “They’ve matched the number plates.”

Lena and Agnes jog to Agnes’s car and sit down in the front seats. Agnes presses a button, and details flash onto the screen of the car’s communication unit.

“The suspect’s name is John Peter Andersson,” Lena says, repeating the information to herself as she reads. “Forty-two years old, lives in Grimsta. Works for Argenti Advertising. Lone occupant at the address. A few previous addresses, all of them west of the city. No criminal history.”

The photo from John’s driver’s licence is attached to the file. Unkempt and thinning dark hair, slightly overweight, two-day stubble. His bright blue eyes are unfocused, as if his thoughts are elsewhere.

“Grimsta isn’t far,” Agnes says. “Five stops from here with the underground train, then a fifteen-minute walk. Or ten minutes by car if we cut through the suburbs. Make that twenty in this weather.”

Lena nods. She has been there before. A sprawling group of three-storey houses below Vällingby, a refurbished fifties-era shopping centre with a small bus terminal and an underground station. The district’s major hub.

A quiet place, she recalls. The impression had been reinforced by the nearby nature reserve, a dense carpet of old pine trees, rocky ground and winding paths.

“We’ll go by car.” Lena
reaches for her radio. “Franke calling patrol Caesar Twelve,” she says.

The radio hisses and spits static for a few seconds before the reply comes. “Caesar Twelve here.”

“The suspect’s address is Bjurvagen 12 in Grimsta. His photo and file are online. It’s the victim’s boyfriend,” she adds. “It’s unlikely that he’s there, but we’re going to have a look.”

“Understood.”

“Any sign of the suspect where you are?” Lena asks.

“Nothing yet, but a lot of people think they’ve seen him around the shops outside the Brommaplan underground station. We’ve got a lot of confused statements.”

“All right. Over and out.”

Lena releases the button and slips her radio into her pocket. Provided that a prosecutor is available, they can fast-track a search warrant while they drive to Grimsta. She turns to Agnes, who is peering through the windows of the car.

“We’ll leave the car to the forensics,” Lena says. “I don’t want John to hole up at home. Do you know the way?”

Agnes nods. “It’s been a while since I was there, but I remember. It’s along the underground, the left.”

“I’ll follow your car.” As Lena turns to open the car door, she glances at the corner shop near Molly’s flat.

A man behind the counter inside the shop is looking at Lena through the yellow-tinted window. Middle Eastern, lean and wiry, in his fifties, sporting a thick beard and a black beanie.

Less than five seconds pass before he looks away, but Lena has seen enough: there had been more than curiosity on his face.
Sadness,
she thinks.
Caution. Perhaps guilt.

Or fear.

“Wait here,” Lena says. “I’ll be right back.” She steps out of the car, squinting at the corner shop.

“Where are you going?” Agnes calls after Lena.

“I’m having a quick word with the shopkeeper.”

*

John

The woman scrambles in under the table on the ice and drags John in after her. A moment after he pulls his feet in, a large part in the centre of the ice breaks apart and falls down into the gaping lake, as if there is only air underneath.

Cowering under the table, John watches the hole in the ice grow larger. The wind wanes away, and the loud cracking stops. After a short while, the snow ceases its mad dance and falls in vertical lines around the table, twinkling in the light of the woman’s lantern. Silence rushes in to replace the pandemonium.

But the calm is brief; soon a sound wells up from the hole. There is a hint of a melody, an outline of a tune, steadily gaining in strength and rising in pitch. A few keening, drawn-out notes sung by a flute-like voice.

A woman’s voice. A song.

“Don’t listen.” The woman clutches John’s arm and pulls him away.

“What?” John stares at the hole and shivers as the tones wash over him. It throws wires around him, pulling him closer while throwing off flares in his mind. The notes are shards, spinning and drilling. He knows they will hurt if he touches them, but he cannot resist.

“Cover your ears,” the woman says, raising her voice. “Fight it, damn you. It won’t give up easily, not while you’re so near.”

He wants to look at the woman by his side, but the song has him transfixed. “Who won’t give what up?” he asks.

The woman grimaces and clamps her mittens over John’s ears. He turns and frowns at her, but he is too tired to fend off her hands. Fragments of the song trickle through the wool that covers his ears, and while it is reduced to a distant whisper, the hazy tones still touch him, hook his attention, and reel him in.

John shivers again and looks at the woman who presses her hands to his ears. Tangles of blonde hair pour out under a hat much too large for her head. Her lips are wide and curved, and her eyes are vaguely almond-shaped. One of her front teeth is a little crooked.

He knows
her from somewhere. The lines of her jaw, the shape of her eyelids, her posture, the way she frowns and tilts her head. Taken aback by this new memory, he tries to place her face, for the moment forgetting about the ice.

“Who are you?” John whispers.

The woman raises her eyebrows and removes her hands. “That’s better.”

“What’s better?”

“You recognize me.” Her eyes flicker to the ice, and John follows her gaze.

The singing has stopped. Where cracks had riddled the ice, snow is settling on an undamaged surface. A strong wind still circles the wall, but it is much weaker than the storm that shook him moments earlier. Were it not for how his tracks had been partially erased, he would have thought he hallucinated the song.

“It’s gone back,” the woman says, “but we can’t stay here. It’ll come back in force when it realizes we’re escaping. We have a minute, maybe two. So focus, John. As hard as you possibly can. Please?”

John stares at her, then closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with his hands. For every question he asks, she offers another riddle. He is lost, naked and–

“I’m warm.” John holds his hands in front of his face and flexes his fingers. He is still naked, sitting under the table inches from mounds of snow, but he is no longer freezing. Even the ice underneath him is balmy. He puts his hands outside the table and quickly pulls them back; beyond the table legs, the air is Arctic.

For the first time since waking up, he is acutely aware of his nakedness, so he tries to shift into a more modest position. When he looks up, he makes out faint patterns and thin cracks in the brown woodwork.

All of them are familiar. There is a hint of a face, back there a tree, over there a cloud. Although the size of the table still baffles him: it is built for giants, or at least people at least twice his height.

“Nice, don’t you think?” the woman asks. “Warm and cosy. Just what we hoped for.” She puts the lantern between them and pulls off her gloves. “Good timing, too. A little longer and we’d have been done for.” She makes a concerned face and shakes her head.

That voice, the gesture, all those mannerisms. They are as familiar to John as the table. “Who are you?” he asks.

“I really want to tell you,” she says and glances at John. “But I can’t. I’m sorry. It has to come to you without my help. That’s the rule. One of the many,” she adds and sighs.

John frowns and works his mouth as he searches his memory. A name drifts in his mind, a few syllables tied together by her appearance. He reaches for the cobwebs of sounds and almost catches them.

“Maria?” he suggests, then shakes his head. Close but wrong. Her name is longer, richer, overlaying her features better.

“Miriam?” he ventures.

She snaps her fingers and smiles. “Well done. Now that we know each other, how about–”

He shakes his head and holds up a hand; he has to find a foothold, or he will start to cry. “I remember your name,” he says, “nothing else. Where did you come from? And where are we?”

“For someone who’s been near freezing to death,” Miriam says, “you have a lot of questions.”

“But I can’t remember a thing.” John presses his palms to his eyelids. “I was somewhere, on my way to something important. Then I–” He falls silent and groans. His memory is blank. Groping for recollections is like rummaging in an empty sack. A vast, dark bag where anything can hide.

Miriam pats his arm. “It’ll come back to you once we’re on our way.” She opens her bag and hands John a folded pile of clothes. “Put these on. It’s warmer farther up, but not much.”

John accepts the clothes with a mumbled, “Thank you.” The pile holds a pair of paled blue jeans with patched knees; a large, chequered flannel shirt in red and black; and a black beanie. Spots of crusted paint stain the shirt. He has never seen the clothes before, yet their shape and texture make his hands tingle. The jeans would be tight, the sleeves of the shirt too long. How he knows, he has no idea. It is a question for later.

He pulls the hat on and squirms into the jeans and the shirt, keeping his back turned to Miriam while trying not to put his arms or legs outside the table. Thank the heavens that he does not have to be naked anymore. He needs to count his blessings until his memory comes back.

Once he is dressed, he turns back to Miriam. “I know you,” he says. “But I haven’t got a clue who you are, or how I got here. I need to know. I can’t even remember where I–”

Miriam holds a thin finger to her lips and makes a warning motion with her other hand. John looks out at the lake. For a moment, he thinks he hears a faint cracking sound. Snowflakes flurry along the walls as the wind picks up.

“Go slowly,” she whispers. “I want to help. But there are rules. I don’t understand half of them, but such is life. And if you want to make it out of here, we need to move on.”

“Rules?” John wraps the shirt closer around himself; the chill is seeping in under the table and reaching under his clothes. The warmth is fading away. “You mean laws?”

“Yes.”

“Are we trespassing?”

She purses her lips. “In a way,” she says.

The light from her lantern flickers and dims, then slowly returns. The glow is weaker than it was moments earlier. Frowning, Miriam lifts the lantern from the ground, pulls up a glass pane, and turns a tiny wheel to roll out new wick. When the light grows stronger, she nods in approval and snaps the glass back in place.

“You mean the laws here are different than in–” John swallows and shakes his head. He has forgotten even what country he is from. He must have struck his head hard against the ice when he fell. “Different to where I came from?” he finishes.

Miriam looks up at him. “Oh, John,” she says softly. Her face is lit from underneath by the warm glow. “You really are lost, aren’t you? No wonder I had to come all the way down here to find you.”

John nods. “I don’t know what I’ve forgotten,” he says, “but I know I must remember it.”

She moves closer to him and cups his head in her hands. Her mittens smell of kerosene and wet wool. “Don’t you have an inkling what’s happened?” she asks and touches his temples with her thumbs. “A small, tiny notion tickling away in there?”

John shakes his head. “I’m near a mountain. And it’s winter.” He pauses. “Have I been skiing?”

Miriam sighs. “We haven’t got time for this.” She has to raise her voice to be heard; the wind is growing into a gale again. One last time, John reaches for the remnants of his shredded memory, but a sharp snap from the ice close to his feet startles him. The cracks are reappearing.

John pulls his feet back. “Do you know a way out?”

“I know where not to go.” Miriam shoves her hands down her mittens. “The rest is up to you, but the shelter is here for a reason. It’s a sign. There should be – ah.” She holds her lantern closer to the mountain wall behind the table.

When John looks over Miriam’s shoulder, he sees the light disappear into a jagged opening, a few steps wide and not much higher.

“A tunnel?” he shouts.

There had been no sign of an exit when he scanned the walls after waking up. This opening is small, but he is sure he should have spotted it. The tunnel must have sprung into being as incredibly as the table. Small, low, and utterly dark, it seems to drink the lantern’s glow.

And he knows that he has to enter it.

*