The Beige Man (29 page)

“The only thing that hurts is your jokes,” Irene snapped.

She hurried out of the room so she wouldn’t have to listen to any more.

T
HE ROOM WAS
meant for two patients, but there was only one bed in it at the moment. The space by the window was empty. Gerd looked so tiny in the neatly made hospital bed. Her eyes were closed, and she looked as if she were sleeping. Her pale face almost matched the white pillowcase. For the first time in her life, Irene thought of her mother as old. She had aged so quickly over the past few days. Irene edged closer to the bed, not wanting to wake her. As if she sensed her daughter’s presence, Gerd opened her eyes and looked straight at Irene.

“Hi, Mom. How are you feeling?”

Gerd licked her chapped lips several times before she spoke, “I’m fine. Can you get me some water please?” With a trembling hand she pointed to the empty glass on the bedside table.

Irene leaned over and gave her mother a gentle hug and a kiss on the cheek. Perhaps she was being a little too cautious, but Gerd looked more fragile since her accident. Or maybe it was just Irene’s imagination. She picked up the glass and went over to the sink. It took forever before the stream of water even began to feel cool against her fingers.

“To think you have to throw yourself down on the sidewalk and break your hip to get to the top of the waiting list for surgery!” Gerd said behind her.

When Irene turned around, her mother’s eyes were twinkling and she was smiling mischievously.

“Wasn’t that a bit drastic?” Irene said.

“Maybe. But I’m having my operation. On Tuesday.”

Gerd sounded very pleased with herself and seemed to be in good spirits. Irene realized how relieved she was feeling. She had been worried that the concussion and painkillers would leave her mother feeling depressed or confused, but she was reassured to find that Gerd appeared to be her usual self. Irene went over to the bed and gave her the water.

Gerd took several sips and put down the almost-empty glass on the bedside table. “Could you get in touch with Sture? That’s where I was going when … when this happened. He called me. He wasn’t feeling too good.”

“Was it his heart?”

“Yes. His keys are in my purse. Could you take them and go see him? He’s only got me; there’s no one else. Actually, you can take my keys as well so that you can water my plants, pick up the mail and …”

“Mom, we’ve already got a spare key to your apartment. I promise we’ll take care of everything. And I promise I’ll speak to Sture and make sure he’s okay.”

Gerd’s hand was resting on the covers. Irene squeezed it gently. It was so thin.
Why haven’t I noticed that Mom has lost weight recently?
she thought.
Or did I just not want to see it?
Irene blamed her lack of time. As usual.

“How’s your head feeling? Sister Anna said you had a mild concussion,” Irene said, trying to push away all thoughts of self-reproach.

“I was dizzy for the first day or so, but I’m much better now. The pain in my leg and hip is worse. And I’m in some kind of frame so I can’t turn over. But they’re giving me strong painkillers, which is good. The only thing is I feel a bit disorientated. What time is it?”

“Almost ten thirty.”

“Is it Monday or Tuesday?”

“Monday,” Irene said.

Now she was worried again. Gerd had tried to give the impression that her mind was clear, but this obviously wasn’t the case. Irene hoped it was because of the strong medication.

“Good. I’m glad it’s only Monday, otherwise they would have missed my operation. I’m first on the list on Tuesday morning,” Gerd said.

“I’m pleased to hear that you seem convinced you’ll be fine before too long,” Irene said.

“Of course! The pain I’ve had in this goddamn hip over the past year … you have no idea. I’m so pleased to be having surgery at long last. Even if I can’t walk afterward, at least the pain will be gone.”

“But Mom, of course you’ll be able to walk!” Irene protested.

“Maybe. We’ll just have to see what happens,” Gerd murmured.

Her eyelids were beginning to droop. When Irene thought she had fallen asleep, she quietly got to her feet. At which point Gerd’s eyes flew open and she fixed her daughter with a sharp stare.

“And a panic alarm wouldn’t have helped at all! They only work inside the apartment!”

She closed her eyes again before Irene had time to respond.

Indomitable and stubborn; thank you for passing on those qualities to me, my darling Mom
.

Irene turned around in the doorway and looked back at her mother. The covers rose and fell with her steady breathing. You’re going to get through this, she thought tenderly.

T
HE APARTMENT COMPLEX
had been built in the 1950s, just like the one that housed the three-bedroom apartment Gerd had occupied for almost forty years. The only difference was that Sture’s place had only two rooms. He had bought it after the death of his wife fifteen years earlier, when he sold their house and moved into the city. He and Gerd had met at the grocery store on Doktor Fries Square, where they were both regular customers. They had often bumped into each other and started chatting. After a year or so a genuine affection had developed between them, and they had been together for almost ten years. Neither of them had been interested in
moving in together. As Gerd had put it, “I’ve spent my whole life developing good and bad habits, and I have absolutely no desire to change now.”

Sture and Gerd had had a very happy relationship over the years, and Irene had often blessed the day they met. She and her family had always been very fond of Sture, who was a kind, quiet man.

Irene called him on her cell, but there was no reply. She began to feel the faint stirrings of anxiety and unconsciously tried to put her foot down, which was impossible in the lunchtime traffic.

There was an empty parking space right next to the main entrance. She unlocked the outside door and hurried up to the first floor. She rang the bell and heard it echo peremptorily through the apartment, but there were no sounds of movement from inside. She used the key Gerd had given her to let herself in.

“Sture! It’s me, Irene!”

Her voice reached into every room, but there was no reply. The faint smell of an elderly gentleman hovered in the air. Not at all unpleasant, but very distinctive.

The living room was furnished with items that must have dated from the time when Sture and his wife were newly married. The only modern features were a large flat-screen TV on the wall and an impressive music system. The bookshelves were mainly filled with hundreds of CDs and vinyl LPs; Sture was a great music lover. He did have a small number of books: mainly biographies and travel writing.

The compact kitchen was clean and tidy as usual. It had been renovated at some stage in the 1970s, and was starting to look as if it needed doing again. The stove definitely needed replacing, as did the old refrigerator, which was humming loudly to itself. Outside the window some blue tits were fighting over a suet ball that Sture had hung up. The poor things needed all the help they could get in this harsh winter.

In the bedroom the bed was neatly made. There were some folded items of clothing on a chair, and freshly ironed shirts hung on the closet door. The ironing board was still standing in the middle of the floor. Irene checked to make sure that the iron was unplugged, which it was. The Christmas cactus in the window was wilting, and she decided to water it before she left the apartment.

She found him on the tiled floor in the bathroom. It looked as if he had been on his way toward the hand basin or the small cabinet above it, because he had pitched forward and was lying with his head under the basin. She had seen enough bodies over the past twenty years to be certain that he had been dead for some time. The body was cold. Nothing feels as cold as a dead person.

If what Gerd had said was correct, he could have been lying on the floor for almost forty-eight hours. Why had he called her instead of an ambulance?

Irene sat down in a small high-backed armchair in the living room while she waited for the ambulance and the police. Her throat closed up, choked with tears that couldn’t quite break through. Or perhaps she didn’t want to let them break through; she didn’t really know. It felt as if everything was suddenly too much. Too many bodies. She couldn’t cope anymore. But she had to, for Gerd’s sake.

The ambulance arrived. She heard the sound of the gurney being taken out, then the back doors slamming shut. At that moment she made a decision.

Death is never convenient. It is non-negotiable. It is inexorable and definitive.

But you don’t have to tell everyone that it’s happened.

“I
NTERVIEW WITH
A
NDERS
Pettersson …”

Irene walked into the room just as Fredrik had begun. She breathlessly apologized for her late arrival and sank down onto a chair at the end of the table.

“…  Detective Inspector Irene Huss has just entered the room,” Fredrik added for the benefit of the recording.

Pettersson was leaning back in his chair, apparently completely uninterested in what was going on in the room.

“Okay, Anders … I’ve asked Inspector Huss to have a word with you. She has a significant amount of fresh information,” Fredrik began.

Pettersson glanced distractedly at Irene. Beneath the apparent lack of engagement she sensed watchful tension. No one knew better than Pettersson how many shady dealings he had been mixed up in. Being questioned by the police definitely wasn’t one of his interests.

Irene started off with a little small talk to break the ice, then suddenly she said, “We now know more about Tanya, the Russian girl who was murdered, and Sergei Petrov.”

Pettersson couldn’t hide his surprise when she used Sergei’s full name, and he visibly twitched in his seat. The look in his eyes was unmistakably sharper now. He knew they had walked straight into a minefield. In order to hide his anxiety, he smiled scornfully and shook his head.

“We know that Sergei traveled to Göteborg under a false
identity. As Andres Tamm. Did you meet him after he had made contact with Heinz Becker?” Irene went on.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Irene took out the Spanish wanted poster featuring Sergei Petrov and the enlarged passport photograph of Andres Tamm.

“So you’ve never met this man? Neither under the name of Sergei Petrov, nor as Andres Tamm?”

After an indifferent glance at both pictures, Pettersson shook his shaven head once more. Irene couldn’t see any sign of recognition, in spite of the fact that they knew it must have been Pettersson who picked up Sergei Petrov, together with Heinz Becker and the other girl, after they had fled from the raid on the brothel in Biskopsgården.

The interview continued in the same way; it was a real struggle. Pettersson denied everything he had said previously. When Fredrik confronted him with the fact that he was the one who had given them the names of Tanya and Sergei, he claimed that he had no memory of such a thing. He insisted he had never heard the names before. Perhaps he had heard something somewhere when he’d been drinking, and simply regurgitated it when he was confused and under the influence. And he wanted his lawyer present at all future interviews. Joar Svanér was well-known—or rather notorious—at police HQ. Somehow he usually managed to pull off a balancing act just within the boundaries of the law, and he was undeniably skillful. He had become very wealthy over the years, and was one of the most famous legal representatives in Göteborg. Celebrity parties, women and fast cars were his hallmark. He had just one piece of advice for his clients: keep your mouth shut!

It was obvious that Pettersson had been paying attention and had no intention of saying a word.

After spending an hour going around and around in circles, Irene gave Fredrik a discreet signal. He ended the interview.

When Pettersson had left the room with a final smirk, Fredrik said gloomily, “He’s never going to talk.”

“He will. We just have to find something that will scare him into opening his mouth. What is he most frightened of?”

“He’s afraid the gang will beat him up if he squeals. They might even kill him.”

“He has good reason to be scared about that, but it seems to me that as soon as we start talking about his own activities, he gets nervous. I think he’s worried that we’ll find something that could send him back to jail. Something tells me he’s not very happy in the slammer.”

“I don’t suppose anyone is.”

“No, but maybe Pettersson has a really tough time in there. Pedophiles usually do. And there’s something he’s afraid we’ll find out. We just have to work out what it is. And be able to prove it.”

Fredrik nodded, lost in thought. Suddenly he said, “I spoke to the carpenters who were working at Biskopsgården, and I took DNA samples. None of them matched the semen we found on Tanya’s jacket or in her hair. Maybe we should check Pettersson’s DNA?”

“Why not? We’ve already got his DNA profile from previous investigations into the sexual exploitation of minors.”