The Crow Girl (21 page)

During the morning Jeanette had found out that she would have to continue with her investigation for the simple reason that it would look bad if it was dropped so soon.

Reading between the lines, no one cared about the three boys. Jeanette realised that the sole purpose of her work right now was to gather information that might turn out to be important if another dead boy turned up, one who was actually missed. A dead, tortured Swedish boy with a family who might go to the press and accuse the police of not doing enough.

Jeanette didn’t think that was likely to happen, because she was convinced that the perpetrator wasn’t picking victims at random. The cruelty and modus operandi were so similar that they were surely dealing with one and the same perpetrator. But she couldn’t be sure. Sometimes coincidence stepped in to confuse everything.

She had ruled out all the usual types of murder. Here they were dealing with torture and sophisticated, protracted violence in which the perpetrator had both access to and knowledge of anesthetics. The victims were young boys and their genitals had been removed. If there was such a thing as normal murders, these were the opposite.

There was a cautious knock on the door, and Hurtig came in. He sat down opposite her with a look of resignation.

‘So? What do we do?’ he asked.

‘I honestly don’t know,’ she replied. It was as if his listlessness were infectious.

‘How much time have we got? I presume this isn’t exactly the highest priority?’

‘A few weeks, nothing exact, but if we don’t find something soon we’ll have to move on.’

‘OK. I suggest we have another go with Interpol, then trawl the refugee centres again. And if that doesn’t work, we can always try the Central Bridge again. I refuse to believe that children can simply vanish without anyone missing them.’

‘I agree, but this is actually the exact opposite,’ Jeanette said, looking Hurtig in the eye.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean that these children seem to have appeared rather than vanished.’

Åke called at half past two. At first she couldn’t understand what he was saying because he was so excited, but once he’d calmed down a bit she managed to grasp what had actually happened.

‘Don’t you see? I’m getting an exhibition. The gallery’s fucking brilliant, and she’s already sold three pictures for me.’

Who’s this she? Jeanette wondered.

‘It’s bang in the middle of the city, in Östermalm! Fuck, I can hardly believe this is happening!’

‘Åke, calm down. Why haven’t you said anything?’

Admittedly, he had hinted that something was in the works during that meal after the film, but at the same time she couldn’t help thinking how he had spent twenty years meandering about at home, how she’d supported him and encouraged him in his art. And now he’d taken his paintings to a gallery without saying a word.

She could hear him breathing down the phone, but he wasn’t saying anything.

‘Åke?’

He came back after a few moments. ‘Yes … I don’t know. It was just an idea I had. I read an article in
Perspectives on Art
and decided to go and talk to her. Everything seemed to match what she said in the article. I was scared at first, but I probably knew all along that it was the right move to make. It was time, basically.’

So that’s why he didn’t come home last night, Jeanette thought.

‘Åke, you’re talking in riddles. Who did you go to?’

He explained that the woman representing one of Stockholm’s biggest art galleries had been completely bowled over by his work. Using her contacts she’d already managed to sell paintings worth almost forty-five thousand kronor before the exhibition had even opened.

The curator reckoned they could reach four times that, and had promised him another exhibition at her Copenhagen branch.

‘Almost the Louisiana Museum of Modern Art.’ Åke laughed. ‘Even if it is just a small gallery in Nyhavn.’

Jeanette felt warm inside, but while she was glad something was finally happening, she had a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.

Was his art really his alone?

She’d lost count of the number of nights they’d sat up discussing his work. It usually ended with him in tears, saying it wasn’t working, and she’d have to comfort him and encourage him to continue along the path he’d chosen. She had believed in him.

She knew he had talent, even if she was hardly an authority on the subject.

‘Åke, you never cease to surprise me. But this really takes the biscuit.’ She couldn’t help laughing, although she would rather have asked him why he’d kept all this secret from her. This was what they’d been talking about for years, after all.

‘I suppose I was scared of failure,’ he eventually admitted. ‘I mean, you’ve always supported me. Hell, you’ve basically been paying for me to keep going. Like a patron. I really appreciate everything you’ve done for me.’

Jeanette didn’t know what to say. A patron? Was that how he saw her? Like a personal cash machine?

‘And do you know what? Do you know who’s exhibiting in Copenhagen at the same time as me? At the same place?’

He spelled it out: ‘D-i-e-s-e-l–F-r-a-n-k,’ then laughed out loud. ‘Adam Diesel-Frank! Look, I’ve got to go now. I’m meeting Alexandra to go through a few details. See you this evening!’

So her name was Alexandra.

AS JEANETTE TURNED
into the drive of the house she had to slam the brakes on to avoid running into the unfamiliar car that was parked in front of the garage door. The red sports car’s number plate revealed who owned it. Kowalska was the name of the gallery Åke had contacted, and Jeanette concluded that the car’s owner must be Alexandra Kowalska.

She opened the door and went into the house.

‘Hello?’

There was no answer, so she went upstairs. She could hear voices and laughter from Åke’s studio, and knocked on the door.

The voices fell silent, and she went in. Several of Åke’s paintings were spread out on the floor, and at the table sat Åke and a strikingly beautiful blonde woman in her forties. She was wearing a tight black dress and discreet make-up. So this is Alexandra, Jeanette thought.

‘Do you want to celebrate with us?’ Åke pointed at the bottle of wine on the table. ‘You’ll have to get a glass, though,’ he added when he realised there wasn’t one there for her.

What the hell is this? Jeanette thought as she saw the bread, cheese and olives laid out.

Alexandra laughed and looked at her. Jeanette didn’t like the woman’s laugh. It sounded false.

‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves?’ Alexandra pointedly raised an eyebrow and stood up. She was tall, considerably taller than Jeanette. She walked over and held out her hand.

‘Alex Kowalska,’ she said, and Jeanette could tell from her accent that she wasn’t Swedish.

‘Jeanette … I’ll get another glass.’

Alexandra – or Alex, as she evidently preferred to be called – stayed until almost midnight before calling for a taxi. Åke had fallen asleep on the sofa in the living room and Jeanette was left alone in the kitchen with a glass of whisky.

It hadn’t taken Jeanette long to realise that Alex Kowalska was a manipulative person.

During the course of the evening Alex had promised Åke another exhibition. In Kraków, where she appeared to have not only her roots but also significant contacts. An awful lot of what she said about breakthroughs and success struck Jeanette as blatantly provocative. Her superlatives about Åke’s work and her grand plans for the future were one thing. But then there were the compliments. Alex described Åke as a uniquely social person, and she regarded him as an incredibly talented and exciting artist. His eyes were clear, intense and intelligent, and so on. Alexandra had even said that his wrists were beautiful, and as Åke had looked down at them with a smile, she had run her finger over the veins on the back of his hand and called them the lines of a painter. Jeanette was appalled. Had this woman no shame? She thought that most of what Alex had said during the evening was pathetic, but Åke had obviously been delighted by her flattery.

This woman is a snake, Jeanette thought, already beginning to suspect the disappointment Åke would feel when his hopes weren’t completely realised.

How had the relationship come to this? Was this the beginning of the end?

She turned out the kitchen light and went into the living room to wake Åke from his snoring. But it was impossible to shake any life into him, and she went up to bed on her own.

Jeanette slept badly, having nightmares, and when she woke up she felt pretty low. The sheets were wet with sweat, and she had no desire whatever to get up. But she couldn’t just lie there.

It would be so nice to have a normal job, she thought. The sort of work where you could have a day off if you called in sick. A workplace where you could be replaced and your responsibilities postponed for a day or two.

She stretched, shivered and pulled back the covers. Without really knowing how it had happened, she was up. Her body had instinctively made the decision for her. Take responsibility, it had said. Do your duty and don’t give in.

After a shower she got dressed and went downstairs to the kitchen, where Johan was sitting eating breakfast. Her lethargy had faded and she felt ready for a new day at work.

‘Are you up already? It’s only eight o’clock.’ She filled the coffee machine.

‘Yes, I couldn’t sleep. We’ve got a match tonight.’ He leafed through the paper, found the sports pages and began to read.

‘Is it a big match?’ Jeanette got out a cup and bowl, put them on the table, and took the milk and yogurt out of the fridge.

Johan didn’t answer.

Jeanette got the coffee pot, filled her mug, then sat down opposite him and repeated the question.

‘It’s a cup match,’ he muttered, without looking up from the paper.

Once again Jeanette felt the impotence of not knowing anything. Not having any idea of what her son’s everyday life looked like. It occurred to her that she hadn’t been to his school at all last term, except on the final day of the school year.

‘Who are you playing, and what cup is it?’

‘Give it a rest!’ He folded the paper and stood up. ‘You’re not really interested.’

‘Johan! Of course I’m interested, but right now you know I’ve got a lot going on at work …’ She lost her thread and thought about what she was saying. Were poor excuses the best she could come up with? She felt ashamed.

‘We’re playing Djurgården.’ He picked up his plate and put it in the sink. ‘It’s the final tonight, I think Dad’s going to come and watch.’ He went out into the hall.

‘You’re bound to win,’ she called after him. ‘Djurgården sucks.’

He didn’t reply, just went into his room and shut the door.

When she was about to leave she heard Åke moving around on the sofa. She went into the living room. He had just woken up, and was sitting there rubbing his face. His hair was all over the place and his eyes were bloodshot.

‘I’m off now,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what time I’ll be home. It might be late.’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ He looked at her, and from the weary look on his face Jeanette realised that right now he didn’t care if she came home or not.

‘Don’t forget that Johan’s got a match this evening. He’s hoping you’re going to be there.’

‘We’ll have to see.’ He stood up. ‘I’ll go if I’ve got time, but I don’t know if I will. I’m meeting Alex to put together an exhibition catalogue, and that might take a while. Why don’t you go instead?’ He smiled sarcastically.

‘Let it go. You know I can’t.’ She turned round, went out into the hall and walked towards the door. Their shoes and boots were in a big heap, surrounded by bits of grit and dust balls.

Inadequate, she thought. Worthless and self-obsessed.

‘I’ll call later to hear how it went.’

She opened the door, stepped out onto the porch and shut the door before he could answer.

THE TRAFFIC HEADING
into the city was sluggish as usual, but eased up slightly beyond Gullmarsplan, and as she parked the car she realised it had only just turned nine. She decided to start her working day with a long walk around Kungsholmen to clear her head.

When she got to her office Hurtig was sitting behind her desk waiting for her.

‘The best people always show up late.’ He grinned.

‘What are you doing here?’ She walked over, leaving no room for doubt that she wanted him to move.

‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Jeanette,’ he began. ‘But we’re in a pretty lousy position right now, aren’t we?’

Jeanette nodded. ‘What are you getting at?’

‘I took the liberty of looking at a number of old cases featuring extreme violence …’

‘OK, I’m with you.’ She suddenly felt excited, because she knew Hurtig wouldn’t be bothering her if he hadn’t come up with something.

‘By chance I came across this.’ He tossed her a brown document file. On the front were the words ‘Bengt Bergman. Case closed.’

‘Bergman has been here for interviews seven times over the years, most recently on Monday.’

‘On Monday? What for?’

‘A Tatiana Achatova reported him for rape. She’s a prostitute, and –’ Hurtig stopped himself. ‘Well, never mind her, that isn’t what made me suspicious. It was the brutality. And when I compared it with the earlier reports, it was the same there.’

‘Violence?’

‘Yes. The girls were badly beaten up, some had been whipped with a belt, and they’d all been anally raped with an object of some sort. Probably a bottle.’

‘I presume he was never convicted of anything, since he’s not in the register.’

‘Exactly. The evidence has always been too weak, and most of the victims have been prostitutes. His word against theirs, and if I’m not mistaken his wife’s given him an alibi for every occasion.’

‘So you think we should bring him in?’

Hurtig smiled, and Jeanette realised he’d been saving the best till last.

‘Two of the reports concern sexual abuse of minors. One girl, one boy. Brother and sister, born in Eritrea. And there was violence there as well …’