The Crow Girl (27 page)

‘I thought that was your job,’ Rydén replied. ‘Ivo and I are only here to work out how. Not who did it, and definitely not why. But the kid was wearing a bloody weird necklace. We took pictures before we removed it. Not that I know anything about ethnology, but I’m pretty sure it was African.’

Jeanette went over to Schwarz and Åhlund, who were talking at the other end of the attic.

‘So Chip and Dale are here?’ She grinned. ‘Who found him?’

Åhlund laughed. ‘A junkie who lives in the building; he claimed he came up here to get a box of old records he was going to sell. But since several of the storage areas further down the corridor have been broken open, that’s probably what he was up to when he discovered the boy hanging from the ceiling. Must have been one hell of a shock, if you ask me.’ Then he added that the man who had found the boy was on his way to Kungsholmen for questioning. There was no indication that he had anything to do with it, but it couldn’t be ruled out.

Over the next few hours the crime scene was secured, and a mass of different objects sealed in plastic bags and numbered. The noose was an ordinary clothes line, tied with a granny knot. The boy had the typical noose marks in his neck, like an upside-down V, with the apex marked by the knot, which had cut about a centimetre into the skin. The mark left by the cord was reddish brown, dry and leathery. At the edge of the wound Jeanette noted some discreet signs of bleeding.

On the floor below where the body had been hanging were signs of urine and excrement.

‘Well, there can’t be anyone who thinks he committed suicide.’ Rydén pointed towards what had once been the boy’s face.

‘Unless he fixed the cord to the roof, tied a knot around his neck and then tipped a bucket of hydrochloric acid over himself, which, frankly, seems pretty fucking unlikely to me. There’s also the fact that if a young and mentally unstable young man decides to take his own life, however sick it might seem, there’s usually no reason to suspect a crime unless, as in this instance, it seems to have been physically impossible.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jeanette asked.

‘The rope the boy was hanging from is at least ten centimetres too short.’

‘Too short?’

‘Exactly. The rope isn’t long enough for him to have been able to fasten it to the ceiling even if he was standing on a bench. Elementary, my dear Watson.’ Rydén pointed to the ceiling.

‘Besides, he was strung up alive. His bowels emptied, and we’re probably going to discover that he ejaculated as well.’

‘You mean he shot his load while he was being strangled?’ Schwarz turned towards Rydén, and Jeanette thought he looked like he was going to laugh.

‘Yes, that usually happens. Well, as I was saying. Someone strung him up from the ceiling, probably using that ladder over there.’ Rydén indicated a ladder leaning against the wall a short distance away. ‘Then they arranged the bench to make it look like he’d been standing on it, and then they threw acid in his face. And why would anyone do that?’

‘Good question …’

‘My initial thought is that it was to conceal his identity.’ Ivo Andrić turned to Jeanette. ‘But of course that’s not our job. Then you’ve got the fact that the rope was too short. Something to get your teeth into.’

‘The funny thing is that this is the second time I’ve come across this in a fairly short period.’ Rydén looked inexplicably pleased with himself.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, not the acid, but the bit about the rope being too short.’

‘Really?’ Jeanette was curious.

‘Yes, it was the same thing there. A middle-aged man who’d been deceiving his partner, and had two families. The only thing that made us suspicious was the fact that the rope was too short. Everything else suggested suicide.’

‘You were never in any doubt?’

‘No, his partner claimed she’d got back from a trip and found him. She was the person who called the police. There was a pile of phone directories beside the chair.’

‘So you thought he’d put the phone books on the chair and stood on top to tie the rope?’

‘Yes, that was the conclusion we came to. His partner said she’d been in shock when she moved the directories to get him down, and there was no reason to question that. There was no sign that anyone else had been there, and, if I remember rightly, she had an alibi. Her story was confirmed by a car park attendant and a train conductor.’

‘Did you analyse his blood?’

Jeanette had a nagging feeling that there was something right in front of her that she wasn’t seeing. A connection she couldn’t put her finger on.

‘No, not as far as I know. It never came up. It was written off as suicide.’

‘So you don’t think there’s any connection to this, then?’

‘You’re clutching at straws, Jan,’ Rydén said. ‘These cases are completely different.’

‘OK, maybe. But get the boy to Solna and let forensics check if there are any signs of anaesthetic.’

Rydén looked affronted. Ivo Andrić, who realised what Jeanette was thinking, explained.

‘We’ve got three bodies in the pathology lab. Young men who we think fell victim to the same killer. Admittedly, there are plenty of differences between them and this boy. They’d all been badly abused and castrated. But they’d also been anaesthetised and had traces of drugs in their blood, so if we check out this boy, well …’ With a gesture he invited Jeanette to continue.

‘Well, I don’t know. It’s just a feeling.’ She smiled gratefully at Ivo.

IN THE BOY’S
pockets they had found a letter from social services in Hässelby, calling him to a meeting. So now they had a name. Schwarz and Åhlund picked up his parents and drove them to Solna to identify the body.

The necklace found on the boy turned out to be a family heirloom that had been passed down the generations.

Admittedly, it wasn’t possible to confirm his identity beyond all doubt, because of the damage to the boy’s face, but when the parents saw his tattoo they were convinced it was their son. RUF, carved into his chest with a shard of glass, wasn’t exactly a common motif in Stockholm, and at 11.22 the papers giving the boy his identity back had been signed.

As far as the acid was concerned, Rydén was proved right. Ninety-five per cent hydrochloric acid.

Jeanette Kihlberg called Ivo Andrić, and the forensic medical officer gave her a brief summary of his findings.

‘There are some similarities with the other boys,’ he began. ‘But I haven’t had the results back to say if he’d been given Xylocain adrenalin. So far we’ve only found traces of amphetamines, but in this case they weren’t injected.’

‘They weren’t?’

‘No, there were no needle holes, so he must have absorbed them some other way. But I did find two small marks on his chest.’

‘What sort of marks?’

‘Looks like he was hit by a taser, but I can’t be sure.’

‘And you’re absolutely certain there were no similar marks on the other boys?’

‘Not absolutely certain, because of the state the bodies were in. But I’ll take them out again and have another look. I’ll be in touch.’

They ended the call.

A taser, Jeanette Kihlberg thought. Someone’s seriously out of control.

The boy who had been found hanged in the Monument block was called Samuel Bai; he was sixteen years old, and had been reported missing after running away from home. Social services in Hässelby had forwarded his case notes, detailing instances of drug abuse, theft and violence.

His parents had fled the war in Sierra Leone and had been the subject of numerous investigations. The family’s biggest problem had been the eldest son, Samuel, who showed signs of trauma from the war, and who had at intervals been treated at the centre for childhood psychiatry on Maria Prästgårdsgata, as well as by a private therapist named Sofia Zetterlund.

Jeanette started. Sofia again. First Lundström, and now Samuel Bai. If the world was a small place, then Stockholm was even smaller.

Odd that her name keeps cropping up, Jeanette thought. But maybe not. The Swedish police could muster all of five officers specialising in sex crimes against children. How many psychologists specialised in traumatised children?

Two or three, maybe.

She picked up the phone and dialled Sofia Zetterlund’s number.

‘Hello, Sofia, Jeanette Kihlberg again. This time I’m calling about Samuel Bai from Sierra Leone. You treated him, I understand. He’s been found dead.’

‘Dead?’

‘Yes. Murdered. Can we meet this afternoon?’

‘You can come straight away. I was on my way home, but I can wait.’

‘OK, see you soon. I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

JEANETTE HAD TO
drive around the streets of Mariatorget twice before finding somewhere to park.

She took the lift up and was met by a woman who introduced herself as Ann-Britt, Sofia’s secretary.

Jeanette explained why she was there, and while the woman went to get Sofia she looked around the room. The exclusive decor, with its genuine artworks and obviously expensive furniture, made her think that this was what you should be doing if you wanted to make serious money. Not sitting on Kungsholmen working like a slave.

The secretary returned with Sofia, who asked if Jeanette would like a drink.

‘No, I’m fine. I don’t want to take up too much of your time, so maybe we should get down to it straight away.’

‘It’s really not a problem,’ Sofia said. ‘I’m happy to help if I can. It feels good to be useful.’

Jeanette looked at Sofia, and felt instinctively that she liked her. During their previous meeting there had been a distance between them, but now, after just a minute or so, Jeanette detected real warmth in Sofia’s eyes.

‘I’ll try to avoid making any Freudian slips,’ Jeanette joked.

Sofia smiled back. ‘That’s sweet of you.’

Jeanette didn’t understand how it had happened, or where the intimate tone came from, but it was there. She let it sink in, enjoying it for a moment.

In Sofia’s office they sat down on either side of the desk and looked at each other curiously. There was something about Sofia that felt different from the last time they’d met. She’s attractive, Jeanette admitted quietly to herself, before shrugging the thought aside.

‘So, what would you like to know?’ Sofia asked.

‘I’m here because of Samuel Bai and … well, he’s dead. He was found hanged in an attic.’

‘Suicide?’ Sofia asked.

‘No, not at all. He was murdered, and –’

‘But you just said –’

‘I know. But he was strung up by someone else. Possibly in a failed attempt to make it look like suicide, but … actually, no, it wasn’t an attempt to hide the fact that it was murder.’

‘I’m not sure I’m with you now. Either it was suicide, or it wasn’t.’ Sofia shook her head in confusion and lit a cigarette.

‘I think we can skip the details. Samuel was murdered. That’s all. Maybe we could discuss that on another occasion, but right now I need to know a bit more about him. Anything that can give me an idea of who he was.’

‘OK. But, more specifically, what do you want to know?’

She could tell that Sofia was disappointed, but there was no time to explain all the details.

‘To start with, how did you come to meet him?’

‘I’m not actually trained in child psychology, but I worked in Sierra Leone and that was why we made an exception.’

‘OK, that sounds pretty heavy,’ Jeanette said sympathetically. ‘You said we? There were other people involved in the decision?’

‘Yes, I was asked by social services in Hässelby if I would consider taking on Samuel’s case. He’s from Sierra Leone, of course, but you probably already know that?’

‘We do.’ Jeanette thought for a moment before she went on. ‘What do you know about his experiences down in …’

‘Freetown,’ Sofia added. ‘Among other things, he told me he was part of a criminal gang, and used to make his living from robberies and break-ins. Every so often they’d frighten the life out of people on the orders of some local mafia boss.’ Sofia paused for breath. ‘I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but Sierra Leone is a country in total chaos. Paramilitary groups use children to carry out tasks that adults can barely imagine doing. Children are easily led, and …’

Jeanette noticed that Sofia was finding this a difficult subject to talk about, but didn’t try to help. However much she would have liked to spare Sofia, she needed to know more.

‘How old was Samuel then?’

‘He told me he first killed someone when he was seven. By the time he was ten he’d lost count of how many people he’d murdered and raped. All under the influence of hash or alcohol.’

‘God, that’s awful. What the hell has humanity come to?’

‘Not humanity. Just men … you can strike everyone else off the list.’

They sat in silence, and Jeanette wondered what Sofia herself might have been through during her time in Africa. She was having trouble imagining her there. Those shoes, that hair.

She was so clean.

‘Do you mind if I bum one?’ Jeanette pointed at the packet of cigarettes on the desk next to the phone.

Sofia slowly pushed the pack over and looked Jeanette in the eye as she did so. She put the ashtray in the middle of the desk between them.

‘For Samuel, the readjustment it took to live in Swedish society was extremely difficult, and he had problems adjusting from day one.’

‘Well, who wouldn’t?’ She was thinking about Johan, who had had his own problems with concentration. And he hadn’t been through anything even close to what Samuel had experienced.

‘No, quite.’ Sofia nodded. ‘He had trouble sitting still at school. He was noisy and disruptive. On more than one occasion he got angry and violent because he felt insulted or misunderstood.’

‘What do you know about how he spent his free time? I mean, when he wasn’t at school or at home? Did you get the feeling he was scared of anyone?’

‘Samuel’s restlessness, combined with his great experience of violence, meant that he was often in trouble with the police and other authorities. As recently as this spring he was himself attacked and robbed.’ Sofia reached for the ashtray.