The Gallows Bird (40 page)

Elsa nodded urgently to him from her place in the chair, and he tried to understand what she meant. Did she want him to speak? But that didn’t help; he still couldn’t. She continued to watch him, and then he had an idea. Softly he said, ‘I can’t reveal what Elsa told me. But I can tell you things that were generally known. Elsa was from your part of the country. She was from Uddevalla.’

From her place facing him Elsa smiled. Then she was gone. He knew that she hadn’t been real, that she was only a figment of his imagination. But it had still been lovely to see her.

When he hung up he felt at peace. He hadn’t betrayed God, nor had he betrayed Elsa. Now the rest was up to the police.

Erica could see that something had happened as soon as Patrik walked in the front door. There was a lightness to his step, and he seemed more relaxed than he had in a long time.

‘Did things go well today?’ she asked cautiously, carrying Maja as she went to meet him. Beaming with happiness, Maja held out her arms to her pappa, and he swept her up in his embrace.

‘Things went fantastic,’ he said, taking a few dance steps with his daughter. She laughed so hard that she almost choked. Pappa was hysterically funny. She had obviously already decided that.

‘Tell me more,’ said Erica, heading for the kitchen to finish cooking dinner. Patrik and Maja followed her. Anna, Emma and Adrian were watching the Bolibompa show and gave Patrik a distracted wave when he came in. On the TV Björne was demanding all their attention.

‘We found the connection,’ he said, setting Maja on the floor. She sat there a while, torn between Pappa on one side and Björne on the other, but decided at last to take the furrier of the two and crawled over to the TV.

‘Always rejected, always number two,’ Patrik sighed as he watched Maja go.

‘Mmm, but for me you’re always number one,’ said Erica and gave him a big hug before she went back to cooking. Patrik sat down to watch.

Erica cleared her throat and looked pointedly at the vegetables lying on the worktop.

Patrik promptly jumped up from his chair and started chopping cucumbers for the salad. ‘If you say “hop”, I ask “how high”,’ he said with a laugh, taking a step to one side to avoid the kick she playfully aimed at his shin.

‘You just wait, after Saturday I’ll be wielding the whip with renewed vigour,’ said Erica, trying to look stern. She was happy he was even thinking about the wedding.

‘I think you’re doing a pretty good job of it already,’ he said, bending over to kiss her.

‘Lay off out there,’ Anna shouted from the living room. ‘I can hear you smooching. There are children present.’ She laughed.

‘Mmm, maybe we’ll have to save this till later,’ said Erica with a wink at Patrik. ‘Now tell me more about what happened.’

Patrik gave her a brief rundown of what they’d found out, and the smile vanished from Erica’s face. There was so much tragedy, so much death mixed up in the case, and despite the fact that the investigation had now taken a big step forward she understood that things were going to be difficult in future as well.

‘So the victim in Nyköping had also killed someone in an accident?’

‘Yes,’ Patrik said, cutting tomato wedges. ‘Although not in Nyköping, but in Uddevalla.’

‘Who was it she killed?’ said Erica, stirring her pork filet stew.

‘We don’t know the details yet. That accident was much longer ago than the others, so it will take a while to find out more. But I talked with our colleagues in Uddevalla today, and they’re sending over all the material as soon as they dig it up. Some poor soul will have to crawl around among dusty boxes for a while.’

‘So somebody is murdering drunk drivers who killed someone. And the first accident occurred thirty-five years ago, while the last one was . . . when was the last one?’

‘Seventeen years ago. Rasmus Olsson.’

‘And the locations are spread all over Sweden,’ said Erica pensively as she kept stirring. ‘From Lund all the way up here. When did the first murder take place?’

‘Ten years ago,’ Patrik answered obediently, watching his future wife. Erica was used to handling facts and analysing them, and he welcomed help from her sharp mind.

‘So the killer moves over a large geographical area, has a great time spread for his deeds, and the only thing the victims have in common is that they were killed because of a fatal accident they caused by driving drunk.’

‘Yep, that’s about it,’ said Patrik with a sigh. It sounded utterly hopeless when Erica summed up the situation. He poured the veggies into a big bowl, mixed them up, and placed the salad on the kitchen table.

‘Don’t forget that we’re most likely missing one victim,’ he said quietly as he sat down. ‘In all likelihood it’s victim number two that we haven’t found yet. But I’m sure there is another victim. Somebody we missed.’

‘Isn’t it possible to get more out of those book pages?’ Erica asked, setting the steaming pot of stew on a trivet on the table.

‘It doesn’t seem so. What I’m pinning my best hopes on now is that we can develop something that will take us further once we get all the details about Elsa Forsell’s accident. She was the first victim, and something tells me she’s the most important one.’

‘Mmm, you may be right,’ said Erica and then called Anna and the children for dinner. They could talk more later.

Two days had passed since they had worked out what the serial killer’s victims had in common. The initial euphoria had subsided, and discouragement had taken its place. They still didn’t understand why the geographic territory was so large. Did the murderer travel about in his hunt for victims, or had he actually lived in all these towns? There were just too many questions. They had pored over all the available material on the accidents involving the murder victims, but nowhere did they find anything to connect them. Patrik was leaning more and more towards the idea that there was no personal connection among the victims, but that the killer was a person filled with hate who randomly chose his victims based on their actions. In that case it seemed that the murderer took no notice of the fact that several of his victims had shown real remorse after the events. Elsa had struggled with guilt and sought redemption in religion; Marit had never touched alcohol again; the same was true of Rasmus, but he couldn’t drink anyway for physiological reasons because of the injuries he had suffered in the car crash. Börje was the exception. He had continued to drink, continued to drive drunk, and didn’t seem to have worried about the girl whose death he had caused.

But it was impossible to draw any conclusions when one victim was missing. When the phone rang at nine o’clock on Wednesday morning, Patrik had no idea that the call would give him the last piece of the puzzle.

‘Patrik Hedström,’ he answered, placing his hand over the receiver so that the person calling wouldn’t hear that he was yawning. Consequently he didn’t catch the name of the caller.

‘Excuse me, what was your name?’

‘My name is Vilgot Runberg, and I’m superintendent of the Ortboda police station.’

‘Ortboda?’ said Patrik, feverishly searching his geographic memory.

‘Outside Eskilstuna,’ Superintendent Runberg said impatiently. ‘But it’s a small station, only three of us work here.’ He coughed, turned away from the receiver, but then went on, ‘The thing is, I just came back from a two-week holiday in Thailand.’

‘Oh yes?’ said Patrik, wondering where this was leading. ‘Yes, that’s why I hadn’t seen the query you sent out. Until now.’

‘I see,’ said Patrik with much greater interest. He felt his fingers starting to tingle from anticipation at what might come next.

‘Yes, my younger colleagues here are relatively new to the region, so they didn’t know anything about it. But I recognize the case. Without a doubt. I was the one who investigated it eight years ago.’

‘What case?’ said Patrik, his breathing turning short and shallow. He pressed the receiver hard against his ear, afraid of missing a single word.

‘We had a man here eight years ago who . . . well, I thought there was something strange about the whole thing. But he had a history of alcohol abuse, and . . .’ Runberg paused with embarrassment, apparently reluctant to admit the mistake he’d made. ‘Well, we all just thought that he’d had a relapse and then drank himself to death. But the injuries you mention, I have to admit in hindsight that I wondered about them.’ The line went silent and Patrik understood how much it was costing the superintendent to have this conversation.

‘What was the man’s name?’ said Patrik to break the silence.

‘Jan-Olov Persson,’ said Superintendent Runberg. ‘He was forty-two years old, worked as a cabinetmaker. Widower.’

‘And he was an alcoholic?’

‘Yes, he had a big problem for a while. When his wife died, then, well, he went to pieces. It all turned into a very sad story. One evening he got into his car drunk and ran into a young couple who were out walking. The man died, and Jan-Olov spent some time in jail. But after he got out he never touched alcohol again. Behaved himself, did his job, took care of his daughter.’

‘And then he was suddenly found dead of alcohol poisoning?’

‘Yes,’ Runberg sighed. ‘As I said, we thought he’d had a relapse and things got out of control. His ten-year-old daughter found him. She claimed that she had met a stranger, a man, in the doorway, but we didn’t really believe her. Thought it must have been the shock, or that she wanted to protect her pappa . . .’ His voice died out and the shame hung heavy in his silence.

‘Was there a book page next to him? From a children’s book?’

‘I tried to remember when I read your query. But I can’t recall anything like that,’ Runberg said. ‘At least if there was a book page we didn’t give it any thought. We probably assumed it belonged to the girl.’

‘So there’s nothing like that left?’ Patrik could hear how disappointed he sounded.

‘No, we don’t have much left from the investigation. As I said, we thought the guy had drunk himself to death. But I can send you what we do have.’

‘Do you have a fax? Could you fax it over? It would be good to have it ASAP.’

‘Of course,’ said Runberg. Then he added, ‘Poor girl. What a life. First her mamma died when she was little and her pappa went to prison. Then he dies and leaves her all alone. And now I read in the papers that the girl was murdered over in your town. I think she was in some reality show. I never would have recognized her from the photos. Lillemor didn’t look at all like herself. As a ten-year-old she was small, dark, and thin, and now . . . well, a lot has happened over the years.’

Patrik could feel the walls whirling around him. At first he couldn’t process the information. Then he suddenly realized what Vilgot Runberg was saying. Lillemor, Barbie, was the daughter of the second victim. And eight years earlier she had seen the killer.

When Mellberg walked into the bank he felt happier and more secure than he had felt in many, many years. He who hated to spend money was now going to spend two hundred thousand – and he felt not the slightest hesitation. He was buying himself a future, a future with Rose-Marie. Whenever he closed his eyes, which actually occurred rather often during working hours, he could smell the scent of hibiscus, of sunshine, of salt water, and of Rose-Marie. He could hardly fathom what luck he’d had and how much his life had changed in only a few weeks. In June they would fly down to see the condo for the first time, and then stay there for four weeks. He was already counting the days.

‘I’d like to transfer two hundred thousand kronor,’ he said, sliding the note with his account number across the counter to the teller. He felt rather proud. There weren’t many people who could save up so much on a policeman’s salary, but every öre helped, and by now he had a sizable nest egg. Rose-Marie was putting in the same amount and they could borrow the rest, she said. But when she rang yesterday she’d said that it was important that they close the deal quickly, because another couple had also expressed interest in the apartment.

He savoured the words. ‘Another couple.’ Imagine that he had gone and become a ‘couple’ at his advanced age. He chuckled at himself. Yes, and he and Rose-Marie could give the young people a run for their money in the sack as well. She was simply wonderful. In every respect.

He was just about to turn and leave after finishing his business, when he suddenly had a brilliant idea. ‘How much do I have left in the account?’ he asked the teller eagerly.

‘Sixteen thousand four hundred,’ she said. Mellberg hesitated for a millisecond before he made his decision.

‘I’d like to withdraw all of it. In cash.’

‘Cash?’ said the cashier, and he nodded. A plan was taking shape in his mind, and it felt more right the longer he thought about it. He carefully stuffed the money into his wallet and went back to the station. To think that it could feel so good to spend money. He never would have imagined it.

‘Martin.’ Patrik sounded out of breath when he rushed into his colleague’s office, and Martin wondered what was up.

‘Martin,’ Patrik repeated, but then sat down to catch his breath.

‘Too much exercise just running down the hall?’ said Martin with a smile. ‘You should probably see about getting in shape.’

Patrik waved his hand dismissively and for once didn’t jump at the chance to exchange friendly banter.

‘They’re related,’ he said, leaning forward.

‘Who are related?’ Martin asked, wondering what had got into Patrik.

‘Our investigations,’ said Patrik in triumph.

Martin felt even more confused. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, puzzled. ‘We already confirmed that DWI is the common denominator.’ He frowned and tried to understand what Patrik was raving about.

‘No, not those investigations. Our separate investigations. The murder of Lillemor – it’s connected to the others. It’s the same perp.’

Now Martin was sure that Patrik must have flipped out. He wondered whether it was stress-related. All that work lately, combined with the stress leading up to the wedding. Even the calmest person might . . .

Patrik seemed to know what he was thinking and cut him off, sounding annoyed. ‘They belong together, I tell you. Listen here.’