The Treacherous Net (23 page)

“What did he do before he retired?”

“He was a journalist.”

“What kind? Did he write about sports or politics? Or would I have seen him on the news?”

“He wrote about culture and the arts.”

Åsa turned her head and looked out at the huge oil tanks looming at the foot of the Älvsborg Bridge on the Hisingen side. She nodded in their direction and said, “Just imagine if terrorists decided to blow up one of those! It would be a disaster!”

“Yes, but of course when they were built, they were a long way outside the city.”

It was obvious that Åsa didn’t want to talk about her parents anymore. A journalist . . . Irene’s father had been a civil servant working for the customs office. And Åsa’s mother worked in a store selling eco-friendly goods. Gerd had worked at the mail counter for thirty-five years. Irene was beginning to realize that Åsa had made some kind of journey from one class to another, which was unusual among police officers. And even if her background was different, it didn’t change the fact that Åsa was a good cop.

In a week’s
time the Cold Cases Unit would have its reinforcements: one man and one woman. However, right now the team consisted of only two active investigators, so they had to make the best use of their limited resources, as Leif Fryxender put it. He and Sven Andersson had discussed at length how best to proceed, and eventually they had decided to speak to Oscar Leutnerwall again. He was the only remaining link with the past, and if anyone knew what had gone on, it was likely to be the former diplomat. The only question was whether he would be prepared to tell them what he knew.

Fryxender called to arrange a time; he tried several times, but there was no reply. Just before he was about to go home for the day, he made one last attempt. This time Oscar Leutnerwall picked up; he seemed to be in a good mood.

“Good afternoon, Inspector! I could see from the display that someone whose number was withheld had called several times, but I’ve been out playing tennis. I play twice a week, all year round. I’ve missed very few training sessions since I started back in the summer of ’32.”

Fryxender asked if they could meet again. Oscar was available for the next few days, but not during the following two weeks.

“We’re having a party to celebrate Astrid’s ninetieth birthday on Saturday, then on Monday we’re going to Mauritius for two weeks. That’s my birthday present to her,” he explained.

They arranged to meet the next day. Oscar suggested they come over to his apartment, as he had a number of things to do before the party.

Oscar Leutnerwall opened
the door wearing nothing but a dressing gown. It was an elegant garment made of thick silk with a paisley pattern, but it still wasn’t exactly what Fryxender and Andersson had expected. It stopped just below the knee, revealing white legs. He had black leather slippers on his feet.

“Please excuse my casual attire, gentlemen, but my tailor is here. He’s made a few minor adjustments to my dinner suit, and I’ve just been trying it on. Do come in and sit in front of the fire.”

Oscar led the way into the living room.

A large desk stood over by the tall window. It was an imposing piece, and was adorned with beautiful marquetry; the corners were gilded.
Probably not from IKEA,
Andersson thought.

Winston was asleep on the wine-red leather writing pad. He woke up as the men entered the room, extended his pink tongue in an elegant curve as he yawned and blinked those sapphire-blue eyes. He got up in one smooth movement, then stretched first his front legs, then his hind legs before starting to wander around.

Bursting with enthusiasm, Oscar started to talk about his preparations for Astrid’s upcoming birthday party. Andersson wasn’t really paying attention, and gazed around the room. Suddenly an object caught his eye. Or several objects, to be more accurate. A whole armory of weapons, in fact. Above the door hung two crossed sabers, with beautiful ornamentation and gold tassels. The rest of the collection consisted of guns; Andersson counted twenty around the door. Some looked very old.

“I see you collect weapons,” he said.

Oscar glanced over at Andersson, looking distinctly irritated.

“Weapons? Those aren’t really mine. I inherited them from my father; they’ve been there for many years. Some of them are extremely rare.”

“He never had a Tokarev pistol in the collection?” Andersson asked.

“A Tokarev? No. My father was only interested in older weapons; the newest item is this one.”

He went over and took down a gun that looked quite modern.

“A Colt-Browning 1911. He bought it when he was in the USA in the early twenties. It was regarded as one of the best handguns ever made. Needless to say the model has been refined since 1911; between the wars and during the Second World War, many countries produced Colt copies of various types.”

“So your father never owned a Tokarev?”

“No. Such a thing wouldn’t have interested him.”

Oscar replaced the Colt.

“Was he keen on shooting?” Fryxender asked.

“Absolutely! But he used other guns for that, not these old things.”

“Did you also learn to shoot?”

“Of course. It was part of a young man’s education. Calle and I were dragged out to the range at Delsjön to learn. We both hated it. Neither of us turned into either a sharpshooter or a huntsman; my father was both.”

Oscar pursed his lips slightly as he finished speaking. He stared at the Colt on the wall, and for a moment he seemed to be lost in memories.

The crash made all three men jump. It was totally unexpected, and Andersson felt his heart flip over in his chest.

“Winston!” Oscar said reproachfully.

The cat was sitting on the desk, meticulously licking a front paw; he seemed to have no idea how the orchid in the glass pot might have ended up on the floor. The flower had broken off, but the pot had survived.

“Thank goodness it landed on the rug,” Oscar said, sounding extremely relieved.

“These thick Persian rugs are beautiful and practical at the same time,” Fryxender commented.

“You’re right. I collect those too.” Oscar nodded.

“Did Carl-Johan collect Persian rugs too?” was Fryxender’s instant follow-up.

Oscar frowned slightly as he looked sharply at Fryxender. No doubt he sensed that there was something behind the question.

“No. Calle didn’t collect rugs. Or anything else,” he said slowly.

“I’m just thinking about the rug Mats Persson was lying on. I mean, he’d been walled up in the chimney breast in your cousin’s house, and he was lying on a genuine Persian rug.”

Oscar didn’t reply; he merely raised a quizzical eyebrow. But Sven Andersson thought there was a glimmer of something in his eyes. Fear? Surprise?

“So if cousin Calle wasn’t interested in Persian rugs, I’m just wondering how Mats Persson came to be lying on such a fine example,” Fryxender went on.

“You can’t be sure the rug belonged to Calle.” Oscar Leutnerwall’s tone was distinctly chilly.

“No, exactly. In which case the question is, who did it belong to if not Calle?”

Oscar didn’t move a muscle, and he made no attempt to answer. Fryxender smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. He turned to look at Winston, who was balancing on the edge of the desk, idly batting at the lamp cable with one paw.

“Have you always had cats?” he asked.

“Yes, except occasionally when I was working overseas. My mother always had cats; Astrid and I grew up with them. Astrid’s Siamese died last summer; she’s not sure whether to get another. If you’ll excuse me I’ll just go fetch the vacuum cleaner,” Oscar said, disappearing into the hallway.

Fryxender bent down to pick up the flower and the pot. He stayed like that for a long time.
Jeez, his back’s gone!
Andersson thought. He looked on in surprise as his colleague reached out and removed a number of books from the bottom shelf. Slowly he straightened up and handed them to Andersson.

H.-K. Rönblom’s
The Spy Without a Country
, Stig Wennerström’s
From Beginning to End
, and John Barron’s
KGB: The Secret Work of Soviet Secret Agents
.

All three were covered in clear plastic and were unmistakably library books.

Several officers had
interviewed every employee who had been working on the X2000 train on which Irene had traveled from Göteborg to Malmö. One of them had sent Viktor Jacobsson to police HQ, having decided that the young man had interesting information.

Jacobsson was noticeably nervous. According to Irene’s notes he was twenty-four, but looked younger. His straw-colored hair was carefully combed, Beatles style, to hide one eye. The clothes hanging off his slender frame could have come straight out of a photo from the mid-sixties: black corduroy jacket, crumpled red-checked shirt, skinny blue jeans and pointed black shoes. He sat opposite Irene scratching at the pimples covering his chin and cheeks. She tried not to think about what he did for a living.

“So how long have you worked in the restaurant car?” she asked.

“Almost three years,” he replied in a broad Skåne accent.

“As I understand it you’ve been sent to us because you have important information about Mattias Eriksson.”

“Yes. It was me who got him a job in the restaurant car. We’re related. Distantly related. Second cousins. But we’ve never hung out. He’s . . . he was . . . five years older than me. It doesn’t feel good, being related to a murderer,” he said with a nervous smile.

“So you were working in the restaurant car and you got Mattias a job,” Irene clarified.

“Yes. Two years ago. His mom asked if I could fix him up. She and my mom are cousins. There was a temporary vacancy, then when Nettan came back he filled in sometimes. Then he applied to be a conductor. He is . . . or was . . . super smart. But weird.”

Viktor started picking at an angry red spot on his neck.

“Tell me what you mean; in what way was he weird?” Irene asked.

“Well . . . he kept to himself. Didn’t have any friends. I mean he spoke to the passengers, but he was kind of . . . abrupt with them. And sometimes he said weird things.”

“What kind of weird things?”

“Like ‘only virgins are pure. Everyone else is impure and should die.’ It almost sounded religious, like Muslim or something. Once he said that girls should be sub . . . sub . . . subjugated until they bleed, and that will cleanse them. He said that blood cleanses—stuff like that.”

“Did he say these things within earshot of the passengers?”

“Oh no . . . just to me. I thought it was . . . disgusting.”

“Did this happen often?”

“No. A few times. When we were, like, having our break.”

Irene brightened as a thought struck her.

“Do you have some kind of staff room in the restaurant car where you can sit during your break?”

Viktor stopped picking at the spot and looked at her in surprise.

“Yes. If we’re not too busy we can go and sit in there.”

“And did Mattias come and see you when he was traveling between Malmö and Göteborg?”

He nodded.

“Always. He said he didn’t want to sit with the riffraff, so I used to let him sit in the staff room. Although he wasn’t really supposed to because he didn’t work in the restaurant car anymore. Nettan used to let him sit there too when she was on duty.”

Irene could feel her pulse rate increasing.

“What did he do when he was in there by himself? When you were busy with customers, I mean?”

“He used to sit there tapping away on his computer. He was brilliant at that kind of stuff. He got into Chalmers to study computer science, but he dropped out. He said he already knew everything.”

Irene was growing more and more certain that she had the final piece of the puzzle in her hand.

“I believe you were working on Thursday evening almost two weeks ago. Do you remember if Mattias was in the staff room during that journey?”

Viktor thought for a little while.

“Yes, he was,” he said eventually.

“And did he have a computer with him?”

“Yes, a little one, kind of like a big cell phone. He often used it; he said it was easy to carry around.”

At last she knew why she hadn’t found Mr. Groomer when she checked the train.

“So he was
sitting in a staff room where no one could see him. Viktor Jacobsson had his hands full in the restaurant car, so Mattias could chat away to his chosen girls in peace. And if anyone came in, he could shut down in a second. It’s very difficult to see what’s on those small screens,” Irene said.

The team was gathered in the meeting room. They all felt they were well on the way to closing the case; it was just a matter of tying up the last few loose ends.

“He’s definitely guilty of the murders, one hundred percent. Moa’s and Alexandra’s blood is in his van. His semen is in the van and on the girls’ clothing, and we found fibers from the red nylon carpet on both girls. We also have his video footage of the girls, and we have the knife. It’s watertight. We’re assuming he had the camera with him because he intended to film what he was planning to do to little Ann.”

Tommy fell silent and looked down at the papers in front of him. He picked up one document and gazed at it for a while, then continued. “You thought there was a lot of blood on the victims’ clothes when you found them in the closet, and you said the place stank. The amount of blood didn’t match the injuries the girls had suffered. And now we know why; he poured cat blood over the clothes.”

Tommy’s expression said it all as he put down the sheet of paper.

“Cat blood? And is there cat blood on Moa Olsson’s body too?” Fredrik asked.

“No, it was done after the event. Probably some kind of ritual, according to the profiler.”

“Blood . . . His landlady’s cats disappeared; I have my suspicions about where they went. And he allegedly told Viktor Jacobsson that women should be cleansed with blood,” Irene said.

“The guy was seriously creepy,” said Åsa. “If you ask me, there is one thing I’ve been wondering about. He was so smart, stealing computers and chatting online on the train, doing everything he could to make sure we couldn’t trace him. And Jens hasn’t found much on his computers either; he covered his tracks very skillfully. There wasn’t a thing on the laptop in Malmö to connect him to the murders, and yet he left all that evidence lying around in the garage. Why didn’t he try to hide the things he’d kept?”

“It’s actually not all that uncommon,” Tommy replied. “Some psychiatrists believe that somewhere deep down, a serial killer wants to be caught. At the same time he feels invincible when those stupid cops can’t find anything to prove he’s guilty.”

“So you think Mattias was a serial killer,” Åsa said.

“Absolutely. He managed to kill two girls, but he was planning to take the lives of many more. If he had gotten to them, he would have killed them too. Thank God there aren’t many killers like him, but they do exist. According to many of our experts, the Internet has made it much easier for serial killers to find their victims, and this case is a shining example of exactly that. Unfortunately, I think we’ll find ourselves investigating plenty of similar homicides in the future.”

“They picked up a guy not long ago who was suspected of having killed five gay men. I think they’ve found evidence tying him to two or three of the murders; all five victims had come into contact with him online,” Fredrik told them.

“I don’t think I’m going to run out of work anytime soon,” Jens said.