The Beige Man (5 page)

“Is it a child?” Irene asked quickly.

“No. Probably an adult male, although the gender hasn’t been confirmed; they’re going by what was left of the clothing. Heavy boots and a Helly Hansen jacket.”

That definitely sounded like a male, Irene thought with relief.

“Who’s coming with me?” Lind asked.

Fredrik Stridh and Tommy Persson got to their feet and followed Lind out of the room.

Irene reported back on her efforts to establish the identity of the car thieves.

“So there are three possible suspects among the boys who are on the run right now: Daniel Lindgren, Billy Kjellgren and
Niklas Ström. If it turns out that none of them is involved, then … Well, then we’ll just have to hope for a stroke of luck,” she said.

“I think we’re going to need a hell of a lot of luck if we’re going to sort out the mess that has piled up over the last twenty-four hours,” Jonny Blom muttered.

For once, Irene agreed with him.

Hannu Rauhala explained that he had picked up the bunch of keys from forensics, and that one of the keys fit Torleif Sandberg’s front door.

“I had a quick look through the apartment. No one there. I’ve also traced his family. His ex-wife has moved to Stockholm, and his son lives in Umeå. I’ll contact them once the identification is confirmed.”

“By the forensic dentist?” Irene asked.

Hannu nodded. “Yes. We’ll know for sure tomorrow.”

Superintendent Andersson was frowning. There had been immense pressure on the department since yesterday evening. Journalists had virtually jammed the HQ phone lines. Andersson had promised them a press conference the following morning at ten o’clock. He had said there would be no point in holding one any earlier because they had not yet identified the girl. But tabloid journalists are full of ideas, and in the absence of information they simply use their imagination. As a consequence, the largest of the evening papers was dominated by the headline
KILLER MOWED DOWN INNOCENT MAN
immediately below
GIRL MURDERED?

The question mark could probably be regarded as rhetorical under the circumstances. The article consisted of big photos of the side road with the barrier down, the cordoned-off root cellar, police dogs sniffing around in the undergrowth and, for further clarification, a half-page photo of a police helicopter. Since a lilac bush in full bloom could be seen in the background, it was safe to assume that the reporters had been
rummaging around in the archives. There was very little text, and it contained nothing that had not already been said in the morning news reports. Apart from the reporter’s own conclusion, which was that the killer had been in a hurry after murdering the girl. That was why, according to a witness, he had been driving along Delsjövägen like a bat out of hell, and had been unable to avoid the pedestrian crossing the street.

The newspaper had been lying open on Andersson’s desk when they got back to the department. He pointed at the pictures and grunted something inaudible. Irene had sighed.

“For a start, the direction the car was traveling in is wrong. The BMW was heading away from town. If the driver had been involved in the murder, the car would have been going the other way. And secondly, the time doesn’t fit. The girl was already dead,” she’d said.

“Exactly. The two are completely unconnected,” Andersson said firmly.

He had felt a certain satisfaction when he made that statement. And now they had another body on their hands. The only consolation was that it wasn’t a fresh one. This body probably had nothing whatsoever to do with the murdered girl or the death of Torleif Sandberg, but it would tie up the unit’s resources. Too many major investigations going on at the same time.

“I’m intending to release the information about the girl’s age this afternoon,” Birgitta said. “That she is probably thirteen or fourteen, and not eleven or twelve as we first thought. So far there has been no report of a missing girl who might match her description. The girls who are missing at the moment are all older, and look their age.”

Irene had only seen pictures of the murder victim lying naked on the pathologist’s steel table: small, skinny, with spindly arms and legs and her hair fanned out around her head. Irene’s first impression was of a small, defenseless child.

The superintendent nodded, looking grim. He drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk. Then the noise stopped, and he slapped the palm of his hand down with sudden resolve.

“We need to regroup. Fredrik and Tommy will take this new case, the old body the dogs just found. Irene and Hannu will carry on with Torleif’s death in the hit-and-run, and Birgitta and Jonny will stick with the murdered girl.”

“A
RE YOU COMING
to take a look around Torleif’s apartment?”

They were standing in the elevator. It was almost half past six, and Irene really wanted to go home. But there was something in Hannu’s voice that made her brighten up.

“Strictly speaking, we’re not allowed to go inside the apartment,” she pointed out, mostly for form’s sake.

“Strictly speaking,” Hannu repeated with a smile.

They traveled in their own cars so they would be able to go straight home after. Birgitta had already left in the Moberg-Rauhala family’s other car in order to pick up little Timo from daycare.

The rush hour traffic had started to ease off. It took little more than fifteen minutes to reach Torleif’s address on Anders Zornsgatan. When they had parked their cars and met up on the sidewalk, Irene nodded toward the TV studios and said, “He was on his way home. He was only a few hundred meters from his front door.”

“Strange place to get run down,” Hannu said.

“Strange? The BMW was coming too fast. He didn’t have time to—”

“There’s a clear view in all directions. He should have seen it.”

Irene had to admit he was right, but there had to be some reason Torleif Sandberg had misjudged the distance from the speeding car.

“But it was dark. He was pretty old. Maybe he had problems with his eyesight. Cataracts or something,” she suggested.

“In that case, why was he out running in the dark?” Hannu countered immediately.

Irene had no comeback, and they headed toward Torleif’s apartment block.

The three-story brick building had been erected in the middle of the last century. The entire area was bright and pleasant, with tall trees and lawns between the blocks. Irene knew the flowerbeds were a riot of color during the spring and summer, but right now it looked as if the frost would keep the plants underground forever. Even though it felt like a distant dream in the biting cold, she knew that winter would eventually be forced to retreat. The spring rain would soften the deep frost, and once again it would loosen its grip on bulbs and roots.

Hannu unlocked the outside door, and they walked into the warmth of the entrance hall. On the board just inside listing the names of the tenant, Irene saw that
T SANDBERG
lived on the top floor. The walls of the stairwell were freshly painted in a soft, creamy yellow shade, with a border of dark green oak leaves halfway up. They set off up the spotlessly clean stairs. On the top floor they were faced with two doors with Torleif’s name on one of them.

Hannu put the key in the lock and turned it, waving Irene in ahead of him.

“He’s lived here for twenty-five years,” she heard Hannu’s voice behind her.

“Ever since the divorce?”

“Yes.”

Irene found the switch and turned on the light in the hallway. It was narrow, with space for no more than a hat stand hanging on one wall, a shoe rack and a small closet. She glanced inside and saw that it contained outdoor clothes.
Straight ahead lay the bathroom. It was half-tiled in pale green. Several of the grey tiles on the floor were cracked, and the enamel coating on both the bath and hand basin was damaged.

“Time for some renovation,” Irene remarked.

“Wait till you see the kitchen,” Hannu said dryly.

The bathroom and hallway might have been less than spacious, but the kitchen was almost claustrophobic. It had been the fashion to build compact kitchens in the 1950s, but this was the tiniest space imaginable. There was hardly room to boil an egg. The stove and refrigerator looked as if they were the originals. The curtains had faded slightly from the sun, but seemed to have been ironed. The forest-green stripes perfectly complemented the painted cupboard doors. Two wooden chairs and a small table covered in a green and white checked wax cloth stood by one wall; there was no room for any more. An old poster showing a healthy eating pyramid for vegetarians hung above the table. It had seeds and legumes at the top instead of meat, fish and poultry. Irene recognized it from Jenny’s diet. It’s important to take in enough protein when you’re vegetarian.

In the larder they found boxes of dried beans and peas, bags of various kinds of flour, and—of course—several packets of Dr. Kruska’s oat muesli. On one shelf a number of jars containing dried fruit were neatly arranged. The refrigerator was almost empty; the only thing inside was an open carton of soy milk and two foil trays of something unidentifiable.

They went back through the hallway and into the living room, which was surprisingly airy. A large picture window and a glass door overlooked the balcony. This room must have been lovely and light when the sun was shining. The television seemed to be the only recent purchase. Above it hung a framed poster of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains. The sofa, armchairs, curtains, carpet and not least the combined
bookcase and display cabinet clearly bore the marks of 1970s style. The bookcase housed a few paperbacks and several porcelain figurines, while the display cabinet was filled with an impressive collection of cups and trophies.

“He was very good at orienteering, and he was a fast long-distance runner. He must have won these when he was a member of the Police Sports Association,” Irene said. She walked over to the cabinet. There was a small switch beside it, and when she pressed it several tiny lamps lit up inside the glass doors, the light glinting off the trophies.

“He kept them polished,” Hannu stated.

Irene looked around. “Yes. He kept the whole place clean and tidy,” she said.

Hannu went over to a door that was standing ajar. Cautiously he nudged it open with his foot.

The bedroom was also pretty spacious. One wall consisted of a built-in closet, and the single bed against the opposite wall was neatly made up with a pale blue coverlet. There was a colorful rag rug on the floor that looked reasonably new. The tall display cabinet at the foot of the bed had glass shelves and doors, and to Irene’s surprise it was full of toy cars. The smallest was only a little bigger than a sugar lump, while the biggest was around thirty centimeters long. They were all cop cars, from every corner of the world. The largest was a blue and white 1950s model with a sheriff’s star on the doors.

Next to the closed laptop on the desk lay a book entitled
Researching Your Family Tree: A Beginner’s Guide
. There was also a framed photograph of a little blond-haired boy aged about three. Irene pointed to the picture and said, “That must be his son. They look alike.”

Irene opened the closet; the clothes were all on hangers. In the linen cupboard, sheets and towels were folded neatly. “He lived alone. There’s no sign of anyone else living here,” she said.

Hannu didn’t reply, but looked around the room. His gaze lingered on the bed. “Lonely,” he said eventually.

The word was on the money. The entire apartment was suffused with loneliness. Perhaps they were getting completely the wrong impression. Perhaps Muesli had had a wide circle of friends in the Sports Association and pensioners’ club. Irene tried to remember what he had been like when he was working with them. She hadn’t really known him, but of course she had been aware of who he was. Torleif had never made much of an impression other than with his peculiar eating habits. Unremarkable appearance, although he had kept himself fit right up to retirement—he had been passionate about personal fitness. How long had it been since he had retired? Irene thought about it and realized she didn’t know for sure. Somewhere between five and seven years, maybe.

“Did you know him?” she asked Hannu.

“No. I knew who he was, but I never spoke to him.”

“I knew him slightly. He was a desk sergeant with the third district the last year I was working there, then he came over to HQ when the third was amalgamated with another area. But by then I’d joined the Violent Crimes Unit, and I didn’t have much to do with him.”

“So what was he like?” Hannu asked.

“Pretty inoffensive. The only time I saw him get excited about something was when he started talking about the importance of exercise. And eating the right food. Vegetarian, of course.”

“And what was he like as a cop?”

Irene hesitated before answering. “Actually, he was … a bit weak. He was scared of making decisions, always had to get the nod from above. We found him quite irritating sometimes. He wasn’t an outstanding colleague, but then again he wasn’t the worst I’ve ever come across either.”

“Sociable?”

“I don’t know … not exactly. But he wasn’t antisocial either. He wasn’t bad-tempered or miserable, as far as I remember. There were plenty who were worse than him.”

Irene could hear how evasive she sounded. She tried to sharpen up. “To tell the truth, I guess I didn’t really know him at all. He was just there. One colleague among all the rest who you don’t have anything in common with.”

Hannu nodded, staring at the single bed. It was impossible to work out what he was thinking. The ice-blue gaze swept the room one last time before he turned on his heel and went back to the living room.

Irene found him in front of the display cabinet. The interior lights were still on.

“A collector. Trophies and cop cars,” Hannu stated.

Irene had at least as many cups and trophies at home; she had won them for jiujitsu during her active years among the elite in Sweden and throughout Europe. They were tucked away on the top shelf of a closet. Undeniably a sharp contrast to the beautifully polished collection shining behind the spotless glass door of the display cabinet.