The Beige Man (9 page)

Irene tried to call on her mother at least once a week, but mostly it was Krister who went to see her. He did her shopping and cleaning. This was the most practical arrangement, as
Irene worked full-time, and often more, while Krister was still only part-time. Things would become much more difficult for Irene and her mother when Krister went back to working full-time. His mother had died the previous summer, two years after her husband, almost to the day.
We’ve only got Mom left now
, Irene thought, glancing at the shrunken figure beside her.

“How are you doing, Mom?” she asked.

“Could be better. I can hardly sleep because of the pain.”

“Don’t the new tablets help?”

Gerd snorted. “They’re too strong! They make me feel dizzy and confused. If I take one at night, I feel terrible all morning. I think that’s why I’m having nightmares when I do happen to fall asleep.”

That didn’t sound good. What if her mother got up during the night and had a dizzy spell? What would happen if she fell? She could break her leg or hit her head. Irene decided it was time to tackle the subject she should have broached a long time ago. It couldn’t be put off any longer. She swallowed hard and gripped the steering wheel.

“Mom, do you think maybe you should get one of those panic alarms? You know the kind of thing. You wear it around your wrist and press the button if you fall.”

Gerd let out a stormy harrumph. “A panic alarm! Those are for old people! And I am not going to fall!”

Obviously it wasn’t the right time for this discussion, but Irene had made a start, and she had no intention of letting it go.

I
RENE WAS QUITE
tense and nervous about meeting Felipe’s family. The only thing she knew about them was that his father was Brazilian and had been a professional dancer. He had jumped ship when his dance troupe was on tour in Sweden almost thirty years ago, and had married Felipe’s mother. He had been working for Folksam, the insurance
company, for several years now. Felipe’s mother, Eva, was a teacher, and that was all Irene knew about her. Like Felipe, his younger sister was also a very good dancer.

Josef Medina and his son, Felipe, were very much alike. Both men were tall and slim. But Josef’s skin was slightly darker, and his hair was silver and cut in a short, neat style. His son wore his thick, dark hair woven into dozens of small braids that hung down his back. At the end of every braid were tiny wooden beads that rattled whenever he moved his head. Felipe’s sister, Evita, was just sixteen, and Katarina thought the world of her.

Jenny and Katarina had pulled out both extension leaves on the large dining table, so there was plenty of space for nine people. However, the living room itself was quite small, so Gerd had to sit at one end of the table so it would be easier for her to get in and out of her chair.

The dinner went well. After only a little while the conversation was flowing. The good food and wine helped any residual tension among them to dissipate. Everyone listened with interest as Katarina and Felipe talked about everything they had experienced during their trip, and the volunteer work they had undertaken with the street children in Natal. In return for attending school every day, the children received a hot meal and free tuition in dance and capoeira. If they didn’t do their schoolwork, or if they played hooky, they were removed from the capoeira group.

“School is their one chance. Knowledge is the only way out of the poverty trap,” Felipe said earnestly.

Of course they had also had less pleasant experiences during their trip. Felipe told them four boys with knives had robbed him on the beach in Natal in broad daylight. No one else on the beach had even noticed what was going on. Katarina had been no more than fifty meters away, but she hadn’t seen a thing.

Katarina had been horrified by the unbelievable poverty
they had encountered. Never before had she seen people who owned nothing more that the clothes on their back.

“But the worst was in Rio. We saw children and young teenagers sitting in bars or walking around in certain parks, and these men would come along and just pick one of them up. I mean, some of them didn’t look any older than about ten! It was just disgusting to see those guys with a little boy or girl,” Katarina said, sounding upset.

“There were also a number of older women paying for the services of young boys. Although not in the same bars,” Felipe added.

“It’s just as well that kind of thing doesn’t happen here,” Evita said.

Before Irene had time to think, she said, “But it does happen here. Although we import them. Sex slaves, I mean.”

The others around the table looked at her in surprise.

Irene had to quickly think through what she was going to say before she continued. “Trafficking is a growing problem. I’m sure you’ve read about it. The number of sex slaves is increasing here in Sweden as well.” As soon as she had spoken, she regretted it. The atmosphere around the table took a nosedive.

After a while Evita said seriously, “As long as we choose to regard sex slavery as a problem in other countries, preferably on the other side of the world, we can discuss it openly. But when we are compelled to recognize that human trafficking goes on inside our own country, then it becomes uncomfortable. Because it forces us to make a stand and act, in the name of humanity.”

“Exactly,” Irene agreed, with an enormous sense of relief.

“I’ve read about this in the paper, and I don’t really see the problem. Just lock up those disgusting pimps and throw away the key, and help those poor girls to get back home. Or let them stay here if they want to,” Gerd said firmly.

As usual, she thought she had the obvious solution.

T
HE PREVIOUS EVENING
, the Swedish Meteorological Office had warned of continuing snowfall. Irene had prepared herself by setting the alarm for half an hour earlier than usual.

It was horrible getting out of her lovely bed and staggering to the bathroom, dizzy with tiredness. However, as she glanced sleepily out of the window, she congratulated herself on her foresight. Another three centimeters of snow had fallen overnight.

Before she left, she tried to persuade Sammie to go outside for a pee. He didn’t even open one eye but made a point of snoring loudly before rolling over onto his back with his paws in the air. If there was one thing he hated, it was cold, wet, early mornings—an opinion his mistress shared completely. Unfortunately, unlike Sammie she had no choice and had to venture out into the gloom.

“B
LOND
—I
MEAN
, L
INDA
Holm was looking for you,” Jonny said when Irene met him in the corridor.

She glanced at her watch. Ten minutes until morning prayer. She headed for the superintendent’s office. Linda Holm was standing by her desk with her back to the door, talking on the phone as she tried to shrug off a warm-looking turquoise cardigan knitted in a thick, fluffy yarn.

She ended the call and managed to extricate her arm from the sleeve. At the same time she spotted Irene in the doorway
and said, “Hi. I was wondering if you and Birgitta would like to be there this afternoon when we question Heinz Becker and the girls from the brothel.”

Irene thought about everything she had to do that day, and realized it was a hell of a long list. But she just had to prioritize this. So far Becker was the only lead that might help to establish the girl’s identity.

“Sure. One of them might know who the murdered girl is,” she replied.

“My thoughts exactly.”

Linda nodded toward the computer and said, “Yesterday afternoon I went through all the girls who are currently for sale on the Internet in the Göteborg area. I also checked every town within a radius of one hundred kilometers, and I didn’t find any girls as young as the one lying in the morgue. But as I said, Heinz Becker is in town, and if anyone is capable of smuggling in a really young girl, it’s him. I think it’s a good bet.”

“In that case we’ll definitely sit in on the interviews. I’ll speak to Birgitta.”

“I’ll be in touch when we’re ready.”

“Okay,” Irene said.

Linda nodded just as the phone started to ring again.

Irene set off along the corridor; she had just enough time to stop off at the coffee machine before the morning briefing. As she rounded the corner at speed, she bumped into Svante Malm, CSI technician.

“Oof! Oh, I’m so sorry,” Irene said.

“Damn! You’ve got coffee all over you,” Svante said.

Clumsily he tried to dab at the coffee stain spreading all over the sleeve of Irene’s pale blue top, with the result that it soon covered an even wider area. Irene pushed his hand away and scurried back down the corridor to the bathroom, where she turned the cold water on all the way and stuck her arm under the stream. The water went everywhere, but thanks to
the fact that she had reacted so quickly, there was no damage to her skin, although it had been painful. Svante’s freckled face appeared in the doorway.

“Did you scald yourself?” he asked, sounding concerned.

“No, I’m fine. But could you get me a coffee, and I’ll see you in the meeting?” Irene replied, trying to sound convincing.

A relieved smile appeared on Svante’s amiable horse face. “It’s cool. Everyone’s waiting for me. They’ll just have to be patient while I go and fetch coffee. Milk? Sugar?”

“Black. Thanks.”

With a sigh she turned off the faucet and started patting the stain on her arm with some dry paper towels. It was very obvious, but there was nothing she could do about that. The question was whether it would ever come out. Irene felt slightly dejected because the thin woolen sweater was a good brand, and it was the only thing she had managed to buy in the post-Christmas sales. She glanced at her face in the mirror above the hand basin and concluded that she looked exactly the way she felt.

“W
E
’
VE FOUND SEVERAL
semen stains on the T-shirt and jacket, and we also found fresh semen in her hair,” Svante Malm said. He paused and looked around the room before continuing. “The semen in her hair matched the stains on the T-shirt. The stains on the jacket are from two other men.”

A deep silence followed this revelation. Birgitta whispered to Irene, “A gang bang.”

Irene turned her head and briefly contemplated the picture on the whiteboard. She couldn’t help shuddering as she looked at the skinny body lying on the cold metal surface of the table. In her mind’s eye she saw three naked men gathering around the table. She felt sick, and pushed the image away.

Death had removed every trace of emotion from the thin face, leaving behind a seal of silence. Who was she? Where had
she come from? Who had killed her? How did she end up in the root cellar?

Svante’s voice penetrated her consciousness and interrupted her thoughts. “She was noticeably underdressed, given how cold it was the night she was killed. Her clothes were with her in the root cellar. It looked as if they had been thrown in, because they were on top of the body. She was wearing nothing but a polyester cotton T-shirt, extra small.” Svante clicked the mouse and a picture was projected onto the screen.

An item of clothing for a child, Irene thought. But when she looked more closely, she saw that perhaps this wasn’t the case. The short-sleeved top was pink, with the word
SEX
in big letters on the front. The neckline was very wide. Given how thin the victim had been, the top would probably have slipped down over at least one shoulder. Definitely a summer top, in Irene’s opinion. She also noticed that it was dirty.

The next picture showed a pair of black skinny jeans. Once again Irene felt a stab of distaste. Children’s jeans. They couldn’t be any bigger than size 130.

“They’ve been taken in,” Svante explained, pointing to the drainpipe legs. He turned back to his audience and went on. “The jeans are brand new. No semen stains.”

Another picture. A pair of black boots, badly scuffed and with worn-down high heels.

“Cheap. Synthetic. Size thirty-five. Although the girl’s feet were smaller; there was balled-up paper shoved into the toes. Probably bought secondhand, according to our expert. That’s Emilia; she says the style is from the late nineties. No socks or tights. Presumably the girl was barefoot inside her boots.”

Everyone in the room knew that Emilia was the new forensic technician at police HQ in Göteborg. She had spent many years working at SKL, the National Forensics Laboratory in Linköping, but had moved to Göteborg with her husband when he got a job at Chalmers University of Technology. She
had already made an impact with her knowledge and skill, and her excellent contacts with SKL were a major advantage.

“She wasn’t wearing a bra. Or at least we didn’t find one. She didn’t really need one either. However, we did find a G-string. Nylon.”

The picture showed a few twisted bits of fabric that were supposed to represent a pair of panties.

“We also found a padded jacket, small. Far from new.”

The picture showed a short pink jacket with deep knitted bands around the sleeves and waist. The band around the right sleeve was frayed and worn. The jacket was in desperate need of a wash.

“On the outside of the jacket we found a total of seven semen stains, all on the upper section at the front. This semen comes from two different men, but these stains are older than the ones on the T-shirt. At least a week old.”

Irene felt an irrational sense of relief. The girl hadn’t been dealing with three men at the same time. The killer had probably been alone.

“So you didn’t find anything at all on the jeans?” Birgitta asked.

“No. As I said, they’re brand new. There was a considerable amount of secreted matter in the crotch, but no traces of semen.”

“According to Stridner, the girl had some horrible infection that stank. Presumably the johns wore condoms,” Jonny said.

Svante nodded. “No doubt. But at the same time, I have a feeling that …” He fell silent and clicked through to the next picture, which was also the last. “Her jewelry. Very cheap. Almost the kind of thing kids get when they buy gum from a machine.”