Dark Secrets (6 page)

It hadn’t happened earlier in the day because Lena had put it off twice. Hanser didn’t know why. Nor did she care. She would have preferred it not to happen at all. Not with her in attendance, at any rate. This was the part of the job she hated the most, and she wasn’t all that good at it either. She tried to avoid the situation as often as possible, but it seemed as if people expected her to cope better because she was a woman. They imagined it would be easier for her to find the right words. That the relatives, the bereaved, would feel more comfortable with her presence, simply on the basis of her gender. Hanser thought this was nonsense. She never knew what to say. She could express her deepest condolences, perhaps put an arm around them, provide a shoulder to cry on, give them the number of someone to talk to, assure them over and over again that the police would do all they could to catch the person who had caused them so much suffering. She could certainly do
all that, but mostly it was a matter of just standing there. Anyone could do that.

Hanser didn’t even remember who had been there from the police when she and her husband had identified Niklas. It had been a man. A man who had just stood there.

She could, in fact, send someone else with Lena. She probably would have, if the investigation thus far had looked slightly different. As it was, she couldn’t take any risks. The press was everywhere. It seemed that they already knew that the heart was missing. It was only a matter of time before they found out the boy had been gone for almost three days before the police started looking for him. Then there were the traumatized Scouts in the forest and Haraldsson’s “badly sprained ankle.” From here on, though, there would be absolutely nothing to criticize in this investigation. She would make sure of that. She would work with the best and quickly put this terrible case behind her. That was the plan.

The telephone rang.

Reception.

The Riksmord team was asking for her. Hanser glanced at the clock on the wall. They were early. Everything was happening at once. She must go and welcome them, there was no question about that. Lena Eriksson would just have to wait a few minutes. It couldn’t be helped. Hanser tucked in her blouse, straightened up, and headed for the stairs leading down to the main entrance. She stopped at the locked door separating reception from the inner areas of the station. Through the tiny leaded squares in the glass she could see Torkel Höglund strolling around calmly, his hands behind his back. A man and a woman were sitting on the green sofas by the window overlooking the street. They were both younger than Hanser. Torkel’s colleagues, she guessed as she pressed the keypad and pushed the door open. Torkel turned as he heard the click of the lock and smiled when he saw her.

Suddenly Hanser felt a little unsure of herself. What was the right
thing to do? A hug or a warm handshake? They had been on a few courses together, had lunch now and again, met in corridors.

Hanser had no need to wonder. Torkel walked up to her and gave her a friendly hug. Then he turned to the others, who had gotten up from the sofa, and introduced them. Kerstin Hanser welcomed them.

“I must apologize, but I’m in a bit of a rush. I’m on my way to the mortuary.”

“The boy?”

“Yes.”

Hanser turned to the receptionist.

“Haraldsson?”

“He should be on his way. I called him straight after I’d spoken to you.”

Hanser nodded. Another glance at the clock. She couldn’t be too late. She looked quickly at Vanja and Billy, but turned to Torkel when she spoke.

“Haraldsson has been leading the investigation up to now.”

“Yes, I saw his name in the material we were sent.”

Hanser was slightly taken aback. Was there a hint of condescension in Torkel’s voice? If so, his expression gave nothing away.

Where was Haraldsson this time? Hanser was about to get out her cell when the lock of the door she had just come through clicked and Haraldsson walked into reception, limping badly. He deliberately took his time to reach the new arrivals and then shook hands.

“What have you done?” Torkel nodded at Haraldsson’s right foot.

“I sprained it when I was leading the search party looking for the boy. That’s why I wasn’t there when they found him.” The final remark was directed at Hanser, with a brief glance.

She didn’t believe him, he knew that. So it was important to remember the limp over the next few days. She wouldn’t contact the hospital, surely? And if she did, they wouldn’t tell her whether he’d been there or not, would they? That must come under some kind of
patient confidentiality agreement. Employers aren’t allowed to look at their employees’ notes. Or are they? He’d better check with the union. Haraldsson was so lost in his own thoughts that for a moment he had stopped listening to his boss. Now he became aware that she was looking at him, her expression serious.

“Torkel and his team are taking over the investigation.”

“From you?” Haraldsson looked genuinely surprised. He hadn’t expected this. Things were looking up. This was a team of real police detectives, just like him. Obviously they would appreciate his work more than the desk-bound lawyer who was his boss.

“No, the ultimate responsibility remains mine, but Riksmord will be leading the operational side of the investigation, starting from now.”

“Working with me?”

Hanser sighed to herself and said a silent prayer that a crime wave wouldn’t suddenly sweep through Västerås. They wouldn’t stand a chance.

Vanja gave Billy an amused look. Torkel listened to the conversation, his face expressionless. To degrade or humiliate the local force was the worst way to start a collaboration. Torkel had never been much of a one for marking his territory. There were better ways to get the best out of everyone.

“No, they will be responsible for the investigation. You are being relieved of that duty.”

“But, of course, we would prefer to work in association with you,” Torkel interrupted, looking seriously at Haraldsson. “You have unique insights into the case that could turn out to be critical for our continued success.”

Vanja looked at Torkel with admiration. Personally she had already consigned Haraldsson to her HC file: a Hopeless Case who would be allowed to have his say then be sidelined as far away from the investigation as possible.

“So I’ll be working with you?”

“You will be working in association with us.”

“What does that mean?”

“We’ll see. To begin with you could tell us about everything that has happened so far, and we’ll take it from there.” Torkel placed a hand on Haraldsson’s shoulder and steered him gently toward the door.

“See you later,” Torkel said over his shoulder to Hanser. Billy went over to the sofas to collect their bags; Vanja stayed where she was. She could have sworn the former leader of the investigation had taken those first steps with Torkel without limping.

Lena Eriksson pushed another Läkerol pastille into her mouth as she sat in the little waiting room. She had stolen the box from work. Yesterday. They were on the shelf right next to the cash register. Eucalyptus. Not her favorite, but she had just taken the nearest one and slipped it into her pocket when they were shutting the shop.

Yesterday.

When she had been convinced her son was still alive. When she had unquestioningly believed the policeman she had spoken to, the one who told her all the indications were that Roger had gone off on his own free will. To Stockholm, perhaps. Or somewhere else. A little teenage adventure.

Yesterday.

Not just another day, but another world entirely. When hope was still alive.

Today her son was gone forever.

Murdered.

Found in a pool.

Without a heart.

Lena had not left the apartment all day after she had been given the news. She was supposed to have met the police officer earlier on, but she had phoned and postponed it. Twice. She couldn’t get up. For a while she was afraid she would never find the strength to get to her feet again. So she sat there. In her armchair. In the living room where they had
spent less and less time together, she and her son. She tried to remember the last time they had sat there together.

Watched a movie.

Ate.

Talked.

Lived.

She couldn’t remember. It must have been just after Roger started going to that awful school. After only a few weeks with those stuck-up kids, he had changed. For the last year they had been living more or less separate lives.

The media kept on calling her, but she didn’t want to talk to anyone. Not yet. In the end she unplugged the landline and switched off her cell phone. Then they turned up on her doorstep, shouting through the mail slot, leaving messages on the mat in the hallway. But she never opened the door. She didn’t get up out of her armchair.

She felt absolutely terrible. The coffee she had drunk when she arrived was moving up and down in her throat like an elevator. Had she eaten anything since yesterday? Probably not. But she had drunk plenty. Alcohol. She didn’t usually do that. Hadn’t done it for months. She was extremely moderate, which nobody who met her would believe. Her home-bleached hair with the dark roots. Her weight. The chipped nail polish at the ends of her stubby fingers, festooned with rings. The piercings. Her fondness for velour sweatpants and oversize T-shirts. Most people quickly formed an opinion of Lena when they met her. Most of their prejudices were confirmed, to be fair. Desperately short of money. Left school at fifteen. Got pregnant when she was seventeen.

Single mother.

Low-paying job.

But alcohol or drug abuse? Never.

Today, though, she had been drinking. Just to silence that little voice at the back of her mind that had made its presence felt as soon as she was given the news about Roger and had grown in strength as the day went on. The little voice that refused to go away.

Lena was starting to get a headache. She needed some fresh air. And a cigarette. She got up, picked up her purse, and headed for the exit. Her worn heels echoed desolately on the stone floor. She was almost there when she saw a woman of about forty-five, dressed in a suit, rushing in through the revolving doors. The woman marched purposefully toward her.

“Lena Eriksson? Kerstin Hanser, Västerås police. Sorry I’m late.”

They traveled down in the elevator in silence. Hanser opened the door when they reached the basement and allowed Lena to step out in front of her. They went along the corridor until they were met by a bald man wearing glasses and a white coat. He led them into a smaller room, where a metal cart stood alone in the middle of the floor, lit by a fluorescent bulb. Beneath the white sheet the contours of a body were visible.

Hanser and Lena walked up to the cart and the bald man moved slowly around to the other side. He met Hanser’s eyes and she nodded. He turned down the sheet carefully, exposing Roger Eriksson’s face and neck as far as the collarbone. Lena gazed down steadily at the cart as Hanser took a respectful step back. She heard neither a sharp intake of breath nor a muffled cry from the woman by her side. No sobbing; no hand raised to the mouth in a reflex movement. Nothing.

It had struck Hanser as soon as they met in the waiting room. Lena’s eyes were not red and swollen from crying. She didn’t look grief stricken or as if she were just holding herself together. She seemed almost calm. But Hanser had picked up a whiff of alcohol in the elevator, overlaid with eucalyptus, and guessed that this was the reason for the lack of emotion. That and the shock.

Lena stood motionless, looking down at her son. What had she been expecting? Nothing, really. She hadn’t dared to think about what he would look like. Hadn’t been able to imagine how she would feel, standing there. What would the time in the water have done to him? He was slightly swollen, definitely. As if he’d had some kind of allergic reaction, but otherwise she thought he looked just the way he always
did. The dark hair; the pale skin; the black, prominent eyebrows; a hint of stubble on his upper lip. Eyes closed. Lifeless.
Of course.

“I thought he would look like he was asleep.”

Hanser remained silent. Lena turned her head toward her, as if seeking confirmation that she wasn’t wrong.

“He doesn’t look like he’s asleep.”

“No.”

“I’ve seen him asleep so many times. Especially when he was little. I mean, he’s not moving. His eyes are closed, but…”

Lena didn’t finish the sentence. Instead she reached out and touched Roger. Cold. Dead. She let her hand rest on his cheek.

“I lost my son when he was fourteen.”

Lena still had her hand on the boy’s cheek, but she turned her head slightly in Hanser’s direction.

“Oh?”

“Yes…”

Silence again. Why had she said that? Hanser had never mentioned it to anyone else in a similar situation. But there was something about the woman by the cart. Hanser had the feeling that Lena wasn’t allowing herself to grieve. Couldn’t grieve. Perhaps she didn’t even want to. So it was meant as a consolation. An outstretched hand to show that Hanser understood what Lena must be going through.

“Was he murdered too?”