The Second Deadly Sin (30 page)

Måns Wenngren was sitting in his office at Meijer & Ditzinger’s in Stockholm.

He was the only partner still in the building, but lights in offices occupied by trainees indicated that they were still ferreting away. Occasionally they would pad along the expensive carpets in the corridor to fetch a cup of coffee or a glass of water.

One of them appeared in his doorway to ask him a question. He noted that she had taken the trouble to refresh her lipstick before leaving her room, and wondered in passing if he ought to abandon all thoughts of Martinsson and ask this girl out to dinner.

But now, of course, he was risking something more than just a refusal. He was risking being regarded as pathetic. She might go to one of the other trainees and say: “For Christ’s sake, what the hell did he think he was on to?”

He watched the press conference in Kiruna on his computer.

Bloody fools! How on earth could they give him the opportunity to jump out the window? Just drive off after he had confessed.

He took his Macallan from the bottom drawer of his desk and took a swig straight out of the bottle. Then he dug out some throat tablets and swallowed a handful.

Von Post was sitting there at the press conference, taking all the questions.

Måns pointed at him.

“You stuck-up bastard! That’s my girl’s place.”

“We have a confession and a tragic death,” von Post said. “From the police point of view, this case is now closed.”

Lots of cameras lifted up in the air to get a good picture, lots of hands waving and people simply shouting out questions.

“Didn’t you have him under surveillance? How could this happen?”

“Of course we had him under surveillance.”

Von Post paused. Gritted his teeth so hard that his cheek muscles were stretched.

“Of course. But our man was in a hospital …”

He let that information sink in, then continued while looking directly at the biggest of the cameras.

“A murderer has taken his own life. It’s tragic, of course. We shall have to live with that. And our thoughts are with his relatives and friends. But – and this is important: as I understand it the doctor responsible had not observed any indications to suggest that he was suicidal.”

Neat, thought Måns: “A murderer has taken his own life.”

“What form did this surveillance take?”

“It was based on the assumption that he couldn’t run away because he was under arrest, and the doctor responsible for him did not diagnose him as suicidal. We had no reason to question that judgement.”

He’s a crafty bugger, thought Måns. Shoves the responsibility over onto a doctor as if it were second nature.

You could almost see the journalists craning their necks and preparing to follow a different trail.

Poor bastard, Måns thought. I hope it’s a senior doctor with a thick skin.

The prosecutor continued wittering away. Måns poured himself a proper glass of whisky.

Von Post explained that the murderer had been having an affair
with the victim. And a murder weapon found in the grounds of Häggroth’s house had traces of the victim’s blood on it.

So a suicide has lost all form of legal protection, has he? Måns thought. Von Post calls him a murderer, but he hasn’t been found guilty. What happened to the concept of being innocent until found guilty? I thought Sweden was still a country governed by law. I was evidently wrong.

Måns fiddled with his iPhone. He didn’t have the strength to listen any longer. It was just a load of crap.

He checked his text messages even though nothing on the display suggested that he had any. He checked his latest incoming calls, even though there was no indication that he had missed any. He checked his e-mails: nothing from Martinsson.

Then, without a second thought, he phoned Madelene, his first wife.

It occurred to him that perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea, and he ought to hang up. But she answered.

She didn’t sound as put-out as he had feared she might do.

The passing of time is making itself felt, he thought. She no longer has the strength to hate me for ever and a day.

“How are things?” he asked.

“Måns,” she said with more warmth than he deserved. “So you’re ringing me. What do you want?”

One of the trainees passed by his door. She was wearing an overcoat and carrying a heavy briefcase. She waved and mouthed
bye for now.

He gestured with his finger that she should shut his door, which she duly did.

“What happened to us?” he asked. “Why did we split up?”

At the other end of the line Madelene took a deep breath.

“Can’t we just forget about that?” she said without rancour. “How are you?”

“I haven’t been drinking, it’s just …”

“Is it something to do with Rebecka? I saw that they had caught the murderer up there in the sticks, and that he had committed suicide. But it wasn’t her case, was it?”

“No, it was that idiot of a colleague of hers. Fancy having to work alongside halfwits like that.”

He contemplated his whisky. He didn’t want to pour himself another one while he was talking to Madelene. She would hear what was going on. Her ear was well practised.

“I’m serious about Rebecka,” he said. “I would like to marry her. I’ve never felt like that about anybody else but you. But it’s so bloody complicated. Why does it have to be like that?”

He heard her sigh as a sort of answer.

“You know,” he went on, “I don’t feel restless. I want her to move in with me here. I want us to grow old together and that she just …”

“What?” said his first wife patiently, and he noted with a degree of gratitude that she refrained from commenting on the fact that he and Martinsson could never grow old together because Martinsson was so much younger.

“Or else she can go to hell,” he said, in a sudden fit of anger.

“Yes, that’s how you usually react.”

“Forgive me,” he said without a trace of irony in his voice.

“Eh? Forgive you what?”

“Forgive me, Madde, for all that you had to put up with. And you were a fantastic mother all the time. If you hadn’t … well, I wouldn’t have had any contact at all with the children today.”

“No problem, Måns,” she said slowly.

“They’re doing fine, aren’t they? They’re living good lives.”

“They’re doing fine.”

“Excellent. Goodbye!” he said abruptly.

And hung up before she had an opportunity to answer.

*

Madelene Ekströmer, formerly Wenngren, put down her mobile.

Her ex-husband had concluded the call as usual. Rapidly and unexpectedly. It had taken her years to learn how to cope with the way he hung up.

Then she went in to her husband, who was sitting in the Howard sofa with a pre-dinner drink in his hand and the family’s fox terriers at his feet.

“Måns?” he asked without looking up from the television.

“Do you know what?” she said, kissing his forehead as a sign that this was where she was at home now. “He said sorry to me. He actually apologised. Am I awake? I think I need a drink.”

“Good God,” said her husband. “Has he got cancer or something?”

*

Mella endured the press conference at von Post’s side. She felt on edge, and had a nagging headache.

So this was the murder investigation for which she had sold her loyalty.

She ought to have told him to go to hell. Go to hell, you jumpedup prat of a prosecutor, she should have said when they stole the investigation from Martinsson.

Björnfot was standing right at the back of the room, looking grim. She tried to convince herself that it was his fault – he was the one who had made the decision.

But that did not alter the fact that she ought to have acted differently.

“A murderer has taken his own life.” Von Post managed to say that three times during his introductory address and the subsequent question-and-answer session. The words would appear in at least one headline the following morning.

And that poor duty doctor: they had already started hunting her down. Mella noted how many of the journalists present began tapping away at their mobiles when von Post insinuated that it was the hospital’s fault.

A feeling of hopelessness was looming over her. Their job was to hunt down criminals. To feel exhilarated when they nailed them. Doing that would compensate for all the unsolved crimes, for all those who got away with their evil deeds, for their lack of resources, for the shortage of time, for all the women who were beaten up by their husbands and for all the cases that were shelved, written off, filed away.

But what they ought not to do was to make them jump out of windows. That made her feel ashamed.

Now The Pest was holding forth again. She liked that – von Post was The Pest. The investigation had been conducted in a highly efficient and professional manner, he maintained. You don’t say, Mella thought. That’s news to me.

At the very back of the room, behind all the journalists and photographers, a door opened and in came Sonja from the switchboard. Her blue-framed spectacles were hanging from her neck on a red cord. Her hair was gathered in a large bun, and her blouse was impeccably ironed.

She whispered for quite a long time into Björnfot’s ear. As she did so, his eyebrows rose higher and higher. He muttered something by way of reply. Her shoulders rose up to the level of her ears, and she started whispering again. Then both of them stared at Mella.

Björnfot sat upright, then tilted his head diagonally backwards to indicate that she ought to come over to him.

Mella shook her head almost imperceptibly to indicate that she could not.

He nodded his head slowly, and gave her an I-mean-right-away-
now
look.

“Excuse me,” Mella mumbled as she left the platform.

She could sense von Post’s eyes on her.

Go to hell, you jumpedup prat of a prosecutor, she thought, and slunk out of the room with Björnfot and Sonja.

“What’s this about?” Mella said.

“Well,” Sonja said in her sing-song Finland-Swedish, “I didn’t want to interrupt you, but I thought this couldn’t wait.”

She opened the door to the interrogation room. Then she left Mella and Björnfot to their own devices.

Sitting on the table was a man of about thirty-five. He was wearing a loose-fitting quilted jacket over a hooded fleece, old-fashioned green army trousers and boots. On his head was a homemade knitted cap. His facial stubble was such that within a couple of days it would deserve to be called a beard. He contrasted startlingly with the austerely furnished room with its little conference table and the blue-upholstered chairs designed to seat the general public. His eyes were as red as those of a white rabbit, and his face suggested that he was not unacquainted with an excess of alcohol.

Huh, Mella thought. A loony who wants to confess?

He looked at them with eyes that reminded Mella of all the occasions when, in the line of duty, she had been obliged to visit next of kin and inform them of the death of a relative.

“Are you police officers?” he said.

The moment he started talking it was clear to Mella that he was not an idiot. Just a drunk. She introduced herself, and Björnfot.

“I just got home not long ago and heard about what’s going on,” said the man. “My name is Mange Utsi. Jocke Häggroth is a mate of mine. Or was a mate of mine, perhaps I should say. And he didn’t kill Sol-Britt Uusitalo.”

“Really?” Mella said.

“I can’t understand what’s going on. I gather he must have confessed, and then … But it’s all bullshit. He can’t possibly have done it. He was with me the whole weekend.”

Von Post stood in front of Mange Utsi, legs wide apart and arms crossed, with a sceptical expression on his face. The press conference had gone as well as he could possibly have wished – and then this lunatic turned up. He eyed the bedraggled creature suspiciously.

“You’re lying!” he said, and there was almost a trace of a prayer in his voice.

“Any chance of a cup of coffee?” Utsi said.

He looked dejectedly at the other police officers in the room.

“Why should I lie? Jocke’s dead, for Christ’s sake.”

Mella, Olsson and Rantakyrö were leaning against the wall. Stålnacke was at home. When they rang from the hospital to say that Häggroth had jumped to his death, he had taken his coat and vanished without a word. He had now called in sick.

“Have you any witnesses?” von Post said.

“I thought I was supposed to be the witness,” Utsi sighed. “And a Coca-Cola as well,” he added as Rantakyrö left to fetch some coffee.

“He confessed,” von Post said. “Why should he confess to having done something he hadn’t?”

Utsi shrugged.

“Tell this man what you told me,” Mella said.

“We drove off on Saturday morning. To his brother’s cottage up in Abisko. And … well, we drank ourselves legless. You know how it is – sometimes you need to give your mind a good clean-out.”

The officers looked at each other. What could there possibly be to clean out inside that man’s head?

“Jocke drove back home on Sunday, late. And I’ve only just got back, and heard what had happened. I can promise you, we crept out of the sauna on our hands and knees on Saturday. He couldn’t have driven home then, even if he’d wanted to. The neighbour called in as well, so I’m not the only one who can testify where Jocke was at the weekend.”

“I have to ask you,” Mella said. “What about his wife? What was their relationship like?”

Utsi blinked as if he had sandpaper inside his eyelids. He shook his head and gave Mella a meaningful look, begging her to take pity on him.

“All I wanted to say was that he couldn’t have done it.”

“Everything will come out into the open,” Mella said calmly. “Tell us about it; it will make you feel better.”

Rantakyrö returned with the coffee and a coke. Utsi took them eagerly and emptied both the can and the mug in just a few swigs. He belched, excused himself, and after a brief pause said, “She used to beat him up.”

The police officers exchanged glances again.

“How often? How badly?” Mella said.

“I don’t know. He didn’t talk about it. We never discussed it. Sometimes when he had a black eye he would laugh it off by saying that she was bloody deadly with a frying pan.”