Block 46 Read online

  Björn Holm, the head of the SKL, the scene-of-crime police, awaited the Kommissionar at the foot of the dune.

  ‘Good God, Lennart … I’ve never seen anything of the sort,’ he muttered, nervously plucking ice from his moustache.

  Bergström cleared his throat.

  ‘Is the pathologist here?’

  ‘Not any more. He was called over to Gothenburg.’

  ‘Damn … Have you made a start?’

  ‘We’ve had a brief look at the body and replaced the snipa* as it was. I wanted the guys to start looking at the hull and then around the boat, although I strongly doubt if we’ll find anything, what with all this snow.’

  Bergström slipped on his protective clothing, pulled on similar covers over his shoes, then blew into a pair of blue latex gloves before putting them on.

  ‘You go first,’ Björn said, as he moved aside.

  Two arc lights threw a fierce, naked light across the interior of the tent. In its centre a small wooden boat lay upside down, the red line of its hull pointing upwards.

  The three technicians momentarily looked up from the snipa as the Kommissionar entered and acknowledged his presence with brief hand gestures.

  ‘We need another couple of minutes,’ the smallest of the men said from behind his mask, his gaze not moving away from the specific area he was examining.

  ‘What have you done with the two kids who discovered the body?’ Björn asked the Kommissionar.

  ‘I left them at the station, with Olofsson. They were quite shaken up.’

  ‘I gather they were dead drunk. But in a terrible state of shock, all the same. Frozen to the spot, I heard. What the hell were they doing in Torsviks småbåtshamn in the middle of the night?’

  ‘Probably came here to drink in peace. They’d stolen a couple of bottles of vodka from their parents and thought they’d found the ideal hiding place.’

  ‘Looks as if they weren’t the only ones…’

  ‘Right, that’s it, we’re done,’ said one of the technicians. ‘Now we can move the snipa.’

  Björn and Bergström both stepped back while the other two technicians began to move the small boat.

  The hull had clearly survived years of harsh weather and torrents of spindrift; it reminded the Kommissionar of the nutshell Thumbelina had used as a cot in the Andersen fairy tale. What a strange train of thought, he reflected, as he watched the boat being raised like the lid of a box.

  A naked woman lay underneath. She was on her back, her arms alongside her body, her legs tight against each other.

  Bergström kneeled down by the body. Under the film of frost, you could see the skin had turned blue from the severe cold. Her thick, blonde hair was carefully laid out, reaching down to her shoulders. Her pubis had been shaved and the letter X carved into her left arm. Her eyes had been pulled out. The ocular cavities were empty, dark and unnaturally large, like a huge stain in the delicate landscape of her face. Her throat had been slashed vertically from her chin down to her sternal notch, and the skin of her neck yawned like an open shirt. Her trachea had been sectioned.

  The Kommissionar rose and exited the tent. He discarded the protective clothing and picked up his mobile phone. It was time to summon the troops, and fast. He had the uneasy feeling that a Pandora’s Box had just been opened.

  * A snipa is a wooden boat

  Landvetter Airport, Gothenburg, Sweden

  Sunday, 12 January 2014, 22.15

  THE BITING COLD took Alexis in its grip. For a few seconds, her anxieties faded away. All she could feel were the icy tides rushing through the soles of her shoes and rising up her legs. She even managed to enjoy this momentary pause in the dark flow of her thoughts. To be able to feel and not have to think. As if her brain had been disconnected. Deliverance. But it didn’t last.

  She was soon hopping up and down, waiting for Alba and Peter to get into the cab, then followed them inside and closed the door behind her.

  The flight had been silent. Unending. Alba had slept all the way. Peter had alternated between sleep and wakefulness, muttering incoherently to himself most of the time.

  Alexis had hoped the busy clamour of the airport would help banish all thoughts of Linnéa. But the atmosphere in Landvetter was soporific. In the arrival hall, an anonymous mass of blonde heads greeted the travellers with an apathy that was anything but welcoming. Alexis had walked out into the cold determined to rid herself of all this negative energy. Now, however, she was confined to the interior of the cab for an hour and a half.

  The three friends sank into contemplation of the white blanket of snow covering the plain outside, a pale-blue light spreading across the night. Wedged between Alba and Alexis, Peter stared at the road, listless. Alba had her nose stuck to the window, like a moody child.

  The driver had the radio playing quietly. The unexpected grace and musicality of the Swedish language felt like a lullaby to Alexis. She closed her eyes and massaged a temple with the tip of her fingers. She’d never actually heard Linnéa speak in her native tongue, or even talk about Falkenberg and what she did there. Linnéa always studiously avoided answering questions about her sojourns in Sweden, waving her hands in the air almost Mediterranean-style, before quickly changing the subject.

  ‘I’m sorry … How long until we get there?’

  Alba had asked the question, her voice almost a whisper, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. They’d been driving for more than an hour already.

  The driver answered, his English a tad rough, with almost German intonations – in sharp contrast to the natural softness of his voice: ‘Five minutes.’

  Peter was pulling nervously at his seatbelt, as if attempting to escape its tight embrace. ‘I just can’t,’ he gasped. ‘I can’t wait until tomorrow morning. We must go to Linnéa’s. Right now!’

  Alba threw a panicky look at Alexis, who then took Peter’s hands into hers to calm him down.

  ‘We haven’t got any keys, Peter. And, anyway, the police have already been to Linnéa’s place. There’s nothing we can do.’

  ‘It’s crazy. They didn’t even bother to break in and look inside the house, damn it! Maybe she felt unwell and she’s waiting … waiting for…’

  His breathing was becoming frantic. He bent forward, his hands against his open mouth in an effort to staunch a flow of tears.

  Alexis dug her mobile phone out, her hand unsteady, and gave Linnéa’s address to the driver, who was throwing them nervous looks in his rear-view mirror. His head now buried in the hollow of Alba’s neck, Peter no longer bothered to hold back his tears.

  The cab slowed down then turned right onto a narrow path, shuddering like a boat about to go to sea. Alexis’ phone began to vibrate. She took the call, steadying herself against the front seat as the car navigated the rough terrain.

  ‘Alexis Castelli?’

  She ignored the incorrect pronunciation of her name and abruptly confirmed it was she.

  The man at the other end of the line introduced himself, then spoke briefly in perfect English. Her eyes wide open, her forehead balanced against the front seat, Alexis asked him to repeat what he had just said. All of a sudden, fear and pain surged through her stomach, crushing her lungs, her throat becoming unbearably dry.

  Yet again, death had come visiting.

  The driver came to a halt in front of a stately yellow-wood house. Snow peppered the sky, forming a curtain of white netting. In the distance, flashing lights were dancing busily.

  Alexis was biting her lips in an effort to prevent herself shaking. A body had just been discovered in the small marina nearby. That’s what the Swedish policeman had told Alexis on the phone. They had come across a body. He knew Alexis was on the way to Falkenberg – had been informed of the fact by the missing-persons bureau – but he hadn’t realised she was now just five hundred metres away from Linnéa’s place. The policeman had stuttered, hesitated, exchanged a few words in Swedish with another man with a drawling voice, then requested Alexis to ask the taxi
to drop them off at another address, not far away.

  Alexis had hung up and closed her eyes, fear overcoming her fatigue, so she could barely breathe. She hardly had time to absorb the terrible piece of information before she knew she would have to repeat it. She didn’t go into any details; didn’t use fancy words. She just impassively passed on the gist of the conversation to her friends.

  Peter had nodded and fallen into a deathly silence. Alba’s eyes had widened briefly, and then her gaze had returned to the snowy spectacle outside the cab’s window.

  A body had just been discovered.

  The door of the yellow house opened and a broad-backed fellow wrapped up in a snow-splashed red parka appeared on the threshold. As Alexis opened the door of the cab, a cloud of snowflakes rushed in and whipped across her face. She screwed up her eyes to shake off the shards of snow stuck to her eyelashes and exited the vehicle quickly, followed by Peter and Alba.

  As they walked towards the porch, the man moved to one side to allow them in, and began to speak, but his words were swallowed up by the roar of the wind. The sting of the cold faded as soon as he closed the door behind them. Shedding her coat, Alexis asked the man to repeat what he had said.

  ‘I’m Kristian Olofsson, a detective with the Falkenberg police force. We spoke on the phone just a few minutes ago.’

  ‘Yes, of course…’

  Alba and Peter stood behind her, like lost children.

  ‘This is Stellan Eklund.’

  A man stood in the arched vault that led to the kitchen on their right. He nodded briefly in their direction.

  ‘Stellan will look after you while we wait for Kommissionar Lennart Bergström to arrive.’

  ‘Is…’

  But the detective didn’t give her the chance to finish her question; he pulled his phone out of his pocket and moved away, into the corridor.

  Stellan welcomed the new arrivals, asking whether they wanted coffee.

  ‘There’s something I have to ask the detective, then I’ll come and join you,’ Alexis said.

  She followed Olofsson and asked, without pausing, ‘Do you have a description? A photo? Any information about the person you’ve just discovered?’

  Surprised, Olofsson turned towards her. Staring at Alexis, he finished his phone conversation and hung up.

  ‘I can’t—’

  ‘Listen, all I’m asking is for you to share any information you have, even if you haven’t identified the … body … yet.’ Grief tightened her throat.

  ‘There’s nothing I can tell you. I haven’t been given any of the details.’

  Alexis rolled her eyes and sighed with frustration.

  Olofsson kept on speaking in his monotonous voice. ‘Kommissionar Bergström sent me here, to Eklund’s, and asked me to have you wait. He should be here any minute.’

  ‘Can you at least tell me who Eklund is and why we’re in his home?’

  ‘Stellan Eklund used to be with the Falkenberg police.’

  A door slammed.

  ‘That must be Lennart,’ Olofsson stated, moving past Alexis towards the front door.

  As the door opened, Alexis caught sight of a particularly large individual with a short, greying beard. In his marine blue oilskins, his features chiselled by the seasons and his hair still damp with melting snow, Lennart Bergström looked more like a sailor than a police officer.

  ‘Hej, Lennart,’ Olofsson greeted him. ‘Det är Alexis Castelli, Linnéa Blix vän. Hon Kommer ifrån…’

  ‘Ja, ja, ja, visst Kristian.’

  Bergström looked straight at Alexis and held out his hand. ‘Hello, I’m Lennart Bergström, Kommissionar of Falkenberg police.’

  His grip was firm, but he placed his other hand on Alexis’ shoulder with surprising tenderness.

  ‘I am so sorry…’ he said.

  Alexis’ legs gave way and Bergström just about managed to catch her. An abominable sadness surged over her, eating away at her soul like a hungry beast.

  Bergström helped her sit down on one of the chairs lining the wall of the corridor. He sat down next to her.

  Her back bent, staring down at her knees, Alexis listened to the words she had feared hearing.

  Home of Stellan Eklund, Olofsbo, Falkenberg

  Monday, 13 January 2014, 01.30

  KRISTIAN OLOFSSON SERVED HIMSELF some more coffee. The tall, skinny woman, whose name he had forgotten, handed him her cup as if he were just common muck. He couldn’t stand these big-town chicks. This particular one stank of money, with her handbag perfectly matching her belt and her shoes, and that look of superiority on her face that said ‘My bracelet alone cost the same as you earn in six months, you fucking peasant’.

  He filled the bourgeoise’s cup while gazing over at the other woman, Alexis, the pretty one. Stellan was busy with her. No surprise. After her fainting spell in the corridor, she’d taken a deep breath and had walked over to impart the bad news to the pretty boy, who’d promptly collapsed in a heap, like the gutless piece of shit he no doubt was. Just another guy who’d lost his balls; maybe she’d stolen them … she sure looked fiery. She and Horseface had given him some pill to calm him down and had put him to bed in one of the spare bedrooms. In the meantime, Bergström had explained that this Linnéa Blix chick who’d been found at Torsviks småbåtshamn – starkers and her face in a mess – was something of a celebrity. Kristian had never heard of her, though.

  ‘Kristian!’

  Talk of the devil … The Kommissionar had been keeping a close eye on him ever since he’d moved here from Gothenburg.

  ‘Yeah?’

  The fat-arsed cunt was always on the case. And now, for once, something had actually happened in Falkenberg; it probably gave him a hard-on.

  Olofsson set his coffee cup down and stepped over to join Bergström next door.

  ‘The forensics team have finished at the victim’s home. I’ll need Peter Templeton taken there to check nothing is missing or has been moved; or even added.’

  ‘He’s asleep. They gave him a pill.’

  ‘Oh … Well, go and see if either of his two friends can help until he’s back in circulation.’

  Olofsson nodded and returned to the kitchen. Sure, they could be of assistance. But there was no way he wanted the tall, skinny one along; he’d take the pretty one – give them time to get to know each other.

  Things didn’t turn out the way Olofsson had hoped. The snobby bitch had turned ugly at the suggestion of looking over Linnéa’s home. She found the idea inappropriate while they were still reeling from the news of her death, and anyway it would be useless, as neither of them had ever set foot in the house. The hottie had then argued her side of things, saying that they should do anything for the sake of the investigation. They might not know their friend’s Swedish home, but they had been intimate with her and they might see something random that could prove useful: the presence of something or some missing object, maybe. She’d made a good case, concluding that it was something they should do, notwithstanding their feelings.

  Horseface had reluctantly accepted her friend’s logic and calmed down. But, as usual, shit happens, and the useless pretty boy had then woken up, so Olofsson had to take all three of them along. A bloody nuisance. Add to this the fact he was getting damned tired; it was four in the morning and he was dying to get his head down.

  The detective slammed the car door and shivered. No one had said a word since they had left Eklund’s. The mood of the party was downright sinister. Despite the polar cold and the heavy pall of night, which seemed to adhere to their skin, every single one of them would much have preferred to remain outside.

  The cop left on guard duty opened the door for them, switched the lights on and stepped aside to let them in, closing the door behind them. Alexis briefly felt like she was part of a group of tourists being hurried along by their guide.

  Her tired gaze travelled over the hallway’s walls which, to her surprise, were covered in an orange-coloured flowery wallpaper. By the
door leading to the kitchen stood two odd chairs, alongside a pale wooden chest of drawers, over which were scattered a few woollen hats, a lipstick tube, an assortment of coins and some leaflets.

  The kitchen was decorated in the same colours as the hallway, aside from some psychedelic-patterned tiles and a Formica-topped table. Alexis had trouble believing this house had ever belonged to her friend. It didn’t feel right at all. Linnéa always had a brand name to match any of her belongings: a Philippe Starck chair; an Arne Jacobsen table; a Ron Arad shelf.

  As if echoing her thoughts, Peter’s pained red eyes searched around questioningly. He ran his fingers across the edge of a table still littered with breadcrumbs, then walked out of the room.

  Alexis followed him into a narrow bathroom. Linnéa’s toiletry bag stood on a stool next to the shower cubicle. A brush and a mascara compact peered through the opening, as if they had just been used.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Peter whispered. ‘This is all so unlike her…’

  Alexis could only agree, but she remained silent. She led Peter along to the next room.

  As they went, they heard the loud sound of Alba’s voice behind them, by the front door. ‘No, no, no, no, no!’

  Olofsson ran towards her, Alexis and Peter on his heels.

  ‘Have you found something?’ the detective asked.

  ‘What the hell are you expecting me to find, eh?’ she answered, her voice tearful. ‘The killer’s business card? There’s just nothing that resembles Linnéa in this house! Nothing at all!’

  ‘But you haven’t yet been upstairs,’ Olofsson protested.

  ‘I’ve had enough of all this! We’re exhausted and had to bear enough horror already today, don’t you just understand? We can’t put up with any more. Take us to the hotel.’