Block 46 Page 4

  Alba was right, Alexis thought: this day couldn’t end soon enough.

  Buchenwald concentration camp, Germany

  August 1944

  THIS MORNING, it was the cosh that had woken them up. Repeatedly crashing down on their skulls alongside the litany of the officers’ insults.

  Erich pulled himself out of the bunk, in time for the morning roll call. The two men with whom he shared the straw matting weren’t as fast as him and were both repeatedly hit in the ribs. Watching their bony bodies climbing down from the wooden cradle that served as their bed felt like gazing at the living dead escaping from a columbarium.

  Erich discreetly exercised his joints. He’d only been here for a few weeks, but already the terrible tiredness was taking its toll. Night was never long enough to compensate for the hellish days. They slept head to toe, on their sides, squeezed against total strangers, surrounded by the collective miasma – the rattles of pain, the moaning, the nightmares and the cries; the effluents of dysentery spilling all over the thin matting; the flea bites, the bedbugs and the lice swarming under their bodies. The nights were as inhuman as the days.

  One of his acquaintances on the block – a man who’d swallowed his wedding ring before being inspected on their arrival and kept retrieving it again and again from his excrement – had called it ‘dehumanising the prisoners’. Erich felt that was an understatement. Like identifying an illness but ignoring its symptoms. Not only were they dehumanised, they were dying of thirst and hunger, were exploited, tortured, degraded. Buchenwald was a never-ending waltz with Death. Everything they did, every single task, every step, was part of the dance.

  Erich hadn’t seen the cold yet, though. A Pole whose torso had been riddled by ulcers said the wind rushing across the camp was as deadly as an SS Luger; the ‘devil’s breath’ he called it. The guy cried aloud when he evoked the winter, when he mourned his comrades frozen on the ground, who he’d had to gather up.

  The cosh went into action again to encourage them out of the block. It was wash time. Erich only had a half-hour to make his bed, clean himself, dress and swallow down his breakfast.

  When the signal for gruel rang, he always seemed to be queuing for the latrines. If he didn’t reach the block in time, he’d forfeit his ration. He ran towards the sinks. But, for the sixth day in a row, he gave up on cleaning himself up and rushed away again.

  He set down the piece of stale bread and the bowl full of what approximated coffee on the corner of the wooden table. He broke the bread into small pieces and began to eat it, softening it with his saliva prior to chewing it slowly, before trying to wash it down with the ersatz coffee. As the final crumb of this thin morning gruel hit the back of his throat, he thought back to the summons he had received towards the end of his previous day’s work at the quarry. After the roll call, he was to present himself to desk number two. He had no idea why.

  He wetted his forefinger with the tip of his tongue to try and retrieve the four orphaned breadcrumbs lodged in a gap in the wood, and then left the block. Hunger raging inside his stomach and fear holding his throat in a tight grip, he walked over to the roll-call area. There was a strong possibility that the coming hour standing with his companions in misery, listening to an SS officer count down the camp’s occupants, might well be his last. He was surprised to actually feel some form of relief. The guy who had thrown himself, the previous evening, against the barbed wire, knowing all too well he would be cut down by the SS machine guns, had probably made the right choice.

  ‘Caps off! Caps back on!’

  Erich was familiar with the next shouted order. Fear accelerated his heartbeat.

  ‘Summoned prisoners to the big door!’

  He walked jauntily over to the second desk. He had to demonstrate he was in good condition, healthy, therefore still useful.

  ‘Work commandos, assemble.’

  He watched the lines of skeleton-thin bodies gather in groups of five to the sound of the lively music from the orchestra.

  ‘20076!’

  Erich turned round. A pot-bellied soldier was consulting a sheet of paper he held between his swollen fingers.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The officer scowled at him as he took note of the inverted red triangle sewn into Erich’s shirt. He came closer.

  ‘Bloody hell … You’re actually German…’ He took his cap off, scratched his forehead, then put the cap back on. ‘You know what, you fucker? As far as I’m concerned, you’re the worst of them all. Traitors to your own country. No better than if you’d tried to kill your mother, you fucker. Do you understand?’

  His drink-soaked breath almost made Erich sick.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Take your pants off, you bloody traitor.’

  His hands unsteady, Erich let his trousers slip down to his ankles.

  ‘Lean forward, you fucker.’

  The gummi smacked ten times against his backside. Erich gritted his teeth and swallowed the bile rushing up his throat.

  ‘That’s the thrashing your mother should have given you.’ Out of breath, the officer put the club back into his belt. ‘But I’m not going to damage you too much. No reason you shouldn’t be able to enjoy your next treat: you’re expected at the ovens, arsehole. Your turn to be roasted.’

  Falkenberg police station

  Monday, 13 January 2014, 09.00

  LENNART BERGSTRÖM HANDED A cup of coffee to Stellan.

  ‘So how long is it since you spoke to or saw Linnéa Blix?’ the Kommissionar asked, sitting at his desk.

  ‘Last November. We dined at my house. I wasn’t aware she was planning to come to Falkenberg this month.’

  ‘Did she come here often?’

  ‘Two or three times a year, I’d say. For two, three weeks at a time. Sometimes a whole month, in summer.’

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘I don’t know. All I can say is, she never brought anyone when we ate together.’

  ‘Did she normally warn you when she was visiting?’

  ‘Yes. We always took advantage of her visits to see each other.’

  ‘Were you fucking her?’

  The question came as no surprise to Stellan.

  ‘We’d known each other for almost thirty years, Lennart. If we’d ever wanted a roll in the hay, we’d have done it long ago.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We just enjoyed good meals together. She was always there for me when … well, you know…’

  Stellan’s voice deepened. Bergström concealed his embarrassment by sipping at his coffee.

  ‘Did she ever talk about her partner, Peter Templeton?’ he asked, as he rose from the desk to fill his cup again.

  ‘I knew they were together, yes, and that he worked in human resources or something of the sort. But she mostly talked about her own work.’

  ‘And on Friday, when you returned from Stockholm, you didn’t see any lights in her windows?’

  Stellan shook his head.

  ‘Or a car in the drive? Damn, I’ve just realised I haven’t had time to check if she actually had a car,’ the Kommissionar remarked, as if speaking to himself.

  ‘She didn’t that I know of. She usually took a cab from the airport. Around here, she used to walk or cycle.’

  ‘OK … Well, Olofsson will take down your official statement. You understand I can’t get directly involved.’

  Bergström hugged Stellan – more an impersonal Scandinavian gesture of affection that anything intimate – and opened the door to his office to show him out.

  Walking through the station, Stellan noticed Alexis exiting the interview room with Olofsson on her heels. She was nodding mechanically in response to the detective’s continuous monologue, while taking in her surroundings. Her pale-blue eyes examined everything carefully, as if she didn’t want to miss anything important.

  Olofsson finally moved away. When she noticed Stellan, the young woman gave him a tired smile.

  ‘Hej, Alexis. How is Peter doing?’

>   The question came as both a surprise and a relief to Alexis. She couldn’t pretend her shoulders were wide enough both to offer support to Peter and to console Alba – and also to reassure her own parents, who were deeply disturbed by the knowledge that their daughter was involved in such a dreadful story. By asking her for news of Peter, Stellan had unwittingly offered her a hand.

  ‘He’s devastated, of course. Exhausted too. He’s giving his statement right now.’

  ‘You’ve made yours?’

  She nodded.

  Olofsson returned, holding a cup in each hand, and positioned himself between the two of them. He’d taken off his woollen jacket and was displaying a strong set of abs under his skin-tight pullover. The hound couldn’t have chosen a worst moment to parade his wares, Stellan thought, as he took the cups from him. He offered one to Alexis. Taken by surprise, Olofsson had no choice but to give up his amorous ammunition.

  ‘Isn’t it my turn to answer some questions, Kristian?’ Stellan said, sipping from his cup. ‘Shall we?’

  Olofsson gave him a dirty look.

  ‘It’s what the boss wants.’ Stellan raised his left hand to make his point.

  His intentions defeated, Olofsson gave Alexis a crooked smile and asked Stellan to follow him into the nearest interview room. Stellan winked at Alexis, drawing a smile, then obediently followed the detective.

  Alexis set her handbag and coat on one of the chairs lining the corridor wall and slowly drank her coffee, her hands cradling the cup in a familiar and reassuring fashion.

  Linnéa is dead. Linnéa has been killed. Linnéa is dead.

  She repeated the words to herself over and over, as if hoping she would become accustomed to them and the heaviness in her chest would subside. She knew that time would provide no balm; at best it would help her to live with this new reality. She had to move forward and confront it if she was to overcome this awful feeling.

  She had suggested to Bergström that she should identify her friend’s body, so that Peter was spared the task. Bergström had swallowed hard, then explained in his deep, drawl of a voice that the tattoo on the victim’s ankle and the birthmark below her left breast left her identity in no doubt. The answer shattered Alexis’ equilibrium. She closed her eyes and tried to banish all the awful images her brain was racing to manufacture.

  ‘Ursäkta!’

  A uniformed police woman was pushing a board on wheels towards her. Alexis shifted sideways and the cop continued on to a set of heavy doors, which she pushed open with her hip. The doors remained open a brief moment, just long enough for Alexis to notice the photographs thumbtacked to the wall inside the room. Just long enough for her to recognise the long, curling blonde hair flowing from the mutilated body, shot from every conceivable angle. A naked body where two dark tunnels now replaced the eyes, and a bloody, dark-red gash extended all the way down from her neck.

  Just as the door closed, Alexis noticed that Bergström was in intense discussion with someone she recognised instantly, and whose presence was anything but good news.

  The young woman closed her eyes and took a deep, avid breath, like a swimmer returning to the surface after a lengthy dive.

  ‘Where should I leave it, Kommissionar?’ the cop asked as she wheeled the board in.

  ‘Put it over there,’ Emily Roy ordered, pointing towards the room’s only window.

  The cop silently sought Lennart Bergström’s approval. With a slight nod of the head, he indicated she should follow their guest’s suggestion. The female cop reluctantly did so then left the room, not before throwing Emily a dirty look.

  Although Bergström was Swedish and a strong proponent of equality between the sexes, when Jack Pearce of Scotland Yard had warned him he was sending over his best profiler, he had to admit he hadn’t expected a woman. Not that Emily Roy was particularly feminine: she was short, athletic thin but robust; and rather intimidating.

  ‘You told Pearce she was found in a marina?’

  Her back to the Kommissionar, Emily was firing questions at him while moving the photos from the wall to the board. Her slow, economical, precise gestures reminded Bergström of a martial-arts master.

  ‘Yes. Torsviks småbåtshamn, in the Olofsbo quarter. Quite a rustic and isolated area. Småbåtshamn means “a port for small boats”. It’s mostly used by summer residents who own houses in Olofsbo.’ ‘Who discovered the victim?’

  ‘Two boys.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Fourteen and fifteen.’

  ‘Who owns the small boat where the body was hidden?’

  ‘It belonged to an Olofsbo resident who died back in 2004. He had no living relatives. His house was sold and the snipa had been hanging around next to the småbåtshamn information kiosk for more than ten years.’

  ‘I presume the kiosk is closed in winter.’

  Bergström concurred.

  ‘And no weapons were found in the vicinity?’

  ‘None whatsoever.’

  There were a few seconds of silence between them, the police station’s hubbub continuing in the background.

  ‘Have you anything to hand to make notes in?’ Emily asked him peremptorily as she contemplated the patchwork of photographs.

  Her demanding tone surprised Bergström, but he meekly executed the order, like a good schoolboy.

  ‘I will require aerial shots of the area where the victim was found and a scale map of the immediate surroundings, with everything clearly marked: houses, apartments, schools, fuel stations, supermarkets, shops, everything in the neighbourhood. I’ll also need the video that was taken when the body was discovered…’

  ‘We have photographs, but no vi—’

  ‘…the preliminary police report with all the possible clues uncovered by the scene-of-crime team, any information relating to the body’s discovery, and statements from all witnesses and neighbours, as well as any socio-economic information about the precise spot where the body was discovered – ie, what type of people live in and frequent the area. I also require the autopsy report and its toxicological and serological tests, the conclusions and thoughts of the pathologist, and autopsy photos with a clear view of the wounds once they have been cleaned up.’

  Bergström looked up to the ceiling. Falkenberg wasn’t London, for sure, but he felt insulted by the assumption he had no clue as to how a proper investigation should proceed.

  ‘I’ll get busy building a profile of the victim. What’s the actual address of the marina?’

  ‘We can drive you there, if you want.’

  ‘No need. I’ll make my own way.’

  Bergström gave her the address, and watched the profiler slip on her padded jacket and backpack with catlike movements.

  Emily left her host behind without a further word and quietly closed the door behind her.

  ‘Well, I do hope that not all Canadians are that rude,’ said Bergström out loud. ‘It’s sure going to be a pleasure working with Miss Emily Roy.’

  Emily adjusted her cap so that it covered her ears. The fiery cold made her feel alive. All her senses awakened, she gazed at the expanse of Torsviks småbåtshamn. Now empty of boats, the småbåtshamn was just an icebound, snow-covered wilderness. The pontoons just about indicated the borders of the white expanse – the tentative rectangle opening out onto the North Sea, like a trench carved into the Olofsbo dunes and its rocky beaches.

  To the south, on the left, white fields extended to infinity, their trees tamed by the wind into eternal submission. The first dwelling stood about four hundred metres away. An old L-shaped farmhouse with a dark-red facade: Linnéa’s home. Further inland, two hundred metres to the east, was a small agglomeration of four yellow buildings. To the north, on the right, a dune of unkempt grass stood like a wall between the marina and the camping grounds. That was the way Emily had come. She’d driven to the car park by the beach and followed the shortest path, skirting the camping grounds, winding round the side of the dune before reaching the marina. A two-minute walk; fo
ur or five at most, for someone carrying a body weighing forty-seven kilos.

  It was the most obvious way for someone in a car, in a hurry and wishing to not be seen. Crossing the snow fields all the way from the main road, three hundred metres to the west, was unlikely: a car parked by the side of the road would have attracted undue attention. Wading through the fields all the way from Linnéa’s house, from the group of yellow houses or from the lighthouse’s car park, two hundred metres north of the camping grounds, was unthinkable. The killer could have reached the marina from the beach, but it would have proven a long, tiring and dangerous walk, what with the frost and snow making the pebbled path so slippery. No, the killer must have come the same way she had.

  Emily retraced her steps and walked by the Torsviks småbåtshamn information kiosk. This was where Linnéa’s body had been found, concealed beneath an abandoned boat situated between the yellow wooden hut and the dune. A boat the SKL, the scene-of-crime team, had towed away.

  She pulled a large, stiff envelope from her backpack and took out a series of photos, which she quickly glanced at. Eight of the shots showed details of the boat in which the body had been found. The profiler examined the snow-covered ground under her feet. Nature had already washed the horror away, burying the bloodstains, the clues, and the activity of the police under several layers of white powder. Nature had restored peace. Emily tried to imagine the whole scene that might have unfolded earlier beneath the spotlights illuminating the interior of the white tent.

  Latex-gloved hands pulling the boat away. Beneath it, the body is naked, the skin blue, with a thin film of frost. Emily can’t smell the rancid scent of death, which has been blown away by the cold. The silky blonde hair frames the face, all the way down to the shoulders. The arms have been placed alongside the body. The pubis is shaven. The eye sockets are empty, black, dried blood highlighting their circles. The incision made to enucleate the victim is visible and tidy. The throat is cut wide open. The gash is deep, flaps of skin hanging on both sides of it. The trachea has been sectioned and pulled out.