Chapter 25
They could not be sure of the scene of the crime.
Nor of the murder weapon, but it was probably a large tool, such as a shovel.
And presumably an old one—flakes of rust were found in Mikael’s hair.
There had been alcohol in his blood, but not very much.
Whatever good that information might do—after all, he’d just been at a party.
Mikael Soderstrom, eighteen. Just a boy, his whole life ahead of him.
His father had been led out of the chapel during the Advent service, an incident Siri and Gerd documented after the fact and included in the investigation materials.
That was the easy part—discerning what it meant was a different matter.
They had tried to interview the family again, especially Karl-Henrik, but all they got out of them was information they already knew.
“He was so much like me,” Karl-Henrik said, over and over. “He was so much like me.”
As though a part of his very being had been torn from the world, and wasn’t that the truth?
“He addressed Felicia Grenberg in the chapel,” Siri said now that she and Gerd were alone in the office. “She’s the one he targeted, as if she and Mikael were together somehow. Is that so, do you know? Did they have a relationship?”
Gerd shook her head. “I’ve heard rumors, of course, but nothing that concrete.”
“Rumors about what?”
Gerd made a face. “That he forced himself on her at some party, I think. But there was never any proof, and we’re not a gossip mill.
We’re no Majken Gustafsson. The hairdresser,” Gerd clarified when Siri raised an eyebrow.
“Before she closed down her salon a few years ago. She used to sing in the choir, by the way, you know—the one that sang today. So did I.”
“You did?” Siri couldn’t disguise her amazement.
“Yes, back in the day. I thought it was nice around Christmastime. I like to sing, but not by myself.”
Siri examined a note in front of her. It had to do with the fight between Jakob Lindell and Mikael. It seemed money was the root of the argument.
“They could have been fighting about Felicia as well,” she mused.
At that moment, a visitor turned up on their doorstep. They feared it was somebody from the Violent Crimes Unit in Halmstad, or worse, journalists, but no: it was Bengt and Inga-Lill Lindell. Between them stood none other than their son Jakob.
“We need to report a theft,” Bengt said.
They went out together, Siri and Gerd, and given the circumstances they performed a thorough investigation of the scene.
Gerd photographed the broken glass on the stained parquet, and the bench where Bengt had secreted the family’s savings.
Siri noted half an impression of a shoe on the floor just inside the door.
Presumably the perpetrator had taken off their shoes after leaving that print.
She studied the impression at close range.
“Too smeared to lift,” Gerd said, taking a picture with the camera. “But we’ll document it anyway.”
Then she dutifully photographed the door, both from a distance and close up, with the broken pane like an open wound. Almost the whole house fit into the frame.
Meanwhile, Siri spoke to Jakob, who stood with his arms wrapped around himself as though he were freezing, looking like his whole world had fallen apart.
“It’s okay, Jakob,” she said softly. “This kind of thing can happen to anyone.” Siri almost wanted to touch him. “How are you holding up? It must have been a difficult weekend.”
“I’m okay. I just want the money back.”
“How bad was this fight you had with Mikael at the party?”
“What do you mean, how bad?”
“Was it about Felicia?”
Jakob’s eyes got big. “Felicia? No, no. It was just about money and stuff, that kind of crap.”
“But you like Felicia?”
“As a friend, sure. But that’s all.”
“But did Mikael think you did? He liked her, right?”
“No, I don’t know. Who told you that?”
“I just wondered. Did Mikael like Felicia?”
“Everyone likes Felicia. But if there was something more going on between them, I didn’t know about it. I guess you’d have to ask her.”
“What about after the party, what did you do?”
“I went home, obviously.”
“Straight home?”
Jakob looked perplexed. “Yeah, of course.”
Siri waited. So did Jakob.
“Okay,” said Gerd. “I’m all done.”
—
Back at the station, they sat in Gerd’s office, Gerd at her cluttered desk and Siri on one of the wooden chairs. All Siri had added to her own office so far was a new notepad, a set of empty binders, and a few random mugs. It still smelled like old coffee in there.
“According to the autopsy, Mikael dies at around one thirty in the morning,” Siri said. “Ten minutes later, around twenty to two, Jakob arrives home.”
By that point, the pane of the door was already broken, and someone had taken the money—over fifty thousand kronor—out of the kitchen bench and vanished.
No evidence beyond the smeared footprint had been found in the house; the burglar had taken one step inside, stopped to remove their shoes, and then continued.
This burglar was either experienced or clever.
“Lots of money,” Siri said. “Poor bastards.”
“Yes. But if you’re stupid enough to withdraw your savings, hide it carelessly in your home, and let your son go to a party where he blabs about it, you have only yourself to blame.”
“Who does, the son or the parents?”
Gerd only muttered in response, and went to the bathroom.