The Dangerous Game (25 page)

On that Sunday when they’d decided to pack up Martin’s belongings, they were sitting in his room upstairs as the rain pattered on the rooftop. They put one thing after another into boxes. They worked slowly and carefully, both of them wanting to see and touch each item. It was excruciating. Martin was everywhere in that room. The bed he’d slept in, the desk where he’d done his homework, the TV on the wall. He’d been so proud of that TV, which he’d bought with the money he’d earned working at the ICA supermarket in the evenings and at weekends. Agnes remembered seeing all the notes he’d made in his schoolbooks and on his calendar. The writing was still there, but Martin was not. He was never coming back.

Cautiously, Agnes gets out of bed. With the thick down duvet draped over her shoulders, she pulls on another pair of tracksuit bottoms over the ones she slept in. Then she puts on two thin cotton shirts, a fleece jumper, her warm slippers and, finally, her mother’s old knitted tunic that she used to wear out in the country. Agnes goes into the bathroom.

The radio is on downstairs in the kitchen, with the volume turned up, as usual. Yet she can hear her father talking on the phone. His insistent tone penetrates through the loud music, and she catches a few phrases here and there. ‘But you have to understand, Katarina … Agnes needs … I know you’re lonely … No, that won’t work … We agreed that …’

Agnes stands still to listen. Her father’s voice grows more urgent, then entreating and gentle, filled with tenderness, and finally annoyed and angry. ‘But you can’t possibly understand … Agnes is seriously ill … She needs me … I know it’s difficult for you because you don’t have children, but … children always come first in every situation, and that’s how it should be, that’s our duty as parents, we have a responsibility, even though you’re having such a hard time understanding that.’

His voice rises, and now Agnes can hear every word.

‘No, you can’t come here. No, Agnes and I need to be alone. We’ve already talked about all of this. Don’t call me again, do you hear me?’

Agnes hears him slam down the phone. The next second the radio shuts off. Nothing but silence.

She waits for a long time before she goes downstairs.

THERE WAS A
sense of anticipation in the conference room as Knutas took his usual place at the head of the table. It wasn’t enough that the director of Fashion for Life had just been found murdered. Over the last few hours, all sorts of speculation had been swirling through the air in the criminal division. Everyone was aware that there had been some new and important development in the investigation, but nobody knew what it was. Knutas had kept his office door closed, and talked on the phone all afternoon, and no one had dared disturb him. By the time he abruptly called together the team for an emergency meeting late on Monday afternoon, everyone was eager to hear what was going on.

All eyes were on the investigative team leader as he told them about the threatening message that had been sent to the editor of the fashion magazine.

‘Apparently, it’s not unusual for the editorial staff to receive hostile letters,’ Knutas explained. ‘According to the editor-in-chief, this might happen if the magazine shows a model wearing furs, and then the animal-rights activists react. Or people might accuse the magazine of being racist because there are rarely black models on the cover. Or the magazine is blamed for encouraging anorexia. But this particular letter arrived in their offices the day after Robert Ek was found murdered. And it wasn’t sent to the editor-in-chief or to the magazine in general. The name on the address was the fashion editor Fanny Nord,’ he told his colleagues.

Crime-scene technician Erik Sohlman was the first to comment on the actual message.

‘Letters cut from a newspaper or a magazine – that’s an age-old tactic. But the fact that the sender took the trouble to cut out the letters and yet wrote the name and address by hand seems awfully amateurish.’

‘Although he didn’t bother to cut out separate letters. Instead, he cut out whole words,’ Knutas pointed out. ‘Four words, in different colours and typefaces, but they seem to be from the same publication. Some sort of magazine. The fact that he wrote the address on the envelope by hand does seem to indicate that we’re not dealing with a professional. Would it be of any use to contact a graphologist to study the handwriting?’

‘Not really,’ said Sohlman. ‘We have nothing to compare it to. I assume that the letter has already been sent to the lab for DNA analysis. Where was it postmarked?’

‘In Stockholm. Yesterday. So it was probably mailed after Robert Ek was murdered.’

‘If the words were all cut out of the same publication, it shouldn’t be impossible to work out which one it was,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Do you have a photo of the message?’

‘They’re sending us one,’ said Knutas. ‘And I’m sure the Stockholm police are working on that angle. But we shouldn’t get our hopes up. Even if we identify the magazine, it doesn’t mean it will give us a lead in the investigation. Just think how many magazines there are in this country.’

‘The words didn’t come from that fashion magazine?’ asked Jacobsson.

‘Apparently not.’

‘What about fingerprints?’ asked Sohlman.

‘There are a lot of prints on the envelope, of course. But none on the card itself. The sender wore gloves.’

‘So the question is whether the killer we’re looking for sent the letter. And also, what does it mean that it was addressed to Fanny Nord?’ the spokesperson, Lars Norrby, summarized with a solemn expression.

‘What do we know about her?’ asked Smittenberg, turning to Knutas.

‘Not much,’ he replied, leafing through his papers. ‘She’s twenty-nine years old, and in spite of her young age she has worked at the magazine for ten years. It seems she started as an assistant right after secondary school. Then she worked her way up and is now both a stylist and a fashion editor. Which means that the magazine pays her to work with models at fashion shows and on photo shoots. She also does the planning and layout for fashion spreads. And she writes articles as well.’

‘Sounds like you managed to find out quite a lot,’ said Smittenberg, smiling.

‘Well, she was very talkative and pleasant, that Fanny Nord. Although nervous. She’s worried that the person who sent the letter is a madman and that, for some reason, he’s after her. And of course she’s asking herself why it was addressed to her when the message says: “You are all killers.”’

THE MAIN OFFICES
for Regional News were located in the big Swedish TV building near Gärdet in Stockholm. When Johan Berg stepped through the glass doors on the day before Christmas Eve, he felt his stomach flutter. The TV building never lost its thrill.

As he walked down the long corridor on his way to the editorial office, he ran into several former colleagues, who greeted him warmly, stopping him to chat. It took him fifteen minutes just to get to the Regional News office, so he was almost late for the morning meeting. Everyone else had already taken seats at one end of the big room. He was greeted with happy shouts and thumps on the back when he joined his co-workers. Johan was quite touched by such a welcome. Suddenly, it didn’t matter that he had to work on the day before Christmas Eve. Unfortunately, Emma took a different view of the matter. She wasn’t happy about being left with her mother-in-law in the house in Rönninge, even though they got on well together. He would have to make it up to her later. But he couldn’t say no to his boss now that there were such major developments in the case. Max Grenfors had decided that Johan should come into the office and stay for as long as necessary, depending on how the murder investigation evolved.

As usual, Grenfors first reviewed the previous night’s news broadcast. Everyone discussed what was shown and offered critiques of what hadn’t been entirely successful. The big topic of conversation, of course, was the murder of Robert Ek.

‘It’s going to be the top story today, too, if nothing else important happens,’ Grenfors explained. ‘Johan is going to be working with us here in Stockholm, and we’re very happy about that. He’ll be primarily responsible for research. Andreas and Madeleine will, of course, continue to cover the case, in cooperation with Johan. The morning papers gave the story front-page attention, and this is what the evening papers look like today.’

He reached for a copy of the major Stockholm paper. The front page was dominated by a big photo of Robert Ek’s blanket-covered body being carried out of the agency’s building. The headline, in big black type, said: ‘FASHION FOR DEATH’.

‘Very clever,’ said Grenfors dryly. ‘Yesterday, we covered the press conference and interviewed the police spokesman. Today, I want to focus on the agency staff. I’ll leave that to you, Andreas. Madeleine can chase down the head of the investigative team and any criminologist or criminal profiling expert who can say something about what the next steps will be. I mean, both victims were viciously attacked with an axe. What does that say about the perpetrator? Johan will dig up any connections between Robert Ek and Markus Sandberg. That’s a good start, until we see how things develop as the day goes on.’

‘What are we doing about the Christmas party the agency had on Friday evening?’ asked Johan. ‘Doesn’t it seem likely that Ek’s murder was somehow connected with it?’

‘So far, the police haven’t confirmed anything like that, but you’re right. Andreas, see what you can find out, since you’re going to be talking to the staff.’

‘Was Jenny Levin at the party?’ asked Madeleine.

‘I think so.’

‘Shouldn’t we try to get in touch with her? She was the one who found Sandberg, after all. And now she’s involved in this case, too.’

Madeleine turned to Johan.

‘Don’t you have a contact for her?’

‘Yes, I do. Emma is good friends with Jenny’s mother, Tina Levin. I’ll try to reach her today. Although she may have gone home to Gotland for Christmas. If so, Pia can always interview her. We’ve already interviewed her once before.’

‘Good,’ said Grenfors, clapping his hands. ‘Let’s get going.’

The meeting broke up. Together, Johan, Andreas and Madeleine went to get coffee out of the machine as they discussed how best to divide up the work. Johan realized how much he missed working with a large group of colleagues. The hubbub and fast pace. Chatting with co-workers from all the other editorial offices in the building. He’d been assigned a desk next to Madeleine’s. He cast a surreptitious glance at her as they sat down. She was as attractive as ever. Hadn’t changed a bit in the ten years he’d known her. She looked exactly the same, pretty and petite, with full breasts, big blue eyes and almost black hair. They’d had a brief fling years ago, before his relationship with Emma got serious and he had ended up being posted to Gotland. He had to admit that Madeleine’s feminine charms still had an effect on him.

He reached for the phone. Right now, he had other things to think about.

KNUTAS STUDIED THE
words in front of him. He’d kept a photocopy of the threatening message that had been sent to the lab for analysis. Those four words stared up at him: ‘You are all killers.’

He got out a magnifying glass from his desk drawer and examined the typeface. The words had been sloppily cut out, as if done in a hurry or under stress. Again, he read the brief sentence. What on earth did it mean?

He’d ordered back issues of the fashion magazine for the past year, thinking he might find a lead. The magazine was published fourteen times a year. He started in on the pile, spending the next few hours carefully leafing through each issue. He gave special attention to the pieces written by the editor-in-chief and to the fashion articles and columns that Fanny Nord had been responsible for.

When he was finished, he had a slight headache and he’d had his fill of fashion and beauty tips. He honestly wondered how women could stand all that rubbish. The readers of this magazine must be a small clique of wealthy city-dwellers who had nothing better to do than think about their appearance. It was like a competition to see who was the prettiest and most fashionable; a beauty pageant that never ended. He simply couldn’t understand it. The women in the photos were as different from his down-to-earth Lina as they could possibly be. But he was well aware that the magazine’s target audience was women just like her. A woman in her forties with an income high enough that she could afford to buy the clothes shown in the flashy pictures. If she was at all interested, of course.

He sighed heavily and put aside all the magazines except for the latest one. The Christmas issue had a supplement with the photos taken of Jenny Levin on Furillen. These were the last pictures that Markus Sandberg took before he became the victim of a murder attempt.

Against the bare backdrop and in the remarkable bluish-grey daylight, Jenny and the clothes she wore took on a special look. There was a bewitching atmosphere in those pictures, a captivating quality that drew the eye like a magnet. Fascinating, thought Knutas. Though he wasn’t sure whether it was because of everything that had happened to the individuals involved since those photos were taken, or whether the images themselves possessed an inherent sense of mystery all on their own. In certain pictures, Jenny stared into the camera with a hint of a smile in her eyes and on her lips. In others, her expression was serious, her eyes seductive and intense. He forgot to look at the clothes she was wearing. He saw only her. Who was Jenny Levin, deep inside? It was easy to be enticed by her exotic appearance, and that was probably why she was a model.

Earlier in the day, Knutas had spoken to her on the phone at her parents’ house. Her mother had begged the police to allow her daughter to celebrate Christmas in peace, so they had agreed to do the interview by phone. Jenny had no idea what had happened to Markus’s mobile, so she could not have sent the text message. For some reason, Knutas believed her.

Again, he studied the pictures. Markus Sandberg had done the photo shoot, completely unsuspecting, putting his whole soul into his work to make the images as good as possible. A few hours later, he was almost killed. What was the connection?