As she rounded the building, the smell of smoke became heavy, almost suffocating. She switched on her flashlight and walked toward the overgrown garden. At the opening made by the wild lilac arbor, she turned. If Mama Bird had been standing in this spot, she would have clearly seen a person entering the hospital building, but what about when the person left? It must have been pitch-black after the electricity went out. Wait a minute. Of course, the moon, she thought. There had been a full moon that night. Siv Persson swore she’d seen Nurse Tekla in the bright moonlight. Irene shivered. All this talk of ghosts was starting to get on her nerves.
She shone the beam of her flashlight directly through the arbor. The garden shed was still standing but appeared to be burned out. Irene tried to peer inside, but it was hopeless. Everything was black as soot. Better to let the technicians look at the residue in the morning. There was nothing she could do now. The lawn sucked at her rubber boots as she squelched back to her car.
She pulled off her muddy boots and changed to her jogging shoes from the trunk. If the weather was going to stay like this, she wouldn’t want to go jogging. She’d have to exercise indoors instead. Tomorrow she taught a women’s group, something she enjoyed. She’d been training eight female officers in jujitsu for the past year. The suggestion had come up at last year’s annual meeting, and having Irene lead the class was a given. There was no other female black belt, third dan, in Sweden. Without giving it a second thought, Irene took on the job. Sometimes she brought Katarina with her and used her as an assistant trainer. Her pupils had been extremely hardworking, and the way they were going, they’d soon be on a par with the men.
She sheltered from the rain in the car to dial Superintendent Andersson’s number. Ten rings, no answer. She dialed Central Station and reached Hakan Lund again. There was nothing for it but to tell Lund that she’d be on call the rest of the night. Birgitta Moberg was scheduled on Sunday. Then everything would be back to normal.
IRENE’S PHONE RANG at 2:25 A.M. She was awake immediately and quickly threw on her clothes. Krister did not stir at the sound. He’d just gotten home one hour earlier and was in deep sleep.
This new case was not pleasant, but not unusual. A man had beaten his wife to death in their Guldheden apartment building.
When Irene arrived, the husband had already been taken down to the station. The woman was lying in a pool of blood in the bathroom. Her face was misshapen after a beating gone berserk. The technician was already in the middle of investigating the crime scene. Irene didn’t recognize him and decided to wait with her questions until he was finished.
In the meantime she did a hasty reconnaissance. It was a five-room apartment, complete with kitchen. The place was tidy and well cared for. In the largest bedroom, there was a huge, unmade king-size bed. The sheets were rose-colored. There was a great deal of blood there as well. It appeared that the beating had begun in the bedroom and culminated in the bathroom. In the photo of the woman on the dresser, she seemed young and beautiful, and she was smiling at the photographer.
The technician appeared to be wrapping it up. He stood and wearily pulled off his gloves as Irene walked toward him with a friendly nod.
“Hi, Irene Huss. Inspector in the Violent Crime Division.”
The young man looked at her gloomily from behind glasses as thick as bottle bottoms. Maybe it was his thin black hair, parted on the side, that made Irene think of a vampire. He was unusually tall, thin, and sallow besides.
“Hi, I’m Erik Larsson, Ahlen’s substitute.”
“How do you think this happened?”
“Major trauma to the head and neck. The back of the skull is broken. The victim reeks of alcohol, as does the perpetrator.”
“Where’s the patrol car?”
“They got another call. I told them they could take off, since you were on the way. This lady and I could take care of ourselves in the meantime.”
Maybe he said it as a joke, but Irene still shivered. Where had Svante Malm dug up this guy? Probably in the nearest crypt.
The men from the funeral home arrived. They packed up the body and then drove off to Pathology. Irene left the technician in the apartment. As she walked into the hallway, a neighbor stuck her head out from her front door.
“So did he finally beat her to death?”
It was five in the morning, and the woman was dressed in sweats and a sloppy cotton sweater. Her hair was greasy and gathered in a ponytail. Even though she wasn’t as tall as Irene, the woman gave the impression of being fairly large. She probably weighed over two hundred pounds. Irene’s experience told her she’d found a witness eager to talk. She showed the woman her police ID by waving it just like they did in Hollywood.
“Morning. Criminal Inspector Huss here. May I come in and have a little chat with you, as long as you’re awake?”
“Sure.” The woman couldn’t hide her pleasure and eagerly backed up to let Irene come through the door.
Irene automatically let her eyes sweep through the room. She concluded that this was a woman who really needed a cleaning service. The hat rack was covered in clothes, and the floor beneath it was layered in shoes of various styles. Irene’s feet crunched crumbs and other debris as she walked over the floor. In the minimal kitchen, the counter was piled with dirty dishes, which she thought might have been the source of the odd smell in the place. However, when Irene entered the living room, the smell’s origin was clear. It had probably not been cleaned in a year or more, and cats filled the place. There were at least nine that she could count. Unconsciously, she touched the surgical tape beneath her chin.
“Please go ahead and sit down,” the woman said. She gestured toward a worn-out armchair of an indistinct gray, its seat cushion covered with stains.
Irene gave the cat colony a mistrustful look. “No, thanks. I’m not going to stay long. Excuse me, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I probably didn’t say it. I’m Johanna Storm.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Profession?”
“I’m studying psychology. I have one year left until I take my qualifying exams.”
Mostly for appearance’s sake, Irene wrote the details in her notebook. “What did you mean by asking if he’d finally beaten her to death?”
“Just what I said.”
“So he often beat her up?”
“Yup.”
“How often?”
“Since Christmas it’s been every weekend. Maria—the wife, that is—is Polish and can’t speak Swedish.”
“When did she come to Sweden?”
Johanna thought about it. “I don’t know. She moved in with Scholenhielm last summer. But she’s probably less than half his age. What a horny old goat!”
“Were you the person who called the police?”
“Yes, because it was worse than usual this time. The police have been here lots of times before. At least five or six. This time she screamed so horribly, one long scream, and then everything went totally silent. My cats got really nervous, and I just knew something terrible had happened.”
“That was right before two?”
“Right.”
Johanna Storm didn’t know much more about the couple in the neighboring apartment than that Maria had stayed at home during the day and Scholenhielm was a used-car salesman. “Would you like a cup of tea?” she asked.
Irene declined politely. Although she’d recently had her tetanus vaccination, she doubted she would survive drinking tea from one of Johanna’s mugs.
IT WAS ALMOST eight o’clock when Birgitta stuck her head through the door of Irene’s office. “Hi, what are you doing here?”
