attend this autopsy for Linda Svensson?”
Fredrik Stridh lifted his hand and then leaned across to take the damp fax. He went over the paper quickly before beginning to read aloud:
“ ‘Linda Svensson. Born January twenty-third, 1973. According to the police report, found dead in an attic, hanging from a ceiling beam. Found almost on her knees with her upper body hung by a doubled flag line. The rope went under the chin and up over the back of her head. The body appeared discolored on both the left and right sides of the face, and there were external abrasions on the right side of the neck. Lesions visible on the skin of the neck. A thin rope remained embedded in the wound. Underneath it bleeding in the soft tissues and musculature. Broken thyroid cartilage and hyoid bone. Also spotty bleeding in the eyes and the oral mucosa. These findings indicate that death resulted from strangulation. Probable time of death: midnight between the tenth and eleventh of February, as concurrent with the changes apparent within the body. Complete toxicological examination still ongoing. Samples have been taken for forensic examination.’ ”
Fredrik looked up as he threw the report on the table.
“Sick! The murder is sick in and of itself, but to hang her body up like that. Hanging her was some kind of ritual. And a sloppy one.”
“Yes, it is sick, and the murderer, in his sick mind, meant something by it,” Irene said.
“Keep digging, Ghostbusters,” Jonny cackled.
Irene refused to rise to his taunt. He did not realize how right he was. They had to search back in time, into the tangle of legends, ghosts, and lies. Right now everything felt at a standstill, she admitted to herself. But she’d never admit that to Jonny.
“We’ll meet again here at five in the afternoon. Svante Malm will bring some of his lab results,” Andersson concluded.
THE SAHLGREN HOSPITAL’S buildings were a hodgepodge of styles thrown together by a crazy architect, Irene thought. Every single style of architecture from the previous century was represented. It was neither beautiful nor functional.
Irene walked toward the complex’s main entrance. She could see a woman waiting by the glass doors, sheltering from the wind. She just had to be Sverker Lowander’s ex-wife. Carina and she were remarkably similar, blond and tall, although Barbro was eleven years older according to the files. She wore her hair just like Carina, but there were some streaks of gray in her blond.
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss. Can we go somewhere we can talk?”
Barbro Lowander nodded in reply and turned toward the automatic glass doors. For a second, Irene imagined that the sensor wouldn’t react to such a colorless woman and the doors wouldn’t open.
Sahlgren Hospital would never win a prize for the most welcoming entry. Even though someone had stuck a bubbling fountain next to the window, the good impression was lost among the floating cigarette butts.
They marched down the wide hall that ran the length of the building. They did not exchange a word as they passed the cafeteria and exited the building again through the glass doors on the other side. Barbro Lowander bent over into the strong wind and hurried toward an older, dark brown brick building. Through the windows they could see a number of white-clad people moving about, protected from the wind and the rain. Irene had a feeling that her interview would not be easy.
Once inside, Barbro headed up some worn stairs, looking neither right nor left and saying not a word to Irene, who followed her glumly. Barbro stopped on the third floor, and Irene could hear the rustling of a key chain. Barbro Lowander unlocked the door and said, without much enthusiasm, “Come in. This room is empty, as its occupant is on vacation.”
The room was spacious and airy, with two large windows overlooking the botanical gardens. Not much to see in February, but it was not hard to imagine how spectacular it would be in spring when all the green plants came to life.
“Does this building have only offices?” Irene asked.
“For the most part,” Barbro replied.
She hung her jacket on a wall hook, and Irene did the same with her leather jacket.
“Were there care wards here before?” Irene continued.
“No, this was a nursing school.”
Irene suddenly understood that no brand of cosmetics in the world could make Barbro into a beautiful woman. The thickest layer of makeup couldn’t hide the fretful bitterness on her face. Irene moved a pile of papers from a chair and sat down, trying to figure out what made Sverker’s ex-wife tick.
Barbro plopped down on a desk chair next to the large computer. She withdrew a pack of cigarettes and impatiently shook one out. Apparently smoking was forbidden in the building, as she did not light it but nervously rolled it between her fingers.
“I really don’t understand why I have to be dragged into all that mess over at Lowander Hospital,” she exclaimed.
To her surprise, Irene saw tears spring up in the other woman’s eyes. Irene asked her next question carefully. “Did you know either of the murdered nurses?”
“No. I haven’t set foot in that place in eleven years. I had nothing to do with any of the employees either. I broke away completely from all of that … then.”
“When you divorced?” Irene clarified.
Barbro nodded in response. Irene looked into her blue-gray eyes and could see the pain. She was surprised. A lot of time had passed since the couple had split up. Perhaps the divorce was still an open wound that was best left undisturbed. She decided to try another approach.
“It’s not the murders or the divorce that I came to ask you about. We need your help.” Irene let her words sink in.
Barbro’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly, but her voice was still suspicious as she asked, “Why would you need my help?”
“Well, you worked at Lowander Hospital for many years. You were married to Sverker for … how many years?”
“We were married for thirteen years. I worked at Lowander for six years. I started half-time after Julia was born.”
Barbro snapped her mouth shut as if she felt she had given away too much. Irene could hardly agree. She tried a new question.
“What kind of people were your in-laws?”
Barbro could not hide the look of surprise that flickered across her face. Finally she shrugged and said, “I can hardly see how they’d have anything to do with the murders. Just as little as I would.” She thought for a moment. “Sverker’s mother died when he was nine years old. My ex-father-in-law, Hilding, died the year before our divorce. He was eighty-nine. A strong man until his last year of life. Then he had a stroke, and … everything went downhill fast. He was furious.”
The hint of an affectionate smile played at the corners of her mouth. Irene was surprised. Apparently Barbro had liked her father-in-law.
“Why was he furious?” Irene asked.
“He was forced to loosen his grip on Lowander Hospital. The hospital was his life. He’d stopped performing surgery years earlier, but he did all the administration work and the day-to-day running of the place.”
“How did Sverker feel about that?”
Barbro gave Irene a cold look of disdain. “He thought it was just fine. He had all the time in the world to run after Carina.”
“So Sverker did not want to run the hospital.”
