She's Never Coming Back

‘That wouldn’t be very difficult: woke up, won the lottery, fell asleep.’

‘I’m going to phone him,’ Jorgen said.

‘You’re not,’ Calle retorted.

‘Just try stopping me.’

‘Jorgen, for fuck’s sake, come on. I’ll lose my job, I will, I’m not joking.’

54

‘Karlsson speaking.’

The chief inspector answered without his eyes leaving the page. The local newspaper was a must for a man in his position.

‘Yes, hello, my name is Jorgen Petersson.’

Stockholmer, Karlsson thought to himself.

‘I’m trying to get hold of whoever is dealing with the disappearance of Ylva Zetterberg,’ Jorgen continued. ‘She went missing about a year and a half ago, if I’ve understood correctly.’

The missing away-player, Karlsson thought, who was killed by her jealous husband, the one with the crocodile tears. Who’s still a free man. Without a body, they couldn’t link him to the murder.

‘That’ll be me,’ Karlsson said.

‘I’ve got some information that I think might be of interest.’

‘Let’s hear it then,’ Karlsson said, and returned to his reading.

Anyone who had information that was of interest had to be pumped for it; anyone who had information that was of interest didn’t say, I’ve got some information that might be of interest. That was a given, just like anyone who said they had a good sense of humour or claimed they were intelligent usually didn’t or wasn’t.

‘Right,’ Jorgen started. ‘I went to school with Ylva. Brevik School on Lidingo, here in Stockholm.’

‘Okay.’

I’m from Liiiiiidingo, so what I’m saying is important, Karlsson mimicked to himself, and turned the page of his newspaper. He noticed that Kallbadhuset would be opening again soon. About bloody time. How long does it take to renovate a swimming pool?

‘Ylva was part of a gang. There was her and three guys. Real tough nuts. We called them the Gang of Four.’

‘Goodness.’

‘I know it sounds stupid, but please hear me out.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The guys are all dead,’ Jorgen said.

Karlsson studied the cinema listings. He’d got it into his head that a film he wanted to see was showing, but none of the titles rang any bells. He’d just have to rent a DVD as usual.

‘That’s not good,’ he said.

‘No,’ Jorgen said, ‘and now Ylva’s missing as well. It seems like too much of a coincidence.’

‘Mm.’

Karlsson had got to the TV page. He skimmed over it. Nothing that was very exciting.

‘It can’t just be coincidence,’ Jorgen insisted.

‘These tough guys,’ Karlsson said. ‘How did they die?’

‘One died from cancer about three years ago. Another was murdered and the third was killed in a motorbike accident in Africa about a year ago.’

‘Doesn’t sound good,’ Karlsson said. ‘But I don’t quite see the connection. Other than that they were friends when they were younger.’

‘Well,’ Jorgen said, ‘there was a girl.’

‘Ylva?’

‘No, another one.’

‘I see.’

A complete tosser here, Karlsson thought to himself.

‘Annika Lundin,’ Jorgen told him.

‘Annika, right.’

‘And she committed suicide.’

Karlsson tutted and folded his newspaper. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window.

‘After that, the Gang of Four all went their own ways.’

‘After what?’

‘After she committed suicide. Aren’t you listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Good. Because what’s really interesting is that Annika’s parents, Gosta and Marianne Lundin, moved to a house opposite Ylva.’

‘Gosta and Marianne …?’

‘Lundin,’ Jorgen repeated. ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence.’

‘No, that doesn’t sound likely.’ Karlsson yawned.

‘You should talk to them,’ Jorgen said.

‘Absolutely,’ Karlsson replied. ‘Do you have a number I can reach you on?’

Jorgen gave him his mobile number and his home numbers. Karlsson pretended to write them down.

‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything more,’ Karlsson assured him. ‘Thank you for calling.’

He replaced the receiver. Cinema, he thought. What was that film I wanted to see?

Gerda knocked gingerly on the door and interrupted his musing.

‘Lunch?’ his colleague asked.

Karlsson got up and put on his jacket.

‘Not a bad idea.’

Jorgen Petersson knew how far-fetched it all sounded. In his mind it was absolutely crystal clear, it was only when he put it into words that it sounded crazy. The chief inspector had promised to talk to the Lundins, but Jorgen doubted he would even pick up the phone.

He wondered if the policeman would have treated him differently if he’d known who he was and what he represented. The answer was without a doubt yes. But he couldn’t exactly fax over a copy of his bank balance. Did he know anyone who could pitch his case? Anyone in the police? Nope. The closest thing to a legal acquaintance he could think of was the commercial lawyer he used to write contracts.

If Calle Collin’s Facebook theory was true, and these lawyers knew other perverters of the law, who in turn were mates with the public prosecutor, who hung out with the police, he might just get through after sitting on the phone for a few hours. And any credibility he had would by then be jaded, as his conspiracy had been passed from one person to the next like Chinese whispers.

If Jorgen Petersson wanted to get any further, he had to talk directly to Ylva’s husband. No matter that he’d promised Calle he wouldn’t. Ylva’s husband was the only one who might listen.

It was possible that Jorgen was barking up the wrong tree, that his thoughts were as mad as they sounded, but there remained one question that had to be answered. And that question could only be put directly to Ylva’s husband.