When Charlotte Silfverberg said that she had been at school with Victoria, the daughter of the rapist Bengt Bergman, Jeanette realised it couldn’t be a coincidence.
Hurtig says goodbye outside the home of the Silfverberg family and starts walking towards Sista Styverns trappor, to go down the steps back to the city centre. She gets into the car, and before she starts the engine she sends Johan a text saying that she’ll be home in fifteen minutes.
In the car on the way home Jeanette thinks about the strange conversation she had with Victoria Bergman a few weeks ago. She had called Victoria in the hope that she might be able to help with the investigation into the dead boys, seeing as her father had featured in a number of other cases involving the rape and sexual exploitation of children. But Victoria had been dismissive, and said she hadn’t had any contact with her parents for twenty years.
Jeanette remembers that Victoria had left a strong impression of bitterness and said that her father had abused her as well. One thing is very clear. They need to get hold of her.
The rain has set in, visibility is poor, and as she passes Bl?sut there are three cars by the side of the road. One is badly buckled, and Jeanette assumes they’ve run into one another. The emergency services are already there, along with a police car with its warning lights flashing. A colleague from the traffic unit is directing the traffic, which slows as it funnels into just one lane, and she realises she’s going to be at least twenty minutes late.
What am I going to do with Johan? she thinks. Maybe it’s time to contact the psychiatry unit after all?
And why hasn’t ?ke been in touch? Maybe he could take some of the responsibility for a while? But as usual, he’s busy living his dreams and has no time for anyone but himself.
Never being good enough, she thinks, as the traffic grinds to a complete halt, fifty metres from the intersection for Gamla Enskede.
They don’t have divorce papers yet, but maybe they should take the plunge? They would still have six months before they had to decide for good.
They can always change their minds.
If their separation leads to divorce, as everything seems to suggest, how are they going to be there for Johan?
Perhaps the lunch queue in the cafeteria of police headquarters isn’t the best place to raise the matter, but since Jeanette knows how hard it is to get hold of Police Commissioner Dennis Billing she seizes the opportunity.
‘What’s your impression of your predecessor, Gert Berglind?’
‘Practical Pig,’ he says after a pause, turning his back on her and piling a ladleful of mashed potatoes onto his plate. She waits for him to go on, but when nothing more comes she taps him on the shoulder.
‘Practical Pig? What do you mean by that?’
Dennis Billing continues compiling his lunch. Meatballs, cream sauce, salt gherkin and, finally, a spoonful of lingonberry jam. ‘More of an academic than a police officer,’ he goes on. ‘Between the two of us, he was a bad boss who was rarely there when you needed him. Committees here, there and everywhere, and all those lectures.’
‘Lectures?’
He clears his throat. ‘Precisely. Shall we sit down?’
He chooses a table at the far end of the room, and Jeanette realises that for some reason the commissioner would rather talk in private.
‘He was active in the Rotary Club and a whole load of foundations,’ he says between mouthfuls. ‘He was a Good Templar, religious, not to say exaggeratedly pious. He lectured all over the country on ethical questions. I heard him talk a couple of times, and I have to admit that he was engaging, even if what he said was mostly clichés. But maybe that’s how it works? People just want confirmation of what they already know.’ He grins, and even if Jeanette finds his cynical tone off-putting she feels inclined to agree with him.
‘You mentioned foundations? Do you remember which ones?’
Billing shakes his head as he rolls a meatball back and forth between the sauce and the jam. ‘Something religious, I seem to recall. His kindly manner was legendary, but between us I can say that he probably wasn’t as pious as he liked to make out.’
Jeanette pricks up her ears. ‘OK. I’m listening.’
Dennis Billing puts his knife and fork down and takes a sip of his low-alcohol beer. ‘I’m telling you this in confidence, and I don’t want you blowing it out of proportion, even though I have a feeling you’re going to since you haven’t let go of Karl Lundstr?m yet. That’s fine, as long as your work doesn’t suffer, but I’ll have to put my foot down pretty hard if I discover that you’re up to something behind my back.’
Jeanette smiles. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve got more than enough on my hands right now. But what does Berglind have to do with Lundstr?m?’
‘He knew him,’ Billing says. ‘They had dealings with each other through one of Berglind’s foundations, and I know they saw each other several times a year at meetings down in Denmark.’
Jeanette feels her pulse quicken. If they’re talking about the foundation she’s got in mind, maybe they’re on to something.
‘In hindsight,’ Billing goes on, ‘now that we know what sort of things Lundstr?m was into, I think that perhaps the rumours that circulated about Berglind had a grain of truth in them.’
‘Rumours?’ Jeanette is trying to keep her questions as brief as possible, because she’s worried that her voice might betray her excitement.
Billing nods. ‘It was whispered that he hired prostitutes, and several female colleagues complained of sexual advances, harassment, basically. But nothing ever came of it, and then he suddenly died. Heart attack, fancy funeral, and all of a sudden he was a hero. He got the credit for coming to grips with racism and sexism within the force, although you and I both know perfectly well that’s rubbish.’
Jeanette nods back. She finds herself liking Billing. They’ve never spoken this openly to each other before. ‘Did they socialise privately as well? Berglind and Lundstr?m, I mean.’
‘I was coming to that … Berglind had a photograph on the bulletin board in his office that vanished a few days before Lundstr?m was questioned about the rape in that hotel. What was the girl’s name? Wedin?’
‘Wendin. Ulrika Wendin.’
‘That was it. It was a snapshot of Berglind and Lundstr?m, each holding up a massive fish. When I pointed out that it was inappropriate for him to question the girl, he claimed he had only a passing acquaintance with Lundstr?m. He was biased, and he knew it, but he did all he could to hide it. The holiday photo went up in smoke, and all of a sudden Lundstr?m was just a passing acquaintance.’
The foundation, she thinks. It had to be the same foundation that Lundstr?m, Dürer and Bergman financed. Sihtunum i Diasporan.
Kronoberg – Police Headquarters