‘Do you remember their names, these lackeys?’
‘They came and went, but the most faithful were probably Henrietta and Charlotte.’
Still looking down at the pad, Jeanette asks, as if in passing, ‘You mentioned that Fredrika was a bitch. What do you mean by that?’
Annette doesn’t move a muscle. ‘I can’t think of anything specific, but they were horrible, everyone was terrified of ending up the butt of their pranks.’
‘Pranks? That doesn’t sound terribly serious to me.’
‘No, most of the time it probably wasn’t. There was really only one time when they badly crossed the line.’
‘What happened?’
‘There were two or three new girls who were going to be initiated, but it got out of hand.’ Annette Lundstr?m falls silent, looks out of the window and adjusts her hair. ‘Why are you asking all these questions about Fredrika?’
‘Because she’s dead, murdered, and we need to build up a picture of her life.’
Annette Lundstr?m looks thoroughly bewildered. ‘Murdered? But that’s awful! Who’d do something like that?’ she says, as simultaneously a note of hesitancy creeps into her eyes.
Jeanette gets a definite impression that Annette knows more than she’s letting on.
‘You said it once got out of hand … What exactly happened?’
‘It was terrible, and it should never have been hushed up. But as I understand it, Fredrika’s father was a good friend of the headmistress, as well as one of the largest donors to the school. I presume that was why.’ Annette Lundstr?m sighs. ‘But of course you know that already?’
‘Of course,’ Jeanette lies. ‘But I’d still be grateful if you could tell me what happened. If you feel up to it, I mean.’ Jeanette leans across her desk and switches on the tape recorder.
Annette’s story is a tale of humiliation. Of young girls goading one another to do things they would never have done otherwise. During the first week of the new school year Fredrika Grünewald and her acolytes had identified three girls who would have to undergo a particularly disgusting initiation ceremony. Dressed up in dark capes and wearing home-made pig masks, they had taken the three girls down to a tool shed and poured ice-cold water over them.
‘What happened after that was entirely Fredrika Grünewald’s idea.’
‘And what did happen after that?’
Annette Lundstr?m’s voice is trembling. ‘They were forced to eat dog shit.’
Jeanette feels completely empty.
That single word. She feels her brain crash and then reboot.
Dog shit.
Charlotte Silfverberg hadn’t said a word about that. But perhaps that wasn’t so strange.
‘Tell me more. I’m listening.’
‘Well, there isn’t really much more. Two of the girls fainted, but the third apparently ate it and threw up.’
Annette Lundstr?m goes on, and Jeanette listens with distaste.
Victoria Bergman, she thinks. And two as-yet-unidentified girls.
‘Fredrika Grünewald, Henrietta Nordlund and Charlotte Hansson were the ones who got blamed for it all.’ She lets out a deep sigh. ‘But there were more girls involved.’
‘Did you say that Charlotte’s surname was Hansson?’
‘Yes. But she’s not called that now. She got married fifteen, twenty years ago …’ The woman’s voice trails off.
‘Yes?’
‘She got married to Silfverberg, that man who was found murdered. That was so terrible –’
‘And Henrietta?’ Jeanette interrupts, to stop having to go into a specific case.
The answer comes quickly, as if in passing. ‘She married a man named Viggo Dürer,’ Annette Lundstr?m says.
Two pieces of news for the price of one, Jeanette thinks.
Dürer again. So Henrietta was his wife. And now the Dürers are both dead.
Possibly murdered, even if the forensic examination of their burned-out boat suggested it was an accident.
The pieces are starting to fall into place as the image clears.
Jeanette is certain that Per-Ola Silfverberg’s and Fredrika Grünewald’s murderer is somewhere in the constellation of people that has now been expanded by another two names, and she looks down at her notepad.
Charlotte Hansson, now Charlotte Silfverberg. Married/widow of Per-Ola Silfverberg.
Henrietta Nordlund, later Dürer. Married Viggo Dürer. Dead.
‘Do you remember the names of the girls who were the victims?’
‘No, sorry … It’s all so long ago.’
‘OK … Well, I think we’re done here,’ Jeanette says. ‘Unless there’s anything you’d like to add?’
The woman shakes her head and stands up.
‘Get in touch if you remember anything else about the two girls.’
Annette Lundstr?m leaves with a worried look on her face. Jeanette once again feels that she knows more than she’s letting on.
Jeanette is switching off the tape recorder when the door opens and Hurtig pops his head in. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ He looks serious.
‘Not at all.’ Jeanette turns her chair to face him.
‘How important is the last witness in a murder investigation?’ he asks rhetorically.
‘What do you mean?’
‘B?rje Persson, the man who was seen down in the cavern before Fredrika Grünewald was murdered, is dead.’
‘What?’
‘Heart attack this morning. We got a call from S?dermalm Hospital when they realised there was an alert out for him. Apparently he had a note in his hand, so I sent ?hlund and Schwarz to fetch it. They’ve just got back.’
Hurtig puts a page torn from a pocket diary in front of her.
The handwriting is neat.
To Jeanette Kihlberg, Stockholm Police.
I think I know who killed Fredrika Grünewald, also known as the Duchess, beneath Saint Johannes Church.
I claim the right to anonymity, because I prefer not to get involved with the authorities.
The person you are looking for is a woman with long, fair hair who was wearing a blue coat at the time of the murder. She is of average height, has blue eyes and a slim build.
Beyond that it’s probably pointless saying anything more about her appearance, seeing as such a description would be based on personal opinion rather than fact.
But there was one distinguishing feature that might interest you.
She is missing her right ring finger.
Vita Bergen – Sofia Zetterlund’s Apartment
TO FORGIVE IS a big thing, she thinks. But to understand without forgiving is so much bigger.
When you don’t just see why, but can also understand the whole sequence of events that leads up to a final sick act, it makes you feel giddy. Some call it inherited sin, others predestination, but really it’s just ice-cold, unsentimental causality.
An avalanche after a shout, or the rings on water after a tossed stone. A taut piece of wire across the darkest part of a cycle path, or a hasty word and a punch in the heat of the moment.
Sometimes it’s a considered and conscious act, where the consequences are merely one consideration and satisfaction of desire another.