Oh, my Coney Island baby, now. I’m a Coney Island baby, now.
She thought about the man who had just been to see her in the practice. His wife was going to leave him if he didn’t do something about his sex addiction. He himself thought that his desire for sexual stimulation was all to do with how potent he was, and boasted about how sly he was when it came to deceiving his wife. How good he was at coming up with alibis. On several occasions he had said he was working outside the city and would be home late. At Central Station he would buy a train ticket with cash. With his ticket firmly in his hand he would board the train and find the conductor before getting off at the next station. When he got home that night he would leave the stamped ticket in a dish in the kitchen, well aware that his wife would check to see if his story was true.
Sofia parked outside Huddinge Hospital. She got out of the car and walked in through the main entrance. After a routine security check she was allowed through to the visiting room. The woman suspected of murder was already seated on a chair at the table.
‘This whole thing’s a miscarriage of justice,’ the woman began. ‘I had nothing to do with my husband’s death. He committed suicide, and then they arrest me. Is that really how it works?’
‘Yes,’ Sofia replied. ‘I’m afraid it is. But I’m not here to look at the question of guilt, but to see how you are. Do you know why you’re under suspicion?’
‘Yes and no. I’d been working in Gothenburg for a few days, and on the way home we had a bit of wine in the dining car. I took a taxi home, and when I got back to the apartment he was hanging there. I tried to lift him down, but he was too heavy, so I called for the police and an ambulance. While I was waiting I started tidying up, and of course in hindsight I can see that that was a stupid thing to do.’
‘Why was it stupid?’
‘When I found him the phone books were on the floor under the chair he’d been standing on. I don’t know why, but I picked them up and put them back in their place.’ The woman started to cry. ‘The police said the rope was too short and that it was impossible for him to have hanged himself without help.’
Sofia listened to the woman’s story with mounting resignation. It seemed clear that her husband had discovered that the rope was too short, and had put the phone books on top of the chair before he climbed up. But instead of trying to comfort her, the police had cuffed her and taken her off to prison, under suspicion of murder.
Gamla Enskede – Kihlberg House
THEY WALK UP the drive from the taxi towards Jeanette’s house. She’s ashamed that the garden looks such a mess, the grass hasn’t been cut and there are fallen leaves everywhere.
Jeanette smiles at Sofia, and as they go in a text message reaches her phone. ‘They’ve made it to the hotel,’ she says with relief once she’s read the short message from Johan.
‘I said there was no need to worry. Do you think ?ke’s taken Johan with him because he feels guilty about something?’ Sofia says.
Jeanette looks at her. The colour has returned to her face and she looks much more alert.
She hangs up her jacket, then takes Sofia’s. ‘Who isn’t feeling guilty?’
‘Well, the man you’re trying to find, for instance,’ Sofia shoots back instantly, evidently keen to return to the conversation they had had in the pub. ‘But if someone’s capable of abusing and murdering children, then they’d probably have to have a rather more relaxed conscience than usual.’
‘Yes, that would have to be true.’ Jeanette goes into the kitchen and opens the pantry.
‘If the person in question is also living a normal life at the same time, then –’
‘Could he, though? Live a normal life?’ She gets out a bottle of red wine and puts it on the table as Sofia sits down.
‘Yes,’ Sofia says. ‘But it takes a huge amount of effort to keep the different personalities apart.’
‘So you mean a serial killer could have a wife and children, be conscientious in his job and see his friends, without revealing his double life?’
‘Absolutely. A loner is much easier to find than someone who seems completely normal from the outside. At the same time, that normality itself might be what triggered the sick behaviour.’
Jeanette pulls the cork out of the bottle and pours two glasses. ‘You mean all the demands of everyday life need some kind of vent?’
Sofia doesn’t answer, just nods as she takes a sip of wine.
Jeanette does the same before going on. ‘But someone like that would surely have to stand out somehow?’
Sofia looks thoughtful. ‘Yes, some obvious signs would be, for instance, that his eyes might flit about nervously, and he might prefer not to make eye contact, which in turn would make those around him regard him as slippery and difficult to get close to.’ Sofia puts her glass down. ‘I’ve recently read a book about a Russian serial killer, Andrei Chikatilo, and his former workmates said they had only very hazy memories of him, even though they had worked together for several years.’
‘Chikatilo?’ Jeanette doesn’t remember the name.
‘Yes. The cannibal from Rostov.’
Suddenly Jeanette recalls with revulsion a documentary she saw on television a few years ago.
She had changed channels somewhere in the middle.
‘Please, can’t we change the subject …?’
Sofia gives her a strained smile. ‘OK, but not entirely,’ she says. ‘I’ve got an idea about the perpetrator that I’d like your opinion about. We won’t say any more about cannibalism, but I’d still like you to bear it in mind while I tell you what I think might be going on. OK?’
‘OK.’ Jeanette drinks some more wine. Red as blood, she thinks, and seems to detect a hint of iron somewhere behind the taste of grapes.
‘Something happened to the perpetrator in his childhood,’ Sofia says. ‘Something that influenced him for the rest of his life, and I think it’s got something to do with his gender identity.’
Jeanette nods. ‘Why do you think that?’
‘I’ll start with an example. There’s a genuine case of a fifty-year-old man who abused his three daughters, and wore women’s clothes while he did so. He claimed he had been forced to dress as a girl when he was a child.’
‘Like Jan Myrdal,’ Jeanette interjects with a laugh. She can’t help it, and she knows why. Laughter as a defence against unpalatable subjects. If she’s supposed to sit here and keep the thought of cannibalism at the back of her mind, then she can permit herself a laugh or two.
Sofia loses her thread. ‘Jan Myrdal?’
‘Yes, experimental child rearing. It got quite common again in the seventies, if you remember? Sorry, we’re getting off the subject. I interrupted you …’