a few questions?’
Birgitta Roslin usually kept her claws tucked into her paws. But not now.
‘No. I’ve no idea who you are.’
‘I write.’
‘For whom?’
‘For everybody who’s interested.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Obviously, I’m very sorry about your sad loss.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not sorry at all. You are speaking softly in order not to attract attention – so others don’t realise you’ve found a relative.’
The glass doors were opened by a man with badge informing the world that he was Erik Huddén. They shook hands. A photographer’s flash was reflected in the glass doors as they closed again.
There were people everywhere. The tempo here was radically different from that in Hesjövallen. They went into a conference room where a table was covered in files and lists. This is where the dead are gathered together, Roslin thought. Huddén invited her to sit down and took a seat opposite her. She told the full story from the beginning, the two different name changes, and how she discovered that she was related to the victims. She could see that Huddén was disappointed when he realised that her presence was not going to help.
‘I appreciate that you no doubt need other information,’ she said. ‘I work in the law, and I’m not totally unaware of the procedures involved.’
‘Obviously, I’m grateful that you’ve come to see us.’
He put down his pen and squinted at her.
‘But have you really come all the way from Skåne to tell us this? You could have phoned.’
‘I have something to say that is relevant to the investigation. I’d like to speak to Vivi Sundberg.’
‘Can’t you tell me? She’s extremely busy.’
‘I’ve already spoken to her, and it would be useful to continue where we left off.’
He went out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Roslin slid the file labelled BRITA AND AUGUST ANDRÉN towards her. What she saw horrified her. There were photographs, taken inside the house. It was only now that she realised the scale of the bloodbath. She stared at the pictures of the sliced and diced bodies. The woman was almost impossible to identify, as she had been slashed by a blow that almost cut her face in two. One of the man’s arms was hanging from just a couple of thin sinews.
She closed the file and pushed it away. But the images were still there; she wouldn’t be able to forget them. During her years in court she had often been forced to look at photographs of sadistic violence, but she had never seen anything to compare with what Erik Huddén had in his files.
He came back and beckoned her to follow him.
Vivi Sundberg was sitting at a desk laden with documents. Her pistol and mobile phone were lying on top of a file filled almost to the bursting point. She indicated a visitor’s chair.
‘You wanted to speak to me,’ said Sundberg. ‘If I understand it rightly, you’ve travelled all the way from Helsingborg. You must feel what you have to say is important.’
Her mobile phone rang. She switched it off and looked expectantly at her visitor.
Roslin told her story without getting bogged down in details. She had often sat on the bench and thought about how a prosecuting or defending counsel, an accused or a witness, ought to have expressed themselves. She was an expert in that particular skill.
‘Perhaps you already know about the Nevada incident,’ she said when she had finished.
‘It hasn’t come up at our briefings yet.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t think anything.’
‘It could mean that the murderer you are looking for is not a madman.’
‘I shall evaluate your information the same way I do every tip and suggestion. And believe me – there are masses of them here, phone calls, letters, emails. You name it, we got it. Who knows, something may turn up.’
She reached for a notepad and asked Birgitta Roslin to repeat her story. When she had finished making notes she
Birgitta Roslin usually kept her claws tucked into her paws. But not now.
‘No. I’ve no idea who you are.’
‘I write.’
‘For whom?’
‘For everybody who’s interested.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve nothing to say to you.’
‘Obviously, I’m very sorry about your sad loss.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re not sorry at all. You are speaking softly in order not to attract attention – so others don’t realise you’ve found a relative.’
The glass doors were opened by a man with badge informing the world that he was Erik Huddén. They shook hands. A photographer’s flash was reflected in the glass doors as they closed again.
There were people everywhere. The tempo here was radically different from that in Hesjövallen. They went into a conference room where a table was covered in files and lists. This is where the dead are gathered together, Roslin thought. Huddén invited her to sit down and took a seat opposite her. She told the full story from the beginning, the two different name changes, and how she discovered that she was related to the victims. She could see that Huddén was disappointed when he realised that her presence was not going to help.
‘I appreciate that you no doubt need other information,’ she said. ‘I work in the law, and I’m not totally unaware of the procedures involved.’
‘Obviously, I’m grateful that you’ve come to see us.’
He put down his pen and squinted at her.
‘But have you really come all the way from Skåne to tell us this? You could have phoned.’
‘I have something to say that is relevant to the investigation. I’d like to speak to Vivi Sundberg.’
‘Can’t you tell me? She’s extremely busy.’
‘I’ve already spoken to her, and it would be useful to continue where we left off.’
He went out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Roslin slid the file labelled BRITA AND AUGUST ANDRÉN towards her. What she saw horrified her. There were photographs, taken inside the house. It was only now that she realised the scale of the bloodbath. She stared at the pictures of the sliced and diced bodies. The woman was almost impossible to identify, as she had been slashed by a blow that almost cut her face in two. One of the man’s arms was hanging from just a couple of thin sinews.
She closed the file and pushed it away. But the images were still there; she wouldn’t be able to forget them. During her years in court she had often been forced to look at photographs of sadistic violence, but she had never seen anything to compare with what Erik Huddén had in his files.
He came back and beckoned her to follow him.
Vivi Sundberg was sitting at a desk laden with documents. Her pistol and mobile phone were lying on top of a file filled almost to the bursting point. She indicated a visitor’s chair.
‘You wanted to speak to me,’ said Sundberg. ‘If I understand it rightly, you’ve travelled all the way from Helsingborg. You must feel what you have to say is important.’
Her mobile phone rang. She switched it off and looked expectantly at her visitor.
Roslin told her story without getting bogged down in details. She had often sat on the bench and thought about how a prosecuting or defending counsel, an accused or a witness, ought to have expressed themselves. She was an expert in that particular skill.
‘Perhaps you already know about the Nevada incident,’ she said when she had finished.
‘It hasn’t come up at our briefings yet.’
‘What do you think?’
‘I don’t think anything.’
‘It could mean that the murderer you are looking for is not a madman.’
‘I shall evaluate your information the same way I do every tip and suggestion. And believe me – there are masses of them here, phone calls, letters, emails. You name it, we got it. Who knows, something may turn up.’
She reached for a notepad and asked Birgitta Roslin to repeat her story. When she had finished making notes she
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