Death on a Cold Street 10
"Ah, Herr Bateman! You have returned, good." Fru Hincks stepped across his path as he entered the lobby. "Fröken Eklund has gone, taken her things and gone." The sour-faced woman became more so. "As you seem to have formed an 'attachment.' I thought you may know something of it?"
Lockaman said nothing, but took the stairs two at a time. At the girl's door he hesitated, straight backed, his lip curling as anger surged. With a sudden jerk he kicked the door open and stepped into the room.
It was empty, of course.
Then it struck him; there had been nothing here before. No womanly trinkets, no books, no things of consequence, nothing on the dressing table. No, not nothing, her combs, hair pins, a bottle of lavender water. He remembered them. It was what he did; observe, correlate, assess, and apply his conclusions to the situation in hand.
But his assessment had been wrong. He'd seen the room, taken in what was missing…and ignored all of it.
She had misdirected him, fooled him.
No one fooled him, ever.
The blood pitched and surged within him. Arms steady at his sides, palms spread wide, releasing the pressure. All about him the evidence was clear; she had been ready to leave, prepared. The deliciously sensual, submissive toy he had found was not what she seemed.
Breathing deeply, he flexed his fingers, relaxing them in time with his breathing.
Fury dissipated, replaced by a dangerous calm.
He moved to the bed, caught a scent of their heated bodies still lingering, ghosted his fingertips over dried smear of his ejaculate that fouled the white sheet, and frowned.
The clatter of Fru Hincks's shoes on the stairs made him turn.
"She owed rent you know! Her, with all those quiet, fancy refinements." The woman advanced on the bed and pulled the sheet further back, sneering at the stains. "Huh, common whore is what she is."
Lockaman smiled.
Well, Fru Hincks thought it could have been a smile. Whatever it was, it made her shiver.
Withdrawing his wallet from his inner pocket, Lockaman pulled out a handful of banknotes, far more than was needed, and let them fall onto the soiled portion of the wrinkled linen. Then, turning on his heel, he walked away. Now he would find her again, and this time there would be no lapse in purpose.
###
The search for Christina Eklund was at a dead end. The trail was colder than the landlady of the respectable boarding house on Hansan Gata. The icy, scornful abuse of the 'whore-in-number-twelve' was almost laughably spite-filled, though the sour opinions added little to the investigation.
But there had been one thing of interest to Magnus: the English businessman calling himself 'Bateman'. This man had apparently availed himself of the services of the 'whore-in-number-twelve', even paying her bill when she absconded, then he too, abruptly, disappeared.
He may, or may not, be of importance. Whoever he was, the chances were his name wasn't Bateman, or that he was even English. According to the staff and guests, he also he spoke Swedish, French, and German fluently, but his business interests were vague. No one could remember a single actual detail, odd in a guesthouse catering almost exclusively to businessmen making contacts and boasting of the 'profitable deals' they had made.
Then, another thought occurred to the inspector; why had Christina Eklund been staying here? She had chosen the fashionable Hotel Primus when in Malmo. Was she now down on her luck?
Hiding was an expensive business, it seemed.
###
Inspector Martinsson and constable Wallander walked away from the boarding house, turning onto the bustling street in front of the Hötorgshallen. Martinsson was quiet, mulling over the pitifully sparse information.
Wallander spoke first. "Could this man be some sort of accomplice? They killed the minister together and…"
"And what?" the inspector drawled, then sighed. The last thing he wanted was to discourage Wallander; the lad was promising. He'd make a damn fine policeman one day.
The younger man shrugged. "Well, maybe they met up here before taking ship for…England, America?" From Idegranstad's busy port it was possible to get passage practically anywhere.
"The landlady said the girl disappeared first, and that the Englishman was surprised and angry." Magnus shook his head and pursed his lips in thought. "No…they're not partners. Yes they…spent the night together." He didn't like the idea. Devil take it, he was turning into such a fool. "But that's it. She's friendless, I'm sure of it."
Wallander frowned and picked his words carefully. "Sir…you know they, the lads at the station, they think..?"
"That I've gone mad, finally?" Magnus almost laughed. He stopped and lit a cigarette, drawing heavily on it.
"No, sir, but they do think you're asking for trouble. Those ministry bastards hold grudges and Knudsen's wife is just looking for an excuse. She's got money and she supports people who wouldn't need much of an excuse to heave you out on your arse...Sir." Wallander spoke with obvious concern.
"Well, I think I'll make 'em feel better." Magnus studied the burning tip of his cigarette as it smouldered. "Stockholm seems to be where there are answers to be found. Knudsen had enemies. I met a few." Tapping the ash into the filth gathered at the edge of the cobbled street, he gave an exaggerated yawn. "I think I need to take some leave. It's the crayfish season, perhaps go visit my mother for her kräftskiva picnic, eat too much, maybe do a little fishing…"
"Sir?" Wallander looked puzzled. His inspector usually found a million reasons not to visit his mother or, more specifically, his daughter. But now he wanted a traditional family picnic, and fishing?
"Then perhaps…" Magnus smiled, tossing away the burnt out cigarette. "I'll look up a few old friends in Stockholm."
The junior officer rolled his eyes. But what could he say? In his boss's place, he'd have done the selfsame thing.
###
Christina wriggled her toes and giggled. The water was cold and the pebbles under her feet slippery.
Never in her life had she done this. Oh, Harald's servants had gossiped about the high spirited kraftshivor, about the fun to be had at the wild summer picnics. But her mama had never spoken of it. Tante Felice would have sneered at it, she thought herself courtesan, too fine to involve herself in festivities of peasants.
But now here she was, pulling crayfish from the river, cooking them over an open fire for the jolly little family to eat till they could eat no more. She thought herself in heaven.
"Do come back, my dear; we don't need the other basket." Fru Brun was delighted with the new governess. The kind young woman had brought just what Brigitte needed in her life; a pure and youthful, light-hearted joy.
"Oh, but we can't leave the poor things all caged up!" Christina stepped gingerly forward and pulled on the floating strings of the woven wire traps.
"But farmor, we need them. What if pappa comes…he does like kräftor, doesn't he?" Brigitte hugged her grandmother excitedly.
"Oh, he likes them. I well remember your father getting sick to his stomach. He had a bowl of cracked shells this high!" Happy memories of a time when his father was alive. Etta sniffed at her own silliness as she lit the tiny oil stove and popped the coffee pot on.
###
After an hour of breathing in the coal tainted air of the train, Magnus was relieved to be walking in the warm, late-summer buzz with its clean country smells.
His father had bought the summer stuga when he was born. The large, pretty summer cottage had an open veranda that looked out over the river.
The little boathouse by the jetty looked in need of a coat of paint, but all-in-all it still made him smile. Every year Magnus, his mother, and her maid, Gerda, would come and stay through July and August. His father would join them for the last week. They would swim and climb trees. Magnus recalled being taught the finer points of baiting the crayfish pots by him.
Closing his eyes, he thought about all the things he should have done with his own child.
Childish laughter mixed with female voices rose from the grassy hollow by the river. He took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder as he sauntered down to meet his mother and daughter.
###
The smell of fresh coffee and the sight of his mother's best holiday table cloth spread with the river's bounty, plus the fresh bread, mushroom pies, cheeses and salad, reminded him of how hungry he was.
It was a pleasing picture; the child playing by the shallow, clear water, her frock tucked into her draws. His mother was fussing with the dainty China plates and, standing in the water, a woman. She was leaning away from him, her skirts hoisted up, bunched at her hip, revealing a pair of strong, well-formed legs. Magnus tilted his head to get a better view. Very well formed legs indeed.
Fru Brun turned at the sound of movement behind her. "Magnus, my boy…I didn't expect you!"
The child and the young woman turned looked up…
Magnus froze. Christina Eklund was his daughter's governess?
"Ah, Fröken Dahl come and meet my son."
Unconscious of Magnus's consternation, Christina carefully waded to the bank, un-hitching her skirts as she stepped clear of the water. Smiling, she bobbed her head in shy greeting. The child, suddenly bashful, clung to her grandmother's skirts, burying her face there.
Quickly gathering his wits, he turned from the face that had haunted his dreams. "Yes…yes, mama, I have business in Stockholm. I thought I'd call in as I had time…" He flicked a look down again at Christina. "…and was passing."
His mother couldn't help but notice his interest in the pretty governess, but she was not unduly disturbed by it. On the contrary, Magnus showing an interest in a pretty little thing was a cause for her heart to lighten. Perhaps his grief was thawing at last?
It suddenly occurred to Magnus, why the girl didn't react as he expected. Of course, she wouldn't know who he was. She was brought unconscious into the police house, was out cold when he tended her wound…saw the pin. She hadn't opened her eyes once. So the element of surprise was his.
Oh, and what a surprise it was going to be.
He glanced at his daughter; Brigitte looked back at him, wide eyed. She bit her thumb and then mumbled something.
Brigitte looked up at Christina, who smiled, nodded encouragingly, and whispered, "Sssh, ma chérie, c'est ton pappa. Go, say hello."
With a sudden lunge forward, she caught her father about the knees, hugging tightly.
Magnus was torn between offence and unexpected feelings of paternal protectiveness. How dare this woman, who he knew to be a whore, tell his child to say hello to him?
He blustered; unhappy with what he knew really drove his indignation. In a brisk, fatherly swoop, he lifted the little girl up on to his hip. Where upon Brigitte hugged his neck and kissed his cheek.
Etta Brun was near to tears. It was only the second time he had held his child since her mother's death. She coughed to hide the sob welling in her chest.
Magnus was stunned, caught. What could he do?
"Pappa, Fröken Dahl is teaching me French."
The clear, proud voice, the weight of the small body he held, pleased him more than he wanted to admit. Her smell of soap and apples invaded, subduing his anger. The small head rested on his shoulder and Magnus found himself rubbing his cheek against the silky head.
Christina was entranced. Fru Brun had told her some of the unhappy story, told her of the father's estrangement from the child. But here he was, a properly affectionate pappa. She swallowed, damping down ugly memories. This was good; this was how life should be.
"Come, come sit, have some coffee." Etta wanted the scene to go on, but then sensed something she could not define in her son's stance. "Brigitte, go fetch the cream."
Magnus gently lowered the child to her feet. She ran unconcerned up to the house on her mission. Fru Brun bustled forward.
"Magnus, this is Fröken Dahl." She motioned Christina forward. "And this is my son, Inspector Martinsson of the Idegranstad constabulary," she said proudly.
"Fröken Eklund." Magnus nodded politely and watched the girls face fall. He enjoyed the rising panic he saw.
Etta did not notice the name change; she was too busy feeling pleased with herself. Engaging the girl was obviously a master stroke.
"I think, mama, I should have a little chat with our new governess." He stepped forward, towering over Christina. Taking her arm in a courteous, but firm grip, Magnus impelled her forward.
"Perhaps you should speak after dinner, Brigitte is so…" Etta was surprised when Magnus manoeuvred the stiff-backed young woman away toward the boat house. But she shrugged, things were going so well. Now he would get to know this sweet young woman.
"Just walk, Fröken Larsson or Eklund. No, sorry. It's Dahl now is it?" The tone was pleasantly conversational. "I don't believe my mother is aware of your former profession. No need to advertise it just yet, I think."