“That sounds entirely possible.” Irene nodded.
“Can you park a car somewhere near the drive?” asked the superintendent.
“No, not at the actual drive,” Irene conceded. “But it hit me that there was a fantastic parking spot very close to the murder scene. In fact, barely thirty meters away.”
“Where?”
“Behind the grove of fir trees. Visitors’ parking.”
The others pondered and began to nod. Encouraged, Irene continued. “It’s the perfect place for the murderer to park. As he sneaked toward the hospital, Gunnela watched him from the lilac arbor. She knew the ghost story and of course believed that she’d seen a phantom.”
Irene looked around. It seemed to her that they were following her reasoning. “The most important thing is that Gunnela kept standing there. She saw Linda arrive at the hospital. She saw that the killer, dressed as a nurse, later came out, took the bicycle, and rode away. On the tape she says, ‘She took the bike. God punishes theft!’ ”
“How can we know that it wasn’t Linda coming back to get her own bike?”
Andersson started to say something and in his excitement hit his palm on the table. His paper cup of coffee overturned, and the coffee spread over the faxes. To save them he quickly wiped them with his sleeve. Irene sighed and went to get some paper towels from the bathroom. As she returned, she noticed Birgitta in the other end of the hallway. It appeared she didn’t see Irene—she definitely didn’t wave back.
As Irene reentered the room, she heard Andersson’s excited voice.
“Jonny and Fredrik, head back to the apartment building near the hospital. See if anyone noticed a strange car in the visitors’ parking lot around midnight on the night of the murder. If only we can get a make or model, perhaps this devil’s luck will finally run out.”
Andersson’s breathing was audible. Irene felt her usual worry over her boss’s blood pressure. But since he was touchy about that, she kept silent.
The superintendent lifted the second page of the fax and waved it in the air to dry it. He said, “Did anyone attend this autopsy for Linda Svensson?”
Fredrik Stridh lifted his hand and then leaned across to take the damp fax. He went over the paper quickly before beginning to read aloud:
“ ‘Linda Svensson. Born January twenty-third, 1973. According to the police report, found dead in an attic, hanging from a ceiling beam. Found almost on her knees with her upper body hung by a doubled flag line. The rope went under the chin and up over the back of her head. The body appeared discolored on both the left and right sides of the face, and there were external abrasions on the right side of the neck. Lesions visible on the skin of the neck. A thin rope remained embedded in the wound. Underneath it bleeding in the soft tissues and musculature. Broken thyroid cartilage and hyoid bone. Also spotty bleeding in the eyes and the oral mucosa. These findings indicate that death resulted from strangulation. Probable time of death: midnight between the tenth and eleventh of February, as concurrent with the changes apparent within the body. Complete toxicological examination still ongoing. Samples have been taken for forensic examination.’ ”
Fredrik looked up as he threw the report on the table.
“Sick! The murder is sick in and of itself, but to hang her body up like that. Hanging her was some kind of ritual. And a sloppy one.”
“Yes, it is sick, and the murderer, in his sick mind, meant something by it,” Irene said.
“Keep digging, Ghostbusters,” Jonny cackled.
Irene refused to rise to his taunt. He did not realize how right he was. They had to search back in time, into the tangle of legends, ghosts, and lies. Right now everything felt at a standstill, she admitted to herself. But she’d never admit that to Jonny.
“We’ll meet again here at five in the afternoon. Svante Malm will bring some of his lab results,” Andersson concluded.
THE SAHLGREN HOSPITAL’S buildings were a hodgepodge of styles thrown together by a crazy architect, Irene thought. Every single style of architecture from the previous century was represented. It was neither beautiful nor functional.
Irene walked toward the complex’s main entrance. She could see a woman waiting by the glass doors, sheltering from the wind. She just had to be Sverker Löwander’s ex-wife. Carina and she were remarkably similar, blond and tall, although Barbro was eleven years older according to the files. She wore her hair just like Carina, but there were some streaks of gray in her blond. Another woman who needs an appointment for a color job, Irene thought to herself. Barbro Löwander’s skin was sallow. Although Irene was not a big believer in makeup per se, she thought that Barbro Löwander really ought to get some help from the cosmetics industry. A touch of bronzer, a little mascara, and some nice lipstick would make a world of difference on this colorless face. Adding to the miserable appearance was the beige down coat. Was she consciously trying to downplay her looks? All these thoughts swirled through Irene’s brain as she held out her hand to the woman and said with a smile, “Excuse me, are you Barbro Löwander?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Hi, I’m Criminal Inspector Irene Huss. Can we go somewhere we can talk?”
Barbro Löwander nodded in reply and turned toward the automatic glass doors. For a second, Irene imagined that the sensor wouldn’t react to such a colorless woman and the doors wouldn’t open.
Sahlgren Hospital would never win a prize for the most welcoming entry. Even though someone had stuck a bubbling fountain next to the window, the good impression was lost among the floating cigarette butts.
They marched down the wide hall that ran the length of the building. They did not exchange a word as they passed the cafeteria and exited the building again through the glass doors on the other side. Barbro Löwander bent over into the strong wind and hurried toward an older, dark brown brick building. Through the windows they could see a number of white-clad people moving about, protected from the wind and the rain. Irene had a feeling that her interview would not be easy.
Once inside, Barbro headed up some worn stairs, looking neither right nor left and saying not a word to Irene, who followed her glumly. Barbro stopped on the third floor, and Irene could hear the rustling of a key chain. Barbro Löwander unlocked the door and said, without much enthusiasm, “Come in. This room is empty, as its occupant is on vacation.”
The room was spacious and airy, with two large windows overlooking the botanical gardens. Not much to see in February, but it was not hard to imagine how spectacular it would be in spring when all the green plants came to life.
“Does this building have only offices?” Irene asked.
“For the most part,” Barbro replied.
She hung her jacket on a wall hook, and Irene did the same with her leather jacket.
“Were there care wards here before?” Irene continued.
“No, this was a nursing school.”
Irene suddenly understood that no brand of cosmetics in the world could make Barbro into a beautiful woman. The thickest layer of makeup couldn’t hide the fretful bitterness on her face. Irene moved a pile of papers from a chair and sat down, trying to figure out what made Sverker’s ex-wife tick.
Barbro plopped down on a desk chair next to the large computer. She withdrew a pack of cigarettes and impatiently shook one out. Apparently smoking was forbidden in the building, as she did not light it but nervously rolled it between her fingers.
“I really don’t understand why I have to be dragged into all that mess over at Löwander Hospital,” she exclaimed.
To her surprise, Irene saw tears spring up in the other woman’s eyes. Irene asked her next question carefully. “Did you know either of the murdered nurses?”