Tommy sat down and began to read out loud from what he’d written in his notebook.
“ ‘Turner syndrome is a chromosomal disorder that only affects girls. Normally, boys have the chromosomes XY and girls have XX, but girls who have Turner syndrome have only one chromosome, and therefore it’s noted as XO. These girls are short and do not undergo puberty. They can be treated with female hormones in order to develop breasts and the like’—but I imagine that wasn’t a possibility during the twenties, when Lovisa was young. ‘Regardless, girls with Turner syndrome are always sterile.’ ”
“Sterile! But how—”
She was interrupted when Hannu knocked on the door and came in. He had a number of faxes in one hand.
“Hello. So what did you find out?” Tommy asked.
“Lots. Anna Siwén is deceased. I reached her son Jacob Siwén. He still lives in Stockholm.”
“Were Anna and Tekla related?” Irene asked.
“Yes, they were cousins. Tekla’s mother died when Tekla was born, so Anna’s parents took her in. Tekla’s father started to drink heavily after the death of his wife and was unable to care for a child. He died two years later and left Tekla some money.”
“Does Jacob Siwén remember Tekla at all?”
“Not well. He was six years old when she died. He says that he remembers one Christmas when a lady who cried all the time stayed with them. He believes this must have been Tekla. He had some letters Tekla had written to his mother that she’d saved. He faxed them to me. And I also found a photograph of Tekla in one of the envelopes.”
Hannu handed all the papers to Irene. The photograph was on top. Nicely printed on the back were the words “Tekla Olsson. Graduation from nursing school, June 1943.” Irene turned it over.
In spite of the fact that the photo was faded with age, Irene saw at once something that made her head spin. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Tekla is Sverker’s mother.”
Her two colleagues looked at her in surprise.
“How can you say that?” Tommy asked.
“Look at her eyes.”
Tommy grabbed the photo and looked it up and down. “How can you tell in this black-and-white picture? Cute face, though.”
The white cap with its black band was placed firmly on tightly pinned blond hair. Tekla’s face had regular features, and her laughing mouth revealed perfect teeth. Tekla Olsson had been quite a beauty. Although the photo was black and white, and somewhat yellowed at that, Irene imagined that her eyes were greenish blue, the color of clear seawater.
“Lord in heaven! I really believe Sverker knows nothing about any of this. And yet we are now certain that Lovisa was sterile and never could have had a child.”
Hannu regarded her, contemplating. “He should have known. Both his parents are deceased. It would have been on the death certificates if he were either their natural-born or adopted child.”
Tommy and Irene both looked at Hannu. Tommy was the one who said it first. “Do you think you could track down those death certificates?”
Hannu nodded and headed out the door.
Irene began to search through the file marked “Personal.” She was sure she’d glanced at something behind one of the tabs. There! She pulled out the sheet of paper.
The top of the yellow sheet stated “Delivery Record.”
“Look at this! A delivery record for Mrs. Lovisa Löwander. January second, 1947, at Sabbatsberg Hospital in Stockholm. There’s a lot of strange jargon—‘nulliparous’ … ‘pelvimetry carried out’ … ‘shows tendency to …’ Here! A male child was born without complications at 4:35 P.M. Weight at birth, seven pounds, six ounces.” Irene looked up from the sheet. “What’s this all about? We know that Lovisa couldn’t have children. Probably Tekla Olsson and Hilding Löwander are Sverker’s parents. How can there be a delivery record under Lovisa’s name?”
“Who wrote the record?”
“Let’s see.… Well, what do you know. Our friend the gynecologist who wrote the adoption certification. Here he is again: Dr. Ruben Goldblum.”
“The very good friend of Mr. and Mrs. Löwander.”
“He must have helped them create a fake delivery record.”
“Why?”
“No idea. Perhaps something to do with biological versus adoptive children.”
“Maybe. And remember, that recommendation for adoption was never sent. It’s still here.”
They both thought a minute.
“If Hilding was Sverker’s biological father, he wouldn’t have to adopt his own son,” Tommy said. “But Sverker could not have been Lovisa’s son. We know that. Therefore she must have adopted him. Right?”
Irene thought again and nodded. “Yes, I think you’re right. That’s what happened.”
“Know what I think? The whole arrangement with the fake delivery record and all that talk that Lovisa was under a specialist’s care was just an attempt to hide a scandal—that Hilding had gotten another woman pregnant.”
“Perhaps Lovisa had a deep need for a child—even an adopted one. There weren’t any alternatives in those days. Not like today, when a fertilized egg can be inserted into a sterile woman’s womb.”
“Yes, that’s done these days.”
“But not fifty years ago.”
“No.”
Hannu stuck his head into the doorway. “On the death certificate, Sverker is registered as Lovisa Löwander’s biological son.”
“Hannu, come take a look at this.”
Tommy held out the faked delivery record. Hannu read it without expression.
“That could have worked,” he said at last. “There were no central data registries then. An unwed mother could give her child up for adoption at birth, and the new parents could take the child at once. This must have happened in Stockholm. If the adoptive mother came back to Göteborg with papers that proved she’d given birth, there’s a good chance that the church registry would accept it.”
“Especially if the parents were upper-class and were considered respectable. And they must really have played the game well. I expect Lovisa wore a pillow under her clothes before she left Göteborg for Stockholm,” Irene said.
“Wait a moment! Tekla. The envelope with the rent receipts.” Tommy began to shuffle papers as he looked for the right envelope. He quickly pulled out the receipts. “Here! Seven rent receipts at one hundred crowns apiece. Under the name Tekla Olsson. No address, unfortunately.”
“Let’s take another look through these file folders and see if we can find a rental agreement,” Irene said.
She was only able to open to the index when the phone rang.
“Inspector Irene Huss.”
“It’s Siv Persson. Something’s happened!”
“What?!”
“The killer! The blonde! Yesterday evening. Right outside my … my door!” Siv Persson stammered.
“We’ll be right there. Don’t open the door for anyone but us, even if it’s someone you know.”
“I promise. Thank you for coming.”
Irene hung up and repeated the short conversation to the others. They decided to split up. Hannu and Tommy would go to Siv Persson, while Irene would stay to keep sifting through the papers and letters.
She hardly wanted to admit it even to herself, but she was intrigued, almost excited, to poke around among these relics of the dead. But would she turn up anything relevant? She’d have to trust her intuition, and she had a hunch these clues from the past were important. The need of the murderer to kill, on top of all these secrets, told her that.
Irene was unable to find a rental contract, so she went over the letters, which were much more interesting. There were nine of them. She arranged them according to their dates.