He buried the scalp beneath his sister’s window in the dawn light. Now all that was left was the extra sacrifice he would offer her. He would bury one last scalp. Then it would be over.
He thought about the man he had watched sleeping. The man who had sat across from him on the sofa, understanding nothing of the sacred mission he had to perform. He still hadn’t decided whether he should also take the girl sleeping in the next room. He would make his final decision the next day, but now he had to rest.
Skane
5–8 July 1994
CHAPTER 29
Waldemar Sjosten was a criminal detective in Helsingborg who devoted all his free time during the summer to a 1930s mahogany boat he had found by accident. And this was just what he planned to do on Tuesday morning, 5 July, when he let the shade on his bedroom window roll up with a snap just before 6 a.m. He lived in a newly renovated block of flats at the centre of town. One street, the railway line and the docks were all that separated him from the Sound. The weather was as beautiful as the weather reports had promised. His holiday didn’t start until the end of July, but whenever he could he spent a few early mornings on his boat, docked at the marina a short bike ride away. Sjosten was going to celebrate his 50th birthday this autumn. He had been married three times, had six children and was planning his fourth marriage. The woman shared his love of the boat, Sea King II. He had taken the name from the beautiful boat that he’d spent his childhood summers on board with his parents, Sea King I. His father had sold it to a man from Norway when he was ten, and he had never forgotten it. He often wondered whether the boat still existed, or whether it had sunk or rotted away.
He had finished a cup of coffee and was getting ready to leave when the telephone rang. He was surprised to hear it at such an early hour. He picked up the receiver.
“Waldemar?” It was Detective Sergeant Birgersson.
“Yes.”
“I hope I didn’t wake you.”
“I was just on my way out.”
“Lucky I caught you then. You’d better get down here right away.”
Birgersson wouldn’t have called unless it was something serious.
“I’ll be right there,” he said. “What is it?”
“There was smoke coming out of one of those old villas up in Tagaborg. When the fire brigade got there they found a man in the kitchen.”
“Dead?”
“Murdered. You’ll understand why I called you when you see him.”
Sjosten could see his morning disappearing, but he was a dutiful policeman, so he had no trouble changing his plans. Instead of the key to his bicycle lock he grabbed his car keys and left at once. It took him only a few minutes to drive to the station. Birgersson was on the steps waiting. He got in the car and gave him directions.
“Who’s dead?” Sjosten asked.
“Ake Liljegren.”
Sjosten whistled. Ake Liljegren was well known, not just in the city but all over Sweden. He called himself “the Auditor” and had gained his notoriety as the eminence grise behind some extensive shell company dealing done during the 1980s. Apart from one six-month suspended sentence, the police had had no success in prosecuting the illegal operation he ran. Liljegren had become a by-word for the worst type of financial scams, and the fact that he got off scot-free demonstrated how ill-equipped the justice system was to handle criminals like him. He was from Bastad, but in recent years had lived in Helsingborg when he was in Sweden. Sjosten recalled a newspaper article that had set out to uncover how many houses Liljegren owned across the world.
“Can you give me a time frame?” asked Sjosten.
“A jogger out early this morning saw smoke coming out of the house. He raised the alarm. The fire department got there at 5.15 a.m.”
“Where was the fire?”
“There was no fire.”
Sjosten gave Birgersson a puzzled look.
“Liljegren was leaning into the oven,” Birgersson explained. “His head was in the oven, which was on full blast. He was literally being roasted.”
Sjosten grimaced. He was beginning to get an idea what he was going to have to look at.
“Did he commit suicide?”
“No. Someone stuck an axe in his head.”
Sjosten stomped involuntarily on the brake. He looked at Birgersson, who nodded.
“His face and hair were almost completely burnt off. But the doctor thought he could tell that someone had sliced off part of his scalp.”
Sjosten said nothing. He was thinking about what had happened in Ystad. That was this summer’s big news. A serial killer who axed people to death and then took their scalps.
They arrived at Liljegren’s villa on Aschebergsgatan. A fire engine was parked outside the gates along with a few police cars and an ambulance. The huge property was cordoned off. Sjosten got out of the car and waved off a reporter. He and Birgersson ducked under the cordon and walked up to the villa. When they entered the house Sjosten noticed a sickly smell, and realised that it was Liljegren’s burnt corpse. He borrowed a handkerchief from Birgersson and held it to his nose and mouth. Birgersson nodded towards the kitchen. A very pale uniformed officer stood guard at the door. Sjosten peered inside. The sight that greeted him was grotesque. The half-naked man was on his knees. His body was bent over the oven door. His head and neck were out of sight inside the oven. With disgust Sjosten recalled the fairy tale of Hansel and Gretel and the witch. A doctor was kneeling down beside the body, shining a torch into the oven. Sjosten tried to breathe through his mouth. The doctor nodded at him. Sjosten leaned forward and looked into the oven. He was reminded of a charred steak.
“Jesus,” he said.
“He took a blow to the back of the head,” said the doctor.
“Here in the kitchen?”
“No, upstairs,” said Birgersson, standing behind him.
Sjosten straightened up.
“Take him out of the oven,” he said. “Has the photographer finished?”
Birgersson nodded. Sjosten followed him upstairs, avoiding the traces of blood. Birgersson stopped outside the bathroom door.
“As you saw, he was wearing pyjamas,” said Birgersson. “Here’s how it probably happened: Liljegren was in the bathroom. The killer was waiting for him. He struck Liljegren with an axe in the back of the head and then dragged the body to the kitchen. That could explain why the pyjama bottoms were hanging from one leg. Then he put the body in front of the oven, turned it on, and left. We don’t know yet how he got into the house and out again. I thought you might be able to take care of that.”
Sjosten said nothing. He was thinking. He went back down to the kitchen. The body was on a plastic sheet on the floor.
“Is it him?” asked Sjosten.
“It’s Liljegren,” said the doctor. “Even though he doesn’t have much face left.”
“That’s not what I meant. Is it the man who takes scalps?”
The doctor pulled back the plastic sheet covering the blackened face.
“I’m convinced that he cut or tore off the hair at the front of his head,” said the doctor.
Sjosten nodded. Then he turned to Birgersson.
“I want you to call the Ystad police. Get hold of Kurt Wallander. I want to talk to him. Now.”
For once Wallander had fixed a proper breakfast. He had fried some eggs and was just sitting down at the table with his newspaper when the telephone rang. The caller introduced himself as Detective Sergeant Sture Birgersson of the Helsingborg police. What he had feared had finally happened. The killer had struck again. He swore under his breath, an oath that contained equal parts rage and horror. Waldemar Sjosten came to the phone. In the early 1980s they had collaborated on the investigation of a drugs ring extending all over Skane. Although they were very different people, they had had an easy time working together and had formed the beginnings of a friendship.