The Treacherous Net Read online

  Also by Helene Tursten

  Detective Inspector Huss

  Night Rounds

  The Torso

  The Glass Devil

  The Golden Calf

  The Fire Dance

  The Beige Man

  First published in Swedish under the title Det lömska nätet

  Copyright © 2008 by Helene Tursten

  Published in agreement with H. Samuelsson-Tursten AB, Sunne, and Leonhardt & Høier Literary Agency, Copenhagen

  English translation copyright © 2015 by Marlaine Delargy

  All rights reserved.

  First English translation published in 2015 by

  Soho Press

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Tursten, Helene.

  [Lömska nätet. English]

  The treacherous net / Helene Tursten ; translated by Marlaine Delargy.

  (An Irene Huss investigation)

  ISBN 978-1-61695-402-4

  eISBN 978-1-61695-403-1

  1. Policewomen—Fiction. 2. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Delargy,

  Marlaine, translator. II. Title.

  PT9876.3.U55L6513 2015

  839.73’8—dc23 2015014950

  Printed in the United States of America

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To Anita and Stina:

  It’s time for Superintendent Sven Andersson

  to retire!

  As usual I have taken considerable liberties with geographical facts. My philosophy is that I do not adapt my narrative to reality; instead, reality is adapted to fit the story where necessary. The characters featured in my books are always fictional, but the descriptions of real-world historical events and individuals are accurate. Even if I take liberties when I write, it is not in my power to change things that have already happened and are documented.

  HELENE TURSTEN

  Elof Persson had to die. The only possible course of action was to get rid of him. In spite of the fact that he was a member of the General Security Service, a secret intelligence organization, the idiot didn’t understand what a dangerous game he was playing. He was arrogant and overconfident. His aggression had been frightening the first time he got in touch just over two months ago, and his physical strength, terrifying. He had taken pleasure in showing off his prowess, grabbing the other man so viciously by the throat that the tender red mark had taken twenty-four hours to fade.

  With undisguised contempt, Persson had let loose with a stream of scornful invective and threats. His victim was so shocked that all he could do was stand there and take it, paralyzed by the realization that the man in front of him could destroy his entire future. Elof Persson had stumbled upon his crime, and now Persson must be paid to keep quiet.

  But the worst thing was the threat of public exposure, which would inevitably lead to a trial and a jail sentence. The mass media would revel in his shame, and the situation would be unbearable. His entire social life and career would be wrecked. It would amount to total ruin, and in that case he might as well kill himself.

  Right now everything hung in the balance: life against life. His own against Elof Persson’s.

  The man lurking in the dark doorway clutched the butt of the Tokarev pistol in his coat pocket. It was made of Bakelite and was damp with the sweat from his palm. His fingertips traced the round logo with its five-pointed star. The Russian semiautomatic wasn’t the most reliable or the best quality model, but this particular gun had other advantages. No one was aware he had it. He knew how to handle it; his friends had taught him how it worked. Furthermore, the Russians had produced the Tokarev in huge quantities both before and during the war, so there were plenty around on the black market. It was the perfect murder weapon.

  He pulled his hat down farther and peered out of the doorway, tentatively wriggling his toes in his wet shoes to try to keep the circulation going. The newspaper he was using instead of insoles seemed to be drawing in the dampness rather than providing any kind of protection. Shoes and clothes were only available using a ration card these days; he wouldn’t be able to buy new shoes until December. Not that he could afford anything, thanks to the man he was waiting for.

  The street was in complete darkness. People had closed their blackout curtains or covered the windows with black paper. Most were probably asleep by now. He had to make sure that a patrol didn’t spot him; it would be difficult to explain why he was hanging about in a doorway after night had fallen. A damp, chilly wind whirled a flurry of rustling autumn leaves along Hornsgatan. The doorway from which Elof Persson would emerge at any moment was just a short distance away.

  They had arranged to meet in Tantolunden, but he had no intention of waiting there. Better to surprise the man as he stepped out into the street.

  It had probably never even occurred to the cocky security cop that his home address could be tracked down. Or that his pathetic little victim could suddenly become a threat to his own life. Persson no doubt saw him as a fussy busybody, someone he could exploit as it pleased him. He was an arrogant bastard, and that would be the death of him.

  This time the man’s victim wasn’t carrying an envelope stuffed with money.

  Just a loaded gun.

  It seemed sad, somehow. When this demolition project was done, only one wooden building would remain standing on Korsvägen. It had been renovated and now housed several small companies and a part of the university’s administration. It was protected as a cultural landmark, of course. The wooden palace was situated a little way up the hill, with its extensive glass veranda facing the traffic down below. Everyone passed it on the way to the university library or Näckrosdammen. It was good that at least one building remained, but it was a pity that this one had been so badly damaged by fire that it was going to have to be demolished.

  Göran Jansson sighed. He was born and raised on Mölndalsvägen, just a stone’s throw from the spot where he was now standing. He was very familiar with the area around Korsvägen. Most of the wooden buildings had been in poor condition already by the end of the sixties, but they had still lent a certain charm to the busy intersection. Two of his friends had lived in the houses on the spot where the Museum of World Culture and the Universeum science center now stood.

  Jansson worked as a foreman with the building company that was responsible for pulling down the remains of the fire-damaged property. His men would then fill in the hole in the ground and obliterate the final traces. He felt a pang of nostalgia as he raised his hand and gave the signal to get things under way.

  The chimney was a sturdy red-brick structure. Apart from the thick granite cellar walls, it was the only part of the building that had emerged more or less unscathed. All the timber had been consumed by the fire. According to witnesses, the whole place had been ablaze in less than ten minutes. The firefighters had concentrated on stopping the conflagration from spreading to the neighboring property, but an elderly man who lived in one of the apartments had lost his life. It had proved impossible to determine the cause of the fire.

  The chimney might still be standing, but it was leaning to one side, which was why the decision had been made to clear the site as quickly as possible. There was a risk that it could collapse in a strong wind.

  The heavy wrecking ball suspended from the crane swung toward the brickwork. Over the next half hour it gradually demolished the chimney, and the excavator filled the truck with debris. Eventually only the section in the cellar remained. Göran Jansson clambered down and checked the foundation. It looked unusually thick on o
ne side and was an odd shape. Kind of skewed. We’d better take down that side before we remove the boiler, he thought.

  It was the first warm day after two weeks of wind and rain. It felt good, but he was wearing too many layers. He took off his orange hard hat and used his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his hairline before climbing back up the ladder. He positioned himself a short distance away from the edge in order to assess the best way of proceeding. He wondered why someone had made one side of the chimney so thick. By his estimates, it was at least eighteen inches wider than the other side. Perhaps they had bricked up an old hot water tank? Or a wood store? Not impossible, back in the old days . . .

  His thoughts were interrupted as the wrecking ball smashed into the chimney at full force. However, the sound it made was not a dull thud, as expected; instead the brick wall came crashing down.

  Göran Jansson saw it at once. He started waving frantically to stop the crane driver from deploying the ball again.

  A sleeve was sticking out of the hole in the wall, a claw-like hand protruding from the end of the sleeve.

  The witness who called the police at 9:14 a.m. had been right. There was a dead body at the water’s edge. The technicians had quickly gone out to Nötsund to secure the scene. After two hours’ intensive work they were done, and the corpse could be removed and placed in a body bag.

  Detective Inspectors Irene Huss and Jonny Blom waited patiently. Then Irene carefully examined the puffy grey face before zipping up the bag.

  “Alexandra Hallwiin,” she said in a resigned tone of voice.

  They had suspected as much, but it still felt ineffably sad to be able to confirm that the girl was dead. They hadn’t been involved in the case while the girl had simply been listed as a missing person, but as soon as the call had come in about the discovery at Nötsund, along with the information that the body was that of a young girl, they had printed out the available case notes. Jonny Blom drove while Irene read aloud.

  Fourteen-year-old Alexandra had been missing for five days. According to her parents she had never shown any signs of wanting to run away, nor had she had any reason to do so now. They described her as a typical horse-crazy teenager—a little shy, perhaps. Hardworking at school, but no indication of bullying. Alexandra’s teachers and school friends had backed up her parents’ view of their daughter.

  Alexandra’s face had been all over the front pages over the weekend. She came from a well-off family, and kidnapping had been a possibility right from the start. If she hadn’t been abducted, the police still suspected that a crime lay behind her disappearance. A girl who just wants to get away for a while usually tries to take some clothes and money with her, but according to her mother the only thing Alexandra had taken before she went missing on Walpurgis Night, April 30, was a wallet containing her bus pass and three hundred kronor at the most, the clothes she was wearing, a telescopic umbrella and her cell phone. Nothing else.

  Alexandra had told her parents she was meeting some of her classmates in Brunnsparken. In spite of the pouring rain, they were going to see the Chalmers University of Technology’s traditional annual parade, known as the Cortège. Then they were heading back to Torslanda to hang out at the home of one of the girls. She would be home by midnight at the latest. Her parents were going to a party with friends and didn’t have time to give her a lift, so Alexandra said she would catch the bus into town. When she waved goodbye and walked out through the door, that was the last time anyone was known to have seen her alive.

  The 6:05 p.m. bus had been full, and the driver didn’t remember her. The driver on the next bus hadn’t noticed her either. There were lots of young people heading into the city center to watch the parade and celebrate.

  None of her friends had arranged to meet her in the park. Even the two girls who were regarded as Alexandra’s closest friends had no idea what she was planning to do on Walpurgis Night. When they had asked Alexandra about her plans the previous day, she had said she would be training Prince in preparation for the show on Sunday. Since they knew how important the horse and competitions were to Alexandra, neither of them had pursued the matter.

  No one could say for certain whether the girl had traveled into town on the bus. When her worried mother had started calling her cell phone after midnight, it had been switched off.

  From the moment Alexandra closed the garden gate, it was as if the ground had opened up and swallowed her.

  Now they had found her.

  It was a Labrador that discovered her. He was young and playful, and at first he was delighted to find a friend who had hidden herself so cleverly. A second later his sensitive nose registered a strange smell. Exciting, acrid, and a little bit frightening. He began to bark agitatedly, sticking his rump in the air as he circled the interesting odor, gradually getting closer. When his master called him—“Elroy! Elroy! Here, boy!”—he grabbed a scrap of fabric that was lying on the ground and proudly scampered back with it in his mouth. There was a brief struggle, but eventually Elroy let go of his trophy. The man shuddered when he looked down at the torn, bloodied black lace thong in his hands. The word sunday was embroidered on the small triangle at the front, surrounded by a border of red rosebuds.

  The body had been pushed into a crevice in the rocks; the murderer had piled a few branches and stones on top in an attempt to hide it.

  “So it’s only the beginning of May, and we’ve already had our murdered teenage girl of the summer. Along with another one, just to be on the safe side. On the same day,” Detective Inspector Jonny Blom said with a sigh.

  His colleagues nodded with an air of resignation. Two murders at the same time meant a heavy workload for the team, particularly in view of the fact that the gang war in the city had begun to escalate once more. It had been relatively calm on that front during February and most of March, but over the Easter weekend they had launched two murder investigations within three days. The victims were a thirty-four-year-old father of three, and a twenty-three-year-old rookie. Both had belonged to the warring factions: the criminal network known as Asir, and the notorious biker gang Bandidos.

  The investigation also covered a car bomb, although only minor injuries were reported. The car had belonged to a would-be gangster who carried out his activities using the restaurant he owned as a front. Presumably he hadn’t been willing to pay the price for the protection of one of the gangs, although it wasn’t clear which one. Those who are willingly or unwillingly drawn into dealings with the biker gangs never talk to the police. Most people have a certain instinct for self-preservation. At the moment Asir and Bandidos were equal, with one loss each. The question wasn’t if reprisals would follow, but when. And which of them would strike first.

  Irene Huss was only half-listening. She couldn’t get the image of Alexandra’s dead body out of her mind. When she had looked at the girl’s face she had noticed something that was later confirmed by the preliminary autopsy report: some kind of plastic twine had been pulled tightly around her neck. A thin washing line, perhaps. There was no doubt that they were dealing with a homicide.

  The meeting with Alexandra’s parents the previous day had been just as difficult as these meetings always are. During the afternoon Irene and Jonny were intending to go out to Torslanda to speak to them again, and to take a look at the girl’s room. Hopefully CSI would be finished by the end of the morning.

  The door leading to the corridor was open; they were waiting for their boss, Efva Thylqvist, to arrive. Her deputy would probably turn up at the same time: DCI Tommy Persson, Irene’s classmate back at the police academy.

  After they qualified, Irene and Tommy had both ended up in central Göteborg, and they had been colleagues for over twenty years. They had grown very close—unusually close for colleagues of different sexes. This had given rise to a number of rumors, but thanks to the fact that these rumors had been completely groundless, their friendship had survived. Before Tommy and his wife
, Agneta, divorced four years ago, the two families had often hung out; they had even gone on vacation together. They had been godparents to each other’s children. For eighteen years Irene and Tommy had shared an office in the Violent Crimes Unit—right up until a year ago, when their former chief, Superintendent Sven Andersson, had moved over to the Cold Cases Unit, and a new chief had taken over.

  Irene and Tommy’s office was right at the end of the corridor, well away from the main door. Superintendent Efva Thylqvist had decided she wanted her deputy closer to her, and after a rapid reorganization, Tommy found himself in the room next door to the superintendent. Which meant he was at the opposite end of the corridor from his old office.

  “It will be nice for you to have your own space after all these years,” Efva Thylqvist had said, gently placing a well-manicured hand on Irene’s arm.

  Irene hadn’t thought it was nice at all, just lonely. She would no longer have anyone to chat with or bounce her ideas off. It had taken a great deal of self-control on Irene’s part to refrain from shaking off the superintendent’s hand.

  That was the tricky thing about Efva Thylqvist. To begin with, everyone had a good feeling about the new chief. She had seemed friendly and genuinely interested in her new colleagues, but after a while Irene realized that her interest was mainly directed at the men. She always smiled at them, took time to have a proper conversation with them. All the guys on the team really liked her. Efva Thylqvist was an attractive brunette in her forties, with thick, shoulder-length hair. Her figure was slim but curvaceous. She certainly knew how to wear even the most severe skirt suit or pant suit; the blouses or tops she wore under her jackets were usually very low-cut, and she always wore high heels. Irene assumed this was to compensate for her lack of height. As Irene herself was six feet tall in her stocking feet, she felt like an elephant standing next to her dainty boss. They were about the same age, but Irene was slightly older. Rumor had it that Efva Thylqvist had been married at the beginning of her career as a police officer, but that the husband had disappeared at an early stage. They didn’t have children, anyway. There was talk of affairs with high-ranking colleagues, some of whom had been married. Of course there was no way of assessing the accuracy of this gossip; in her more charitable moments Irene thought this was the kind of thing that was always said about women when they overtook men on the career ladder. At other times she thought it was possible that there was a certain amount of truth in the rumors. However, there was no denying the fact that Superintendent Thylqvist had led an outstanding career so far. Irene consoled herself with the thought that she was unlikely to be content to remain with the Violent Crimes Unit until her retirement.