CHAPTER
FIVE
THE SMALLISH INTERVIEW room was bare except for a table and four chairs, with a fifth chair in a corner. One wall had a window with bars; on the oppositve wall was a mirror. Jana sat next to Henrik with her pen and notepad in her hand as he started the tape recorder. She let him handle the questioning. Mia Bolander had pulled up the extra chair behind them. Loudly and clearly, Henrik recited Kerstin Juhlén’s full name, then her personal identity number, before going on.
“Monday, the sixteenth of April, 15:30 hours. This interview is being conducted by DCI Henrik Levin who is being assisted by DI Mia Bolander. Also present are Public Prosecutor Jana Berzelius and Solicitor Peter Ramstedt.”
Kerstin Juhlén had been detained as a possible person of interest, but so far had not been charged with any crime. She sat next to Peter Ramstedt, her lawyer, and placed her clasped hands on the table. Her face was pale and she wore no makeup. Her hair was uncombed, her earrings removed.
“Do you know who killed my husband?” Kerstin Juhlén asked in a whisper.
“No, it’s still too early in our investigation to say,” answered Henrik and looked gravely at the woman in front of him.
“You think I’ve done it, don’t you? You think that I was the one who shot him...”
“We don’t think anything.”
“But I didn’t do it! I wasn’t home. It wasn’t me!”
“As I said, we don’t think anything yet, but we must investigate the circumstances surrounding his murder and determine how it all happened. That’s why I want you to tell me about Sunday night when you came home to the house.”
Kerstin took two deep breaths. She unclenched her hands, put them on her lap and straightened up in the chair.
“I came home...from a walk.”
“Did you walk alone, or was somebody with you?”
“I walked by myself, to the beach and back.”
“Tell us more.”
“When I came home, I took my coat off in the hallway as I called out to Hans, because I knew that he ought to be home by then. ”
“What time was it then?”
“About half past seven.”
“Go on.”
“I didn’t get an answer so I assumed that he had been delayed at work. You see, he would always go to the office on Sundays. I went straight to the kitchen to get a glass of water. I saw the pizza box on the kitchen sideboard and realized that Hans was actually home. We usually eat pizza on Sundays. Hans picks it up on his way home. Yes, well... I called out again, but still got no answer. So I went to check if he was in the living room and what he was doing and... I saw him just lying there on the floor. In shock, I called the police.”
“When did you phone?”
“Straightaway...when I found him.”
“What did you do then, after you phoned the police?”
“I went upstairs. The woman on the phone said I should do that. That I mustn’t touch him, so I went upstairs.”
Henrik looked at the woman in front of him. She looked nervous, with a shifting gaze. She fingered the cloth of her light gray pants anxiously.
“I’ve asked you before, but I must ask again. Did you see anybody in the house?”
“No.”
“Nobody outside?”
“I noticed that the front window was opened, so I closed it. In case someone was still lurking about. I was frightened. But no, I’ve already told you. I saw no one.”
“No car on the street?”
“No,” Kerstin answered in a loud voice. She leaned forward and rubbed her Achilles tendon on one foot, as if she were trying to scratch an itch.
“Tell us about your husband,” said Henrik.
“Tell you what?”
“He worked as the head of asylum issues at the Migration Board here in Norrköping, correct?” said Henrik.
“Yes. He was good at his job.”
“Can you elaborate? What was he good at?”
“He worked with all sorts of things. In the department he was in charge...”
Kerstin became silent and lowered her head.
Henrik noted that she swallowed hard, he imagined, to prevent tears from coming.
“We can take a little break if you like,” said Henrik.
“No, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Kerstin took a deep breath. She looked briefly at her lawyer, who was twirling his pen on the table, and then she started talking again.
“My husband was indeed the head of a department at the board. He liked his job and had worked his way up, devoted all his life to the Migration Board. He is...was the sort of person people liked. He was kind to everybody regardless of where they came from. He didn’t have any prejudices. He wanted to help people. That was why he liked it there so much.
“The Migration Board has had to put up with a lot of criticism recently,” Kerstin said, then paused before going on.
Henrik nodded. He knew the National Audit Agency had recently examined the Migration Board’s procedures for arranging accommodation for asylum seekers, and they cited it for improper practices. During the last year, the board spent fifty million kronor on buying accommodations. Of that, nine million kronor had been spent on direct agreements, which are forbidden if done without the proper procedures. The Audit Agency had also found illegal contracts with landlords. In many cases no contracts were used at all. The local papers had published several articles about the audit.
“Hans was upset over the criticism. More refugees had been applying than they had anticipated. He had to quickly arrange accommodations for them. And then it went wrong.”
Kerstin became silent. Her lip quivered.
“I felt sorry for him.”
“It sounds as if you are well aware of your husband’s work,” said Henrik.
Kerstin didn’t answer. She wiped a tear from her eye and nodded at the thought.
“There was the problem with improper behavior too,” she said.
She quickly described how there had been assaults and thefts at the asylum accommodation center. Because of the stress of their situation, often arguments broke out among the new arrivals. The staff that had been temporarily hired to run the center found it hard to keep order.
“Which we know about,” said Henrik.
“Oh yes, of course,” said Kerstin and straightened her back again.
“Many of them were in poor mental condition, and Hans tried to do everything he could to make their stay as comfortable as possible. But it was difficult. Several nights in a row somebody set off the fire alarm. People got scared and Hans had no alternative but to hire more staff to keep an eye on the center. My husband was personally very committed, I can tell you that, and he put his very soul into his work.”
Henrik leaned back and studied Kerstin. She didn’t look quite as miserable now. Something had gradually come over her, perhaps a pride in her husband’s work—perhaps a sort of relief.
“Hans spent a lot of time at the office. There were late evenings, and every Sunday he left home after lunch and didn’t come back until dinnertime. It was hard to know exactly what time he would get home, what time to have dinner ready, so he always used to buy a pizza instead. Just like yesterday. As usual.”
Kerstin Juhlén hid her face in her hands as she shook her head. The anguish and the misery of it all had immediately come back.
“You have the right to take a break,” said Peter Ramstedt as he carefully put a hand on her shoulder.
Jana studied his touch. She knew this lawyer had a reputation of being strongly attracted to women and rarely hesitated to physically console his clients. If he got the chance, he was open to do more than that.
Kerstin raised her shoulder slightly in discomfort, which evidently made the solicitor realize that he should remove his hand. Peter pulled out a handkerchief and offered it to her. Kerstin gratefully accepted, and she blew her nose in it audibly.
“Sorry,” she said.
“That’s all right,” said Henrik. “So if I’ve understood you correctly, your husband had a difficult job.”
“No, I mean...yes, but I don’t know. I can’t really say exactly... I think...it would be best if you were to speak with my husband’s secretary.”
Henrik wrinkled his brow. “Why is that?”
“It would just be for the best,” she whispered.
Henrik sighed and leaned forward over the table.
“What’s his secretary’s name, then?”
“Lena Wikström. She has been his assistant for almost twenty years.”
“Of course we’ll speak with her.”
Kerstin’s shoulders sank and she clasped her hands.
“May I ask,” said Henrik, “if you and your husband were close?”
“How do you mean? Of course we were close.”
“You didn’t have a disagreement about anything? Argue a lot?”
“What are you getting at, Chief Inspector?” interjected Peter, leaning across the table.
“I just want to be sure we get the full picture for this investigation,” said Henrik.
“No, we rarely argued,” Kerstin answered slowly.
“Apart from you, who else was close to him?”
“His parents have been dead a long time, unfortunately. Cancer, both of them. He didn’t have any real friends, so you could say that our social life was rather limited. But we liked it like that.”
“Sister? Brother?”
“He has a half brother who lives in Finspång. But they haven’t had much contact with each other in recent years. They are very different.”
“In what way?”
“They just are.”
“What’s his name?”
“Lars Johansson. Everyone calls him Lasse.”
Mia Bolander had been sitting with her arms crossed, just listening. Now she asked straight out, “Why don’t you have children?”
Kerstin was surprised by the question and hastily pulled her legs back under her chair. So hastily that one shoe came off.
Henrik turned around and looked at Mia. He was irritated, but she was pleased that she’d asked. Kerstin bent down and groaned as she stretched to reach her shoe under the table. Then she sat up straight again and put her hands on the table, one atop the other.
“We never had children,” she said briefly.
“Why not?” said Mia. “Couldn’t you conceive or what?”
“I think we could have. But it just sort of never happened. And we accepted that.”
Henrik cleared his throat and started talking to prevent Mia from asking more questions along this line.
“Okay. You didn’t mix with many people, you said?”
“No, we really didn’t.”
“When did you last have visitors?”
“That was a long while ago. Hans was working all the time...”
“No other visitors to the house? Repairmen, for example?”
“Around Christmas a man knocked on the door selling lottery tickets, but otherwise there haven’t been...”
“What did he look like?”
Kerstin stared at Henrik, surprised by the question.
“Tall, blond as I remember. He seemed nice, presentable. But I didn’t buy any tickets from him.”
“Did he have any children with him?”
“No. No, he didn’t. He was alone.”
“Do you know anybody with children?”
“Well, yes, of course. Hans’s half brother. He has an eight-year-old son.”
“Has he been to your house recently?”
Kerstin stared at Henrik again.
“I don’t really follow your question...but, no, he hasn’t been in our house for ages.”
Jana Berzelius drew a ring around the half brother’s name on her notepad. Lars Johansson.
“Do you have any idea who might have done this to your husband?” she said.
Kerstin squirmed a little, looked out of the window and answered, “No.”
“Did your husband have any enemies?” said Henrik.
Kerstin looked down at the table and took a deep breath.
“No, he didn’t.”
“Nobody he was angry with or had argued with or who was angry with him?”
Kerstin didn’t seem to hear the question.
“Kerstin?”
“What?”
“Nobody who was angry with him?”
She shook her head no so violently that the loose skin under her chin wobbled.
“Strange,” said Henrik as he laid out copies of the threatening letters on the table in front of her. “Because as you know, we found these at your house.”
“What are they?”
“The letters from your closet. We are hoping you will tell us about them.”
“But I don’t know what they are. I’ve never seen them before.”
“They seem to be some sort of threats. That means your husband must have had at least one enemy, if not more.”
“But, no...”
Kerstin shook her head again.
“We are very anxious to find out more about who sent these—and why.”
“I have no idea.”
“You haven’t?”
“No, I’ve told you I’ve never seen them before.”
Click-click could be heard from Peter Ramstedt’s pen.
“As my client has said twice, she does not recognize these papers. Would you be so kind and note that now for the record? Then you don’t have to waste time repeating the same question.”
“Mr. Ramstedt, you are surely well aware as to how an interview is carried out. Without extended questioning, we won’t get the information we need,” said Henrik.
“Then be so kind as to stick to relevant questions. My client has clearly stated that she has not seen these papers previously.”
Peter looked straight at Henrik. CLICK-CLICK.
“So you don’t know if your husband felt threatened in any way?” Henrik continued.
“No.”
“No strange phone calls?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think or don’t know?”
“No, no calls.”
“You don’t know anybody who wanted to warn him? Or get revenge?”
“No. But the nature of his work of course made him rather vulnerable.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well...my husband thought that the decision process for asylum was difficult. He never liked having to turn away any asylum seekers, even though he wasn’t personally responsible for having to tell them himself. He knew how desperate many were when they didn’t get asylum here. But not everyone qualified. And no one has threatened him. Or has sought revenge, if that is the question.”
Henrik wondered whether Kerstin was telling the truth. Hans Juhlén could admittedly have kept the threatening letters hidden away from her. But it did nevertheless seem unlikely that he never during all his years in the job felt frightened of somebody nor talked with his wife about it.
* * *
“There must have been a relatively serious threat against Juhlén,” Henrik said to Jana when the interview was concluded. They both left the interrogation room with slow steps.
“Yes,” she answered briefly.
“What do you think about the wife?”
Jana remained standing in the corridor while Henrik closed the door. “There are no signs of violence in the house,” she said.
“Perhaps because the murder was well planned.”
“So you think she’s guilty?”
“The spouse is always guilty, right?” Henrik smiled.
“Yes, almost always. But at the moment no evidence links her to the murder.”
“She seemed nervous,” he added.
“That isn’t enough.”
“I know. But it feels as if she isn’t telling the truth.”
“And she probably isn’t, or at least not completely, but to arrest her I’m going to need more than that. If she doesn’t start talking or we can’t get any technical evidence, I’ll have to let her go. You’ve got three days.”
Henrik ran his fingers through his hair.
“And the secretary?” he said.
“Check out what she knows. I want you to visit her as soon as you can, but definitely by tomorrow. Unfortunately I have four cases which I have to pay attention to, and so I am not free to go with you. But I trust you.”
“Of course. Mia and I will talk with her.”
Jana said goodbye and walked past the other interrogation rooms.
As a public prosecutor, she regularly visited the place. She was on emergency duty a certain number of weekends and nights every year—it went with the job. A rotating duty schedule was posted, whose main purpose was to ensure that a prosecutor was available for urgent decisions such as whether somebody should be detained. A prosecutor could keep somebody in detention up to three days without introducing charges. After that, a court hearing was necessary. On a number of occasions, sometimes late at night, Jana had been called in and, in a rush, had to make a decision about an arrest.
Today all the cells in the center were full. She looked up toward the ceiling and thanked a higher power that she wasn’t on call the coming weekend. At the same time, she remembered that she would be on standby duty the weekend after that. She slowed her pace as she walked down the corridor, then stopped to sit and pull her calendar out. She turned the pages ahead to April 28. Nothing was noted there. Perhaps it was Sunday, April 29? Nothing there either. She turned a few more pages and caught sight of the entry for the first of May. A public holiday. ON CALL. And that was the day she had agreed to have dinner with her mother and father. She felt immediate stress. She couldn’t possibly be on call that same day. How had she not seen that? Of course, it was not absolutely necessary to be at her parents’ for dinner, but she didn’t want to disappoint her father by not coming over at all.
I’ll have to swap days with somebody, she thought, as she put her calendar back in her briefcase. She got up and continued walking, wondering with whom she’d be able to swap days. Most likely Per Åström. Per was both a successful public prosecutor and a popular social worker. She respected him as a colleague. During the five years they had known each other, a friendship of sorts had grown up between them.
Per was thirty-three years old and in good shape. He played tennis on Tuesdays and Thursdays. He had blond hair, a little dimple in his chin and eyes that were different colors. He smelled of aftershave. Sometimes he tended to go on a bit, but otherwise a nice guy. Only that; nothing more.
Jana hoped that Per would swap with her. Otherwise she would resort to bribing him with wine. But red or white? She weighed the two choices in time with the sound of her heels on the floor. Red or white. Red or white.
She contemplated taking the stairs down to the garage but chose the elevator instead. When she saw that the defense lawyer Peter Ramstedt was waiting there too, she immediately regretted her decision. She stood back from him at a safe distance.
“Ah, it’s you, Jana,” said Peter when he noted her presence. He rocked back and forth on the soles of his shoes.
“I heard that you had gone to review the autopsy and see the victim’s body at the medical examiner’s.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“One hears a thing or two.”
Peter gave a slight smirk and exposed his whitened teeth.
“So you like corpses?”
“Not particularly. I’m just trying to lead an investigation.”
“I’ve been a lawyer for ten years and I’ve never heard of a prosecutor going to an autopsy.”
“Perhaps that says more about other prosecutors than about me?”
“Don’t you like your colleagues?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Isn’t it simpler in your position to let the police do the legwork?”
“I am not interested in what is simple.”
“You know, as a prosecutor you can complicate an investigation.”
“In what way?”
“By calling attention to yourself.”
Hearing those words, Jana Berzelius decided to take the stairs down to the garage anyway. For every step she cursed Peter Ramstedt.