Stone Coffin Read online

  Instead she found herself in foreign territory. The reception area of MedForsk seemed deserted. Behind the unmanned reception desk, there were three doors—all of which were locked—and a small seating area. That was all. Not a sound, no signs of human activity, and Lindell thought perhaps the entire workforce had decided to stay at home.

  A woman suddenly turned up from behind a door, quickly closed it, and then turned her eyes inquiringly at Lindell.

  “Ann Lindell, police, Crimes division,” Lindell said, and held out her hand.

  She recognized the woman from one of the snapshots. She was the one with henna-colored hair. Just like the surroundings, the woman’s hand was chilly. Her eyes revealed nothing, partially concealed behind a pair of glasses.

  “Yes?” she said in a somewhat baffled tone, as if she were at a loss to understand what the police were doing at MedForsk.

  “I’m investigating the accident that occurred yesterday.”

  “I see.”

  “And Sven-Erik Cederén’s disappearance.”

  “I’ve already been questioned.”

  The henna-haired woman pulled her slender body together and looked even more inaccessible. The blue dress with the narrow silver belt brought out something snakelike in her persona. Her arms were folded under her small breasts.

  “I know. We’re gathering additional information.”

  “But you’ve already been out here. A truckload of police officers showed up here this morning.”

  “We’re trying to get a better picture of the company.”

  The woman walked around the reception counter and picked up a thin notebook with hard covers. The pencil that was attached to the cover bore visible chew marks.

  “We’ve divvied up the work, and the three women at MedForsk fell to me.”

  “Fell to you,” the woman repeated.

  “I could start with you, if that’s all right.”

  “I’m actually somewhat occupied right now and I’m also supposed to watch the desk … but we can go to the kitchen.”

  The woman made toward the nearest door, punched in a code, and held the door open for Lindell.

  The kitchen, which was strikingly relaxed in its furnishings, was located in the center of the building. On their way there, Lindell saw some offices as well as a room behind a glass door that she took to be a laboratory.

  Lindell took out her notebook. The woman across from her sat at the edge of her seat, her legs pressed tightly together, staring at Lindell.

  Her name was Sofi Rönn and she was thirty-five years old. Lindell already knew this, but she let Sofi talk a little about herself. She had been employed for five years. She was, in other words, one of the veterans. Her tasks were administrative in nature and had nothing to do with the research.

  “How would you describe Sven-Erik Cederén?”

  Rönn sat quietly for a moment. “He is a skilled and driven researcher,” she said finally.

  “Driven in what way?”

  “He works night and day,” Rönn said and gave Lindell a look as if anything else was nonsense. “He arrives early and leaves late. He travels a lot, going to conferences, and he has a wide circle of contacts.”

  “Is he well liked? I know it’s a bit silly to put it that way, and I understand that you wouldn’t want to speak ill of a coworker.”

  “He’s liked. We all like him.”

  For the first time, something else broke through her chilliness. Rönn’s shoulders sank somewhat and her gaze wandered from Lindell’s face to a point in the middle of the room.

  “Did you know Josefin Cederén?”

  “Yes, she came by occasionally, but that was all. We didn’t interact much.”

  “Did you interact with Sven-Erik?”

  “What do you mean?”

  She glanced swiftly at Lindell.

  “In private, I mean.”

  “We met at events through work, nothing more. Is that what you mean?”

  “I don’t mean anything in particular, just if you ever met with Sven-Erik and if you were a part of his life, so to speak.”

  Silence. It slowly dawned on Sofi Rönn what Lindell was after with her questions, and she stared back at her coldly.

  “Sven-Erik and I have nothing to do with each other in private,” she said curtly.

  “I’m trying to gather some information about him beyond his professional life. Work we can map with relative ease, but it’s harder to uncover someone’s personal life. A coworker often becomes a good friend. One confides in good friends. Has Sven-Erik said anything that would explain his disappearance?”

  Rönn shook her head.

  “It doesn’t look good,” Lindell said. “His wife and six-year-old daughter Emily—I’m sure you’ve met her—are the victims of a heinous hit-and-run, and the husband vanishes without a trace. It doesn’t look good.”

  She let the words sink in for a couple of seconds before she went on.

  “Some people think he killed his own family. What do you think?”

  “Never,” said Rönn quickly and without hesitation.

  She removed her glasses but kept them in her hand.

  “Never,” she repeated. “He would never have done such a thing. Not to his own child. Emily was a wonderful little girl.”

  Her icy demeanor was slowly melting. Lindell didn’t speak, letting her gather her thoughts. Rönn wiped her cheek.

  “He loves Emily. He’s always talking about her.”

  “Does he love his wife?”

  “Why wouldn’t he love her?”

  Lindell gazed back at Rönn. A couple of people walked past the closed door to the kitchen and laughter echoed down the corridor.

  “Lately he seemed a bit out of it, you could say.”

  “Do you think it was anything to do with his marriage? Did he say anything specific?”

  Rönn shook her head, but it was clear that something was weighing on her mind. Her initial standoffishness had vanished. She clearly wanted to talk and Lindell had no reason to hurry her.

  “He traveled a lot and he may have met someone. I don’t know.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “He’s changed.”

  “Where did he go in his travels?”

  “We have a daughter company in Málaga. UNA Médico. He often goes there.”

  “And you think perhaps he met someone there?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How has he changed?”

  Rönn squirmed, stroking her hand over the already smooth fabric of her dress. Her nails reminded Lindell of Josefin.” He used to be so nice. Always chatty and making jokes.”

  Rönn slipped into a dialect that Lindell mentally placed in Hälsingland. She made a few notes on the page and checked the time.

  “He’s been quiet. Doesn’t say very much. Mostly stays in his office. He hardly ever comes out even for a cup of coffee.”

  “Was it after a trip?”

  “Yes, more then, but he’s changed overall. He’s more irritable.”

  “Have there been any conflicts at work?”

  A new pause. Lindell wished she had something to drink or maybe snack on.

  “Sven-Erik and Jack didn’t get along so well.”

  “Jack is the boss?”

  Rönn nodded. “They started the company. Jack is the CEO. They each own half. They had a fight. We could hear them sometimes—it’s a small workplace.”

  “What did they fight about?”

  “I don’t know. There was just irritation and tension in the air.”

  * * *

  Before Lindell wrapped up the conversation she tried to get a better sense of the other employees at MedForsk. Rönn went through each one systematically and explained their position. Lindell was starting to appreciate the at-first-so-frigid woman’s thoughtful speech. She measured her words carefully, but Lindell had the impression that she was trying to give as accurate an impression of the company as possible.

  In response to a direct question
about whether Cederén could have had a relationship with one of the other two female employees, Rönn immediately dismissed the idea.

  “Absolutely not,” she said sharply. “I know Lena and Tessan very well. Lena for at least ten years—we used to work together at Pharmacia, and Tessan is happily married. She’s pregnant and on cloud nine. She and her husband have been trying for several years. Neither one of them is the type to have an affair, and definitely not with Sven-Erik.”

  “Why not with him?”

  “Because he isn’t their type.”

  “What kind of type is he?”

  Sofi hesitated again.

  “He has a melancholy temperament that can be hard to bear. Most of the time he’s pretty cheery, but then he’s suddenly just the opposite.”

  “He seems outgoing, plays golf, that kind of thing.”

  “He is good at golf. In the winter he sometimes takes golfing trips. I think his putting is a way to escape the pressures of work.”

  A melancholy temperament. She had studied his face in a staged family photo she had found in the villa. It was one of those pictures that men place on their desks at work. The happy family. He looked extremely contented, his arm around a well-dressed, well-groomed Josefin, his daughter on his lap. Could this man be unfaithful? Yes, most definitely, Lindell thought. Could he mow down his own family? Yes, perhaps, under great pressure and with uncontrolled emotions. Anger, jealousy, and blazing hatred could change almost anyone. Lindell and her colleagues knew this all too well.

  She posed the question to Sofi, who dismissed it as absurd.

  “Then why has he disappeared?”

  “I don’t know. He might have witnessed the whole thing and gone into shock.”

  “Thanks, you’ve been an enormous help,” Lindell said and got up. The woman stopped her with a gesture.

  “There’s one more thing. I think that Josefin was pregnant.”

  “Yes, she was. Do you think that someone else could have been the father?”

  Sofi made a face that Lindell interpreted as meaning it was impossible.

  “How did you know she was pregnant?”

  “Josefin told us last week. Jack held a little party; we had had a breakthrough in the lab and we were celebrating. Josefin didn’t drink anything. I made some joke about it, and she told me straightaway that she was having a baby.”

  “Did she seem happy?”

  “It’s hard to say. She said it without any enthusiasm. You know when you get all bubbly, in between the vomiting, when you can’t stop smiling.”

  Lindell nodded. She thought about the blue book. There Josefin had written down her mixed feelings about the baby. She wanted to have it but frequently found herself arguing for an abortion. She didn’t say this straight out, but her doubts were expressed so strongly that the thought must have occurred to her. “What if he leaves me?” she had asked herself a couple of weeks ago, on May 22. The third of June she had noted: “Tonight I’ll tell him. We have to make a decision.”

  A short time later she was dead. Someone had made a decision.

  * * *

  Lindell also talked with Lena Friberg and Teresia Wall before she left MedForsk. It was exactly twenty-four hours since Josefin and Emily had died.

  Lindell longed for a chocolate biscuit at the Savoy, but when she had almost reached the café, she decided to eat some real food instead and thought of a lunch place that Haver had mentioned.

  She drove to the end of Börjegatan and ended up parking far too close to a crosswalk. The place, Brostugan, reminded her a little of the Savoy. The interior had not been updated for a while and imbued her with a feeling of comforting familiarity as soon as she stepped through the door. She heard a construction worker order cabbage rolls and decided she would have the same thing.

  She sat down next to the window. A television was on, with the volume turned down. It was tuned to a cooking show with a chef who had an almost tragicomic look. Ann watched his lips and tried to deduce what he was talking about. Definitely not cabbage rolls.

  Contrary to her habit in public places of studying the people around her, she hunkered down over her meal with an intensity that surprised her.

  When she got her coffee, she summarized her visit, taking out her notepad, jotting down some observations and thinking about what Teresia Wall had told her. The eighth of June, CEO Jack Mortensen and Sven-Erik Cederén had had a spectacular quarrel. Sven-Erik had just returned from Spain. Although he had been unusually tan, he looked worn out—“majorly hung over,” as Teresia had put it.

  The two men had confronted each other in Jack’s office. Their agitated voices could be heard all the way to the kitchen. Teresia had not known what the fight was about. She had asked Jack about it, but he had dismissed her question with irritation and simply muttered something about “Sven’s damned doubts about everything.” Teresia had a theory that they were fighting about MedForsk going public. The company was entering a phase of significant expansion and needed big money. Maybe Cederén had had misgivings about the shape these plans were taking, because the next day Jack shut himself up in his office and worked feverishly. According to the general consensus—there was a great deal of talk at the company these days—he was putting the finishing touches on the prospectus. A press conference was scheduled for June 16.

  The day after the quarrel Cederén had not shown up to work. He had called Lena Friberg about an upcoming meeting with a consultant regarding some technical equipment.

  People came and went at the café. There was laughter. Clearly there were a lot of regulars because nods were exchanged and short questions about work were met with equally short, sometimes ironic, responses.

  Haver is right again, Lindell thought. She would return here. Here there was the life, everyday life, that she needed so desperately. Real people with real jobs, dressed for work with the tools of their trade in their pockets and company logos on their backs and chest pockets. People who had not killed anyone.

  But who may hit their wives regularly, she thought disloyally.

  * * *

  Axel Olsson came to answer the door in his bare feet. One big toe was severely deformed and both feet were wet. He was emaciated, with an ascetic face and large hands he did not quite seem to know what to do with.

  “Excuse me,” he said guiltily, “my wife is resting.”

  Cederén’s father excused himself frequently.

  After he had put on some socks and slippers—while he rambled incoherently about foot salts and a visit to his doctor—they went into the living room. People often received her in the kitchen, but Axel Olsson quickly pulled the door to that room shut and with a restrained gesture led Lindell deeper into the apartment.

  The air was stale. The furniture had once been petit bourgeois in that way that Lindell recognized so well. The large chest with inlaid wood in the doors, the coffee table and the vaguely dark red sofa, a bookshelf with a limited number of books and a proliferation of glass bowls, photos, and souvenirs, a couple of worn armchairs, and a stand with a droopy foxtail fern.

  Lindell examined the photos while Olsson apologized. There was the son, the daughter-in-law, and the grandchild, in several editions. A dozen older photographs in brown oval frames that Lindell assumed were dead relatives took up an entire shelf.

  “Is Sven-Erik your only child?”

  He nodded.

  “I haven’t had time to pick up,” he said, “but please have a seat.”

  For his own part, he went and stood by the door to the balcony.

  “That’s quite all right. I know you have other things to think about right now.”

  “My wife is feeling poorly.”

  “You have lost a grandchild and your daughter-in-law. I understand,” Lindell said.

  Olsson looked confused and picked at the fern, shaking it with an unexpected ferocity that sent a shower of yellow leaves onto the floor.

  He and his wife had already been visited by the police the day before and had at
that time denied any knowledge of where their son could be.

  “Have you heard from Sven-Erik?”

  “I don’t understand this.”

  “I know you have been thinking about this ever since you heard the news. Has anything occurred to you about where he might be?”

  Olsson closed his eyes. He looked as though he was sedated.

  “Sven-Erik hasn’t called?”

  He opened his eyes, fixed them on her, and said very slowly, “He doesn’t call us very often.”

  Lindell got the feeling that at any moment he could fall asleep standing up.

  “He has a lot to do,” Olsson added. “We always tell him that he’s working himself to death.”

  Olsson walked up to the closest armchair and placed his hand on its back. He cricked his neck back as if he were going to give a speech.

  “He wasn’t happy,” he said. Realizing he was talking about his son in the past tense, he immediately corrected himself.

  “He is unhappy. It’s that job of his.”

  “Was he happy with Josefin?”

  Olsson started. It was as if the mention of her name gave him renewed vigor. He moved around the chair and sat down, leaning toward Lindell and looking straight at her for the first time during the conversation.

  “She put pressure on him, you understand. She always wanted more. That house, cars, and new clothes. Sven-Erik couldn’t say no.”

  He stopped as quickly as he had begun and looked down.

  “Did they fight?”

  “Everything had to be the best. Sven-Erik could never disagree. He had to work. She wanted new things. Fight? I don’t know. Not that we saw.”

  Nothing in Josefin Cederén’s journal had indicated a difference in attitude between the spouses with regard to lifestyle and money. She had not expressed any objection to her husband’s way of life, with the exception of his infidelity.

  “Was Sven-Erik faithful to Josefin?”

  “Is anyone claiming otherwise? Is it her father? You should know that he never came here for a visit. In the beginning we invited him and Inger, but they never accepted or behaved like normal folk. He was so full of himself. Now I guess he’s blaming it all on Sven-Erik.”