Sidetracked - By Henning Mankell & Steven T. Murray Page 0,115
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?” Sjösten asked.
“Åke Liljegren.”
Sjösten whistled. Åke 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 éminence 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 Båstad, but in recent years had lived in Helsingborg when he was in Sweden. Sjösten 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 Sjösten.
“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.”
Sjösten 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.”
Sjösten 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.”
Sjösten 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.”
Sjösten 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. Sjösten 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 Sjösten 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. Sjösten 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 Sjösten recalled the fairy tale of Hänsel and Gretel and the witch. A doctor was kneeling down beside the body, shining a torch into the oven. Sjösten tried to breathe through his mouth. The doctor nodded at him. Sjösten 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.
Sjösten straightened up.
“Take him out of the oven,” he said. “Has the photographer finished?”
Birgersson nodded. Sjösten 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.”
Sjösten 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 Sjösten.
“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.