The Ice Beneath Her by Camilla Grebe

Author:Camilla Grebe
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2016-12-27T05:00:00+00:00

PETER

The investigation is headed in another direction, has shifted focus from one day to the next, as investigations do sometimes. The news that the National Lab has linked the machete to both murders—the unnamed victim at Jesper Orre’s home and Miguel Calderón—hit the police station like a bomb. The activity is as frenetic as before, but some of the resignation has lifted and been replaced by expectation. The large evidence wall in the conference room, papered with pictures from Orre’s house, maps, and photos of Orre’s colleagues and acquaintances, has now been joined by another evidence wall with similar images from the old case.

Sanchez apparently spent half the night reading through the Calderón case and is already searching for points of contact between Calderón and Orre. I suspect that may be difficult; on the surface their lives seem to be completely unrelated.

Calderón was twenty-five years old when he was found dead in his sublet on Södermalm in September ten years ago. He had multiple odd jobs. He worked as a cook, a home-care giver, a newspaper distributor, and a substitute hospital orderly. In his free time he studied karate and played bass in a jazz band. He had no girlfriend, and his sister hinted that she thought he was probably gay. Five years before he was murdered, he was convicted of assault and theft, but according to the preliminary investigation, there was nothing to suggest he had any criminal connections at the time of his death. There is also no evidence that he socialized at the same places as Orre: Sandhamn, Verbier, Marbella, or the nightclubs around Stureplan.

The fact that Orre is still missing increasingly suggests he murdered the unidentified woman—and thus also ended Calderón’s life. But a few stolen thongs and ruthlessness in business hardly suffice as proof. We need to find a connection between all of them—and if there is one, we’ll find it. Even if we have to sift through every miserable inch of their lives.

It’s at this point that the familiar feelings of boredom and resignation start to sneak up on me. I’ve grown tired of these plodding murder investigations. If someone had asked me ten years ago, I would have said this was the most exciting and challenging task a skilled investigator could sink his teeth into, but all I feel now is paralyzing fatigue. What I want more than anything is to buy a six-pack, go home, collapse on the couch, and watch sports. I don’t think anyone who’s not a police officer could understand how much work it takes to map out a person’s life. How many hundreds of hours of interrogations, research, and paperwork have to be trudged through before the picture becomes clearer and the essentials start to emerge.

And then there’s Hanne.

In a way, it was good we had a chance to talk, even though I didn’t say much. But nothing has changed between us since. I feel it clearly, though I can’t quite put my finger on it. Like a deep, vibrating tone that’s always present when she’s here.

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