The Man Who Watched Women Read Free

crushed man his colleague was taking care of was not the murderer, then there was just a chance that he or she might still be in the house. At the top of the stairs he came to a small area equipped with a two-seater sofa, TV and Blu-ray. Dormer window. Shelves along the walls, containing books and films. Four doors. Two open, two closed. From the top of the stairs Holst could see the dead woman’s legs in the bedroom. On the bed. Which meant that Riksmord would have to be informed, he thought as he quickly went into the second room with an open door: a study. Empty. The two closed doors led to a bathroom and a dressing room. Both empty. Holst put away his gun and approached the bedroom. He stopped in the doorway.
    A directive from Riksmord had been circulated a week or so earlier. They were to be informed in cases of death which fulfilled certain criteria.
    If the victim was found in the bedroom.
    If the victim was tied up.
    If the victim’s throat had been cut.

The sound of Torkel’s mobile interrupted the last line of ‘Happy Birthday to You’, and he answered as he withdrew into the kitchen, leaving the sound of cheering behind him.
    It was Vilma’s birthday party.
    Thirteen.
    A teenager.
    Her birthday was actually the previous Friday, but she had wanted to go out for a meal with her girlfriends and to see a film. Her older, more boring relatives, such as her father, could come on a weekday evening. Torkel and Yvonne had bought their daughter a mobile phone for her birthday. A new one – not her older sister’s cast-off, or an old one of his or Yvonne’s when they got a new one through work. Now she had a brand-new model – with Android, Billy had said when Torkel asked him for help in choosing it. According to Yvonne, Vilma had more or less been sleeping with it since last Friday.
    The kitchen table was covered in presents this evening. Vilma’s older sister had bought her mascara, eye shadow, lip gloss and foundation. Vilma had been given her gifts on Friday, but had laid everything out again to show off the total haul. Torkel picked up the mascara, which promised lashes up to ten times longer, as he listened to the information being fed into his ear.
    A murder. In Tumba. A woman whose throat had been cut, tied up in the bedroom.
    Torkel thought Vilma was far too young to be wearing make-up, but it had been made very clear to him that she was the only one in her year group who didn’t wear make-up, and that the idea of turning up at school next year without it was out of the question. Torkel didn’t put up a great deal of resistance. Times were changing, and he knew he should be grateful that he hadn’t had to engage in this discussion with Vilma two years ago. Some of her friends’ parents had been in that position, and had clearly lost the battle.
    All the indications pointed to the fact that this was the third victim.
    Torkel ended the call, put down the mascara and went back to the living room.
    Vilma was talking to her maternal grandparents. He called her over, and she didn’t look too unhappy at having to break off the conversation with the oldies. She came towards Torkel with an expectant look on her face, as if she thought he’d been out in the kitchen organising some kind of surprise.
    â€˜I have to go, sweetheart.’
    â€˜Is it because of Kristoffer?’
    It took Torkel a few seconds even to understand the question. Kristoffer was Yvonne’s new partner. They had got together a few months ago, but Torkel had met him for the first time this evening. He was a high school teacher. Aged about fifty. Divorced with kids. Seemed like a nice bloke. It had never occurred to Torkel that their meeting might be seen as difficult, uncomfortable or in any way a problem. Vilma obviously interpreted the delay in his response as confirmation that she was right.
    â€˜I told her not to invite him,’ she went on, a sullen expression on her