The Beige Man by Helene Tursten Read Free Book Online

vegetarian.
    In the larder they found boxes of dried beans and peas, bags of various kinds of flour, and—of course—several packets of Dr. Kruska’s oat muesli. On one shelf a number of jars containing dried fruit were neatly arranged. The refrigerator was almost empty; the only thing inside was an open carton of soy milk and two foil trays of something unidentifiable.
    They went back through the hallway and into the living room, which was surprisingly airy. A large picture window and a glass door overlooked the balcony. This room must have been lovely and light when the sun was shining. The television seemed to be the only recent purchase. Above it hung a framed poster of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains. The sofa, armchairs, curtains, carpet and not least the combinedbookcase and display cabinet clearly bore the marks of 1970s style. The bookcase housed a few paperbacks and several porcelain figurines, while the display cabinet was filled with an impressive collection of cups and trophies.
    “He was very good at orienteering, and he was a fast long-distance runner. He must have won these when he was a member of the Police Sports Association,” Irene said. She walked over to the cabinet. There was a small switch beside it, and when she pressed it several tiny lamps lit up inside the glass doors, the light glinting off the trophies.
    “He kept them polished,” Hannu stated.
    Irene looked around. “Yes. He kept the whole place clean and tidy,” she said.
    Hannu went over to a door that was standing ajar. Cautiously he nudged it open with his foot.
    The bedroom was also pretty spacious. One wall consisted of a built-in closet, and the single bed against the opposite wall was neatly made up with a pale blue coverlet. There was a colorful rag rug on the floor that looked reasonably new. The tall display cabinet at the foot of the bed had glass shelves and doors, and to Irene’s surprise it was full of toy cars. The smallest was only a little bigger than a sugar lump, while the biggest was around thirty centimeters long. They were all cop cars, from every corner of the world. The largest was a blue and white 1950s model with a sheriff’s star on the doors.
    Next to the closed laptop on the desk lay a book entitled
Researching Your Family Tree: A Beginner’s Guide
. There was also a framed photograph of a little blond-haired boy aged about three. Irene pointed to the picture and said, “That must be his son. They look alike.”
    Irene opened the closet; the clothes were all on hangers. In the linen cupboard, sheets and towels were folded neatly. “He lived alone. There’s no sign of anyone else living here,” she said.
    Hannu didn’t reply, but looked around the room. His gaze lingered on the bed. “Lonely,” he said eventually.
    The word was on the money. The entire apartment was suffused with loneliness. Perhaps they were getting completely the wrong impression. Perhaps Muesli had had a wide circle of friends in the Sports Association and pensioners’ club. Irene tried to remember what he had been like when he was working with them. She hadn’t really known him, but of course she had been aware of who he was. Torleif had never made much of an impression other than with his peculiar eating habits. Unremarkable appearance, although he had kept himself fit right up to retirement—he had been passionate about personal fitness. How long had it been since he had retired? Irene thought about it and realized she didn’t know for sure. Somewhere between five and seven years, maybe.
    “Did you know him?” she asked Hannu.
    “No. I knew who he was, but I never spoke to him.”
    “I knew him slightly. He was a desk sergeant with the third district the last year I was working there, then he came over to HQ when the third was amalgamated with another area. But by then I’d joined the Violent Crimes Unit, and I didn’t have much to do with him.”
    “So what was he like?” Hannu asked.
    “Pretty