Thomas Quick. Hannes Råstam
from several of Norway’s districts took part in this work for seven weeks, with additional support from home guard personnel and external experts. First, the top layers of soil in the areas pointed out by Quick were peeled back and all the material manually sieved and examined by cadaver dogs and forensic archaeologists. After this unproductive Sisyphean task had been concluded, the even more laborious job of draining the small boggy pond commenced. Thirty-five million litres of water were pumped out and filtered; the bottom sediments were vacuumed until layers that were estimated to be 10,000 years old were reached. When nothing at all was found, everything was filtered a second time, but still not even the tiniest fragment of Therese was found.
Once again, the extremely costly investigation led to the inevitable conclusion that what Quick had said was untrue.
The fact that nothing was found after the pond had been drained called for an explanation from Quick. At this point he changed his mind and said that he had hidden Therese’s body in a gravel pit.
While the Norwegians continued scouring the forest and surrounding terrain, Quick was repeatedly questioned by Seppo Penttinen. And so the investigation continued to focus on Ørje Forest until the technicians – finally! – found the remains of a few fires, in which there were burnt pieces of bone.
One of those who examined the finds in Ørje Forest was the Norwegian professor Per Holck, who soon reached the decision that some of the bone fragments were human in origin and came from a person aged between five and fifteen.
How could you challenge a professor at the anatomical department of Oslo University, who had confirmed that these were indeed the body parts of a child, found precisely where Quick claimed to have disposed of a nine-year-old girl’s body by cremation? And still . . .
The story was too odd for me to be able to believe it.
I had set myself the task of scrutinising the prosecutor’s strongest case, Therese Johannesen, and afterwards I tried to summarise my position. What I had seen had pretty well convinced me that Quick did not murder Therese. It was worrying but also exceptionally impractical. It was becoming increasingly difficult to talk to the protagonists on the opposing sides of the Quick feud.
I had also discovered another thing, which no one else seemed to be aware of: Sture Bergwall, the person I had met at Säter, had nothing at all in common with the drugged mental patient who, under the name of Thomas Quick, had stumbled about in various forests, muttering incoherently about how he had murdered, chopped up, desecrated and eaten his victims. I had also hit upon the only reasonable explanation, namely that Quick had been encouraged to take large amounts of narcotic-strength medications.
I realised I had to control myself. So far, insights and information were still little more than hypotheses. Many questions remained to be answered. Above all I was thinking about that burnt piece of child’s bone, found in Ørje Forest, exactly where Quick had said that he burned Therese’s remains.
I went back to Sweden filled with a great sense of doubt, well aware that I had now joined the side of the sceptics.
After my return I phoned Sture Bergwall, who was very curious about how my work was going. I told him about my trip to Fjell and Ørje Forest and about my meetings with Norwegian police officers.
‘Oh, you’re really putting a lot of work into this! So you’ve been in Norway and Ørje Forest?’
Sture was deeply impressed by my endeavours, but more than anything he seemed interested in the conclusions I had reached.
‘So what do you think about it?’ he wondered.
‘To be honest I have to say that this whole trip to Norway and what I saw there have made me rather hesitant.’
‘In that case I’d like you to tell me what’s on your mind next time you come up here,’ said Sture.
I cursed my own loose tongue, which would most likely mean that my next meeting with Sture would also be the last. We decided that I would come to Säter one week later, on 17 September 2008.
I was going to be honest. If he chose to throw me out, so be it.
SÄTER HOSPITAL, WEDNESDAY, 17 SEPTEMBER 2008
WHEN WE MET for the third time in the visiting room at Säter Hospital, Sture Bergwall said, ‘Now I want to hear what you really think about it all.’
It was an unpleasant request.
After all, Quick had said that he took time out because of people disbelieving his confessions. What would happen if I also questioned them?
I tried to temper the bitter pill with a generous measure of humility.
‘I wasn’t there when the murders were committed. I wasn’t at the court hearings. I can’t say what’s true. All I can do is work with hypotheses.’
I could see that Sture was following my line of reasoning and that he accepted my description of the premises.
‘When I was in Norway I had the opportunity to carefully study the video recordings from your reconnaissance of the crime scene in Norway. I’ll tell you what I saw: you were given an addictive narcotic, a very strong drug, Xanax, in large doses. While you were being taken round you seemed very much under the influence of it. And when you got to Ørje and you were supposed to show them the place where Therese was buried you didn’t seem to have a clue what to do next.’
Sture was listening now, very attentively. His face had a concentrated expression but he did not reveal how he felt about what I was saying.
‘You were unable to show the police to the gravel pit, as you’d promised,’ I carried on. ‘You couldn’t show them the way to Therese’s body. You behaved as if you’d never been in that place before.’
I looked at Sture, my shoulders hoisted up tentatively.
‘I don’t know what the truth is. But as I said when I called you, I began to feel very hesitant.’
Sture looked straight ahead with an empty stare. We sat there for a long while, neither of us saying anything. Again, I was the one to break the silence.
‘Sture, can you understand that this is what I’m seeing in those films?’
Sture was still silent, but he hummed and nodded. At least he doesn’t seem angry, I thought. I had said what I had to say. I could not take it back and I had nothing to add.
‘But . . .’ said Sture and then went silent again.
He spoke slowly and with emotion: ‘. . . if it is true that I haven’t committed any of these murders . . .’
Again he sat in silence, staring down at the floor. Then he leaned towards me, threw out his hands and whispered, ‘. . . if it is true – then what can I do?’
I met Sture’s despairing gaze. He looked utterly devastated.
Again and again I tried to say something, but I was so overwhelmed that I couldn’t make a sound. Finally I heard myself say, ‘If it’s true that you haven’t committed any of these murders, you have the chance of a lifetime now.’
By now, the atmosphere in the little visiting room was so tense that it was physically tangible. We both knew what was about to happen. Sture was very close to telling me that he had lied during all those years when he was Thomas Quick. In principle he had already admitted it.
‘The chance of a lifetime,’ I repeated.
‘I live in a ward where everyone is convinced that I’m guilty,’ said Sture quietly.
I nodded.
‘My lawyer is convinced that I’m guilty,’ he continued.
‘I know,’ I said.
‘Six courts have convicted me of eight murders.’
‘I know. But if you’re innocent and prepared to tell the truth, none