The Disappeared aka Guardian Angels

38

Monday slipped into Tuesday, and Alex was still at Diana’s. The situation was the same as the last time: he was sober, sitting on the sofa, and she was reclining in the armchair after a couple of glasses of wine. When Peder called and told him that Spencer had cropped up in the investigation yet again, Alex’s first thought was that he must go home. Or back to work. He couldn’t think clearly while he was with Diana. And if Fredrika was keeping important information from her colleagues, he really did need to think clearly.

Diana had objected, saying he couldn’t leave her when he’d been there for less than an hour. After all, they hadn’t even had dinner. Veal casserole with rice and tomatoes.

Alex found himself unable to say no. He didn’t want to say no, he wanted to stay. They had dinner, including pudding. He drank one glass of wine, then stuck to mineral water. Diana drank two glasses of wine, then showed him a new painting she was working on.

‘It’s beautiful,’ Alex said.

They went for a walk and hardly said a word. At one point she slipped her warm hand into his. Stole a glance at his face, trying to work out whether he objected. He didn’t, and the hand stayed where it was.

When they got back they had coffee with Italian biscotti in front of the TV in the living room. And now it was gone midnight, and they were still sitting here.

‘Valter Lund,’ Alex said.

Diana sat up straight. Her expression was suddenly different. Darker, sharper.

‘Yes?’

‘What do you remember about his relationship with Rebecca?’

Sometimes memory was a misleading source. After the event, people had a tendency to recall things that had never happened, to add or erase details in a way that rendered their testimony worthless.

‘I know Rebecca was pleased when she got him as her mentor; she admired his work in the developing countries.’

Diana pursed her lips as she reached for her glass.

‘Although I could never really see the point of the mentoring programme. Rebecca had nothing in common with a businessman; she should have been allocated a mentor with some kind of cultural background.’

‘How often did they meet up?’

Diana took a sip of her wine.

‘Just a few times. At least that’s what she told me.’

Alex considered her words. Was Diana hinting that Rebecca might have said something different to someone else?

‘Do you think she might have been lying? That she actually saw him more frequently?’

‘I don’t know; it was just a feeling I had. Rebecca’s brother had the same feeling.’

There was a tension in the air that Alex couldn’t explain. The mention of Valter Lund’s name had set in motion something he didn’t understand.

Diana went on: ‘Valter Lund came to the church once when Rebecca was singing. Did you know that?’

Alex nodded.

‘We didn’t think anything of it. Valter Lund has been involved with the church for years, and Rebecca was in the choir. If they were going to meet up anywhere outside the university, it was likely to be there.’

Diana slammed down her glass.

‘And why did they have to meet up outside the university? That’s what I don’t understand.’

‘To get to know each other better?’ Alex suggested. ‘Mentoring is based on trust and respect. Doesn’t it seem reasonable for them to see each other under less formal circumstances?’

But that didn’t include a weekend in Copenhagen. Alex hesitated; should he tell Diana about the trip?

He cleared his throat.

‘Do you know if they ever saw each other outside Stockholm?’

‘I don’t think so. Why do you ask?’

He shrugged. ‘I’m just trying to get a picture of their relationship. Perhaps he took her on business trips?’

‘Not that I know of.’

The fact that Diana obviously hadn’t known about the weekend in Copenhagen gave Alex pause for thought. How much did his own children keep from him? His son had been living in South America for several years, and his daughter was tight-lipped when it came to information about her family life. Or was it just that he didn’t listen? Didn’t show any interest?

Diana slid down in the armchair; she was starting to look tired.

I need to go home, Alex thought. I can’t risk ending up sitting here all night.

‘I just find it so incredibly difficult to accept that she didn’t tell me she was pregnant.’

Tears glittered in Diana’s eyes, making her more fragile than she already was.

‘Perhaps she had good reason to keep it to herself?’

The tears began to fall.

‘Like what?’

Good question – what reason would there be to keep quiet about such a thing? Alex had been asking himself the same question ever since they found out about the pregnancy. It occupied an indefinable place in the investigation – sometimes it seemed crucial, at other times insignificant.

‘Do you think Valter Lund was the father?’ Diana asked.

‘No,’ said Alex. ‘We don’t.’

But he didn’t tell her that they knew it was Håkan Nilsson. Or that Håkan had disappeared. He made a move; time to go home. Diana stopped crying, dried her eyes and walked with him to the door. He caught himself wishing she would ask him if he wanted to stay, but she didn’t. Alex was too insecure to suggest it himself.

39

Fresh information had leaked from the police overnight. Thea was watching the news while eating her breakfast. A knife and an axe had been found in the grave and sent to the National Forensics Lab, where they would try to establish whether the traces of blood on the weapons had come from the unidentified man or Rebecca Trolle.

Neither of them.

Thea forced herself to eat some of her breakfast. Otherwise, they would start wondering if she was feeling unwell; they would ring the doctor and cause all kinds of problems. A knife and an axe. Thea didn’t need to know any more to realise who else was waiting to be dug up by the police.

She felt a stab of anxiety. They mustn’t give up, they must carry on digging until all the dirt that had been hidden came to light.

There was a knock on the door, and the new nurse who didn’t know how to behave came bustling in.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

Her voice was shrill enough to crack the window panes.

‘You’ve got a visitor, Thea.’

She stepped aside and a tall figure was visible behind her.

‘Good morning,’ said Torbjörn Ross. ‘I must apologise for disturbing you in the middle of your breakfast.’

He smiled at the nurse as she left the room.

She couldn’t believe that he was still pursuing this with such determination. Or that he had the authority. But in fact, she didn’t think he had official permission at all. Torbjörn Ross was sick; Thea had realised that a long time ago. His recurring visits had been torture at first, but over the years she had learned that the best thing was simply to ignore him.

As usual, he pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. Too close. As if it wasn’t enough that she could hear him; he wanted her to feel his presence as well.

Thea stared at the television and carried on eating.

‘I see you’re following the Rebecca Trolle story,’ Ross said. ‘I can understand that.’

He sat there like a king on his chair, his hands in his pockets.

‘I’m sure my colleagues will be coming to see you. They know that you and Rebecca Trolle met. It was in her diary.’

Thea remembered the visit, the eager questions.

‘I think you can be free again,’ the girl had said. ‘Clear your name. It’s not right for you to be sitting here alone and forgotten.’

She had no idea how Rebecca Trolle had found out everything she knew; it was a mystery. Even though she didn’t know everything, she knew enough.

‘The nurse said you had a terrible cough last week,’ said Torbjörn Ross. He seemed concerned. ‘You’re no spring chicken; you need to look after yourself.’

He stank of snuff; it made her want to hold her breath.

‘This business of not speaking, Thea. You’re losing so much.’

He shook his head, looking sympathetic.

‘If you could only get this off your chest. We’d all be ready to listen, to help you.’

She would have liked to turn her head and stare at him at this point, but she forced herself to carry on eating her breakfast. Who were ‘all’ these people who would be ready to help her? During all these years, no one but Torbjörn Ross had continued to visit her. The other police officers didn’t care; they had moved on. The case of her missing son was regarded as insoluble, and under the circumstances she was deemed innocent. By everyone except Torbjörn Ross, who wasn’t prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. His obsession with the case terrified her.

She remembered their first meeting. She had immediately been aware that the look in his eyes was somehow different. Cloudy, unclear. Evil in a way that she was sure few people perceived. He had been young then, eager to learn, impatient when other officers wanted to take a break during interrogation. His role had been to sit and listen, to observe his more experienced colleagues.

She had watched him in silence. Seen the contempt that radiated from him behind the backs of his colleagues. He sat by the wall, behind the others, his arms folded, anger emanating from him and filling the entire room.

The first visit was to her cell. She had been afraid at first, thinking that he had come to hurt her. But he had just wanted to talk.

‘I know that you know,’ he had said. ‘And if it takes a lifetime, I will get you to talk so that the rest of us will know too. The boy will have justice. Whatever it costs.’

Many times, she wondered whether she ought to recognise him. Was he an old acquaintance, someone whose path she had crossed? If not, why the hell did he still care? Why did her son mean so much to this one policeman?

After three decades of visits, she thought she knew the answer to that question. Torbjörn Ross was crazy. If Thea wasn’t careful, her already wretched life could get even worse.

40

Fredrika Bergman was tired. Yet another night when she was unable to settle and get to sleep. Yet another night filled with speculation. Her brain was slow, unwilling to co-operate. Her heart was beating desperately, pumping oxygenated blood around a body that wanted only to rest.

A report from Kripos, the Norwegian National Crime Investigation Service, had been faxed through during the morning and was waiting for her when she got to work. A report on Valter Lund. She hadn’t been satisfied with the information that Lund was an immigrant from Norway; she wanted to know more, and had asked her colleagues in Kripos for help. What was his background with regard to education and training? Had he been married? Did he still have family in Norway?

The report was brief. Valter Lund was born in 1962, and grew up in Gol in Norway. His parents were both dead, no siblings. No living grandparents. The only living relative was an uncle who still lived in Gol.

Gol. Fredrika had been there once. It was about two hundred kilometres from Oslo, a charmless dump not far from the inviting ski slopes of Hemsedal. Low-rise buildings scattered in the middle of nowhere, with a railway line slicing the community in two. Was that where Valter Lund, one of Sweden’s most prominent businessmen, had grown up?

According to Kripos, Lund had spent two years at grammar school, and had not fulfilled his compulsory military service. He had a criminal record, and had been punished for a number of minor offences by the age of twenty. His father was heavily involved in criminal activities, and there was a suspicion that his mother had turned to prostitution. The Norwegian tax office had no income details for Valter Lund after 1979. At that point, Valter had declared a minimal income paid out by a shipping company based in Bergen.

Fredrika read through the report again. She didn’t know what to think. She tried to remember what she had read about Valter Lund in the past, how he himself usually described his background. Hadn’t he said he had a degree in Business Administration? Or was that something she had taken for granted?

She logged onto the Internet, searching for information on Valter Lund. She found plenty of interviews, countless articles, but nothing about his education. Valter Lund, smiling at the camera. Sitting at a desk, standing on a podium, in the back seat of a car. He looked friendly rather than over-confident. He was thinking about those who would be looking at the pictures; he wanted to convey the sense that he was a person who could be trusted. Fredrika met Valter’s gaze on the screen, let him get under her skin.

He had taken a different approach when it came to building his brand. He had taken responsibility, acknowledged the fact when he made mistakes. For two years in a row, he had given more than half of his bonus to technological support projects in Africa, south of the Sahara. His visits to places where these projects were running were documented in detail by the press. Valter Lund without a jacket or tie, his sleeves rolled up, his face creased with concern.

Fredrika recalled seeing the articles when they came out. She had admired Valter Lund’s generosity and his willingness to make a stand; she knew that he had fallen out with many colleagues in industry who felt that Valter’s contributions to development and security put others who gave less in a bad light.

Morgan Axberger had been less keen to open his wallet. In interviews, he naturally made positive comments about Valter Lund’s efforts, but he also maintained that the solution to global poverty was not to be found through providing support.

Therefore, while Valter Lund was regarded as warm and generous, Morgan Axberger came across as cynical and hard. Lund was the kid from Norway who had built his own success from nothing; Axberger was the man who had inherited both his position and his wealth. Valter Lund was often heard to say that there should be more women on the boards of major companies, while Axberger would smile with the authority of age when the question arose; in his opinion, the women destined for such a role were already in situ.

Fredrika thought back to the way Alex had almost burst out laughing when she suggested they should interview both Axberger and Lund. She herself found it difficult to see the funny side of the situation. After all, wasn’t everyone equal before the law?

For the first time, Peder and Alex were holding a private morning briefing in the Lions’ Den, with the door closed and the curtains drawn. None of the other team members had been informed.

‘What the hell do we do?’ Peder said.

Alex had been thinking about that very question almost all night. He had got home far too late and far too wide awake after visiting Diana. It was rare for those who were grieving to pass on energy to another person, but Diana did.

‘This is what I’ve decided: I’ll speak to Fredrika; then you go and pick up Spencer Lagergren. Unless anything else has emerged that changes the situation, in your opinion.’

Peder shook his head sorrowfully.

‘I don’t understand how she could have kept this information from the team.’

‘I do,’ Alex said drily. ‘She wanted to look into Spencer’s involvement herself, rather than bringing in the rest of us, because she’s convinced he’s innocent. To be honest… we would have done the same.’

Peder didn’t really want to think about that; he chose to carry on feeling annoyed.

‘Did you manage to find out any more about that film club?’ Alex asked.

‘A bit,’ said Peder. ‘It seems to have been a grade A gathering for snobs, if you ask me. Very few members with a very low turnover. The first time they were noticed was in 1960, when the four of them turned up at a premiere here in Stockholm, then slated the film in a review in Dagens Nyheter the following day.’

‘1960? It sounds as if they were active for a long time.’

‘Almost fifteen years. And there were never more than four members. Thea Aldrin was there from the start, as was Morgan Axberger. Thea was twenty-four at the time, and Axberger was twenty-one. Did you know that he defied his father for the first few years after his military service, and spent all his time writing poetry?’

Alex was surprised. Morgan Axberger’s father had founded the empire his son now headed; Alex had no idea the regime change had been preceded by some kind of rebellion.

Peder noticed his reaction.

‘I know, I was surprised too. Anyway, Morgan Axberger had his first collection of poetry published after completing his military service, and it attracted a considerable amount of attention and some very good reviews.’

‘And that’s how he became a member of The Guardian Angels,’ Alex concluded.

He could imagine that Axberger’s rebellion would have made an impression on someone like Thea Aldrin, paving the way for all kinds of things.

‘Who were the other members?’

Peder took out a sheet of paper with a poor copy of a black and white photograph taken at a film premiere.

‘Thea Aldrin and Morgan Axberger.’

He pointed, and Alex followed his finger.

‘And this guy on the left, can you guess who he is?’

‘Haven’t a clue.’

‘That’s Thea Aldrin’s ex, the man she later stabbed to death in her garage.’

Alex let out a whistle.

‘He’s bloody tall.’

‘And she’s bloody short. Did you know that he acknowledged paternity of her son?’

Memories of his fishing trip with Torbjörn Ross came back to Alex. The weekend at his colleague’s summer cottage had left an increasingly bitter aftertaste. Alex had seen a new side of Ross – a side he didn’t like. A side that suggested things weren’t quite right.

‘So I’ve heard,’ he murmured in reply to Peder’s question. ‘What was his name, Thea’s ex?’

‘Manfred Svensson. Apparently, there was a real scandal over the fact that they were expecting a child and had no intention of getting married.’

Alex looked at the picture again.

‘And who’s the fourth man?’

‘A literary critic who died of a heart attack in 1972. Not exactly a celebrity. He was the one Lagergren replaced, by the way.’

‘Do we know how Lagergren became a member?’

‘No,’ Peder replied. ‘No idea. We can ask him when we interview him.’

The unpleasant feeling returned. Interviewing the partner of a colleague was something to be avoided, if possible. Suspecting that a colleague had withheld information during an investigation was even worse.

Alex broke the silence.

‘So who replaced Thea’s ex when he left the film club after they split up?’

‘That’s the only person I haven’t been able to identify. Some other high flyer, no doubt.’

‘And the film club kept going until Thea ended up in prison?’

‘Apparently not. For some unknown reason, it was dissolved a few years after Lagergren joined. I don’t know why.’

What was the connection between a film club and the disappearance and death of a twenty-three-year-old woman? Why did these odd characters keep on coming up in the investigation, over and over again?

‘We started with a bitter ex-girlfriend and a male friend who had a somewhat skewed view of reality, to say the least. We looked into the rumour that Rebecca was selling sex over the Internet; that turned out to be fabricated, but we still don’t know why. Then we found a supervisor who got into all kinds of trouble after Rebecca’s disappearance, and that led us to Spencer Lagergren. And now the cast has been increased with the addition of one of the country’s most noted businessmen. Two, if we include Morgan Axberger.’

Peder considered Alex’s summary, and added:

‘And in the middle of the spider’s web we have a silent writer who was convicted for the murder of her ex, and whose son is missing.’

A thought drifted through his mind; Alex only just managed to catch it.

‘Actually, it’s Thea Aldrin who links this whole mess together.’

He frowned.

‘According to her diary, Rebecca went to see Thea. You have to wonder why; her silence isn’t exactly a secret.’

‘We ought to go and see her as well,’ Peder suggested.

‘Later. We’re not going to try to interview a woman who has remained silent for several decades until we know exactly what we want to find out.’

‘Where does she live?’

‘I haven’t checked yet; a care home, I think.’

‘Isn’t she too young to be in a home?’

‘Yes, but she had a severe stroke during her last year in prison, and I don’t think she can look after herself.’

There was a knock on the door. Fredrika walked in, catching them red-handed. Alex caught himself hunching his shoulders as if he were ashamed.

Fredrika’s face, full of questions. Unease in her dark eyes. Far too intelligent to be easily deceived.

‘Hello, there!’

Alex’s voice grated as he spoke; he grinned nervously. And ‘hello there’ – what was that about?

‘Hi.’

Her expression was non-committal.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

‘No, no, come on in.’

She sat down at the table. She was carrying a sheaf of papers; it looked as if she wanted to discuss something important.

‘What did Diana say when you spoke to her?’

Alex didn’t know what to say. Diana? How did Fredrika…

‘You were going to ask her about Valter Lund and the trip to Copenhagen,’ Fredrika clarified.

The relief was so great that he almost burst out laughing.

‘As I understood it she had no knowledge of the trip, but she had actually found it strange that Lund came to listen to Rebecca sing in church.’

‘There are a number of strange things about Valter Lund,’ Fredrika said.

She told them what she had found out from their colleagues in Norway.

‘We ought to interview him,’ she said. ‘And Morgan Axberger. I want to find out more about this film club, and everything that happened around Thea during those years.’

Alex and Peder exchanged a glance, reaching silent agreement.

‘We’ll wait until we find the woman who bought the gold watch,’ Alex said slowly. ‘Let’s get together after lunch and see where we stand.’

Fredrika was suddenly alert.

‘Has something happened?’ she asked.

‘We’ll discuss it after lunch,’ Alex insisted.

There was another knock on the door, and Ellen came in.

Pale and shaken.

She said the words no one wanted to hear:

‘They’ve just called from the grave site. They’ve found another body.’

41

If the sun hadn’t been shining during the day, Håkan Nilsson wasn’t sure if he could have coped with staying on the boat. The night had been chilly, and the dampness on board had made his skin feel clammy. He hadn’t bothered to repair the cockpit in the past, and the cool night air soon found its way inside.

He had never thought about living on the boat. Not even as a joke. He had bought it a few summers ago with a friend. The plan had been to impress Rebecca; he knew that she loved the lake and the sea. But she hadn’t been all that interested, and after only one season his friend had changed his mind. Håkan bought him out and kept the boat. He chugged slowly through the Karlberg canal, seeing Stockholm from a completely fresh perspective. He enjoyed the fresh air, loved the sense of freedom.

He felt safe on the boat, and the club members valued him for his commitment. Håkan was always ready to volunteer; he painted the jetties and varnished the floor of the clubhouse veranda.

He had hoped that Rebecca would want to share the experience with him, but she stayed away, didn’t want to know when he was making his plans for a summer on the boat.

‘We don’t have that kind of relationship, Håkan,’ she had said.

That was the summer before everything happened, the summer before she went missing. Autumn came, then winter. And suddenly she was pregnant.

With his child.

He had found the ultrasound scan by accident when he was visiting her in the student hostel. He had wondered what it was, asked where it had come from. She had snatched the picture from him, said it was nothing to do with him.

It hurt to remember his fury. How he had completely lost it, yelling over and over again:

‘Is it mine? Is it? Answer me, for fuck’s sake!’

And she had replied that she didn’t know.

Håkan covered his ears with his hands, trying to shut out the sound of her voice which seemed to echo out across the lake.

I don’t know who the father is.

He sat down, resting one foot on the reserve tank of petrol in the stern. How long would he have to stay away? How long would it be before they realised he had a boat? If the police found out what he had said to Rebecca that night when he found the ultrasound image of the child, they would lock him up and throw away the key. He would never be able to convince them of his innocence.

But it wasn’t my fault.

Lake Mälaren was vast, with plenty of places to hide. At the same time he didn’t want to go too far away, to become so isolated that he might start to feel forgotten. He had anchored up in Alviken. At first he had thought of mooring off the island of Ekerö, but then he carried on past both Ekerö and Stenhamra. He wanted to put a reassuring distance between himself and all the terrible things that were going on.

Håkan heaved himself up from the floor and lay down on the short, cushioned seat. The boat was quite a good place to sleep, even if it wasn’t nearly as comfortable as home. He had brought plenty of food and drink; he should be able to stay away for a week at any rate.

A week.

That was quite a short amount of time, really. He had no idea what he would do after that.

A fresh wave of despair washed over him. Everything was irretrievably ruined. His father would never come back, and neither would Rebecca. The child she had been expecting was gone too.

Håkan curled up on his cushion. He had to make a decision. Because at the end of the day, did it really matter if he disappeared as well?

42

For the third time in a week, Alex Recht was driving from police HQ in Kungsholmen to the grave site in Midsommarkransen. It was warm and sunny to a degree that seemed incomprehensible for the time of year.

The news that yet another body had been found in the grave had upended all their plans. Fredrika was told to carry on looking for the woman who had bought the gold watch, while Peder accompanied Alex to Midsommarkransen.

‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ Peder said in the car.

‘Me too, but I don’t see how I could have prioritised things any other way,’ Alex said.

Peder glanced at him.

‘It’s not about prioritising, it’s about this whole bloody case. For example, what do we do with Lagergren now?’

‘He can wait,’ Alex replied.

It was a real effort not to add: We’ve got all the time in the world.

Because that was how it felt. As if the new horrors that had been unearthed altered the landscape, creating a sense that everything had changed. Even though they didn’t understand how or why.

Eventually, Peder commented: ‘You seem to be taking this very calmly.’

Alex wasn’t sure whether he could find the words to describe his intuitive thoughts properly, but he made an attempt.

‘I’ve got a feeling that we shouldn’t regard this new victim as a setback. I think it might explain a great deal, fill in the gaps in the story.’

Peder’s expression was sceptical as his boss parked the car.

‘Fill in the gaps?’

‘Come on,’ Alex said, opening the door.

The ground was silent beneath their feet, while the trees towered above them as magnificently as before. They walked the four hundred metres from the car to the site. The same route the perpetrator must have taken. Not once, not twice, but three times. With a dead body in his arms. Or on his back. Or in two black bin bags.

They stopped at the edge of the crater, amazed at the extent of the area that had been excavated.

‘This is the end of the road,’ said the DI who was in charge of the dig. ‘We’d already made the decision before we found the body; we’re not going any further than the police tape over there.’ He pointed. ‘Beyond that, the ground is full of stones and roots; there’s no chance that anyone has been digging there.’

‘How are you coping with the press?’ Alex asked.

‘Not too well. The reporters are starting to lose both patience and respect; they’re pushing and pushing to find out what we’re doing. I’ve had to use several officers to guard the area, which is why the digging process has been so slow.’

Alex gazed out across the crater. Earth had been dug out, sifted through and piled up around the edge, creating high ramparts that provided a natural defence against curious onlookers.

‘We meet again.’

The voice of the forensic pathologist came from down in the crater. He nodded to Alex, then clambered up the ladder, brushing the dirt from his knees.

‘What can you tell us?’ Alex asked.

The pathologist squinted at Alex, then moved so that the sun wasn’t in his eyes.

‘Next to nothing. I’ll have to get back to you when I’ve had the chance to take a closer look at the body in the lab.’

The air that found its way into Alex’s lungs as he breathed in was almost warm enough for summer. Birds flitted playfully among the trees.

‘Is it a man or a woman?’

‘I don’t think you understood what I said, Alex. Go down and have a look at the body for yourself before we take it away.’

Alex’s legs refused to move; he didn’t know if he wanted to see what had been revealed down in that hell hole.

‘I can have a look,’ Peder offered.

‘I’ll go first,’ Alex said.

He grabbed hold of the ladder and began to make his way down. He felt it sink slightly into the ground and wondered if it might tip over and dump him on top of the corpse.

‘The body is a few metres behind you,’ the pathologist said.

Alex reached the bottom and turned around. He saw a tarpaulin that was being used as a temporary cover for the body. He went over and crouched down. He could feel the eyes of his colleagues on his back as he lifted the plastic to see what it was hiding.

He couldn’t stop himself from recoiling.

He heard the pathologist’s voice behind him:

‘Now do you understand?’

Peder arrived and looked over his shoulder.

‘Bloody hell.’

Alex rearranged the tarpaulin and got to his feet. A skeleton, nothing more.

‘How long has he or she been here?’

‘Hard to say exactly. All I can tell you is that it’s a very old body. It’s been in the ground for decades. Even longer than the man we found last week.’

The pathologist used the word ‘we’ as if he were a part of the team investigating the case. And in a way he was. Alex liked his approach; he was in favour of including all the relevant parties in the investigation.

They clambered out of the crater.

‘So this is the last day of digging?’ Alex said to the DI in charge.

‘Everyone agrees that we won’t find anything in the rocky areas.’

‘That’s not what I asked.’

‘The answer is yes, this is the last day of digging.’

A breeze ruffled the tops of the trees, sending up a faint cloud of dust from the piles of earth. Alex felt as if evil were burning beneath his feet.

‘Fine,’ he said.

He nodded to Peder to indicate that it was time to head back to the car. He had no desire whatsoever to stay here.

Fredrika fingered the gold watch in her hands. The gold watch that had been found in the grave, and would hopefully give them the name of the unidentified man.

‘Carry me. Your Helena.’

A beautiful, ambiguous inscription.

Carry me.

Would Fredrika have said something like that to another person? She didn’t think so.

‘That’s lovely,’ Ellen said when she came into Fredrika’s office and saw the watch.

‘Classic,’ said Fredrika, stroking the watch, which had stopped long ago.

Ellen sat down.

‘I checked the address we got from the watchmaker against the property database, but it’s impossible to see who used to live there. And there’s no Helena at that address today.’

She handed Fredrika a Post-it note.

‘But this is the phone number of the chair of the residents’ association. He ought to be able to find her in their records. Do you want me to call, or would you prefer to do it?’

Fredrika shrugged; she was feeling unsettled after finding Alex and Peder closeted in the den.

Something had happened. And they weren’t telling her what it was.

‘I can do it.’

After a brief hesitation, she asked:

‘Ellen, do you know if anything in particular has happened over the last few days?’

She could see that Ellen didn’t understand the badly phrased question.

‘To do with the case, I mean.’

Ellen looked unsure of herself.

‘I don’t think so.’

Was she lying? Fredrika didn’t know for certain; she felt as if time was running through her fingers like sand, and she was fighting against become paranoid. There had been another body in the grave, carelessly tossed into a hole by strong arms that ruled over life and death with utter ruthlessness.

Who are you? Fredrika thought. Who are you, creeping through the forest time after time, decade after decade, with your silenced victims?

Spencer?

The thought could not be allowed to take shape; it was obliterated before it even existed.

What possible motivation could there be behind such deeds? Fredrika was afraid there might be more victims. She pictured a body under every tree in the forest. Reason told her that couldn’t possibly be the case, but at the same time reason was notable by its absence in the investigation she was working on.

Spencer.

Whom Rebecca Trolle had tried to get in touch with. Who had been a member of the same film club as Thea Aldrin. Who wouldn’t say why he was so tense and unhappy. Fredrika didn’t really believe for a moment that Spencer was involved, but she hated constantly stumbling over leads connected to him. Her sense of frustration grew, and she could feel the tears threatening.

I am bloody well not going to be the kind of person who sits at her desk crying.

She looked at the note with the phone number of the residents’ association and picked up the phone. She raised her hand to key in the number, but keyed in a different number altogether. She called the switchboard at the University of Uppsala and asked to be put through to Erland Malm, Spencer’s Head of Department.

Spencer would never forgive her. But she had to know. She had never exchanged confidences with Erland Malm in the past, but as someone close to Spencer, she surely had the right to call and ask what had happened. At least that was what she told herself.

Erland’s voice was as deep as ever when he answered. Only Spencer’s was deeper. And only Spencer was more popular than Erland, more successful. It was fortunate for Erland that Spencer had never wanted the kind of power and influence that went with the role of head of department.

‘Hello, Erland, it’s Fredrika Bergman.’

How many times had she and Erland met? Quite a few. From an early stage Erland had been aware of her relationship with Spencer, and had accepted the fact that she would turn up like an extra piece of luggage at various conferences. He had always been polite, never condescending like some others, who knew the situation and despised her. As the Other Woman, she was regarded as a loser, while Spencer was seen as cock of the walk.

She tried to put her anxiety into words, hesitant at first, then with increasing assurance.

‘What’s happened? I don’t recognise him these days.’

A lump formed in her throat; she swallowed to get rid of it. She felt she ought to end the call, but was struck by Erland’s silence.

‘The thing is, Fredrika, I can’t really discuss this matter. You must realise that. You need to speak to Spencer.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t even know what I’m supposed to realise. And I have spoken to Spencer. Several times. He won’t tell me anything; he just freezes me out.’

The words turned into a physical pain in her chest. She didn’t want to be pushed away when she had exposed herself like this.

Help me, for God’s sake.

Erland’s voice was full of hesitation when he spoke.

‘We’ve found ourselves in a rather tricky situation, to say the least. Last autumn Spencer was supervising a young woman, Tova Eriksson. Has he mentioned her?’

‘In passing. He said she wasn’t happy.’

Erland laughed wearily.

‘That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. No, she wasn’t happy. She’s accused him of sexual harassment, Fredrika. And of having used his position of power to obtain sexual services.’

Fredrika was dumbstruck.

Empty.

‘What? This has to be a misunderstanding.’

Erland’s tone became harsh.

‘The department cannot express a view on the issue of culpability; we have to…’

‘Of course you bloody can!’ Fredrika yelled.

‘She’s reported him to the police. We have no choice but to await the results of the police investigation.’

Police. Sexual services. Spencer’s sudden desire to take his paternity leave.

‘Has he been sacked?’

‘Originally, he was encouraged to take some time off, but as soon as Tova Eriksson reported him to the police he was formally suspended.’

There was nothing more to say. Fredrika ended the call, felt the fight go out of her. What else had Spencer lied about? In Fredrika’s mind there had never been any secrets between them. Cards on the table, all the way; that was what had carried their relationship forward.

Should she go home? Interrupt her working day to grab hold of him, shake him, curse him for keeping quiet about all this?

Rebecca Trolle.

Fredrika knew instinctively that Spencer had nothing to do with the case. The fact that he had been a member of the film club was irrelevant, it had nothing to do with Rebecca’s death. But what about this other student, the one who had reported him to the police? Was there even a grain of truth in her story?

There couldn’t be.

There mustn’t be.

Fredrika knew that she was off balance, that she wouldn’t be able to handle a confrontation with Spencer while her disappointment over the fact that he had kept his problems from her was bubbling away inside her.

She picked up the Post-it note Ellen had given her and keyed in the telephone number. The chair of the residents’ association answered almost immediately. He listened to her explanation, then said:

‘I know which apartment you mean. It was sold two years ago. The name of the previous owner is Helena Hjort.’

43

It was still early in the morning when Spencer Lagergren presented himself at the passport office in the police station on Kungsholmsgatan. He glanced at Saga in her buggy, thinking that they were close to Fredrika. He had no intention of calling in to see her. The call from her colleague, combined with the fact that the same colleague had been to see Eva, frightened him. From being suspected of sexual harassment and the abuse of power, he now appeared to be a suspect in a murder investigation. Why else would they ask about that bloody conference, which was an alibi in a way?

Perhaps he was even suspected of several murders.

There were unconfirmed rumours all over the radio and television, suggesting that yet another body had been found in Midsommarkransen. It seemed unlikely that the police would suspect him of one murder, and not the other. Spencer didn’t know what to think; he just wished the whole sorry mess was a bad dream, and that he would soon wake up.

There were four numbers ahead of him in the queue; with a bit of luck he would be seen before Saga woke up.

His whole body was aching with anxiety; the feeling that he was genuinely miserable was growing stronger with every passing day. He knew he should have spoken to Fredrika. Right from the start. Had confidence in her, trusted that she would believe him.

The anxiety turned to anger. Because Spencer wasn’t the only one who should have revealed his secrets. She had asked him straight out if he had known Rebecca Trolle, then turned away, pretended that there was no particular reason for her question.

It didn’t make any sense.

How could she trust him at home alone with her child all day if she secretly suspected that he had murdered several people? Hacked a young woman’s body to pieces, carried those pieces through a forest, dropped them into a hole in the ground and walked away?

We don’t know each other at all, do we?

He loved to remember their first meeting, at a time when they were both somehow more undamaged, their relationship undemanding. They saw each other when they had the time, the desire, the opportunity. The relationship had been both innocent and sinful: innocent because it was characterised by a rare honesty, and sinful because he was married.

They had had so much in common. Interests and values. On those rare occasions when they fell out, love quickly mended what was broken. Their mutual dependency, their need, bound them closer and closer, and they began to meet with increasing frequency. They had taken risks, put Spencer’s colleagues in a difficult situation when Fredrika discreetly arrived at conferences, creeping into his room and sharing his bed.

It was almost two years since she had turned everything upside down by telling him how much she longed for a baby. She had talked about adopting a child from China, bringing it up without a father on the scene. Without him. Once he got over the shock, he had made himself clear: he would like to give her a child, if that was what she wanted.

Give. Like a bunch of flowers.

He had sounded like someone from another century, and yet she had said yes. Said there was no one she would rather have as the father of her child. As if she had several candidates to choose from.

Spencer was woken from his reverie by the fact that it was his turn. He had requested an urgent meeting with his solicitor, and had explained the situation in which he believed he now found himself. Uno, his solicitor, had gone pale and said: ‘How the hell did you end up in this mess, Spencer?’

The answer was that he didn’t have a clue. And his friend had no advice to offer. Spencer would just have to wait; if the police seriously suspected him of murder, he would be brought in for questioning and presumably held in custody if they believed he was dangerous. Which they really ought to do, given the crimes of which he was suspected.

He had no trouble in deciding on a course of action. After leaving the solicitor’s office, Spencer went straight home and dug out his passport. He had had enough of all the crap; if things got worse he wanted to be able to leave the country quickly. Temporarily. For the sake of his own peace of mind.

But his passport was only a few months from its expiry date, which limited the number of countries to which he could travel. Therefore, like the lost soul he had become, he marched straight down to the passport office to apply for a new one.

As a last resort.

If it should become necessary.

Back at HQ, Alex and Peder swept down the corridor and disappeared into their respective offices. Peder switched on his computer and checked his messages. Fredrika walked in, her face rigid, her eyes full of sorrow. In a way, Peder felt as if he had foregone his right to ask her what had happened, since he was preparing to question her partner.

‘Helena Hjort,’ Fredrika said.

She sank down on a chair, tiredness etched on her face.

Peder felt a burst of renewed energy.

‘Is she the person who bought the gold watch?’

Fredrika nodded.

‘I managed to identify her with the help of the chairman of the residents’ association, and I’ve got her current address. She lives in the Söder district, at Vita bergen.’

Peder leaned forward eagerly, keen to hear more.

‘Have you called her?’

‘I thought I might go over there.’

A brief hesitation, as if she was considering whether to add something.

‘Would you like to come with me?’

They had worked together for two years, and never once had she asked him to go anywhere with her.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Absolutely.’

He finished what he was doing and popped into Alex’s office to tell him where they were going.

‘I thought you and I had something else to take care of.’

Spencer Lagergren.

‘Couldn’t we do that later?’

Alex didn’t raise any objections. He was just as loath as Peder to tackle the thorny issue of Spencer Lagergren.

‘What was that all about?’ Fredrika asked as they were walking to the car.

Peder hated playing the role of Judas; he felt the lie stick in his throat as he spoke.

‘Nothing in particular.’

Fredrika could probably make a living as a mind-reader if she left the police; Peder could feel her eyes burning into his back, and he knew she didn’t believe him.

He had to smooth over his sin, hide it. He turned to face her.

‘Honestly, it was nothing.’

‘Right.’

The silence in the car was dense. Buildings lined the road, the sky was a clear blue with so much sunshine it almost felt unreal. The car sped across Västerbron and cut through Södermalm.

‘I don’t want to go via Slussen,’ he said. ‘Too much bloody traffic.’

Fredrika said nothing; she didn’t care which way he went.

He glanced at her profile, trying to work out what she was thinking. He wanted to apologise, but he didn’t know how or for what. He pulled up outside the block where Helena Hjort allegedly lived. According to the records, she was single and childless. She had been married, but not since 1980, and her ex-husband had emigrated the following year.

Emigrated. Both Peder and Fredrika had reacted to that piece of information, as if they had expected it to say ‘buried’. If people really did think he had emigrated, and if he had no other ties to Sweden, it was less surprising that no one had reported him missing.

‘We need the names of friends and acquaintances,’ Fredrika said as they made their way up the stairs. ‘We must be able to trace him somehow.’

‘You don’t think it’s his body we found?’

‘I think we might have found his watch. If Helena bought the watch for him in the first place. But it seems odd that a man who emigrated could lie dead for thirty years without anyone missing him.’

Peder’s jaw muscles tensed; he would have liked to run up the rest of the stairs.

Helena Hjort was an old woman, almost eighty. There was a distinct possibility that she wouldn’t be as much help as they might have wished.

Lonely, Peder thought as they rang the bell. She must be incredibly lonely.

The door opened and an elderly woman appeared. She was the epitome of a Bohemian singleton who had survived the winter. Her clothes were so colourful they were almost painful to look at.

Peder allowed Fredrika to take the lead; she introduced them and explained why they were there.

‘We wondered whether you’ve seen this before.’

The gold watch on Fredrika’s open palm made Helena Hjort take a step backwards.

‘Where did you find that?’

‘Perhaps we could come inside?’

The apartment was enchanting. The ceilings were almost four metres high, wonderful stucco work, white walls and freshly polished floorboards. Discreet works of art on the walls, with only a small number of personal photographs on display. The curtains would have made Peder’s mother green with envy, as would the authentic rugs on the floor.

Helena Hjort showed them into the living room, indicating that they should sit down on the large sofa facing the window. She sat down on one of the armchairs opposite.

Fredrika passed her the watch, observing Helena as she examined it.

‘We found it in an area that was being excavated in Midsommarkransen,’ she said.

Helena raised her eyebrows.

‘Excavated?’

‘I’m sure you’ve heard about it on the news,’ Peder said. ‘The body of a young woman was found there at the beginning of last week. Her name was Rebecca Trolle.’

Helena leaned back in her chair.

‘You found a man’s body too.’

‘Yes, and unfortunately we haven’t been able to identify him so far,’ Peder said. ‘But we found this watch a short distance away from him, and we believe it was buried at the same time.’

He spoke quietly and in a matter-of-fact tone.

‘And you think the watch might have belonged to this man?’

‘Yes,’ Fredrika said.

Helena Hjort weighed the watch in her hand; she seemed to disappear to a place where she was no longer accessible. The watch had brought back memories, and Peder no longer had any doubt that she was the one who had bought it.

‘I bought it in 1979,’ she said. ‘For my husband, Elias Hjort. It was a present for his fiftieth birthday. We had a big party in our apartment; lots of people came.’

Helena got up and fetched a photograph album. Peder watched the way she moved; she was a lot more supple than most of the eighty-year-olds he had met.

She put down the album in front of Peder and Fredrika, showing them a picture of her husband Elias on his fiftieth birthday. A tall, imposing man with a forbidding expression. The watch was on his wrist.

‘Elias was always a melancholy soul, all the way through our marriage. Perhaps it was the fact that we didn’t have children, but I think he suffered from depression as well. In those days, things were very different when it came to psychiatry; you didn’t seek help because you were feeling low. You just gritted your teeth and carried on.’

Peder looked at the photograph of Elias Hjort; he felt as if he recognised him.

‘What did he do?’

‘He was a solicitor.’

It looked as if Helena had intended to say something else, but decided to keep quiet.

‘Where is he living now?’ Peder asked.

Helena gazed at the watch, still in her hand.

‘He moved to Switzerland in 1981, the year after our divorce went through.’

She raised her head and looked Peder straight in the eye.

‘But you think it’s his body you’ve found in Midsommarkransen, don’t you?’

‘We think so, but we’re not sure. Now we have a name for the recipient of the watch, we hope to be able to confirm his identity with the help of dental records.’

Helena put down the watch, a thoughtful expression on her face. She didn’t seem upset: Had she already had an idea that he had never emigrated at all?

‘Did you have any contact after he moved to Switzerland?’ Fredrika asked, as if she could read Peder’s mind.

‘No,’ said Helena. ‘No, we didn’t. We didn’t have any contact at all, in fact.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

‘February 1981. He came to see me in our old apartment and told me he was moving abroad.’

‘Did that surprise you?’

‘Of course it did. He’d never even mentioned it before.’

‘Did he say why he was moving?’

A smile flitted across Helena’s face, disappearing so quickly that Peder wasn’t sure if he’d really seen it.

‘No, he didn’t. And we had no contact after that, as I said.’

Fredrika straightened up, rested her hands on her knees and reflected in silence on what she had learned about the couple’s marriage from the police database.

‘Isn’t that a little odd? I mean, you were married for over twenty years, after all. Did he never come back to Stockholm? Didn’t you write to one another?’

Helena grew pensive.

‘I’m not sure I find it acceptable that I should have to defend the fact that I had no contact with my ex-husband after he left the country. We didn’t have all that much contact after the divorce, while he was still living in Stockholm. I think we both felt we needed a clean break.’

But why did a couple who had been married for over twenty years suddenly decide to get a divorce? What could cause such a split that there was no further communication? Peder thought of Ylva and their temporary separation. If it hadn’t been for the boys, would they have broken off all contact? He didn’t think so.

‘Why did you divorce?’ he asked, hoping the question was neither too direct nor insensitive.

‘For several reasons. We no longer had any common interests or shared values.’ She hesitated. ‘Over the years he developed a lifestyle and an attitude to life that I didn’t wish to be a part of.’

‘Were you the one who instigated the divorce?’ Fredrika asked.

‘Yes.’

Peder sensed that Helena was getting impatient; she had had enough of their personal questions. He changed direction.

‘Did Elias have any enemies?’

Helena brushed a hair from the leg of her trousers.

‘None that I know of.’

‘We’re asking because he was a solicitor,’ Fredrika explained. ‘Perhaps he upset one of his clients?’

‘Who killed him and buried him in Midsommarkransen?’

Fredrika didn’t respond.

‘No,’ Helena said. ‘I don’t think he had any enemies like that.’

‘Was he part of a larger firm, or did he have his own practice?’

‘He worked on his own; he had no colleagues.’

‘Did you have any mutual friends who might have been in touch with him after he left Stockholm?’

Helena shook her head.

‘I couldn’t say. Our mutual friends turned out to be his friends after the divorce,’ she said drily. ‘But while we were married, he was something of a recluse; perhaps our mutual friends weren’t really friends at all.’

Peder saw Fredrika make a note on the pad she always carried with her. They had only one question left.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ he said. ‘Have you ever met her?’

For the first time he got a reaction from Helena.

‘The girl who was found dead? No, definitely not.’

‘Are you quite sure?’ Fredrika asked.

‘Quite sure.’

There was no hesitation in either the tone of her voice or her choice of words, unfortunately. Something was niggling away at Peder; he couldn’t for the life of him think why he recognised Elias Hjort.

‘In that case, we won’t disturb you any longer,’ he said. ‘Could we possibly take one of these pictures of Elias with us?’

When they got back to HQ, Fredrika headed for her office while Peder went to see Alex. He wanted to discuss Spencer Lagergren, to find out how they were going to divide up the rest of the working day. Fredrika saw where he was going and followed him.

‘I was just going to discuss something with Alex,’ Peder said. He stopped, not wanting her to go with him.

He saw the change in her expression. She had looked tired and worried before they went to see Helena; but during their visit, she had brightened up considerably. But now, that brightness faded once more. Peder knew she must be wondering about all these meetings that were suddenly taking place behind closed doors.

‘What?’

‘Just something we talked about earlier.’

Peder felt under so much pressure that fear almost spilled over into irritation. It was a reflex defence mechanism, and his therapist had told him he must work to stop it happening.

‘Something that I and the rest of the team are not allowed to share?’

Peder didn’t know what to say.

Fredrika’s eyes suddenly shone with tears. She had had enough.

‘Is it to do with Spencer?’

Peder stiffened. He raised his head and met her gaze.

Alex had heard their voices and came out into the corridor. He looked from one to the other.

‘Has something happened?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering,’ Fredrika said.

In the tense silence that followed, Peder finally realised where he had seen Elias Hjort before.

‘Elias Hjort was a member of Thea Aldrin’s film club.’

44

It could of course be a figment of her imagination, but Thea had the distinct feeling that she was being watched. She peered discreetly out of the window, trying to see who was moving around out there. It could be one of the young people from the assisted living project across the garden. If that was the case, she would feel much calmer.

The memory of Torbjörn Ross’s visit still lingered, almost as palpable as a smell. He had changed; he was more driven than he used to be. It was as if everything had been ramped up several notches, become more of a strain.

Why couldn’t he just let go, leave everything alone?

Thea had never understood how Rebecca Trolle had managed to get so far with her research. She had, of course, not managed to go all the way, but she had got close enough. At first she had just talked about Mercury and Asteroid, about Box, the firm responsible for their publication, and about the film club. She would have been able to read up on all that in old newspapers.

But then she had begun to talk about the unmentionable. About the film and the police investigation. About Elias Hjort. And that was when Thea had realised the girl was in trouble.

Elias Hjort, the stupid solicitor who hadn’t done a single thing right in his entire life. Who had not carried out the task with which Thea had entrusted him, but had tried to use it to his own advantage instead. Thea was certain it was his body the police had found in Midsommarkransen. They should have identified him by now, worked out who he was and what role he had played in the drama that was still claiming its victims thirty years on. Her thoughts turned to Helena, Elias’s wife, who deserved better. They could have been good friends, Thea and Helena, if only Helena hadn’t l listened to gossip and started to imagine things.

The film club had been Morgan Axberger’s idea, in spite of the fact that the media claimed at an early stage that it had been Thea’s. He was right in the middle of his delayed teenage rebellion, and was more eccentric than all the rest of them put together. Thea recalled that her first impression of him had been positive. He was one of the few who didn’t condemn the fact that Thea and Manfred wanted nothing to do with the institution of marriage, and that they intended to bring a child into the world without getting married.

‘What’s important to one person is of no importance to another,’ Morgan had said.

It was Morgan who recruited Elias into the film club. And then Spencer Lagergren. Spencer had always been too young, in Thea’s opinion. He wasn’t rich enough to catch up with the others. He was bright – sometimes brilliant – but far too inexperienced to bring anything of value to their discussions. Besides which, Morgan and Elias thought he drank too little.

Thea sighed, wishing all those old memories would go away.

She got up and switched on the TV; she wanted to watch the lunchtime news. The police had confirmed the rumours: another body had been discovered. They were not prepared to give any details regarding age or gender. Thea followed the story, wide-eyed. How long would it take before they worked out how everything hung together?

She felt sick as she thought about the latest body that had been dug up. If she had been younger she would have felt embarrassment and revulsion over what would now be revealed about her past, but she was over seventy, and couldn’t have cared less. The only thing that bothered her was her son.

However, if they hadn’t managed to find him in thirty years, there was no reason to believe they would find him now.

45

They couldn’t deal with everything at once, even if that would have been desirable. The realisation was painful, and Alex was finding it almost impossible to prioritise. In the end, he decided it was high time to prepare to question Valter Lund, but first he wanted Spencer Lagergren brought in so that they could find out once and for all what the man knew, and eliminate him from their inquiries. Now that they had found another body and identified the man with the gold watch, Spencer was no longer so interesting. In spite of his connection with the film club, he was too young; he hadn’t been a member for long enough. However, he still had to be questioned.

Alex had a serious conversation with Fredrika on the matter.

‘You withheld information,’ he said. ‘That’s professional misconduct. I could have you out of here like that.’

He clicked his fingers.

‘I didn’t withhold anything,’ she said. ‘I chose to save us from following yet another lead, if Spencer had nothing to do with all this.’

‘And how were you planning on finding out whether he had anything to do with it or not?’

Fredrika hadn’t been able to come up with an answer to that question, so their conversation was quite short.

‘What are you going to do?’ she asked.

Her expression was anxious; no doubt she was terrified of losing her job.

‘I ought to report you,’ Alex said. ‘But unfortunately, I can’t afford to lose a member of the team who is more or less brilliant the rest of the time.’

That had come from the heart, and his words went straight to Fredrika’s heart in turn. She was, however, removed from any further contact with Spencer Lagergren as far as the investigation was concerned.

‘You are not to call home and tell him about this,’ Alex said, stressing every word. ‘You carry on working on your other tasks, and Peder and I will take care of Spencer as soon as possible.’

‘Saga,’ Fredrika said.

‘I’ll let you know when we’re going to bring him in,’ Alex said. ‘You can go home and look after her for as long as necessary.’

That had been Alex’s intention before lunch, when he still believed that time was on his side. But as two o’clock approached and they started trying to track down Spencer Lagergren to ask him to come to the police station straight away, it proved impossible to get hold of him. His mobile was switched off, and no one answered the door when they sent a patrol car to Fredrika and Spencer’s apartment.

For some reason, Spencer’s silence worried Alex. He couldn’t shake off the feeling that he had missed something obvious, and he couldn’t settle. He didn’t really want to ask Fredrika if she knew where Spencer might have gone.

Peder came into Alex’s office.

‘Shall we move on to Valter Lund, since we can’t find Lagergren?’

Alex’s mouth narrowed to a thin line.

‘Call and make an appointment to see Valter Lund to begin with,’ he said. ‘Say we’d like to see him today, if possible. In the evening, if necessary.’

Peder swallowed.

‘The press will go crazy.’

Alex suppressed a sigh.

‘We no longer have a choice. And besides, we’re only questioning him in order to obtain information, remember that.’

The sense of impotence was eating away at Fredrika Bergman from inside and out. Her colleagues were on their way to pick up her partner so that they could question him about several murders, while she was expected to sit in her office and carry on working. As if nothing had happened.

The fear had an almost anaesthetising effect. What would remain of her relationship with Spencer when all this was over? And what about the accusation that had been made against him in Uppsala? The very idea that he might have forced himself on a female student made her feel sick.

It couldn’t possibly be true.

It mustn’t be true.

She gazed at her desk, trying to put together all the little pieces of the jigsaw to form a picture that made sense. A coherent picture.

A young female student, four months pregnant, thrown into a grave alongside a solicitor aged about fifty, who had already been lying there for almost thirty years. One single common denominator: Thea Aldrin, a children’s writer who had been sentenced to life imprisonment, and who was now growing old in self-imposed silence in a care home.

If it hadn’t been for the fact that Thea didn’t communicate with the outside world, Fredrika would have already been on her way to the home to insist on questioning her.

Someone knocked on Fredrika’s door, interrupting her thoughts as if bursting a bubble. Torbjörn Ross was standing there.

‘Am I disturbing you?’

He was smiling warmly.

‘Not at all,’ Fredrika replied.

Alex had told her about their colleague’s involvement in the original Thea Aldrin case, and had mentioned that Ross was still visiting the old lady in the hope that she would one day confess to the murder of her son. Fredrika found this somewhat repugnant, but welcomed him with a smile anyway.

Her cheeks felt tight, as if her face was trying not to co-operate. She had no reason to smile. She had no time to smile.

Torbjörn Ross walked in and sat down opposite her.

‘I heard a rumour that you’d identified the man in the grave,’ he said.

‘We think we have,’ said Fredrika. ‘But we haven’t yet received confirmation.’

‘Who is he?’

‘His name is Elias Hjort.’

Torbjörn stared at her with such intensity that it was painful to meet his gaze.

‘Elias Hjort?’ he repeated.

She nodded. ‘Does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Too bloody right it does.’

His voice was hoarse with tension. Fredrika dropped the pen she was holding, heard it land on the desk.

‘Have you heard of two books entitled Mercury and Asteroid?’ he asked.

His eyes were burning, dark as a winter’s night.

‘The books Thea Aldrin was accused of having written under a pseudonym. But nothing was ever proved.’

Torbjörn let out a harsh laugh, devoid of pleasure.

‘We followed the money trail, which is the way the real person behind a pseudonym has always been exposed,’ he said.

He leaned back in his chair and ran a hand over his face.

‘We forced the publisher, Box, to tell us who received the royalties for the books.’

Fredrika frowned.

‘Why did you do that? The books were hardly illegal, after all.’

Torbjörn ignored her comment.

‘The money was paid to Elias Hjort. Not in the capacity of author, but as the legal representative of the author. But when we went looking for him to find out exactly who he was representing, he had already left the country. And we never managed to track him down.’

He laughed again.

‘Hardly surprising, if he was buried in Midsommarkransen all along.’

‘Why did you want to find out who’d written the books?’ Fredrika asked again.

‘Because of the film.’

The film?

Her mobile rang, a loud, shrill tone. She automatically grabbed it; she didn’t recognise the number.

‘Fredrika Bergman.’

Silence. Then Spencer’s voice.

‘You have to come to Uppsala.’

She heard the hesitation.

‘They’ve arrested me.’

At first, Alex didn’t understand what could possibly have gone wrong. Why had the Uppsala police decided to arrest Spencer Lagergren? And how could this have happened in Stockholm without Alex being informed?

‘They’d blocked his passport,’ Peder explained when he was reporting back to Alex later. ‘So that they’d know if he tried to leave the country.’

‘And why the hell would he do that? He’s only been accused of sexual harassment, for God’s sake!’

‘Because yesterday, the girl who reported him came back with fresh information. She’s raised the stakes significantly; now she’s accusing him of rape.’

Alex was lost for words.

‘Rape?’

Peder nodded.

‘The police in Uppsala suspected that Lagergren would be afraid of this new information coming out; they thought he might try to leave the country and stay away until it had all blown over.’

‘And when he applied for a new passport…’

‘… that gave them a reason to arrest him.’

Alex locked his hands behind his head.

‘I really didn’t think he was guilty.’

‘But in that case we don’t know why he applied for a new passport,’ Peder said.

‘Why else would he have done it?’

‘Because he needed one?’

Alex shook his head slowly.

‘Something else is going on here, Peder.’

Their deliberations were interrupted by a gentle tap on the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you,’ said Torbjörn Ross. ‘But I think I have some important information that you need to know.’

The sound of his voice made Alex stiffen, taking him back to the case involving the death of Rebecca Trolle.

‘Come in,’ he heard himself say.

And he immediately had the feeling that he was making a terrible mistake by letting his friend and colleague into the investigation.

46

Jimmy Rydh knew he was stupid. There was something wrong with his brain; he had hit his head on a rock, and it didn’t work properly. He also knew that was why he couldn’t live on his own, like Peder did. Although, of course, Peder didn’t really live on his own; his whole family lived in Peder’s apartment. Jimmy was a part of that family; Peder had said so, over and over again.

But now and again, Jimmy still found life difficult. When it came down to it, he didn’t live with his brother and his family, but with his friends in the assisted living complex. He got fed up of them sometimes; he couldn’t cope with all their silly chatter in the kitchen or the common room. He was very glad he had a room of his own, where he could be alone with his thoughts.

And with his observations.

Jimmy was standing motionless by the window, staring out across the lawn that filled the space between his own building and the one opposite. The man was looking into that old lady’s room again. Jimmy knew there was an old lady in that particular room, because he saw her almost every day. Sometimes she sat inside, but sometimes, even in the middle of winter, she would sit outside on her little patio. Where the man was now standing. Jimmy wondered if the lady could see the man who was looking in through her window. She ought to be able to see him, even though it was obvious that the man was creeping up on her. As if it were a game.

It was the second time Jimmy had seen the man, and although he didn’t know why, the man made him feel frightened. That was why he hoped the old lady hadn’t seen the man, because then she would be frightened too.

Suddenly the man moved. Towards the open patio door. And went inside. Jimmy inhaled sharply. What if the man was going to hurt the old lady?

Jimmy picked up his mobile; he would ring Peder. But Peder hadn’t wanted to listen last time, Jimmy recalled. Perhaps one of the staff could help him?

He couldn’t see the man any longer. Jimmy had a pain in his tummy. There was no time to think. He had to do something.

He opened his own patio door and went outside. He wasn’t wearing any shoes, but it was so warm that it probably didn’t matter. He had his socks on, after all.

It took him less than a minute to reach the old lady’s room and suddenly Jimmy didn’t know what to do. Should he knock on the door, call out and say hello? Intuitively, he knew that wasn’t a good idea. Instead he pressed himself against the wall, right by the window. He could hear the man talking.

‘If you’ve kept quiet for thirty years, you can keep quiet until you die,’ the man said. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

The lady probably didn’t understand, Jimmy thought, because she didn’t speak.

‘I know why you’ve kept quiet,’ the man went on, lowering his voice. ‘And you know that I know, Thea. It’s to protect that boy of yours, and I have every sympathy with that.’

The man paused.

‘But if I go down, I will take him with me. I will crush him, if it’s the last thing I do. Do you hear me?’

At first, there was complete silence, then Jimmy heard the lady, who apparently was called Thea, say in a hoarse voice:

‘If you threaten my son once more, you’re a dead man.’

The words reached Jimmy outside the window. He couldn’t stop himself from calling out:

‘No, no, no!’

Then he stopped speaking and stood there rooted to the spot as the man inside slowly came closer.

47

The outside world had ceased to exist. Fredrika Bergman was making a huge effort to understand what the police officer opposite her was saying, but she was finding it impossible to process his words. Spencer had been arrested. He had put Saga in her buggy and walked to police HQ, where Fredrika worked, in order to apply for a new passport. In spite of the fact that his current passport was still valid for a few months.

‘We’re convinced he was intending to leave the country,’ the officer said.

‘That’s just ridiculous,’ Fredrika said.

‘I don’t think so. He knew we were onto him, so he decided to make a run for it.’

‘He’s innocent.’

‘Believe me, I know it’s difficult for you to sit and listen to this. But you have to face facts. Spencer Lagergren is not the man you thought he was. He’s a rapist. And men like that can have many different faces, as you well know.’

She was so angry that her fury threatened to consume her.

‘I’ve known him for over ten years.’

The police officer leaned back.

‘Interesting. And for how many of those years was he married to someone else?’

The rage was red, almost blinding her.

‘That’s totally irrelevant.’

‘To you, but not to me.’

She got up and left. Picked up her child and walked out of the room. Asked to speak to Spencer. She was informed that this was not possible under the circumstances.

‘We’re going to charge him,’ the officer behind her said.

‘You’ll regret it if you do,’ she replied.

The shock debilitated her. Hugging Saga tightly, and with tears pouring down her face, she left the police station. There wasn’t a single part of her that doubted Spencer’s innocence with regard to the student who had made an accusation against him. She obviously wanted to destroy his life, or at least his career. But Fredrika had no intention of allowing that to happen.

Over my dead body.

Her mobile rang in her pocket; her hand was shaking as she answered. The sound of Alex’s calm voice reached her.

‘Where are you?’

‘I’ve just left the police station.’

Saga dropped her dummy and began to whimper. Fredrika reacted automatically, replacing the dummy and settling the child in her buggy. She set off, walking quickly so that her daughter would be distracted by her surroundings as they whizzed by, and with a bit of luck would forget that she was no longer being carried.

‘Don’t do anything stupid, Fredrika,’ Alex said.

‘I won’t.’

‘I’m serious. You run the risk of making Spencer’s situation, and your own, even worse if you start acting on your own initiative.’

He must have realised that she wasn’t listening to a word he said, because he carried on with his exhortations until she excused herself and ended the call. She increased her speed and set off in a different direction. Along Luthagsesplanaden and off towards Rackarberget. She would go and see that bloody girl, pin her up against the wall. Make her understand what she was doing.

Her years as a student in Uppsala had been among the best of Fredrika’s life, and yet they felt so far away. Every street, every district held the memory of a particular event that meant something to her. Under normal circumstances she enjoyed walking around the city, but not today. A rage that was fierce enough to cloud her vision held her soul in an iron grip, and she knew it wasn’t about to let go. Her life had turned into a nightmare, and she had no idea how she was going to escape from it.

It was almost six o’clock, and Peder wanted to go home. The working day was over; they would carry on tomorrow.

‘Valter Lund,’ Alex said. ‘He’s coming in tomorrow, not today.’

‘Spencer Lagergren,’ Peder said.

Alex nodded pensively. The discovery of a third body had changed things.

‘Go over to Uppsala tomorrow, and ask if you can question him on our case. Get it out of the way. He doesn’t belong in this investigation, but he might be able to help fill in the background to everything that’s happened. Ask him about the film club, and Thea Aldrin. And our friend Elias Hjort.’

They were sitting alone in the Lions’ Den, finishing off a working day that had brought more twists and turns than they could count.

‘What’s your take on the information Torbjörn Ross gave us?’ Peder asked.

Alex stiffened.

‘I think we need to handle it with extreme care,’ he said slowly.

With a certain amount of hesitation, he told Peder what had happened during the fishing trip, and about their colleague’s clearly unhealthy interest in Thea Aldrin. Peder was horrified.

‘He’s still visiting her? After all these years?’

‘He seems to be obsessed with the idea of finding her son, and holding her responsible for his death.’

‘But if he’s dead, surely the crime is beyond the statute of limitations by now?’

‘Which just makes the whole thing even more peculiar, but apparently that makes no difference to Ross.’

Peder massaged his temples.

The story Torbjörn Ross had told them covered the whole case like a wet blanket. Elias Hjort had acted as the legal representative of the author who wrote Mercury and Asteroid. According to Ross, the books had been turned into a so-called snuff movie, which had been seized by the police during a raid on a strip club. Ross also maintained that it was Thea Aldrin who had written the infamous books; this, he claimed, was a clear indication that she was insane.

As far as Peder was concerned, it made no difference whether Thea Aldrin was insane or not, because that was hardly a crime. Nor was writing tasteless books. And when it came to the film, Peder couldn’t understand what Ross was driving at. Ross and his colleagues had concluded that the film was a fake – not a snuff movie at all, in fact – and as far as Peder could tell, no new information had emerged to change that judgement.

‘There was something about that case,’ Ross had said. ‘Something that was never cleared up at the time.’

Peder felt sure that Alex wouldn’t take any notice of such far-fetched nonsense. However, both Alex and Peder were aware that it was no longer possible to disregard Thea Aldrin in their investigation. The fact that she couldn’t talk was irrelevant. They would have to go and see her, try to communicate with her in some other way. If they could make her understand that their errand was important, then hopefully, she would co-operate.

Alex’s voice interrupted Peder’s thoughts.

‘Tomorrow we’ll start off by interviewing Valter Lund. The press will go mad, but that can’t be helped. We need to find out what was going on there – whether Rebecca and Valter had a relationship.’

Something else occurred to Peder.

‘What about Håkan Nilsson? Have we found him?’

‘No, but it’s only a question of time. Lake Mälaren is large, admittedly, but not large enough for a person to disappear completely.’

What linked a young man fleeing on his boat to a silent woman in a care home and one of Sweden’s most influential industrialists? Peder couldn’t see it; he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might be.

‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I’ll take some of Fredrika’s stuff on Rebecca Trolle’s dissertation with me.’

‘Good idea,’ Alex said. ‘I won’t be far behind you.’

An edge of tiredness in his voice made Peder doubt that. Alex was lonely, rootless. Why go home when he might just as well stay at work?

‘By the way, have we heard anything from forensics on the latest body?’

‘Only that it’s probably a woman,’ Alex replied. ‘Around one metre sixty-five tall. Young. Hadn’t given birth. Difficult to say how long she’d been down there, but around forty years.’

‘How did she die?’

‘The pathologist wasn’t willing to commit himself, but he could see that she had sustained a number of stab wounds. He wasn’t sure if that was the actual cause of death.’

Peder was taken aback.

‘Stab wounds?’

‘Yes, there was evidence of damage to the ribs. And there were also blows to the head. He observed a deep groove in the skull that can’t be explained in any other way.’

The evening sun pouring in through the window fell on Alex’s face, casting shadows over the lines.

‘Are you thinking the same as I am?’ Peder said. ‘The axe and the knife that had been buried?’

‘Yes, that did occur to me.’

‘Perhaps we’ll find out more tomorrow – if they match as murder weapons, I mean.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Alex said.

Peder got up, keen to get home to Ylva and the boys.

‘It looks as if you’ve got something on your mind,’ he said, pausing by the door.

Alex looked worried.

‘Fredrika,’ he said. ‘I’m just hoping she’s not doing something she’ll regret in Uppsala.’

It was several hours before Tova Eriksson came home. Meanwhile, Fredrika sat waiting with Saga on a bench outside her apartment block. Fredrika recognised Tova from the university’s website, which had featured a picture of her.

Tova’s fair hair stood out around her head like a ragged halo. Big blue eyes, well-defined eyebrows. Skin already tanned. Long legs, short skirt, a jacket slung over one arm. She didn’t notice Fredrika until they were standing just a few metres apart, face to face.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Fredrika asked.

The girl shook her head.

‘Sorry, no. I don’t think we’ve met.’

Fredrika took a step closer. She left the buggy by the bench, not wishing to taint her daughter with Tova’s presence.

‘My name is Fredrika Bergman. And I live with Spencer Lagergren.’

Tova’s face changed instantly from open to closed, from relaxed to horrified. She quickly tried to walk around Fredrika, but Fredrika barred her way.

‘Forget it,’ Fredrika said. ‘You’re not going anywhere until you and I have finished talking.’

The sun was in Tova’s eyes, and she blinked.

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

She stuck her nose in the air, trying to look tough.

But Fredrika was tougher; she had considerably more to lose than her reputation.

‘But I have something to say to you,’ she said. ‘You are in the process of destroying Spencer’s life completely. And mine. And his daughter’s. You’re wrecking an entire family, Tova.’

She tried to catch Tova’s eye; she wanted to see her expression change.

‘You have to put a stop to this while you still can.’

It might have been because of the sun, but Tova’s eyes were filled with tears.

‘It’s not my fault if you’re living with a sick bastard. Or that you chose such a monster as the father of your child.’

‘He’s a wonderful partner and a wonderful person,’ Fredrika said, feeling her voice break. ‘I have no doubt that he’s capable of hurting others, but you’re playing with very high stakes, Tova. Tell me what makes you so angry.’

Tova was transformed before Fredrika’s eyes. She became smaller, more pathetic. And it struck Fredrika that she hadn’t thought through her actions. She hoped she hadn’t managed to create even bigger problems for herself.

‘Was he a poor supervisor?’

It was a bit thin, but it was the closest she could get to a reasonable guess. Tova remained silent, refusing to answer Fredrika’s question.

‘Or was it because he didn’t want you? In spite of the fact that you wanted him?’

Fredrika had also experienced the unique embarrassment that follows a rejection; it burned a hole in the soul. She knew that humiliation could lead to insanity, but not in the way that it appeared to have affected Tova.

‘You’re going to regret coming to see me!’

The voice was rough with unshed tears, the eyes shining with concentration.

‘And you’re going to regret trying to destroy my life,’ Fredrika said when Tova had walked away.

She knew those were empty words, however. There was very little that could be done about the situation in which Spencer now found himself. All they could do was pray for a miracle. And an assessment of the so-called evidence that would stand up to the scrutiny of due process.

48

This was the third evening in less than a week, and Alex could no longer deny, to himself or anyone else, that there was something going on here. Nor could he deny his feelings.

Lust. Longing. And sorrow.

Another evening at Diana’s.

It was too early to start a new relationship – less than a year since Lena’s death.

Or was it?

What would the children say? And his superiors? As long as he was working on Rebecca’s murder, it was patently irresponsible to embark on a relationship with her mother.

But he wanted to. And that desire cast immense shadows over his doubts.

She knew exactly how he was feeling, knew exactly why she was sitting alone on the sofa while he sat opposite, with the coffee table between them. He thought she could cope with waiting for him.

‘You still love her,’ Diana said, taking a sip of her wine.

‘I’ll always love her.’

Diana lowered her gaze.

‘That doesn’t mean you couldn’t love another woman. As well as Lena.’

Alex was overwhelmed by her generosity.

‘Perhaps.’

His embarrassment made her smile.

‘How about a late night stroll?’

‘I ought to go home.’

‘It’s only an hour since you had a glass of wine.’

‘I still ought to go home.’

And he smiled.

She got up, came around the table and took his hand.

‘My dear detective inspector, I’m absolutely certain that a breath of fresh air would do us both good.’

There was no point in trying to resist. He wanted nothing more than to stay, he wanted nothing more than to go home. A walk seemed like a good compromise.

They strolled through the area where Diana lived, and she took him on a guided tour of her life. She pointed out the park where her children used to play when they were little, and she wept as they came to a tree Rebecca had loved to climb. The tears stopped, and with a wobbly smile she showed him where the children’s father had lived following their separation.

‘We tried to keep things as civilised as possible,’ she said. ‘We both thought it would be terrible if the children suffered.’

Alex told her about his own family. About his son, who was something of a lost soul, but who seemed to have grown up after his mother’s death. About his daughter, who was now a mother herself, and had made him a grandfather. Diana began to cry again, and Alex apologised.

‘Forgive me; that was a stupid topic of conversation to choose.’

She shook her head.

‘I’m the one who should be apologising. Because I can’t let go. Because I can’t get it out of my head that my little girl was pregnant when she died.’

Alex swallowed; he didn’t really want to discuss Rebecca’s death with Diana. He squeezed her hand.

‘We don’t know our children as well as we would wish. We just don’t.’

He could see that she didn’t agree, but she didn’t say anything. She wiped away her tears once more, and pointed out another landmark.

‘When Rebecca was a baby I used to bring her here in her pram,’ she said, pointing to an overgrown patch of grass between a play area and a large house. ‘It was my little oasis. I would sit on the grass and read while she slept.’

Where had he gone with the children when they were little? Alex had no similar memories. Nor had he needed an oasis; he had always had his work, after all. While Lena took care of everything at home. What the hell had they been thinking? His thoughts turned to his daughter; he hoped she wouldn’t repeat the mistakes her parents had made. Even a man like Spencer Lagergren could see the point of taking paternity leave. The basis for a good relationship with children was laid when they were little, not when they had grown up. You only got one stab at some things, and the childhood of a human being was one of them.

Although, when it came to Spencer Lagergren, Alex had his doubts. His decision to take paternity leave had more to do with running away from his problems than a genuine interest in his daughter. As Alex considered Spencer’s motives for spending time at home, it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from Fredrika since he had called her when she was in Uppsala. A feeling of unease over what she might do in order to sort out her life made him suddenly stiffen.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a friend who’s having a few problems at the moment.’

They set off back towards Diana’s house. Where had all these warm spring evenings come from? The roof formed a black shape against the gathering darkness. The door was a gateway to the unknown. To a place he dare not go. Not yet.

‘Are you staying?’

He wanted to. But he couldn’t.

But he wanted to.

He wanted it more than he had wanted anything for a very long time. The need to refuse was so painful. He struggled to find the right words, but when he opened his mouth, they simply came.

‘I can’t.’

They said good night by his car. She did what she had done last time; she leaned over and kissed his cheek. He opened the door and got in the car. Drove a hundred metres down the street before he changed his mind. Stopped the car and reversed back to her house. Got out of the car and rang her doorbell.

He wanted to. And he could.

There was something deeply moving about seeing small children asleep, thought Peder Rydh as he gazed at his sleeping sons. The peace and security in their faces was all the evidence he needed to tell him he was getting it right. Coming home from work at a reasonable time. Behaving like an adult rather than a panic-stricken teenager. Taking responsibility, showing respect.

Ylva appeared behind him. Slipped her slender arms around his waist and rested her head against his back. He loved feeling her closeness.

They left the children’s room and sat down on the balcony, where Peder’s papers from work were strewn all over the table. Ylva settled down with her novel, and Peder carried on reading an article on Thea Aldrin. Things really had gone crazy. A writer and a dead man. A film club and an amazing career as an author. A dead solicitor and rumours of a dead son.

It’s the film club and the writer that link this whole mess, Peder thought. It’s only because we can’t see how that we keep on trying other avenues.

He thought about Valter Lund, who might have had a relationship with Rebecca Trolle, and about Morgan Axberger, who was Lund’s boss, and also a member of The Guardian Angels. They were intending to bring Lund in for questioning the following day, which made Peder feel slightly better. He tried to imagine what information Rebecca Trolle had stumbled upon that had cost her her life. He leafed through the pages relating to her dissertation, asking himself whether the key to this wretched case might be there.

How had the person who killed her found out what she knew?

Peder read through Fredrika’s notes. Unlike all the other minor figures in the investigation, Håkan Nilsson had no connection with either Thea Aldrin or any members of the film club. His only connection was with Rebecca and the child she had been expecting. If Håkan was the killer, then the dissertation was totally irrelevant.

Peder looked at a picture of Håkan Nilsson and asked himself how they were going to get him to talk. How could they get through to him, make him understand that they had his best interests at heart? The fact that Rebecca had not been alone in her grave was actually all the proof they needed that Håkan was innocent, because Håkan couldn’t possibly have murdered Elias Hjort as well.

And there has to be a connection.

Torbjörn Ross claimed that the police had been looking for Elias Hjort because of a film that might have been based on books that might have been written by Thea Aldrin. Books for which Elias Hjort had received royalties. But the film was of little value unless it was genuine, unless it was a recording of an actual murder. A snuff movie. Peder didn’t know much about that kind of film, but as far as he knew, the genuine article had never been found. His colleagues with the National CID would probably know more about that kind of thing; he would check with them tomorrow.

The telephone rang and Ylva went indoors to answer it. She sounded agitated; she seemed to be walking towards him.

‘Peder,’ she said.

He turned to face her; he would never forget how she looked that evening. The telephone in her hand, her face pale, eyes wide open.

‘Apparently, Jimmy has gone missing.’

INTERVIEW WITH ALEX RECHT, 03-05-2009, 15.00 (tape recording)

Present: Urban S, Roger M (interrogators one and two). Alex Recht (witness).

Urban: So, another body.

Alex: Yes.

Roger: That must have been depressing.

Alex: No, actually. I felt as if that last discovery somehow made things easier.

Roger: Interesting. Could you explain that in a little more detail?

Alex: It was just a feeling I had.

Urban: Elias Hjort. The solicitor with the gold watch. What was your next move with regard to him?

Alex: Through Peder’s work, we were able to link him to the film club. At that stage, we began to sense how everything hung together, but…

(Silence.)

Alex:… we were a long way from the truth.

Roger: And Fredrika Bergman?

Alex: Yes?

Roger: What happened with her partner, Spencer Lagergren?

Alex: We decided we needed to question him, but by that time the Uppsala police had already picked him up.

Urban: And how did you deal with the fact that she had withheld important information from the rest of the team?

Alex: I discussed the matter with her and concluded that her actions had had no impact on the investigation.

Urban: No impact? How the hell do you work that out? She withheld crucial information!

Alex: That information was insignificant. We were able to eliminate Lagergren from our inquiries.

Roger: But you couldn’t possibly have known that from the beginning, could you? And what about Peder’s brother? Had he been reported missing at that stage?

Alex: It all happened at the same time. There was absolute bloody chaos. Jimmy had called Peder earlier and told him that he’d seen someone peering in through the window of the building opposite.

Roger: And how did Peder react to that?

Alex: He didn’t. Jimmy is… I mean, he was just the way he was. He had certain difficulties. When he said someone was standing in the flowerbed spying on one of the neighbours, Peder didn’t take it seriously.

Urban: Until you realised who the neighbour was.

(Silence.)

Roger: Was Peder still adopting a balanced approach at this stage?

Alex: He remained calm and professional throughout the entire investigation.

Urban: Except at the end. I mean, that’s why we’re sitting here now.

Alex: Like hell we are. We’re sitting here because you haven’t got enough to do, so you go after decent coppers.