The Disappeared aka Guardian Angels

7

As usual, morning coffee was served in a blue mug with her name on it. She couldn’t decide whether she found it childish or humiliating, or both. The nurse padded discreetly around her, setting out bread, butter and marmalade. A soft-boiled egg, a plain yoghurt. The nurse was new; she stuck out like a sore thumb. The new ones were always so stressed around Thea; sometimes, she would hear them whispering in the tiny kitchen area.

‘They say she hasn’t said a single word for nearly thirty years. She must be completely barking.’

As time went by it had become increasingly easy to ignore that kind of talk. It wasn’t the young people’s fault that they didn’t understand. They had no mechanism for understanding Thea’s story, nor were they under any obligation to do so. Thea wasn’t so old that she had forgotten her own youth. The years preceding those that she had decided to kill with silence had largely been good. She recalled her teens, so full of happiness that it hurt to think about it. She could remember falling in love for the first time, the first book she wrote, and the way her heart leapt when the press praised her children’s books to the skies, predicting the most astonishing success. Everything had been smashed to pieces and taken away from her. She had nothing left.

The new nurse bustled around behind her back, stopping to look at the vase of flowers. An auxiliary came in and started changing the sheets on Thea’s bed. Unpleasant, Thea thought. It could easily have waited until she’d finished breakfast.

‘What lovely flowers,’ said the nurse.

Not to Thea, but to the auxiliary.

‘She gets a fresh bouquet every week.’

‘Who from?’

‘We don’t know. They’re delivered by someone from the florist’s; we usually hand them over and she arranges them herself.’

Thea contemplated the nurse’s back view, knowing that she was reading the card that accompanied the flowers.

‘It says “Thanks”,’ Thea heard her say. ‘Thanks for what?’

‘No idea,’ the auxiliary replied. ‘There are so many odd things about all this that…’

She broke off when she realised that Thea was watching them. They never seemed to grasp the fact that her hearing was excellent. They assumed she was an idiot, just because she had chosen not to speak.

The auxiliary moved closer to the nurse and lowered her voice.

‘We don’t know how much she grasps of what’s going on around her,’ she said. ‘But sometimes I think she’s listening. I mean, she’s fully mobile. There’s nothing to indicate that she doesn’t understand what we say.’

Thea almost burst out laughing. The yoghurt tasted disgusting, and the bread was dry. She ate it anyway. There was no more conversation between the nurse and the auxiliary, and after a little while she was left alone. When the door closed behind them, Thea felt nothing but relief.

She got up from the table and switched on the television. She gripped the remote firmly and went back to her seat. The stroke she had suffered a few years earlier had caused enough long-term damage to prevent her from living alone, but on the whole she coped relatively well with everyday life. She would go mad if the staff interfered with her life any more than they already did.

The morning news had just started.

‘The police confirmed yesterday that the body found in Midsommarkransen was that of Rebecca Trolle, a young student who went missing one evening almost two years ago. They have not released any further details, and have stated that they do not have a particular suspect in mind at this stage.’

Thea stared blankly at the television. She had followed every single news broadcast since she heard that it was Rebecca Trolle’s body that had been found. Her heart was beating slightly faster. Now it would begin, she was certain of that. She had been waiting for the conclusion for almost thirty years, and now it was coming.

8

Alex Recht walked up to the crater and stared down into the damp earth. The men standing at the edge of the excavated area were surrounded by trees. Peder moved closer, leaning forward to get a better view.

‘How did you find him?’ Alex asked.

‘We dug around the area where Rebecca Trolle was buried, and we found a man’s shoe that looked as if it had been lying in the ground for a long time. We expanded the search area and dug deeper, and there he was.’

The man who had answered Alex’s question pointed out exactly where the second body had been found.

‘How long had he been there?’

‘The pathologist said he couldn’t be sure until the body was brought in, but probably several decades.’

Alex breathed in the fresh air; in spite of everything, it was good to see the rays of the sun caressing the trees and the ground, still wet with dew. Spring was his favourite time of year, and he was definitely a morning person. It was still only seven o’clock, and he was pleased that Peder had been able to join him at such an early hour.

‘How can you be sure it’s a man?’ Peder asked.

‘The height,’ replied a female officer who had been involved in investigating the scene. ‘The pathologist estimated that the deceased was over six feet; not many women are that tall.’

‘That should make the identification easier,’ Peder said. ‘If we can get an idea of how long the body has been in the ground, and an approximate height and age, we ought to be able to match the profile with people who disappeared around that time.’

Alex crouched down, studying both graves.

‘There’s not a cat in hell’s chance that this was a coincidence.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘The fact that Rebecca was buried in this particular spot.’

Alex squinted into the sun.

‘The person or persons who buried Rebecca here had buried someone else here in the past.’

‘Although he or she must have felt safer last time,’ said the female officer.

‘In what way?’

‘The man we found last night still had his head and hands.’

Alex thought for a moment.

‘The perpetrator was younger the first time,’ he said. ‘Which means he might well have been both naive and careless.’

Peder zipped up his jacket as if he had suddenly realised he was cold.

‘How do we know it was the first time?’ he asked.

Fredrika Bergman had just got up when Alex called to tell her that he and Peder were on their way to the place where Rebecca Trolle had been found, and that a second body had been discovered the previous night.

‘See you at HQ,’ Alex said.

Fredrika hurried into the kitchen for breakfast.

Spencer was sitting at the table reading the paper. She kissed his forehead and stroked his cheek. She poured herself a cup of coffee and cut two slices of bread. She gazed at the love of her life in silence.

Talk to me, Spencer. I’ve known you for over ten years; I know what you look like when you’re unhappy.

He didn’t say a word, refusing to let her in.

‘What are you two going to do today?’ Fredrika asked.

‘I don’t know; I expect we’ll go for a walk.’

Spencer put down the newspaper.

‘I could do with going to Uppsala this afternoon, and I’d prefer to go without Saga.’

‘That’s fine,’ Fredrika said, even though she suspected it could be a long day at work. ‘I’ll come home when you need to go.’

She took a bite of her sandwich, chewed and swallowed. Her friends had taken the news that she had gone back to work much better than she had expected. Several of them had even hinted that it wasn’t a complete surprise.

‘Are you going to the department?’ she asked Spencer.

‘Yes, to a meeting.’

A meeting. No more, no less. When had they started talking in half-sentences? Fredrika thought about Alex, about the previous winter when his wife had found out she was ill and hadn’t told him. Suddenly she went cold.

‘Spencer, you’re not ill, are you?’

He looked at her in surprise. Grey eyes, like stones shot through with more shades than she could count.

‘Why would I be ill?’

‘I can tell there’s something wrong. Something more than an argument at work.’

Spencer shook his head.

‘It’s nothing, believe me. The only thing I might have left out is…’

He hesitated, and she waited.

‘Apparently, one of my students wasn’t happy with her supervision last autumn.’

‘For goodness’ sake, you were still off sick most of the time!’

‘That was the problem,’ Spencer said. ‘I had to share the supervision with a graduate tutor who had only just started in the department, and it wasn’t a popular move.’

Fredrika could feel the relief flooding through her body.

‘I thought you were dying or something!’

Spencer gave her the crooked smile that always made her melt.

‘I wouldn’t leave you now we’re living together at long last.’

Fredrika leaned forward to kiss him, but was interrupted by the unmistakable sound of Saga waking up in the room next door. She followed Spencer with her eyes as he limped out of the kitchen.

‘Now what?’ said Peder when they were back at HQ.

‘We wait for more precise details from the forensic pathologist, and we continue to pursue the investigation into the murder of Rebecca Trolle,’ Alex replied. ‘I spoke to the pathologist on the phone; he thinks the man has been lying there for at least twenty-five years, possibly more.’

‘A serial killer?’

‘Who kills at random? Such disparate victims, three decades apart?’ Alex shook his head grimly. ‘I don’t think so. Besides which, serial killers are few and far between. This is something different.’

He cursed his own shortcomings, even though he knew it was pointless. At the time of Rebecca’s disappearance there had been nothing whatsoever to indicate that she might have been one of several victims; the investigation had been based on the premise that this was an isolated incident. Were there more victims? Alex wondered. He hadn’t hesitated to order the complete excavation of the site where the bodies had been found, expanding the parameters of the search area. It would take several days to complete the task, but if there were more bodies in the ground, Alex wanted them found.

‘If we think the same person killed Rebecca and the man we found yesterday, then it can hardly have been Håkan Nilsson,’ Peder said. ‘He wasn’t even born when the man was murdered.’

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Alex said. ‘But we know too little about all this to eliminate him completely. He might have a connection with the first killer that we’re unaware of. I want to run a DNA check on him and compare it with Rebecca’s unborn child, if that’s possible. If he’s the father, we’ve got enough to bring him in.’

‘What if he refuses to co-operate?’

‘If he refuses to supply us with a DNA sample voluntarily, then we’ll go to the prosecutor. We know that Rebecca was pregnant, and that she’d expressed concern about the fact that the father would want to keep the child, even though she was keen to have a termination. We also know that Rebecca and Håkan had slept together, and that Håkan would have wanted to keep the child if she had got pregnant. That’s enough. More than enough. Even though I have to admit that I don’t really see Håkan as our killer.’

‘Any other leads?’

‘In the light of the fact that we’ve found another body, the rumours about Rebecca selling sex over the Internet have become more interesting than her pregnancy. See what you can find out; there might be more history to it; the older body might fit in somehow.’

Peder glanced at his notebook.

‘There’s the ex-girlfriend too,’ he said.’

‘I thought Fredrika could take care of her when she comes in.’

At that moment Fredrika appeared in the doorway.

‘Who am I taking care of?’

‘Rebecca Trolle’s ex-girlfriend, Daniella. Good morning, by the way.’

‘Good morning.’

Fredrika was fiddling with a pale blue scarf draped over the shoulders of her jacket.

‘We need to go through her things as well.’

Alex looked unsure.

‘Why? We already have copies of everything that was considered interesting when we went through the material two years ago.’

Fredrika frowned.

‘It struck me yesterday that it looks as if a significant amount was weeded out. For example, I can’t find any information about text books, or copies of her notes.’

‘Why would you want those?’ Peder asked.

‘She was a student when she went missing. That means she spent a large proportion of her waking hours studying, attending lectures, hanging out with friends. According to Alex, she was in the middle of writing her dissertation when she died. I can’t find any indication of what her topic was.’

Alex ran a hand through his hair, choosing his words with care.

‘As I said yesterday, we spoke to her supervisor. He told us about the topic, but to be honest we didn’t think it was relevant. I think she was writing about a children’s author: Thea Aldrin, if you remember her.’

He shrugged.

‘The topic itself didn’t suggest any exciting theories, so we left it at that.’

‘Do you mind if I take another look?’ Fredrika asked. ‘Thea Aldrin was a controversial figure, to say the least.’

Alex suppressed a sigh. How many times had he had a similar conversation with Fredrika?

‘If you have time,’ he said. ‘I want you to talk to the ex-girlfriend first; you can look at the other stuff tomorrow.’

Fredrika went back to her office; Peder stayed with Alex.

‘I’ll start with Håkan’s DNA sample, then I’ll look into the sex rumours.’

‘Good,’ said Alex. ‘I hope we hear from the pathologist pretty bloody quickly; I want an ID for the second victim as soon as possible.’

Håkan Nilsson was very annoyed when Peder rang his doorbell, accompanied by a colleague. Peder introduced his fellow officer and explained why they were there.

‘Why do you want my DNA?’ Håkan asked.

‘Rebecca was pregnant when she died, and we want to establish who the father was.’

The colour drained from Håkan’s face.

‘Pregnant? You didn’t mention that yesterday.’

His voice was weak, his eyes open wide.

‘Didn’t you know?’

Peder’s tone was harsher than it had been the previous day.

‘No.’

It was difficult to know whether he was telling the truth.

‘Do you think I did it?’

Håkan was trying to look tough, but the uncertainty shone on his face like newly polished shoes.

‘We don’t think anything,’ Peder replied. ‘And we want to keep it that way as far as you’re concerned. That’s why we want to run a DNA check, so that we can eliminate you from our inquiries.’

‘I’ve got to go to work – can I come in later?’

‘No, we’d like you to come now. Make a phone call and tell them you’ll be late for work.’

He tilted his head to one side and added in a gentler tone of voice: ‘Tell them you’re helping the police with their inquiries. That usually impresses an employer.’

Håkan gave him a long look, then went to fetch his keys and wallet.

‘It doesn’t matter whether I’m the child’s father or not,’ he said. ‘You’ve already checked my alibi, and you know I couldn’t have done it.’

‘If I remember rightly, you were at a big party the night Rebecca disappeared. Would anyone have noticed if you’d slipped away for a couple of hours?’

When Håkan didn’t reply, Peder looked more closely at him. He looked upset. Hurt.

‘It wasn’t a party,’ he said. ‘It was more of a dinner for the mentoring network. It was an all day event. Rebecca was supposed to be there too, but she didn’t turn up.’

Peder frowned.

‘Had you fallen out? Was that why she didn’t come?’

‘I answered those questions yesterday.’

Håkan grabbed his jacket.

‘You think this is all about me,’ he snapped. ‘You’ll be embarrassed when you find out how wrong you are.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ said Peder.

Fredrika was accompanied by a new colleague when she went to see Rebecca’s ex-girlfriend – DC Cecilia Torsson was driving, with Fredrika in the passenger seat.

‘You’ve just come back to work, haven’t you?’ Cecilia asked.

‘Yesterday,’ Fredrika replied.

They were covering the short distance between HQ and Tegnérlunden, where Rebecca’s ex-girlfriend rented an apartment. The city looked beautiful beneath a clear blue sky; Stockholm at its very best.

‘Are you the one who’s had a baby by a married man?’

Fredrika stiffened. What kind of a question was that, for God’s sake?

‘No,’ she replied. ‘And if you have any more questions about my private life, I suggest you keep them to yourself.’

‘Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I had no idea it was such a sensitive issue.’

Silenced descended inside the car. Fredrika breathed deeply to stop herself from boiling over. Obviously, she realised that her private life aroused a certain amount of curiosity, but surely people could be tactful? She would have been. At least she thought she would.

‘This is where she lives.’

Cecilia pulled up by the kerb.

‘We can’t park here,’ Fredrika said, pointing to a sign.

Cecilia stuck a note on the windscreen to indicate that this was a police vehicle.

‘We can now.’

That wasn’t true, but Fredrika couldn’t face making herself even more unpopular than she already was. The note could be used only when officers were involved in an operation, which was hardly the case at the moment.

Daniella lived on the second floor, and there was no lift. Fredrika had checked up on her before leaving the station. Rebecca’s ex had a colourful past. While she was still at secondary school she had spent time in both child and youth psychiatric units on a number of occasions. She also had a criminal record and had been a suspect in other cases, but these involved only minor offences such as theft and vandalism. After leaving school, she had spent a term at college, and since then she had either been working or signed off due to ill health.

Rebecca and Daniella had got together when Rebecca returned from studying in France. Fredrika found it difficult to imagine what the two girls would have had in common, apart from the desire to experiment. Rebecca was a sensible girl who lived a structured life and had clear-cut ambitions – at least on paper. Although that might have been the problem, of course. When structure and ambition become too suffocating, a desire to push the boundaries often grows stronger.

Cecilia rang the doorbell.

No reply. She tried again. They heard the sound of running feet from inside the apartment, heavy footsteps heading for the hallway. The latch clicked and the door opened.

‘Daniella?’

Fredrika edged in front of Cecilia and showed her ID.

‘Police – we’d like to speak to you.’

Daniella backed away from the door and Fredrika and Cecilia stepped inside.

‘Coffee?’

They both refused. ‘We won’t keep you for long,’ Cecilia said.

‘That doesn’t mean you can’t have a cup of coffee, does it?’

Daniella led the way into the kitchen, where she flopped down on one of the mismatched chairs. The apartment was sparsely furnished; it was obviously a sublet. The bare walls were covered in photographs, all showing the same person: a young boy staring into the camera with a defiant expression.

‘Who’s this?’ Fredrika asked, pointing to one of the photos.

‘My brother.’

‘It looks as if you’re the same age.’

‘Wrong. He was ten years older than me. He’s dead.’

Fredrika sat down at the table, well aware of Cecilia’s triumphant expression as she gloated over Fredrika’s faux pas.

‘I’m very sorry,’ she said quietly.

‘Me too.’

Daniella didn’t look the way Fredrika had expected. She was more powerfully built, bordering on fat. Her hair was spiky and as black as coal, contrasting sharply with the pale eyes.

‘I presume this is about Rebecca?’

‘Yes, we’ve found her.’

‘I saw it on TV.’

‘Are you glad she’s been found?’ Cecilia asked.

Daniella shrugged indifferently.

‘I didn’t care at the time and I don’t care now. She was a complete fucking bitch.’

The language was far removed from anything Fredrika would normally use.

‘Why do you say that?’

‘She was just playing with me, making me think what we had was real.’

‘When was this?’

‘A few years ago, when she got back from France.’

A few years ago. And she was still a fucking bitch.

‘You must have really loved her,’ Cecilia said gently.

Instead of replying, Daniella got up to fetch a glass of water. This time she didn’t bother asking them if they wanted a drink.

‘How did it end?’ Fredrika asked.

‘She rang and told me it was over.’

‘That’s low, not telling you face to face,’ Cecilia said.

‘Too bloody right,’ Daniella agreed. ‘And then she came back.’

‘You got back together?’

‘Not properly, just the odd snog. She was at the university – she was too good for me. I think she was ashamed of me.’

Fredrika looked at a photograph on top of the fridge: Daniella’s brother again. He was everywhere.

‘When did you break off contact?’

Daniella shuffled uncomfortably.

‘We didn’t. I didn’t want to let go completely, if you know what I mean.’

‘Not really.’

‘If you like a person, you want to keep in touch. You don’t want them to disappear.’

Like your brother did.

‘And what did Rebecca think about that? Did she call you sometimes, or was it always you who called her?’

‘It was mostly me. She was always so fucking busy. Swimming lessons for babies and the church choir and God knows what. And then there was bloody Håkan as well.’

Fredrika straightened up.

‘Håkan?’

‘He kept on poking his nose in, saying I shouldn’t ring Rebecca. He was off his head – he couldn’t see that she didn’t want him to ring her either.’

‘Did Rebecca regard Håkan as a problem?’

Daniella gave a short, barking laugh.

‘He followed her around like a puppy. He seemed to think they were best friends, or something.’

‘But they weren’t?’

‘No fucking chance. In the end she couldn’t stand him.’

And could she stand you? Fredrika wondered.

‘When did you last speak to Rebecca?’ Cecilia asked.

‘The day before she went missing; I rang her, but she didn’t have time to chat. She was on her way to see that toffee-nosed mentor of hers. She was supposed to call me later, but she never did.’

Fredrika noted the mention of Rebecca’s mentor; it had come up several times, and she still didn’t know what it meant.

‘One last question,’ she said. ‘Do you know whether Rebecca was involved in internet dating?’

‘Everybody knew that.’

‘OK, but do you remember hearing her talk about it?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘We’ve heard rumours that she was selling sex on the internet; do you know anything about that?’

Daniella’s cheeks were burning as she looked at Fredrika.

‘No.’

Her voice was subdued, almost a whisper.

‘Daniella, it’s extremely important that you don’t keep any information from us at this stage,’ Cecilia said.

Daniella cleared her throat and looked Cecilia in the eye.

‘I’m not keeping anything from you, because I don’t know anything. OK?’

Fredrika and Cecilia glanced at one another and reached a mutual decision to bring the interview to an end.

‘She’s lying,’ Cecilia said as they were getting in the car.

‘You’re right,’ Fredrika said. ‘The question is why? And what about?’

9

Alex was trying to persuade the pathologist to work faster. He was keen to get on, to move a step closer to a definite identification of the second body discovered in the forest.

‘I’m doing the best I can,’ said the pathologist. ‘I can’t work any faster when the body is this old.’

Alex was ashamed of himself, but thanked his lucky stars that they had known each other for such a long time. Their relationship was purely professional; over the years any personal exchanges had been few and far between. If the pathologist knew that Alex had been widowed, then it was because someone else had told him. Alex himself had never mentioned it.

It’s not because I’ve forgotten you, Lena.

He gathered the team in their temporary meeting room. Fredrika was still there.

‘What hours are you actually working? I thought you were supposed to be doing seventy-five per cent?’

He was trying to sound caring rather than annoyed.

‘I’m working approximately seventy-five per cent,’ Fredrika replied. ‘I was actually supposed to be somewhere else after lunch, but it all sorted itself out.’

An evasive tone, indicating that her working arrangements were negotiable. Alex didn’t know what to think. Apparently, the child’s father was about the same age as Alex; he wondered how that was possible. He certainly wouldn’t want to start all over again with a baby. Dirty nappies and sleepless nights, snotty noses and potty training. The thought made him feel a little sad. He hadn’t taken paternity leave, and to be honest he hadn’t actually wiped very many snotty noses. For a long time he had convinced himself that he wasn’t missing anything, that he could make up for it with the children later on.

Few lies in the history of the world have become more prevalent than the idea that you can somehow compensate at a later stage for not spending time with your children when they are little. When Alex was faced with the horrendous task of burying his wife, the mother of his children, it was very clear which parent was closest to those children. His son had come back from South America during the summer and stayed until it was all over. In every gesture he made, every word he said, Alex recognised Lena. He couldn’t see himself anywhere at all.

‘The pathologist is hoping to get back to us with further information tomorrow,’ he said, ‘but we shouldn’t get our hopes up. The second body has been in the ground for a long time, and key evidence is no longer available.’

He got up and began to write on the whiteboard at one end of the room.

‘As far as Rebecca Trolle is concerned, this is what we know. She went missing on her way to a party. She was seen on a bus heading in the opposite direction from the party; we don’t know why she was on the bus. She was expecting a child she didn’t want, and might well have been afraid that the child’s father would want to keep it. At the time of her disappearance she wasn’t in a steady relationship, as far as we are aware, but we do know that she had had sexual intercourse with a friend, Håkan Nilsson, whom she has referred to as a nuisance when speaking to other friends. And Håkan would have loved to be a father.’

Alex fell silent.

‘We also know that after her disappearance there were rumours that she had been selling sex on the Internet, but we seem to have hit a brick wall there,’ Peder said. ‘No one can give us the name of the website where she was allegedly active, and no one can tell us exactly how long she was supposed to have been doing this. Nor can anyone remember when the rumour started, or where it came from.’

‘What happened with Diana Trolle’s friend?’ Alex asked. ‘Did you speak to her and her daughter?’

‘I’m seeing them in an hour.’

‘This sounds like nonsense to me,’ Fredrika said. ‘We have nothing that would explain why Rebecca would do such a thing. Selling your body isn’t exactly something you do because it’s fun – you do it because you have to, or because you’re sick and you don’t know any better.’

‘I agree,’ Alex said. ‘Let’s see where we are after Peder has spoken to Diana’s friend and her daughter.’

He stepped back and looked at his notes.

‘Håkan Nilsson is still the most interesting character. Unless the DNA test shows that someone else was the child’s father; if that’s the case, we need to prioritise the search for the secret boyfriend.’

‘Håkan could still be of interest, even if he isn’t the father,’ Fredrika said. ‘That might even make him more interesting. He was obviously keener on Rebecca than she was on him. He might have found out she was pregnant and confronted her, gone crazy with jealousy.’

‘And killed her,’ Peder chipped in.

Alex looked at him.

‘Not just killed her,’ he said. ‘Dismembered her body as well.’

He left his words hanging in the air.

‘It could have happened,’ Peder said. ‘He’s an odd bugger. Unpleasant.’

‘I’m not saying you’re wrong,’ Alex said. ‘What I’m saying is the fact that her body was desecrated in that way tells us something important about the murderer. He must have had the time and the opportunity to dismember the body, then to transport the sacks to the place where she was buried.’

‘Can we tell whether he knew what he was doing when he cut up the body?’ Fredrika asked.

Alex paused for a moment before replying.

‘I received some information on that point just before the meeting. According to the pathologist, the body was dismembered using a chainsaw, which definitely does not indicate that the murderer knew what he was doing.’

No one said a word. Alex allowed them time to digest what they had just heard.

‘The use of a chainsaw proves that the murderer must have had access to a remote and probably isolated venue which belonged to him. You can’t go into a friend’s garage and start chopping up a body with a chainsaw; it would be too messy and too difficult to clean up.’

‘What does this mean in terms of the killer’s profile?’ Fredrika asked. ‘Using such extreme violence… it’s sick. This has to be personal. The murderer seems to have wanted to debase Rebecca, even after her death.’

Alex nodded.

‘Which is why we have to be careful. Under no circumstances must this information be leaked to the media. For one thing, the attention would create problems for us, and for another it would be difficult to question suspects. No one would dare to speak to us.’

He looked worried; he turned to Fredrika.

‘What about Daniella, the ex-girlfriend; can we eliminate her from our inquiries?’

Fredrika considered her response.

‘Not entirely. She reacted oddly when we mentioned the rumours about Rebecca selling sex on the internet. I got the feeling that she was lying, or keeping something from us.’

‘OK, we’ll keep her on the books for now. Do you think she could have been the source of the rumour?’

‘I don’t know. It did cross my mind.’

Fredrika decided to carry on talking while she had the opportunity.

‘That party Rebecca didn’t turn up at, the mentors’ party – what’s that all about?’

‘Rebecca was part of a so-called mentoring programme,’ Alex explained. ‘To put it briefly, the students who were selected for the programme were given a personal mentor, who would provide advice and regular contact. The mentors were a wide range of different people: high flyers in industry, priests, authors, a couple of politicians.’

‘Who was Rebecca’s mentor?’

‘Let me think… Valter Lund.’

Fredrika was surprised.

‘Valter Lund? The boss of Axbergers?’

‘Exactly.’

‘But why was he her mentor if she was studying the history of literature? Did they just allocate these mentors in a completely random way?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ Alex said. ‘I remember we spoke to him, but we were able to eliminate him more or less straight away.’

Peder spoke up.

‘I went through Rebecca’s diary this morning. It was bloody hard to make out.’

Alex nodded, looking less than happy.

‘Thanks for the reminder, Peder.’

‘What do you mean, hard to make out?’ Fredrika asked.

‘She had her own system for noting things down,’ Alex said. ‘For example, she never wrote the name of the person she’d arranged to see, just the initials. We managed to identify most of them, but we had to give up on some. We made a list of everyone who appeared in her diary in the months leading up to her disappearance.’

‘Two weeks before she went missing she met a “TA”,’ Peder said. ‘Who was that?’

Alex frowned, trying to remember.

‘I think it was something to do with her dissertation. Completely irrelevant.’

‘And who was she seeing on the day she disappeared?’ Fredrika asked.

‘Nobody at all. We mapped out her final days as best we could with the help of the diary, but we didn’t find anything earth-shattering.’

‘Could I have a copy?’

‘You can have mine,’ Peder offered. ‘I don’t need it at the moment.’

Fredrika looked pleased, and started gathering her things together.

Alex felt a sudden pang in his chest. Of course she was going home; she had a family to think of. He thought back to dinner with his daughter the previous evening. He was a grandfather now; earlier than he had expected, perhaps, but it felt good.

But Lena never knew what it was like to be a grandmother.

‘See you tomorrow,’ he said to Fredrika.

The rest of them stayed on for a while, talking over a number of points. The officers who had been brought in to supplement the team had remained silent during the early part of the meeting, but now felt able to air their views and ideas. Alex caught himself not listening. Instead, he was thinking of Diana Trolle, whose daughter’s body had been dismembered using a chainsaw. He would solve this case if it was the last thing he did.

10

The meeting took place in Erland Malm’s office, the room Spencer Lagergren had visited just a few days earlier. Apart from Spencer and Erland, there was a representative from the student body and a member of the university board. Spencer had naively assumed that the meeting would put a stop to his miserable plight, and was looking forward to informing his employer that he had no intention of returning to work at present, but wished to remain on paternity leave. Fredrika had been unable to come home and look after Saga this afternoon as she had promised, so Spencer had brought the child with him to the meeting.

He hated lying to Fredrika. To be fair, he wasn’t exactly lying, but he was deliberately withholding information which he really should have passed on to her. He couldn’t bring himself to tell her what had happened, besides which he assumed the matter would soon be resolved.

He immediately realised that he had made a series of errors. Bringing Saga with him didn’t look good; she lay there asleep in her buggy, the very personification of his sinful life. Nor did the meeting appear to have the aim of putting an end to a regrettable misunderstanding. Spencer very quickly became aware that in fact the opposite was true.

‘Spencer, we have conducted a significant number of lengthy interviews on the situation with which we are faced,’ Erland Malm began. ‘And believe me, it hasn’t been an easy exercise.’

He paused and looked at Spencer as if to check that he was really listening. Which he was.

‘Tova’s accusations are so serious that we feel we have no alternative but to take the matter further, so that any uncertainty can be removed once and for all.’

Erland appealed silently to his colleagues, hoping that someone else would feel able to carry on. No one spoke.

‘What uncertainty?’ said Spencer.

‘I’m sorry?

‘You said you wanted to remove any uncertainty, but I don’t understand what you mean.’

Erland pursed his lips and glanced at the woman representing the university board, who took over: ‘When a student comes forward to report the kind of experiences Tova has outlined, it is our duty to take that person seriously,’ she said. ‘Otherwise, our reputation would be damaged, and student confidence in us would be eroded. The matter has been raised within the student body, and we are under considerable pressure to act.’

‘For God’s sake,’ Spencer said. ‘I’ve said it’s all nonsense. You’ve spoke to Malin, who was also Tova’s supervisor. She can confirm that Tova is lying.’

‘Unfortunately, that is not the case,’ Erland said. ‘Malin doesn’t know what happened when you were alone with Tova. In addition, other points have emerged which we must now take into account.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like your emails to Tova, for example.’

Spencer blinked.

‘Emails?’

Erland removed a sheet of paper from a plastic folder and pushed it across to Spencer, who read through it with mounting astonishment.

‘What the hell…?’

The woman from the board agreed.

‘That’s exactly what I said. What the hell has got into Professor Lagergren? You just can’t take liberties like that!’

Spencer looked in disbelief at the printed messages.

‘I didn’t send these,’ he said, pushing the sheet of paper away. ‘For a start, I don’t communicate with my students by email, and secondly I would never express myself in that way.’

‘They come from your email account, Spencer.’

‘Bloody hell, anybody could have sneaked into my office and sent them! This isn’t the CIA; my computer is open for anyone to use if I forget to lock my door when I leave!’

‘Let’s just calm down,’ Erland said in a desperate attempt to assert his authority. ‘You have to understand that we cannot simply assume that someone else sent these messages. And given the gravity of the content and the concrete nature of the accusations, we have decided to advise Tova to make a formal complaint to the police.’

Spencer felt the colour drain from his face.

He looked at the messages again. Three of them.

‘Tova, it’s unfortunate that you have chosen not to accede to my demands. Sadly, it looks as if your dissertation will suffer if you do not do what I have asked you to do. Come up to my office after 7 p.m. tomorrow and I’m sure we can reach an agreement. Spencer.’

In spite of himself, he laughed out loud.

‘This is absolutely ridiculous. I’ve never seen these messages, and I certainly didn’t write them. I…’

He broke off.

‘Let’s go to my office and check my messages,’ he said. ‘If they really did come from my computer, they should be in the “Sent” folder.’

‘And if they’re not?’ said the board member. ‘That could simply mean that you’ve deleted them.’

Spencer was already on his way out of the room, heading towards his own office down the corridor. The rest of the group followed hesitantly. Spencer was limping, because he had left Saga behind in her buggy; without a stick or the buggy to lean on, his leg ached more than usual.

It took a couple of minutes to log in, but it was long enough for him to start feeling extremely nervous. He used email far too infrequently to bother organising his folders. The messages someone else had sent could easily be sitting there in the ‘Sent’ folder waiting to be discovered, he realised as he clicked through the menus with a trembling hand.

But they weren’t there. There wasn’t a trace of the messages that had been sent to Tova, and nor were they in the ‘Trash’ folder.

‘This doesn’t prove anything,’ Erland said.

Spencer swallowed hard.

‘What do you actually want? What can I do to get out of this mess?’

‘Prove that none of this ever happened,’ Erland said. ‘But to be honest, I think that’s going to be very difficult.’

Once, when Peder was a child, a classmate had started a rumour about him.

‘Peder sucks up to Miss, that’s why she always gives him a gold star for his Maths tests.’

It made no difference that Peder could show he had got all the answers right in the tests; the other children still chose to believe the boy who said the stars were a result of Peder sucking up to the teacher. That was the first time Peder realised how soul-destroying the battle against a rumour can be. It is impossible to shake off certain things; they acquire a life of their own and cannot be suppressed.

The suggestion that Rebecca Trolle had been selling sex over the Internet seemed to be just such a rumour. All her friends had heard it, but none of them knew where the information had come from. And when the police started asking questions, they became evasive. No one wanted to be held responsible for passing on the gossip, no one was prepared to admit that he or she had started it.

The interesting thing was that the rumour had begun after Rebecca’s disappearance. As if it were an answer to the question why. Why did she disappear? Because she was selling sex over the internet, and one of her clients killed her.

Peder met Diana Trolle’s friend and the friend’s daughter in reception.

‘We’d like to speak to you separately,’ he explained.

Diana’s friend went off with another officer while Peder took the daughter, Elin. She looked scared when he opened the door of one of the bright interview rooms; she hesitated, and for a moment he thought he might have to chase her along the corridors of HQ.

‘Please sit down.’

They sat down on opposite sides of the table. He considered how best to tackle the conversation. On the one hand, he would quite like to give the girl a good shake, pin her up against the wall and ask her how the hell she could say such a stupid thing about a dead classmate. On the other hand, he didn’t really think this would achieve the desired effect. Elin looked as if she was on the verge of tears, more like a fourteen-year-old girl than a woman of twenty-five.

‘It wasn’t me,’ she said before Peder had even opened his mouth.

‘What do you mean?’

‘It wasn’t me that made up all that stuff.’

‘OK. So who was it, in that case?’

‘I don’t know.’

Peder tried to shuffle down in his seat, to look more relaxed.

‘So when did this rumour actually start?’

‘After she went missing, I think. My friends and I hadn’t heard it before.’

Peder thought for a moment.

‘Why do you think someone would make up something like this?’

Elin shrugged.

‘Everyone was so scared when she disappeared; I think the gossip became a kind of protection for us. If that was why she went missing, then it couldn’t happen to the rest of us.’

‘Because you weren’t selling sex over the Internet?’

‘Exactly.’

She looked as if she were telling the truth; she also looked relieved.

‘Were you a close friend of Rebecca’s?’

‘I wouldn’t say that. We just happened to be on the same course, and we went to the same parties. We hardly ever met up on our own.’

‘Was that why you helped to spread the rumours about her? Because you weren’t really friends?’

‘Hang on a minute, I didn’t “help”, as you put it.’

‘Oh, but you did. It was through you that the gossip got as far as Rebecca’s mother. I’m sure you realise that was unfortunate.’

Elin’s voice was trembling now.

‘I didn’t tell anyone except my mum; I didn’t think she would go to Diana with gossip. I didn’t tell anyone else. And even if I had, it wouldn’t have made any difference.’

‘Because everyone knew anyway?’

‘Yes.’

Peder decided to keep pushing.

‘So who started it?’

‘I told you, I don’t know!’

‘Oh, come on, Elin. You must be able to tell me about the first time you heard someone mention that Rebecca was selling sex over the Internet.’

His voice was harsh and implacable. A voice he would never use to Ylva or his sons. The boys were almost three – still too young to be held responsible for their actions. And he had too much respect for Ylva.

‘I can’t remember exactly; I think I heard it at a party a few months after she disappeared. Some people were talking; they said she’d been seen on one of those websites. But when we looked at it, we couldn’t find her. The gossip died away eventually.’

‘Just a minute, you’re telling me someone had seen her on a website? What website?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘For God’s sake, Elin! You just told me you had a look!’’

Elin sighed.

‘I think it might have been called “Dreams Come True”, or something equally cheap. I haven’t looked at it since, and I don’t think the others have either.’

Right.

‘The person who found her on this website – are they in the habit of buying sex there?’

‘No, no, I don’t think so. Definitely not.’

‘He or she just happened to end up on that website, and just happened to spot a friend?’

‘He. He’s a law student and he was writing an assignment about the new law relating to prostitution, so he was checking out a load of websites where girls were selling themselves.’

At last.

‘And what’s the name of your friend?’

‘He’s not my friend. Nobody likes him. And I think he regretted talking about what he’d seen; he kind of tried to take it all back. But by then it was too late; people were already talking. Not that we thought it was true, but…’

‘But?’

‘He had seen her on the website, after all.’

Silence.

‘I need a name.’

‘His name is Håkan Nilsson.’

11

Malena Bremberg’s expression was anxious as she watched the lunchtime news on the flickering TV screen. She didn’t normally bother with the news, but today’s newspaper headlines had driven her back to the sofa. She thanked her lucky stars that she wasn’t working; sometimes it was difficult to find time to sit down in front of the TV in the care home.

There were lots of different stories. An earthquake in a country she’d never been to, unrest in the car industry, new proposals regarding legislation to make things easier for small businesses. She couldn’t have cared less. The only thing she wanted to know more about was the woman whose body had been found in Midsommarkransen. After fifteen minutes her prayers were answered.

‘The police are still refusing to release further details surrounding the discovery of the body of Rebecca Trolle,’ the newsreader reported. ‘A murder investigation is well under way, and a significant number of additional officers have been placed at the disposal of the Senior Investigating Officer. Rebecca Trolle was twenty-three years old when she disappeared; she was last seen in the vicinity of Gärdet in Stockholm…’

Terror clutched at Malena’s heart. She recognised Rebecca Trolle as soon as her picture appeared on the screen. The bright smile, the freckled face. She had never understood what made the girl so important. She had visited the home on only one occasion, and hadn’t come back.

The following day he had phoned.

‘Has anyone been in?’

And for the first time, she answered yes. Yes, someone had been in. A young woman. She’d stayed for half an hour. She’d had coffee with Thea Aldrin, the writer, then left. He had demanded the name and telephone number of the person in question, said he had to get hold of her. Malena had hesitated, agonised, wished she was a million miles away.

Rebecca Trolle. That was her name.

A week passed. Then another. Then came the headlines. Rebecca Trolle, who had visited the home, was missing. After a week Malena was a wreck, and went off sick. He rang every day, patiently explaining that she would regret it forever if she told anyone about their work together.

‘We don’t work together!’ she yelled.

Hurled the telephone at the wall.

Didn’t dare to set foot outside for several days.

He was waiting for her the first time she left the apartment. Materialised behind her out of nowhere, forced her back inside. He stayed for a whole day, after which she never considered defying him again.

She still felt sick when she remembered how he had looked when he left, having kept her prisoner for twenty-four hours. Noticeably pleased with himself and what he had achieved. His final words drove her crazy:

‘You’re beautiful in real life, Malena. But you’re even more beautiful on film.’

12

The list of matches against the database came through just as Peder Rydh was starting to think about going home for the day. Ellen Lind, the team’s administrator, knocked on his door.

‘I’ve run a check on all the main characters who came up in the original investigation,’ she said.

‘Anything interesting?’

‘There are a few points, but two are definitely worth looking at: her supervisor at the university, and the leader of the church choir.’

Peder suddenly felt stressed. Two new names. They already had more than enough to do.

Ellen placed the lists on his desk and left. Peder thought she was starting to fill out; could she be pregnant? Best not to offer congratulations until she mentioned it herself.

A quick glance at the clock, and Peder decided he would stay a while longer. Just a little while. He could hear Alex talking in the corridor, his voice loud and agitated. Alex worked day and night. On several occasions, Peder had thought about inviting his boss round for dinner, but the words stuck in his throat every time. What would be the point?

The list of names was practically burning his fingers. He didn’t know what to think any more. Håkan Nilsson was beginning to look more and more suspect. Elin’s words echoed in his mind:

He’s not my friend. Nobody likes him.

Peder found it difficult to understand Håkan’s behaviour. If he was the killer, why would he start a rumour about having seen Rebecca on a website selling sex? In order to divert attention from himself? And if he wasn’t the killer, why hadn’t he told the police what he had seen, when he had spent so much time helping them? Peder had discussed the matter with Alex, and they had decided not to confront Håkan until they had the results of the DNA test. Meanwhile, he was still under surveillance, and the prosecutor had also given Alex permission to tap his telephone. With a bit of luck, that would be in place later in the day.

Peder glanced through the results of Ellen’s checks. The leader of the church choir of which Rebecca had been a member had been reported for violence against his partner on two occasions during the past eighteen months. The accusations had not led to charges, as there was no proof. According to the register, the couple were still living together.

During the original investigation the choirmaster had been dismissed as being of no interest. Since he was relatively young, the question of whether he might be Rebecca’s new boyfriend had come up, but there was nothing to suggest that this was the case. He already had a partner, and the analysis of telephone traffic to and from Rebecca’s mobile showed that they had been in contact only once during the weeks before her disappearance. He did not feature in her emails, on her Facebook page or in her cryptic diary entries. Peder therefore concluded that these more recent accusations of violence did not alter the situation as far as the police were concerned; the man would still remain outside the inquiry.

The supervisor, however, was another matter. Gustav Sjöö, a man approaching sixty, who had been reported for attempted rape by a female acquaintance less than a year ago. The report indicated that she had described him as controlling, jealous and unstable. The woman had obvious injuries that were difficult to explain away, and the case had gone to the magistrates’ court. Gustav Sjöö was not convicted, but the woman had appealed to the crown court. The hearing had not yet taken place.

Peder’s interest was caught by the information that had emerged during the first hearing. The prosecution had called two female students to testify that Sjöö had made inappropriate advances, and that he had threatened them with dire consequences if they told anyone. For this reason he was suspended from his post at the university until further notice; Peder suspected that he was unlikely to be reinstated even if he was acquitted.

He went back to the original material. Sjöö had been in touch with Rebecca by telephone on a number of occasions during the months before her disappearance, but this had seemed perfectly natural since he was her supervisor. Peder remembered that he had also appeared as ‘GS’ in her diary.

Could Gustav Sjöö be the new man in Rebecca’s life? Peder had his doubts when he looked at pictures of Sjöö, just as Alex had done. An elderly, grey man without any hint of a spark in his eyes. Then again, everyone’s taste was different; perhaps Sjöö had attributes which were not apparent in a photograph, and which Rebecca had found attractive.

He checked records and saw that Sjöö lived on Mariatorget in Södermalm. He seemed to have moved there about a year ago; before that he had lived on Karlavägen. Peder searched for the address on the internet and saw that it wasn’t far from Gyllenstiernsgatan. Close to Radiohuset. He went back to the old telephone records. Rebecca had spoken to Sjöö the day before she went missing. And he had been living near Radiohuset at the time, which was the final destination of the number four bus.

Sjöö had been interviewed, of course, and had an alibi for that evening. He was at a conference elsewhere, and didn’t get back until the following evening. But he lived alone, Peder thought. There was no one to confirm that he got home when he said he did. And while his colleagues could state that he really had been at the conference in Västerås, the distance from Stockholm was negligible if he had a car, which he did. Peder decided to take a closer look at the conference programme. Rebecca had disappeared some time after seven thirty in the evening; it could be that she had arranged to meet Sjöö.

The property register provided Peder with more information: Gustav Sjöö owned a summer cottage in Nyköping.

Was that where you took her to dismember the body?

Peder felt his pulse rate increasing. Gustav Sjöö must be interviewed at the earliest opportunity. Perhaps he had raped Rebecca and forced her to keep quiet about it? Peder’s vision clouded over, his palms felt sweaty. A young woman’s body, hacked in half with a chainsaw. Stuffed into plastic sacks and buried in south Stockholm.

Håkan Nilsson or Gustav Sjöö. Or a person or persons as yet unknown.

Who did you cross, Rebecca?

The evening came, and the night came, and it was time for Alex to go home. The night was far too long, in spite of the fact that the dark time of the year had been left behind. He sat alone in his living room, a glass of whisky in his hand. He had sworn that he wouldn’t turn into a tragic figure when he was alone; he had promised both Lena and the children.

‘You’re not to turn into one of those B-movie cops on TV,’ his son had said. ‘Sitting at home drinking, then going to work to beat up the bad guys.’

Alex looked at the whisky glass. Lena would have understood; she would have trusted him enough not to begrudge him a drop of the hard stuff. It helped to calm him, allowed him to relax. The road to a good night’s sleep was long; the road to a warm smile was endless.

I will never be happy again.

Nor would Diana Trolle.

He put down the glass, realising that he couldn’t push aside thoughts of Diana. What was she doing right now? Was she also sitting at home alone? She must be paralysed with grief. And shock.

Alex thought back to when Rebecca had first been reported missing. It had started off as a routine inquiry. People didn’t realise how many individuals of Rebecca’s age went missing in Sweden every year – and turned up safe and well. But Rebecca didn’t turn up safe and well. She had disappeared without a trace. Sometimes the leads were so vague that Alex began to wonder if she had ever existed. When he spoke to her family and friends he felt closer to her, got an impression of her character, the essence of her. After two weeks, he was absolutely convinced that Rebecca had not disappeared of her own free will. And that she was probably dead.

He had had many conversations with Diana. Sometimes she would call him in the middle of the night.

‘Tell me you’re going to find her, Alex. Promise me that, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep.’

He had promised. Over and over again. However, he was always careful not to promise that Rebecca would be found alive. Diana must have known, because she had never demanded that assurance.

‘There has to be closure,’ she had said. ‘A grave to visit, a breathing space in this purgatory of speculation.’

And now, two years later, she would have her closure and her grave.

Alex had given so many people a grave to visit over the years.

Too many.

Lena had pointed it out.

‘Sometimes, Alex, I think it would have done you good to work with the living as well, so that you could dilute all that black grief with something more life-affirming.’

She had thought he couldn’t cope with it on his own; sometimes she had seen that he was on the brink of going under, and had helped him to rediscover a balance in life. Fear clutched at his heart. Who would help him now?

Fredrika Bergman couldn’t stop thinking about Rebecca Trolle. When she closed her eyes to go to sleep, she could see the young woman in her mind’s eye, running for her life with a madman chasing after her with a chainsaw in his hand. But it couldn’t have been like that, surely? She couldn’t have been alive when he cut her body in two, could she?

Fredrika felt sick. Shortly before midnight she gave up, got out of bed and went into the kitchen. She made some coffee and read the previous day’s newspaper without taking in what she was reading. Restlessness drove her to the nursery; she had to check that Saga was asleep, that she was all right. She was fine. Through talking to the mothers in the parents’ group – which was actually a mothers’ group – she had realised that Saga’s ability to sleep soundly was a blessing. She went down after she had been fed in the evening, and didn’t wake until half past six in the morning. At the earliest.

As she stood there in her daughter’s bedroom, Fredrika could hardly believe that it was only a few days since she had been on full time maternity leave. Had it gone too fast, she asked herself? Would Saga be damaged by Fredrika’s abrupt disappearance from her life? She didn’t think so. It wasn’t as if she had put Saga into day care; she was at home with her father.

Fredrika couldn’t help smiling. Spencer as a father. She would never have believed it that first time she and Spencer met outside the university, and he went home with her. Not then and not later on. She had loved him, but she had never counted on him. Not until now.

The last year had been unimaginably turbulent. Spencer had taken the step from being her secret lover to becoming her partner with astonishing ease. After some initial hesitation, her parents had understood how important he was to her, and had accepted him. On one occasion when Fredrika had gone away for the weekend to visit a friend in Malmö, Spencer had actually gone to dinner at her parents’ on his own.

‘Why not?’ Fredrika had said. ‘You’re the same age, after all.’

Age wasn’t an issue for Fredrika, but she knew perfectly well that few people shared that view. The mothers in the group looked horrified when Fredrika talked about Saga’s daddy. They smiled, but their eyes betrayed sheer panic. They found her life choices challenging; she made them feel insecure about what they had.

Fredrika went back to the kitchen. The mothers’ group was the last thing to provide her with peace of mind. If she wanted to sleep, she needed to think about something else.

But not Rebecca Trolle.

Those pictures again, almost like a film. The chainsaw raised in the air, cutting and slicing and hacking. Fredrika covered her eyes with her hands; wanting the images to disappear. Think about something else, think about something else.

If Rebecca Trolle had lived and had chosen to carry her baby to full term, she would have been a young mother in Stockholm. More than ten years younger than Fredrika. Rebecca hadn’t wanted to keep the child; Fredrika could feel it in every fibre of her body. She had gone to the clinic, discussed a termination. She hadn’t told a single friend. Was she so lonely, or was there another reason why she kept quiet about such an important matter?

Peder and the other officers had asked around among Rebecca’s circle of friends, reminding each one that this was a confidential matter. They didn’t want the media to find out about the pregnancy yet. No one had heard that Rebecca was pregnant, but several had heard that she was selling sex over the Internet. How was that possible?

The answer was simple: it wasn’t possible.

The two were incompatible. A person with secrets of that magnitude would not be so involved in their studies, the church choir, friends, the mentoring network, teaching babies to swim.

The pregnancy was indisputable; it was a medical fact. But the rumour that Rebecca had been selling sex was not. It was an alien concept; it just didn’t fit.

Her mind full of anxious thoughts, Fredrika returned to the bedroom and lay down next to Spencer.

‘Can’t you sleep?’ he murmured.

She didn’t answer, but crept closer and laid her head on his arm.

She was thinking about Rebecca Trolle.

About the body in the plastic sacks.

About the violence to which she had been subjected.

The chainsaw. It said something about the murderer, something Fredrika just couldn’t grasp. She was struck by a sudden, unstoppable thought: routine. He kills as a matter of routine.

INTERVIEW WITH FREDRIKA BERGMAN, 02-05-2009, 17.30 (tape recording)

Present: Urban S, Roger M (interrogators one and two). Fredrika Bergman (witness).

Urban: In spite of the fact that you found a second victim, you still subscribed to the theory that Håkan Nilsson was the killer?

Fredrika: We didn’t subscribe to any particular theory; we were keeping an open mind.

Roger: And the second victim, what happened there?

Fredrika: It took time to secure an identification.

Urban: Because you made mistakes.

Fredrika: Because we stuck to facts.

Roger: And Peder Rydh? Did he stick to the rules?

Fredrika: All the time.

Urban: And Alex Recht?

Fredrika: He stuck to the rules as well.

Urban: I was thinking more in terms of his mental state.

Fredrika: He was fine throughout.

Roger: And what about you?

Fredrika: I was fine too.

Urban: We were thinking more of the issue of sticking to the rules.

(Silence.)

Fredrika: I don’t understand the question.

Urban: We’re wonder if you followed the letter of the law and stuck to the rules when you were carrying out your work.

Fredrika: Of course.

Roger: You didn’t suppress any evidence?

(Silence.)

Urban: Not when you went through Rebecca’s things in the garage?

Fredrika: No.

(Silence.)

Roger: So what about Thea Aldrin? You must have found her by this stage?

Fredrika: No, we hadn’t.

Urban: Isn’t that a bit odd?

Fredrika: The investigation was complicated by the fact that the victims had been in the ground for such a long time. We were constantly waiting for test results and analyses. It took a while.

Urban: That’s obviously a downside of being meticulous; everything is so slow.

Roger: What happened next? You were about to bring in both Håkan Nilsson and Gustav Sjöö. But you went off on a tangent of your own as usual. Isn’t that correct?

(Silence.)

Urban: It was your idea to go through Rebecca’s belongings in the garage, wasn’t it?

Fredrika: Yes.

Roger: And what did you find?

(Silence.)

Urban: Answer the question, please.

(Silence.)

Roger: That was when you found Spencer, wasn’t it?

Fredrika (whispering): Yes.