The Disappeared aka Guardian Angels

13

A second body buried next to the first one. Thea drank her coffee out of the same stupid mug as always, then banged it down on the table. The shock was making her chest feel tight. Who was the man who had been laid to rest just a few metres away from Rebecca Trolle? The police were refusing to comment; they had merely stated that the deceased was a man, and that he had probably been lying there for at least two decades, possibly three.

Two decades. That was a long time to be missing.

Thea reached for the morning paper. The discovery of the two bodies was a major story. The editorial team dealt with a lot of news, but rarely anything as exciting as a double murder. The press were asking if there might be a link, in spite of the time that had elapsed between the deaths. And the police were saying nothing.

They were saying nothing because they knew nothing.

Thea’s father had been a police officer, which was why she believed she knew how the police thought. He had visited her in prison just once. She couldn’t make up her mind whether the number of visits was a measure of his inadequacy as a father or a judgement on her.

‘You have to start speaking, Thea,’ he had said. ‘If there’s anything you want to put forward in your defence, you must speak now. Now. Otherwise it will be too late.’

Her silence had provoked him.

‘The evidence is overwhelming. There is nothing to suggest that you are innocent. I just don’t understand. How did you become so… disturbed?’

Darling Daddy, children become what you make them.

‘I’ve told your mother I don’t want her to visit you. Not while you’re behaving like this. Do you understand what I’m saying, Thea? You’re going to be horribly lonely.’

I have been lonely for as long as I can remember.

Eventually, he had got to his feet, looked at her for the last time.

‘I’m ashamed of you,’ he had whispered. ‘I’m ashamed because my daughter is a murderer.’

And I am ashamed because my father is an idiot and my mother is a milksop.

Thea’s hands shook, making the newspaper rustle. She thought she knew who the dead man was. The man who could have made a difference, but who had vanished when she needed him the most. The police had believed he had disappeared because he wanted to, but Thea had always known that he was dead. She had longed for him to return, been unable to understand why no one could find him. How deep do you have to bury a man so that no one will find his grave? About two metres, according to the police. That was how far down he had been lying. How many feet had walked over him, unaware of what lay hidden beneath the moss and the fallen branches?

She closed her eyes, wishing her thoughts would leave her in peace. The police would need more time to work out who he was, and what his connection with Rebecca Trolle was. And with Thea.

She wondered if they realised that they would find more bodies in that accursed grave.

14

‘We’re digging day and night, but it’s difficult to keep all the bloody journalists away,’ said the DS.

Alex listened, along with his colleague Torbjörn Ross, who had been first on the scene when Rebecca’s body was found.

‘Do you need more manpower?’

‘At least another five, if we’re going to get anywhere. We daren’t use mechanical diggers; we’re doing everything by hand. But it’s starting to feel unsustainable. The lads can’t carry on much longer.’

Torbjörn thought for a moment.

‘Could we get some help from the Local Defence Volunteers?’

‘Check out the possibilities,’ Alex said. ‘If there are any more bodies in there waiting to be discovered, I want them out over the weekend.’

The DS headed back to the site, which was growing steadily. He promised to do his best; if there were more bodies, they would see the light of day before Sunday night.

It was Friday now; Alex didn’t know where the time had gone. He had been lost in a maelstrom of interviews and meetings, and a never-ending flow of thoughts and speculation.

‘Are you working over the weekend?’ Torbjörn asked.

‘Looks that way.’

‘My wife and I are going to our cottage from Saturday until Sunday; we’d be very pleased if you could join us.’

Alex didn’t quite know what to say. Peder appeared in the doorway of the meeting room.

‘Are we in here today?’

Alex nodded and turned to Torbjörn as Peder walked in and sat down.

‘We’ve got a meeting; the forensic pathologist is coming over to speak to us.’

More people came in; chairs scraped against the floor as the team settled down around the table.

‘Thanks for your offer…’ Alex hesitated. ‘It’s very kind of you, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to get away; I’m probably going to end up working all weekend.’

A firm hand on his shoulder, Torbjörn’s eyes fixed on his.

‘In that case, I suggest you give it some thought and let me know if you can make it. Sonja and I would be very happy to see you, and I’d love to take you fishing on Sunday morning.’

‘Fishing?’

‘Think about it, Alex.’

The hand disappeared, but the offer lingered as Torbjörn left the room.

Fredrika was the last to arrive, just after the pathologist. The team seemed to have grown overnight; there wasn’t room for everyone around the table, and some had to sit over by the wall.

Birger Rosvall, the forensic pathologist, sat down in the corner just to one side behind Alex, but Alex waved him forward and moved his chair to make room at the head of the table.

‘Birger has been kind enough to come over and pass on his conclusions verbally on this occasion. I would like to remind everyone that any information which emerges during this meeting is confidential and is not to be passed on. Not under any circumstances.’

There was complete silence in the room; some people glanced away when Alex looked at them.

‘We can’t afford mistakes in this investigation,’ he said. ‘Given the level of media interest, we need to be particularly careful about what we say and what steps we take. Does everyone understand that?’

Some people nodded, others murmured their assent. No one objected; nor had he expected them to. Without further ado he handed over to the pathologist.

‘We’ll start with the woman,’ Birger said in his characteristic voice, both nasal and hoarse at the same time. ‘The head has been separated from the body immediately below the chin, if you can imagine a line just here.’

He ran his finger under his own chin from ear to ear.

‘Damage to the trachea suggests that she might have been strangled, but I am unable to establish a definite cause of death. The hands were removed from the body by the same method as the head, using a chainsaw.’

The pathologist’s words bounced off the walls in the meeting room and settled over those present like a sodden blanket. Not everyone had known about the use of the chainsaw.

‘The severed surfaces of the bones are the main indication that a chainsaw was used rather than an ordinary blade. In addition, traces of a particular oil which could be used to grease the chain itself have been found where the amputations took place.’

‘What do you mean by a particular oil?’

‘Most chainsaw oil on sale today is biodegradable. The person who dismembered Rebecca’s body didn’t use that kind, which would have been cleverer; he used an older product which takes longer to break down. The damage to the skeleton, together with the discovery of traces of this oil or grease, leads me to conclude that the body was dismembered with a chainsaw.’

The door opened and a colleague looked in; when he saw that there was a meeting in progress, he apologised and quickly withdrew.

‘Can you tell what kind of chainsaw was used?’ Alex asked.

‘That’s impossible,’ Birger replied. ‘All I can say, given the choice of oil, is that it could well be an older model. However, I will be able to tell you exactly what kind of oil or grease was used.’

Unpleasant images of what the process of dismemberment might have looked like came into Alex’s mind. He shook his head; he didn’t need pictures, just words. Facts.

‘Birger, how messy would this kind of thing be? I’m sure we’re all imagining horrific scenes.’

The pathologist leaned back on his chair.

‘That depends on the circumstances. If the heart is still beating, even if the victim is unconscious, there will be a considerable amount of blood. However, if she is dead and no longer has a pulse, then the process will be neater. If you spread out enough plastic under the body, it shouldn’t be too difficult to clear up afterwards.’

Fredrika coughed discreetly.

‘And what about Rebecca?’

‘What do you mean?’

She shuffled uncomfortably.

‘I’m wondering if she was dead or alive when she was dismembered.’

‘I can’t say for certain, but I would guess that she was dead. Otherwise I am unable to explain the damage to the larynx.’

Everyone present felt like letting out a sigh of relief, but the pathologist’s words brought no real comfort. Rebecca Trolle had probably been dead, but she could have been alive. Could was a taboo word.

Alex interrupted the low hum of conversation that had broken out.

‘Did she have any other injuries?’

‘As I mentioned in my previous report, she did not. There was no damage to the ribs or any other bones. The only injuries I managed to document were those to the larynx.’

Warm hands around the young woman’s throat, pressing and pressing until it was all over.

Alex moved on.

‘What can you tell us about the male?’

‘As I’m sure you have already seen from the photographs, the man was found with bound ankles and his hands tied behind his back. He was lying on his side in the grave, and there was damage to his hipbone and collarbone which could have occurred as a result of being thrown down into the hole.’

The pathologist consulted his notes.

‘The man has a number of injuries which suggest that he was subjected to violence before he died: a crack in the jawbone, two broken ribs, one of the nasal bones broken off.’

‘How long had he been in the ground?’

‘Difficult to establish with any precision; somewhere between twenty-five and thirty years.’

Thirty years. Such a long time.

‘And the actual cause of death?’

‘I believe he was strangled.’

Alex raised his eyebrows.

‘Like Rebecca?’

‘Yes. But it’s hardly a unique way of killing another person. It’s not sufficient grounds to conclude that it was the same murderer.’

How many reasons were there to assume they were dealing with two different killers, Alex thought. It was beyond unlikely that two people had been killed in the same way and buried in the same place by two different perpetrators. Unless of course there were a number of perpetrators working together. The very thought made Alex feel stressed. If that was the case, things were going to get even more complicated.

‘How old was he?’

‘My estimate would be between forty and fifty; I haven’t been able to verify that as yet.’

‘Is there anything else you think we need to be aware of?’

‘Not really, apart from the obvious,’ Birger said. ‘First of all: the perpetrator is strong. It’s impossible to drive all the way to the place where the bodies were buried, and the man was tall – one metre eighty-five. Either he walked to the grave himself and was killed in situ, or the killer would have found it very difficult to get him there. If he was really strong he might have dragged the body; otherwise, I think he must have had help. Second: the killer has used extreme violence, particularly in the case of the woman. There has to be more to it than an attempt to make identification more difficult. And third: if it’s the same perpetrator, he must be at least fifty years old today. Perhaps that could go some way to explaining why the woman’s body was dismembered: he wasn’t strong enough to carry her in one piece.’

Once again, the meeting was disturbed as a colleague opened the door by mistake. One of the team took the opportunity to slip out to the toilet.

‘How far do you have to walk to get to the grave?’ Alex asked the officers who had been working on site.

‘About four hundred metres.’

Four hundred metres. That was a long way to carry a dead body. Could there have been two people involved? Once again, Alex pushed away the thought; please God no.

There was one killer. Anything else was unthinkable.

Once Birger had left, the meeting continued under Alex’s leadership.

‘I want an answer to this question today: how many men matching the height and age profile of the male victim went missing between, let’s say, 1975 and 1985? We need to try to limit the number of possible victims, and given his height that shouldn’t be a problem. I want a definite ID by the beginning of next week at the latest.’

He looked at his colleagues.

‘Some of you are going to have to work over the weekend; I hope that won’t be a problem.’

A few glanced away, not wanting to volunteer, but the vast majority nodded. They would be able to gather a team. Alex could see the prospect of going fishing with Torbjörn fading fast. Some other time, perhaps.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ he said. ‘Where are we up to there?’

‘I want to speak to her supervisor, Gustav Sjöö,’ Peder said.

Surprise around the room; another name to take into account.

Peder briefly explained what he had found out the previous day.

‘And Håkan Nilsson?’

‘We’re still waiting for DNA results; SKL said they would get back to me this morning. But I’d like to speak to Sjöö, anyway.’

Fredrika spoke up.

‘We need to get to the bottom of these rumours about Rebecca selling sex over the internet. I’ve got a strong feeling they’re not a part of this. I agree that we need to interview the supervisor, but Håkan Nilsson has some explaining to do if he started the rumours about Rebecca.’

‘We have two interesting lines of inquiry when it comes to Rebecca,’ Alex summarised. ‘There’s the pregnancy, and the rumour that she was selling sex. It would make life simpler if we could eliminate one of them.’

‘The problem with the pregnancy is that it’s personal,’ Peder said. ‘And if Rebecca’s death is connected to the man who was buried in the same place, then it seems highly unlikely that the pregnancy had anything to do with it.’

‘That leaves the issue of selling sex,’ Alex said. ‘Anything else?’

‘Gustav Sjöö,’ Peder said.

‘How come the supervisor is interesting if we’ve decided the pregnancy isn’t?’

‘He could be a pervert, that’s all.’

The odd burst of laughter around the room made Peder feel embarrassed.

‘You mean both murders are connected with sex?’ Fredrika said.

‘Exactly. He’s old enough to have killed the man as well. And he’s fairly tall; he might have been stronger when he was younger.’

Strong enough to carry a dead man four hundred metres? Maybe, Alex thought.

‘I don’t think we can afford to eliminate any lines of inquiry when it comes to Rebecca Trolle,’ he said. ‘Not one, not in the current situation. OK?’

Nobody looked as if they wanted to disagree, and Alex was more than tired of the dry air in the conference room. He brought the meeting to a close and his colleagues returned to their offices and their assigned tasks. Fredrika lingered for a moment.

‘I’m going over to Diana Trolle’s sister’s house today; I want to go through Rebecca’s things.’

Alex heard his own words echoing in his head; they couldn’t afford to eliminate any lines of inquiry.

‘Fine.’

He wanted to say something else, to reprimand her for thinking that Alex had missed something two years ago, but he knew that would be the wrong thing to do.

They could have missed virtually anything.

Fredrika met Peder in the doorway as she was leaving.

‘SKL just called. They confirmed that Håkan Nilsson was the father of Rebecca’s child.’

15

There had never been a better April as far as the weather was concerned. Not that Peder Rydh could remember. The sun found its way down between the buildings, warming the air and making everyone slip off jackets and jumpers. Peder strolled out of HQ in his shirtsleeves, followed by two colleagues.

‘What about the car?’ said one of them. ‘Surely we’re not bloody walking to Midsommarkransen to pick him up?’

‘The car’s there,’ Peder said, pointing to a dark-coloured Saab parked further down the street. ‘And we’re going to Kista, not Midsommarkransen. We’re picking him up from work this time.’

For the third time within a relatively short period, Peder was on his way to see Håkan Nilsson. The prosecutor felt that they now had enough to arrest him, but Alex was dubious. If they arrested him, they would have three days to elicit a confession or other evidence to strengthen their case; otherwise, they wouldn’t be able to charge him. Since the police were working on several different suspects at the same time, Alex wasn’t convinced it was a good idea to arrest Nilsson at this delicate stage of the investigation.

And Peder was still curious about Rebecca’s supervisor, Gustav Sjöö.

Alex had decided that Nilsson was definitely to be brought in for questioning. They needed to talk to him about the child, and about the assertion that he was the one who had started the rumours about Rebecca selling sex.

Peder parked outside the firm where Håkan worked, then went inside with one of his colleagues while the other remained outside, keeping an eye on the door. Brightly coloured signs directed them to Reception on the second floor. Peder and his colleague took the stairs two at a time, strong and agile after many hours in the gym and out running. Black shoes, blue jeans. To the trained eye it wasn’t difficult to see that they were police officers.

However, the receptionist failed to spot it.

‘How may I help you?’ she asked in a friendly tone of voice.

Peder and his colleague showed their ID and quietly explained why they were there. The receptionist went pale and directed them to Håkan’s desk in the open-plan office. He was sitting with his back to them wearing headphones, and was busy writing a report, his eyes glued to the screen. He didn’t hear them approaching from behind.

Håkan gave a start when Peder placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Could you come with us, please? We’d like to talk to you again.’

The interview room was too small – at least that was how it felt. Peder called Ylva before he went in.

‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Has something happened?’

The anxiety in her voice was testament to how rarely Peder contacted her during working hours.

‘No, no, I just wanted to ring and say hello. Hear your voice.’

He could sense her smile on the other end of the line.

‘That’s sweet!’

Don’t underestimate the simple things, the gestures that cost nothing.

The therapist Peder had been seeing the previous year had told him that.

‘It’s the little things that go to build up the whole, and that’s what will save you when you have to work late or over the weekend.’

In the end, Peder had started listening to the therapist, realising where he had gone wrong.

‘I can’t become a completely different person,’ he had said.

‘Nobody wants you to do that. However, you can improve on the things that you’re screwing up at the moment. Like your close relationships, for example.’

Peder’s stomach hurt as he recalled the time when he had lived apart from Ylva, and had found it difficult to fill his days. But he had made a real effort, and they were back on track; they had started to rediscover a balance in their lives.

‘By the way, Jimmy rang,’ Ylva said. ‘He wants to come over at the weekend; I said that was fine.’

Jimmy was Peder’s brother; because of a childhood accident, he would never be an independent adult. Sometimes, Peder felt that he actually envied some aspects of his brother’s life. The ability to be totally carefree that epitomised Jimmy’s approach could make anyone consider what was important in life. Jimmy’s world was limited to the assisted living complex, and it suited him perfectly. Peder knew for certain that in Jimmy’s world there were no young women who had been chopped in half with a chainsaw. He ended the conversation with Ylva and went into the interview room with Alex.

Håkan Nilsson was waiting with a legal representative who had been brought in on his behalf. His expression was nervous; he looked tired. It was obvious that he had slept badly for several nights in succession. His hands twitched like the wings of a wounded bird, sometimes resting on the table, sometimes in his lap. Sometimes he sat there picking at his face.

Alex took the lead, outlining the specific issues which led the police to suspect him.

‘I don’t understand,’ said Håkan. ‘I mean, I’ve been in here several times. I’ve always co-operated fully. Why would I do that if I was the one who killed her?’

‘That’s exactly what we’re wondering,’ Alex replied. ‘And that’s what I’d like to clarify right now. Perhaps the whole thing is a misunderstanding, in which case it would be good to get it all sorted out.’

Alex’s expression didn’t change as he spoke; he was implacable and utterly focused.

You’re not leaving here until you’ve told us the truth, Håkan.

‘Tell us about the child,’ said Peder.

‘What child?’

‘The child you and Rebecca were expecting. Were you happy?’

‘I’ve already told you, I didn’t know she was pregnant! And if she was, it definitely wasn’t mine.’

Initially, he sounded very sure of himself, then suddenly the doubt crept in.

‘Was it mine?’

‘The child was yours, Håkan. When did she tell you she was pregnant?’

Håkan began to cry.

‘Would you like some water?’

Peder poured a glass of water from the jug on the table and pushed it across to Håkan. Waited. They had plenty of time, which was essential if they were to get a result. Most criminals could cope with a short interrogation, but the longer it went on, the more uncertain they became, and sooner or later they would make a mistake.

‘Why are you crying?’

Alex’s tone was matter-of-fact without being cold.

When Håkan didn’t reply, Peder spoke:

‘Do you miss her?’

Håkan nodded.

‘I always believed she’d come back.’

Not if you strangled her and hid her in the forest, Håkan.

He snivelled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

‘How come?’

‘It just didn’t seem possible that she could be gone forever, that she would never come back. I didn’t think that could happen. Not really.’

The tears had turned Håkan into a child. A little boy, talking as if he had the same grasp of reality as a nine-year-old.

‘Oh, come on, Håkan,’ Alex said. ‘She’d been gone for two years. Where did you think she’d gone?’

‘She might have gone away.’

He dried his tears, took a sip of the water.

‘Where to?’

‘France.’

Had that been the issue all along? The trip to France that Håkan had never been able to forgive her for?

‘Did she say anything about taking off like that?’

‘No, but you never know.’

Alex straightened up and looked deep into Håkan’s eyes.

‘Yes, you do,’ he said. ‘There are certain things that you do know.’

Håkan swallowed. Drank some more water.

‘Now tell us about the child.’

‘I didn’t know anything about the child!’

His voice grew louder in the little room.

‘She didn’t tell me she was pregnant! She never mentioned it!’

A lie has many faces, both Alex and Peder knew that. But it was impossible to work out what secrets Håkan was hiding.

‘Tell us about the time you slept together.’

Håkan blushed.

‘Like I said before, it wasn’t planned. I think she’d been seeing someone else, and she was upset because he’d dumped her. She came round to mine one evening and I opened a bottle of wine. Then we started on some vodka that I’d bought in Finland. And… it just happened.’

‘How did you feel afterwards?’

Håkan’s eyes shone as if he had a temperature.

‘I felt as if we were much closer.’

‘Did Rebecca feel the same?’ Peder asked.

‘I think so.’

‘Did she actually say it?’

‘No, but I could tell just by looking at her. She tried to play it down afterwards, but I knew what was really going on. She thought it was too early to have found the right person before she had even turned twenty-five.’

All at once, Håkan looked much more confident.

‘That was what I liked about her, the fact that she was clever. And mature. Not like other girls who mess around.’

Peder looked blank.

‘Did you meet up and have sex on any further occasions?’

‘No, because she wanted to wait. Just like I said.’

‘Wait?’

‘Until it felt right to go all the way.’

He laughed and spread his hands wide. Alex and Peder stared at him for a long time.

‘You don’t think you might have misinterpreted the situation?’ said Alex.

The light in Håkan’s eyes died as if someone had switched off a light.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m just wondering if the reason that you didn’t have sex again was actually because Rebecca wasn’t interested in you.’

‘That’s not the way it was. She liked me, I was important to her. The fact that she needed more time… I thought that was a positive sign. I mean, I wasn’t ready to live with someone, or to get married.’

‘Or to have a child?’

Håkan’s eyes flashed and he raised his voice.

‘There was no child, for fuck’s sake!’

When Alex and Peder remained silent, he went on:

‘Don’t you think she would have told me something like that? She loved me! Do you hear me? She loved me!’

The roar died away, disappearing in a heavy exhalation as the legal representative laid a hand on his arm.

‘She loved me.’

A whisper, as if he believed that if he said it enough times, it would become the truth.

Alex adopted a more conciliatory tone.

‘She pushed you away, Håkan. That must have been very upsetting for you.’

Håkan was weeping again.

‘She didn’t. She just needed a bit more time. And then she disappeared and she never came back.’

He buried his face in his hands.

Alex leaned forward.

‘What about those pictures you said you’d seen on the internet, Håkan? The pictures on a website where girls were selling sex?’

Håkan looked up.

‘You mustn’t show them to anyone.’

‘We haven’t got them; we don’t know how to get hold of them.’

‘They weren’t real; she should never have been on there. Someone must have put her on the website. One minute she was there, then she was gone.’

Alex frowned.

‘When did you first see these pictures?’

‘A few weeks after she went missing.’

‘And you didn’t mention it to the police?’

Anxiety appeared to be making Håkan’s skin crawl; he looked like a little boy once more.

‘She disappeared from the website; I thought I might have made a mistake.’

‘Did you tell anyone about the website?’

‘Not at first. Then I asked one of her friends, which was the wrong thing to do. After that, the rumour just took off, and I couldn’t stop it.’

Alex could just imagine the rumour spreading like wildfire through Rebecca’s circle of acquaintances until one day, much later, it reached Diana. Shameful.

‘We need to know exactly which website it was, and the date when you visited it, if you have that information.’

Håkan nodded.

‘I made a note of everything.’

‘So who do you think could have put her on there, if she didn’t do it herself?’

‘Someone who was seriously pissed off with her.’

‘Can you think of anyone who might have felt like that?’

Apart from you.

‘Maybe that fat cow Daniella.’

‘The ex-girlfriend?’

Håkan pulled a face and nodded.

Peder rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward.

‘Did you kill Rebecca?’

Håkan blinked and wiped a solitary tear from his cheek.

‘I want to go home now.’

16

The swing was really meant for older children, but Spencer Lagergren tried sliding his daughter into the seat anyway. She gurgled with glee as he began to push. There were several parents in the park, all younger than Spencer. Much younger, in fact. He was old enough to be their father, every single one of them.

Spencer’s own father had always maintained that everyone should be allowed to do things at their own speed and in their own way. Spencer had appreciated this aspect of his upbringing, and had adopted the same attitude. He had never thought he would have a child of his own as he approached the age of sixty. He gazed at Saga, unable to grasp that she was his. At the same time, there was absolutely no doubt about it. In spite of the fact that the child was so like her mother that it sometimes brought tears to his eyes when he looked at her, it was also possible to see that she had inherited some of her father’s features: the shape of the forehead, the lines around the mouth, the well-defined point of the chin.

A woman was coming towards Spencer holding an older child by the hand.

‘Look, Tova, there’s an empty swing next to this little girl.’

Tova.

Spencer forced himself to smile at the mother and gave Saga’s swing another push. He wondered whether he ought to get in touch with Tova, the student who had decided to make life so difficult for him. Perhaps he could get her to see reason, sort out the conflict that must have arisen between them, even though he hadn’t realised it.

He had tried to think back to the autumn. How had it begun? He had been working part time, and had been asked if he could supervise one of the students on the C-course. It always looked good if one of the professors was able to get involved in a dissertation, and the others didn’t have time. Spencer didn’t really have time either, which was why Malin had been asked to assist. By the end of term, she had virtually taken over full responsibility for the supervision, and Spencer hadn’t seen Tova after the final seminar.

Tova hadn’t exactly been one of the more highly motivated students. She was tired of studying, the topic she had chosen was far too advanced, and she always tried to take short cuts.

How had the supervision worked out? Badly. Spencer had had to postpone their meetings on two occasions, but he didn’t recall Tova being particularly upset about it. She had always seemed perfectly obliging when they spoke on the phone, agreeing to rearrange the date and time without raising any objections.

Perhaps she had been too obliging?

She had always been nicely dressed when they met. On one occasion, she had brought along a home-made cake. He remembered being embarrassed by the cake; he had forced himself to go and fetch some coffee. And when he turned around to go back to his office… she was standing right behind him.

Fuck.

The thought had occurred to him – just once – following that particular incident. He had wondered if she might have a crush on him. He could picture the scene; he swung around with the coffee cups and gave a start when he saw her standing just a few centimetres away from him. Smiling, with her hair loose.

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’

Bloody hell.

What had he said? Probably nothing; he had just smiled foolishly and handed her one of the cups.

‘It’s fine, thanks.’

Was that when he had signed his own death warrant?

Is there anything I can do for you?

He remembered the hug to which Erland Malm had referred. A wordless, meaningless embrace intended to provide solace. She had been finding things difficult; she had burst into tears and told him how ill her father was.

Spencer’s mouth went dry. Erland Malm insisted that Tova’s father was dead, and had been for many years. Could his memory be playing tricks on him? After all, he had been taking quite strong painkillers during the autumn and winter. But Spencer knew that wasn’t the problem. He knew exactly what had led him to give Tova a hug. Quite openly, in the corridor and in front of other people. There was no bloody way she could have misinterpreted the gesture.

Spencer shuddered. Saga was tired of the swing and wanted to be picked up.

‘Haven’t you got a lovely granddad?’ the woman standing beside them said, smiling at Saga as Spencer picked her up.

He forced a smile in return and carried Saga back to the buggy. The fact that he still hadn’t told Fredrika about the hell he was going through was making him feel more and more guilty by the minute. He would have to start talking very soon.

Spencer had dismissed the idea that Tova might be interested in him, told himself he was being a silly old fool. He had thought he was doing the right thing, when in fact he couldn’t have done anything more wrong.

The garage was bigger than Fredrika Bergman had expected. A broken ceiling light, an undisturbed layer of dust. The place hadn’t been used for a long time. Diana Trolle’s sister confirmed this as she handed Fredrika a torch.

‘We use the garage as a storage room. I don’t know how many times we’ve said we ought to sort it out, get rid of all the old stuff. But we never quite get around to it somehow…’

She sighed.

‘I suppose it will be easier to throw it all away now we know she’s dead.’

Fredrika could understand the logic. The beam of the torch swept across boxes piled on top of one another. A few black bin bags, stuffed to the brim, had been pushed into one corner. A sofa was standing on end in the middle of the room, next to some chairs and a dining table that had been dismantled.

‘She didn’t have much furniture; it was mainly clothes and bits and pieces. It’s all in these boxes.’

‘What’s in the bin bags?’

‘Bedding, that kind of thing.’

Fredrika looked around. The garage door leading to the street was closed; they had come in through a door leading from the house. All the windows had been covered with cardboard; hardly any light found its way inside.

‘Give me a shout if you need any help.’

Diana’s sister disappeared back indoors, leaving Fredrika alone. The relatively meagre pile of belongings made her feel sad; Rebecca hadn’t acquired very much during her life.

Resolutely, she marched over to the pile of boxes and opened the top one. Dust and grime stuck to her hands as she began to rummage. She propped the torch on another box to give her some light. The box contained books. Fredrika pulled out one after another; they were all children’s books, titles that she too had read: The Famous Five, Anne of Green Gables, the story of Kulla-Gulla the little orphan girl, Whitenose the pony. She closed the box, lifted it down onto the floor and opened the next one.

More books.

The third box contained what looked like textbooks. She recognised several of them from her own degree course. She took them out one at a time, flicked through them, read the back cover, put them back. She carried on searching even though she didn’t actually know what she was looking for.

Another box, more books. Right at the bottom, a magazine rack full of newspapers and journals. Fredrika noted that Rebecca Trolle had been very organised; everything had its allotted place. On closer inspection she had noticed that several piles of books were arranged in alphabetical order according to the author’s surname. She couldn’t imagine that whoever had packed the boxes would have bothered to do that, so they must have been in order on Rebecca’s bookshelves. Fredrika, who had always read a great deal, felt an intuitive affinity with Rebecca.

She moved on to the next pile of boxes, wishing they were marked in some way. The top box contained household items, the next one shoes. The torch fell to the floor; Fredrika shook it anxiously as it flickered. It would be impossible to carry on without light. She was relieved to discover that it had survived, and she resumed the search. The sight of all those shoes almost made her feel ill, as if they brought her too close to Rebecca. Shoes seemed somehow private; it was obvious that they had been worn. Hesitantly, she picked one up: pink, with high heels. When did you wear that kind of shoe? She dropped it back in the box and moved on.

Notes. Fredrika’s heart beat a little faster and she picked up the torch so that she could see better. Files and folders and a hardbacked notebook. Fredrika grabbed the box and with a sweeping movement she tipped everything out on the floor. Then she sat down cross-legged and started to leaf through all the papers. The garage floor was cold; Fredrika dug out a book and sat on it.

Two of the files were full of what she presumed were lecture notes. Page after page of neatly written phrases, snatched from their context to the uninitiated reader. Weighty words on the significance of Selma Lagerlöf for Swedish women writers, summarised in a few simple sentences.

Fredrika put the files to one side and opened the notebook. On the first page, Rebecca had written ‘Thea Aldrin and the lost Nobel Prize’.

Thea Aldrin. The name evoked memories that washed over Fredrika like warm waves. Thea Aldrin’s books about an angel called Dysia had been Fredrika’s absolute favourites when she was a little girl. She had been surprised when she found out that the publisher had stopped reprinting them, on the basis that there was no demand. Anyone who wanted to read Thea’s books had to seek them out in a library or a second-hand book shop.

Fredrika thought this was ridiculous, and suspected that the publisher’s lack of interest in new editions was more than likely due to the fact that they didn’t want anything to do with the author. Fredrika knew only the salient points about Thea Aldrin’s life story; from time to time, she would appear in a double-page spread in one of the tabloids under the headline ‘Unforgettable Crimes’. She knew that Thea had been sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of her ex-husband, and that the police had also suspected her of the murder of her teenage son, who had been missing since the early 1980s. There was also a suggestion that she was the author behind two extremely vulgar works that had been published under a pseudonym in the seventies. Fredrika had no idea what Thea was doing today; she only knew that she had been released in the nineties.

But Rebecca had found out a great deal more. From her notes Fredrika could see that she had got quite a long way in her research into Thea’s life. How had Alex put it? He had said that Rebecca was writing her dissertation about a children’s author. An author who, according to many critics in days gone by, was likely to be the first children’s writer to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Fredrika flicked quickly through the notebook. She decided to take it with her and read it properly later.

The folders contained a plethora of photocopied articles on the fate of Thea Aldrin, covering every possible angle. There were feminist critics, insisting that the interest in Thea’s books would never have faded if she had been a man. More traditional researchers claimed that Thea’s writing would not have attracted so much attention if she hadn’t been such a controversial figure, challenging the basic values prevalent in the 1960s.

Fredrika found a carrier bag and started packing up the files and notes. She couldn’t find a draft of the dissertation, which annoyed her. The dissertation had obviously not been completed, which meant that the likelihood of the university having a copy was increasingly unlikely.

She went through the last two boxes. One contained ornaments and photo albums. Fredrika assumed the albums had already been checked and dismissed as being of no interest, but she couldn’t resist opening them. There were pictures of lots of different places and people she didn’t recognise. She must remember to mention the albums to Rebecca’s aunt; the pictures would mean a lot to the family.

She put them back and opened the last box. Even more papers, and – right at the bottom – two floppy disks, which indicated that Rebecca had owned an old computer. Fredrika was surprised that the police hadn’t taken the disks; then again, perhaps they had been checked and returned to the family. She picked them up and turned them over; one was labelled ‘DISSERTATION’ and the other ‘THE GUARDIAN ANGELS’.

She put them both in her bag.

Among all the papers there was a mass of administrative information relating to her course. One of the brochures was entitled ‘Welcome to your studies in the History of Literature’. Fredrika felt quite nostalgic as she turned the pages and read about how the department worked. Somewhere in the middle she stopped as one particular sentence caught her eye:

‘Not sure what to do after graduation? Come and find out more about Alpha, our mentoring network!’

The exhortation was signed by the president of the students’ union.

The mentoring network again. Now it had a name: Alpha. Fredrika knew something about the process, and she was aware that by no means all students who showed an interest were allocated a mentor. An assessment was made based on the student’s profile and ambitions. According to Alex, the financier Valter Lund had been Rebecca’s mentor; he was a man who had climbed rapidly within Axbergers, a major company. He was originally from Norway. But how had this come about? How did a girl who was studying the history of literature end up with Valter Lund as her mentor? Fredrika decided to take a closer look at Alpha.

On the last page of the brochure, she found a list of those who worked in the department, together with their contact details. Gustav Sjöö, Rebecca’s supervisor, was circled in red ink.

And next to his name, written by hand in the same red ink,

‘SPENCER LAGERGREN, DEPARTMENT OF THE HISTORY OF LITERATURE, UNIVERSITY OF UPPSALA’.

The red ink seemed to glow, and Fredrika suddenly felt weak at the knees.

Without thinking, she folded the brochure in half and slipped it into her pocket. She put everything else she wanted to take with her into the carrier bag, then switched off the torch and went back into the house.

‘I’ve finished now, thank you,’ she said to Rebecca’s aunt. ‘I’d like to take this with me, if that’s OK.’

She held up the carrier bag, the brochure burning a hole in her pocket. She could hardly breathe.

Spencer.

The man who had once promised he would never lie to her again. Who had suddenly decided he wanted to go on paternity leave.

What are you hiding from me, my love?

17

Alex Recht couldn’t decide how to proceed. Håkan Nilsson had been allowed to go home, but he was still being kept under surveillance, and both his mobile and landline were being monitored.

Fredrika had come back from her visit to Rebecca’s aunt, and was closeted in her office with the material she had brought in. She had given him a brief verbal report, suggesting that they should look more closely at the mentoring network. Alex didn’t really agree with her, but since none of their other lines of inquiry were entirely satisfactory, he didn’t raise any objections.

We need to keep every line of inquiry alive.

He glanced at the clock. Fredrika would probably leave in a few hours, and she wouldn’t be back until Monday morning. He hoped she would be able to balance work and home life successfully; the team didn’t need another Peder.

Alex decided to call Torbjörn Ross and thank him for the invitation to go fishing at the weekend. Unfortunately, he would have to say no; he had far too much on at work. Far too much to think about. Far too much to…

‘Torbjörn Ross.’

‘Hi, it’s Alex. I just wanted to let you know that I’d really like to come over this weekend.’

Would I?

His palms suddenly felt sweaty. Had he taken leave of his senses?

‘That’s great,’ said Torbjörn. ‘I thought you’d say no.’

So did I.

‘It was the fishing trip that persuaded me.’

‘Thought so. I’ll ring Sonja and tell her you’re coming with us.’

‘Hang on. I think it’s best if I bring my own car; I have to work tomorrow, and I’d like to join you a bit later, if that’s OK.’

Of course it was OK. There was nothing that couldn’t be sorted out. The important thing was that Alex was coming to the cottage, getting away from the city for a while. Fresh air and a glass or two of cognac with Torbjörn.

When he had ended the call, Alex rang his daughter to tell her about his plans for the weekend. He could hear how pleased she was, and knew that he was sending out signals that she found very welcome. Look, I’ve got a life. Friends, leisure interests. Everything I need.

His chest contracted with pain. The loss of Lena had proved that there are very few things people actually need. In the end, there hadn’t been a single thing he wouldn’t have given up to get her back. Not a single thing.

His mobile rang, providing a welcome distraction. Something to focus on.

‘It’s Diana Trolle. Am I disturbing you?’

‘Of course not. How are you?’

What would she say? What could he cope with? What if she said that her life was meaningless, that she could hardly bring herself to get out of bed in the mornings? She spared him the worst; it was understood.

‘I’m getting there. I just wanted to know how things were going.’

Alex closed his eyes for a second, wishing he could say that things were going really well, that they had identified the killer who was now under arrest in Kronoberg. Instead, he said:

‘Do you recognise the name Gustav Sjöö?’

‘No. Or… hang on. Yes, I do. He was Rebecca’s supervisor at the university.’

‘What was his relationship with Rebecca like?’

‘There was no relationship, as far as I know.’

‘I mean did they get on well on a professional basis?’

‘No, I don’t think they did. She wasn’t satisfied with him.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘He never seemed to have time for her. I remember she felt frustrated; she thought he could have done a better job. She even tried to change to another supervisor, but the university wouldn’t let her. Why are you asking about him? Is he a suspect?’

A question Alex didn’t want to answer.

‘We’re looking at a number of different people.’

Evasive, not warm and confiding as he had wanted to be.

‘Do you know who the father of her child was?’

There was only one possible answer to that question.

‘I can’t comment on that.’

There was silence at the other end of the line, and he could hear the sound of pain and loss.

‘Sometimes, I think I can hear her. All those little noises she used to make, and I never even noticed. I hear her, Alex. Does that sound crazy?’

When Alex tried to reply, the words stuck in his throat.

‘Not at all. I think it’s quite common to experience that kind of phenomenon in your situation. Losing someone you love can be like losing an essential part of your body. You’re aware of it all the time, even though it isn’t there any more.’

‘Phantom sounds.’

He smiled, blinked to clear his vision.

‘You hear them virtually all the time.’

‘Even though they’re not there.’

Her voice had faded to a whisper, and Alex rested his head against the receiver. He realised that he liked hearing her voice. It breathed life, even though it spoke of death.

When he had ended the call he went to look for Peder.

‘I want Gustav Sjöö brought in before the weekend.’

‘Me too,’ said Peder. ‘I’ve made a few calls, checked his alibi. It’s weak. He could easily have driven into Stockholm, picked up Rebecca and driven back to Västerås.’

‘Bring him in. Now.’

The view from her window was depressing; there was no point in looking out. How could anyone possibly have given planning permission to construct buildings as ugly as police HQ in Kungsholmen? One monstrosity after another. Small windows and poky offices.

There was no air, Fredrika decided. They assumed everyone had somewhere else to be where they could breathe more easily.

She rang home, checked that everything was OK. She sensed some imbalance in Spencer, but decided not to mention it on the phone. She couldn’t explain why, and that scared her. She could hear Saga in the background, and felt her heart swell. She had never imagined that it would be possible to feel such love. It was so pure, so self-evident and so unconditional; sometimes it left her speechless. She would catch herself watching the child and would suddenly realise she was on the verge of tears. If any harm came to Saga, she would lose her mind. Her very soul would be damaged.

Take my child and I would have nothing left.

She wondered if that feeling would weaken over time, if she would start to take Saga for granted or love her less. Didn’t Diana Trolle look like a woman who could learn to live again? After two years in the limbo of uncertainty she had finally found out what had happened to her daughter, and with that knowledge came a much longed-for peace. Fredrika was struck by a depressing thought: Diana had another child. Did that make any difference? Was the grief easier to bear if you still had one child left?

Take my child and I would have none left.

She tried to shake off the sense of unease that had crept up on her. Spencer didn’t want any more children, and she was almost forty. It was the right decision, not to have any more. For the whole family.

She unfolded the brochure she had slipped into her pocket earlier, and stared at Spencer’s name. It didn’t mean anything, she told herself, which was why she would ignore it. But she would keep the brochure.

Keep it and keep it to herself. A breach of the rules, but what could she do? There was obviously some logical explanation for the fact that Spencer’s name had come up.

The mentoring network, on the other hand, looked interesting. She checked on the website of Stockholm University’s students’ union and discovered that the scheme still existed. With a mentor by his or her side, the student was promised a guide, a greater sense of security and better preparation for life after graduation.

‘Have you decided what you want to be when you grow up?’ the website asked.

I haven’t, actually, Fredrika thought wearily.

All students were welcome to join the network. There were lectures and social events, a range of opportunities to develop contacts in different branches of industry. According to the website, a number of students would be selected on the basis of merit and education, and would be allocated a personal mentor. The mentors themselves had a variety of backgrounds, but were united by a desire to help ambitious young people progress in their chosen career.

But had Rebecca, a conscientious student with literature as her main subject, really been heading for such a career?

Valter Lund, the man who was predicted to be the next Swede to be invited to join the legendary Bilderberg Group – why had he been chosen to mentor Rebecca? Fredrika had read a number of articles about him, the financial superstar who came out of nowhere and eclipsed all the other stars in the sky. If she remembered correctly, he was about forty-five, and came originally from Norway. He looked pleasant; he was tall and slim. A much sought-after member of the most important company boards; a man who could reputedly turn cold ashes into gold. For Valter Lund, there was no such thing as poor soil or bad luck, simply an underlying belief in competence and ability.

How could he even find the time to be a mentor?

Fredrika found the number of the president of the students’ union on the website; he answered on the third ring.

‘Mårten, right in the middle of a meeting.’

‘Fredrika Bergman, police.’

Always equally effective; why did people have this innate respect for an organisation that aimed to manage society’s monopoly on violence?

‘OK, give me two seconds to finish off what I’m doing.’

He was back a moment later.

‘Police, you said?’

‘I’m calling about your mentoring network.’

‘Oh?’

A hesitant response, full of suspicion. Why would the police be calling about a network that could take the individual student to heights he or she couldn’t even dream of?

‘I’m investigating the murder of Rebecca Trolle, and your mentoring network has come up. I’d appreciate it if you could answer a few questions.’

‘OK. Although I wasn’t president when she was here.’

‘But you remember her being part of the network?’

‘Oh, yes, I was one of the people who set the whole thing up.’

A hint of pride in the voice, mixed with a distinctly less appealing smugness.

‘Valter Lund was Rebecca’s mentor.’

‘I remember that; a lot of people wanted him.’

‘Wasn’t it a bit strange that he ended up with Rebecca? Given that she was studying literature, I mean. She doesn’t seem to have been aiming for a high-flying career in industry.’

Fredrika was striving to maintain a neutral tone, trying to pretend that this question was just one of many that she was pondering.

‘It was different back then,’ said Mårten.

‘In what way?’

‘That was the year we set up the mentoring network. We thought the mentor’s role should be to coach and inspire, to be a kind of general guide. When we paired up the students and mentors, we disregarded what course they were following and their future plans, and tried to find a combination that was as exciting as possible. That meant we avoided pairing up men with men and women with women, business people with students of economics, artists with art students.’

‘That was daring.’

‘And stupid. It didn’t work at all, because it turned out that everyone thought the same as you. The students wanted a role model, and the mentors wanted a carbon copy.’

She heard him sigh.

‘So the following year we revamped the whole system.’

‘By which time Rebecca wasn’t there.’

‘No, and if she had been, she definitely wouldn’t have kept Valter Lund as her mentor.’

‘Did you know Rebecca?’

‘No, I can’t say I did. I saw her now and again through the network, exchanged a few words here and there. She seemed nice. Incredibly busy.’

‘Did you ever talk about her work with Valter Lund?’

‘That was the only thing we talked about.’

Of course it was.

‘Did she say how it was going? Do you know how often they met?’

‘He once invited her to lunch somewhere really expensive. And he came to listen to the choir; he does go to church, apparently. I think she said they went for a coffee afterwards. She didn’t say much about their work; I’m not convinced she was taking it all that seriously. That was also something we changed the following year; only those studying for a Master’s were allowed to take part.’

Fredrika tried to remember Rebecca’s diary. Surely, the abbreviation ‘VL’ had appeared more than twice?

‘Did you ever speak to Valter Lund? About his experiences as a mentor, I mean.’

‘I never spoke to him personally. We ran an evaluation session with the mentors, but he wasn’t here. Actually, now I come to think of it, he decided to leave the programme after the first year.’

‘He hasn’t been involved since then?’

‘No. He’s incredibly busy, of course. Several others left for the same reason.’

But none of the others had been working with a student who was murdered.

Fredrika ended the call with a vague feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. She searched through the material from the original investigation and discovered that Valter Lund had been interviewed only once.

Why?

She found her copy of the lists Peder had given her showing the results of Ellen’s check on all the main characters who came up in the original investigation. There was no mention of Valter Lund. She was surprised, and sent an email to Ellen asking her to check Valter against police records like all the others.

From the tabloid press, Fredrika knew that Lund was one of the city’s most eligible bachelors. Could he have been Rebecca’s new love? That would explain all the secrecy surrounding both the relationship and the pregnancy.

The pregnancy that had frightened Rebecca, because she suspected that the father would want to keep the child. Would Valter Lund have expressed such a view? Would he have wanted to have a child with a student who was only half his age? And if he had, would he have been so upset over her decision to terminate the pregnancy that he killed her? Because Rebecca herself had probably not known who the child’s father was; perhaps she had thought it was Valter Lund.

Murdered, dismembered and buried.

Fredrika rested her head in her hands. The killer’s MO had to be taken into account. They couldn’t disregard the fact that the body had been dismembered; there had to be an explanation. The thoughts that had kept her awake at night were back. The person who had lifted a chainsaw above Rebecca’s dead body and sliced it in two could not possibly have been a first-time killer. It was out of the question. An inexperienced killer made mistakes, dumped the body where it could be found, left evidence behind, was spotted by witnesses. People didn’t disappear from a built-up area in the middle of Östermalm, only to have their dismembered body turn up two years later. Things like that happened in only the most evil tales.

18

As usual, there was no sound from the old lady’s room when Malena Bremberg knocked. She pushed the door open and saw that the lamp on the bedside table was on.

‘Are you reading, Thea?’

She moved quietly towards the bed, almost as if she were afraid of being seen. Thea lowered the book she was holding, looked at Malena then went back to her reading.

Malena wasn’t sure what to do next. She picked up an apple core that Thea had left beside the bed, along with some papers. She threw the rubbish in the bin and came back to the bed. She looked at the old lady, who was ignoring her completely. According to the information the care home had received, Thea hadn’t spoken since 1981. Malena had no idea what had provoked this self-imposed silence. In a way, she could see certain advantages in not needing to communicate with those around you, not being expected to join in all the time. But at the same time, she could see the high price Thea paid for her silence.

Thea was regarded as unhealthily antisocial. She never took part in the group activities that were organised at the home, and she always ate in her room. At the beginning, her divergent behaviour had caused serious concern for the staff, who had consulted a doctor on Thea’s behalf. The doctor offered to prescribe antidepressants, but when he heard about the background he changed his mind. Someone who had chosen not to speak for almost thirty years was unlikely to start playing bingo with other pensioners all of a sudden, simply because he or she was being fed antidepressants. He left his card with Thea and said that she was welcome to contact him at any time. Malena had sneaked a look in the drawer of Thea’s desk and seen that the card was still there.

In the end, Malena moved one of the visitors’ chairs over to Thea’s bed and sat down. She didn’t say anything; she simply gazed at the old woman in silence. After a while, Thea lost patience and lowered her book again, resting it against her chest. The expression in the pale blue eyes looking at Malena was razor sharp.

Don’t think I’m stupid just because I choose not to speak.

Malena swallowed several times.

‘I need your help,’ she said.

Thea stared at her.

‘If you don’t want to speak, then you have to help me in some other way,’ Malena whispered.

She broke off, trying to choose her words with care.

‘You know what I want to talk about; you’ve been following the news too over the past few days.’

Thea turned her head away and closed her eyes.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ Malena said. ‘You have to tell me what you know.’

19

Peder Rydh breathed in the cool afternoon air through the half-open car window. The interior smelled unpleasant as a result of too much use and too little cleaning. His colleague in the passenger seat looked frozen, but said nothing. Peder kept his eyes fixed on the doorway of Gustav Sjöö’s apartment block on Mariatorget.

They had rung the bell, but no one had answered. Peder had shouted through the letterbox without success. There was a risk that Sjöö might be at his summer cottage in Nyköping; Peder had contacted the local police and asked them to send a patrol car to his address. They reported that the house was in darkness, and seemed to be empty.

Peder slid down in his seat. A man like Gustav Sjöö didn’t suddenly decide to live rough. He was out there somewhere, and soon he would come home.

Ylva called, reminding him of what was important in life. A cosy Friday evening with the boys – he hadn’t forgotten, had he? He assured her that he hadn’t, but explained that he would be late.

‘Very late?’

‘I’ll ring you if that’s the case.’

This new routine they had established was amazing. Ylva’s tolerance for his working hours evoked a feeling of guilt that he didn’t recognise. In the past he had been too busy defending his choices in life to have any room for guilt. If they hadn’t ended up quarrelling, he had reacted by feeling unhappy. He didn’t really understand the logic of it all.

His colleague tapped him on the shoulder.

‘Isn’t that him?’

Peder wasn’t sure. The court case and recent upheaval must have taken more of a toll on Sjöö than Peder had realised. The man was pale and looked old, very different from the pictures Peder had seen in his file.

They got out of the car and stood behind Sjöö as he was about to open the door of the apartment block.

‘Gustav Sjöö?’

It was lucky that he was holding onto the door handle. Every trace of colour drained from his face; even his lips went pale and his eyes widened as Peder and his colleagues held up their ID.

‘What the hell do you want now?’

The interview with Gustav Sjöö began at four o’clock in the afternoon. Peder found it difficult to summon up a great deal of enthusiasm. Håkan Nilsson had left HQ just a few hours ago, and now Peder was about to embark on his second interview of the day. He was working with a female officer, Cecilia Torsson. She was a new experience for Peder; he had heard that Fredrika had complained about her to Alex, but obviously she hadn’t got very far, because Cecilia was still here. In his former life as the Casanova of HQ, he would have been interested and would have asked her out for a drink afterwards. Now he barely looked in her direction, focusing instead on Sjöö.

‘You seem to be finding things rather difficult at the moment?’

He looked at Sjöö, who chose to keep his eyes fixed on the table.

‘You could say that.’

His voice sounded as if it was used too infrequently; it was hoarse and rough. His shoulders sloped with the weight of the burden that had been placed upon them. Gustav Sjöö looked exhausted, like a man who has used up all his strength and given up hope of ever regaining it.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ said Cecilia. ‘Do you remember her?’

Sjöö nodded. ‘She disappeared.’

‘As I’m sure you’ve heard on the news, we’ve found her.’

Sjöö looked up, his expression simultaneously sad and surprised.

‘You’ve found her?’

Peder stared at him.

‘I’m sorry, but where have you been for the last few days?’

‘At my summer cottage. I’d just come back when you picked me up.’

‘And you have no contact with the outside world when you’re there?’

‘No, that’s the whole point of going there, so that I can be alone. I had no idea that you’d found Rebecca. Where was she?’

Cecilia replied, ‘Buried on the outskirts of Midsommarkransen. A dog owner found her.’

Gustav Sjöö’s voice was an almost inaudible whisper: ‘Alive?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Had she been buried alive?’

The question made both Peder and Cecilia stiffen. Being buried alive was possibly the only thing worse than being dismembered and buried in bin bags.

‘No,’ said Cecilia. ‘She was dead when she was buried. Why do you ask?’

Sjöö shuffled, wrung his hands.

‘I probably just misunderstood what you said.’

Peder straightened the notepad in front of him.

‘You seem to have a tendency to misunderstand things, Gustav. For example, you misunderstood your girlfriend when you thought she wanted to have sex with you.’

Sjöö looked at Peder with distaste.

‘If that’s what you want to talk about, I’d like my solicitor present.’

Peder held up his hands.

‘Let’s go back to Rebecca. When did you last see her?’

Sjöö gawped at him.

‘Pardon me for pointing this out, but you’ve already asked that question. Two years ago, when she went missing.’

‘And now we’re asking it again.’

Sjöö rested his chin on one hand, his elbows on the table.

‘I can hardly remember. We had a supervision session a few days before she disappeared.’

‘How did it go?’

‘Fine, as far as I recall.’

‘No disagreements?’

‘Not that I can remember.’

Cecilia broke in.

‘Did you and Rebecca meet privately?’

‘Privately?’

‘Outside the university.’

Peder could see that Sjöö was genuinely bewildered.

‘No, never.’

‘Did you try it on with her?’

‘What the fuck are you…?’

‘Answer the question!’ Peder roared.

He was risking everything on the turn of one card as he slammed his fist down on the table. Sjöö was clearly shaken.

‘No, I did not.’

‘Other female students have claimed that they had problems with you.’

‘Thank you, I’m aware of that. I’m telling you what I’ve told all the other police officers: they’re lying.’

Of course they are, Peder thought grimly.

There were times when he hated his job, when he thought he’d like to do something else. Why the hell did they never get a bloody confession? Why did no one ever hold their hands up and say, ‘Yes, you’re right, I did it’? That would have made life easier. Too easy, perhaps.

‘Was Rebecca happy with your supervision?’ Peder asked.

Gustav Sjöö sighed.

‘No, I don’t think she was. I found it difficult to cope with the amount of energy she was prepared to put into her dissertation. She went back over it, reformulated the whole thrust of the piece, rewrote the questions. I thought it lacked gravitas.’

‘You thought the fact that she had energy meant her work lacked gravitas?’

‘No, of course not. But… The whole hypothesis was flawed; it was starting to resemble a police investigation. That was when I pointed out that she was actually studying literature, not criminology.’

‘What do you mean, it resembled a police investigation?’ Cecilia asked.

‘She was writing about Thea Aldrin, the children’s author who was sent to prison for the murder of her ex-husband, and who was also accused of having written violent pornography under a pseudonym. Rebecca became obsessed with Thea Aldrin, and started digging up all kinds of old stuff that had nothing whatsoever to do with the topic of her dissertation. In the end, she was convinced that Thea had neither murdered her ex, nor written the pornographic books.’

So, Rebecca had been a conscientious student. Peder found it difficult to believe that this could have provided a motive for murder.

‘How did she reach the conclusion that this Thea Aldrin was innocent?’ Cecilia asked.

‘Women’s intuition or something,’ Sjöö said. ‘She said all her sources were confidential, that she couldn’t reveal where the information came from. We had some lengthy discussions on that particular issue.’

Cecilia smiled.

‘Do you own a chainsaw?’

‘What? No. Yes.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes, I do. There’s one at my summer cottage.’

‘Do you use it often?’

‘No, I can’t say I do.’

He paused.

‘Listen, you checked me out two years ago. I had an alibi for the evening in question. Can’t we just finish this off so I can go home?’

Peder slid a piece of paper from under his notepad: the timetable for the conference Sjöö had been attending in Västerås the evening Rebecca disappeared.

‘We’ve taken a closer look at your alibi, Gustav. And it’s far from watertight. See for yourself.’

He pushed the timetable across the table.

‘This shows that you were free from 16.00 until 19.00, when pre-dinner drinks were served before the meal at 20.00.’

Sjöö looked at him.

‘Yes?’

‘Nobody would have missed you if you’d nipped back to Stockholm, dealt with Rebecca, then turned up late for dinner. It’s just over a hundred kilometres from Västerås to Stockholm. If you put your foot down, it doesn’t take too long.’

‘From a purely hypothetical point of view, I agree with you. But you’re wrong. I didn’t leave Västerås.’

‘And how can we be sure of that?’

Gustav Sjöö leaned back wearily on his chair.

‘That’s your problem, not mine. I went to my room for a nap before dinner. During the pre-dinner drinks party I chatted to a colleague from Uppsala University who can confirm that I was there.’

‘What was the name of this colleague?’

Sjöö remained silent for a moment, then he said, ‘Professor Spencer Lagergren.’

20

They still hadn’t been able to dismiss the allegation that Rebecca had been selling sex over the internet. Peder had asked the technical team to look into the website where Håkan Nilsson claimed to have seen her; he had kept all the information, including the date when he had seen her and the alias she had been using.

A feeling of restlessness was gnawing away at Fredrika’s body. She didn’t want to go home until she had made some progress in the investigation. Peder was interviewing Rebecca’s supervisor, and wouldn’t have time to ring the techies before Fredrika went home for the weekend. Her hand hovered over the telephone as she gazed out of the window. The sun was tempting; it made the brown metal on the building opposite shimmer in countless different shades. Why didn’t she go home?

They answered straight away.

‘I’m calling about the website “Dreams Come True”.’ How stupid did that sound?

‘The job we got this morning?’

‘I’m just calling on the off chance, I know you haven’t had enough time yet, but…’

‘We’ve got quite a long way. As far as we can, actually. The website is still there, and it looks pretty bloody kinky. Several of the girls on there are definitely under fifteen.’

‘What kind of website is it?’

Her voice was hesitant; she didn’t really want to know.

‘The principle is the same as for ordinary Internet dating, although in this case it’s only girls who upload their profiles, and it’s exclusively for sex. Imagine sex as an extreme sport. I mean, nobody would visit this site to find the woman he’d want to spend the rest of his life with.’

Sex as an extreme sport – the twenty-first century’s distorted view of what constituted good sex.

‘Did you manage to find Rebecca’s profile?’

‘We didn’t think it would be possible at first, but we managed to identify the website’s administrator.’

Fredrika was surprised.

‘How come?’

‘All websites have an administrator. This one is run by a guy who owns a porn shop in the Söder district. If you go and speak to him, he should be able to help; you’ve got her alias. Just because you take pictures down from a website, that doesn’t mean they’re gone forever. He’ll have kept them, guaranteed. Push him hard; as I said, there are some very young girls on that website.’

Fredrika took down the name and address. Stared at the piece of paper, gazed out of the window. Looked back at the address. She wanted to know more. More, more, more. She took out her mobile to call Spencer.

Spencer. Whose name was written in red ink in a brochure that had been in the possession of the murder victim.

She called home, pressing the telephone close to her ear when she heard his wary voice. An hour. That was all she needed to fit in a visit to Söder, then she would hurry home. She must find time to play her violin for a little while this evening. To dispel those thoughts, to drive away the anxiety and the distraction.

The man’s groaning and moaning grew louder and louder; he could be heard throughout virtually the entire shop. He was out of sight behind a paper-thin closed door, but there wasn’t much doubt what he was up to. Fredrika glanced at the male colleague she had brought with her to the porn shop; he seemed to be finding the whole thing extremely entertaining. He was looking around at the shelves, taking in the rows of dildos and sex toys.

The shop was located in a basement, with the same paucity of light as the garage Fredrika had visited. She peered through the gloom, searching for the owner of the shop and, hopefully, the person responsible for ‘Dreams Come True’. She wanted to get this out of the way and head home as soon as possible.

The door to the small booth accommodating the groaning man flew open and he emerged. He caught Fredrika’s eye. And smiled. She felt her cheeks flush bright red, and looked away. Why didn’t he want the ground to swallow him up? How could he walk out with his head held high when he’d just been masturbating in front of a porn film?

‘Can I help you?’

She couldn’t see where the voice was coming from; she turned and saw a young man who had suddenly appeared behind the counter. She took two firm steps towards him, then stopped, unable to bring herself to move any closer. He smiled at her uncertainty.

She took out her ID and introduced herself and her colleague.

‘It’s about a website.’

The man raised one eyebrow, his expression quizzical.

‘Oh?’

‘Are you the person who started “Dreams Come True”?’

‘Yep. There’s nothing illegal in that.’

Pictures of young girls, on their way to adult life via the internet. How could it be legal to hold the gates of hell wide open for underage girls?

‘We’re looking for a profile that was taken down from the website about two years ago.’

The man burst out laughing and moved over to the till.

‘Two years ago? In that case I can’t help you, unfortunately. Much as I would like to, of course.’

The look in his eyes was so crafty that it took Fredrika’s breath away. Her colleague stepped in.

‘Listen to me, you slimy little bastard. Your website is smack bang in the middle of an investigation into the murder of a woman whose body was dismembered, and if you know what’s good for you and your shop, you will answer my colleague’s questions!’

The man blinked, his pupils dilated.

‘I’m not involved in any murder!’

‘Prove it by helping us!’

The officer’s fist whistled through the air and slammed down on the glass counter. The shop owner stared at the cracked glass and turned to his computer.

‘What was her name?’

‘Rebecca Trolle.’

‘That’s no use to me; what was her alias?’

‘Miss Miracle.’

Just uttering the words made Rebecca feel ill.

‘Her profile has been taken down.’

‘We know that, but we think you’ve kept a copy.’

‘Absolutely not, I can assure you that I never…’

Her colleague moved so fast that Fredrika barely had time to react. In less than a second he had the shop owner pressed up against the wall. Fredrika had heard Peder holding forth when the question of the use of excessive violence by the police arose.

‘We have to speak the language the bastards understand,’ he always used to say.

She looked at her colleague’s back view, the shop owner’s face just visible over his shoulder.

‘We don’t want your fucking assurances because they’re not worth jack shit to us. We want the pictures, get it?’

But what if he hasn’t got any pictures, Fredrika thought, her heart racing.

Her colleague let go of the man, who sank down onto the floor. The shop was full of fear, as palpable as a bad smell.

‘OK, OK.’

To her surprise she saw the owner pick himself up and return to his computer.

‘Oh, yes, now I realise I can call up her history. But it’ll take a minute, all right?’

That was fine, as long as it was only a minute. The feeling that something wasn’t as it should be grew as Fredrika waited for the result. Her colleague stood behind the owner, glowering at the screen. Fredrika tried to remember if she’d ever been in a similar place before; she didn’t think so. Maybe once when she was a student, just for fun. But it hadn’t been like this, in a basement so cut off from reality that there could be no perception of the beautiful day outside.

‘Got it,’ said the owner. ‘The person who uploaded this girl’s profile then took it down did a rubbish job. It hasn’t been removed, it’s just been temporarily shut down.’

‘How come?’

‘Perhaps she didn’t know how it worked. She must have thought she’d removed the profile, when in fact she’d just suspended things temporarily.’

‘She? Who’s she?’

‘The girl who uploaded the profile in the first place.’

‘How do you know it was a girl?’

The man looked at Fredrika as if she was stupid.

‘The person in these pictures looks very much like a girl to me.’

Fredrika suppressed a groan of frustration.

‘We have reason to believe that the girl in these pictures didn’t set up the profile herself.’

The answer came instantly.

‘That’s not my problem.’

Fredrika ignored him.

‘Can you tell who uploaded the profile in the first place?’

‘Possibly; I think I kept the emails. When someone joins the website they have to accept the terms and conditions via email.’

‘And those terms and conditions state that you have the right to use the pictures again, presumably?’

The shop owner shrugged.

‘It’s their choice. Nobody makes them do it.’

Nobody makes them do it.

Fredrika felt nothing but revulsion. And despair. Where was the choice in a place like this?

‘I can give you a name and the IP number of the computer that sent the email. The name is probably false, but you should be able to get somewhere with the IP number.’

Fredrika waited as he wrote; he passed her a grubby scrap of paper folded in half.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘And now I’d like to see the pictures.’

The man stepped aside to make room in front of the computer. A click of the mouse and Rebecca Trolle filled the screen. The pictures were not what Fredrika had expected. Rebecca was lying on her side in bed, naked. She appeared to be asleep; it looked completely natural, not as if she had been drugged.

Fredrika leaned closer to the screen.

‘It’s impossible to tell where they were taken,’ she murmured.

The images revealed nothing apart from an ordinary bed and white walls. A small number of photographs above the bed suggested that the room was in someone’s home.

‘When was the profile uploaded?’ she asked.

The man pointed, and Fredrika could see that it was just under two weeks after Rebecca went missing. Why would someone do such a thing if they had nothing to do with the murder? She stared at the screen, desperate to spot some detail that would reveal more about the background to the pictures.

She pointed at Rebecca’s head.

‘Look at the length of her hair; it’s quite short. When she disappeared, it was down to her shoulders.’

‘So it’s an old picture. It wasn’t taken by someone who was keeping her prisoner.’

Fredrika turned to the shop owner.

‘I want electronic copies of all the pictures.’

He said nothing, but dug out a CD and burned all the material he had onto it.

Fredrika took the CD and turned to leave. The shop door opened and a new customer came in. Fredrika avoided looking at the man and moved away.

‘We’ll be back if we need any more help,’ she said to the owner.

‘Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,’ he replied, glancing at her colleague.

Fredrika was clutching the CD as they walked out into the fresh air. She wanted to get home as quickly as possible, to hold Saga in her arms and protect her from all the repulsive elements of the adult world.

‘I’ll check out the IP number and the name this afternoon,’ her colleague said as Fredrika passed him the scrap of paper with the details.

She shivered in the cool spring weather. There was something in the pictures of Rebecca Trolle that was niggling away at her. Something that would reveal where they had been taken. And by whom.

21

Alex and Peder were sitting in silence on opposite sides of the desk in Alex’s office.

‘I don’t think Sjöö did it,’ said Peder.

‘Me neither.’

‘Rebecca seems to have chosen an interesting storyteller for her dissertation. A perverted killer, by the sound of it.’

Alex seemed to be far away.

‘We’d better have a look at the chainsaw anyway,’ said Peder.

He looked downhearted.

Alex opened the file in front of him. Rebecca Trolle’s life and death between two pieces of cardboard. A pile of photographs lay uppermost.

‘Håkan Nilsson,’ said Alex, placing a picture of Håkan in front of Peder. ‘A rather persistent friend who seems to be completely divorced from reality when asked to describe his relationship with Rebecca. He has also slept with her, and was the father of the child she was expecting.’

He placed a picture of Gustav Sjöö next to the one of Håkan.

‘Gustav Sjöö, the supervisor who was subsequently accused by several female students of being a dirty old man, and who was also reported for attempted rape. He was obviously another repellent man who was in Rebecca’s circle of acquaintances when she died.’

Alex took a deep breath.

‘In addition, there are indications that Rebecca may have been selling sex over the Internet, which gives us God knows how many potential perpetrators. And then there was the volatile ex-girlfriend.’

Peder picked up both photographs.

‘I heard Fredrika was following up the Internet lead; she was going to visit a porn shop over in the Söder district.’

‘Do you believe in that angle?’ Alex asked.

His voice was tired, but his expression was alert.

‘No, I don’t. But on the other hand…’

‘Yes?’

Peder hesitated.

‘I don’t believe that Gustav Sjöö murdered her, but I do have a feeling the solution lies in that direction.’

‘In what direction?’

‘Fredrika quite rightly pointed out that a significant proportion of Rebecca’s life was centred on her studies and the university. We ought to speak to more of her fellow students, including those who weren’t particularly close to her.’

‘Fredrika has started taking a closer look at the mentoring network,’ Alex pointed out.

‘In that case I’ll move onto Rebecca’s other activities as a student. She seems to have been working hard on her dissertation, which could well have brought her into contact with a lot of people.’

Peder got up to leave, then sat down again.

‘Have we got an ID on the male victim yet?’

‘Ellen gave me a list of possible names just before you arrived; I was intending to go through it now.’

Peder lowered his eyes.

‘We’re not going to solve this unless we find out who he is.’

‘I know,’ Alex said.

His promise to Diana echoed inside his head. I’ll solve this case if it’s the last thing I do.

‘There must be a connection, one way or another. It’s just impossible that…’

‘I know,’ Alex said again.

His tone was harsher than he would have wished, but he didn’t want to hear about difficulties and obstacles. For Alex, the only way was the way forward.

Peder stood up.

‘Håkan Nilsson,’ Alex said. ‘What are we going to do with him over the weekend?’

‘I think we should keep him under surveillance for a few more days, see where he goes. What about his alibi?’

‘It’s valid, unfortunately, although that doesn’t necessarily rule him out. He could have been working with someone else who took care of her initially.’

‘And Gustav Sjöö?’ Peder asked.

‘I think we’ll let him go for the time being. We’ve got nothing on him. His alibi worked out after all, didn’t it?’

‘Looks that way. He gave me the name of a colleague who can confirm that he didn’t leave the conference in Västerås; I’ll follow it up on Monday.’

Peder went back to his office, and Alex settled down with the list of possible missing persons who could be the man they had found buried not far from Rebecca’s body. They were all men who had been reported missing in the Stockholm area twenty-five to thirty years ago. There was only one who was as tall as their victim, and he was considerably older. Damn.

Alex moved onto the next list, which covered men reported missing throughout the whole of Sweden. He went through the names carefully; one had been circled by Ellen. Possible? she had written in the margin.

Henrik Bondesson. A man who had disappeared in Norrköping two weeks before his forty-sixth birthday, and had never been found. Why not?

Alex went to see Ellen and asked her to contact the local police.

‘I’d like them to bring up his file and fill me in on the background.’

He went back to his office with renewed vigour. Perhaps he was on the way to providing another family with a grave to visit.

She was like a fairy tale, a saga. That was the way Fredrika Bergman thought of her daughter, and that was why she had chosen the name Saga. Simple and logical, like so many other things.

Saga was asleep when Fredrika got home from work. Spencer was in the library, reading a book. The light from the window caught his hair, making it shine like silver. Fredrika stopped in the doorway.

‘Sorry I’m so late.’

Spencer looked up and raised one eyebrow.

‘As you know, I’ve never been very good at keeping an eye on the clock either.’

She went over to him and perched on the arm of the chair. She gave him a hug, enjoying the feeling of closeness to a man she didn’t think she could ever stop loving.

‘What are you reading?’

‘A book that a colleague of mine co-wrote. It’s pretty boring, to be honest.’

Yes, you should be honest.

She trembled as she breathed out. Should she bring up the issue of Rebecca Trolle with him right now?

‘How was work?’ he asked.

‘Stressful. How was your day?’

‘Saga and I went to the swings; we had a lovely walk in the sunshine.’

He fell silent.

‘Have you heard any more from the university?’

Spencer stiffened.

‘About that student who was complaining about your supervision,’ Fredrika clarified.

Spencer grunted and got to his feet. He grabbed his stick and went over to the window.

‘No, I haven’t heard a thing.’

He seemed tired and downcast. Fredrika didn’t know what to say.

‘Are you enjoying being at home with Saga? It’s not too tiring for you, is it? Because if it is…’

Her voice died away. What would happen if it was all too much for Spencer? Would she give up work?

‘It’s absolutely fine.’

Fredrika watched him as he stood by the window. All of a sudden he seemed out of reach, lost in problems he wasn’t prepared to share with her.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ she heard herself say, and Spencer turned to face her.

‘The woman whose body was found in Midsommarkransen?’

‘Yes.’

She hesitated. But she had to know.

‘Did you know her?’

‘No, of course not; why do you ask?’

Because I saw your name among her papers, Spencer, and now I’m wondering how the hell you were connected with her.

She shrugged.

‘No particular reason. I just thought you might have bumped into one another at a seminar or something; she was studying the history of literature after all.’

Spencer was looking at her as if she had lost her mind.

‘I have no recollection of ever meeting her.’

So that was that. The matter was resolved.

Saga woke up, and Fredrika hurried into the nursery.

‘Hello, angel,’ she said as she picked her up.

Saga wriggled in her arms; she wanted cuddles, and rubbed her forehead against the base of Fredrika’s throat.

‘Did you miss Mummy today?’ Fredrika said, kissing the top of the child’s head. ‘Did you?’

Saga hurled her dummy onto the floor and attempted to follow it. Fredrika crouched down and let her daughter crawl away. In many ways she envied the child, who had the privilege of being able to regard the world as exciting and genuinely uncomplicated. Every day promised new discoveries that made her chortle with joy. It was as if she never experienced the tedium of everyday life, but was constantly on the way towards a new adventure.

Saga crawled towards Fredrika, clutching a big piece of Lego in her hand. She grabbed her mother’s legs and pulled herself up, beaming with delight.

‘She’ll be walking any day now.’

Spencer was standing in the doorway.

‘It certainly looks that way,’ Fredrika replied.

The joy of being a mother suffused her entire body; work was far, far away.

Until her mobile rang.

It was the colleague who had accompanied her to the porn shop in Söder. Fredrika avoided looking at Spencer as she answered; she didn’t really want to tell him about her trip to the depths of sexual behaviour.

‘The IP number belongs to the university,’ her colleague said. ‘And the name didn’t get us anywhere.’

‘Rebecca’s profile was uploaded from a computer at the university?’

‘Yes – one of the student computers that anyone can book.’

A fresh hope sprang up.

‘We had a similar situation when we were working on the murder of the Ahlbins last year,’ she said. ‘Check with the university to see if they keep their booking records. If they do, we can see who booked that particular computer and…’

‘I’ve already called them. They don’t keep any records.’

‘Damn.’

She was about to hang up, feeling crestfallen, when something occurred to her.

‘Can you send the pictures on the CD to my private email address?’

Her colleague hesitated.

‘What for?’

‘I want to look at them again; I thought something rang a bell in one of them.’

Her colleague promised to send them over.

‘Are you working this weekend?’ Spencer asked when she had finished speaking.

There was nothing accusatory in his tone; it was a simple enquiry. She shook her head firmly.

‘This weekend is our time.’

She had left the carrier bag full of Rebecca’s papers in her office. She thought of the floppy disks; she had forgotten to go through them. They could wait.

They looked at one another, and Fredrika smiled. She could play her violin later.

‘Would you like to do something special, Professor?’

It would soon be evening; the colours in the sky left no doubt. Alex Recht looked at his watch: it was almost half-past six, and the department was almost deserted.

His reluctance to go home was almost insurmountable. The children had questioned his decision to stay on alone in the house in Vaxholm; shouldn’t he move closer to the city, try living in an apartment?

He didn’t want to think about that too much. Alex and Lena had always planned to move into a city apartment when they got older, but now he was alone, and the project had completely lost its appeal. If he moved out of the house, he would no longer know who he was. His daughter understood better than his son.

‘It’s a house, for God’s sake. Sell the bloody thing.’

It had been impossible to reason with his son when he returned from South America. His girlfriend had found it difficult to obtain a residence permit, and he had cursed Swedish bureaucracy. He picked quarrels with Alex, telling him the hours he worked were just ridiculous. He cursed his mother for not getting better, and he hated his sister who was in a serious relationship with a man the rest of the family found slightly odd.

‘Stop fighting with the rest of us and focus on your own life instead,’ Lena had said to her son the day she died. ‘It’s not our fault you’ve found it difficult to grow up.’

Her words had brought about a change. There were fewer arguments, and when the family gathered in church for Lena’s memorial service, Alex felt that their son was at peace.

The very thought of the service made him want to cry.

He turned to the computer and read through the log that had been set up to record the progress of the case. No leads on the person who had published pictures of Rebecca Trolle after her disappearance on a website aimed at those looking to buy sexual services. But Fredrika had asked for copies of the pictures to be sent to her home email: Why?

He thought about the profile. Could Rebecca have been kept prisoner as a sex slave and sold to the highest bidder, then murdered and buried? He didn’t think so. The profile had been taken down after a few weeks, and had not reappeared.

Alex read on. Several interviews had been conducted with Rebecca’s friends and fellow students, but nothing new had emerged. A few hastily written lines caught his eye. One of the students had remembered that Rebecca had been so dissatisfied with her supervisor that she had secretly contacted another researcher at the University of Uppsala to ask for help. The student wasn’t sure if Rebecca had managed to establish regular contact with this new supervisor, but she thought they had spoken on the phone. She couldn’t remember his name.

Alex took out the copy of Rebecca’s diary and leafed through it. The abbreviations that had not yet been identified had been circled in red:

HH

UA

SL

TR

Could one of these be the new supervisor? If Alex had been younger he would have gone to the home page of the Department of the History of Literature at the University of Uppsala, to check if any of the academic staff had the initials HH, UA, SL or TR. But instead, he wrote an email to Ellen Lind, asking her to check when she came in on Monday. It seemed rather foolish to suspect every male employee at a Swedish university, but then again…

He was determined to leave no stone unturned.

His mobile rang just as he was about to pack up and go home to dig out his old fishing equipment ready for Sunday’s outing with Torbjörn Ross.

It was the officer at the grave site who had begged for more manpower. It was becoming impossible to keep the journalists at bay. They were bombarding the police with questions: why were they still digging? What were they expecting to find?

No bloody idea.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Friday evening,’ his colleague said. It sounded as if he thought Alex was at home.

‘No problem.’

‘I just wanted to let you know that we’re going to take a break from digging until Sunday or Monday. The lads are worn out, and I haven’t had the relief team I asked for.’

No relief team? Was there really another case that had been given a higher priority? Alex doubted it.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘I know you’re doing your best. Go home and rest; just make sure someone stays there to guard the site.’

Otherwise, the graves would be turned into a sandpit overnight. It wasn’t only the journalists who were curious; a number of private individuals were also keen to see what was going on. They would come tiptoeing along, watching the police from a safe distance, expectant and desperate for excitement. It was as if the trees and the ground had been transformed into a magical place over the past few days.

The day they buried Lena, Alex had seen several people he didn’t recognise in the church.

The priest had explained, ‘There are always those who don’t belong, but come to join in.’

‘But why?’

‘Because they’re lonely. Because they have nothing better to do. Because they couldn’t bear it if they weren’t able to share in the misery of others. Someone else’s grief gives them a perspective on life.’

Alex had been astounded. And slightly annoyed. If there were people who wanted to prey on his grief, they could at least ask permission first.

Slowly, he got ready to go home. The days when he had been eager to leave work were long gone. The house that was waiting for him was silent and empty and full of memories. Fridays were the worst. Sunday evenings were the best.

When he finally got to his feet he decided to drive past the site of the graves in Midsommarkransen. He somehow felt that he wasn’t grounded in this case; he was fumbling among the different lines of inquiry. There were too many of them, and they were too vague.

Countless times, he had tried to imagine the final hours of Rebecca Trolle’s life. He had pictured her calling her mother, telling her about the social event with the mentors. Leaving the student hostel and walking towards the bus stop. Travelling to Radiohuset and getting off the bus.

Why was it so difficult to work out where she had been going?

Feeling frustrated, Alex closed the door of his office and locked it.

A colleague from Nyköping called: they had picked up Gustav Sjöö’s chainsaw from his summer cottage. SKL, the National Forensics Lab, would attempt to match the chain with the surfaces of the bones in Rebecca’s skeleton where the body had been cut in half. He sounded optimistic; if they got a match, it would mean they had identified the tool that had been used to dismember the body.

True, Alex thought. But we won’t get a match. Because it isn’t Gustav Sjöö we’re looking for.

22

The apartment had become a prison. Håkan Nilsson looked out of the window, making sure he was standing to one side and not right in the middle. They were sitting down there in the car, he was absolutely sure of it. He had seen them when he left for work this morning, and when he came back from the police station this afternoon. Surveillance. Watching his every move.

Håkan guessed that they had started listening in to his telephone calls as well, which was why he kept his mobile switched off in his jacket pocket and had unplugged the landline. This didn’t really affect his life – he had very few friends, and they wouldn’t react if they couldn’t get hold of him for a few days. His mother might be a bit anxious. She worried about everything, and seemed to have developed an actual need to be nervous.

He hoped she wouldn’t realise who the newspapers were writing about. The headlines were mercifully vague: ‘Suspected killer is friend of Rebecca Trolle’. He avoided watching the parts of the news broadcasts that related to him. He wished that the whole circus would come to an end, that they would leave him in peace.

There were words within the general hubbub of news that hit him so hard he couldn’t catch his breath. Her body had been in plastic bin bags. Dismembered. He almost threw up. She had been desecrated before she was laid to rest. If only he had known where she was during the two years he had been without her. If only he had had a place to go where he could feel her presence.

Håkan started to cry, and moved away from the window, sticking close to the walls to make himself invisible in his own apartment. He went into the bedroom and lay down. The photo album was under his pillow; he rolled over onto his stomach and slid it out. He opened it with trembling hands, gazed at the many photographs.

The first class photo, taken when they started secondary school. All those expectant faces looking into the camera. Their naivety made him feel sick again. The others in the class had seemed younger than him, immature. But not Rebecca, who always smiled when he was talking to her, who lit up his world.

‘Don’t get bogged down in all that boring stuff,’ she used to say. ‘You’re letting yourself down more than anyone when you refuse to have some fun.’

He had learned to listen, to follow her advice and take note of her ideas. He had tried to be around her as much as possible, to feel her energy and lust for life rubbing off on him. He loved to see her face light up when he appeared, welcoming him into her circle.

The problem was that he could never get her alone. Håkan leafed through the album. Pictures of his father, which Rebecca had encouraged him to keep. He had wanted to chuck the lot, get rid of everything his father had ever touched. He hated him for his betrayal, for the fact that he hadn’t thought Håkan was enough, and had taken his own life. And had let Håkan find him.

Håkan was left alone with his mother; how he had hated life in those days. His mother drank more than ever, and smoked forty cigarettes a day. Håkan stank. The smoke got everywhere, into his freshly washed clothes and his newly showered hair. The stench betrayed the fact that his home life was in a state of collapse, and he had to start seeing a counsellor – a complete idiot who hadn’t a clue how things really were for Håkan.

But Rebecca knew. She listened when he talked, sat close to him even though he smelled horrible. Sometimes he would go back to her house after school and have tea with her mother and brother. They were a proper family, and Håkan loved being a part of it. When he and Rebecca did their homework together, he wanted to be at her house rather than in the library. There were photos of those occasions in the album, taken by Rebecca’s mother Diana. Håkan ran his finger over Rebecca’s face; she was gazing steadily into the camera. She was such a strong person compared to him.

More pictures, this time from the weeks before their final school exams. Their first crisis. Håkan sighed. All good relationships have to go through a crisis in order to define their parameters. The problem was that Rebecca had blown their crisis out of all proportion. She had said she couldn’t breathe, that he was suffocating her, that he was always in exactly the same place as she was, and that it was too much. She wanted to see her other friends, and he was getting in the way.

How could that possibly be true?

They had a perfect relationship, and gave each other everything they needed. Rebecca kept saying they had to give each other space, that Håkan mustn’t misinterpret what they had together.

A new page in the album, and Håkan felt a surge of irritation as usual. After the student pictures, there was a gap of a whole year in the time line. The year when Rebecca went to study in France. He found out a week before she left. His rage had threatened to boil over. He had kept out of the way ever since the exams, giving her every opportunity to understand the importance of their relationship. And she had responded by asking for more time.

He clenched his fist, slammed it down on the bed. It was lucky for Rebecca that Håkan was such a patient and generous person. He congratulated himself on his own magnanimity as he turned to the final page in the album. Few people would have show their beloved such tenderness and tolerance.

The tears began to flow as he looked at the very last picture.

A blurred, black-and-white image. An ultrasound image.

Håkan and Rebecca’s child, twelve weeks old.

He sat up on the bed, breathing heavily as he gazed at the scan.

‘Why did you have to destroy everything?’ he whispered.

23

The balcony was bathed in evening sunshine. There was a cool breeze, but it was very pleasant sitting outside with a cardigan around their shoulders. Peder and Ylva sat in silence at the table, drinking wine. They caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing.

‘Bloody hell, we’re sitting here like two pensioners,’ Peder said.

‘You mean like two worn-out parents!’

Ylva’s voice, always husky but never less than strong. A smile so wide that it had made Peder go weak at the knees the first time they met.

‘Do you want more children?’

He hardly knew why he had asked the question.

‘No, I don’t. Do you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

God knows, we had enough problems last time, didn’t we?

She followed his movements without saying anything as he drank a little more wine then put down the glass.

‘Why do you ask?’

He twisted in his chair, trying to get the sun on his face.

‘I don’t really know; I was just thinking about it.’

‘About what?’

‘Kids. How many people should have, how many people can cope with.’

Ylva tilted her head on one side so that she could see his face properly.

‘I don’t think you and I can cope with any more than we have at the moment.’

There was no hint of accusation in her words; it was more a statement of fact. A pleasant contrast to the way they used to speak to each other, shouting and crying, furious and hurt. Looking back, he couldn’t understand how they’d ever ended up in that state.

‘I agree,’ Peder said.

He thought back to another time when he had lied to her and deceived her; how he had despised himself in those days.

‘You have to forgive yourself,’ the therapist had said. ‘You have to find the courage to believe that you deserve your wonderful family and a good life with them.’

It had taken time, days and nights of his thoughts going round and round. But now he knew that he had reached safe harbour. He felt contented. Calm and secure.

‘By the way, Jimmy rang again,’ Ylva said.

‘It’s because I haven’t had time to ring him all week. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.’

‘No need. He’s coming over for a meal. Just try to be here.’

Peder raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course I’ll be here. Where else would I be?’

‘At work?’

He shook his head.

‘Not this weekend.’

She shivered, pulling her cardigan a little tighter.

‘Do you want to go inside?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

She took a sip of her wine.

‘Tell me about your new case.’

He pulled a face.

‘Not tonight. It’s too revolting to talk about.’

‘But I want to hear. It keeps coming on the news.’

Where should he begin? What could he tell her? What words could describe the case facing Alex and his team? A girl who had disappeared in Östermalm and been found by a man out walking his sister’s dog. Two years later. The colour drained from Ylva’s face when he told her about the bin bags and the chainsaw. About Rebecca’s peculiar friend Håkan and her repulsive supervisor. About the false sex profile that had appeared on the internet after her death, and about all the dead ends they had come up against so far.

‘Who would do a thing like that?’ Ylva said thoughtfully, referring to Rebecca’s photo on the website.

‘A sick bastard,’ Peder said.

‘Are you sure about that?’

He looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure it was a sick bastard, as you put it. You said the profile appeared two weeks after she went missing. That means nobody knew what had happened to her; some people probably thought she’d just gone off of her own free will.’

Peder considered what she had said.

‘You mean someone uploaded the profile because he or she was angry?’

‘Exactly. Or because they felt hurt or betrayed. That could explain why it was taken down again.’

‘When the person in question realised that there was something not quite right about Rebecca’s disappearance after all,’ Peder said.

Ylva took another sip of wine.

‘It was just a thought.’

Their neighbour appeared on his balcony; Peder and Ylva waved and he sat down with a beer.

‘And what about the man?’ Ylva asked.

‘The body that was found near Rebecca’s? No idea. Alex thought he might have found out who he was, but I’m not sure.’

‘How terrible for his family.’

‘Not knowing?’

‘Yes, not having that closure.’

Peder swallowed.

‘How long do you think a person could wait?’

Ylva frowned.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How long would you wait before you gave up? If a friend or a member of the family disappeared and was missing for decades…’

His voice died away.

‘Sooner or later you have to move on,’ Ylva said. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes.’

She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

‘That doesn’t mean you’d ever stop wondering what happened.’

Peder looked over at the neighbour’s house and down at the street where they lived. The man who had been buried must have had a family who missed him and agonised over what had happened to him. The question was whether the police would be able to find them and provide the answers they had been waiting for.

The trees cast long shadows over Alex. He was standing alone in the forest glade, aware of his colleagues standing guard a short distance away. The crater in the ground lay at his feet; he could see that the process of digging had been difficult. Rocks and tree roots had got in the way of the police team’s spades and had needed to be moved out of the way.

Alex crouched down, staring at the ground. On at least two occasions, a murderer had dragged a dead body here. Or he might have killed his victims on the spot. They couldn’t be sure, but every instinct told Alex that the murders had taken place elsewhere.

You dragged or carried your victims to this place. I can feel it: you moved through the trees like the angel of death.

He tried to reconstruct the course of events. Someone drove to the car park where he had just left his own car. Opened the boot, picked up the body and began to walk. It must have been dark. And he must have been there before. You don’t head off into a dark forest unless you know the way, know exactly where you’re going.

The grave must have been prepared before the perpetrator arrived. He could hardly have carried both the victim and a spade. Unless of course, he went back and forth to the car. Alex closed his eyes, trying to picture the scene. Had the murderer stood on this very spot holding a spade? Had he driven it into the ground, over and over again, until the grave was deep enough for the victim of his crime to disappear?

You were careless.

Alex opened his eyes. They would never have found the dead man if they hadn’t been digging. And they wouldn’t have been digging if they hadn’t found Rebecca first. Why had the killer made such an error? How come he had buried Rebecca so close to the surface that a dog had managed to dig her up?

Everything pointed to the fact that the killer had been stronger when the first murder was committed, which made sense. The first time, between twenty-five and thirty years ago, he had been strong enough to dig a grave almost two metres deep. He had also managed to carry his victim all the way here. The second time, things were very different. He wasn’t capable of digging such a deep grave, and he had dismembered the body so that he could carry it. And to make identification more difficult. However, if the only purpose of dismembering the body had been to make sure Rebecca couldn’t be identified, then the killer would have contented himself with removing the hands and head, rather than chopping the body in half.

There could be other reasons behind the dismemberment: sadism and sexually motivated murder sprang to mind. But Alex no longer believed this was the case. The perpetrator was a pragmatist. It was entirely possible that he had carried out the murder and chopped up the body without the slightest feeling of guilt or angst; Alex knew nothing about that. However, these were not the actions of a psychopath, in Alex’s opinion.

He straightened up. He was doing his best to push the thought aside, but the fact remained: they could be dealing with two different killers. Who were working together. Or perhaps one took over when the first couldn’t cope any more.

Whatever the situation might be, it was no coincidence that Rebecca and the male victim had been buried in the same place. And it would be difficult, if not impossible, to solve one murder without solving the other at the same time.

The ringtone from his mobile was so loud that Alex almost fell head first into the grave. He dug the phone out of his pocket, fumbling as he answered.

‘Alex Recht.’

‘It’s Diana Trolle. I’m sorry to keep ringing you.’

He took a step back from the edge.

‘No problem. How are things?’

She hesitated. ‘Not so good.’

‘I can understand that.’

There was a brief silence; Alex waited.

‘I feel as if I’m going mad. I’m trying to remember all kinds of things that would help you with the case, but it’s as if my brain is completely empty. I can’t remember a single thing she said that would have told me she was in trouble. I’m such a bad mother, Alex.’

He tried to calm her down. No one had asked her to start digging through painful memories, or trying to re-interpret things her daughter had said that didn’t mean anything.

‘But I should have realised,’ Diana said. ‘Done something to help her. How could she have been pregnant and not told me?’

That thought had occurred to Alex several times. How could Rebecca have been pregnant for several months without telling a single person? With the exception of the child’s father, in all probability. Håkan Nilsson.

But had she known?

Alex held his breath. With the help of DNA testing, the police had been able to establish the identity of the father. But had Rebecca been certain? There was much to suggest that she had believed it was Håkan’s child, but there was also a chance she had thought it might be someone else’s.

‘Children don’t tell their parents everything,’ he said.

‘Rebecca did.’

Not everything, Diana. Definitely not.

‘Would you like to come over for a glass of wine?’

Alex stiffened.

‘Sorry?’

‘No, I’m the one who should apologise, it was a stupid idea. I just wanted… I feel so desperately lonely.’

Me too.

‘It wasn’t a stupid idea, but… Perhaps we should wait.’

He looked around the forest. Wait for what? For the sky to fall, for Rebecca to come back from the dead, or for a week with two Sundays in it to come along?

‘That sounds sensible. Let’s wait.’

Sod it.

‘I can be with you in an hour. But I’m driving, so I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the wine.’

‘You’re very welcome in any case.’

He thought she was smiling.

He could feel the ground quivering beneath his feet, almost as if it was sighing loudly because of all the secrets buried there. He walked quickly back to his car. A thought struck him when he had almost reached it:

Would he have been able to cover the same distance carrying a dead man?