‘Okay,’ Alex said again.
He spent the rest of the evening watching a useless crime thriller, unable to get Malcolm Benke’s death out of his mind. Nor could he forget the change that he’d noticed in Fredrika. It had happened gradually during the late winter and spring. She had many excellent qualities, but she was still much too private, kept too many aspects of herself hidden from others. He could count on the fingers of one hand the few occasions when she’d dropped her guard and let him in.
The last time had been when they were out drinking wine. A lot of wine. A unique experience within their relationship; Alex had never seen Fredrika drunk before. It was the evening back in February when they’d found out that Margareta Berlin was to be their new boss.
‘This is such fucking bad news I can’t get my head around it,’ Alex had said. ‘Let’s go out and drink Berlin into oblivion.’
And they had.
Several years too late, Alex thought now. The two of us could have done with that evening when Fredrika was new to the job.
What worried him most was her reaction to Berlin’s appointment. At first she’d been just as angry and upset as Alex, but then – more or less straight away – it was as if all the frustration simply left her. As if she’d capitulated.
Surely she hadn’t given up, for God’s sake?
He could see that something was bothering her, making her unhappy.
His heart rate increased.
Just as long as he wasn’t left alone in Berlin’s empire. Then he would be lost.
Evening came, night came. Fredrika crawled into bed and reached for Spencer. He rolled over onto his back so that she could rest her head on his arm. Her hand found its way to his chest and stopped over his heart. The body’s most amazing muscle.
She breathed deeply, in, out.
‘Tough day?’ Spencer said.
How was she supposed to answer that? She couldn’t even remember a day that hadn’t been tough, and it was nothing to do with her job. Life itself was hurting her, in a way that she couldn’t fix. She didn’t want to say it out loud, though. She was keeping quiet in too many places, both at home and at work. Spencer didn’t need to wonder what was wrong; he knew. But Alex couldn’t even begin to guess.
‘It never ends,’ she said in response to Spencer’s question.
‘What never ends?’
‘The horrible stuff. It just keeps on happening.’
Spencer sighed. Was it her imagination, or had his body tensed?
‘And this is news?’
Fredrika pressed her face against his skin; she loved every millimetre of this wonderful man.
‘Do you think I’m naïve?’
He laughed. ‘Not exactly. You’re far too cynical to be naïve.’
She raised her head.
‘Cynical?’
‘Yes – that’s not news either, is it?’
Only Spencer could make such a remark sound like a compliment. Fredrika remembered what he’d said when they moved in together.
‘We mustn’t have unrealistic expectations of life, Fredrika. We mustn’t dream of a future that can’t be ours.’
He had said it as a gentle reminder that he was twenty-five years older than her, that neither of them had any right or reason to expect their life together to last forever. He probably hadn’t realised that his words would stick in her mind, that they would come back to her over and over again. The perfect future belonged to someone else. It could never be hers. To a certain extent she found comfort in accepting such a simple truth. Some people got everything, some got considerably less. Fredrika had dreamed of a career as a violinist, but her dreams had been shattered by an accident when she was a teenager. After that she had been lost, drifted from one course to another at university, embarked on a relationship with Spencer, who was her professor. She hadn’t thought for a moment that he would become the father of her children, nor that she would one day enjoy working for the police.
Fredrika had found her way home.
Then it had all turned to dust.
‘Spencer, we—’
He interrupted her immediately.
‘Let’s talk about something else. Tell me about work.’
‘There are a lot of things we ought to discuss,’ she whispered.
‘Not tonight.’
‘Okay.’
After a brief silence she asked: ‘How did the meeting go this afternoon?’
‘Fine.’ She hadn’t made it; she couldn’t have left work without drawing attention to herself. Spencer had sworn it was all right, that he was happy to go alone. All the details had been dealt with at the previous meeting when she’d been there.
That’s how we function, she thought. We don’t abandon each other.
She closed her eyes. ‘Did you mention the colour?’
She could hear Spencer’s heart pounding, couldn’t imagine a time when it would stop.
‘I said we’d changed our minds,’ he said quietly. ‘So the coffin will be white.’
INTERVIEW WITH ALEX RECHT
06-09-2016
Present: Interrogators one and two (I1 and I2), Detective Chief Inspector Alex Recht (Recht)
I1:
So Benke had been murdered, and it was your job to investigate. Was Bergman in a fit state to work?
Recht:
Absolutely.
I2:
Really? Her husband was extremely ill. That must have affected her.
Recht:
You’re right, but let me tell you this: if she’d felt for one second that she wasn’t up to the job, she would have signed herself off sick. (silence)
I1:
What did you think about Benke’s murder?
Recht:
The ring on his little finger bothered me. It was an indication that this murder was different.
I2:
Different in what way?
Recht:
It was too early to say. But then the first letter arrived . . .
I1:
Yes?
Recht:
(quietly): We didn’t realise.
I2:
You didn’t realise what?
(silence)
Recht:
That things were going to get worse. So much worse.
TUESDAY
If one more person told Noah Johansson to stop worrying about his brother’s move to Australia, he would go crazy. Because I know him, and I know there’s something weird about what’s going on here. Something dangerous.
Noah sat down at his desk. It was early in the morning, the best time of the day to call. There was only one person he could contact to talk about his brother, a man who seized every opportunity to humiliate him.
‘Yes?’ a voice said wearily on the other end of the line.
Noah’s heart sank. It was always the same; he felt strong before he phoned, but as soon as he heard that response every ounce of strength drained away. If Detective Inspector Stig Mattsson bothered to answer at all. He was a waste of space who had been designated as Noah’s contact officer. Several weeks went by before Noah realised what ‘contact officer’ meant: some poor sod who’d been told to deal with Noah’s agitated calls. Definitely not an indication that the police were following up his report. As far as Noah could tell they didn’t even think there was a case to look into; today was no different.
‘You again,’ Mattsson said. He sighed so loudly that Noah could have wept.
He couldn’t keep up this facade of politeness. He was beside himself with worry, and was hardly sleeping. If this went on he’d have to take some time off, let someone else run the business. That couldn’t happen.
‘It’s about my brother.’
‘Again.’
‘Again. It’s three weeks since I last spoke to you; have you made any progress?’
Another sigh. Noah might as well have put the phone down; he knew what was coming, knew exactly what Mattsson was going to say. They’d taken note of his concerns, there was no i
ndication that a crime had been committed, there was nothing to investigate, could Noah please stop calling (for fuck’s sake).
‘We’ve been over this several times. As I’ve already told you, we’ve been in touch with your brother and he’s confirmed that there’s nothing wrong. He—’
‘Have you spoken to him on the phone?’ Noah interrupted. ‘Or are you just referring to those emails you received?’
He’d asked the question a thousand times, and always got the same answer.
‘Noah, you know I’ve spoken to him on the phone. Very briefly, admittedly, but that was because he was on his way to a business meeting. Otherwise we’ve been in contact via email.’
Those emails. Mattsson always came back with the same counter-argument: if the family had disappeared against their will, then who was sending all those messages? Noah thought someone else could easily have taken their phones and forced them to reveal their PIN codes, but the police dismissed his objections. That kind of thing might happen in the movies, but not in real life.
‘Remind me – what business meeting?’
‘I didn’t ask, as you know perfectly well.’
Noah was on the verge of panic; he had to come up with something else, something new, something different, something that hadn’t already been said and done. He had to make it clear that the police were failing to do their job. But everything had been said, all the questions had already been asked. They weren’t interested, and if Noah made a real effort he could understand why, to a certain extent. On the surface the situation looked precisely as it should. He wasn’t sure exactly who the police might have spoken to, but every one of his brother’s friends or acquaintances would of course confirm that they’d heard Dan talking about the move to the other side of the world. Noah had called Dan’s father-in-law to ask if he was worried, but no. Apparently the family were due to fly out on the Saturday, and he’d spoken to them on Thursday to wish them bon voyage. This didn’t make Noah feel any better. If everything had been fine on Thursday, what had happened on Friday?
He had mentioned his concerns, but to no avail. Noah was aware that his sister-in-law and her family weren’t close; they spoke only a few times a year, and whenever they got together at Christmas, for example, the results were disastrous.
‘We don’t really know one another,’ his sister-in-law had said. ‘And that’s fine.’
However, this was nothing like Noah’s relationship with his brother, and he had to make the police understand that. He knew better than anyone else when something wasn’t right.
‘I have to go,’ Mattsson said. ‘If there’s nothing else . . .’
Noah took a chance.
‘What time of day was it when my brother said he was going to a meeting?’
‘Funnily enough, I do remember that. I was having lunch and I happened to belch down the phone. I’d had a kebab, the best in town. Do you know that place in the Soder district, on Hornsgatan? They deliver if you order the day before.’ But Noah wasn’t listening. He was online, checking out the time in Australia.
‘So you called him around lunchtime?’ he said.
‘I just told you. I don’t have time to talk to you any more.’
That pierced Noah’s heart like a barb. Mattsson didn’t have time to talk to him. Other matters took priority over the search for Dan.
‘So I’m guessing we’re talking about twelve o’clock, something like that?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Which is ten o’clock at night in Sydney,’ Noah informed Mattsson.
Silence, then: ‘So?’
‘You said my brother was on his way to a business meeting.’ Noah could feel his pulse rate increasing; at last he’d found concrete evidence for what he’d been trying to put across for so long. ‘Who goes to a business meeting at night?’
Silence.
‘And maybe you ought to reconsider this whole “business meeting” scenario,’ Noah went on. ‘My brother is a psychologist. He never uses terms like that. Just as he never swears at me the way he did in that email.’
He could hear Mattsson speaking quietly to someone else. He held his breath; surely the police had to take him seriously now?
‘Listen, Noah.’ Mattsson’s tone was gentler now. ‘We have a counsellor here at the station who’d be happy to see you – if you think that would help?’
Noah ended the call, absolutely devastated. He wouldn’t contact Stig Mattsson again. He had to get hold of someone else who could help him, someone who understood how unbelievable it was that an entire family had been missing for weeks, and that the police had refused to look for them. Someone who would listen.
He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands. Maybe there was one more lifeline. Maybe. The only problem was that Noah was hampered by what he could and couldn’t do as a funeral director. There were certain contacts that could be exploited, others that couldn’t.
At that moment the bell tinkled; someone had come in. He took a few seconds to compose himself, then went into the reception area to see who it was. A young woman was standing just inside the door. Noah had never seen her before, and yet she said:
‘Hi – I don’t know if you remember me? Tina.’
She smiled, but strangely enough the smile just made her look sad.
Noah shook his head, searched through his chaotic memory. Tina. Tina? No, he didn’t recognise the name.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t. How can I help?’
Tina suddenly seemed unsure of herself. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have come here . . . I feel so stupid.’
Her uncertainty gave Noah confidence.
‘There’s no need to feel stupid,’ he assured her. ‘So where did we meet?’
She fiddled with her handbag. ‘At your brother’s.’ She started to cry, a pathetic, feeble little effort. And then she whispered the words Noah had been longing to hear for months.
‘Am I the only one who’s wondering? Is no one else concerned? I’m so worried that something’s happened to Malin and Dan.’
The television was yelling and shrieking. The children were watching a film. Again. The same film. The first time they’d watched it Malin had decided to switch it off after only a few minutes; it was much too unpleasant. But now, just like so many other things, it no longer mattered.
She had often thought that they ought to pull themselves together, that nothing could be more dangerous than giving up, allowing it all to end in disaster. Her brain stopped, stuck fast on the word ‘end’. Because who knew how this was meant to end? Not Malin or her family, and that was what filled her nights with the most violent nightmares. Malin had even started thinking about her father; she missed him.
So very, very hard to bear.
All the relationships they hadn’t had the chance to conclude, to acknowledge.
Noah. Noah must be feeling terrible right now.
Everyone else thought they were in Australia, but Noah must have realised something was wrong. Dan had been smart to begin with, before he lost the battle with his demons. He had persuaded their kidnapper (how difficult was it to take that word seriously under normal circumstances?) to leave a key in Noah’s mailbox, said that Noah would start asking questions otherwise. In fact the reverse was true. They’d planned to leave a key with their neighbour, not Noah – he already had one. As did Tina, Malin’s best friend.
But she probably believes we’re in Australia, living the dream.
The opportunities to do something clever had been limited since the drama began. Malin was still overwhelmed with despair as she recalled their first few weeks in this . . . prison. They had tried to stay awake at night, tried to work out how they were going to escape from the house, reach the outside world. They had attempted to talk to the man who’d abducted them, they had shouted and wept, begged and pleaded. But nothing had worked. It was impossible to leave the house, and the man refused to grant them any kind of amnesty – a realisation that could paralyse the strongest warrior.
Dan
was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of warm milk. He was pale and hollow-eyed, more haggard than the rest of the family. It infuriated Malin. What gave him the right to feel so fucking sorry for himself?
‘Does that taste nice?’
She tried to hide the venom in her tone.
‘Yes. It’s delicious.’
So far the summer hadn’t been too hot, which Malin saw as a blessing. The heat would have made being in the house even more intolerable.
‘Good. I’m very pleased. Because you took the last of the milk. And we don’t know when we’ll get any more.’
Dan looked up, almost dazed, as if his brain was incapable of processing what she’d said. That frightened her. She couldn’t face being the only adult in the house whose sanity was intact.
‘I thought there was another litre in the fridge.’ His voice was hoarse; he had spoken so little lately.
Malin pursed her lips and shook her head. ‘You were wrong.’
She yanked open the fridge door and checked the contents of the half-empty shelves. Eggs, two cartons of juice, butter, cheese . . .
We won’t starve. Not yet.
The fear came in waves, threatened to drown her. Her eyes filled with tears, scalding like acid.
‘Do we know when the next delivery is due?’
Dan’s only response was a shrug. Malin made a mark on the bread board with the knife each morning; it was their only way of counting the days. They lived in a restricted world with no clocks or watches, but several knives. And items that had been put there to make the place feel homely. Potted plants, for example. On one occasion she had picked up the largest of them and hurled it at the living-room window with all her might. The pot was smashed to pieces, but the window was undamaged.
‘Did you really think it would be that easy?’
She hadn’t noticed her son standing behind her, so his question struck her like a bullet in her back.
Did you really think it would be that easy?
The Flood Page 6