The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  Alex glanced at his watch; his ten minutes were almost up. He gave Stig Mattsson a quick ring.

  ‘What the fuck – has he started hassling you now?’ Mattsson said when Alex explained why he’d called.

  ‘Not at all – I’m just wondering who else was involved, apart from you.’

  After reading Mattsson’s notes he was hoping to hear that other officers had taken part in the investigation leading to the decision not to take things any further.

  ‘There were several of us, obviously,’ Mattsson assured him. ‘Plus I consulted an inspector from your department.’ ‘My department?’

  ‘He spent some time with us towards the end of the year, but he’s back at HQ now. He’s very knowledgeable and experienced, which was why I turned to him. He was very clear about the fact that it wasn’t worth proceeding.’

  ‘And who was this?’

  ‘Torbjorn Ross.’

  Vendela was woken by the phone. A friend wanted to borrow a book, could she call round? Vendela stretched in bed, wishing she hadn’t worked so late. And then there was that horrible stench, seeping through the building.

  Rotting excrement. That’s what it smelled like.

  ‘I can bring pastries,’ her friend suggested. ‘From the cake shop just around the corner from you?’

  Vendela loved morning coffee. And afternoon coffee. She just loved coffee, to be honest. But that smell . . . it was messing with her head.

  ‘You’re welcome to come over, but I’d rather go out for coffee. You’ll understand when you get here.’

  Her friend arrived less than an hour later. Her expression was one of pure disgust when Vendela opened the door.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘But what the hell is that smell?’

  Vendela gave a loud, theatrical sigh, but at the same time her heart had begun to pound. Deep down a suspicion had begun to grow. She thought she’d experienced the same stench before, when her grandmother hadn’t answered her phone for several days, and Vendela and her mother finally went over to her house and let themselves in.

  Grandma?

  Grandma’s sleeping, sweetheart.

  ‘I was hoping you’d help me find out,’ Vendela said. She slid her feet into a pair of slippers and went out into the stairwell. ‘I think it’s coming from up there.’

  She set off up the stairs, followed by her friend, who was far from happy.

  ‘Jesus!’ her friend exclaimed when they reached the fifth floor.

  ‘It’s somewhere around here, isn’t it?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  Vendela did what she’d done before – she rang each doorbell. Most of the residents seemed to be out, but a young woman opened one of the doors. Vendela couldn’t remember ever having seen her before, but didn’t like to ask if she was new. She didn’t want to give the impression that she was keeping tabs on her neighbours just because she worked from home.

  ‘Sorry to bother you, but it’s about the smell,’ she began.

  ‘Oh, I know! My partner and I searched the whole flat yesterday, but we couldn’t find anything that might be causing it. I rang the housing committee, but apparently they can’t help. They don’t have keys to our apartments, and they’re not allowed access. Which is perhaps a good thing.’

  Vendela’s friend was busy going from door to door, pausing outside each one. Four doors, four potential sources of the smell.

  ‘In here,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s coming from in here.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Vendela asked.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Vendela and the young woman looked at each other, then at the door.

  The one with ‘Henry Lindgren’ on the nameplate.

  Malin and the children were sitting at the kitchen table. Thanks to her obsession with establishing routines, she’d decided they would attend summer school. Dan had yet to appear. Malin knew he’d had a headache during the night and had slept badly. This was nothing unusual; he’d suffered from migraine attacks on a fairly regular basis ever since they first met. However, he’d never had to endure them without pain relief. She couldn’t shake off the feeling of horror that spread through her body when she thought about what all this was doing to him. Maybe this isolation was taking more of a toll on Dan than on the children.

  They had to make sure he didn’t draw them into the trap along with him. If there was any possibility of escape.

  We have nowhere to hide.

  ‘I don’t understand this.’

  Her son threw his pen across the table and sulked, his head drooping over his maths book.

  Malin took a deep breath. She mustn’t lose her temper. Not before lunch, or it would be a really bad day.

  ‘Let’s go over it one more time,’ she said. ‘Watch how I do it.’

  School in the middle of summer. Just to make the time pass.

  The children hated not seeing their friends, having only each other, and Malin hated being their teacher. Yet still she was driven by the need to create structure in their everyday lives, to achieve a kind of balance of terror.

  All three of them were equally miserable, particularly as the sun came out and the temperature inside the house began to rise.

  Malin had tried countless times to work out what they were a part of. She thought about the phones they’d been forced to give up, the emails they’d been forced to write – a few short lines to friends and family who got in touch. They must all believe the move to Australia had taken place. More emails to cancel planned meetings in Australia. They’d been too afraid to protest, they’d simply done as they were told. Malin had realised that it didn’t matter who contacted them; the man would always have something appropriate to say. He would send his own emails and text messages. How long would it take before someone other than Noah (because surely he must know that something had happened?) reacted and sounded the alarm. The family was supposed to be away for a year; very few of their friends had expressed a desire to come and visit.

  A year.

  They could be gone for a whole year before it became obvious they weren’t in Australia.

  We’ll never survive, Malin thought. And then:

  What’s supposed to happen to us during that year?

  It was terrifying to think that the man must have been monitoring them for quite some time before he struck. He’d known about their travel plans, known exactly when they were due to leave. Although that wasn’t so strange; they’d posted on Facebook, talked extensively about what they were going to do. The children had been very busy on social media. Anyone who wanted to find out exactly what the family were up to needed nothing more than a mobile phone or a computer.

  What do we do if no one misses us?

  Malin was so frightened she could have wept. The children’s friends would notice that Hedvig and Max had dropped off the radar, but they wouldn’t be able to trigger a major search. If only she’d been closer to her father! And if only there were more people who’d realise something was wrong. Thank God for Noah – but who would listen to him?

  ‘Mum, when can we go home?’

  Hedvig. For the second time in a very short period.

  ‘I still don’t know.’

  She heard a bang from upstairs that made her jump. Dan. A part of her wanted to oversee every move he made, check what he was doing, because she was certain he’d disappeared into a darkness where she couldn’t reach him. He’d said he’d had an idea; he thought he’d found a way of getting out of the house.

  I don’t want to know. I just want to live.

  No one is going to find us. Her heart contracted with fear.

  ‘I’ll get us some fruit,’ she said, getting up from her chair. Her legs felt wobbly as she went over to the worktop and started to peel an orange. They would have to share it; she didn’t know when they’d be given more fruit.

  We’re going to die here. Maybe today, maybe tomorrow. And no one will know.

  She opened a drawer, looking for a knife to cut up the orange. She stared down
blankly. She had expected to see a carving knife and a bread knife. Both were missing.

  She closed the drawer, opened another. Found a small knife and began to divide the orange.

  ‘Has either of you borrowed a knife?’ she said to the children, fighting to keep her voice steady.

  They both shook their heads.

  ‘It’s all right if you have. I won’t be cross.’

  ‘We haven’t touched your stupid knives!’ Hedvig snapped.

  ‘Okay,’ Malin said quietly.

  Suppressed tears made her throat constrict, her eyes sting. Dan must have taken them. Panic spread through her body like wildfire.

  What was he going to do with the knives?

  The wallpaper was peeling in several places and the paint was flaking off the skirting boards. This used to bother Noah, but he no longer even noticed. He was sitting at his desk staring at a blank computer screen. If anyone had asked him how long he’d been sitting there, he wouldn’t have been able to answer. It was as if he’d fallen into a trance.

  Noah was many things, but he wasn’t stupid. He’d heard the dubious tone in Alex Recht’s voice. Noah’s story hadn’t been enough; he was going to have to come up with another way of motivating Alex to take up the search for Dan and his family. And that was where he’d got stuck. Because what else was there to do?

  Only one thing.

  Send Dan another email.

  So far Noah had been careful not to mention the police in his messages to his brother. He was convinced that someone else was running Dan’s account, and guessed that that person didn’t have Dan’s best interests at heart, so he hadn’t wanted to give away what he was up to. Hadn’t wanted whoever had taken Dan to know that the search was under way. Which it wasn’t, to be fair, because the police were doing nothing, but Noah preferred to keep that to himself as well.

  Until now.

  He’d written that he’d been forced to contact the police, report Dan missing, and that an investigation was ongoing. Noah hoped that this bombshell would bring the status quo to an end. Whoever was checking Dan’s mail would surely react when he or she realised that the police were involved. Noah had given a lengthy description of all the measures that were being undertaken in order to clarify exactly where Dan and his family had gone. To be on the safe side he also mentioned the Swedish embassy in Canberra, in spite of the fact that he’d heard nothing from them.

  So now both the police and our diplomats are searching for you and your family. Hang on in there – help is on the way!

  Noah was very pleased with how he’d expressed himself, simply and clearly. He’d called Tina and read the message to her over the phone. She’d listened and given her approval. She was a gift from the gods, Tina. She made him feel strong, because she too was beside herself with worry, convinced that something terrible had happened. However, she still had moments of doubt.

  ‘What if we’ve imagined the whole thing?’ she’d said. ‘What if they’re not missing at all? There’s a microscopic chance that that’s the case, in which case Dan will be furious when he gets your email.’

  Noah had thought the same.

  ‘But that’s not necessarily a bad thing,’ he’d said. ‘If they really are okay but just don’t feel like getting in touch, then they have only themselves to blame. I just want to know they’re all right.’

  Noah was close to tears when he thought back to the conversation with Tina. There was no chance whatsoever that Dan was okay, that he and his family were having a great time. There was no chance whatsoever that his terse messages were an indication that he was pissed off with Noah because he hadn’t supported their Australian adventure. Dan wasn’t like that.

  I just hope it’s not too late.

  That was the worry constantly eating away at Noah. So many weeks had passed; did that mean they’d run out of time? Because where could you hide an entire family for that long? And why would you hide them and keep them alive? Wasn’t the only logical conclusion that they were dead?

  Noah’s heart raced, panic threatened to swallow him whole. He had to keep a cool head, keep the hope alive. The email must provoke some kind of reaction, a reaction that would prove once and for all that there was a problem – and give him something to show Alex.

  Help is on the way, Noah thought. Help is on the way.

  The air inside Malcolm Benke’s house was heavy and hard to inhale, as if someone had mixed it with smoke. Just enough to make itself felt, not enough to be visible. Fredrika hesitated in the hallway. What had got into her? Coming back here to play Sherlock Holmes. Actually, it was worse than that – she wasn’t playing, she was taking the whole thing very seriously.

  Alex was right behind her.

  ‘Go on in,’ he said. ‘Let’s get this over and done with.’

  His breath smelled of curry, and for a moment Fredrika imagined what it would be like to kiss him. Not that she wanted to – just because. She’d had the same thought when they went drinking after finding out that Berlin was going to be their new boss. She’d been far from sober on that occasion; she didn’t have the same excuse now.

  Surely bottomless grief doesn’t make you horny?

  She moved into the living room, where Benke had been found. The CSIs were long gone, leaving traces of their meticulous work. Bernhard would be the first of Benke’s relatives to see what the house looked like.

  If that were me, Fredrika thought, if I lived in Vienna and came home to see my parental home like this, in a mess and with stuff all over the place . . . And the armchair in which my father was found shot dead. I don’t think I could cope.

  She was known for her attention to detail and her intuitiveness. Her gaze swept across the walls, floor and ceiling with laser-like precision. There was no sign of the words she was looking for. Couldn’t it be easy, just this once? In an attempt to make the situation less embarrassing, she started searching with an almost ferocious energy. Under sofas, behind paintings, beneath rugs – places where she couldn’t possibly have seen the words she was certain she recognised, words that linked the deaths of Malcolm Benke and Lovisa Wahlberg.

  Alex joined her.

  ‘Did you find anything in the hallway?’ Fredrika asked.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m looking for.’

  That makes two of us.

  His tone was neither accusatory nor condescending. If he’d thought the whole idea was ridiculous, he wouldn’t have come with her. He might even have dissuaded her from returning.

  He went over to the window, pushed his hands into his pockets and waited for Fredrika to finish. She knew he’d noticed the change in her, that he could see something was tearing her to pieces, but until it was all over, she didn’t think she could talk about what lay ahead. A journey to Switzerland, an assisted suicide, a professor who had taken control of his own death.

  She took a quick walk around the rest of the house.

  ‘Okay, I give in,’ she said when she came back to the living room. ‘I must have got it wrong – there’s nothing here.’

  Alex shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t say you got it wrong – you thought you remembered something, so we needed to investigate.’

  Fredrika gave him a grateful smile.

  Then she spotted the book on the table next to the armchair. It was upside down, but the spine was facing her. She read the title silently to herself and felt the floor give beneath her feet.

  ‘Look,’ she said to Alex, pointing.

  ‘What do you think I am, an eagle? It’s at least fifteen years since I was able to read something that far away.’

  As he came closer, Fredrika read the title aloud.

  I Am Putting Everything Right

  Margareta Berlin had two pieces of information for Alex when they got back to HQ. Firstly, a decision had been made as to who would lead the separate investigation into the murder of Lovisa Wahlberg: Detective Inspector Torbjörn Ross. Secondly, Detective Inspector Torbjörn Ross was looking for Alex and Fredrika.

  Tha
t fucking leech.

  Who crawled along the corridors ‘bumping into’ Alex, who had decided that the inquiry into Noah Johansson’s missing brother wasn’t worth pursuing.

  Alex was so stunned he didn’t know what to say. When Berlin had gone, he turned to Fredrika.

  ‘Ross? What the fuck? Is she out of her mind?’

  Berlin was back in a second.

  ‘Is there a problem?’ she snapped.

  Alex laughed dryly. ‘Are you joking?’

  ‘I thought he’d been deemed unsuitable for this kind of task,’ Fredrika said.

  Berlin folded her arms over her bosom. This wasn’t entirely successful; her arms were too short and her breasts were too big.

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because he behaved inappropriately towards Thea Aldrin.’

  Both Alex and Fredrika preferred to avoid mentioning Thea Aldrin’s name. She was an elderly children’s writer whose books had had terrible consequences for far too many people, including Peder Rydh. His brother had been murdered, and Peder had been so angry that he’d shot the perpetrator, putting an end to his career as a police officer.

  Alex’s thoughts returned to the ongoing investigation, to Malcolm Benke in his armchair and Lovisa Wahlberg in the ground. Some people were capable of extinguishing life, under certain circumstances.

  Does that apply to me too? Am I capable of murder? I’d really like to think the answer’s no.

  ‘That was a long time ago,’ Berlin replied. ‘Plus he’s expressed an interest in this particular case.’

  ‘Has he indeed.’

  ‘Yes, he has. For very good reasons. He has good knowledge of Lovisa Wahlberg’s background.’

  Fredrika sighed and sat down on the visitor’s chair in Alex’s office.

  ‘That’s good news,’ she said. ‘And what background is this?’

  Berlin ignored the sarcasm.