The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  ‘Lovisa was suspected of drug offences a number of years ago. Not here in Sweden, but in Haiti. I think that’s what he said. The Swedish police were involved on the periphery, and Torbjörn was the main contact.’

  Alex pricked up his ears, noticed that Fredrika did the same. The tattoo on Lovisa’s wrist, the chemical formula that neither of them had recognised.

  ‘Cocaine,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly. It was thought that she’d been a courier between Scandinavia, Central America and the West Indies. However, she was cleared and allowed to return home. Since then she’s had nothing to do with the police.’

  Malcolm Benke. Lovisa. What was the connection? Alex wondered.

  ‘Did Lovisa know Benke’s daughter?’ Fredrika asked, obviously on the same track.

  ‘You’ll have to ask Torbjörn,’ Berlin said, then she was gone again. By tacit agreement Alex and Fredrika hadn’t said anything about the book they’d found in Benke’s house. They couldn’t cope with her guesses and speculation before they’d had time to process the discovery themselves.

  This time they waited until they were sure she couldn’t hear them.

  ‘This is unbelievable,’ Fredrika began. ‘How the hell can she give this case to Ross?’

  Alex could only agree. ‘But we need to make sure we collaborate effectively with him, otherwise this will go badly wrong before we’ve even started.’

  And the next thought: I’m not inviting him to a single fucking meeting.

  ‘He’s not our only problem,’ Fredrika said. ‘I dread to think what will happen when the media realise that Lovisa Wahlberg was probably killed by the same person who murdered Benke.’

  Another cause for concern – useless journalists who never missed a chance to put the boot in when it came to any police inquiry. Berlin had brought out the heavy artillery to make sure no one heard about the messages Alex had received; if that information became public knowledge, it would make their work immeasurably more difficult. The question was how long they could keep it quiet.

  ‘The book,’ Alex said.

  Fredrika took it out of her bag. They’d followed the rules (well, mostly) and touched it only when they were wearing gloves. It was now in a sealed evidence bag: a green book with no motif on the cover.

  ‘I’ll ask Spencer about the author,’ she said. ‘Morgan Sander – I’ve never heard of him.’

  Nor had Alex. They’d entered the name into a search engine, but found nothing.

  ‘We need to decide what to do with it,’ Alex said.

  ‘We give it to forensics right away, and we brief Berlin and the team tomorrow, when I’ve had a chance to check out the author.’

  Alex thought that was a good plan. ‘I don’t like this. The title, the words I Am Putting Everything Right. I don’t get it – exactly the same as the messages sent to me.’

  Fredrika was pale. ‘Me neither.’

  Alex’s mobile rang: Torbjörn Ross. He pulled a face.

  ‘We’ll meet up later,’ he said to Ross. ‘Fredrika and I are just about to conduct an interview.’

  ‘If it’s anything to do with Lovisa Wahlberg, I want to be there,’ Ross insisted.

  ‘It isn’t. It’s about Malcolm Benke.’

  There was a brief silence, then Ross asked: ‘Is it his son?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I was so sure . . .’ Ross murmured. A murmur that made Alex press the phone closer to his ear.

  What were you so sure about?

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I was so sure it was the son, right from the start. But apparently not – he has no connection to Wahlberg.’

  ‘That’s our view too,’ Alex said, bringing the call to an end.

  ‘Okay, let’s go and see Bernhard Benke,’ Fredrika said.

  They headed for the lifts, each absorbed in their own thoughts. Alex couldn’t shake off a feeling of unease after speaking to Ross. He’d been so sure it was Bernhard who’d shot his father. So sure. Right from the start. How the fuck was that possible? And why did it sound like a suspicion Ross had formulated long before Alex and Fredrika reached the same conclusion?

  It was after four o’clock by the time Vendela decided to start searching for Henry Lindgren. The housing committee had finally woken up to the fact that there was an issue, but they weren’t much use. Two representatives turned up, rang Henry’s doorbell and called his landline, but there was no response. They simply stood there and shrugged. One of them had seen Henry leaving the building with a suitcase a few days earlier, and assumed he’d gone away. Vendela didn’t think so.

  She was so cross; she was going to have to do this herself. She called her nephew, who was good at solving problems. He was also good at finding things out, unlike Vendela. She’d tried to track down the names of Henry Lindgren’s relatives, but without success.

  ‘What exactly do you want to know?’ her nephew asked.

  ‘If Henry has any children who might have an idea where he is.’

  Her palms grew sweaty as she spoke, because the suspicion in her mind had become a virtual certainty.

  What stinks like that?

  Death.

  Her nephew called back a few minutes later.

  ‘No children, but there’s an ex-wife. Easy – you could have found her yourself.’

  ‘Obviously not,’ Vendela said.

  She scribbled down the number and her nephew wished her luck. She thanked him for his help, then called the ex-wife. Please let her answer, please don’t let this be another dead end.

  The signal rang out eight times, then a hoarse voice said: ‘Vera Lindgren.’

  Vendela cleared her throat, almost dropped the phone, then said: ‘Oh, hi, hello, my name is Vendela Nilsson.’

  Oh, hi, hello? What’s wrong with me? Get a grip!

  The woman waited patiently. Vendela sat down on the sofa, moved a magazine and brushed a petal off the cushion.

  ‘This is really embarrassing, but I don’t have anyone else to contact. It’s about Henry, your . . . your ex-husband. We’re neighbours. Well, kind of.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  Her reaction was so quick, her voice was so full of concern that Vendela immediately felt a sense of relief. Vera wouldn’t have sounded like that if she couldn’t bear to hear Henry’s name.

  Vendela cleared her throat again, unsure of how to continue.

  ‘No. Or rather . . . I don’t know. We can’t get hold of him. There’s something to do with the apartment block we’d like to discuss with him.’

  ‘We’ sounded better than ‘I’. Stronger, more convincing. She didn’t want the ex-wife to think she was a busybody with no life or interests of her own.

  ‘I understand. Have you tried his mobile?’

  ‘Several times. A member of the committee said he thought he’d seen Henry leaving with a suitcase a few days ago. I wondered if you might know where he’d gone?’

  ‘I think I would have done if he’d been planning a trip. We have a very good relationship, Henry and I. We meet up on a regular basis, maybe once a week. I saw him last Thursday, and he didn’t say a word about going away.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you have a key to his apartment?’

  ‘I do, but I wouldn’t give it to a stranger. What do you want it for?’

  Vendela raked her nails down her cheek. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

  ‘We think . . . we think there might be a problem in Henry’s apartment.’

  ‘What kind of problem?’

  Vendela took her time, searching for the right words.

  ‘There’s a terrible smell.’

  She spoke very quietly, almost inaudibly, but Henry’s ex-wife heard not only what she’d said, but what she’d left unsaid.

  There’s a terrible smell.

  I’m afraid that Henry’s dead.

  ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

  We’re not going to get much from you. That was Alex’s first thought as he shook Bernhard Be
nke’s cool hand. Bernhard. What kind of a name was that? Had he come up with it himself when he moved to Vienna? And, more importantly: did he know Lovisa Wahlberg?

  Fredrika also seemed underwhelmed by the grieving son. She’d almost burst out laughing when they first saw him. Her cheeks flushed red, and however hard she tried, anyone could see the laughter bubbling up inside her. Alex couldn’t blame her. Bernhard looked as if he’d come straight from filming The Sound of Music. And he smelled of cinnamon. However, Alex was prepared to forgive him everything; he’d made Fredrika smile, albeit unintentionally, and that was something no one else had managed to do recently.

  Alex began by offering condolences on the death of Bernhard’s father in such dreadful circumstances. His sympathetic expression provided a sharp contrast to Fredrika’s rather more cheerful approach.

  ‘So you didn’t arrive in Stockholm until yesterday?’ Alex said.

  ‘I couldn’t leave Vienna any earlier. I have my own cheese shop in the city centre, with very few staff members.’

  He had his own cheese shop. Of course he did. Alex could see the corners of Fredrika’s mouth twitching, and looked away. If she didn’t get a grip she’d start him off.

  ‘I love cheese,’ Alex said with no idea why.

  ‘Excuse me.’ Fredrika leapt to her feet, almost knocking the chair over. ‘I have to . . .’ She shot out of the room.

  Bernhard stared at the door. ‘Isn’t she feeling well?’

  ‘She’s fine, she just has to take care of something.’

  The room they were in was a cube. The walls and ceiling flowed together in different shades of white, and Bernhard’s green clothing – trousers and jacket – glowed against the pale background.

  ‘How would you describe your relationship with your father?’

  ‘Virtually non-existent.’

  Alex glanced up. ‘Could you expand on that?’

  ‘I don’t know what else there is to say. We spoke on the phone a few times a year. I didn’t visit him on his birthday, nor did I open the presents or cards he sent when it was my birthday. We didn’t celebrate Christmas together, and when I come to Sweden I only see my mother.’

  Clear and simple.

  ‘How long has the situation been this bad?’

  ‘A long time.’

  ‘Can you be more precise?’

  ‘At least ten years.’

  You’re like all the rest, Alex thought. Someone who chooses not to tell me everything.

  ‘At least ten years? So I assume things were better when you were growing up. Did you fall out as a result of a particular event?’

  Bernhard coughed and reached for the glass of water on the table.

  ‘I wouldn’t call it an event. We had different opinions about something. Very different opinions.’

  The door opened and Fredrika came back in. She nodded to Alex before sitting down. I’ve pulled myself together.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘My sister Beata had major problems in her marriage. Her husband was a pig, to put it bluntly. He never missed a chance to humiliate and belittle her. She took a lot of abuse in that relationship – in every sense of the word. My father and I didn’t agree on how much the family could or should intervene.’

  Alex lowered his gaze, fiddled with the pen he was holding. Fredrika took over.

  ‘What did you think the family ought to do?’

  ‘Me? I wanted us to do as much as possible. Whatever we could, because Beata didn’t deserve to be treated like that. No one does. My father agreed, in principle, but he wasn’t prepared to do his utmost, and I couldn’t accept that. Not then, and certainly not . . . afterwards. When she was gone and it was too late.’

  Alex put down his pen.

  ‘What do you mean when you say your father wasn’t prepared to do his utmost?’

  Bernhard’s face was cold and hard.

  ‘That doesn’t matter now.’

  ‘It matters to us,’ Fredrika said.

  Bernhard shook his head. ‘I have nothing more to add on that point. My father was pathetic, I wanted to take a tougher approach. That’s all there was to it.’

  ‘Why do you think your father felt that way?’ Alex asked.

  Bernhard spread his hands wide.

  ‘I assume he was afraid. Too busy putting himself and his reputation first rather than his own child.’

  Fredrika didn’t feel the slightest desire to laugh now.

  ‘It sounds to me as if you would have had no problem in breaking the law in order to help your sister. Am I right?’

  Bernhard folded his hands and placed them on his lap.

  ‘Of course not.’

  What else could we expect? Alex thought.

  In spite of his anger, Bernhard must understand the seriousness of the situation. He was smart enough not to admit in a police interview that he’d wanted to kill his brother-in-law. If that was the case.

  Fredrika tried a softer approach.

  ‘It doesn’t really matter what was in your mind back then. As far as we know Richard is alive and well, and he’s never made a complaint against you or Malcolm for threatening or violent behaviour. All we’re interested in right now is the conflict between you and your father.’

  And whether you killed him, Alex added silently.

  To his great surprise, Bernhard said exactly the same thing.

  ‘You forgot to ask the obvious question – you want to know whether I killed him, or had him killed. The answer is no, I didn’t. The idea never even crossed my mind. He could rot all alone as far as I was concerned; that was a far better punishment than death.’

  He seemed pleased. Pleased that his father had been alone, that his life had been empty.

  Alex broke out into a cold sweat. All these splintered families, all these parents and children who couldn’t stand one another. Fate could be more than cruel when she brought together people who were doomed to be a ‘family’.

  ‘Do you know what happened to your sister’s wedding ring after her death?’ Fredrika asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did she usually wear it?’

  ‘Yes – her husband went crazy if she didn’t have it on.’

  Fredrika and Alex exchanged glances.

  ‘Do you recognise the name Lovisa Wahlberg?’ Alex said.

  ‘No.’

  Alex opened his folder and showed Bernhard the photograph they’d found at Benke’s house.

  ‘Have you seen this before?’

  Bernhard gave a snort of derision.

  ‘Yes, but it was a long time ago.’

  ‘So it belonged to your father? It wasn’t given to him by someone else?’

  ‘No, it was his.’

  ‘Where did he keep it?’

  ‘How should I know? When he showed it to me he took it out of the tin box on the drinks trolley.’

  Alex had a vague memory of seeing a metal box on the trolley. So Malcolm had taken out the picture before he died – to look at it himself, or to show it to someone else? His killer?

  ‘You don’t seem to like what you see,’ Fredrika said.

  ‘No, I don’t. My father’s pathetic attempts to fix things, his ridiculous efforts to help Beata. Useless. Plus I think he did it with the aim of repairing his relationship with me, rather than to change Beata’s situation.’

  Alex put down the picture.

  ‘Do you blame your father for your sister’s death?’

  ‘I believe he could have saved her,’ Bernhard said, the strain clearly audible in his voice. ‘But the only person to blame for her death is her husband.’

  He picked up the photograph and looked at it again, his cufflinks glinting in the bright overhead light.

  ‘I don’t understand why you’ve brought this up. My father’s “I-did-the-best-I-could” picture. A sop to his own conscience, but no use at all to Beata. I asked him not to show it to my mother; it would only upset her.’

  Alex didn’t say anything; he now realised why the pho
to had been so important to Malcolm, and why Karin hadn’t recognised it.

  Fredrika shuffled on the uncomfortable chair.

  ‘Was Beata also disappointed in your father?’

  Bernhard looked up.

  ‘No.’

  ‘She thought you and the rest of the family were doing everything you could to help her?’

  ‘Beata didn’t believe she could be helped – that was the big difference.’

  Then, before they could stop him, he tore the photograph in half.

  ‘Are we done here?’ he said.

  How many times had she tried to talk to him now? Five? Ten? So many times that Max eventually began to cry. Malin gave up, and Dan slipped away, without having said one word about where the knives had gone.

  It wasn’t only the knives he was keeping quiet about. Dan had stopped talking. He would sit alone for long periods, staring out of the window.

  ‘I want Daddy to be like he used to be,’ Max said, crying into Malin’s shoulder as she tried to comfort him.

  Malin wondered what ‘like he used to be’ meant to Max. She had forgotten – or suppressed the memory of – how they had lived and behaved when they took freedom for granted, when their lives were the same as everyone else’s.

  We argued sometimes.

  That was one reason why they’d started talking about Australia, considering the possibility of staying there for a year or so. They needed to change tack, to get away from their daily routines and create new ones. Well, they’d certainly had some help in that quarter. All the old routines were gone, and this was definitely a different tack.

  How she missed the life they’d had!

  Max felt stiff and tense in her arms.

  ‘Is Daddy dangerous?’ he whispered.

  Malin didn’t answer, she simply stroked his head.

  ‘Is he, Mummy?’

  Malin took a deep breath.

  ‘I don’t think Daddy’s very well.’

  She spoke quietly, so that only Max would hear.

  ‘Can’t we ask a doctor to come to the house?’

  ‘Apparently not, sweetheart.’

  She had to pull herself together, come up with a plan. But above all she had to find the knives. She couldn’t work out where he’d put them. She’d searched and searched, with Hedvig’s help. Dan had watched them, an amused expression on his face. The knives were gone. Nowhere to be found.