‘I couldn’t keep him on,’ he said eventually.
Fredrika straightened up. Alex had hinted that he didn’t feel as if Peder had told him the whole story.
‘Too many problems,’ Jussi went on. ‘He started with us in late summer, finished in April. At first I believed him when he said he’d left the Solomon Community because he wanted to try something different, but that wasn’t the whole truth. He was so restless, so uneasy – that was what drove him. And then when his family . . . he . . . I assume you know what happened?’
Fredrika shook her head slowly. ‘I don’t – please tell me.’
It was Jussi’s turn to shake his head now.
‘It’s not my place to talk about Peder’s private life – you need to ask him.’
Fredrika felt a spurt of irritation. Peder’s family, Peder’s private life. Had he still not grown out of his very unpleasant habit of bringing his personal problems into work? Was he still allowing his marriage and parenthood to influence the way he behaved in a professional environment?
‘He can be pretty immature,’ she said. ‘We noticed that.’
Jussi expression grew wary.
‘I’m not sure what we had to deal with here could be attributed to a lack of maturity.’
Fredrika decided it was time to bring the meeting to an end.
‘Just to be clear: as far as you’re concerned, Peder never worked with Noah Johansson, but only with his brother Dan?’
‘Exactly – but there are plenty of security firms in Stockholm. Peder could have come across Noah through a different company.’
Fredrika thought that was unlikely. Peder had worked for Solid Security, and that was where he must have been employed when he claimed that he’d had Noah – not Dan – Johansson as his client. Had he mixed up the names? Hardly.
Peder was lying.
At that moment her mobile rang: Alex.
‘The surveillance team has lost Ross. We don’t know where he is.’
What a day – the worst Peder could remember. He’d achieved none of the things he’d intended to get done. Work was fine about him taking time off, so that was cool. But all the rest . . .
Fuck.
His son was coughing so violently Peder thought he was in danger of bringing up his lungs. He couldn’t go on like this; someone else would have to take over.
‘You can go to Grandma’s tomorrow,’ he said, stroking the boy’s back.
‘Are you going to work?’
‘Yes – lots to do.’
Grandma had done more than her fair share of childminding lately. Lots to do. It sounded so hollow, so pathetic, but it was for the boy’s own good. One day when he was older he’d understand why Peder had to put in such long hours, but that could wait.
Peder’s mobile rang.
‘Are you okay watching TV for a few minutes while I take this?’
His son nodded.
‘Drink plenty of water. Any problem, I’m in the bedroom.’
The sound of coughing followed him as he walked away.
‘Peder.’
‘Shalom – it’s Ed.’
Peder sat down on the bed, as taut as a bowstring. Another call from a former boss. He still had a good relationship with the Solomon Community – very good, in fact. However, that didn’t stop him feeling stressed whenever they contacted him.
What do you want?
‘Can you talk?’ Ed said.
‘My son’s off sick, but yes.’
‘Is that him I can hear in the background? Poor kid – sounds bad.’
‘Yes, it’s not easy.’
The clock ticked, the seconds passed.
Get on with it, for fuck’s sake.
‘I’m calling about The Sanctuary.’
Peder became very still.
‘Oh?’
‘You recommended the current leaseholder. It’s gone very well, he’s always paid on time and we’ve had no complaints. However, he’s now decided to give notice; apparently he won’t need the house from the middle of September onwards.’
Peder got to his feet.
‘What?’
‘Yes, we were surprised too. Anyway, obviously we need to start thinking of someone new. Could you give it some thought, let me know if you come up with anyone?’
Peder was so tense that the veins in his neck were standing out.
‘Absolutely.’
A new tenant for The Sanctuary. The house that God had not only forgotten, but deliberately turned his back on.
‘By the way, have you any idea what he’s been up to out there?’ he asked, making a huge effort to keep his tone casual.
‘We’ve made three discreet visits – without going inside, of course. We haven’t noticed any deviation from our agreement. A family is living there, just as he said. Two children and their parents.’
Peder swallowed hard.
‘Great. It’s good to be able to help people in need.’
‘It certainly is. They’d be dead by now if they hadn’t found refuge in The Sanctuary, poor souls. It’s wonderful that there are people around like our leaseholder, people who really want to help others.’
Peder noticed that Ed hadn’t mentioned the leaseholder’s name. Always the same caution, the same paranoia. It suited Peder very well. He didn’t want to think about the man who’d rented the house, or why he’d given notice from the middle of September.
‘If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to my son.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ Ed said.
As soon as the call ended, Peder’s mobile rang again. Alex, for the third time today. Peder didn’t answer.
I already know what you want.
He wasn’t happy. He opened up his laptop, skimmed the headlines. The front pages were packed with articles about the murders that had shaken Stockholm, but he couldn’t find any indication that a suspect had been arrested.
He wondered how long that would remain the case.
‘It’s okay if you want to go home,’ Alex said.
It was just after seven. Berlin looked tired, but clearly had no plans to leave. A point in her favour – a good captain is always the last to leave a sinking ship.
Alex was frustrated and exhausted.
‘I don’t understand why we can’t find him.’
‘Because he’s a police officer,’ Berlin commented dryly. ‘He knows how to stay under the radar.’
‘But is he even aware that we’re following him?’
‘I think that’s irrelevant. He knows how easy it is to get caught; he’s been so careful right from the start.’
She’d stopped adding the obligatory ‘if he’s actually the person we’re looking for’ and ‘we mustn’t forget that he’s only a suspect at this stage’. She was no longer in any doubt.
Ivan appeared. Even he was running out of energy; the fact that things weren’t progressing as quickly as he’d hoped was taking its toll.
‘Not a single print,’ he said. ‘Not one strand of hair, not the tiniest trace of saliva. Absolutely nothing in Henry Lindgren’s apartment.’
Alex couldn’t keep still, couldn’t stop pacing.
‘It’s unbelievable,’ he said. ‘Completely, totally unbelievable.’
Berlin sat down.
‘Not if Torbjörn is our perpetrator,’ she said. ‘He knows exactly what to do, if you see what I mean.’
Alex nodded.
‘We need to speak to the prosecutor,’ Berlin went on. ‘What – exactly – do we have on Torbjörn Ross right now?’
Alex felt like punching the wall.
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Not one fucking thing.’
‘He knew all the victims,’ Ivan offered.
‘Not enough,’ Berlin said. She touched her glasses as if she was about to push them up on top of her head, but changed her mind.
‘What about the daughter?’
‘She doesn’t exist,’ Ivan informed her.
‘Fredrika’s going to do some more work on
that angle tomorrow,’ Alex said. ‘We daren’t contact Ross’s current wife, but we might risk calling his ex.’
Berlin stared at a notice board on the wall, her expression distant.
‘Ross went to Malcolm Benke’s house on his own initiative on the morning Benke was found,’ she said slowly.
‘Sorry?’
‘I arrived at the same time and sent him back to HQ. I told him you and Fredrika were leading the investigation, not him.’
‘So why was he there?’
‘I’ve no idea. He wasn’t happy when he found out I’d given the case to someone else.’
‘I suppose that’s not so strange,’ Alex said. ‘Given that he knew Benke.’
‘And that’s a reason to let him lead?’
‘Of course not. I’m just trying to understand how the guy thinks.’
Was he thinking? He must be, otherwise he’d never have got this far.
Four dead.
Four missing.
Possibly eight victims in total.
With more to come?
‘How the fuck is this supposed to end?’
‘Do we really want to know that?’ Berlin said.
Ivan was leafing through a pile of documents on the table; he took out the copy of the letter Alex had found in Noah Johansson’s office.
‘So what do we think about this?’
Alex folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. The gravity of the situation felt like dark, swirling waters closing around him.
‘What do you think, Ivan?’
‘I think the murderer wrote it.’
The same thought had occurred to Alex, but somehow he wasn’t satisfied with that conclusion.
‘That means you also think the same person wrote the notes addressed to me.’
‘Yes,’ Ivan said.
‘Why was the letter in Noah’s office?’
‘I’d say it’s a codicil to a will, written by someone who’s going to die. And I believe Noah’s murder is linked to the fact that he had that letter on file.’
‘You mean he had it all along?’
‘Yes – he kept a number of wills in a secure filing cabinet, and I think the letter was in there too. The cabinet had been broken open when he was found.’
Alex took two deep breaths.
‘According to your logic, the murderer is one of Noah’s clients.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Ross isn’t dying,’ Berlin pointed out.
‘As far as we know,’ Alex said.
‘But we do know that Ross wasn’t a client,’ Ivan added.
Silence.
‘I checked,’ he said. ‘There was no Torbjörn Ross on his client database.’
Alex bit his lip, his irritation growing. Ivan wasn’t stupid, and he was quick.
‘How far back does the database go?’
Ivan looked him in the eye. ‘Ten years.’
Which meant Ivan must have seen Alex and Lena’s names. His face flushed slightly with embarrassment.
Berlin was getting impatient; she seemed unaware of the sudden tension in the room.
‘What are you trying to say, Ivan?’
‘I had the letter checked for prints. Noah’s were there, and one other person’s. I want to know who that other person is, because it isn’t Ross.’
‘What’s your plan?’ Alex asked.
‘I need access to the wills, then we can check the prints on those against the letter to find a match. Because by definition a will is not anonymous.’
Silence once more. Alex didn’t know what to say.
‘How are these wills stored?’ he asked eventually. ‘You mentioned a secure filing cabinet.’
‘Each will is in an envelope, and they’re kept in suspension files in the cabinet. Some of the envelopes are sealed, some aren’t.’
‘And you want to open all the envelopes and ask forensics to lift prints from the original documents?’
‘Yes.’
‘We need to be very clear about what we intend to do with that information,’ Alex said. ‘We already know that we probably won’t be able to link the letter to Ross.’
‘I’m thinking that if we get a match on the prints, then we might be able to rule out the letter as a lead,’ Ivan said. ‘Depending on the identity of the writer.’
Berlin shook her head. ‘Good idea, but I can’t see the prosecutor agreeing.’
‘From a purely legal point of view . . .’ Ivan began.
‘It’s worth asking,’ Alex insisted.
‘I spoke to our helpdesk,’ Berlin said. ‘They’re already inundated with worried callers who’d been dealing with Noah Johansson. They’re fielding queries about everything from postponed funerals to unpaid invoices.’
‘Didn’t he have any employees?’ Alex wondered.
‘One assistant,’ Ivan replied. ‘She’s on holiday, but she’ll be back this evening.’
Berlin went to fetch some coffee. She stopped in the doorway and turned back.
‘Contact the prosecutor. I want those wills opened; we have to find out who wrote that letter.’
Back in the day, Spencer Lagergren had been a real romantic. He still was, but he was running out of energy, and more often than he was prepared to admit the pain in his head was so agonising that he saw stars.
Fredrika was late home from work again. For once he hadn’t cooked a meal. She arrived at seven o’clock. The door opened, her handbag landed on the floor. The clatter of a coat hanger falling. He went out in the hallway as she picked up the hanger and took off her jacket. She must have heard him, but she didn’t look up. Instead she bent down and took off her shoes.
Something had happened.
Does she know?
That was the question he’d wrestled with for months. Fredrika’s intuition was excellent, and she’d never been stupid. And yet she’d missed the fact that he’d spent days brooding over his cancer diagnosis before he told her. Not that she didn’t have the right to know, but because he wanted to make all the necessary decisions on his own. They shared everything to do with the life they lived, but death was his and his alone.
‘I can come with you to Switzerland, though?’ she’d asked.
‘Of course. I can’t do this without you.’
His throat constricted as he waited for her to straighten up. It seemed to take forever. She was fiddling with her shoes, her bag, her mobile. Then, at last, she stood up and met his gaze.
Any shred of doubt disappeared.
She knew.
He forced himself to smile.
‘Everything all right? I haven’t heard from you all day.’
She had two choices. Either she could tell him what had happened, why she hadn’t been in touch. Or she could pretend that nothing had changed. In which case she ought to give him a quick kiss and head for the kitchen, saying something along the lines of: ‘I’m starving, what’s for dinner?’
She stood there motionless, didn’t speak.
Then she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and headed for the kitchen.
‘I’m starving, what’s for dinner?’
Her voice was too high and her gaze swept the room like a laser beam, as if she was searching for the quickest escape route.
But there is no escape route, not for either of us, my darling.
‘How about spaghetti vongole?’ she said. ‘Or were you thinking of something else?’
He took a step forward. She took a step back, then realised what she’d done and moved forward again. But only half a step.
‘Have we got any clams?’ Spencer asked.
‘I don’t think so – I’ll just pop down to the shop. No problem.’
No problem. Just as long as she could get out of the apartment.
Spencer felt the dark shadow of sorrow settle over him. He sat down. ‘Is there something we need to talk about?’
Fredrika’s mouth was a thin line, her eyes a silent scream.
For God’s sake, how did it come to this?
She walked out of the kitchen, put on her shoes, looped her bag over her shoulder and left the apartment.
Spencer remained behind with the overwhelming feeling that his wife was afraid of him, one thought filling his mind:
If she already knew, then wouldn’t it be better to bring things to a close much sooner than he’d planned?
‘Ulla’s showing a film this evening,’ Diana said. ‘The one she made about the indigenous population of Canada. It starts at nine thirty, in half an hour. We can make it if we hurry.’
Alex took a sip of his wine. Another thing to be experienced. Another thing he had to say he didn’t want to do.
‘You don’t have to come if you don’t feel like it.’
Hurrah.
‘Thanks – good to know,’ he said.
Diana tilted her head on one side. ‘So what are you going to do while I’m out? Lie on a beach and read a book?’
He blushed and she burst out laughing. ‘Seriously – you don’t mind if I go, do you?’
That smile – it was still amazing.
‘Not at all.’
There was no reason for Diana to ditch the aspects of her life that didn’t interest Alex.
‘Top-up?’ he said, reaching for the wine bottle.
‘No thanks.’ She paused, then asked: ‘Did you find out why you got that letter?’ She was unable to hide her anxiety.
‘No. Well, maybe. I think we’re getting closer to some kind of explanation.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘I can’t tell you much more at the moment. In fact I can’t tell you anything.’
‘I understand.’
‘Okay.’
It was a sad little exchange, but it was difficult to bring any humour to that particular topic.
Alex got up and started to clear the table. He thought about Berlin’s decision to ask for permission to open all the wills, about Fredrika’s search for Ross’s daughter. He thought about the fact that they had no idea where Ross had gone, or where Noah’s brother and his family could possibly be. Then his phone rang and the brief lull was over.
*
‘Torbjörn Ross is still missing,’ Ivan informed him.
This wasn’t what Alex had been expecting; they should have located Ross by now.
‘That’s not good news,’ he said.
The Flood Page 24