The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  ‘Time to head back.’

  Therese didn’t move; she stood there motionless, gazing out across the water.

  ‘There’s something floating out there.’

  At first Ed couldn’t see anything, then he spotted a jacket.

  A jacket floating on the surface.

  ‘That’s odd.’

  Therese moved closer to the water’s edge.

  ‘Oh my God, it’s a body!’

  Ed reacted instinctively; he ran straight into the water.

  It was a man.

  A man.

  Where the hell had he come from?

  Ed turned the body over, dragged it towards the shore. He recognised the man, knew he’d seen him before. Only from a distance, and only through the windows of The Sanctuary, but it was definitely him.

  The man with the gaping wound in his throat was one of the people who had sought refuge in The Sanctuary.

  When the first car arrived, Malin was sure that the man in the Wellingtons had come back. Panic made her want to scream. It was over now, she realised that. The man had made his decision. He wasn’t going to let her or the children go. Not now Dan was dead; there would be too much explaining to do.

  She ran to the bedroom window, trying to see whether he was armed with anything other than the pistol. To her surprise she saw a different man, someone she didn’t recognise. And a young woman. She looked strong and healthy, and she beamed when she got out of the car and looked at the house.

  As if she wanted to live there.

  Malin didn’t know what to do. Who were they? Could she trust them?

  Will they be able to hear me if I bang on the window?

  Her thought processes were too slow. The man was pointing, explaining something to the woman, then they set off through the forest, disappeared. Malin remained where she was, arms dangling by her sides. Should she take a risk? Hope the couple didn’t have anything to do with the man who’d kept them here? If so she would be a fool if she didn’t seize the opportunity to try and communicate with them.

  She turned away. The children were dozing on the bed; they’d refused to eat or drink. Malin was planning to give them a couple of hours, then she’d have to force-feed them.

  ‘I’m going downstairs for a little while. Back soon.’

  They didn’t react as she left the room. Her legs only just carried her down the stairs; she had grown so weak.

  She went into the living room, positioned herself by the window overlooking the drive where the car was parked. They wouldn’t leave it there, they had to come back.

  The house was totally silent. She thought about switching on the TV, just to bring a little life into the place, but she couldn’t be bothered. She had lost so much energy, lost so much of the person she used to be.

  And I thought that everything could be fixed.

  There was a horrible stench coming from the hallway. She had mopped it several times, but the smell of blood had seeped into the floor, and she couldn’t get rid of it. She felt nauseous, wanted to go into another room, further away.

  But I can’t.

  She waited and waited. Minutes passed, or was it hours? She’d lost all sense of time, but suddenly they were back. The man was soaking wet.

  As if he’d been swimming.

  With his clothes on.

  Malin raised her hands, placed her palms against the cold pane of glass. The one she’d tried to smash with a plant pot.

  ‘Hello!’ she shouted.

  But the man and woman didn’t see her. They got in the car and drove off at speed.

  Leaving Malin behind.

  I have become invisible. No one can see me any more.

  *

  Time passed. Time that Malin was unable to count in minutes or hours. She stayed where she was at the window, palms resting on the glass. There wasn’t a sound from upstairs. The children were sleeping. Or had they died while she was standing at the window? She began to cry, tore herself away and ran up to the bedroom.

  Hedvig was lying on her back, staring at the ceiling. Max was on his side with his mouth open, eyes closed. They were both alive. Neither of them reacted when she walked in.

  ‘Hedvig, wouldn’t you like something to eat?’ Malin wasn’t even sure when she herself had last eaten.

  No response.

  Malin perched on the edge of the bed and stroked her daughter’s hair.

  ‘How about a drink then? Don’t you want a drink?’

  Hedvig’s eyes filled with tears, which slowly trickled down the sides of her face.

  Malin swallowed hard, fighting back her own tears. She focused her mind on the man and woman who’d arrived in the car. They’d seen something in the forest, something that had made them take off in a hurry. Maybe that meant they’d come back, or raise the alarm and send someone else?

  I have to be ready. Anything could happen now.

  As if it hadn’t already.

  She got to her feet, legs shaking, and went back down to the living room. The TV remote was on the coffee table. She picked it up, weighed it in her hand. It wasn’t heavy, but it would have to do.

  When they come back, they’re going to hear me.

  She tapped on the window pane with the remote. The sound she made was negligible; it certainly wouldn’t be heard outside. She banged harder, felt her fingers cramp. It didn’t matter, she just kept on banging. Even though no one was there, even though no one could hear except her.

  And the children.

  I’ll frighten them.

  But Malin couldn’t stop. She carried on hammering. Pale red marks began to spread across the glass. She knew she was making her hands bleed. It didn’t matter.

  I don’t need them any more.

  ‘Mummy?’

  Malin hadn’t realised that Hedvig had come down to see what was going on.

  ‘What are you doing, Mummy?’

  Malin hammered and hammered and hammered.

  Hedvig tried to grab her arms.

  ‘Stop it, Mummy! Stop it!’

  Malin could hear that her daughter was crying, but she was in a trance, she thought she would lose her mind if she left her place at the window.

  ‘Let go of me! Let go!’

  Hedvig slumped to the floor. She was sobbing so loudly that Malin couldn’t concentrate. She closed her eyes, felt her energy begin to drain away. Her movements slowed, her hands throbbed with pain.

  I’m giving up. We’re never going to get out of here.

  That was when the cars came. First one, then another. Malin tried to wipe away the blood; had she actually gone mad? Was she seeing things that weren’t there?

  ‘Hedvig,’ she whispered. ‘Get up, Hedvig. Can you see what I see? Police cars. There are police cars outside!’

  Then she began hammering on the window once more.

  The bad news came thick and fast. First of all Fredrika called: the man who’d bought the five books by Morgan Sander was not Torbjörn Ross. Then Berlin informed Alex that the head of security with the Solomon Community had called the police with regard to a suspected murder in a house that belonged to the Community, but was currently being rented by a Detective Inspector Torbjörn Ross.

  Alex stood there as if he’d been struck by lightning.

  ‘Another death.’

  ‘Another death,’ Berlin confirmed.

  ‘Does Ross know that the Solomon Community has contacted us?’

  ‘No, and I made it very clear that that can’t happen. Not until we’ve taken a look at the house.’

  ‘Do we know who the victim is?’

  Berlin nodded and placed a print-out of a photograph in front of Alex. He didn’t recognise the man at first; he’d been in the water for almost twenty-four hours, and the face was bloated.

  ‘I don’t . . .’

  ‘Dan Johansson.’

  Alex blinked.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  Berlin picked up the photograph.

  ‘What about the rest of the family
?’ Alex asked.

  Berlin looked shaken.

  ‘Still alive. The head of security called the emergency services and reported what had happened. The first patrol car got out there pretty quickly, but . . . apparently it’s impossible to gain access to the house.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Exactly what I say. The place has top-level protection against any form of intrusion. It’s impossible to force the doors or windows without resorting to a degree of violence that would risk injuring those inside. The officers on site have seen a woman and two children through the windows. They described the woman as hysterical, not surprisingly. We have two cars with members of our team on the way – we’ll see what they find.’

  Alex felt drained of energy by what he’d just heard.

  ‘I don’t understand what kind of house Ross has rented.’

  ‘It’s the Solomon Community’s safe house. Ross told them he wanted it for his daughter and her family.’

  Alex had no idea what to say, what to think.

  ‘But Ross told you his daughter was dead. And Fredrika hasn’t been able to find any trace of a daughter, dead or alive.’

  ‘Absolutely, but this is the second time he’s brought up this alleged daughter.’

  ‘So why is he pretending that Dan Johansson’s wife is . . .’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Berlin interrupted him.

  ‘Sorry, I’m just thinking out loud. What do we do now?’

  ‘Wait to hear from our colleagues when they arrive at the house.’

  ‘And Ross?’

  ‘He’s in his office. If he tries to leave the building, the surveillance team will arrest him.’

  There was a knock on the door and one of the admin assistants came in.

  ‘Excuse me, but we’ve just received a large box of envelopes from Noah Johansson’s funeral business.’

  ‘The wills. Send it down to forensics,’ Berlin said.

  Alex wasn’t happy. ‘I don’t like this. Not one little bit. How the hell did the Solomon Community get tangled up in this mess?’

  ‘It’s extremely unfortunate. Could Ross have worked for them at some point?’

  ‘Why would he have done that?’

  ‘He must know people there – otherwise how would he have been allowed to rent their safe house?’

  Alex frowned, thought about Peder Rydh who was no longer answering his phone. Who was so unreliable that he’d been sacked from his previous post.

  And yet he said:

  ‘Peder worked for the Community for a number of years; he might be able to help us.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Berlin sounded distracted.

  ‘We need to question the head of security too, of course. Find out exactly what kind of house it is and why they decided to rent it to Ross.’

  ‘I did a bit of digging, but I don’t really understand . . . The house doesn’t exist.’

  ‘Doesn’t exist?’ Alex repeated.

  ‘Not as far as I was able to ascertain.’

  A house that didn’t exist. A dead man who was Dan Johansson.

  ‘I’ll call Peder. Then we need to have a chat with the Solomon Community.’

  Peder Rydh was in the car when his phone rang. He glanced at the display: Alex. Again. He rejected the call. It rang again immediately, but this time it wasn’t Alex.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Shalom,’ Ed said. ‘Have you got time to meet up?’

  The words indicated that it was a question, but the tone of voice made it clear that it was an order.

  We are going to meet up.

  Now.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘I’d prefer not to discuss the matter over the phone.’

  Peder was heading north, and was just about to leave the motorway.

  ‘In that case it’ll have to wait. I’m busy at the moment.’

  Ed wasn’t used to Peder being difficult.

  ‘Have you spoken to your former colleagues in the last hour or so?’

  Peder stiffened. Alex had called far too many times; had he contacted Ed directly? Peder carried on trying to duck and dive.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, maybe you should.’

  Peder felt a spurt of irritation.

  ‘Just tell me what’s going on, for fuck’s sake! I don’t have time to play games!’

  ‘You remember recommending your colleague as a tenant for The Sanctuary? The one who wanted to provide a refuge for his daughter?’

  Peder was clutching the steering wheel so tightly that his fingers hurt.

  ‘Yes.’

  This might be worse than he’d thought.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Ed said. ‘And so did you. The man who was living in the house has been found dead. By me.’

  Peder had no idea what to say. ‘I don’t understand. Who’s dead?’

  ‘I just told you – the man who was living in the house with his family.’

  ‘You killed him?’

  Ed exploded.

  ‘Of course I didn’t fucking kill him! I went out to the house to show it to the daughter of a colleague who was interested in renting it as a writing retreat. And we found a dead body in the lake. Do you realise what kind of problems this creates for us?’

  Shit.

  Why was nothing ever straightforward?

  Peder ended the call, switched off his phone and left the motorway at the next exit. Then he headed south, back to the city.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but my name is Fredrika Bergman and I’m from the police. I wonder if we could have a little chat?’

  Fredrika hadn’t wanted to lose any time, and had gone straight from the bookshop to Torbjörn Ross’s ex-wife. Standing outside the door of Mimmi Ross’s apartment, she couldn’t remember why she’d made the decision. What did lost time matter? They were running around in circles, chasing shadows, taking the wrong turn.

  It must be Ross, so who the hell was the man who wanted five copies of Morgan Sander’s book for his wife?

  Mimmi was a very composed person. She looked at Fredrika for quite a while before letting her into her two-room apartment in Arsta. Fredrika took off her shoes and followed Mimmi into the living room. A small sofa, two small armchairs, a small coffee table. A doll’s house for a grown woman.

  She sat down in one of the armchairs, felt her body protest at having to keep still. Not constantly moving made her nervous, she needed to be on her way to somewhere else, a place where everything was just the way it used to be, where the letter she believed Spencer had written didn’t exist.

  Why don’t I confront him? she thought for the thousandth time. And for the thousandth time she answered her own question: Because I don’t think I want to hear what he has to say.

  She explained briefly why she’d come to see Mimmi. In the end she had to lie; the truth was too brutal.

  We’ve got your ex-husband under surveillance, because we think he’s murdered several people. What was it like being married to him?

  ‘So Torbjörn’s under investigation,’ Mimmi said slowly.

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately I can’t give you any further details, but . . . I’m not quite sure how to put this, but there are a couple of points we think you might be able to help us with.’

  Mimmi raised her eyebrows. She had just turned sixty-five, but Fredrika thought she looked older. She had retired about four years earlier, and Fredrika couldn’t for the life of her imagine how she passed her time in this tiny apartment.

  ‘How long were you and Torbjörn married?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Yes – we both realised it was a mistake. Then he met Sonja, and they’re still married of course.’

  ‘How old were you when you got married?’

  ‘I’d just turned twenty-seven.’

  ‘You didn’t have children?’

  Fredrika already knew the answer, but had decided to ask anyway.

  Because somewhere there was a young woman wh
om Ross referred to as his daughter.

  ‘No. No, we didn’t.’

  Fredrika allowed herself a moment to think, to search for the right words.

  ‘How many children does Torbjörn have?’

  For a moment Mimmi seemed uncomfortable. She turned her face away, fixed her gaze on the wall.

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Two,’ Fredrika repeated. ‘You’re thinking of his sons with Sonja?’

  Mimmi looked back at her.

  ‘Why are you asking me about things you already know?’

  She was clearly irritated, and Fredrika felt embarrassed by her own lack of clarity, asking awkward questions of someone who lived a lonely life.

  ‘Because I believe there’s a different answer. At least according to Torbjörn himself,’ she said.

  Mimmi was clearly astonished.

  ‘What? Has Torbjörn said that he and I . . . that we had a child?’

  Fredrika smoothed down her trousers.

  ‘We don’t know who Torbjörn had a child with. Maybe you, maybe someone else, but according to him there is, or was, a daughter. And I’m wondering if you know anything about her?’

  Mimmi leaned back on the sofa. Fredrika suddenly became aware of the clock ticking on the wall, and all at once the room seemed even smaller.

  ‘Maria,’ Mimmi whispered.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Maria. That was her name.’

  Fredrika felt her pulse rate increase.

  ‘Did she live abroad?’

  Why isn’t she registered as a Swedish citizen?

  ‘No, no, she lived here in Stockholm, but her mother didn’t like Torbjörn. They were together for only a short time, just before he and I met. She didn’t tell him she was pregnant; she preferred to bring the child up on her own. Or rather with her new boyfriend. I’m not sure if he – the new guy – realised what the situation was; maybe he couldn’t count, or he didn’t know how long a pregnancy lasts. Or maybe he didn’t mind.’

  ‘You mean his name went on the birth certificate?’

  ‘That’s exactly what I mean.’

  ‘But Ross knew he was the father?’

  ‘We’d been married for about twelve months when he saw her in town, pushing a buggy. The girl was about two years old. At first Torbjörn didn’t react, but his grasp of maths and biology was excellent. He checked the child’s date of birth, and the only possible conclusion was that his ex had been pregnant when they split up. He went to see her, demanded to know if the girl was his. She told him the truth, but that was the only time.’