The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  His expression grew blank.

  ‘No. Her mother didn’t want me to tell her, and that was the end of that. I couldn’t go against her wishes.’

  ‘But you were always close by,’ Fredrika said.

  ‘Always.’ Ross’s voice was thick with emotion. ‘I often sent money when she was growing up. Her mother is useless when it comes to finances. She can’t do anything right. Money disappears in no time – it just runs through her fingers.’

  ‘So what did you do? Once you’d rented The Sanctuary, how did you get the Johansson family out there with you?’

  Ross narrowed his eyes.

  ‘Difficult for you to work out if you’ve never been armed. Do you know how people react when you draw a gun on them? They’re terrified. I took the Johanssons the day before they were due to leave for Australia. If they hadn’t been planning that trip, I’d have taken them earlier in the year, but it was worth waiting, so much easier knowing that no one was going to miss them. They did exactly as I said. The two adults were very helpful; they didn’t hesitate to tell their children how to behave. “Come along, let’s do what the man says.” I tied them up with cable ties and put them in the back of a van with no side windows. I’d borrowed it from a friend. They couldn’t see where we were. I drove around for something like five hours before I let them out at the house.’

  ‘And the rest?’ Berlin said. ‘Apparently you’ve dealt with their emails and a phone call.’

  ‘We live our lives through our phones. It was perfectly simple to answer questions from the few people who got in touch. As for the phone call, I was lucky. I was in The Sanctuary at the time, and I forced Dan to speak. Once again, Australia was a very welcome bonus.’

  Fredrika hesitated, but she had to ask.

  ‘What did you intend to happen in that house?’

  Ross responded without hesitation, but his voice was far from steady.

  ‘The same thing that happened to my daughter. To Maria and her family.’

  Fredrika felt sick.

  Berlin’s mouth was no more than a thin line as she listened. She was angry, which wasn’t good. Her anger was a sign that she was taking this personally, and that kind of conflict was inappropriate. Fredrika, meanwhile, was beside herself with anxiety. Alex had behaved so oddly since Berlin called him while they were at the Solomon Community, and Berlin herself was definitely hiding something. Ross was clearly the perpetrator they’d been looking for – Ross and no one else.

  Not the man who’d bought five copies of Morgan Sander’s book I Am Putting Everything Right in the antiquarian bookshop in the Söder district.

  And not Spencer.

  Two men who could each be linked to the fateful words that had haunted the police throughout this case. But where was the link between Ross and those words?

  Berlin had identified the same logistical gap, and tried to fill it.

  ‘Why Morgan Sander’s book?’

  Ross was taken aback by the change of subject.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘The book we found a copy of in Malcolm Benke’s and Lovisa Wahlberg’s homes.’

  ‘You’re out of your minds, both of you. Absolutely fucking crazy.’

  You can talk, Fredrika thought wearily.

  Berlin sighed.

  ‘It’s not that we don’t sympathise with what you’ve been through – the daughter you knew about, but weren’t allowed to contact. I get it, believe me. But . . .’

  She shuffled the papers in front of her.

  ‘. . . I can’t even pretend that makes it okay to murder people one after the other.’

  Ross didn’t answer at first. His white shirt made him look even more ashen; he was almost swallowed up by the pale walls.

  ‘I didn’t do any of that. You can’t lay any of those deaths at my door.’

  ‘Apart from Dan Johansson’s, you mean?’ Fredrika said.

  ‘It wasn’t me who killed Dan Johansson. It was his wife.’

  Berlin slammed her fist down on the desk.

  ‘Enough!’ she yelled.

  ‘It’s true! He was already dead when I arrived. There was blood everywhere – I nearly slipped and fell.’

  Slowly Fredrika realised that he was telling the truth. He hadn’t murdered Dan.

  Jesus, what kind of life had they been forced to live in that house?

  ‘Do you understand what you’ve done? Do you understand what you’ve put that family through?’

  ‘Nothing they didn’t deserve.’

  Berlin had no intention of listening to that kind of nonsense.

  ‘Noah Johansson,’ she said. ‘Did he also deserve to die?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So why did you kill him?’

  ‘I told you, I didn’t!’

  They were getting nowhere.

  ‘What was your plan?’ Fredrika asked. ‘It still doesn’t make any sense to me.’

  Ross lowered his gaze.

  ‘It worked out more or less the way I wanted – although I was hoping for more.’

  More?

  ‘You wanted them to start killing one another?’ Berlin said.

  ‘I wanted Dan to take his own life, but not until he’d killed his family. I wanted him to realise that was the only way he could be free.’

  Fredrika’s brain was threatening to overheat.

  ‘Was this really the first thing you came up with when you started planning your revenge? Find a bunker and lock them up?’

  Ross shook his head, tears glinting in his eyes.

  ‘My first idea was to shoot the bastard, but then I thought about the house. I knew it existed, how it could be used. I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to rent it, but then it all worked out and . . .’

  Fredrika leaned back. They were looking for a man who claimed he was putting everything right. Ross insisted he wasn’t that man. He was admitting to only one crime: kidnapping the Johansson family. The crime that was different from all the others. A crime scene with no message to Alex, no copy of Sander’s book.

  Surely there couldn’t be another perpetrator?

  Doubt was lurking in the shadows of everything they didn’t know, everything they couldn’t prove.

  There was a knock on the door and a younger colleague came in.

  ‘Can I have a quick word with the two of you?’

  He nodded to Fredrika and Berlin; Ross was no longer a part of the team.

  They went out into the corridor. Berlin slammed the door behind her, leaving Ross alone.

  ‘We’re carrying out a search of Ross’s house at the moment.’

  ‘I know,’ Berlin said. ‘I was the one who asked the prosecutor for a warrant.’

  The young man ignored her.

  ‘I’ve just had an initial report from the scene. They’ve made a number of discoveries, including two copies of Morgan Sander’s book hidden at the back of a wardrobe.’

  Fredrika let out a long breath. At last, solid ground beneath her feet.

  At last.

  She could see there was more to come; the corner of their colleague’s mouth was twitching with eagerness.

  ‘And they found a revolver.’

  ‘A Colt 45,’ Berlin said quietly.

  ‘Exactly.’ He was beyond excited. ‘It’s being fast-tracked to the National Forensics Centre, of course, but I think we can be pretty sure it’s our murder weapon.’

  Berlin was clearly shaken. Fredrika’s head was spinning, and the solid ground was shifting slightly. Aftershocks, nothing to worry about.

  ‘Where was the gun found?’

  ‘In the garage.’

  ‘Where in the garage?’

  ‘Behind a pile of winter tyres.’

  ‘And did they find Ross’s prints on it?’ Berlin asked.

  ‘They only found it fifteen minutes ago, so no, not yet.’

  ‘I don’t think we should expect too much in terms of prints,’ Fredrika cautioned. ‘We’ve found no trace of Ross at any of
the crime scenes. He’s been very careful.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Their colleague nodded and walked away.

  ‘So that’s that,’ Berlin said.

  ‘Looks like it.’

  But Fredrika was picturing Torbjörn Ross in her mind’s eye, an ageing man with heavy Wellington boots and the lack of sharpness in his eyes that came with the passing years. He would never have managed to build the kind of house he’d been lucky enough to rent from the Solomon Community. Never.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Berlin wanted to know.

  That this is more than Ross is capable of.

  ‘That I’m not convinced.’

  Was that really her own voice she was hearing? Ross was the perpetrator. It had to be Ross.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I don’t think Ross is the kind of person who can flit about between various crime scenes like a ghost. I’m sorry, but the fact that he’s left no traces anywhere . . . it just doesn’t fit.’

  Berlin shook her head.

  ‘It’s always the same with you. Always the same lack of respect.’

  Fredrika glanced up in surprise. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You don’t understand police officers, especially not the older ones like Torbjörn and Alex.’

  ‘Hang on a minute, I—’

  ‘Torbjörn is one of the most competent colleagues I’ve ever worked with. If there’s anyone who could commit a series of murders like this without being found out, it’s him.’

  Fredrika was lost for words. Of all the things Berlin could have chosen to say, this was the most astonishing, the most ridiculous and the most childish. In the end she had to point out the obvious.

  ‘If he could do all that without being found out, how come he’s sitting in an interview room right now? And how come he’s owned up to one crime without offering any resistance, but not the rest – even though he knows the game is up and he’s not going to be able to get away with it?’

  ‘He knows we don’t have any evidence of his involvement in the other cases. But of course he’s unaware of what’s been found at his house today.’

  ‘He’s a detective, for fuck’s sake!’ Fredrika snapped, feeling her cheeks flush. ‘He knows how we work, he knows we’ll be carrying out a search. And if he couldn’t come up with anywhere better to stash the books and the revolver than in the wardrobe and the garage, then he must realise we’re going to find them.’

  Berlin stared at her as if she’d lost her mind.

  ‘Are you saying someone planted the books and the murder weapon?’

  Fredrika didn’t bother pointing out that they didn’t actually know whether the gun was the murder weapon, even though it seemed likely.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I think we have to consider that possibility.’

  Berlin was having none of it.

  ‘Go back to the department. I’ll finish the interview on my own.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  Fredrika turned and walked away. Away from Berlin, away from Ross.

  Back to the department, where she was sure Alex was following a lead he had no intention of sharing.

  ‘They’ve got him,’ Ivan said.

  Alex looked up. ‘Who?’

  ‘Ross. They’ve found two copies of Morgan Sander’s book in his wardrobe, plus what looks like the murder weapon.’

  Alex dropped the papers he was holding, stared at them as if they’d just burst into flames.

  ‘Thank God.’

  The fingerprints had shown that Spencer Lagergren was the most likely person to have written the letter Alex had found in Noah’s office. Spencer, who Peder claimed had attacked Noah on a previous occasion. Noah, who had been threatened and had turned to a security firm. Noah, who was economical with the truth. All this was according to what Peder had said to Alex, but when he’d gone to see Berlin that same afternoon, Peder hadn’t mentioned Spencer, or the fact that Noah had needed help with security issues. Peder had lied to Alex.

  And now both the Johansson brothers were dead.

  Alex wanted to believe they’d been murdered by the same person.

  And that that person was Torbjörn Ross.

  ‘So what do we do with this?’ Ivan gestured towards Spencer’s letter.

  ‘We know Spencer Lagergren wasn’t involved with Dan Johansson and his family, and we haven’t found the slightest connection between him and any of the other victims,’ Alex said.

  He didn’t want to think about the rest of it, the indication in the letter that Spencer was going to die in the near future.

  ‘He does say he’s putting everything right,’ Ivan pointed out. ‘Quoting an author he doesn’t name.’

  ‘True, but Spencer is a professor of literature. He told Fredrika he’d supervised a student during the spring who had looked at Morgan Sander’s work, among other things.

  ‘We need to double-check that,’ Ivan said.

  ‘Fine, but try to be discreet. Then we’ll drop it.’

  They sat in silence for a moment. Alex thought back to the last time Spencer had been dragged into a police inquiry; a young female student had accused him of sexual harassment. He had been arrested on that occasion; they must have taken his fingerprints, fingerprints that had been wiped from the system because he’d been completely exonerated. If Ivan hadn’t gone through the wills, they wouldn’t have been able to identify Spencer. Alex almost wished that had been the case.

  ‘Don’t we have to do something about his admission in the letter?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘He says he ran over a woman then drove away from the scene.’

  Alex lowered his chin. ‘We have no idea how long ago that was.’

  ‘Yes we do – it says their daughter had just been born.’

  Ivan wasn’t stupid, and that wasn’t always a good thing.

  ‘Let me give it some thought,’ Alex said. ‘I mean, he doesn’t name the woman. Any kind of legal action would be problematic if the letter is all we have.’

  ‘They might still have the same car – in which case we could bring it in, let forensics take a look at it.’

  Alex stared in silence at his colleague. Ivan’s shoulders slumped.

  ‘Although obviously this all happened years ago,’ he said.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I saw his name in Johansson’s client database the first time I went through it.’

  ‘And you saw mine.’

  Ivan flushed. Alex took a deep breath, unsure whether to share what was on his mind.

  ‘We need to tread carefully with this. Not leap to conclusions based on what we think we know. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Not only because Fredrika’s involved,’ Alex went on. ‘Absolutely not because Fredrika’s involved, in fact, but because we must never, ever jump to conclusions based on too little material. The consequences for the individual can be devastating.’

  With those words Alex closed down the discussion about the letter. If he had his way, it would never be spoken about again.

  ‘Where are the rest of the wills?’ he asked.

  ‘With forensics. People have already started calling, wanting them back.’

  ‘Return them right away. We don’t need them any longer.’

  Ivan picked up the phone immediately and passed on Alex’s instructions. Alex listened in silence. Noah Johansson must have been killed because he kept on pushing to find out what had happened to his brother. Anything else was unimaginable. That could also explain the chaos in his office. Nothing was missing, nothing had been stolen. Someone had messed the place up to make it look like a robbery gone wrong. Or as if the killer had been searching for something. But what was there to search for at a funeral parlour? Surely there was nothing of value, nothing worth stealing?

  No, Alex thought. What the killer wanted was Noah’s silence. And then he went after Tina Antonsson, but she got away, thank God.

  Ross and his fucking Wellingtons. How could he be so stupid?

  ‘D
o we tell Fredrika?’ Ivan said.

  ‘No. That’s up to Spencer.’

  The more Alex thought about the letter, the more concerned he became. The change in Fredrika over recent weeks, the anxiety he had seen in her eyes. Spencer had written that he knew when he was going to die, that his time was measured out. Alex was struggling to understand. Was Spencer ill? If so, why hadn’t Fredrika said anything?

  Because she always keeps things to herself.

  Ivan picked up the letter. ‘She must have realised.’

  ‘Fredrika?’

  ‘Yes. She must have realised who wrote the letter. Even if she wasn’t aware of the car accident, she must have known.’

  The thought hadn’t occurred to Alex. Fredrika had read her husband’s last confession here at work. Learned that he’d done something terrible, something he was now putting right.

  Alex’s mouth went dry.

  Fuck.

  She must have had the same reaction as Ivan and Alex.

  She must have thought she was reading a murderer’s letter.

  But unlike her colleagues, she knew who’d written it.

  She must have been so worried, so frightened.

  Alex knew he had to speak to her, reassure her before they went home for the weekend. The man she lived with had certainly committed a crime when he ran over a woman and left her lying in the road, but he was no serial killer. If she hadn’t worked that out for herself, then Alex would make it clear to her.

  *

  The perfect opportunity soon presented itself. Alex had just sat down at his desk when there was a knock on the door and Fredrika came in.

  ‘We need to talk,’ she said.

  ‘Take a seat.’

  She closed the door and sat down opposite him. Alex was intending to get straight to the point, but Fredrika beat him to it.

  ‘I think we’re wrong. I don’t think Ross is lying. He didn’t kill Malcolm Benke, Lovisa Wahlberg or the other victims.’

  Alex was more than a little surprised.

  ‘Didn’t you hear that they’ve found two copies of Morgan Sander’s book in his wardrobe, and a gun in—’

  ‘Someone could have planted them – it means nothing.’

  Alex leaned forward; it was time to free his younger colleague from her demons.

  ‘Fredrika, I know,’ he said quietly.