The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  She stared blankly at him.

  ‘I know,’ he repeated. ‘I know it was Spencer who wrote the letter we found in Noah’s office, but believe me, he’s not our killer.’

  Fredrika blinked.

  ‘Do you seriously think I’m sitting here hinting that Spencer is our man?’

  Alex shuffled uncomfortably.

  ‘Sorry – I didn’t put that very well. But in that case who . . . What are you suggesting? I don’t understand.’

  Fredrika’s cheeks flushed; she was clearly upset by Alex’s words.

  ‘I don’t know who the perpetrator is. It just seems so unlikely that Ross of all people would be capable of carrying out such complex murders without leaving a trace of himself behind. I said the same thing to Berlin, and she told me I had no respect for more experienced police officers, but please believe me – that’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Of course not. It’s a long time since we had that kind of discussion.’

  Alex wanted to get back to Spencer, explain why he’d said what he had. But he was caught up in Fredrika’s assertion that Ross was an unlikely candidate. Was he too old, too unsophisticated, or had they underestimated him? Ross with his stooped posture, his Wellingtons. Who knew what he was capable of, what was concealed behind the façade.

  ‘We can’t ignore the fact that he managed to abduct an entire family and keep them off the radar for two months. That’s quite an achievement.’

  Fredrika shook her head.

  ‘He didn’t build that house, Alex. His revenge was served up on a plate; all he had to do was kidnap the family. And he didn’t have to be particularly careful, because he didn’t expect anyone to start looking for them. They were supposed to be in Australia.’

  Good point.

  ‘So what have we missed?’ Alex said. ‘What do you want to take a closer look at?’ This gave him another chance to talk about Spencer.

  ‘The man who bought the books,’ Fredrika replied.

  ‘The man whose voice wasn’t Ross’s.’

  Alex touched the scars on his hands for the thousandth time. Henry Lindgren’s death was the most terrifying of them all. A crystal-clear link to the past, to one of Alex’s failures as a police officer.

  ‘I’m not sure, Fredrika. We can be absolutely certain of two things: the man in question knows me, and he’s familiar with the background of his victims on a level of detail I find absolutely horrific. Who else fits those criteria, apart from Ross? Who else have we managed to link to all the victims, apart from Ross?’

  Fredrika thought for a moment.

  ‘No one,’ she admitted eventually. ‘On the other hand, we haven’t looked very hard. We can’t rely on the principle that “it can’t be anyone else”. That’s not evidence, and it won’t stand up in court.’

  ‘I’m well aware of that, thank you.’

  Alex hadn’t meant to snap, but Fredrika withdrew into herself, closed down.

  ‘My apologies,’ she said.

  Silence.

  Fredrika, I know.

  They had to talk about the letter, about Spencer.

  ‘What was Ross like when he was younger? Was he good at his job?’

  The question sent Alex spinning back through the decades, made him think about all those years that had disappeared, all the capabilities that had dwindled.

  ‘He was one of the very best,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘One of the very best?’

  He nodded. ‘It’s his judgement that’s changed, become skewed. In terms of pure skill he’s still got it.’

  ‘In that case maybe you’re right. Maybe he really is our perpetrator.’

  ‘I think we have to accept that,’ Alex said. ‘And we just forget about the man who bought the books, unless of course he was buying them on behalf of Ross. We’ll probably never know.’

  Fredrika managed a wan smile.

  Alex took a deep breath.

  ‘I know, Fredrika. I know that you know Spencer wrote the letter we found in Noah’s office, I know you’re worried that he might be involved. Listen to me: Spencer might have done foolish things in the past, but he has nothing to do with any of this. Okay?’

  Tears sprang to Fredrika’s eyes.

  ‘Okay.’

  It’s always the same. We always excuse those we love the most, yet at the same time that unconditional love opens us up to a doubt we would not allow ourselves in a different context. Because we can’t possibly be wrong, not when it comes to our nearest and dearest. Where they’re concerned, we have to be absolutely certain. We cannot let evil creep into our closest circle.

  Alex leaned back.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘Fine.’

  Alex wondered if she’d understood the question. ‘So he’s not ill?’

  ‘He’s dying. He has a brain tumour.’

  Time stood still.

  Of all the things she could have said.

  Of all the things he’d expected to hear.

  He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready for the realisation that Fredrika was going to have to watch the man she loved deeply die.

  You have no idea of the hell that’s waiting for you. But I do, I’ve been there.

  ‘I’m so very sorry.’

  ‘Me too. Me too. And you have to believe me, Alex, if I’d had the strength . . . you would have been the first person I confided in.’

  He couldn’t say a word, he merely nodded. He didn’t want her to feel for one second that she owed him an explanation for her silence.

  ‘You’ve got a lot to tell me,’ she said in a broken voice.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready,’ Alex assured her. ‘Any time, day or night. I’m always here for you.’

  As soon as Peder Rydh missed Ylva, he would go and visit her. Sometimes he took the boys with him, sometimes he didn’t. Today he was alone.

  ‘I did the right thing,’ he said in a matter-of-fact tone of voice. ‘I went to see Berlin, had a chat with her. Told her what I needed to tell her. But I missed out the stuff about Spencer – too messy. He’s going to die soon anyway.’

  It had stopped raining, which was a good thing. It meant he didn’t need that fucking umbrella. It was ages since he’d seen Ylva indoors.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking. I should have done it earlier, I’m not taking responsibility. But you’re wrong. This time I’ve taken all the responsibility anyone could wish, and more besides. Deep down, you realise that.’

  A bird flew past, so low that Peder automatically ducked.

  ‘Bastard fucking bird,’ he muttered.

  He’d always been afraid of birds; they were so unpredictable. His brother Jimmy had felt the same way. The fact that Jimmy could also feel scared had frightened Peder when he was a child, because Jimmy was the kind of person who hardly ever found things unpleasant. He didn’t have nightmares like Peder, he didn’t insist on sleeping between his mum and dad. Then the accident happened, and everything changed. If Peder closed his eyes he could still see his brother’s body being thrown from the swing, landing on the hard ground and hitting his head on a stone. He could still remember the pool of blood that got bigger and bigger, how warm Jimmy’s head had been when he held it between in his hands. Jimmy would never be the same again, but Peder didn’t realise that until he grew older and the gap between him and his brother – who remained a child for as long as he lived – became too wide to bridge.

  He carried on talking to Ylva. ‘You know when I shot the man who killed Jimmy? I don’t remember the details, it’s all kind of blacked out, but I do remember the feeling, I was certain I was doing the right thing. I still think so today.’

  The ground was soft and damp beneath his feet. He moved gently across the green grass, felt each blade bend with his weight.

  ‘It came over me again – I told you. That feeling. The same as when I shot Jimmy’s murderer, but more . . . real. It lingered for longer this time, it went deeper. I . . . I’m ashamed to say that I couldn’t get my act togethe
r at first. I failed in everything. I know I’ve said this before, I know you know I got the sack. But things are different now. I’m in control, I’m good with the boys. And Jussi, my boss at Solid Security, he didn’t get it. He started hassling me, telling me I wasn’t normal, saying I was unreliable after what happened to you. He came straight out and said I was damaged, that taking me on had been an error of judgement. Fucking arsehole, there was nothing wrong with me back then. There’s nothing wrong with me now either. But we talked about how I felt last summer, when I wanted to change jobs. I couldn’t stop brooding over Jimmy’s death, what I’d done, in spite of the fact that you reminded me of how many years had passed. I tried, I really did. But it was no good, not even when I got a new job. I couldn’t free myself, Ylva. I was stuck fast. For a long time.’

  Peder was breathing heavily.

  ‘One day when the boys are older I’ll explain it all to them. I can’t do it right now, I’m sure you understand that. I . . . Shit, Ylva, I was supposed to put everything right, but I didn’t get as far as I’d intended. Not even close. I’ll come up with a new plan, I promise. After all, this was meant to be a lifetime project, not something that took one week in the summer.’

  Peder heard voices approaching. They were no longer alone.

  ‘I have to go now. I’ll come back with the boys in a few days. They miss you so much, they talk about you all the time. But . . . we’re fine, really we are. It’s important that you know that.’

  He leaned forward and brushed away a leaf that had drifted down onto Ylva’s gravestone.

  ‘By the way, did I tell you about Ross? I did, didn’t I? What a fucking idiot – you won’t believe what he’s done! But he feels the same way I do – he’s convinced he did the right thing.’

  He stepped back; time to go.

  ‘You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,’ he whispered.

  The apartment was bursting with life when Fredrika arrived home. The children whirled around like restless summer butterflies, giggling and shouting. The smell of garlic was coming from the kitchen. Fredrika put down her bag and grabbed Saga as she raced towards her.

  ‘Daddy came and fetched us!’ Saga informed her, clearly delighted.

  ‘That’s wonderful!’

  Fredrika picked up the little girl and held her close. Soon she would be too big for that kind of thing, wouldn’t want Mummy cuddling her like a soft toy. The days could be endless, but for some reason the years just flew by.

  She went into the kitchen. Spencer had his back to her. He was chopping onions and didn’t turn around, even though he must have heard her.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hi,’ said Spencer.

  Spencer who was going to die, Spencer whom she’d loved for so long, who wasn’t the murderer they were looking for. But he was still a man who had once run over a young woman and left her lying in the road without calling for help.

  Saga insisted on being put down, then ran off to find her brother. They headed for Saga’s bedroom like a mini-tornado.

  ‘Did you miss them?’

  ‘Terribly.’ At last he turned around. Fredrika struggled to hide her shock at his appearance: he looked exhausted, hollow-eyed. Almost gaunt.

  ‘I called Noah Johansson’s assistant today. I wanted my will so that I could pass it on to the new funeral director, but I couldn’t have it. Apparently the police had taken all the wills to examine them.’

  Fredrika didn’t move, didn’t say a word.

  ‘I know that you know,’ Spencer said. ‘I know you’ve read the letter.’

  Fredrika still didn’t speak. She’d kept a little spark of hope alive, she realised. Hope that he hadn’t written the letter, hope that he had nothing to do with any of it, hope that he hadn’t run over that woman.

  Shit.

  ‘How could you do that?’ she whispered. ‘Run over someone and just leave her lying there?’

  ‘What was the alternative? Go on, tell me! I’d finally managed to get out of my miserable marriage, finally embarked on a life with you. I even had a child. Do you understand how miraculous that was for me? And then I’d had that terrible accident; I thought I was going to die right there in the car. I didn’t, but it was a long road back. It was hell.’

  Fredrika remembered. That had been the most difficult period of all, but the fact that it had made Spencer indifferent to the lives and wellbeing of others had passed her by.

  ‘You wrote that you’ve put everything right now,’ she said. ‘What did you mean by that?’ She hardly dared breathe.

  ‘I’ve made a bequest to Miranda, and I wanted you to know why.’

  ‘Miranda?’

  ‘That’s her name.’

  Fredrika stood on a piece of Lego. It hurt and she kicked it away. The apartment had once been so clean and tidy that you could walk around barefoot; these days she was grateful if she managed to get from one room to the next without falling over something.

  ‘Couldn’t you have made it clearer? Explained that that was what you meant?’

  ‘What did you think I meant?’

  That you’d murdered several people.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What did your colleagues say? They must have recognised my name.’

  ‘I’ve only spoken to Alex. He’s very sorry you’re ill.’

  The water boiled over on the hob and Spencer turned down the heat. Fredrika could see that he was trying to hurry, and yet everything happened so slowly. His right arm was stiff; had it been that way before, or was this something new?

  ‘Need any help?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  And suddenly she remembered what he’d said when he told her about the tumour: he didn’t want to see the day when he couldn’t manage on his own, when he needed help.

  ‘I don’t do impotence and humiliation,’ he said. She’d nodded and said ‘of course’, told him she’d have felt the same, even though she hadn’t been at all convinced. Until now. Looking at Spencer and the boiling water, she knew for the first time exactly how she felt. She was like Spencer. She too hated the idea of impotence and humiliation so much that she would choose death in Switzerland over the alternative.

  ‘Say something, please.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About what I did, what I didn’t do.’

  Fredrika scratched a mosquito bite, contemplated the pile of toys on the floor and listened to the children’s excited chatter from the bedroom. She was the one who would be left. The one who would have the privilege of continuing to live this everyday life.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ she whispered.

  Spencer froze in mid movement. His face was filled with such sorrow that she wanted to caress his cheek. Once, twice, ten times. Over and over again before the flight to Switzerland at the beginning of September.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘We have so little time left,’ Fredrika said. ‘I choose not to quarrel, just as you have chosen how you’re going to die.’

  A single tear ran down Spencer’s cheek. Fredrika went over and wrapped her arms around him. Held him close, so close. For once it was her turn to bring him solace.

  *

  Margareta Berlin was well known for two things: she was tough on those who were tough, and she was tough on those who were vulnerable. She wasn’t proud of the latter, but it was undeniably true. Sometimes she had gone in way too hard, which was indefensible. That aspect of her character had cost her a great deal. She wasn’t stupid – she knew she wasn’t popular with her colleagues. For a long time she’d told herself it was because she’d risen through the ranks too quickly, that she hadn’t served her time as a foot soldier. However, as the years went by she had to accept that there must be other reasons why people didn’t like her, why she was never included in social gatherings.

  ‘You don’t listen, you don’t want to hear what others have to say. Which means you end up alone and lonely.’

  It was Torbjörn Ross who’d come strai
ght out with it, told her that the fault didn’t lie with others, but largely with herself.

  She had hated him – and respected him in equal measure, because he’d had the strength and courage to voice what everyone else was thinking but didn’t dare say. For that reason he had secured himself a special place in Berlin’s heart forever. Not that she ever gave him the slightest hint, but it had influenced her decision-making on key issues. She had become his protector, without the slightest hesitation.

  Until now.

  She couldn’t understand what had gone wrong, how he could have gone off the rails like this. The thought that Ross had kidnapped an entire family was beyond ridiculous. She still didn’t quite believe it. Ross had revealed few details, and the interview with Malin Johansson had had to be postponed. She was shocked and traumatised, as were the children. All three were in hospital, with the press lurking outside like predators, desperate for a glimpse of The Missing Family, as the headlines were calling them. Which didn’t really make sense – they weren’t missing now, they’d been found. In spite of the fact that only Noah and Tina had been looking for them.

  Berlin was still in her office. She didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t want to carry on working either.

  It wasn’t meant to be like this.

  Alex Recht and Fredrika Bergman had done a good job, she had to give them that. However, Fredrika had overstepped the mark earlier with her fantasies and her total lack of respect for experienced police officers.

  Ross wasn’t smart enough, that was what she’d implied.

  Sorrow burned in Berlin’s breast. Torbjörn Ross was most definitely smart enough to murder without leaving a trace of himself behind. Everyone who’d known him for a long time would agree – and that didn’t include Fredrika.

  The shrill sound of her mobile interrupted Berlin’s train of thought.

  ‘Sorry if I’m disturbing you at home on a Friday evening,’ the prosecutor said.

  ‘No problem – I’m still at work.’

  Berlin immediately regretted her words. She hated sounding lonely and bitter.

  ‘I’m going out for a late dinner,’ she added.

  ‘No chance of going home as far as I’m concerned,’ the prosecutor replied. ‘I’ve got far too much to do.’