by Arne Dahl
As the camera focused on the wheel of the bicycle Syl slowed the film down to normal speed. The sound returned. The reporter sounded neurotic.
‘And how do you come to be here?`’ he asked while the cameraman tried to adjust the focus on the bicycle wheel. In the end he succeeded and the camera panned up.
It was her. Bicycle-woman. There was something remarkable about seeing the muscles of her face move. As if she had only now become real.
There was actually an awful lot going on with the muscles of her face. As if they were governed by an incredibly complex process of decision-making. Her body seemed to be on the point of cycling off. But then her body language changed completely and she replied: ‘I just happened to be cycling past.’
An unexpectedly deep voice, Berger thought, watching her face.
‘What do you think about all this?’ the reporter asked desperately.
‘What exactly am I supposed to be thinking something about?’
‘The police raid on the biker gang.’
Then she pointed briefly over the reporter’s shoulder and said: ‘Apparently they managed to free someone who was kidnapped. So that’s obviously good.’
To his surprise, Berger found himself thinking very clearly: I want you in an interview room.
‘Thank you,’ the reporter said, genuinely, from the sound of it. ‘What’s your name?’
Berger froze. Watched.
The facial muscles again. A similar pattern of movements. Then she said: ‘Nathalie Fredén, but you’re not going to broadcast this crap on television, are you?’
‘Pause,’ Berger said quickly.
From the corner of his eye he saw Syl’s face move closer to the screen. Just like his own.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘About what?’ Syl asked, without taking her eyes off the screen.
‘What was that?’
‘I don’t get what you mean.’
‘Yes, you do. What was that she just did?’
Berger had to admit that Syl wasn’t Deer. Brilliant at going through archives, not quite so brilliant at analysis. He admired Syl – they had been at Police Academy together. She was the only person who still dared to call him Sambo; she was a genius when it came to anything digital, looking things up and digging them out – but he suddenly found himself missing Deer’s way of seeing things.
Micrometeorology, he thought, and chuckled.
Syl looked at him dubiously.
‘She replied: “Nathalie Fredén, but you’re not going to broadcast this crap on television, are you?” What was that?’ he asked.
Syl blinked hard a couple of times. ‘I presume you want to know if I’ve found a Nathalie Fredén?’
‘Definitely. In a minute. But first this point, specifically.’
He could see the tension in Syl’s neck.
‘She seems to think before saying her name,’ she said eventually. ‘And she thought very hard before she decided to speak at all.’
‘After which she gives a name which might or might not be her own,’ Berger said. ‘Then what?’
‘OK,’ Syl said. ‘She says her name, then says very quickly that this crap shouldn’t be broadcast on television. More or less.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. Why?’
‘Because she wants to make sure it won’t be broadcast,’ Berger said. ‘But at the same time she wants to get her name out. Who to?’
‘Don’t get carried away here,’ Syl said. ‘Seeing as she gave her name, it could very well end up on television, as a caption. At the bottom of the screen. But there was no broadcast; they showed the hockey instead, even if she couldn’t have known that. If she didn’t want her name on television she could simply not have given it.’
‘You’re right,’ Berger said thoughtfully. ‘It’s definitely a risky strategy. Even so, it was a conscious decision to reveal her name. Why?’
‘For God’s sake, Sambo,’ Syl exclaimed. ‘It’s almost two years ago. She’s not talking to you.’
Oddly enough, Berger felt himself blush.
‘I didn’t think she was. It just seems like she was aiming her comments at the police in general somehow. But OK, that can wait till later. So, you’ve managed to find someone with the fairly unusual name of Nathalie Fredén?’
‘There aren’t many in Sweden. This is Västerås. Do you want to take that as the starting point and move out from there? Do we assume that’s where she’s from, and then she expanded her field of operations?’
‘Don’t know,’ Berger said. ‘It’s not even certain that Julia Almström was the first victim. Is there a Nathalie Fredén in Västerås?’
‘No,’ Syl said. ‘Only in Stockholm.’
‘Just one?’
‘Three. One’s a baby out in Farsta. Another one is in Year 4 at Alvik School. The third is thirty-six years old and lives near Odenplan.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Berger said. ‘What else?’
‘Not much. I haven’t had time. But there doesn’t seem to be much about her. She’s got an apartment on Vidargatan, wherever that is. Surveillance?’
‘Right away. And email me everything you’ve got on her. Passport? Driving licence? Date of birth and ID number?’
‘I’ll send you all I’ve got,’ Syl said. ‘But none of the above.’
‘We’ll have to instigate a large-scale search,’ Berger said, and then left.
A couple of seconds later he stuck his head back into Syl’s cubbyhole and said: ‘Thanks.’
11
Monday 26 October, 12.01
Then time entered two phases. At first it went improbably, almost unmanageably, quickly. Berger was standing at the whiteboard while his ever-expanding team ran back and forth with information. He tried to summarise it as best he could on the old-fashioned whiteboard, attaching notes with magnets and drawing lines and arrows.
No passport, no driving licence, no photographs beyond those they’d already found. But a date of birth and ID number linked to the apartment on Vidargatan. And a floor plan of the flat.
‘She doesn’t seem to be particularly digital,’ Deer said. ‘No Facebook, no Twitter, no Instagram, at least not under her own name. No immediately accessible email address. No blog, and no website.’
‘Is that even possible these days?’ Berger asked.
Samir came over, scratching his beard. ‘Tax declarations,’ he said, waving some sheets of paper.
‘OK?’ Berger said. ‘Have we got a place of work?’
‘No, she’s only declared minimal income for the past four years. And nothing before that.’
‘Minimal income?’
‘From various sources, never more than ninety thousand kronor or so. I’ve tried to contact a couple of her clients but I haven’t heard anything so far.’
‘What sort of work?’
‘Unclear. Secretarial, maybe. Possibly cleaning. It’s hard to tell. A temp agency.’
‘Go on,’ Berger said, fixing the tax declarations to the board. He looked at them, staring intently at the neat signature, the name Nathalie Fredén perfectly legible.
‘Report from Vidargatan,’ a voice said behind Berger’s back. He turned round and saw a young detective whose name he had suddenly forgotten.
‘OK?’ he said.
‘No one in the flat at present,’ said the young man whose name Berger was still fumbling towards.
‘Don’t tell me some idiot’s gone and rung the bell?’
‘External monitoring, et cetera. And surveillance outside, in shifts. Photographs of people going in and out.’
‘Thanks,’ Berger said, then added as the young man was already walking away: ‘Thanks, Raymond.’
He turned towards the whiteboard and contemplated two things. The first was what ‘et cetera’ might mean in that context, the second was where Vidargatan actually was. In the end he was left staring into a white void. He turned round again.
‘Bloody hell,’ he exclaimed to the office i
n general. ‘We must be able to find out more than this. And fast. If she doesn’t work, how can she afford a flat near Odenplan? Bank accounts? How has she managed to get to her thirties without earning any money? Has she been in a care home? An institution? Prison? Give me something!’
‘No criminal record,’ Deer said from somewhere. ‘But you already knew that.’
Maja was suddenly standing beside him, big and solid, and said in her steady way: ‘Nathalie Fredén is listed as unmarried, and was born in Umeå thirty-six years ago. Her parents’ names were John and Erica, and they’re both dead. I’ve managed to find a primary school there, the Mariehem School. They’re busy digging out all the information they’ve got. Including a class photo. Apparently she was only there up to Year 3.’
‘And how the hell is a class photograph from Year 3 going to help us?’ Berger bellowed.
Deer appeared next to Maja, making her look even smaller than usual.
‘Now you sound like Allan,’ Deer said, giving him her most innocent – in other words, her most evil – look.
He looked at her and took a couple of deep breaths through his nose.
‘Yoga breathing,’ Deer declared.
‘I get it,’ Berger said eventually. ‘We can check to see if it really is her.’
‘There are obvious holes in Nathalie Fredén’s biography,’ Maja said calmly. ‘It would be good if we could at least confirm that it’s the same person. And, maybe even more so, if it isn’t.’
‘Good,’ Berger nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Carry on.’
Maja returned to her desk.
Samir came back and stood beside Deer. He seemed to be waiting his turn, so Deer went on: ‘I think I might have a Facebook account. Belongs to an N Freden, no accent. No posts and no friends. Dormant, clearly. But when it was registered, both a mobile number and email address were listed. I’ve called the mobile but the number’s not in use.’
‘Get a trace on it anyway,’ Berger said. ‘And the email?’
‘I’ve sent it to Forensics.’
‘Good work, Deer. Keep looking. Samir?’
‘Initial conversation with a temp agency who employed Nathalie Fredén four years ago. She’s on their books, but no one there remembers her. She was sent to a now defunct car-hire company in Ulvsunda.’
‘Hmm,’ Berger said. ‘The obvious holes in Nathalie Fredén’s biography are becoming increasingly obvious. Keep working. Find some former employees of the car-hire company.’
Samir turned on his heels and went back to his place.
A sudden pause arose. Berger stared at the whiteboard. He was looking at the gaps on it.
‘The most likely explanation is that she hasn’t actually been spending that much time in Sweden,’ Deer said.
He had forgotten she was still standing there.
‘Maybe,’ he said.
‘Swedish mobile number, though, and obvious traces of her presence here in the past …’
‘… four years,’ Berger concluded.
‘But possibly not before that,’ Deer said.
‘Maybe not,’ Berger agreed.
Then Maja was back again. Without a word she held out a sheet of paper. It featured a photograph, clearly cropped from a group picture, its colour faded. And the face was very young.
‘A bit of a snub nose,’ Deer said.
‘And blonde,’ Maja said. ‘It could be her.’
‘Year 3,’ Berger said. ‘Year 3. What age is that? Nine? Ten? What does puberty do to people? Some people look pretty recognisable afterwards, while others change completely. So what about Nathalie Fredén?’
The three of them stood there staring at the class photograph, which Berger had already pinned up between the two sharpest pictures of bicycle-woman’s face.
‘Possible,’ Deer said after a while.
‘Good summary,’ Berger said. ‘Possible, no more than that. Which makes it pretty much useless. Neither true nor false. I’d have preferred it if nine-year-old Nathalie Fredén had been adopted from Biafra.’
‘Biafra?’ Deer said.
At that moment Berger glanced out of the window for the first time in a very long while. It had started to rain again, hard, heavy drops blowing against the windows of the large office space. That was when time entered its second phase. Everything slowed down. None of the paths led any further. It was apparent that Nathalie Fredén had always been employed through temp agencies, and that her Swedish employment history seemed to have begun a mere four years ago. But it wasn’t possible to find out more detailed information from any of the companies. It didn’t seem to be in their nature to have any form of personal contact with their staff. The email belonging to ‘N Freden’ didn’t lead anywhere, nor did the defunct car-hire company in Ulvsunda. No bank accounts of any kind were identified, nothing like that. And no trace of a single person in the entire universe who remembers bumping into Nathalie Fredén just once during her thirty-six years on the planet. No classmates, no neighbours, no colleagues, no friends.
In the end Berger had had enough. On his way out of the office he heard Deer’s extremely tentative question: ‘Dentist?’
He turned and gestured towards the whiteboard. ‘Good idea. We’re pretty toothless right now.’
12
Monday 26 October, 18.47
Dusk had long since fallen, but the rain just went on falling.
There were two street lamps on the easily overlooked side street. They were both suspended from what looked like lethal cables strung across the street, from building to building, and the evening showed its true character in the constantly shifting pools of light. Beyond these pools it was hard to see how hard the downpour was, but even in the darkness it could be felt and, not least, heard. The rain was hammering all the car roofs along the street in a variety of tones, but it seemed to be making an extra effort with the dark blue Volvo. The downpour was drowned out by retaliatory heavy metal. Meaning that the two men in the car weren’t at all prepared for the knock.
Berger saw the men’s hands fumble across jackets that had been buttoned all too carefully. But he understood; he had sat in his share of surveillance vehicles, and the thing that was engraved in his marrow wasn’t the boredom, the tiredness, the hunger, the need to pee, or even the smells – it was the cold.
‘You need to turn the volume down,’ he said through the opening window. ‘I can hear your music from the pavement.’
‘Sam,’ the older man said in a measured voice, then lowered the volume with purposeful slowness.
‘Any signs of life?’ Berger said.
‘Is that really what I think it is?’ the man said. ‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous a cop with an umbrella looks?’
‘Signs of life?’ Sam repeated from under his umbrella.
‘We’d have been in touch if there were.’
‘And you’ve taken photographs of everyone going in and out?’
The younger man in the passenger seat raised a disproportionately large camera in response.
‘Many people?’ Berger went on.
‘Not really,’ the older man said. ‘About ten since we took over.’
‘You can see inside the building as well,’ the younger one said, pointing. ‘Through the windows in the stairwell.’
Berger nodded. ‘If she shows up in the next half an hour, leave her be, and don’t report it. Just shadow her up the stairs but don’t intervene unless the situation is critical. Understood?’
The older officer raised his left eyebrow and said: ‘I take that to mean that you …’
‘Understood?’
‘Understood.’
The umbrella blew apart as he crossed Vidargatan. He ditched the remains on the pavement and walked up to the unremarkable door, tapped in the code, made his way up the stairs and stopped outside the still-untouched door.
It was a conscious decision on the part of the police, taken by Allan, of course: not to enter a flat that could be rigged. Or at least alarmed. Wired with surveillance ca
meras. There was thought to be a significant risk that a raid would warn Nathalie Fredén, whereupon she would in all likelihood disappear, leaving no more than the smattering of evidence that her identity had provided thus far.
Berger studied the stone floor of the stairwell. A number of wet footprints were visible, and a small puddle had already formed around his feet. Evidence that was going to linger for quite some time.
Everything was telling him not to go in.
Not least that Allan’s words could no longer be treated as a joke. If Berger did warn Nathalie Fredén in any way, he really would be fired.
Even so, his lock-pick was out.
Even so, it slipped into the lock.
He studied the gap between the door and frame all the way round. There was nothing obvious, no classic strand of hair or piece of paper, nothing that should have stopped him from breaking in.
He paused to consider one last time. And he considered very seriously.
Even if all their external assessments suggested that it was unlikely, there was a slim chance that Ellen Savinger was behind that door. Berger simply couldn’t hold back any longer. His entire being fought against all this waiting.
Leaving the pick in the lock, he went and looked out through the window in the stairwell. Sure enough, he could see straight down onto the surveillance car. He raised his hand and the younger officer raised the camera in response. Berger pulled back. Fragments of weak street lighting flashed in the black trickles of rain competing to hit Vidargatan first.
And he was back in the rain. He was standing behind a ruined building in the middle of a downpour, the wooden planks behind his back so rotten they felt spongy. Police officers disappeared, one after the other, into the rainstorm, swallowed up by the grey soup. He set off, followed by Deer’s whimpering breath. The house from hell was hidden from view.
It was entirely possible that hell was waiting behind this unprepossessing door as well.
He had to be prepared for that. Mentally, physically, and as a police officer. The realisation actually came as a shock. He had been blinded by the speed of his actions for too long.