by Arne Dahl
The same unfocused, neutral gaze, now with a trace of scepticism.
‘Did your classmates think you were disgusting, Nathalie?’ Berger asked gently.
He saw something flare up in her eyes and slowly move towards him. Before it found its target he went on: ‘You were ten years old, Nathalie. What had happened to you to make them think you were disgusting?’
A light was shining out from her half-closed eyelids, a tremulous light that for a moment or so replaced all sound.
‘You know exactly what happened,’ she said sharply.
For a fleeting moment Berger felt something course through him. Surprise, yes, definitely, but more than that. Discomfort, a short jolt of discomfort. And something else, something that lingered, a feeling that her words were on a completely different plane to his. He didn’t understand who she was, what she was doing, and that was so unusual that for a few moments he actually felt at a complete loss.
Even so, he was on a path, and at the end of it was fifteen-year-old Ellen Savinger, and she was alive, and nothing could make him stray from it.
‘I actually think I do,’ he said gently. ‘What you remember of that time, Nathalie, is the “betrayal”, you said that very clearly. I assume that you were betrayed by the world around you, the whole world, from parents to friends to teachers. There wasn’t much talk of bullying in those days, Nathalie. A lot of people in the older generation still thought bullying was a useful trial for life as an adult. But you couldn’t bear your classmates thinking you were disgusting; you were in such a bad way that you were sent to the counsellor, once, twice, three times, and in the end the counsellor wasn’t up to the job and had to send you to the school psychologist. The school psychologist organised a place for you in a private clinic. What sort of place was it, Nathalie?’
But Nathalie Fredén was no longer within reach. She was just staring at the wall.
‘You were ten years old,’ Berger continued. ‘The evidence seems to suggest that you were there for some twenty years. Then you were suddenly let out into a world you didn’t recognise. Everything was unfamiliar. You had become a grown-up in a protected environment, had no contact with the outside world. What did you feel when you got out?’
Fredén turned her gaze towards him, but there wasn’t much in it. She said nothing.
He went on: ‘During those twenty years your parents had died. Your grandfather died around the time of your release, and in the absence of other heirs he left you not only the flat on Vidargatan but also a tidy sum of money.’
‘But you said I didn’t have a bank account.’
It came out of nowhere. Berger had pretty much given up all hope of getting any response whatsoever. He touched his ear instinctively, hoping to get additional information quickly. Deer was on the case, and her voice echoed immediately in his ear: ‘Shoebox containing a few hundred kronor found under a floorboard in the kitchen in Vidargatan.’
‘No bank account, no,’ Berger said. ‘I don’t know if you distrust banks or if you simply don’t know how they work. But I’m pleased that you’re trying to mislead me with lies. It shows that you’re keeping up.’
‘Have you really got one of those earpieces?’ Nathalie Fredén asked, pointing.
Always poking his ear, Berger thought. Why did he do that? Had she got to him in a way that he couldn’t yet recognise? It was an unpleasant feeling. He shook it off, as he managed to shake off most things.
‘The money’s gone now,’ he said. ‘There are a few notes left in the shoebox. What do you usually do when the money runs out?’
‘Work. Get a shitty temporary job. But we’ve already talked about that.’
‘But you haven’t worked in over a year now. And even then you didn’t earn anywhere near enough to survive for a whole year.’
‘I had some of Grandfather’s money left.’
‘No, I don’t think so; there wasn’t that much. Where do you get your money, Nathalie? How do you pay the service charge for the flat, just over two thousand kronor a month? Always paid in cash, at different banks around the city. Are you even the one paying? Is it someone else? Is it the man you got the bicycle from?’
She shook her head, nothing more.
‘Who helped you when you got out of the clinic?’ he asked.
She didn’t answer.
He went on: ‘Was it Charles? Who ended up as your boyfriend? The man who gave you your bicycle? Your Rex?’
To make up for the lack of an answer, Deer’s voice sounded in his ear: ‘A four-year-old Rex has just been identified. Matching prints. Also matches the photographs. We’ve got the frame number, but we don’t know where it was bought and who bought it.’
Berger felt himself nod slightly. He was off balance but didn’t really understand how and why. He had to complete his line of questioning, but there was something troubling him. The whole situation troubled him. She was reacting to the wrong things, as if she really did live in a different reality. As if she had an entirely different approach to the truth.
Unless it was a different truth. In a different world, a completely unhinged world.
He said, without much hope: ‘Did you have another bicycle before your Rex?’
She had a different light in her eyes. ‘I’ve always cycled.’
And suddenly there was the glimmer of hope. He continued: ‘At the clinic as well?’
‘I don’t know what clinic you’re talking about.’
‘When you were ten years old and you mum and dad betrayed you and put you in the clinic, did you have a bicycle then?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Perhaps that was the only genuinely nice thing about the clinic? Cycling? Did you cycle much back then?’
‘I’ve always cycled a lot.’
‘How did you get your first bicycle when you got out of the clinic? Did you buy it?’
‘Yes, with Grandfather’s money.’
‘What happened to that bicycle?’
‘I rode it until it fell apart.’
‘And then Charles appeared and gave you another one?’
‘I think so.’
‘You think so?’
‘I don’t remember. I have a feeling that’s what happened.’
‘How did you meet Charles?’
‘I don’t remember. When I was cycling.’
‘Was it in the city? In Stockholm?’
‘He cycled up beside me at a traffic light, and said my bicycle looked really rubbish.’
‘Was that how your relationship began?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he kind to you?’
‘I got the bicycle …’
‘And apart from that?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘What did you do together? Apart from cycling.’
‘We didn’t cycle together.’
‘But he used to send you out on bike rides, didn’t he? Not always short ones, either?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Did you and Charles have a sexual relationship?’
‘I don’t know …’
‘Of course you know, Nathalie. Did you have sex?’
‘Yes …’
‘What sort of sex?’
‘I don’t know … Quite … hard …’
‘How do you mean? Did he tie you up? Did he hit you?’
‘A bit …’
‘A bit? Were you a virgin when you got out of the clinic?’
No answer.
He went on: ‘So that was it? You didn’t know what sex was. You thought it was supposed to be like that. That he was supposed to hit you. And give you orders. That’s it, isn’t it? He dominated you.’
No answer this time either. Was he losing contact?
‘What happened the first time he dominated you?’
‘How do you mean?’
Yes. A response. Some sort of response. ‘What did he want you to do, Nathalie?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘We h
ave two choices, Nathalie. Either we go into detail about what you did in the bedroom, and then you’ll have to describe everything in great detail, no matter how intimate or embarrassing it is. Or we talk about what he ordered you to do outside the bedroom. Which would you prefer?’
‘The second option.’
‘Fine,’ Berger said. ‘What was the first thing he wanted you to do? If we ignore sex?’
‘Cycle to a particular place at a particular time.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘If I was anywhere nearby it would be easy to find. There would be flashing blue lights, and I should follow them.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘No.’
‘Did you understand why?’
‘No.’
Berger leaned back.
In his ear he heard a perfectly timed voice: ‘Don’t touch you ear this time, Sam. I’ve got Cary here. So you know what’s at stake.’
Cary? Berger thought. Who the hell is Cary?
‘The sound technician,’ a male voice explained. ‘Comprehensive voice analysis shows that there’s a ninety-eight per cent probability that Nathalie Fredén made the call about the house in Märsta under the name Lina Vikström.’
Berger sat quietly and let both the conversation and the information sink in. In the end he thought: Yes, Deer, I understand what’s at stake.
But he said: ‘The first time wasn’t Västerås, was it?’
He pushed the picture of the bikers’ clubhouse towards Fredén. She looked at it but said nothing.
He went on: ‘There were more than three occasions, weren’t there? More than three kidnapped fifteen-year-old girls?’
‘I don’t know anything about any kidnapped girls.’
‘I didn’t think you did. I thought you were just remote-controlled by your master, an empty shell. But now I know better. When was the first time?’
‘I don’t keep track of time.’
‘But there was at least one occasion before Västerås. Västerås was in March, a year and a half ago. It was winter, a biker gang’s clubhouse. You said your name on television. Do you remember?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Västerås wasn’t the first time Charles told you to cycle out to the country to stand by a police cordon. When was the first time?’
‘I don’t know. It was summer.’
‘Summer. And where was it?’
‘I don’t remember. Closer to Stockholm.’
‘Try to remember. It’s important.’
Nathalie Fredén paused. A real pause, as if to think properly. ‘Sollentuna.’
In Berger’s ear Deer said: ‘We’re on it.’
Berger took a deep breath. ‘Can you describe what happened on that occasion?’
‘Charles told me to cycle there.’
‘What did he say exactly?’
‘I can’t remember that.’
‘I think you can. Try. It was the first time. Didn’t you wonder why?’
‘Yes. But I wasn’t allowed to ask.’
‘You just had to do what Charles said?’
‘Yes, that’s what we’d agreed.’
‘And what were you supposed to do there?’
‘I just had to stand and watch.’
‘And whereabouts was it? Do you remember where in Sollentuna?’
‘There were big blocks of flats, lots of big blocks of flats. Flashing blue lights in the car park below. They’d cordoned it off. That’s where I stood. Not much happened.’
‘Lots of big block of flats? Malmvägen? Stupvägen?’
‘I don’t know the name of the street.’
‘Do you remember how you got there? Did you cycle alongside the railway line? Under the motorway?’
‘It was over two years ago.’
‘You said you don’t keep track of time.’
‘Yes, beside the railway, under the motorway, up a hill. Then away from the railway. A roundabout. Two. It wasn’t far after that.’
‘Stupvägen,’ Berger said. ‘The shopping centre at Helenelund. That fits with the car park under the blocks of flats.’
‘There were steps up to the buildings.’
‘And when was this? Do you remember anything else, other than that it was summer?’
‘No. It was hot.’
Berger stopped. It had been going astonishingly well. But the spark seemed to have gone out in Nathalie Fredén’s eyes. He had a few moments left before they needed to take a break. ‘What’s Charles’s surname?’
‘Don’t remember. Something common.’
‘Something-son? Andersson, Johansson?’
‘No … More like one of those Bergström names …’
‘Bergström names? You mean like Lundberg, Lindström, Berglund, Sandberg?’
‘Yes, but none of those.’
Deer was on the ball and prompted in his ear: ‘Sjöberg? Forsberg? Åkerlund?’
Nope.
‘Bergman? Lundgren? Holmberg? Sandström?’
No.
‘Lindqvist? Engström? Eklund?’
‘Maybe,’ Fredén said. ‘Something like that.’
‘Which one?’
‘The first.’
‘Lindqvist?’
‘But not quite …’
‘Lundqvist? Lindgren?’
‘He said it should have an h at the end.’
‘An h? Strömbergh? Lindbergh?’
‘Yes, that was it. Lindbergh. With an h.’
Berger fell back in his chair with a deep sigh. ‘Charles Lindbergh,’ he said in an American accent. ‘There you go. Lucky Lindy. The Spirit of St. Louis. Did you ever see the name Charles Lindbergh written down? Did you ever see his driving licence or passport?’
‘No. But he was very particular about the h.’
‘I can imagine,’ Berger said. ‘Charles Lindbergh was an American who was the first man to fly across the Atlantic. In 1927, to be precise. Your master stole an existing identity and made it his own. Just like you did with Lina Vikström.’
‘What?’
‘We know you made the call saying that you’d seen Ellen Savinger in a house in Märsta. You assumed the role of a neighbour, Lina Vikström, who was away travelling. You know more than you’re letting on, Nathalie.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘No,’ Berger said. ‘Of course you don’t.’
Then he pressed a button on his mobile phone. It said, in a female voice: ‘Look, I’m pretty sure I saw her just now, you know, her, that girl, through the window … Well, I’m not sure it was her, but she had that thing, I don’t know, that pink leather strap round her neck with that crooked cross, the Greek one, I don’t know if it’s Orthodox, but she’s a genuine blonde, for God’s sake, can’t have any Greek roots.’
Berger pressed the button again and it fell silent.
He sat for a while and just looked at the woman who went by the name of Nathalie Fredén. She didn’t meet his gaze. He tried to get all the information – everything that had been said there in the interview room, and everything they knew from elsewhere – to fit together. To form a unified whole. It wasn’t possible. It simply wasn’t possible.
‘It’s now been scientifically proven that this is your voice, Nathalie,’ he said in the end.
She wouldn’t look at him.
He carried on: ‘Even so, the person who called the police and said that is a completely different person from the one I’ve met here. Which makes me think that this is a role as well, just like Lina Vikström was a role. You’re someone else altogether.’
She was still looking away.
‘I want you to look at me now, Nathalie,’ he said calmly. ‘I want you to look me in the eye.’
Still nothing.
‘Now,’ he said. ‘Do it now.’
Slowly she looked towards him. In the end he was looking straight into those blue eyes. Eyes could conceal things, but they could never lie, in his experience. So what was he seeing now? Something
neutral, apparently untroubled, and certainly beyond reach. This person was completely different from the person he had believed her to be. The one he had been lulled into believing in.
Had allowed himself to be lulled into believing in.
‘You called to tell us about the house in Märsta when Charles Lindbergh – or Erik Johansson, as we know him – had already abandoned it four days before. Why did you wait four days? Why did he want you to wait four days?’
‘Erik Johansson?’
‘Why did you wait four days? Why did you have to stand outside the cordon this time, in Märsta?’
No answer. Her expression suggested that a frown would have appeared in her forehead if the Botox hadn’t prevented it.
‘If you weren’t just reading out loud when you called the police, Nathalie, then what you say proves that you not only knew that Ellen Savinger was in the house, but also that you had access to information that no one but the police and the perpetrator were aware of. No one apart from us knew about the pink leather strap with the Orthodox cross. Just us and the Scum.’
‘Scum?’
‘Charles Lindbergh and Erik Johansson are merely aliases. His real name is the Scum. And you know that too. It’s not as if he was nice to you. So tell me.’
‘Tell you what?’
‘Have you been inside the house in Märsta? Did you see Ellen sitting there chained up and bleeding? Did you see her scrape the nails off her fingers and toes on the ice-cold cement floor? Did you help to torture her?’
‘No! No, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Yes, you do. You know exactly what I’m fucking talking about. That’s quite enough bullshit now. Did you help to torture her?’
‘Stop it.’
‘Stop it? Stop it?’
‘Sam,’ a voice said calmly and quietly in his ear.
That was all it took. Berger fell silent. He felt time pass, his heart’s sharp stabs at itself. Always one beat closer to death.
Always.
‘Tell me about the phone call,’ he said calmly.
‘I didn’t make a phone call,’ she said.
‘You don’t understand, Nathalie. We know you made that phone call. We know you were playing a role, and with a lot of flair, by the way. That’s not what I’m asking you. Just tell me about the phone call.’