He looked around, to the right and to the left. There was no one there, no one to see him. Quickly he bent down, unzipped his bag with gloved hands. Felt for the object he had wrapped in towels and items of clothing. It was right at the bottom.
Efraim’s hands closed around the black metal with practiced ease.
He stood up, leaned over the rail.
Not a living soul saw him as he dropped the gun that had killed three people into the sea.
CONCLUSION
FRAGMENT V
The inspector who is standing in the street outside the apartment block where a man and his children have been murdered is wishing that the weather were different. Because right now everything is so horrific that a fresh snowstorm is the last thing he needs.
But the weather is not his biggest worry.
It is the woman who has lost her family; he doesn’t know what to do with her.
Resolutely she turns her back on him and walks away. He calls her name once, twice. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn around. She just walks. And he lets her go. Decisively he signals to his colleagues to follow her, on foot or by car. They do both. He watches her disappear in the snow, sensing the thoughts whirling around in her head.
Feeling frustrated, he goes back to the apartment. He cannot stay out here in the street.
The CSIs look up when he walks in.
“Worst I’ve ever seen,” one of them says.
The inspector does not respond. He thinks that he has probably seen worse, but nothing more incomprehensible. He even thinks that he will never be able to learn to live with this. They lowered their guard for just a few hours, and this is what happened.
There is a wedding photograph on the chest of drawers. It hurts the inspector’s eyes to look at it, and he moves away.
He wonders if the deceased knew the killer. If so, it shouldn’t be too difficult to work out who he or she is.
But there are no guarantees. If the perpetrator has gotten away with it up until now, there is a risk that they will never find the person in question.
“Where did they die?” he asks.
“We think the man died instantaneously when he was shot in the hallway. It seems likely that the children were attacked in here; they were probably already in bed.”
The words go around and around inside the inspector’s head. He cannot process what he is hearing, cannot take it in.
His cell phone rings.
“We’ve lost her,” says his colleague. “She was walking along the pavement and then she was gone. It was as if the snow just swallowed her up.”
Earlier
The Fifth Day
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The last day of the week. Peder Rydh was moving restlessly around the house. One of his sons had woken up with a temperature, the other with an overdose of energy.
“I’ll take him out,” Peder said to Ylva.
She looked grateful as he dressed the boy in several layers of warm clothing.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“I’ve just got to check in at the office.”
Gratitude was replaced by annoyance, but he got in before she had time to say anything:
“I have to show my face. I’m head of security, and another child has gone missing. I have to show that I care, because I do. And it’s good for our kids to be in town occasionally.”
It had been Ylva’s idea to move out of the city, and Peder had taken a great deal of persuasion. Reluctantly he admitted that there were many advantages to living in a house rather than an apartment. The garden was a blessing when the weather was good enough for the boys to play outside; their parents could watch their every move from the kitchen window without having to go out themselves. Ylva had commented that their garden looked more like a prison exercise yard by the time Peder finished reinforcing the boundary with impenetrable shrubs and a high fence.
“It’s important to make sure they can’t get out into the street” was his justification.
But deep down he knew it was more about making sure that no one could get in. Following the death of his brother, he had become dependent on setting boundaries, both mental and physical. As far as his home was concerned, the fence was critical. Inside there was security; outside, everything that fed his many fears.
Peder parked outside the main entrance of the community center. He got his son out of the car, and as they stood hand in hand on the pavement, he wondered whether it had been such a good idea to bring the boy.
Another child was missing.
Polly Eisenberg.
The very thought made Peder furious.
How the hell had they let her slip through their fingers?
The only thing that calmed him slightly was the fact that Polly had disappeared just hours after they had begun to suspect that she could be at risk. Her disappearance also seemed to have had the effect of reassuring the members of the community; they no longer thought there was a serial killer out there, picking off victims because they were Jewish. Everyone now believed this was a private vendetta against the Goldmann and Eisenberg families, who were now paying an unacceptably high price for what must be an old transgression.
But what justified the loss of your children?
Peder couldn’t understand it at all.
Nor did he understand the logic of punishing a person by hurting someone else—someone who had done nothing wrong.
He thought about the boys, hunted down like animals out on Lovön. The feeling of his son’s hand in his gave the illusion of security. If the children stayed close to him or Ylva, everything would be fine.
The community center was much quieter than it had been when Simon and Abraham went missing. Peder thought gloomily that this was probably to be expected: people had learned something since the last time. They weren’t going to find the perpetrator by sitting around, making phone calls, working their way through class lists.
One of the assistants came toward them, smiling at his son.
“Do you like chocolate cake? And how about a glass of juice?”
Peder left his son with her and went into his office, leaving the door open. Trust was good, but control was better.
He hadn’t heard any more from Efraim Kiel. He had no idea whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he realized that the police were interested in Kiel, which worried him.
It couldn’t do any harm if Peder checked out the man who had recruited him. He would begin by finding out whether Kiel could possibly be under consideration for the shooting of the teacher and the kidnapping of the two boys. If the Solomon Community could provide an alibi, then he could be eliminated as a suspect.
The police officer within Peder was still there, occupying his body like a restless soul. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t get away. Not that he wanted to. The desire to know more drove Peder from his desk and down the corridor to the general secretary’s office.
He looked up when Peder tapped on the door and walked in.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he said. “Have you heard anything from the police about Polly Eisenberg?”
“No, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Bevakasha—please—sit down.”
The general secretary glanced over Peder’s shoulder.
“Would you mind closing the door?”
“I’d rather not. My son is out there.”
Peder sat down. He had planned his strategy.
“Efraim Kiel, the man who was here when I was appointed,” he began. “Do you know how I can get ahold of him?”
“Efraim? No, the only contact details I have are the ones I’ve already given you. Why do you want to speak to him?”
It was clear that the general secretary was shaken. He was the leader of a community that had suffered terrible losses over the past few days. Evil had placed its cold hand on their lives, terrified them all beyond rhyme and reason.
If only they knew how to stop all this.
“The police are
looking for him.”
The words just came out, but he felt no regret. It was true.
“Efraim? What on earth for?”
That was the most difficult question to answer; Peder didn’t want it to look as if he was trying to do the police’s job for them.
“It seems he’s cropped up in their investigation. Somehow. But that’s just between you and me.”
The general secretary went pale, then he burst out angrily:
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard! Why would someone like Efraim be mixed up in all the terrible things that have happened here? If that’s the way the police are working, I’m not surprised that another child has gone missing!”
Peder made an effort to retain control of the conversation.
“I’m not saying he’s a suspect; I think he’s important for other reasons. Given his background and so on.”
Meaningless words, meaningless sentences. Time was running out for Peder, and he was getting nowhere. The general secretary’s eyes narrowed, and Peder saw that his anger was about to be directed at Peder instead.
He changed tack.
“Besides, Efraim is automatically ruled out as a suspect, isn’t he? He was working here when Josephine was shot and the boys went missing, wasn’t he?”
“Exactly,” the general secretary said. “Efraim was here. With me. So unless I’m a suspect, too, the police can cross him off their list. You can tell them that from me.”
Peder thought about Alex and Fredrika and wondered what they were doing.
I’d give anything to be a part of this investigation.
“Absolutely,” he said.
When he left the center a little while later with his son, he took out his cell phone and called Alex.
“It’s Peder. I think I have some information that might interest you.”
The silent protests were the worst. The ones that were not uttered out loud but settled in the air like a thin filter. Diana’s body language told him all he needed to know. She didn’t like the fact that he was working on a Sunday. Unhealthy was the word she would have used if she had said anything about it, but she didn’t, and that was even worse than an open confrontation.
“Do you know how boring it is to ski alone?” she said when she called Alex.
It was morning and he felt worn out. He had slept badly because of all the thoughts crowding his brain, most of them about Polly, who still hadn’t been found. Alex was afraid that she was already dead.
But if that was the case, we would have found her.
Diana wasn’t indifferent to his job, but it worried her that he sometimes let himself be swallowed up by it, that he withdrew from what other people referred to as everyday life. When work occupied every single waking hour, things had gone too far.
“When this is over, I’ll take some time off,” he said.
“I should think the snow will be long gone by then.”
He laughed, then fell silent, overcome by sadness. He was convinced that with the speed the case was moving, it wouldn’t be many days before they were sitting there with the answers. The snow would be the least of his problems.
He ended the call and focused on the matter in hand.
A missing five-year-old girl.
A teacher who had been shot dead.
Two ten-year-old boys, hunted down and shot.
And a series of strange elements that he didn’t understand at all. The paper bags with faces drawn on them. The story of the Paper Boy, who attacked other children. Two families who seemed to be at the center of the investigation but who were unwilling or unable to explain why. Two families who had left Israel and moved to Sweden for reasons which were unclear. Plus two Israelis who had entered Sweden and now could not be found.
Eden Lundell had called Alex the previous evening. Unfortunately his phone had been switched off by mistake; the battery had run out. She had left a message, but it wasn’t clear what she wanted; she had just said she had something to tell him and would call again later.
Alex couldn’t work Eden out. She was frighteningly sharp but incredibly difficult to reach on a personal level. He thought, or rather knew, that they would have made a good team and worked well together. She was neither emotional nor confrontational. Above all, she didn’t take things personally. Alex often found himself analyzing what he had said to Fredrika about this or that, checking to see whether some comment could have been taken the wrong way, but that never happened in his dealings with Eden.
But apart from that . . . leaving aside the fact that they could talk to one another, what a special person she seemed to be.
Curiosity got the better of him: Why had she called? Perhaps she had information that was vital to the case. There was no harm in trying to reach her; if she was busy, she would say so.
Before Alex had time to call, his phone rang. It was Peder Rydh.
“I’ve been checking up on Efraim Kiel,” he said. “Well, I say checking up . . . I spoke to the general secretary of the Solomon Community.”
Alex had a bad feeling about this. Peder was driven, full of energy; nothing ever moved fast enough for him.
“I hope you didn’t tell him that we have our suspicions about Kiel.”
It sounded as if Peder was out and about; the sound of the traffic was noticeable, making it difficult to hear him.
“No, of course not. But I had to give him something, otherwise he would have wondered why I was asking questions. I said you were trying to get ahold of him because it would be interesting to discuss the investigation with someone with his background.”
That sounded like an acceptable lie to Alex and, to be fair, it wasn’t entirely untrue. Without knowing the details of Kiel’s background, Alex thought he might well be able to make a valuable contribution.
If only he hadn’t been behaving so strangely.
His task within the Solomon Community was obviously not a secret; Peder had met him, and Alex had spoken to him on the phone. His voice had been deep and rough, leaving very little margin for compromise.
So why had he checked into the hotel under a false name? If he had stayed there at all. And why had he gotten rid of his cell phone even though he was still in the country?
Something occurred to him.
“Sorry, Peder, before you go on: you didn’t get Kiel’s new number the last time he called you?”
“No, I didn’t. If I had, I would have passed it on to you.”
Alex heard what Peder really wanted to say:
I’m on your side; don’t you get it?
Once again he was conscious of how much he missed working with Peder.
When this is over, before or after the snow has melted, I will do whatever I can to get you back on the police force.
“Anyway, I called to tell you that Efraim couldn’t have shot Josephine or kidnapped the two boys.”
“And how do you know this?”
“He was in a meeting with the general secretary all afternoon. They were working on staffing issues. When they heard someone had been shot, Efraim went outside with the security guards. He was still on the premises when the boys were abducted on their way to their tennis coaching session.”
That was a classic watertight alibi. It didn’t mean that Efraim wasn’t involved in some other way, of course, but it definitely made him less interesting. Alex felt a stab of disappointment. This was one of the few leads they had.
Fredrika’s plane would soon be landing. Israeli colleagues were meeting her at the airport. Alex was trying to keep his expectations about her visit in check, but it was hopeless. Without a miracle they were lost.
“I’m glad you called,” he said to Peder. “Thanks for your help—I won’t forget this.”
Peder said something that Alex didn’t hear.
“Sorry, there’s a lot of noise at your end,” he said. “Can you say that again?”
After a pause, Peder said: “It was nothing important. I’ll speak to you again soon.”
&nb
sp; “Good,” Alex said.
He meant what he said. Peder’s help had been invaluable in many ways, and Alex would make sure his superiors knew that.
After the conversation came the emptiness. Efraim Kiel was out of the lineup; he was no longer a viable suspect. Coincidences could be significant, or they could be nonsense, and in this case they appeared to be nonsense. There was probably no exciting explanation as to why Kiel had asked Peder about calling cards left at the crime scenes; he was just a particularly skilled investigator.
His cell phone rang again; number withheld.
Eden’s husky voice came down the line.
“I missed your call yesterday,” Alex said.
Which was a stupid thing to say; why waste time stating the obvious?
“My fault. It was very late when I called. Are you free to talk now?”
“Absolutely. If you’d rather meet face-to-face and you happen to be at work, you’re welcome to come over.”
It was no problem for Eden to come to Alex’s office, whereas his chances of dropping in to see her at Säpo were nonexistent.
“That would have been nice, but unfortunately I’m not in today.”
Did he think everyone else worked Sundays as well? Even someone like Eden Lundell was entitled to some time off to breathe in the fresh winter air, spend time with her family. She was married with children, wasn’t she? Or was that just a figment of his imagination?
“Alex, I haven’t been completely honest with you.”
Her tone was serious.
“I lied when I said I didn’t know who Efraim Kiel was. I’m very sorry but, given the situation, I couldn’t tell you what I knew until I’d spoken to my boss.”
Eden was the head of the counterterrorism unit and she had had to speak to her boss. Who was the general director of Säpo.
“Okay,” Alex said. Warily, because he had no idea what he was supposed to say.
“You absolutely must not pass this on, but I can tell you that Säpo has had reason to monitor Efraim Kiel’s activities here in Sweden. I can’t tell you why, but I promise you it has nothing to do with the murders you’re investigating.”
The Chosen Page 24