Silenced: A Novel

by Kristina Ohlsson

  ‘Could it not just simply be that he sent them from different computers so he could claim they weren’t from him? That he gave those last emails a different tone because he knew he would get away with it?’

  ‘That may well be the case, but the onus is still on you to prove it. And you haven’t done that.’

  Alex read the prosecutor’s statement and felt frustrated. No, they had not been able to prove anything. But it made no difference, there was still something very fishy going on here. The only question was: what?

  There’s something about this right-wing extremist lead that takes us right into the Ahlbins’ deaths, thought Alex. It’s just that I don’t know exactly what.

  Dissatisfied, he ploughed on. The murder weapon was a matter of interest. It was part of the collection of firearms Jakob Ahlbin kept in the holiday home that had been transferred into the ownership of his daughters some years before. There was no reason to suppose the hunting pistol had been separated from the rest of the collection, so it must have been fetched from the house at some juncture. Either by Jakob Ahlbin himself or by whoever shot him. Jakob was the only one in the Ahlbin family with a gun licence. And the only gun cabinet was the one in the holiday house.

  Perhaps Jakob had retrieved the weapon because he felt threatened? Alex did not think so. No one seemed to have taken Tony Svensson’s threats very seriously. But there were still things that needed explaining. Alex pulled out a set of photographs they had taken outside the Ekerö house.

  No damage to the property. No marks in the snow, either shoeprints or tyre tracks.

  Alex felt his pulse accelerate. The pristine snow. It was now almost two weeks since it started snowing. The snow had been lying on the ground ever since; it had stayed very cold. And when he and Joar were there on the Thursday it was unmarked. Admittedly there had been further falls of snow on the days in between, but not enough to hide shoe-prints or tyre tracks. So the weapon must have been fetched before Jakob Ahlbin heard the news of his daughter’s death, before he had reason to take his own life. Which meant? Alex hesitated. If they assumed the hunting pistol had been brought from Ekerö to kill Jakob and his wife, was it not logical to conclude that it was not Jakob himself who went to get it?

  But in that case, the person who did must have had access to a set of keys, since there was nothing to indicate any kind of break-in. Or the person was so experienced a burglar that he had the sense to lock the doors when he left. Which took him back to Tony Svensson’s associates.

  And then there was the daughter Johanna. Who dumped tragic news on her father and then scarpered off abroad. Who vanished like a ghost from all the family photos in the Ekerö house. And who did not answer her emails or her phone.

  Noises out in the corridor roused Alex from his musing. Peder suddenly appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Hi,’ said Alex, surprised.

  ‘Hi,’ said Peder. ‘I didn’t think there would be anybody here.’

  ‘Nor did I,’ said Alex drily. ‘I’m just running through all the Ahlbin stuff again.’

  Peder sighed.

  ‘I thought I might do the same thing,’ he said, avoiding Alex’s eye. ‘Ylva’s got the kids, so . . .’

  Alex nodded. So many troubled people in this workplace. So often not enough energy for both family and work. And so often men and women chose to prioritise the latter.

  He cleared his throat.

  ‘I really think we need to see Ragnar Vinterman again,’ he said. ‘Want to come along?’

  Peder gave an eager nod.

  ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And what about the Ljungs, who found the bodies on Tuesday?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘We should talk to them again, too. Ask about that difference of opinion that made them cool off towards each other.’

  Alex felt a sense of relief. There would be plenty to keep him busy for the whole of Saturday.

  ‘Have we got hold of Jakob Ahlbin’s doctor yet, by the way?’ Peder asked as Alex got up to put his coat back on.

  The question jogged Alex’s memory: there had been a message the evening before and he had managed to forget about it.

  ‘Heck, yes,’ he said. ‘He rang in yesterday, quite late. He’d been away and had just got back. But he was apparently going to have the medical records faxed over to us to start with.’

  Peder went to check the fax machine in Ellen’s office. He came back with a small pile of paper.

  ‘Sorry I have not been available. Please contact me immediately on the mobile number below. I am keen to speak to the police as soon as possible about this matter. Sincerely, Erik Sundelius.’

  Peder was looking overheated in his outdoor things.

  ‘Let’s go down to the car,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll ring him on the way.’

  Erik Sundelius picked up the phone at the second ring. For the sake of politeness, Alex apologised for ringing so early. It was scarcely ten and it was quite likely some people would not be up yet.

  Erik Sundelius sounded very relieved at being able to speak to the police.

  ‘At last,’ he exclaimed. ‘I tried to get hold of you as soon as I got home and saw the headlines. I hope we can meet in person to discuss the things that need to be gone through. But there’s one thing I want to tell you right now.’

  Alex waited.

  ‘I have been in charge of Jakob Ahlbin’s treatment for over twelve years,’ Erik Sundelius said, and took a deep breath. ‘And I can say in all honesty that there isn’t a chance in hell he would have done what the papers say he did. He would never shoot himself or his wife. You have my word as a professional on that.’

  For the first time in months, Fredrika Bergman felt rested when she woke. The night had not brought a single bad dream. She woke early, around seven. Spencer was asleep at her side. And the violin lay in its case on the floor. It was in tune now. It was a morning that felt blessed in many ways.

  He was very attractive, lying there. Even lying down he looked unusually tall. The grey hair, usually combed into perfect style, was tousled.

  She snuggled down under the quilt, pressing herself to his warm body. Her stomach knotted as she thought of the approaching dinner with her parents. Spencer had agreed to come along.

  ‘It’s going be a testing occasion,’ he mumbled just before he fell asleep.

  As if it were Job’s lot he had been asked to shoulder.

  Fredrika’s train of thought was interrupted as her thoughts involuntarily turned to work. To the Ahlbin case and the very last email Jakob had received before he died.

  Don’t forget how it all ended for Job; there’s always time to change your mind and do the right thing. Stop looking.

  Glad that work-related matters had dispersed her misgivings about dinner with her parents, she slipped cautiously out of bed. Heavily pregnant or not, she had litheness in her blood.

  The baby stretched, a silent protest at its mother’s unanticipated movements.

  The Bible was in the middle of the bookshelf, easy to spot with its red spine and gold lettering. Surprised at how heavily it weighed in her hand, she sat down and began to leaf through it. Job, the man with his very own book of the Bible.

  The text proved quite demanding. Long, and written in a style that called for constant interpretation of what the words actually meant. The story was simple enough. The Devil had challenged God, who considered Job to be the most upright person in the world. Hardly surprising that Job was upright, said the Devil, when God gave him such an easy time. God gave the Devil the right to rob Job of his riches, his health and all ten of his children, so he could show that Job would still be loyal.

  Good grief. The Old Testament was full of unaccountably sadistic stories.

  Job came through his tribulations pretty well, it turned out. He did allow himself to feel the merest hint of doubt about the reason for God’s ill deeds, but he apologised afterwards. And was paid back handsomely. God gave him twice as many cattle as he had had to start with, and a total of twen
ty new children to replace the ten he had let the Devil take from him.

  All’s well that ends well, Fredrika thought caustically.

  And once again repeated to herself the message Jakob had received.

  . . . there’s always time to change your mind and do the right thing.

  She racked her brains as to what that could mean in terms of what she had just learned of Job’s fate.

  Jakob Ahlbin wasn’t like me, she thought. He didn’t need to look in the Bible to understand what the sender was trying to say. And the sender knew that, too.

  She stood up and started pacing the room. The question was how familiar the sender was with the Bible. If you read the email carefully enough, you could interpret it as an offer to negotiate. A chance to change his mind. To do the right thing. Job doubted, but then he said sorry. And was repaid.

  Fredrika stopped in mid-step.

  They were leaving the option of a settlement open even in that very last message. And Jakob Ahlbin turned them down. He refused to heed their warning to stop looking.

  But what had he been looking for? And how had they known that he did not want to bargain? Investigations had shown that Jakob Ahlbin had not answered any of those emails he received.

  They must have contacted him by some other means as well.

  Fredrika thought hard. And remembered that they had found Tony Svensson’s fingerprints on the front door.

  Alex decided they would go and see Erik Sundelius first and then go on to Ragnar Vinterman’s.

  Erik Sundelius, senior psychiatric consultant at Danderyd Hospital in Stockholm, saw them in his office. It was a small room but arranged so as to maximise space. Compact shelves along one wall were packed tight with books. On the wall behind the desk there was an enlarged photograph in brownish shades of dense traffic at a crossroads, cars queuing at a red light.

  ‘Mexico City,’ clarified the consultant, following Alex’s gaze. ‘Took it myself, a few years ago.’

  ‘Very nice,’ said Alex with an appreciative nod.

  He wondered if this was the room where Sundelius saw his patients.

  ‘This is my office. My consulting room’s on the other side of the corridor,’ the doctor said, answering his unspoken question.

  He sank into a chair.

  ‘But I have to admit my level of patient contact has been limited in recent years. Unfortunately.’

  Alex took a look at him. His own experience of psychologists and psychiatrists was sporadic, and his perceptions of the way such a person should look were largely the result of his own bias, but in many respects Erik Sundelius did not look at all as he had expected. He looked more like a GP, with neatly combed hair and a side parting.

  ‘Jakob Ahlbin,’ Alex said gravely. ‘What can you tell us about him?’

  The face of the man on the other side of the desk fell, and he looked first at Alex, then at Peder.

  ‘That he was the healthiest ill person I’ve ever met.’

  Erik Sundelius leant forward and clasped his hands on his desk, apparently wondering how to continue.

  ‘He did have his bad spells,’ he said. ‘Very bad, in fact. Severe enough for him to be admitted for ECT treatment.’

  Peder squirmed at the mention of the electric shock treatment, but to Alex’s relief he made no comment.

  ‘Over the past three years I thought I could detect a change,’ the consultant went on. ‘A weight seemed to have been taken off him, somehow. He was always very concerned about the plight of refugees, but I think the increasing demand for his lectures gave him a new way of doing his bit for the cause that meant so much to him. I went to hear him speak once. He was brilliant. He chose his battles carefully, and won those he had to.’

  A slight smile crept over Alex’s face beneath that creased forehead.

  ‘Could you give me an example of one of those battles? I’m afraid this is an area in which we’re very short of information in the case.’

  Erik Sundelius sighed.

  ‘Well, where shall I start? It goes without saying that his radical stance on migrant issues got him on the wrong side of some factions in society. But it also had repercussions for his family and professional relationships.’

  Peder, who was making notes, raised his eyes from his pad.

  Sven Ljung, Alex thought automatically. The man who found Jakob shot in the head.

  ‘The most worrying aspect, of course, was the impact his work had on his relationship with his younger daughter,’ said Erik Sundelius.

  ‘Johanna?’ Alex asked, surprised.

  A tired nod from the psychiatrist.

  ‘Jakob took it very badly, not being able to get that relationship back on track.’

  The photos in the Ekerö house. The younger daughter disappearing from the sequence of family pictures.

  ‘Johanna Ahlbin turned her back on her father when he took those refugees into his church?’ Alex asked.

  ‘No, before that, as I understand it. She didn’t share her father’s opinions on the subject at all, which inevitably led to conflict.’

  ‘Our information also indicates that Johanna distanced herself from her family because she wasn’t religious like they were,’ said Peder.

  ‘Yes, that was another problem,’ Erik Sundelius confirmed. ‘It made Jakob all the more glad that his elder daughter Karolina was a wholehearted supporter of the campaign to help refugees, and shared her parents’ faith, even if she wasn’t quite such a devotee as they were. Jakob often mentioned it in our sessions, the pleasure he took in how Karolina had turned out.’

  Alex raised his eyebrows and was aware of Peder tensing up.

  ‘But I assume relations with Karolina must still have been rather a burden to someone with Jakob Ahlbin’s condition?’ he said.

  The consultant frowned.

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I mean her serious drug addiction.’

  For a moment, Erik Sundelius looked as though he were about to burst out laughing, but then his face darkened.

  ‘Drug addict? Karolina?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘Unfortunately not,’ said Alex. ‘We’ve seen the autopsy report and the death certificate. The body bore all the signs of long-term narcotic abuse.’

  Erik Sundelius looked from Alex to Peder, staring.

  ‘Sorry, do you mean she’s dead?’

  The consultant clearly had not read the newspaper articles very thoroughly. Alex decided to take him through the case. He told him how the couple had been found, and about the suicide note supposedly written by Jakob Ahlbin, and the news of his daughter’s death that had apparently pushed him to kill his wife and himself.

  Erik Sundelius listened in silence. When he did speak, his voice was strained, as though from anger or grief. Once again he looked as if he were about to burst out laughing.

  ‘Okay,’ he said, putting his hands on the desk. ‘Let me go through this bit by bit. First of all, can you let me see a copy of the note Jakob left?’

  Alex nodded, taking the sheet of paper out of his bag.

  Erik Sundelius read the typewritten message and looked at the handwritten signature. Then he pushed the note away as though it had burned him.

  ‘The signature’s Jakob’s. But as for the rest . . .’

  Alex opened his mouth to say something, but the consultant held up his hand.

  ‘Let me finish,’ he said. ‘Jakob was my patient for many years. Believe me – this letter was not written by him. Nothing about it is right, neither the tone nor the content. Even if he took it into his head to do what the letter indicates, he wouldn’t express it like this. Who is it intended for? It’s not addressed to anyone. Johanna, say, or a good friend. Just empty words directed at anyone and everyone.’

  He paused for breath.

  ‘As I said before, you have to believe me when I say this is not something Jakob has done. You’re making a terrible mistake to think so.’

  ‘You don
’t think he could have done it even after hearing his daughter had died?’

  Then Erik Sundelius could contain himself no longer. The laughter that had been showing itself in his face came bursting out.

  ‘Absurd,’ he guffawed. ‘The whole thing.’

  He grabbed the letter again, and appeared to be trying to control himself.

  ‘If, and I mean if, Jakob had had news of Karolina’s death broken to him, there’s no way he would have kept it from his wife. And he would have come to me – he always did when anything happened to disturb his mental state. Always. I’d go so far as to say that his trust in me was infinite in that respect.’

  ‘You’re talking as though there’s every reason to question whether he heard the news of the death at all,’ commented Alex.

  The consultant tossed the sheet of paper onto the desk.

  ‘That’s exactly what I’m doing,’ he said. ‘Karolina was here sometimes, with her father. And so was her mother.’

  ‘As a patient?’ said Alex, nonplussed.

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Erik Sundelius, glaring at him. ‘Absolutely not. Simply to support her father. She always kept herself informed about how he was and what treatment he was currently having. It seems unthinkable to me that I could have missed the fact she was on drugs over a period of ten years.’

  Alex and Peder exchanged looks.

  ‘But,’ said Peder, ‘we’re afraid to say there aren’t really any grounds for disputing it. I mean, the girl’s verifiably dead. And there’s the autopsy report, signed by a doctor who one of our colleagues has been in contact with.’

  ‘Who identified her?’ asked Erik Sundelius, screwing up his eyes.

  ‘Her sister Johanna,’ replied Alex. ‘She found Karolina unconscious and rang for an ambulance. We really need to get hold of her, incidentally.’

  Erik Sundelius was shaking his head again.

  ‘The whole thing’s baffling,’ he said. ‘You’re saying Johanna went round to Karolina’s . . .?’

  He shook his head some more.

  ‘In all the years Jakob was seeing me here, Johanna only ever came with him once. And she was so young then that she had no choice, so to speak. She was here because she had to be. I could see it in her, straight away. And to go by what Jakob said, the sisters weren’t very close to each other, either. Which was also a source of great sadness to him.’