The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4)

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Not necessarily – only VF and Nya Wermlands have turned up so far.’ He said it because that was what he thought she wanted to hear, not because it was true.

  Of course it would be all over the papers. Before long the three reporters outside the police station would be joined by their colleagues from Karlstad, and by their competitors from Stockholm. TV too, probably. Maybe even from Norway.

  ‘Do you remember Åmsele?’ Pia asked drily, immediately making it clear that she had seen through his attempt at reassurance. Erik couldn’t help sighing too. Of course he remembered Åmsele. The triple murder of a family in and near a graveyard. Killed because of a stolen bicycle. Erik was in his first year at the police training academy back then; everyone followed the nationwide hunt for Juha Valjakkala and his girlfriend Marita across the media. ‘That was over twenty-five years ago,’ Pia went on in his ear, ‘but that’s still what people think of in connection with Åmsele. We want people to move here, not be frightened away.’

  Erik stopped off at the coffee machine and pressed cappuccino. He was overcome by a sudden weariness. He was losing patience with Pia. She hadn’t been there. Inside the house. She hadn’t seen the little boy who was due to start school in the autumn, sitting right at the back of the wardrobe. His brother still in pyjamas, shot while he was eating his breakfast.

  She hadn’t seen them.

  Hadn’t seen the blood.

  The pointlessness.

  ‘I realise it’s not ideal,’ he said, trying hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘But four people are dead. Two children. Perhaps the effect on whether or not people choose to move to the area shouldn’t be our main priority right now, wouldn’t you say?’

  Silence. The coffee machine had done its work; he picked up his cup and sipped at his drink, which wasn’t particularly hot, unfortunately. The coffee in Karlstad was better.

  ‘You’re right,’ Pia said eventually. ‘I’m sorry, I must have sounded incredibly self-obsessed.’

  ‘You sounded committed to your job,’ Erik replied. As always every trace of irritation disappeared, replaced by a pang of guilt as soon as she gave way and apologised. ‘As usual,’ he added.

  ‘Are you bringing anyone in?’ she asked, back to her usual efficient tone of voice.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Help. From outside.’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. Not yet, anyway.’

  Further down the corridor, Fredrika stuck her head out of her office; the look she gave him made it clear that she thought it was time he said goodbye to whoever he was talking to. Erik complied.

  ‘Listen, I have to go. We can discuss this later. Love you.’

  He ended the call, slipped the phone in his pocket, put down his cup which was virtually still full, and quickly went along to Fredrika’s office for an update.

  Sebastian lowered the book with the lengthy academic title The Psychopathology of Crime: Criminal Behavior as a Clinical Disorder when he heard someone coming towards the glass doors. Vanja. She looked pale and drawn. She took out her pass card and pushed open the door, which seemed heavier than usual. Something had happened. Sebastian got to his feet and crossed the sterile, open-plan office. He tried a welcoming smile, but she didn’t notice him at first.

  ‘Hi, has something happened?’ he asked, increasing his speed slightly. He was worried about her.

  For a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. She stood there in silence, staring at him. Her lovely blue eyes looked stronger than the rest of her. It was as if she had concentrated all her strength in those eyes, because when she did speak her words were weak and brittle, as if they had broken somewhere along the way.

  ‘Mum … told me who my father was.’

  An icy wave washed through Sebastian’s body. He wasn’t ready for this.

  The impossible moment.

  His mind was whirling.

  Surely Anna wouldn’t have told her the truth? Not long ago she had refused to help him; had she really told Vanja now?

  ‘And who was he?’ Sebastian managed, impressed that his voice sounded balanced and full of natural curiosity, in spite of everything.

  ‘Do you know what she showed me?’ Vanja went on, as if she hadn’t even heard his question; her voice was a little stronger now.

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ The worst of the panic was subsiding; he must have got away with it this time. Vanja wouldn’t be talking to him like this if Anna had revealed the truth. He knew Vanja well enough to be sure of that; unlike him, she was no liar.

  ‘A grave. She showed me a grave.’

  ‘A grave?’

  ‘Yes. He’s dead. He died in 1981, apparently. His name was Hans Åke Andersson.’

  ‘Hans Åke Andersson?’

  Sebastian was trying to adapt to this new situation. All credit to Anna: she had managed to provide Vanja with a father and prove he was dead at a single stroke. Creative. Vanja obviously didn’t feel the same way.

  ‘Apparently he was just some guy she met – he didn’t want to know when she fell pregnant,’ she went on, shaking her head. ‘When Valdemar came along they decided not to tell me the truth.’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘Never. She claims she didn’t want to hurt me, particularly as this Hans Åke Andersson died eight months after I was born, and he didn’t have any relatives.’

  Vanja suddenly looked furious. Her strength had returned; it wasn’t only her eyes that were full of energy. He recognised her now.

  ‘She must think I’m stupid. After several months she suddenly comes up with the name of some guy who conveniently turns out to be dead. Did she really think I’d fall for that load of crap?’

  Sebastian sensed that the question was rhetorical, and chose to keep quiet. Not that Vanja waited for a response; the words came pouring out, a flood of pent-up fury that had been waiting to escape.

  ‘Why couldn’t she have shown me the fucking grave ages ago, if that’s true? Why wait months?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sebastian said truthfully.

  ‘I do. Because it’s a fucking lie. She’s just trying to … close the door. Get me to make my peace with them.’

  Sebastian remained silent, considering his strategy. Should he stick up for Anna? Help her to make Vanja believe the lie and move on, or should he encourage Vanja’s scepticism? Drive another wedge into her relationship with Anna and Valdemar? What would serve him best in the long run? It was a difficult situation, but he had to make a choice. Vanja shook her head and took a deep, calming breath.

  ‘The only thing that could make me even begin to think about forgiving them is if they’re honest. If they stop lying. Do you understand?’

  Sebastian decided to support Vanja. It felt like the right thing to do; it would buy him some time, and above all it would bring them closer together.

  ‘Of course I do. This must be so hard for you,’ he said sympathetically.

  ‘I haven’t got the strength to fight with you any more,’ Vanja said quietly, gazing at him as her eyes began to fill with tears. ‘I can’t fight the whole world. I just can’t.’

  ‘You don’t need to fight me,’ he said as gently as he could.

  Vanja nodded, then pleaded:

  ‘Then you have to tell me: were you in any way involved in Riddarstolpe’s report? Were you responsible for the fact that I wasn’t put forward for the FBI training programme?’

  Sebastian had to make a real effort to hide his surprise. How come they were back here?

  ‘But I’ve already told you that was nothing to do with me,’ he said, trying to pull himself together.

  ‘Tell me again.’ Vanja didn’t take her eyes off him. ‘And be honest. I’d find it easier to deal with if you were involved than if someone I care about keeps on lying to me.’

  Sebastian adopted his most sincere expression and tried to look as genuine as Vanja’s sorrow. With so much at stake, it wasn’t difficult.

  ‘No,’ he lied, discovering to his joy that hi
s voice was breaking slightly due to the gravity of the moment. ‘I promise you, I had nothing to do with Riddarstolpe’s report.’

  He saw her exhale, saw her shoulders drop with relief, and he felt a warm glow of pride. With the right focus, he was a brilliant liar. He could probably have convinced her that the earth was flat.

  ‘How you could even think …’ he began, his voice suffused with sorrow, but she held up a hand to stop him.

  ‘You don’t have to say any more. I choose to believe you.’

  Sebastian quickly emerged from his cocoon of smugness. What did she say? She had chosen to believe him?

  ‘What does that mean?’ he said, genuinely curious.

  ‘Exactly what it says. I choose to believe you, because that’s what I need to do right now.’

  Sebastian looked at his daughter, who once again seemed to be on the verge of tears. She really did need someone after everything that had happened, and he was the person she had selected. Choosing to believe him was not the same as trusting him, but Sebastian assumed that was as far as she could go. Now it was up to him to prove that she had made the right decision.

  ‘I won’t let you down,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’ She broke into a smile, stepped forward and gave him a hug. She held him for longer and more tightly than he would ever have dared hope.

  Erik was informed that Jan Ceder was in one of the interview rooms down the corridor. Not that interviews were held in them very often; they were mostly used for staff appraisals, private telephone conversations, small meetings and occasionally for a quick nap.

  According to Fredrika, Ceder hadn’t seemed at all surprised when they came to pick him up. Nor had he raised any objections; he had been happy to accompany them. They hadn’t told him why they wanted to speak to him, even though he had asked several times. They had merely said they wanted to clear up one or two things, without going into detail. Fredrika had gathered all the information they had on Ceder; there was a copy waiting for Erik on her desk. She had also been in touch with Malin Åkerblad, the prosecutor who was in charge of the preliminary investigation, and had obtained a search warrant for Ceder’s property. A team was already on its way.

  Erik was impressed, and asked for a few minutes to read through the material. Was there any chance of a cup of coffee that was slightly above room temperature? Apparently not. The machine was due to be serviced next week.

  So he sat down without his coffee, and opened the thin folder.

  Jan Ceder, born 1961. Five years older than Erik. Still lived in the relatively small house his parents had owned, just a few kilometres from the Carlsten family. On sickness benefits since 2001. Married and divorced twice; both exes were Thai. Currently single after a Russian woman – whom he referred to as ‘the one I sent for’ – had left him before Christmas following a row which ended up with her reporting him to the police for domestic violence. The complaint had later been withdrawn.

  Erik moved on to Ceder’s police record. Several instances of driving illegally, drink driving, picked up twice for being drunk and disorderly, lost his driving licence, illegal home distilling of alcohol, bootlegging, offences against the laws on hunting, plus another complaint of domestic violence from one of his wives, also subsequently withdrawn.

  Erik closed the folder. Alcohol and a lack of self-control. It was definitely time to talk to Jan Ceder.

  ★ ★ ★

  He was slumped at the table in a plain white T-shirt and scruffy jeans. With his unshaven, sunken cheeks, the red hair that needed a wash and a visit to the barber, and the fine blood vessels clearly visible beneath the dry skin of his slightly knobbly nose, Ceder looked considerably older than he was, Erik thought. The bloodshot eyes followed the uniformed officer as he left the room. Erik and Fredrika sat down and Fredrika started the recording, giving the date and stating that this was an interview with Jan Ceder, and that Detective Inspector Erik Flodin was also present. Erik cleared his throat and met Ceder’s weary gaze.

  ‘We’d like to talk about the Carlsten family.’

  Jan gave a deep and apparently heartfelt sigh.

  ‘What are they saying I’ve done this time?’

  ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Nothing, but a guy came in here and took …’ He held up a trembling hand. ‘He took fingerprints, and he wanted my jacket, shirt and shoes. What the hell is this about?’

  Erik chose not to answer his questions. Not yet.

  ‘You threatened Emil and Fred Carlsten outside the pool in Torsby the day before yesterday after Fred’s swimming lesson,’ he went on, without taking his eyes off Ceder.

  ‘I didn’t threaten them.’

  Erik turned to Fredrika, who opened the folder in front of her, found the relevant document and read it out loud:

  ‘You told them to … be careful none of them got in the way of the next fucking bullet.’

  ‘Sounds like a threat to me,’ Erik interjected.

  Jan Ceder shrugged. ‘I’d had a few drinks.’

  ‘It’s still a threat.’

  ‘I was pissed.’

  ‘Do you know what I think when people like you defend their unacceptable behaviour by saying they were drunk?’

  Silence. No doubt Ceder was expecting Erik to continue without any input from him, but after ten seconds he realised this wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘No, I don’t know what you think.’

  ‘I think: Does he take me for an idiot?’ Erik leaned forward – not far, but enough for Ceder to recoil slightly. ‘Alcohol doesn’t give you new ideas, it simply allows you to say what’s already in your mind, the things that you’re sensible enough to keep your mouth shut about when you’re sober. You threatened their lives.’

  Jan cleared his throat, suddenly looking a little less comfortable. He ran a hand over his grey stubble.

  ‘I can apologise, if that’s what you want. If I scared the kid or something.’

  Before Erik had time to reply, Fredrika’s mobile started vibrating on the table. He glared at her, but she successfully ignored him, glancing at the display and then taking the call, to Erik’s great surprise. The two men waited for her to finish the conversation; all they could hear was the odd ‘hmm’ and a couple of monosyllabic questions.

  ‘Any chance of a coffee?’ Ceder asked after clearing his throat once more.

  ‘It’s lukewarm,’ Erik said just as Fredrika ended the call. He was just about to make an acid comment and resume the interview when she leaned over and whispered in his ear.

  She didn’t say much, but when Erik turned his attention back to Ceder, he seemed to have acquired a fresh burst of energy.

  ‘You have a licence for two rifles and a shotgun,’ he began, opening his folder. ‘A … twelve-calibre Benelli SuperNova. Is that correct?’

  Ceder nodded.

  ‘Could you please answer verbally – for the tape,’ Fredrika clarified.

  ‘Yes,’ Ceder stated in an unnecessarily loud, clear voice. ‘I own a twelve-calibre Benelli SuperNova.’

  ‘The team searching your house just called.’ Erik paused, leaned forward again. Further this time. Slightly more aggressive. ‘They can’t find it. Could you tell us where it is?’

  ‘It got nicked.’

  No hesitation whatsoever. Erik couldn’t tell whether it was an honest answer, or just well rehearsed, but he had four dead bodies, four people executed with a shotgun, and Jan Ceder didn’t know where his shotgun was.

  What a coincidence.

  He had no intention of letting this go.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘A few months ago maybe. Some time before Christmas.’

  ‘I don’t see a report about the theft,’ Erik said, gesturing towards the folder.

  ‘I didn’t report it.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Jan Ceder’s lips cracked into a small smile for the first time. He could do with seeing a dentist after he’d been to the barber’s, Erik thought.

  ‘Why would
I bother? You haven’t cleared up a single burglary in the past ten years!’

  It was true, the clear-up rate for burglaries was embarrassingly low, Erik thought, but most law-abiding citizens still reported any incident, particularly if guns were involved. But not Ceder. Then again, he couldn’t exactly be described as law-abiding.

  ‘A gun like that must cost around ten thousand kronor.’ Erik sat back, his tone of voice suggesting they were just having a little chat.

  ‘Something like that.’ Ceder shrugged, underlining the fact that he didn’t really know what a 12-calibre Benelli SuperNova cost these days.

  ‘That’s a lot of money. Didn’t you want to claim on the insurance? You need a police incident number for that.’

  ‘I don’t have any insurance.’

  ‘None at all?’ Fredrika couldn’t help asking. Ceder turned to her.

  ‘It’s not against the law, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s a bit stupid, but it’s not illegal.’

  Ceder shrugged yet again, then he scratched his nose and folded his arms. His body language made it clear that there was no more to say on the subject as far as he was concerned. Erik was inclined to agree; they weren’t going to get any further with the gun. Time to go back to the Carlstens.

  ‘Where were you yesterday?’ he asked, once again in that relaxed, chatty tone of voice.

  ★ ★ ★

  Erik Flodin slammed his fist against the useless coffee machine. The stress had got to him. The interview had been terminated when Ceder demanded a solicitor. He didn’t have one, of course, so now they were waiting for a duty solicitor to get to Torsby. Fredrika had gone over to Ceder’s house; she had just called to tell him that they hadn’t found anything to link Ceder to the murders. However, one of the team had discovered a wolf skin in an outbuilding. The animal had been shot comparatively recently, because the skin was pegged out and salted to speed the drying process. Fredrika had said drily that they might be able to charge Ceder with another infringement of the laws on hunting if they couldn’t come up with anything else.

  They were getting nowhere, and there was no coffee. They had the threat Ceder had made outside the swimming pool, but nothing else. If they couldn’t find a connection, they were going to have to start all over again. This was Erik’s first major investigation since his promotion; he mustn’t mess it up, but the clock was ticking. Soon the killer would have a head start of thirty-six hours; everyone knew the first twenty-four hours were critical, and they were long gone.