‘So how’s Maya?’ she asked, taking another sip. It was Friday night, after all.
‘Good. Completely obsessed with the wedding.’
Vanja nodded; it was nice sitting here like this, and she wasn’t about to destroy the moment by questioning whether things were perhaps moving a little too fast, criticising him in any way, or making a comment that could be interpreted as unwelcome advice.
‘So when do I get to meet her?’ she said instead.
‘You have met her.’
‘I’ve said hello to her – that doesn’t count.’
‘You must come over for dinner.’
Vanja nodded. If she hadn’t been invited round during the ten months they had been together, it was hardly likely to happen now, but she didn’t say that. She emptied her glass and watched Billy as he topped it up.
‘You look tired.’
‘I miss Ursula,’ Billy said honestly. ‘I feel as if I’m not up to the job.’ Vanja wondered if their old argument was still haunting Billy; she had said she was a much better police officer than he was. Surely not – they’d sorted all that out. Found their way back. But things weren’t quite the same as they had been, they both knew that. There was no reason to bring it up again.
‘You’re doing a fantastic job,’ she said, placing her hand on his arm. ‘We all miss Ursula, but not because you’re not up to the demands of this case.’
‘Thanks,’ he said with a faint smile.
He missed Jennifer too, but he kept that to himself.
Jennifer Holmgren had been seconded to Riksmord during their previous investigation, when everyone expected Vanja to be joining the FBI training programme at Quantico. That didn’t happen, which meant Jennifer no longer had a place on the team. She and Billy had continued to meet up. She was fun to be with. Easy to understand. She had made it very clear that she wanted her career to offer excitement and an adrenaline rush; there wasn’t much of that available in Sigtuna where she was based, so they got together at the firing range from time to time. She loved guns, and Billy had to admit that she was a much better shot than he was. What he did have, however, was the experience of shooting living beings.
People.
Edward Hinde and Charles Cederkvist. He had shot and killed both of them.
Billy wished he could say that this had put him off using his service weapon again, but unfortunately that wasn’t the case. On both occasions a feeling had lingered in his body for several days afterwards. A positive feeling. It frightened him. Sometimes when he was shooting with Jennifer down in the basement of Police HQ at Kungsholmen, he caught himself picturing a person instead of a black silhouette on a sheet of cardboard. It heightened his senses, increased his pulse rate and gave him … yes, pleasure, for want of a better word.
He could never tell anyone that.
Never.
Not Jennifer, although he told her most things. Not even Maya; in spite of the fact that she worked with life coaching and personal development, and was going to be his wife, she knew very little about his darker sides. And definitely not Vanja. Maybe a year or so ago, when their relationship had been more like that of a brother and sister, but not now. Not any more. Something had broken on that day when she said she was a better cop than him, and however much they tried to convince themselves that they’d fixed it, the crack was still there. Jennifer had taken Vanja’s place as his confidante.
‘How’s your dad?’ he asked, realising that he actually wanted to know.
‘He’s been given a new kidney and he seems to be doing well, but I don’t see him or my mother these days,’ Vanja answered honestly. She was struck by how little she and Billy had talked over the past few months.
‘But you’re friends with Sebastian again.’
‘I don’t know about friends …’
‘OK, but you’ve stopped thinking he’s trying to ruin your life.’
‘Yes.’
Billy looked at her. Short answers. Was that because she didn’t want to talk about it? If so, she was going to have to ask him to stop.
‘You seemed pretty convinced at the hospital.’
‘I know, but why would he want to do something like that?’
To keep you close, Billy thought, but he didn’t say anything.
‘He’s a pig in many ways,’ Vanja went on, ‘but I’ve chosen to believe him.’
‘Fine – I just hope he doesn’t let you down again.’
‘So do I.’
They sat in silence for a while. Vanja was convinced they were both thinking the same thing. This was Sebastian Bergman they were talking about. The chances of him letting her down again were overwhelming. Billy emptied his glass and put it down on the bedside table.
‘Mind if I use the toilet?’
‘Of course not.’
Billy went into the bathroom, which was identical with his. As he was having a pee he noticed the little glass shelf below the mirror. In one of the tooth mugs was a blue toothbrush. Vanja’s toothbrush.
It felt as if the idea of taking it was pure impulse, as if the opportunity had created the thief, but was that really true? Wasn’t this the reason he had come to see Vanja in the first place? She would wonder where the toothbrush had gone, of course, but she would never imagine that he could have taken it. Why would he do such a thing?
Billy flushed the toilet, washed his hands, and after a final brief altercation with himself he picked up the toothbrush, wrapped it in toilet paper and slipped it in his pocket.
He stayed with Vanja for another half-hour or so, then he went back to his room, placed the stolen toothbrush in an envelope and put it in his suitcase. What now? He still wasn’t tired. He ought to try and get to sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to relax. He decided to go out for a walk; he pulled on his jacket, switched off the light, and closed the door behind him.
It wasn’t the dream that woke him this time. It was the hand, wearing a ring, that suddenly landed on his face. It was a second or two before he worked out who it belonged to and how it had ended up in his bed, but then he remembered.
This was probably not a good thing.
Forget probably.
This was not a good thing.
He should have put a stop to it before they got this far, but it was too late now. The owner of the hand turned over in her sleep and the arm to which it was attached flopped across his chest. He had bumped into her in the car park after the evening briefing. Automatically asked if she’d like to go for dinner, not expecting her to say yes. Somehow they had ended up at a slightly dodgy Chinese restaurant, and to his delight he found she was both intelligent and easy to talk to. The place started to get rowdy as the consumption of beer by other customers far outstripped their interest in the food, and Sebastian and his companion decided to leave. She knew a good place; they went to Björnidet where she carried on drinking wine and he carried on seducing her. Hours later she announced that she couldn’t possibly drive home. Was his hotel anywhere nearby? It was, as it turned out. Not far away at all.
The sex had been unusually satisfying – inventive and passionate. Perhaps it was because it had been a long time, or maybe they just worked well together. They had fallen asleep just after two.
And now he was wide awake.
The satisfaction was gone, the intimacy nauseating.
He had to get rid of her. They couldn’t be seen together.
This wasn’t good, but perhaps it didn’t have to be the catastrophe it had seemed when he first woke up. He had slept with the mothers of suspects, even with suspects themselves on a number of occasions, so even if this wasn’t the smartest thing he had done, you could say that screwing the person in charge of the preliminary investigation was a step in the right direction.
It was doubtful if Torkel would agree with him.
She had no idea what time it was.
She had woken up several times, but had managed to go back to sleep, telling herself it must still be night. Even if it wasn’t, what was she
going to do? Where would she go? This was where she needed to be right now.
It was no longer quite so cold. She felt better. With the protection of the darkness, she had managed to move more of herself inside. Shrunk on the outside, grown on the inside. She would have preferred to forget that anything existed outside herself. She lay there with her knees drawn up towards her chin. She didn’t know how long for, but in the end she had to acknowledge the needs of her body.
She stood up, pressed her back against the wall of the cave, and squeezed out through the narrow fissure. Keeping her hand on the rough surface, she edged a few metres to the right, then squatted down for a pee. It was the first time in many hours. She wasn’t drinking enough. The cave was cold and dry – no water trickling down the walls as she had hoped, and no underground lakes. None that she had found, anyway. Not even a puddle.
Should she go back out there? Find something to drink? Get hold of some more food, perhaps a torch? Or matches …
But she didn’t want to do that. If she went out she would be forced to deal with the outside of herself. Move around, be on her guard, approach people. Someone might be looking for her. She wanted to stay here. She wanted to be on the inside.
She felt her way back along the wall until she reached the crevice, then squeezed back inside and got the things she had brought from the cottage out of her pockets. The label had said that the glacé cherries were in a sugar syrup. She didn’t really know what that was, but when she shook the tin it sounded as if there was some kind of liquid inside. She needed a stone to smash it open. She felt around in front of her, but couldn’t find anything suitable. Should she force herself out through the fissure to search there? No, it wasn’t worth it, she decided.
On the inside she was neither hungry nor thirsty. All she had to do was find her way back there.
She lay down, drew her knees up towards her chin, and after less than a minute she was fast asleep once more.
He was out of bed minutes before the sun appeared behind the trees down by the lake. He didn’t need an alarm clock; he always woke with the dawn.
The devil makes work for idle hands, as his mother used to say. Not that she was religious in any way; she probably said it because the early morning was the only time they had together. Then she went off to work, and he was already in bed when she got home. His mother had been dead for many years, but he still couldn’t sleep in the mornings.
He pulled on his trousers, buttoned his shirt and ran a hand over his cheeks. It was three days since he had shaved; better do it now.
In front of the bathroom mirror he applied shaving foam, then opened the old-fashioned cut-throat razor as his thoughts circled around the key topic.
What did he know about the Carlstens?
Apart from their fanatical tree-hugging / toxin-free / eco-friendly crap and their general refusal to engage with anything that involved modernisation or progress, of course. What had they said to their young guest? Where had they taken her? A ten-year-old girl who didn’t know the area and didn’t want to go to the police – where would she hide?
The police were intending to resume the search at first light. Should he go along and join them? No – that might turn out to be counterproductive. What if he was in the group that found the girl, and she recognised him, pointed him out there and then? He had to find her before anyone else did, or everything would have been in vain. What were the odds on his being successful? Very small, but he had to try. Not just for himself; there was too much at stake. Five people would have died for nothing if he failed.
He rinsed off the remaining white foam with cold water and dabbed at his cheeks with a towel.
What did he know about the Carlstens?
They spent a lot of time outdoors. Of course. Karin had thought Torsby lacked an ‘all-weather’ nursery, and had tried to change the ethos of the preschool Fred attended, but without success. However, they were always outdoors – presumably when cousin Nicole was visiting too. So they could have taken the girl just about anywhere. He had to work it out. He had to find her.
Find …
There was something there. He stopped in mid-movement. Find … He met his own gaze in the mirror. He was close now. Concentrate. The piece of the puzzle was within reach.
He had been thinking the wrong way. It was the fault of the newspapers and the police.
They were searching. The girl was lost. They were looking for her, because she was missing.
Wrong. She wasn’t lost, and she wasn’t missing.
She was staying away, she didn’t want to be found.
That was the difference. If she just wanted to hide, there were endless possibilities, from crouching down behind a rock to breaking into a summer cottage that was still closed up for the winter. But that meant there was a risk of being found, and that wasn’t part of her plan.
Where would a person never be found?
He knew.
The question was, did she know?
She had spent time with her cousins, who had lived here for several years, so of course they must have told her about it. As a ghost story in the evenings, perhaps. The tale of the boys who died. She would have wanted to go there, see where it happened. Hear the warning as she stood outside:
If you go in there, you’ll never be found.
There were many parameters to consider, many uncertainties, but this was where his brain had taken him, and he trusted his instincts. It was definitely worth a try. Better than sitting at home and reading on the Internet that she’d been found. Waiting for the police to turn up on his doorstep.
It was within the girl’s capabilities. She’d had three days to get there. He wouldn’t need more than fifteen minutes. He decided to skip breakfast and head off right away.
To the Bear’s Cave.
Almost one hundred and sixty people turned up outside the police station to join the search. Fresh destinations were allocated to the same team leaders as the previous day. Torkel had firmly dismissed any suggestion that Billy should stay behind, and he was given a new group and a new area – further away and bigger this time. Nicole had left the house approximately seventy hours ago; she could have covered a considerable distance. Erik had also decided that because they had almost twice as many volunteers, he would add two new areas that were less likely but still possible. Telephone number, walkie-talkies, sandwiches, Thermos flasks. Cars started up and the place emptied surprisingly quickly.
Almost emptied.
An elderly lady remained behind, leaning on a crutch. She must be getting on for eighty, Erik realised as she hobbled towards him, surprisingly quickly. She was wearing a hat and a thick coat that looked as if it was made of wool, and her scarf was wrapped closely around her neck. There was very little heat from the sun as yet, but there soon would be; not a cloud in the sky. Erik guessed that the old lady just wasn’t inclined to perspire.
‘All those people were blocking the door,’ she said. ‘What’s going on?’
‘We’re organising search parties for a missing girl, and—’
‘Yes, yes,’ the old lady interrupted Erik, waving her free hand impatiently. ‘I want to report a crime,’ she said. ‘A murder.’
★ ★ ★
Fifteen minutes later Erik escorted his visitor back to reception. Her name was Ingeborg Franzén, apparently, and her husband was the president of the local Rotary Club. As he guided her towards the door she repeated that her husband had ‘connections’, and would therefore find out if her report wasn’t taken seriously. It would be, Erik promised, failing to mention that even reports that were taken seriously could be given a low priority. The victim’s name was Fluffy; he had been a twelve-year-old moggy with something of the Sacred Birman in him. The starlings had been making a terrible noise when Ingeborg went out to fetch the newspaper that morning, and behind the house she had found Fluffy lying by the dustbins, with a broken neck. His tongue had been sticking out in a way that made Ingeborg certain that someone had strangled her precious l
ittle darling. Erik didn’t mention that Fluffy could have been hit by a car; the driver might have got out, seen that the cat was beyond help, and simply chucked him into the garden. Callous, immoral, but not impossible or illegal. Instead he repeated his promise that they would do their very best as he more or less shoved her out through the door.
Good God, fifteen minutes on a dead cat, he thought as he went back inside. He didn’t even work here any longer.
As he was taking out his pass card, Dennis called to him from the reception desk. Dennis was the only person who was still in the station, apart from Erik and Sebastian Bergman; everyone else was out searching.
Erik turned to see a man standing at the desk.
‘Any chance you could take this?’ Dennis asked, waving him over. ‘It’s a break-in.’
‘Can’t you deal with it?’ Erik said, his smile very much at odds with the muted irritation in his voice.
‘I’m on my own and I have to answer the phone and …’
As if by magic, the phone started ringing. Erik sighed and turned to the man who was waiting patiently.
‘This way.’
The main door of the police station opened again as Dennis picked up the phone. The press had been given strict orders to remain outside, which was why most of them had volunteered to join in the hunt for the girl. If they found her, they would have an eyewitness account, perhaps even an exclusive interview. If they didn’t find her, they would be able to write an insightful piece about the desperate search and the personal sacrifice they had made in order to be good citizens. A win-win situation, you could say.
The person who walked in wasn’t a journalist. He was a young man aged about twenty-five who worked for Statoil, judging by the logo on his clothing. He looked around and strolled over to Dennis, who nodded to him while he dealt with the phone call, taking a number and promising that someone would be in touch. Dennis hung up and turned his attention to the new arrival.
The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4) Page 14