The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4)

by Michael Hjorth

  He thought he had already dealt with most things. He had chosen routes that weren’t covered by CCTV cameras on his way to and from the hospital, he had parked far enough away so that anyone who happened to notice and recognise his car wouldn’t make the connection – just as he had done at the Bear’s Cave – and he had entered the hospital through a back door with no security cameras anywhere near.

  He was pretty sure no one would be able to prove that he had been at the cave or the hospital.

  The shotgun he had used at the Carlstens’ was back with Jan Ceder. He had changed his tyres down in Filipstad, so that any possible tyre tracks couldn’t be traced back to him.

  What else?

  He had to think.

  He opened a drawer and took out a little notebook and a pen. It was important to be meticulous. Not to forget anything. Write everything down methodically. He sat down at the kitchen table, finished off his coffee and put pen to paper.

  That hurt. He loved those boots, besides which they were nearly new.

  But you do what you have to do.

  He had read somewhere that steam cleaning was the best way to get rid of stains. But was that really necessary? Could Ceder’s shotgun have left any traces? There was nothing strange about having guns in the car; he had a licence for several weapons. He left it on the list, but added a question mark.

  Low priority.

  What else could prove his downfall?

  Shotgun, car, clothes, boots … He couldn’t think of anything.

  he added, then left the notebook on the table and went upstairs to get changed and start the day properly.

  He glanced at the computer as he passed the door of the study, and quickly decided not to wake it up. He could easily spend an hour or more sitting there once he got sucked in. On the other hand, it had proved invaluable when it came to finding out how the investigation into the crimes he had committed was progressing. The tabloids were alarmingly well informed.

  He told himself it was for his own good, and he would just have a quick look at the websites he had bookmarked. Nothing else. With two strides he reached the machine and moved the mouse, waking the screen from sleep mode. He leaned forward; he wasn’t even going to sit down, this would only take a second. He clicked on Expressen’s homepage. His broadband connection wasn’t too bad, and in no time the page had refreshed.

  He sat down.

  THIS IS WHERE SHE’S HIDING

  Capital letters.

  Followed by a smaller but equally eye-catching subheading:

  SHE SURVIVED THE HOUSE OF HORROR

  He read through the article with interest, looking closely at the grainy image with the pale oval at the window.

  The girl who got away.

  He would need to add something to the list on the kitchen table.

  ★ ★ ★

  It had taken longer than expected to do the shopping, mainly because he wasn’t used to catering for anyone other than himself. Admittedly when Ellinor had been around he had started venturing beyond the 7-Eleven and the Östermalm Food Hall, but this was different. He was shopping for a little girl and her mother, and he didn’t know where to start. What did a ten-year-old like? He went for brightly coloured packs of fruit yogurt and cereal, then he added a sliced loaf, butter, liver pâté, cream cheese, smoked ham, milk, O’Boy drinking chocolate and orange juice. That was breakfast sorted; now for lunch and dinner. There was far too much choice on the shelves, and the fact that he wasn’t sure whether he or Maria was doing the cooking didn’t exactly help. Nicole and her mother were his guests, and it would feel odd if he simply dumped a pile of carrier bags in the kitchen and assumed that Maria would whip something up. That’s what he was hoping for, of course, but he had to have a Plan B just in case.

  He moved on to the freezer aisle and picked up plenty of ready meals and ice cream, then added instant mashed potato, frankfurters, ketchup, waffles and cream. By the time he reached the checkout the bill came to almost 1,500 kronor, and he had four heavy bags to carry home.

  He cut across Östermalmstorg; the handles of the plastic bags were cutting into his palms, but he felt positive, inspired. There was someone waiting for him at home.

  Two people who needed him.

  As he walked along he looked at everyone around him, hurrying home perhaps, or to a meeting somewhere, and suddenly he felt part of it all. They weren’t just bodies in motion; they all had a destination.

  So this was what it felt like to be needed. Life had a direction. He allowed himself to be swept along, and increased his speed. He was going home.

  Five minutes later he turned into Grev Magnigatan, then stopped and put down the bags, his hands aching. He looked up at his apartment, and realised that he hadn’t given a thought to the ever-present smell of detergent in the hallway, or felt any reluctance to return. On the contrary: for the first time in ages he longed to open his new front door.

  He noticed a movement at one of the living-room windows; a pale little face was just visible behind the glass. Nicole. She had seen him; she pressed closer, presumably to get a better view. This worried him; she ought to stay away from the windows. He didn’t want to encourage her, so he didn’t acknowledge her. At the same time he felt a burst of fresh energy in his legs, and he hardly noticed the pain in his hands.

  Not only was he needed.

  Someone was longing to see him.

  ★ ★ ★

  ‘You need to make sure Nicole stays away from the windows,’ Sebastian said when he came in and put down the bags in the hallway.

  ‘I only left her for a second.’ Maria’s voice came from the kitchen, and a second later she ran into the living room clutching a Melitta filter.

  ‘Nicole! Come away from there!’ she shouted, sounding almost angry. Sebastian heard Nicole jump down; it sounded as if she was barefoot, and that little detail pleased him. If you were barefoot it meant you were comfortable, he thought. It meant you felt at home.

  He left the bags and followed Maria into the living room. Nicole was standing next to her mother; one of the antique armchairs behind her was facing the window, so she had presumably climbed on it to see out. He walked past her and demonstratively drew the heavy green curtains. Ellinor had put them up, and at first he had hated their pretentious luxury, but he had learned to appreciate something that so effectively shut out the outside world.

  ‘Let’s not do that any more, OK?’ he said, trying to sound kind but firm. ‘I’ve bought lots of food – I didn’t know what you liked.’

  They followed him into the hallway and Maria picked up two of the bags.

  ‘This is exciting,’ she said with a smile, heading for the kitchen. ‘I’m starving!’ She dumped the bags on the table and started unpacking them; Sebastian grabbed the other two and followed suit.

  ‘Look, Nicole! O’Boy. Spaghetti. Meatballs. Isn’t that great?’ She came to three bright red boxes of frozen food, which didn’t please her quite so much.

  ‘Beef hotpot? I guess you’ve never had kids?’ she said, pretending to be sceptical. She was obviously enjoying the ordinariness of the situation, the banality of the conversation. Which was hardly surprising after the tension of the past few days.

  ‘No, never.’

  The lie came automatically. He never talked about Sabine and Lily. Women had a tendency to home in on the subject, wanting to know more. Wanting to know what had happened, and when they found out, insisting on talking about how terrible it must have been. However, with Maria he didn’t feel the same kind of emotional pressure; perhaps he would even be able to tell her the truth. But not right now.

  ‘I’ve got ice cream and waffles if you’d like some,’ he said, changing the subject.

  ‘We love waffles, don’t we, sweetheart?’

  ‘In that case all I have to do is find the waffle iron,’ Sebastian said, wondering where to look. He had a feeling he had seen a waffle iron around the place a long time ago; he couldn’t ever remember using it, but he had definitely
seen it. He knelt down and started with the cupboard to the right of the cooker. That was where people usually kept larger items of kitchen equipment, wasn’t it? At least that was what his mother had done, and if he had put a waffle iron away somewhere, surely his subconscious would have made him shove it in there. He opened the door and saw three shelves containing a mixer and several large pans and frying pans. Where had all this stuff come from? Perhaps Ellinor was responsible for some of it, but not all of it. Lily? But they hadn’t spent much time here; they had lived mainly in Cologne. Behind him he could hear Maria continuing to unpack the shopping, chatting away to Nicole, who was perched on one of the chairs by the table, as she brought out sweets and biscuits, ice cream and fruit. Nicole seemed to be enjoying herself; she was certainly participating with her eyes at least. The atmosphere was good, and he shuffled along to the next cupboard. Behind a fondue set he had absolutely no recollection of, he saw an electric cable so old that it had some sort of fabric outer casing. He tugged, and there it was at last: the waffle iron. It was an unwieldy object made of Bakelite, and it looked ancient. Now he remembered where it had come from: his uncle’s house. When he died Sebastian had filled several boxes, mainly to irritate his father, who had clearly set his heart on taking the lot. The question was whether it actually worked. He plonked it on the draining board and turned to Maria. He was about to say something when the sound of a mobile phone sliced through the apartment.

  ‘It’s mine, I switched it on so I could check my messages,’ Maria said, getting the phone out of her pocket and glancing at the screen.

  ‘I don’t recognise the number.’

  Sebastian felt a pang of anxiety.

  ‘Shall I answer it?’ Maria went on, moving closer to him. Sebastian hesitated for a second.

  ‘OK, but don’t say where you are. That’s the most important thing.’

  Maria swiped the screen. ‘Hello? Yes, it’s me.’

  Sebastian could just hear the voice of a man on the other end of the line, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’ Maria looked surprised. Not scared or anxious, which reassured Sebastian; at least the conversation wasn’t threatening. He was curious though, particularly when Maria suddenly got upset.

  ‘I can’t think about that right now.’ All at once she was angry.

  ‘No, I don’t understand why you think it’s OK to call me!’

  She ended the call and looked at Sebastian; she was clearly furious.

  ‘Was it a newspaper? They can be pretty inconsiderate,’ he said, wanting to put his arm around her shoulders to calm her down.

  ‘It was a solicitor, wondering if I wanted to sell the house.’

  ‘What house?’

  ‘My sister’s house.’

  Sebastian felt as if he couldn’t quite grasp what she was saying.

  ‘Someone wants to buy your sister’s house? Just days after the whole family was murdered?’

  ‘Yes, some company or other. Filbo, I think he said. Cold-hearted bastards!’

  Sebastian reached out his hand. This meant something, he was sure of it. He had to find out exactly what that might be.

  ‘Can I borrow your phone?’ Maria passed it over, and Sebastian immediately realised he couldn’t cope with this level of new technology.

  ‘How do I find the last incoming call?’ he asked, handing it back. Two clicks and a swipe, and there it was.

  08.

  A Stockholm number.

  A man’s voice answered after two rings.

  ‘Lex Legali, Rickard Häger.’

  Sebastian recognised the tone and range of the deep voice; this was the man who had spoken to Maria.

  ★ ★ ★

  Sebastian had gone into his study and closed the door. He had tried not to worry Maria too much, but suspected that his grim conversation with Rickard Häger had proved anything but reassuring. He had made every effort to remain professional, but Häger had ducked and weaved, refusing to answer his questions. He had passed the phone to Maria so that she could give Häger her mandate to discuss the matter with a third party, but when that didn’t work either, Sebastian had threatened him with a full-scale police investigation, which finally produced an answer.

  Häger was representing Filbo Sweden AB, a subsidiary of FilboCorp Ltd, a mining company registered with the Toronto stock exchange. He had apologised for making enquiries so soon after the tragedy, but his client wanted to express an interest in the property at the earliest possible moment. If he had understood correctly, Maria was now the sole owner, and to him it seemed perfectly normal to contact the person in that position.

  It was just business.

  Sebastian tried to elicit further information: had Häger discussed a possible deal with Maria’s sister?

  Häger refused to answer.

  Sebastian had threatened him again, both with his colleagues and with the press, but he had got no further. Rickard Häger was obviously a highly skilled solicitor.

  But he was about to be faced with a highly skilled Riksmord team. The only question was how Sebastian could get Torkel to show an interest in this lead rather than dismissing it out of hand.

  It was probably best to tell the truth. Torkel was bound to be frustrated by the lack of an apparent motive so far, and the call from Lex Legali was the best thing that had turned up.

  Perhaps others had been interested in the Carlsten property.

  Perhaps there was more to be found out about FilboCorp.

  Time to call Torkel.

  The little room at Torsby police station didn’t have a projector on the ceiling, so Billy turned his laptop around, enabling everyone to see the image on the screen. Three pickaxes that Torkel associated with America and the gold rushes in the nineteenth century were arranged to form a triangle, with an ‘F’ and a ‘C’ in green inside; presumably the colour had been chosen to indicate commitment to environmental issues. Above the whole thing was a transparent gear-wheel, or something that looked like one.

  ‘FilboCorp,’ Billy began. ‘A Canadian mining company. Founded in 1918, branches all over the world. Principal shareholder is John Filbo, the grandson of Edwin Filbo, who started the company.’

  ‘Less history, more current information,’ Torkel said, waving his hand to emphasise that he wanted to hurry things along.

  ‘At the moment they have two projects in Sweden – one mining copper and pyrrhotite near Röjträsk just north of Sorsele, and one around Kurravaara outside Kiruna,’ Billy went on, leaning forward to bring up a map with two red dots. Just as well, Vanja thought. She might just about have put Kiruna in the right place – way up north in the middle somewhere. As for Sorsele, she hadn’t a clue. Not to mention Röjträsk and that other place she’d already forgotten the name of.

  Torkel’s mobile began to vibrate, and he glanced down at the display. Sebastian.

  ‘I need to take this,’ he said, picking up the phone and leaving the room. ‘I’m in the middle of a meeting,’ was the first thing he said as he took the call. ‘Is this important?’

  ‘A lawyer just called Maria. A mining company wants to buy her sister’s place in Torsby.’

  ‘FilboCorp – yes, we’re already on to them.’

  Torkel could almost hear Sebastian deflating. No doubt he had thought he was passing on something vital, a breakthrough in the investigation for which he would be able to take the credit, but they already had the information. That probably said something about their relationship right now, but he couldn’t help feeling a rush of pure Schadenfreude as he sensed Sebastian’s disappointment.

  ‘What’s it all about?’ Sebastian asked.

  ‘We don’t know yet, but according to Ove Hanson, FilboCorp wanted to start mining in the area where the Carlstens lived, but they refused to sell their land.’

  ‘Is that a motive for murder?’

  ‘We’re talking about a hell of a lot of money.’

  That was enough of an answer. Love, jealousy and so
metimes custody disputes were the most common motives, but money was right up there too. Greed was definitely the one of the seven deadly sins that claimed the most victims. A large amount of money within reach could drive certain people beyond all normal boundaries.

  ‘Listen, if there’s nothing else …’ Torkel said, glancing into the room where Vanja, Erik and Billy were waiting for him.

  ‘No, I just wanted to tell you about the call.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Torkel hesitated, then decided the others could wait a little longer. ‘How’s Nicole?’

  ‘OK – things are going well.’

  ‘Good. You’ll let me know if she tells you anything?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Torkel was about to reply when he realised the quality of the call had changed. There was less static. It was quieter. Sebastian had hung up. He sighed and rejoined his colleagues.

  ‘The mine in Kurravaara,’ Billy went on, ignoring the brief interruption. ‘Something similar happened there.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, I say similar, but …’ Billy turned the laptop around and with a few clicks found what he was looking for. He read from the screen: ‘Someone called Matti Pejok opposed the plans and refused to sell his land. He objected to every proposal, stirred up opposition to FilboCorp in the press.’

  ‘Like the Carlstens, perhaps?’ Torkel wondered, looking to Erik for confirmation that he had understood how their objection to the mine might have been expressed. Erik nodded.

  ‘After causing trouble for over two years, Matti Pejok disappeared,’ Billy went on, glancing up at the others above the screen.

  ‘Dead?’ Vanja said.

  Billy shook his head.

  ‘Missing. The mining company had the documentation to prove he’d sold his land to them, but his brother Per is convinced the signature is a forgery.’