The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4)

by Michael Hjorth

  She hated being on the periphery.

  The very thought of missing the interview with Malin Åkerblad infuriated her. She had found the prosecutor’s attitude unacceptable right from the start, and would have loved the chance to put the squeeze on her. Torkel had promised to do his best on her behalf, and she knew he was good. But it wasn’t the same as being able to do it herself.

  At the same time, she was well aware that the leads they had needed to be followed up, and that it was time to confront FilboCorp with their suspicions that the Torsby murders were linked to the planned mining development. And then there was Stefan Andrén, the man from London who also owned land in the area. He would be arriving in Stockholm that evening, and had promised to call her. But FilboCorp was definitely first on the list; she and Sebastian would be there in half an hour.

  She double-parked outside his apartment block on Grev Magnigatan, keyed in the entry code and ran upstairs to collect him. Perhaps she had been a little hard on him on the phone, but he really had messed things up. Nobody had forced him into bed with Åkerblad, and he deserved to be given a hard time over it. However, she also knew that if he was going to be of any use to her, she had to calm down, otherwise he would act like an offended prima donna all day, which would be counterproductive. They had a lot to do.

  She took the stairs three at a time and rang the doorbell. He answered more quickly than usual.

  ‘Morning – nearly ready,’ he said as he let her in.

  The apartment smelled of coffee and toast. Unexpectedly homely. A door opened and a woman emerged from the bathroom wearing a dressing gown. Vanja was about to make a cutting remark, but she suddenly recognised her.

  Maria Carlsten. Nicole’s mother.

  Nicole came out of the kitchen in her pyjamas, wearing a milky moustache and clutching a half-eaten piece of toast in her hand.

  ‘What the hell are they doing here?’ Vanja whispered when mother and daughter had disappeared into the kitchen. Sebastian looked at her in surprise.

  ‘They’re staying here. The apartment in Farsta was compromised. We decided this was the safest place.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Torkel and I, so don’t go thinking this was just my idea,’ he said. There was a defensive note in his voice; it was obvious that he didn’t want to discuss the suitability of this little family living in his apartment. Vanja felt completely out of the loop. She had had no idea that Nicole and her mother were here; why hadn’t she been informed? Didn’t Torkel trust her, or was he just trying to avoid her objections?

  ‘We’ve made quite a lot of progress with Nicole since they came here,’ Sebastian said as if he could read her mind. ‘A calm, homely environment has helped her.’

  ‘Good.’ Vanja thought she probably meant that; Nicole was potentially their only witness. ‘What kind of progress? Anything you can share?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Sebastian showed Vanja to his study. She glanced into the kitchen on passing; Nicole and Maria were happily eating breakfast. Sebastian was probably right; this place was much better than any of the police safe houses for a ten-year-old girl who needed to rest and recuperate; they were impersonal and usually not very nice.

  Sebastian closed the study door, went over to one of the bookshelves and picked up a pile of papers.

  ‘Nicole did these drawings yesterday.’

  Slowly he began to show Vanja the pictures, one at a time. She saw a girl in a forest.

  ‘I told you she was moving backwards, working towards the moment. When she was in Torsby she drew the scene outside the cave when she’d been found, then inside the cave. Now she’s in the forest.’

  The images were emotionally powerful, with strong colours. Vanja was struck by how talented Nicole was when it came to expressing herself. The childish strokes emphasised the sense of vulnerability; the huge forest really did seem threatening, the little girl totally isolated. Vanja could feel her flight in picture after picture.

  ‘In this one we reach the house – just on the edge, see?’

  Vanja nodded. He was right; she recognised the Carlstens’ white house.

  Sebastian handed her the last drawing.

  ‘She did this one last night. I haven’t shown it to Maria yet.’

  Vanja understood why when she saw the body with the brown hair, surrounded by blood.

  ‘So she saw everything?’

  Sebastian nodded, and Vanja looked up at him; she was overwhelmed.

  ‘Well done.’

  ‘There’s more to come.’ Sebastian went and put the drawings face down on the bookshelf. ‘She hasn’t finished yet.’

  ‘In that case I have to admit you’re right – it’s obviously good for her to be here with you.’ The words were rather more conciliatory than she had planned, but she was actually quite impressed by him right now.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Although I did think it was a bit odd when I first saw them here.’

  ‘I can understand that. I’ve made a complete cock-up of things with Malin.’

  Vanja couldn’t help smiling. ‘To say the least. Torkel has really got his teeth into her now.’

  ‘Have you tracked down her brother? What’s his name, by the way?’

  ‘Thomas Nordgren. No, he’s been away since the murders. No one’s seen him. I think Torkel is going to put out a call for him.’

  Sebastian smiled too, almost playfully.

  ‘But he’s over thirty, he has a personal connection to the Carlstens, and he knows the area?’

  Vanja nodded. Sebastian continued, exuding confidence:

  ‘Socially functional, and he is or has been in a relationship? Am I right?’

  Vanja realised where he was going with this.

  ‘Yes, he fits your profile of the perpetrator,’ she said drily.

  ‘I just wanted to hear you say it.’

  Vanja shook her head and laughed. Sebastian opened the study door.

  ‘Shall we go? They’ll be fine without me for a few hours.’

  Vanja nodded. ‘It’s always better if there are two of us. We’re starting with FilboCorp.’

  Sebastian went into the kitchen to say goodbye; he patted Nicole on the head.

  ‘I have to go to work for a while, but I’ll be back soon.’ Nicole looked resigned, but after a moment she gave a little nod. Sebastian turned to Maria: ‘Any problems, just call me. Don’t open the door to anyone.’

  Vanja watched the three of them, wondering if she ought to let him stay. Perhaps he would be of more use here with Nicole. Then again, there was something about the little tableau that bothered her. It didn’t feel entirely healthy. Sebastian wasn’t acting only as an investigator; there was a sense that they were a family, somehow. Daddy’s off to work.

  ‘Nicole really likes you,’ she said when he rejoined her. ‘She seems to trust you.’

  ‘She’s probably the only person in the whole world who does,’ he answered honestly.

  Vanja shook her head. That was just typical of him, reading too much into every situation.

  ‘She’s a child, Sebastian. A traumatised child. She needs you, but she doesn’t know you,’ she said, a little more sharply than she might have wished.

  ‘So you’re saying that anyone who knows me can’t possibly like me or trust me?’

  ‘Well, it’s certainly more difficult,’ Vanja replied honestly.

  Sebastian put on his shoes, making it clear that the discussion about the child in his kitchen was over.

  They left the apartment in silence.

  Torkel was standing by the coffee machine waiting for his fourth cup of the day when Erik appeared.

  ‘Nordgren’s financial details,’ he said, handing over a printout to Torkel who quickly read through it and nodded when he discovered that the information confirmed their theories from the previous day. Thomas Nordgren’s personal finances were, to put it politely, under a certain amount of strain. He was still paying off the substantial loan he had t
aken out in 2009 in order to buy his wife out of the house when they divorced. The interest rate wasn’t great, and he also had a comparatively large bank loan, a number of credit-card debts, and several unsecured loans. His monthly income was 22,400 kronor before tax. Even Torkel, with his relatively limited knowledge of such matters, realised that Thomas must have ended up in the red every month. Selling the land to FilboCorp would literally have changed his life.

  It was useful information, but it wasn’t evidence. However, it did help to establish a motive.

  They didn’t have much in the way of proof.

  They had nothing, to be honest.

  Nothing had been found in Thomas Nordgren’s apartment or his storeroom in the cellar that might link him in any way to the five murders. None of the neighbours had anything useful to say about Thomas as a person, his circle of acquaintances, his recent activities or where he was right now. No one had seen him for over a week.

  ‘She’s been in there for nearly an hour,’ Erik said, glancing at his watch.

  Torkel knew exactly who he was referring to. ‘She’ was Malin Åkerblad. She had made herself available immediately and had voluntarily come in for questioning; she had now been waiting longer than was either necessary or acceptable.

  ‘I know, I’m on my way,’ Torkel said, lifting his cup from the metal grid. ‘I just wanted to wait for this,’ he said, waving the printout Erik had given him. ‘Thanks – well done.’

  He set off along the corridor, wondering whether to apologise to the prosecutor for keeping her waiting. However, he didn’t like Malin Åkerblad, and he was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. Vanja had asked him to put her under pressure, and that was exactly what he intended to do. Starting with an apology was not an option.

  ★ ★ ★

  Malin Åkerblad was in the same room where they had interviewed Jan Ceder. Poetic justice, Torkel thought.

  ‘I’m perfectly willing to help you,’ Malin said with a mixture of weariness and anger in her husky voice. ‘There’s no reason to treat me badly.’

  Torkel didn’t reply; he simply went over to the table and put down his coffee cup. He hoped she would take note of the fact that he hadn’t brought one for her, nor was he offering to go and fetch one. He pulled out the chair and sat down. Placed his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his clasped hands.

  ‘Your brother …’ he began, leaving the rest of the sentence hanging in the air.

  ‘Yes?’ Malin’s tone made it clear that she needed a little more to go on.

  ‘Tell me about him.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What do you want to tell me?’

  Malin shrugged. ‘Thomas is eight years older than me, so we didn’t hang out much when we were growing up. He left home when he was seventeen and I was only nine, so …’ She spread her hands wide as if she was hoping that would explain the significance of the age gap for their relationship. ‘We had sporadic contact, I saw him when there was a family birthday, at Christmas and so on while our parents were still alive, but since they died …’ Again she clearly hoped that no further explanation was necessary.

  ‘And what about the property the Torssons rent from him?’ Torkel wondered, cutting to the chase.

  ‘Thomas and Sofie bought the place two years after they got married. Sofie and I didn’t get on, and we had virtually nothing to do with each other during their marriage.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘We’re in touch occasionally.’

  ‘Do you know where he is?’

  ‘No, I haven’t spoken to him for weeks.’

  Torkel nodded to himself and took a sip of coffee. Sat back and clasped his hands behind his head.

  ‘Thomas and Jan Ceder were members of the same hunting club while he was living in that house,’ he stated in a conversational tone of voice. Malin looked genuinely surprised.

  ‘I didn’t know that.’

  Torkel didn’t respond; he merely tipped his chair a fraction, balancing on the back legs. Totally at ease. Apparently.

  ‘I don’t know any of Thomas’s friends,’ Malin went on, suddenly a lot more keen to convince him. ‘And as I said, I didn’t have anything to do with him while he was married to Sofie.’

  ‘So you weren’t aware that he knew Jan Ceder?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So that’s not why you were so reluctant to help us hold Ceder?’ No hint of an accusation, no anger, no attack. A dignified discussion. A perfectly simple question.

  ‘No, I released him because you didn’t have enough evidence to warrant keeping him in custody.’

  ‘We thought we had.’

  ‘You thought wrong.’ She was absolutely sure of her ground, and Torkel realised how convincing she could be when she was standing up in court. That was the voice of a winner, but she wasn’t presenting her argument to the jury right now. In fact, you could say she was in the dock.

  ‘Your brother didn’t like the Carlstens,’ he said, getting up and going over to the window. He leaned on the sill facing the glass, even though you couldn’t see either out or in through it.

  ‘I didn’t know that either.’

  ‘He never told you that he regarded them as the reason for his financial troubles, or said that he’d be rich if only they would agree to sell their land?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So when the Carlstens were murdered and this case landed on your desk, there were no alarm bells ringing, nothing linking what had happened with your brother?’

  ‘As I said, no. Otherwise I wouldn’t have taken the job.’

  Torkel turned to her for the first time since he had left the table. ‘And you expect me to believe that?’

  ‘You can believe whatever you like, to be honest, but it’s true.’

  ‘OK, let me tell you what I think. At the moment,’ he said, taking a step forward, placing his hands flat on the table and leaning towards Malin, ‘I think that Thomas’s financial situation became untenable. I think he borrowed a shotgun from his old hunting buddy Jan Ceder, and used it to shoot the Carlsten family.’

  Malin shook her head to indicate that she knew where this was going, but that it was already beyond ridiculous.

  ‘Thomas was afraid that Ceder would tell us who had the gun,’ Torkel went on. ‘You didn’t know how much Ceder hated anyone in authority, and you couldn’t take the risk, so you let him go. Thomas was waiting when he got home, and shot him in the dog pen.’

  ‘That’s absurd,’ Malin said, unable to suppress a little laugh that conveyed her opinion even more effectively. ‘Do you have anything, anything at all that proves any of this?’

  ‘We have someone new in charge of the preliminary investigation,’ Torkel said, which wasn’t an answer to her question.

  ‘I know. Emilio Torres.’

  ‘He’s a little more inclined to listen than you were, if I can put it that way.’

  There was no mistaking the fact that Torkel was enjoying the situation. He would have liked to think he was bigger than that, but he had to admit that he wanted to give Malin Åkerblad a hard time. She had made his life more difficult, and it was already complicated enough on every possible level.

  He fixed his eyes on her, and waited until she looked up.

  ‘I am remanding you in custody, and I am putting out a nationwide call for your brother.’

  It had taken a while to find the right place, but this was it.

  The black-and-white photograph from the front page of Expressen had been enough. That and time. Time he didn’t really have.

  Once again he compared the photograph with the building facing him. He was convinced it was the same one, but was the girl still there? There was a significant risk that the police had decided to move her when the newspaper published the story, particularly after his failure at the hospital. That would certainly have increased their awareness of the risk to the girl’s safety.

  He looked up at the third-floor window. He had been sitting in his car for
over two hours now, and he hadn’t seen any sign of movement behind the glass. In contrast to the picture in the paper, the third-floor window was empty. No pale little face peering out. The blinds weren’t even closed, which bothered him. If someone was worried about being found, surely they would have pulled down the blinds?

  He decided to get out of the car. It increased his chances of being spotted, but he had to do something. Get closer. Find out more information. He would leave his gun behind, which was in a small black bag on the passenger seat. There were advantages to being armed, of course, but they were outweighed by the disadvantages. It was highly unlikely that he would suddenly have an opportunity to deal with the girl, and the small shotgun would be impossible to explain away if he were searched or, even worse, arrested. He had no idea what kind of security the police had in place if the child was still there; best to assess the situation first. As always.

  He got out and walked towards the block, quickly enough to make it look as if he knew where he was going. He thought it looked less suspicious if a person didn’t appear to be searching for something.

  He was just about to open the main door when he heard a voice behind him.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  The man had appeared from nowhere. He was presumably a plain-clothes police officer; he wasn’t in uniform. Thank God he’d left the gun in the car. He turned around, trying to look vaguely surprised. He was just an ordinary guy on his way somewhere, that was all.

  The man who had stopped him was about thirty; he was wearing a red windbreaker and seemed a little stressed. He must have been sitting in the car that was parked a short distance away.

  ‘Do you live here?’ he asked.

  The man holding the door didn’t quite know which lie to use. He chose the simplest response, the one that would buy him some time.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sorry. I’m a freelance journalist, and I’m trying to get a picture of someone who’s supposed to be living here, but I haven’t seen any sign of her all day.’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘A little girl, but I’m starting to think they might have moved her.’