Of course. An entry code.
Fucking Stockholm bastards.
He looked at the little box on the wall with its ten shiny buttons. No entryphone. He needed a code, and he didn’t have it.
The alternative was to persuade someone to let him in.
All he could do was wait. Again.
Stefan Andrén was sitting on one of the brown sofas by the big windows in the lobby when Vanja arrived. He got to his feet as soon as he saw her, and they shook hands. Jeans, shirt and jacket. Short, neatly cut hair, clean-shaven. If Vanja hadn’t known his age she would have thought he was younger than his forty-five years. There was a glass of beer on the table in front of him, and as they sat down he asked if she would like something. Vanja considered a glass of wine, but she was working after all, plus she hadn’t eaten since lunch, so she declined.
‘It’s about the land you own up in Värmland,’ she began, determined to keep the conversation as short as possible.
‘What about it?’
‘How long is it since you were there?’
Stefan shrugged and reached for his beer.
‘I never go there. It’s just … forest.’
‘A mining company proposed a development in the area a few years ago …’ Vanja went on, but broke off as Stefan snorted and nearly choked on his beer. He swallowed, coughed and put down the glass with a smile that was hard to interpret.
‘Yes, I know. That bloody mine. I have to say I was really pleased when the whole thing fell through.’
‘What do you mean? You agreed to sell your land.’
‘The land I had left, yes.’
Vanja remained silent, making it clear that she wanted to know more.
‘Frank came to me, it must be … seven or eight years ago wanting to buy land from me.’
‘Frank? Frank Hedén?’
Stefan nodded. ‘I inherited the land, I don’t really care about it, so I was happy to sell to him.’
‘How much?’
‘Quite a lot. He paid me a fair amount of money, but he also conned me.’
‘In what way?’
‘Nine months later the mining company turned up and started looking at the area. There was talk of selling, at a much better price than I got from Frank, let me tell you. He would have made a fortune.’
Vanja tried to process what she had just heard, marrying it with what she already knew about the events surrounding the mine in Torsby. From her expression, Stefan assumed she hadn’t really understood.
‘He must have know about the plans for the mine,’ he clarified. ‘Why else would he have suddenly wanted to buy my land?’
‘Excuse me.’ Vanja stood up and left the lobby, taking out her phone as she walked. Torkel answered immediately.
‘Have we looked at Frank Hedén’s finances?’
‘Yes – why?’
Vanja went over what she had just been told; she could hear Torkel shuffling through his papers. She remembered the feeling she had had at Frank’s house when they talked about Jan Ceder’s shotgun: that something wasn’t quite right. She hadn’t pursued it; perhaps she should have done. Trusted her gut instinct.
‘He’s up to his ears in debt,’ Torkel said. ‘Eight years ago he borrowed more than the house and the land were worth.’
‘To buy Stefan Andrén’s land.’ A statement, not a question.
‘Yes, but he’s also borrowed a lot more on that land over the years,’ Torkel went on; Vanja got the feeling he was reading the notes as he spoke to her.
‘So what happens when Frank dies? He has cancer …’
‘There will be virtually nothing left apart from debts. The bank owns more or less everything.’
‘He said his friends would sell the land when he was gone, that it would ensure his son’s future care. He said there would be plenty of money.’
‘There won’t,’ Torkel said drily. ‘Unless FilboCorp buys it at a premium.’
‘And in order for them to do that, the Carlstens had to disappear.’
Vanja thought about what she had seen scribbled on the whiteboard in the little office in Torsby. Male, over thirty, local resident, personal connection to the Carlstens, intelligent, planned the murders, believed his hand was forced.
‘He fits Sebastian’s profile on every single point.’ She couldn’t hide her excitement.
‘We’ll bring him in.’
‘He’s gone to Västerås,’ Vanja remembered. Her next comment came without her even needing to think about it. ‘At least that’s what he said.’
How long had he been outside this bloody door?
A number of people had walked past, and he had the strangest feeling that each one looked at him with growing suspicion.
Was it odd, standing there waiting?
Was he drawing attention to himself?
Surely not. He might be meeting a friend who just happened to live here. Nothing strange about that. Or didn’t people wait in the street in Stockholm?
Frank glanced at his watch. How many people lived in this section of the block? No one had come out or gone in during the last twenty minutes. The door remained firmly closed.
He could feel the rage beginning to grow inside him.
It was a door.
He had dealt with so much up to now.
Was an ordinary brown double door with three panes of glass in each side going to be his downfall? For a moment he toyed with the idea of simply smashing the middle pane. It would be quick. A sharp blow with his elbow, reach in and turn the lock, open the door. Ten seconds. But he didn’t dare. Someone would hear; the sound of breaking glass might be worse than a car alarm in this upmarket area. Curious faces might appear at every window as soon as the first shards hit the ground.
But he couldn’t stay here.
The more uncomfortable he felt, the more unnatural he looked. A little walk might be a good idea, but he mustn’t go too far. What if someone emerged from the apartment block when he was thirty, forty, fifty metres away? What would he do then? Run down the street like a lunatic and ask them to hold the door open, as if he were trying to catch the elevator in some American movie? They would definitely notice that, and remember it.
But he couldn’t stay here. His rage continued to grow. This wasn’t good. If you acted when you were angry, it was easy to make mistakes. It was time to move. Walk off his impatience and irritation. He couldn’t afford any mistakes. He set off slowly towards Storgatan, then turned the corner and kept on going. Decided to go all the way around the block, and if no one opened the door for him within five minutes of his return, he would smash the window.
He felt better now.
He had a plan.
Torkel was standing in the little room contemplating the whiteboard on the wall. He had moved the picture of Frank Hedén into the middle; he studied it closely. It had been taken before the cancer sank its claws into him; he looked strong and purposeful. Sharp eyes beneath the cropped steel-grey hair, which made Torkel think of an elite soldier. A hint of stubble on the firm, well-defined chin. If Frank was the guilty party and that picture was published, anyone who saw it would say he was lethal.
And right now everything suggested that Frank was their man.
Most importantly, he had a motive. Money, of course, but combined with the short time Frank had left, it became even stronger. He had to put his house in order, safeguard his son’s future, make sure his poor financial decisions weren’t the only thing he left behind. However, the other pieces of the puzzle had also fallen into place.
He knew Jan Ceder. They weren’t sure of the details of the relationship between the two men, but Frank had admitted that their paths had crossed from time to time. It didn’t require a great stretch of the imagination to assume that he had turned a blind eye to the odd breach of the hunting regulations in exchange for the loan of a shotgun.
Frank was also the person who had come to the police and told them about the car he had seen in the forest near the Bear’s Cave – the Merce
des. Now it was easy to see why: he had wanted to give a perfectly logical explanation as to why he was in the area, in case someone else turned up at the station and said they had seen Frank’s car in the forest. Following that particular lead had also taken up time and resources that could have been used to nail Frank instead of chasing after a non-existent car.
Torkel didn’t know Frank’s shoe size, but he would have put money on 44. He would have the answer very soon; after Vanja’s phone call he had sent Fabian to carry out a search of Frank’s house that would make yesterday’s searches look like a passing glance.
What else did they have?
Torkel thought for a while, but couldn’t come up with anything. However, Erik knew Frank. Perhaps not well enough to know his shoe size, but he should be able to contribute something.
He left the room and went along to Erik’s office; Erik was just putting down the phone when Torkel walked in.
‘Frank never checked into the Best Western in Västerås,’ Erik said.
‘So he didn’t go there.’
‘Presumably not.’
‘Do you really suspect Frank?’
Torkel spun around to see Pia sitting at one of the other desks. He gave Erik a look, raising his eyebrows.
‘She’s waiting for me. We’re going home together,’ Erik explained in response to the unspoken question.
‘Do you really suspect Frank?’ Pia repeated.
‘There are circumstances surrounding Frank Hedén which are a cause for concern,’ Torkel said, turning to face her. ‘The fact that he isn’t where he said he was going to be is one of them.’
‘There’s probably a simple explanation. Have you called him?’
‘Not yet.’
‘Would you like me to do it?’
Torkel stared at her with a look of complete incomprehension on his face.
‘We’ve known each other for a long time,’ Pia clarified.
‘Frank used to do Pia’s job,’ Erik interjected. ‘He’s been something of a mentor to her.’
‘I could ask him to come in and clear all this up if you like – it’s obviously a misunderstanding.’
Torkel didn’t respond right away; Pia clearly wasn’t impressed.
‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’m not sure I want to warn him,’ Torkel said honestly. ‘If he finds out we’re looking for him, he might take off.’
‘He’s sixty years old, he has terminal cancer and a disabled adult son at home,’ Pia replied acidly. ‘Besides which he’s innocent.’
Torkel didn’t necessarily agree with her final assertion, but the rest made sense. An elderly man under a death sentence with a son who was completely dependent on him: not exactly the most likely person to do a runner. He nodded to Pia.
‘OK, but I want to hear the entire conversation.’
‘I’ll put it on speakerphone,’ Pia promised, reaching for her mobile.
‘Just tell him we want to speak to him – don’t say why,’ Torkel insisted, feeling his body tense as the phone began to ring.
For once he had had a bit of luck.
He was only a few metres away from the door when it opened and a young couple with a buggy came out. Frank lengthened his pace and reached the door just before it closed. He smiled and nodded at the couple to indicate that he really did belong here, but they showed no interest in him whatsoever. He stood in the foyer and looked around. He spotted the light switch and pressed it, then checked the list of residents just to make sure he had got it right.
He had.
Bergman, third floor.
He slipped his hand under his coat and felt the gun with the tips of his fingers. Lift or stairs? He opted for the stairs; that would give him a little more time to prepare himself. Should he ring the doorbell? Would they answer if he did? Frank reached the first floor and saw that most apartments were equipped with a spyhole. Sebastian Bergman had never seen Frank, and it was unlikely that he would open the door to a stranger, bearing in mind who was in the apartment with him. Frank was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of exhaustion. He was going to have to force his way through another door somehow. It had taken him almost half an hour last time, and he had got in by sheer luck. How was he going to tackle this one?
His phone rang.
Frank gave a start and fumbled in his pocket, hoping the sudden noise wouldn’t attract curious eyes to every single spyhole in the building.
He grabbed his mobile and checked the display.
Pia calling.
He hesitated; the timing couldn’t have been worse, and if it had been anyone else he would have rejected it immediately. But this was Pia. The woman, the person he regarded as his best friend. So many years together, both in the political arena and on a personal level. They had always been there for one another; they had gone through so much together. Perhaps it was a sign, the fact that she was ringing at this particular moment? He took the call.
‘Hi,’ he said as quietly as he could. He turned and set off back down the stairs; he would be happier talking in the foyer, where there were no doors with people lurking behind them.
‘Hi, how are you?’ Pia asked in a perfectly normal tone of voice, which felt slightly bizarre given what he was about to do.
‘Fine … Listen, this isn’t very convenient.’
‘Where are you?’
Frank thought fast. Erik knew he was supposed to be going to Västerås. Frank couldn’t imagine that the Flodins spent their evenings discussing his plans, but there was a distinct possibility that his trip had come up in conversation, so the simplest thing was to stick to the story.
‘I’m in Västerås.’
At the police station in Torsby, Pia looked up at her husband and Torkel, who might have been mistaken when he thought he saw a shadow of doubt pass across her face. He nodded to her.
‘I’m at the police station,’ she said. ‘Erik’s here, and so is the head of Riksmord. They want you to come in for a chat.’
Silence.
‘Frank?’
‘What …’ A lengthy silence; Torkel wondered if they had lost the connection. ‘What about?’ Frank said eventually.
Pia glanced up at Torkel again; another nod.
‘The Carlstens and all that business with the mine …’
Silence. Torkel thought he heard a deep sigh on the other end of the line. A weary, resigned sigh.
‘Come in and talk to them, Frank,’ Pia pleaded.
‘I think it’s too late for that.’
‘What do you mean, too late?’
‘I think you know.’
If Pia had had any doubts, Torkel could see that she was now convinced of Frank’s guilt. All the strength that naturally emanated from her seemed to disappear in a second. She slumped down, struggling to hold back the tears.
In Stockholm Frank did almost the same thing, although he allowed his suddenly heavy body to drop onto the cold steps, and didn’t attempt to hide the fact that he was crying.
‘I did it for Hampus,’ he said quietly.
‘So think about him now,’ Pia replied.
Frank didn’t say anything. Hampus was all he ever thought about. Everything he had done was for his son. Everything. He had crossed boundaries he had never in his wildest dreams thought he would cross, all for Hampus’s sake.
Never thought he could cross.
But he could. Look at him now. A few minutes ago he had been utterly determined to kill three more people, one of whom was a child.
Because he was thinking of Hampus.
Because he was going to have to leave him far too soon, and because there was no one else who would care about the boy in the same way. Unless they were paid to care. It was money that counted. Everything could be bought, you got what you paid for, and he had no intention of settling for anything less than the best when it came to his son’s future care. But when he found out that his days were numbered there was no money, because there wasn’t going to be a mine. Because the Carlstens refused
to sell.
So the Carlstens had to be removed.
For Hampus’s sake.
You do what you have to do. Life wasn’t fair.
‘Think about your son,’ Pia said again, and Frank was struck by how gentle she sounded. That wasn’t like her … ‘Think about what could happen to him. And do the right thing.’
Frank didn’t even bother to respond. What was he supposed to say? What could he say that would change or improve the situation in which he found himself? Nothing.
‘Frank, you know what I can do.’ Her voice, a mixture of self-assurance and despair. ‘I can help you.’
Suddenly he was overcome with a feeling of emptiness, and let the hand holding the phone drop.
‘Do you understand what I’m saying, Frank?’ he heard faintly.
Yes, he understood. He understood perfectly.
The brave little girl and her mother would live.
He had had enough. It was over.
The relief at not having to get past that locked door on the third floor. Not having to take more lives.
Not having to take the lives of others.
He reached inside his coat and unhooked the gun.
The shot that echoed through the stone stairwell really did attract curious eyes to every single spyhole.
It was Maria who wanted to attend the memorial service in Torsby, and in a moment of weakness Sebastian had offered to buy a dress for Nicole. He had gone to the only department store he knew: NK on Hamngatan. According to the store guide by the escalator, children’s clothing was on the fourth floor. It was still early, so there weren’t many customers, and the place felt empty.
At first Maria had thought of coming with him, but Nicole was still affected by the incident in the stairwell, and they decided that the memorial service would be enough of a challenge for her. Otherwise she seemed to be getting better every day, although she still wasn’t talking, which both pleased and worried him. Sebastian had tried to talk them out of the service, but Pia Flodin had managed to convince Maria that it would be a chance for everyone to work through their grief together. According to Pia it would be a dignified and peaceful occasion led by the Bishop of Karlstad and herself; there would be thousands of candles.
The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4) Page 35