Without a Trace (Annika Bengtzon 10)

by Marklund, Liza

  Lovisa Olsson lived in one of the really showy old villas in Saltsjöbaden, on Vikingavägen, with lots of decorative carving, a three-car garage and a big glazed veranda facing the sea. Annika parked on the road in front of the house, locked the car and looked about her in the pouring rain. The lawn had been raked clear of leaves, and there were tulips growing along the front of the house. She could make out a swing behind the garage, and a tarpaulin on the ground, presumably covering a swimming-pool.

  The porch had two ornate wooden doors, with both a doorbell and a brass knocker. She hesitated, then decided to use the bell. It rang inside, the sound echoing between the rooms. She was almost expecting a maid in uniform and lace cap to answer the door, but in the end a little boy with a runny nose opened it. He stared at her. He had curly black hair and a comfort blanket in one hand.

  ‘Is your mummy at home?’ Annika asked.

  The boy looked up at her warily. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

  ‘Annika,’ Annika said. ‘What’s yours?’

  ‘Come in!’ Lovisa called, from somewhere inside the house.

  ‘Mark,’ the child said, and ran off.

  Annika went in and closed the door behind her.

  Lovisa hurried into the hall, without any make-up, her hair loosely tied up. In her arms she held a little girl, her head covered with cornrow plaits, just like Serena’s.

  ‘Welcome,’ she said, shaking Annika’s hand. ‘I’ve got the children at home today. I hope that isn’t a problem – they can’t seem to shake off their colds in all this rain.’

  Annika hung up her coat. The water dripped onto the hall floor. Lovisa turned and led her into a vast sitting room.

  ‘I was rather surprised when you called,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Wasn’t yesterday enough, at Therese’s?’

  ‘Almost,’ Annika said.

  Lovisa was clearly agitated. She went into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment with Mark in a little while.’

  The kitchen was enormous, with black and white chequered tiles on the floor, and custom-made fittings, no wall cabinets, just shelves. Multi-coloured LED lights were set into the ceiling. There was a black granite island containing a glass hob and griddle, and a bar with inbuilt lighting. Annika had never seen anything like it outside interior-design magazines.

  ‘You seemed to be the one who knew the Lerberg family best out of the mums’ group,’ Annika said, sitting on a tall bar stool. There were crispbread crumbs on the granite worktop.

  ‘Is this going to be in the paper?’ She sounded worried.

  ‘Probably,’ Annika said. ‘Is that a problem?’

  Lovisa put the little girl in a child’s chair. ‘I’m just going to put a film on for Mark,’ she said, and went off into the house.

  Annika was left sitting with the little girl beside her. The child stared fixedly at her, wide-eyed and wary, on the verge of crying at the slightest provocation. One of the lights in the ceiling cast a bright blue spot on the granite between them. Annika tried to focus on the spot, but her eyes kept meeting the child’s. She realized it was Serena’s silent anger that she was seeing in them.

  ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Annika. What’s yours?’

  The toddler’s face crumpled into tears and she tried to get out of her chair. Annika glanced around desperately for something to distract her, but before she could find anything Lovisa ran in and picked up her daughter.

  Annika brushed her hair from her face, discreetly swept the crispbread crumbs onto the floor, took out her pen and notepad and put them down in front of her. ‘You’ve got a lovely home,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks,’ Lovisa said.

  ‘Have you lived here long?’

  ‘We bought it when I was expecting Mark.’

  Annika smiled and tried to relax her shoulders. So Lovisa and her husband were loaded. She felt curiosity simmering inside her. She tilted her head, then wrote the date and time on the pad, concentrating, as if it was important.

  ‘What line of work is your husband in?’ she asked lightly.

  ‘He’s with the IMF,’ Lovisa said.

  Annika blinked.

  ‘The International Monetary Fund,’ Lovisa said. ‘At their offices in Geneva. But that’s not where we got the money. My dad owns a number of ICA supermarkets.’

  Annika looked down at her notepad. Lovisa had seen through her question, and she blushed.

  ‘My husband was born in Sweden,’ Lovisa went on, in a clearer, drier voice than before. ‘His parents are from Nairobi, both doctors. Samuel’s dad is head of Intensive Care at Södermalm Hospital. He’s looking after Ingemar.’

  Annika did her best to maintain a neutral expression. Lovisa gave her daughter a beaker containing a red liquid.

  ‘How is he getting on?’ Annika asked.

  Lovisa gave her a look that seemed almost amused. ‘Samuel’s dad? Oh, he’s fine, thanks. We read that he was Ingemar’s doctor in the Evening Post. He never tells us anything.’

  Annika tried to smile but failed. She decided to stop stomping about in Lovisa’s family background. ‘You said you’ve known Nora since you were children,’ she said. ‘Were you in the same class?’

  Lovisa mashed a banana that she tried to feed to her daughter, but without much success. ‘She was in the same class as Marika, my little sister, two years below me. Nora was a bit … sad, when she was younger. Partly because she stammered, and partly because of her mother. She was always sick, and then she died.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Annika said.

  ‘Breast cancer,’ Lovisa said, trying to push the mashed banana into the child’s mouth. ‘She had no hair, I remember … She died when Nora and Marika were in year four. How old would that make them? Ten?’

  ‘Did Nora have any brothers and sisters? She grew up with her dad?’

  ‘He was head of the porcelain factory,’ Lovisa said. ‘He’s dead now, too – he went a year or so ago.’

  ‘Does your sister still see Nora?’

  The little girl spat out the banana. Lovisa sighed and gave up. ‘No, my sister lives in London.’ She wiped the child’s mouth, and the little girl protested loudly.

  ‘So you wouldn’t say they were close friends?’ Annika asked.

  Lovisa shook her head. ‘Nora isn’t close to anyone,’ she said.

  She glanced at her watch, the Rolex.

  ‘How do you mean?’ Annika asked.

  Lovisa stood up, suddenly irritated. ‘Nora doesn’t want friends, she wants admirers. She fusses and makes jam and juice and knits and everything matches, you know, the perfect politician’s wife. The fact that Ingemar used to be an MP is made out to be as big a deal as if he’d been the American president, and she keeps going on about how bloody unfair it was that he was forced to resign … She even got a dog because it fitted the image. The only thing she’s never managed to do is lose weight.’

  Annika thought about Ingemar Lerberg’s multiple bankruptcies. ‘Do you know if the Lerbergs had any financial problems?’

  Lovisa laughed. ‘If they did, do you think Nora would have told anyone?’ She picked the child up from her chair. ‘She was fond of reminding people that she’d studied economics at Stockholm University, like it was as good as the School of Economics or something. As far as I know, she never graduated.’

  Lovisa handled her daughter confidently and comfortably. She was a very wealthy woman, but she looked after her own children, and didn’t seem to have a Filipina in the basement, even though she had the money and the space for one. And she clearly didn’t like Nora Lerberg.

  ‘Can I quote you on this?’

  Lovisa looked horrified. ‘No! God, no, you mustn’t! Whatever would people think of me?’

  Annika smiled. She could use the quotes indirectly, and say they were from an anonymous source.

  Lovisa was visibly nervous now. ‘I don’t think they were short of money, though. Samuel’s seen Nora on the plane to Geneva several times, and once when she
was having lunch at Domaine de Châteauvieux – you know the one, two Michelin stars, down by the river?’

  Annika wasn’t personally familiar with fancy restaurants in Switzerland. She stood up and gathered her things together, all of a sudden tired of marble and LED lighting.

  ‘And she’s very good at playing the piano,’ Lovisa went on, with a strained smile. ‘She got onto some sort of music course up in Norrland – Piteå, I think it was.’

  Annika’s mobile rang. She smiled apologetically and had to dig about in the bottom of her bag before she found it.

  It was Anders Schyman. He sounded stressed. ‘Where are you?’

  Annika glanced at Lovisa. She was rinsing the child’s hands under the tap. The little girl was shrieking. ‘Out on a job.’

  She left the kitchen and walked towards the hall.

  ‘Can you come to the office? Straight away.’

  ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘I want to talk to you. Albert Wennergren is coming as well. Can you be back before lunch?’

  Her thoughts slowed and came to a complete stop. What had she done wrong this time? ‘Is this something I need to prepare for?’

  ‘No. Just come as soon as you can.’ He hung up.

  Lovisa came out into the hall. ‘I don’t want to rush you, but the doctor’s appointment …’

  ‘Of course,’ Annika said.

  Schyman had never called her like that before. Ever.

  Lovisa looked close to tears. ‘Please don’t print any of that. I didn’t mean it. And I have to go on living here. Please.’

  *

  His heart was pounding, rhythmic and heavy, like a bass line. His feet splashed with each step he took in the mud, and his breathing sounded rough. He wasn’t in top form, but he could still pass as an ordinary jogger. The few people he encountered saw a middle-aged man in a shabby tracksuit and the right sort of shoes, defying the rain to postpone his heart attack, if they paid him any attention at all. His hair was slicked back, in contrast to the previous day when it had been wild and bushy, his stubble unkempt.

  No one from Orminge shopping centre would recognize him.

  He had parked the car by the harbour at the far end of Skarpövägen, then jogged along the waterlogged footpaths in the direction of Saltsjö-Boo. His internal compass told him he was about five hundred metres north-east of Mariedal, and almost exactly a kilometre south of Hamndalen.

  He slowed and breathed the dampness into his lungs. The effect was almost intoxicating. He really did love this, the smell of moss and decomposition, the sound of branches rubbing against each other. You didn’t have to be Sigmund Freud to grasp that this was where he was from, brought up in pine forests and marshes, himself and his twin brother, in the district of Älvsbyn in the woods of Norrbotten, outside the village of Vidsel in the very northernmost part of Scandinavia. The extensive forests outside their childhood home formed part of what used to be known as Robotförsöksplats Norrland, the Norrland Missile Test Site, now shortened to the more manageable Vidsel Test Site. It was an area the size of the southern province of Blekinge, used exclusively for testing new weapons of mass destruction, bombs and advanced drones. Explosive power was measured, the effect on nature and materials observed. He knew they had once built a large bridge spanning nothing at all simply because the Swiss wanted to blow one up. Countries all round the world tested their weapons there. They had developed more than forty different types of guided missile there, including the RB40, which was used by such stable and uncorrupt countries as Iran, Pakistan, Bahrain, the United Arab Emirates, Indonesia, Singapore, Thailand and Venezuela.

  Suddenly Mother and Father appeared in his mind, his mother’s nervous hands, his father’s closed face. His parents, God rest their souls, had been forcibly evacuated from Nausta; the village was apparently still there, or part of it at least, abandoned and decaying, a ghost town in the middle of the test area. Father used to apply for permission to return each year, but was always turned down, which made him angry and bitter, and far too ready to seek solace in the bottle. Perhaps that was why he and his mirror-image didn’t drink spirits …

  He liked forest. He was used to moving about in it.

  They should have found the man by now. If not, he’d have to make sure that they did or the animals would get to him.

  He speeded up again. He was wet through and didn’t want to cool down and start to freeze. He thought he could hear noises from the east, voices talking, car engines, but it was hard to be sure in the rain, with his terrible hearing.

  His feet drummed rhythmically, his heart thudding its bass line. He did a thorough check of his body as he ran, focusing on his breathing as he tried to experience every aspect of the different parts of his body. He started from the bottom: toes and feet, calves and knees, twinges – pain, perhaps – chill or heat, up through his thighs, heavy muscle and bone, then his abdomen, chest, arms and shoulders, head. He liked to take care of himself, to give his body the attention it deserved.

  As he approached Kråkträsken he stopped by a tree-stump and stretched. With a suitably pained expression, he massaged his calves and thigh muscles.

  Chalk-white police lights were dancing among the tree-trunks.

  They had found him. Excellent.

  His choice of location had been correct. No further action was required on his part.

  He pushed his chest out slightly, then turned and jogged back towards the car.

  *

  The magic was enough to start with, the fact that he saw me, that he existed. Every touch was electric, tightening the strings inside me, making me heavy and wet. Being able to share his body was like passing a boundary, being let into a room that was his, and his alone. His lips might have been too dry and too thin, but the enchantment was more than enough to make up for that.

  It wasn’t his hands that stopped, it was his eyes. His interest. They looked away, didn’t want to make the effort, focused elsewhere, on other goals. Recognition. Publicity. Adventure. His desires became an irritant. To deflect his withdrawal I turned my gaze inward, focused on myself, used him as I would any other crutch. It’s destructive in the long run, I know that, not sharing each other’s space, but I haven’t got space to take care of my longing right now.

  So I wait.

  *

  Nina turned off the motorway towards Orminge, passed a shopping centre, carried on along Mensättravägen for a few hundred metres, then turned left towards Hasseludden. She was holding the wheel in the twenty-past-eight grip so beloved of the police, a habit from all those years in patrol cars, her foot resting lightly on the accelerator pedal as she paid careful attention to her surroundings. The area was heavily built up in places, and fairly representative of Swedish suburbs in general. She passed a row of four-storey apartment blocks made of modular grey concrete.

  La Barra. That can’t be a coincidence, there has to be a connection.

  On Valövägen the character of the buildings changed to mainly single-storey houses of a very basic design. It ought to be somewhere around here.

  She parked next to a path that led into the forest, got out and locked the car.

  It was still raining hard.

  She looked around. There was no sign of anyone on the road. A few cars were parked some distance away on one of the side-streets.

  If she’d read the map correctly, she should be a couple of hundred metres south-east of Kråkträsken.

  She climbed down into the ditch and up onto the path. At first it was solid, but as soon as she left the grey daylight behind and the treetops had closed above her, her feet sank into wet earth. The vegetation consisted mainly of low pines and feeble birches; the ground was covered with brown pine needles and last year’s scrub. The winter storms had taken their toll on the forest – one birch had snapped off completely, and there were plenty of broken branches.

  A jogger ran past her without saying hello, a young woman with a ponytail wearing a turquoise tracksuit. She seemed to be struggl
ing. An elderly man with a dog came towards her from the other direction, and nodded to her as he passed.

  This must be a popular path for joggers and dog-owners, during the day at least. She couldn’t see any lights, so it wasn’t illuminated at night. Maybe it was used as a ski-trail during the winter.

  She stopped and listened.

  The main sound was of dripping water, but there was a bird of some sort, she didn’t know which. She could make out a rushing sound, possibly the treetops, or perhaps from the motorway leading to Stockholm.

  She kept going carefully along the path. Pine cones crunched under her feet. A minute or so later she could see water between the tree-trunks, the first of the two small lakes known as Kråksträsken.

  She knew from the map that the path passed between the lakes. She carried on for another hundred metres or so until she reached a footbridge that was submerged in water, brown with algae.

  There was no way she could get across, not without thick-heeled wellington boots.

  Instead she went round it and headed towards the second lake, then heard voices somewhere off to the north. She left the path and headed through the heather. A bright white light soon became visible between the trees.

  The pine tree stood in isolation on a rocky outcrop, with a thick trunk and stubby crown. The lower branches were as thick as a man’s thigh and the bark was gone; the wood had taken on the colour and structure of driftwood, grey and silky smooth.

  The scene was harshly lit by lamps powered with huge batteries. Several plain-clothes officers were busy behind a large rock. Two uniformed police were stationed by the cordon, and one nodded to her – she recognized him from the crime scene on Silvervägen.

  The dead man was hanging from the lowest branch, close to the trunk. Its thickness meant that his legs were bent at a ninety-degree angle at the knees, and his wrists were fastened to his ankles with duct tape. His head was hanging down, thrown back. La Barra. The parrot’s perch. He was naked. The plastic bag that had been tied round his head had been removed. His eyes were wide-open and badly bloodshot, and his face was red with blood that had settled there. There was a grey film over the irises, but the eyes were probably blue. His mouth was covered with duct tape. His whole body, including his hair and face, was covered with honey, which had solidified in the cold. Ants had made a path up the tree-trunk and out onto the branch, and were crawling over the body, creeping in and out of the nose and ears.