The Disappeared (36 page)

Alex stiffened.

‘I think we need to handle it with extreme care,’ he said slowly.

With a certain amount of hesitation, he told Peder what had happened during the fishing trip, and about their colleague’s clearly unhealthy interest in Thea Aldrin. Peder was horrified.

‘He’s still visiting her? After all these years?’

‘He seems to be obsessed with the idea of finding her son, and holding her responsible for his death.’

‘But if he’s dead, surely the crime is beyond the statute of limitations by now?’

‘Which just makes the whole thing even more peculiar, but apparently that makes no difference to Ross.’

Peder massaged his temples.

The story Torbjörn Ross had told them covered the whole case like a wet blanket. Elias Hjort had acted as the legal representative of the author who wrote
Mercury
and
Asteroid
. According to Ross, the books had been turned into a so-called snuff movie, which had been seized by the police during a raid on a strip club. Ross also maintained that it was Thea Aldrin who had written the infamous books; this, he claimed, was a clear indication that she was insane.

As far as Peder was concerned, it made no difference whether Thea Aldrin was insane or not, because that was hardly a crime. Nor was writing tasteless books. And when it came to the film, Peder couldn’t understand what Ross was driving at. Ross and his colleagues had concluded that the film was a fake – not a snuff movie at all, in fact – and as far as Peder could tell, no new information had emerged to change that judgement.

‘There was something about that case,’ Ross had said. ‘Something that was never cleared up at the time.’

Peder felt sure that Alex wouldn’t take any notice of such far-fetched nonsense. However, both Alex and Peder were aware that it was no longer possible to disregard Thea Aldrin in their investigation. The fact that she couldn’t talk was irrelevant. They would have to go and see her, try to communicate with her in some other way. If they could make her understand that their errand was important, then hopefully, she would co-operate.

Alex’s voice interrupted Peder’s thoughts.

‘Tomorrow we’ll start off by interviewing Valter Lund. The press will go mad, but that can’t be helped. We need to find out what was going on there – whether Rebecca and Valter had a relationship.’

Something else occurred to Peder.

‘What about Håkan Nilsson? Have we found him?’

‘No, but it’s only a question of time. Lake Mälaren is large, admittedly, but not large enough for a person to disappear completely.’

What linked a young man fleeing on his boat to a silent woman in a care home and one of Sweden’s most influential industrialists? Peder couldn’t see it; he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might be.

‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I’ll take some of Fredrika’s stuff on Rebecca Trolle’s dissertation with me.’

‘Good idea,’ Alex said. ‘I won’t be far behind you.’

An edge of tiredness in his voice made Peder doubt that. Alex was lonely, rootless. Why go home when he might just as well stay at work?

‘By the way, have we heard anything from forensics on the latest body?’

‘Only that it’s probably a woman,’ Alex replied. ‘Around one metre sixty-five tall. Young. Hadn’t given birth. Difficult to say how long she’d been down there, but around forty years.’

‘How did she die?’

‘The pathologist wasn’t willing to commit himself, but he could see that she had sustained a number of stab wounds. He wasn’t sure if that was the actual cause of death.’

Peder was taken aback.

‘Stab wounds?’

‘Yes, there was evidence of damage to the ribs. And there were also blows to the head. He observed a deep groove in the skull that can’t be explained in any other way.’

The evening sun pouring in through the window fell on Alex’s face, casting shadows over the lines.

‘Are you thinking the same as I am?’ Peder said. ‘The axe and the knife that had been buried?’

‘Yes, that did occur to me.’

‘Perhaps we’ll find out more tomorrow – if they match as murder weapons, I mean.’

‘I’m sure we will,’ Alex said.

Peder got up, keen to get home to Ylva and the boys.

‘It looks as if you’ve got something on your mind,’ he said, pausing by the door.

Alex looked worried.

‘Fredrika,’ he said. ‘I’m just hoping she’s not doing something she’ll regret in Uppsala.’

It was several hours before Tova Eriksson came home. Meanwhile, Fredrika sat waiting with Saga on a bench outside her apartment block. Fredrika recognised Tova from the university’s website, which had featured a picture of her.

Tova’s fair hair stood out around her head like a ragged halo. Big blue eyes, well-defined eyebrows. Skin already tanned. Long legs, short skirt, a jacket slung over one arm. She didn’t notice Fredrika until they were standing just a few metres apart, face to face.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Fredrika asked.

The girl shook her head.

‘Sorry, no. I don’t think we’ve met.’

Fredrika took a step closer. She left the buggy by the bench, not wishing to taint her daughter with Tova’s presence.

‘My name is Fredrika Bergman. And I live with Spencer Lagergren.’

Tova’s face changed instantly from open to closed, from relaxed to horrified. She quickly tried to walk around Fredrika, but Fredrika barred her way.

‘Forget it,’ Fredrika said. ‘You’re not going anywhere until you and I have finished talking.’

The sun was in Tova’s eyes, and she blinked.

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

She stuck her nose in the air, trying to look tough.

But Fredrika was tougher; she had considerably more to lose than her reputation.

‘But I have something to say to you,’ she said. ‘You are in the process of destroying Spencer’s life completely. And mine. And his daughter’s. You’re wrecking an entire family, Tova.’

She tried to catch Tova’s eye; she wanted to see her expression change.

‘You have to put a stop to this while you still can.’

It might have been because of the sun, but Tova’s eyes were filled with tears.

‘It’s not my fault if you’re living with a sick bastard. Or that you chose such a monster as the father of your child.’

‘He’s a wonderful partner and a wonderful person,’ Fredrika said, feeling her voice break. ‘I have no doubt that he’s capable of hurting others, but you’re playing with very high stakes, Tova. Tell me what makes you so angry.’

Tova was transformed before Fredrika’s eyes. She became smaller, more pathetic. And it struck Fredrika that she hadn’t thought through her actions. She hoped she hadn’t managed to create even bigger problems for herself.

‘Was he a poor supervisor?’

It was a bit thin, but it was the closest she could get to a reasonable guess. Tova remained silent, refusing to answer Fredrika’s question.

‘Or was it because he didn’t want you? In spite of the fact that you wanted him?’

Fredrika had also experienced the unique embarrassment that follows a rejection; it burned a hole in the soul. She knew that humiliation could lead to insanity, but not in the way that it appeared to have affected Tova.

‘You’re going to regret coming to see me!’

The voice was rough with unshed tears, the eyes shining with concentration.

‘And you’re going to regret trying to destroy my life,’ Fredrika said when Tova had walked away.

She knew those were empty words, however. There was very little that could be done about the situation in which Spencer now found himself. All they could do was pray for a miracle. And an assessment of the so-called evidence that would stand up to the scrutiny of due process.

48

This was the third evening in less than a week, and Alex could no longer deny, to himself or anyone else, that there was something going on here. Nor could he deny his feelings.

Lust. Longing. And sorrow.

Another evening at Diana’s.

It was too early to start a new relationship – less than a year since Lena’s death.

Or was it?

What would the children say? And his superiors? As long as he was working on Rebecca’s murder, it was patently irresponsible to embark on a relationship with her mother.

But he wanted to. And that desire cast immense shadows over his doubts.

She knew exactly how he was feeling, knew exactly why she was sitting alone on the sofa while he sat opposite, with the coffee table between them. He thought she could cope with waiting for him.

‘You still love her,’ Diana said, taking a sip of her wine.

‘I’ll always love her.’

Diana lowered her gaze.

‘That doesn’t mean you couldn’t love another woman. As well as Lena.’

Alex was overwhelmed by her generosity.

‘Perhaps.’

His embarrassment made her smile.

‘How about a late night stroll?’

‘I ought to go home.’

‘It’s only an hour since you had a glass of wine.’

‘I still ought to go home.’

And he smiled.

She got up, came around the table and took his hand.

‘My dear detective inspector, I’m absolutely certain that a breath of fresh air would do us both good.’

There was no point in trying to resist. He wanted nothing more than to stay, he wanted nothing more than to go home. A walk seemed like a good compromise.

They strolled through the area where Diana lived, and she took him on a guided tour of her life. She pointed out the park where her children used to play when they were little, and she wept as they came to a tree Rebecca had loved to climb. The tears stopped, and with a wobbly smile she showed him where the children’s father had lived following their separation.

‘We tried to keep things as civilised as possible,’ she said. ‘We both thought it would be terrible if the children suffered.’

Alex told her about his own family. About his son, who was something of a lost soul, but who seemed to have grown up after his mother’s death. About his daughter, who was now a mother herself, and had made him a grandfather. Diana began to cry again, and Alex apologised.

‘Forgive me; that was a stupid topic of conversation to choose.’

She shook her head.

‘I’m the one who should be apologising. Because I can’t let go. Because I can’t get it out of my head that my little girl was pregnant when she died.’

Alex swallowed; he didn’t really want to discuss Rebecca’s death with Diana. He squeezed her hand.

‘We don’t know our children as well as we would wish. We just don’t.’

He could see that she didn’t agree, but she didn’t say anything. She wiped away her tears once more, and pointed out another landmark.

‘When Rebecca was a baby I used to bring her here in her pram,’ she said, pointing to an overgrown patch of grass between a play area and a large house. ‘It was my little oasis. I would sit on the grass and read while she slept.’

Where had he gone with the children when they were little? Alex had no similar memories. Nor had he needed an oasis; he had always had his work, after all. While Lena took care of everything at home. What the hell had they been thinking? His thoughts turned to his daughter; he hoped she wouldn’t repeat the mistakes her parents had made. Even a man like Spencer Lagergren could see the point of taking paternity leave. The basis for a good relationship with children was laid when they were little, not when they had grown up. You only got one stab at some things, and the childhood of a human being was one of them.

Although, when it came to Spencer Lagergren, Alex had his doubts. His decision to take paternity leave had more to do with running away from his problems than a genuine interest in his daughter. As Alex considered Spencer’s motives for spending time at home, it occurred to him that he hadn’t heard from Fredrika since he had called her when she was in Uppsala. A feeling of unease over what she might do in order to sort out her life made him suddenly stiffen.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Just a friend who’s having a few problems at the moment.’

They set off back towards Diana’s house. Where had all these warm spring evenings come from? The roof formed a black shape against the gathering darkness. The door was a gateway to the unknown. To a place he dare not go. Not yet.

‘Are you staying?’

He wanted to. But he couldn’t.

But he wanted to.

He wanted it more than he had wanted anything for a very long time. The need to refuse was so painful. He struggled to find the right words, but when he opened his mouth, they simply came.

‘I can’t.’

They said good night by his car. She did what she had done last time; she leaned over and kissed his cheek. He opened the door and got in the car. Drove a hundred metres down the street before he changed his mind. Stopped the car and reversed back to her house. Got out of the car and rang her doorbell.

He wanted to. And he could.

There was something deeply moving about seeing small children asleep, thought Peder Rydh as he gazed at his sleeping sons. The peace and security in their faces was all the evidence he needed to tell him he was getting it right. Coming home from work at a reasonable time. Behaving like an adult rather than a panic-stricken teenager. Taking responsibility, showing respect.

Ylva appeared behind him. Slipped her slender arms around his waist and rested her head against his back. He loved feeling her closeness.

They left the children’s room and sat down on the balcony, where Peder’s papers from work were strewn all over the table. Ylva settled down with her novel, and Peder carried on reading an article on Thea Aldrin. Things really had gone crazy. A writer and a dead man. A film club and an amazing career as an author. A dead solicitor and rumours of a dead son.

It’s the film club and the writer that link this whole mess, Peder thought. It’s only because we can’t see how that we keep on trying other avenues.

He thought about Valter Lund, who might have had a relationship with Rebecca Trolle, and about Morgan Axberger, who was Lund’s boss, and also a member of The Guardian Angels. They were intending to bring Lund in for questioning the following day, which made Peder feel slightly better. He tried to imagine what information Rebecca Trolle had stumbled upon that had cost her her life. He leafed through the pages relating to her dissertation, asking himself whether the key to this wretched case might be there.