The Disappeared (43 page)

Fredrika felt a creeping sense of anxiety as she put the phone down. They had assumed that Nilsson had taken off in order to get away from the police, but they could have been wrong. Perhaps he thought his life was in danger, and that he had to find somewhere safe to hide? But in that case, why hadn’t he spoken to the police and asked for protection?

She went over the many events of the day. The meeting with Valter Lund hadn’t been as helpful as she had hoped; it had merely generated yet more confusion with regard to his identity. It was obvious that he was trying to hide something, but what? And did the fact that Valter Lund might not be the person he claimed to be actually have anything to do with the case?

A man with his roots in Gol, outside the beautiful area of Hemsedal. A man who, on paper, had had a catastrophic upbringing, and had no living relatives. Unless you counted a bewildered uncle who turned up at the local police station every year to ask if his nephew had been found. An uncle who obviously didn’t recognise his nephew in pictures of Valter Lund.

Then there was the meeting with Thea Aldrin. A woman who had chosen to live in self-imposed silence for decades; she had been convicted of premeditated murder, and since her release she had spent all her time in a care home. Could there really be a connection with Jimmy’s disappearance, or was the fact that they were neighbours no more than a coincidence?

I don’t believe in coincidences any more.

Rebecca Trolle had obviously felt the same way, because she had pursued the tip-off about the snuff movie, assumed that it was somehow relevant. Fredrika and her colleagues had yet to fully appreciate the connection with the dead bodies; they only knew that there was allegedly a link between Thea Aldrin and the snuff movie. Fredrika reminded herself that Alex was taking care of that particular line of enquiry; in fact, he was probably working on it right now.

The corridor was eerily silent. Fredrika went along to Alex’s office: still empty. Everyone else seemed to be out too. She returned to her own office. There was only one way out of this mess that kept on sending them back to Thea Aldrin and her silence: the flowers that were delivered to the care home every Saturday.

The helpful assistant had quickly found the name of the supplier: Masters Flowers, a shop on Nybrogatan in Östermalm. Fredrika decided not to waste any more time on speculation, and gave them a call.

‘I’m ringing about the flowers you deliver every Saturday to a lady by the name of Thea Aldrin.’

‘I’m afraid we operate a policy of strict confidentiality when it comes to our clients. They have the right to rely on our discretion.’

‘Obviously, we will treat any information you give us with great care, but we are in the middle of a murder inquiry, and I really do need your help.’

The shop owner was still hesitant, and Fredrika thought she was going to have to get a warrant from the prosecutor to make him talk.

‘It’s a standing order,’ he said eventually. ‘We’ve made the same delivery every week for more than ten years. Payment is made in cash; the client’s representative comes to the shop once a month. A woman.’

‘And the name of the client?’

‘I don’t honestly know.’

‘You don’t know?’

Fredrika heard a sigh at the other end of the line.

‘We questioned the arrangement in the beginning, but then we asked ourselves what was the point? I mean, it was hardly likely to be some kind of criminal activity, and the payment was always made on time. Naturally, we were curious, I mean Thea Aldrin is quite well known, but . . .’

His voice died away.

Fredrika’s brain kicked into gear. Someone sent flowers to Thea Aldrin every Saturday. Anonymously. Payment in cash by a third party.

‘You don’t have any contact details for the client?’ she asked. ‘A telephone number, an email address, anything at all?’

‘Just a minute.’

She heard the rustle of papers; the owner was soon back on the line.

‘We do actually have a mobile number. We insisted. We have to be able to contact someone if we can’t make the delivery.’

Fredrika’s heart rate doubled.

‘Could you possibly give me the number? That would be enormously helpful.’

57

Things would have to be done in the right order, otherwise everything would go to hell in a handcart. First of all, Alex sent the film and the projector to the forensic pathologist by courier.

‘Sit down in a darkened room and watch this disgusting crap,’ Alex said over the phone. ‘Then call me back and tell me what you think.’

If the girl in the grave was the same girl who had died in the film, there was suddenly a clearer connection between the murders. First of all someone was killed on film, then others died so that the secret would be kept.

But what secret?

Alex found Janne Bergwall in his office. It was obvious that his colleague was living on borrowed time, so to speak. The walls were virtually covered with a selection of diplomas, newspaper articles and other souvenirs that Bergwall had collected over the years. Alex glanced at them; it was clear that none of the documents bore witness to some kind of impressive feat, which fitted in perfectly with his impression of Bergwall. He was a man who could fall through the ice hundreds of times during his life, and never drown or freeze to death. It was as if he sought out the spots where the ice was at its thinnest so that he would be sure of hearing that familiar crack.

But this time he had stepped onto thin ice once too often.

Alex didn’t feel the need to waste time introducing himself; instead, he put his energy into explaining why he was there.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ he said. ‘The girl whose dismembered body we found in Midsommarkransen.’

Bergwall looked at him through narrowed eyes.

‘Yes?’

‘I believe she came to see you.’

‘Maybe.’

Alex took a deep breath.

‘No, not maybe. We’re a long way past the point where you can carry on keeping quiet about this. The girl is dead, and I want to know how she ended up in a grave with two other people who had been there for decades.’

He sat down opposite Bergwall, who was looking less than happy. His face was marked by the passing of the years, marked by the problems for which no one was to blame but himself.

‘Start talking. When did she come to see you, and what did you tell her?’

Bergwall closed his eyes for a second, as if he wanted to shut Alex out while he made his decision.

When he opened his eyes, his expression was unreadable.

‘I didn’t think the girl would come to any harm.’

But she did, didn’t she?

Alex kept quiet.

‘She came to see me after she’d spoken to Torbjörn Ross. She’d gone through the notes from the preliminary investigation relating to Thea Aldrin and the murder of her ex, and she’d found Ross’s name there. I think he was probably the only one who was still on the team. Anyway, as I understood it they had discussed not only the murder, but also the dirty books the old bag was supposed to have written. The girl obviously had her doubts about whether Aldrin really was the author, and Ross mentioned that they’d been turned into a film as well. Then she found the notes from that investigation as well.’

‘You mean the raid on the porn club – Ladies’ Night?’ Alex said.

‘Exactly.’

‘And what did you tell Rebecca?’

‘Too much.’

Bergwall cleared his throat and folded his arms.

‘I told her how we’d found the films, and that we’d tried to track down the person who’d written the books to help us establish whether the film was real. But we only got as far as Elias Hjort, who received royalties from the publisher, Box. At first we thought it was a dead end, but then we came across the film club. Elias Hjort and Thea Aldrin knew each other through the club.’

Bergwall fell silent, but Alex sensed that he had more to say. After a moment he went on:

‘I showed Rebecca Trolle the original case notes and went through them with her. For example, she found out who else was at the porn club on the night of the raid.’

Alex shuffled on the uncomfortable chair, wishing that his colleague would get a move on. Bergwall took a folder out of his filing cabinet, removed a sheet of paper and passed it to Alex.

A list of names. Almost exclusively men.

‘The clients who were at the club that night. Anyone you recognise?’

Bergwall was wearing a supercilious smile.

Alex glanced through the list, and stopped when he reached the penultimate name:

Morgan Axberger.

He looked up.

‘Another member of The Guardian Angels.’

‘Exactly,’ Bergwall said again.

Alex shrugged.

‘A managing director who visits porn clubs; that’s not particularly interesting.’

‘If it wasn’t for one nice little detail that wasn’t followed up in the original investigation.’ Bergwall fixed his gaze on Alex. ‘It was Axberger who had the film on him.’

Alex raised his eyebrows.

‘There you go,’ Bergwall said. ‘That surprised you, didn’t it? Me too. Unfortunately, we never found out how or why Axberger had got hold of the film; he bought his way out straight away. He paid one of the lads involved in the raid to say that the film had been found in the club’s office. The truth didn’t come out until several years later, when the bloody idiot – the copper, I mean – got drunk at a Christmas party and told someone what he’d done.’

He laughed drily.

‘And what happened then?’

‘Not a bloody thing. By that time the prosecutor had dismissed the seizure of the film as being of no interest, so we didn’t bother confronting Axberger with the fresh information. After all, it’s not illegal to walk around with a film in your inside pocket.’

‘As long as it isn’t a genuine snuff movie,’ Alex said.

‘Which it wasn’t.’

Bergwall looked so smug that Alex felt like punching him on the nose. He clenched his fists under the desk; he was furious.

‘You have no idea what your silence has cost my case. How the hell could you keep quiet about the fact that you’d given Rebecca Trolle that kind of information?’

‘What do you mean, that kind of information? I’m telling you, it was irrelevant. The film was a fake and Axberger was untouchable. It was that simple.’

Alex leapt to his feet so abruptly that the chair rocked.

‘I’ll be back, Bergwall. Until then, you keep your mouth shut about what you know. Is that clear?’

He saw the glint in Bergwall’s eye.

‘Think very carefully before you threaten me, Recht.’

Alex took a step closer, leaned across the desk and hissed:

‘The film was genuine, you stupid bastard. You stumbled on a secret that has led to the deaths of at least three people. If I were you, I’d keep my bloody head down.’

With those words he left Bergwall’s office, slamming the door behind him. A fresh thought occurred to him as he heard the crash. What if there were more snuff movies out there? Morgan Axberger might just be able to answer that question.

Exhaustion washed over him after lunch. Peder realised he was blinking several times in order to try to clear his vision. He knew he ought to eat, even though he wasn’t hungry. Ylva called him.

‘Still no sign?’

Peder hardly knew how to respond. No sign, was that what people said when someone disappeared?

‘No, we haven’t found him yet.’

Yet. Was that too optimistic a word, under the circumstances. Was there a possibility that it was already too late?

Don’t think about the unthinkable.

Peder’s eyes filled with tears. If Jimmy was dead . . . for the first time, Peder was facing something he knew he wouldn’t be able to accept. The bond with his brother was unbreakable, it would last forever. Jimmy was the eternal child, the eternal responsibility.

‘What will happen to Jimmy when Dad and I aren’t around any more?’ Peder’s mother had said a few years ago.

Peder had reacted with fury.

‘Jimmy will come to me. I would never abandon him. Not for a second.’

That promise still held, even though Jimmy was missing. Peder would never abandon him, never stop searching. But why was it so bloody difficult to work out where Jimmy had gone? He couldn’t explain it, but Peder knew it must have something to do with Thea Aldrin. Jimmy had seen someone standing by the window, spying on the old woman. And Peder had dismissed it as a misunderstanding, a figment of his imagination.

What did you see, Jimmy?

You didn’t have to talk to Jimmy for long to realise that his mind wasn’t that of an adult. And yet someone had felt sufficiently threatened to abduct him.

His anxiety grew into sheer terror, and Peder sat in the car with sweat pouring off him. He now felt certain that Jimmy had not simply got lost, but had been robbed of his freedom by someone who wanted him out of the way. Someone who had already committed several murders, and who definitely wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

Peder wanted to cry. He had to pull himself together, fast. He mustn’t think he had lost, mustn’t give up. Not yet. He had to get back to HQ and try to understand how his brother’s disappearance fitted in with everything else.

There was no time for rest or food. The only thing that mattered was finding Jimmy.

Fredrika bumped into Alex as she left Ellen’s office. He seemed pleased to see her, but the strain was etched on his face.

‘We need to speak to Morgan Axberger as soon as possible,’ he said, and filled Fredrika in on what he had found out from Janne Bergwall.

She was as shocked as Alex.

‘How could Bergwall and Ross keep quiet about all this?’

‘They thought it was irrelevant,’ Alex said. ‘They didn’t think it had anything to do with Rebecca’s disappearance. They should have realised that it was impossible to make that judgement without having the full picture.’

His mobile rang.

‘Get the team together in the Lions’ Den in fifteen minutes,’ he said to Fredrika. ‘I just need to take this.’

It took less than three minutes to gather everyone who wasn’t out on the case. Fredrika sat down and went through the latest fax from Kripos in Norway. They had attached a passport photograph of Valter Lund at the age of eighteen.