The Disappeared (47 page)

Johan fiddled with his watch; he looked as if the memories he was digging up were extremely painful.

‘It was the sickest thing I’d ever read. I remember my legs kind of gave way, and I sat down on the floor. And I stayed there. I sat there reading for an hour. The rumours were true, apparently. It really was my mother who had written the sickest books of the century.’

Johan shook his head.

‘So many things fell into place. Why she lived alone. Why she hadn’t had any more children. She was disturbed, that was all there was to it. Mentally ill. Perhaps even dangerous. My whole world collapsed. Everything was dirty, destroyed. So I ran away. I got a job cleaning fish in Norway for a year, then I signed on as a crew member on the car ferry and started working with Valter Lund.’

‘There were so many strange rumours about your mother,’ Fredrika said. ‘About the books, about your disappearance, about the fact that she wasn’t married. Where did they come from?’

‘We never knew,’ Johan replied. ‘But I know she gave it a lot of thought. I suppose in those days it wasn’t all that strange that people reacted to the fact that she lived alone, but all the rest . . . it didn’t make any sense.’

The sound of a mobile phone sliced through the silence after Johan had finished speaking. Alex excused himself and went out to take the call.

It was the officer in charge of the fresh excavations at the grave site. The dogs had already indicated that there was something there. Taking a chance had produced results.

‘We’ll know within half an hour whether it’s Peder’s brother,’ the officer said.

Alex sent up a silent prayer, hoping that wouldn’t be the case.

‘You came back. Got in touch with your mother again,’ Fredrika said.

Johan removed his jacket and hung it on the back of the chair.

‘That’s true. Actually, I didn’t just take off in the first place. When I found those terrible manuscripts in the loft, I confronted my mother. Asked her what kind of sicko she was. She defended herself to the hilt, let me tell you. Said that she had wanted to spare me all this. That it was my father who had written the books, not her. And that was why she had asked him to move out before I was born.’

‘But you didn’t believe her?’

The situation Johan described was so bizarre that Fredrika just couldn’t relate to it.

‘No, I didn’t. I mean, if it was true, then why had she kept them? Why hadn’t she told him to take them with him? I thought it was the other way round, in fact. That the manuscripts were as old as she claimed, but that she was the one who had written them, and my father had found them. Found them and left her.’

‘When did you realise she had been telling the truth?’

‘I went to see her after the trial. The case attracted an enormous amount of attention in the press. I read everything I could get my hands on, and followed the case from a distance as best I could.’

‘Were you living in Sweden at the time?’ Alex asked.

Johan hesitated.

‘On a temporary basis. My formal immigration into Sweden came later.’

A young Swede running away from his own mother; he moved to Norway, stole a colleague’s identity, then later became an immigrant in his own country.

‘She must have been so happy to see you.’

‘She was.’

Johan smiled sadly.

‘Why did you continue to live as Valter Lund?’

‘For purely practical reasons. At the time, the idea of admitting I was Thea Aldrin’s missing son who had suddenly risen from the dead seemed impossible. Because a lot of people obviously believed that she had killed her own child.’

‘Did she tell you why the books had been published?’ Fredrika asked.

‘To protect me.’

‘To protect you? From what?’

‘She’d actually forced my father to leave for a completely different reason. He and someone else had made a film in my grandparents’ old summerhouse – what we would call a snuff movie these days. My mother found it by accident, and she didn’t care whether it was genuine or not. She wanted my father out of the house, once and for all. He left and took the film with him. Later, she found the manuscripts in the loft, and realised that my father must have written them. When he suddenly turned up just after my twelfth birthday and came to see my mother in secret, she had the books published and threatened to reveal the name of the real author unless my father stayed away. It obviously worked, but one day he was back. Looking for revenge. That was when she killed him.’

Fredrika tilted her head to one side and tried to get her head around the story Johan Aldrin had told. So it was Thea’s ex who had made the film. Fredrika still had countless questions, but she couldn’t ask them all. They were in a hurry, and they needed answers to the key points.

‘Have you seen the film your mother found?’ Alex asked.

‘No.’

‘And you don’t know who else was involved, apart from your father?’

‘No.’

Alex leaned back.

‘If I said it was Morgan Axberger, would that surprise you?’

Alex had been shocked when Fredrika told him what she had learned from Malena Bremberg.

‘I would be extremely surprised.’

Johan raised his eyebrows.

‘Let me tell you something,’ Alex said slowly. ‘If there’s one thing I find difficult to accept, it’s coincidences. How come you ended up working for Axberger’s company?’

‘Morgan knows who I am. According to my mother, he was very keen to help me when I came back to Sweden. Apparently, he owed her a favour.’

‘Do you think she knew he was involved in the film?’ Fredrika asked.

‘It’s possible. I never saw it. She might have known he was mixed up in it, and decided to keep quiet so that she could use the knowledge to her advantage later. I really don’t know.’

Nor did Fredrika. But she knew that although there were at least two versions of the film, it was impossible to see who was behind the camera in either of them. If Thea had known it was Axberger, someone must have told her. She wondered which version Thea had seen. Had she even known it was genuine?

‘Where can we find Morgan Axberger?’ Alex said.

‘I have no idea.’

‘Think. Is there a particular place he might go under these circumstances?’

Johan pondered for a moment.

‘He might go to the company’s place in the country. It’s on the island of Storholmen. He bought my grandparents’ old house out there.’

‘Why that particular house?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering.’

Alex ran a hand through his hair. Johan had more explaining to do. A lot more.

‘Rebecca Trolle,’ he said.

Johan nodded.

‘Did she ever find out that you were Thea’s son?’

‘Not as far as I know; she never mentioned it. And I didn’t tell her.’

‘Isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that you became her mentor?’ Fredrika said.

‘Of course it is. I know it sounds unlikely, but when I became Rebecca’s mentor, I had no idea what she’d chosen as the topic for her dissertation. And if I had known, you can rest assured that I wouldn’t have taken her on.’

Or would he? The only coincidence Alex was prepared to accept was that Valter Lund had joined the mentoring programme because he was genuinely interested in young people and their ambitions, and that he had happened to be paired up with a girl who was writing her dissertation about his own mother. However, Alex didn’t believe for a second that Johan would have refused to mentor Rebecca if he had known about her topic in advance. He was too much of a control freak.

‘Taken her on,’ Alex repeated. ‘You actually had a relationship with her. By that stage you must have known what her dissertation was about.’

‘I made a mistake, I admit that. Her dissertation was taking so long, and I wanted to know how far she had got.’

Of course.

‘And how far had she got?’

Johan was becoming impatient.

‘Don’t you think I have questions of my own about my mother? Naturally, I was curious.’

‘So you seduced Rebecca, let her believe you wanted a relationship with her?’

Johan’s voice was thin when he replied.

‘Yes.’

Fredrika asked the final question that only Johan could answer.

‘What are you saying thank you for on the card you send with the flowers?’

A brief hesitation. Then he answered with the same directness he had shown throughout.

‘Because she forgave me when I came back. And for her silence. Thanks to her, I am free of my past.’

Or you were, Fredrika thought. Now the police had exposed his false identity, his life would be turned upside down. It was far from certain that all those who had looked up to Valter Lund would continue to do so once they realised that everything was built on a lie.

Alex’s mobile rang again. This time the officer in charge at Midsommarkransen was in no doubt. They had managed to dig up the body that had been buried very recently.

Jimmy was dead.

63

It was evening on the island of Storholmen. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, adorned with just a few fluffy clouds that knew their place and were keeping well away from the evening sun. Peder had walked around the island several times, looking at the isolated houses; in many cases they were empty, waiting for their summer occupants. Gardens and cottages of every size and colour. Peace and quiet. The kind of place that Ylva would love.

Perhaps they might be able to buy a little summer cottage out here one day. If they could afford it. When all this was over. When he had found Jimmy and taken him back to Mångården.

Nausea overwhelmed him.

Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.

His entire body was suffused with fear; it was a very physical sensation. His heart seemed to have lost his natural rhythm, and he had to remember to breathe regularly. In, out. In, out.

The lack of sleep and food combined with all the stress he had experienced over the past twenty-four hours was knocking out one function after another in his brain. He clutched his head in his hands; for a moment he felt as if it was going to explode.

His mobile was in his pocket, switched off. He ought to call Alex. Or Ylva. Or his mother. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody. The realisation worried him. He could die out here on Storholmen, and no one would ever find him.

He stopped outside the house Thea Aldrin had described in such detail. Bright yellow, with white eaves. Irregular corners and two large balconies. The garden was huge. Mature fruit trees, colourful shrubs. In the far corner he could just make out a summerhouse. The sun sparkled on the windows. It was so beautiful it hurt his eyes.

This was where Thea Aldrin had spent the summers of her childhood. Peder could picture the scene: Thea running across the garden with her notepad and pen, hiding in the summerhouse. Or perhaps she hadn’t run; perhaps she just sat inside.

He couldn’t put it off any longer. The house looked dark and deserted, but Peder could sense the proximity of his enemy.

Slowly, he set off along the gravel path leading to the door.

Alex was standing outside HQ when Ylva called him.

‘Peder isn’t answering his phone.’

A stab of pain so sharp that it brought tears to his eyes robbed him of the ability to speak for a moment.

Oh, God, is there anything more agonising than death?

‘Alex, are you there?’

How many times had Alex met Peder’s wife? Three? Four? He couldn’t remember exactly, but he did remember Ylva. She matched the picture Alex had formed from Peder’s descriptions of her: strong and beautiful. The turbulence of the last few years had definitely left their mark, but she gave an impression of stability.

She would be able to cope with the truth.

‘I’m here.’

His voice trembled slightly as he spoke.

‘Ylva, please listen. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.’

She must have realised what he was going to say, because she was crying before he spoke the terrible words.

‘Jimmy is dead. We found him . . . a little while ago.’

‘How . . .?’

‘That doesn’t matter right now. The important thing – the
only
important thing, Ylva – is that Peder doesn’t find out over the phone. Do you understand what I’m saying? He has to hear it from one of us, and not until we’ve found him. I’m afraid he’ll do something he’ll regret for the rest of his life otherwise.’

The decision had virtually made itself after the interview with Johan Aldrin. Alex had sent a patrol over to Storholmen to pick up Morgan Axberger, and another to the care home at Mångården. If Thea Aldrin would write down what had happened when Jimmy disappeared, the truth would come out. When they dug up Jimmy’s body, they found that he had suffered a severe blow to the back of the head. There was no longer any doubt that his disappearance was directly linked to the investigation that had begun with the discovery of Rebecca Trolle’s body.

The forensic pathologist had also called to confirm that the other girl in the grave had probably been murdered in exactly the way shown in the film. Therefore, the girl in the film and in the grave were one and the same.

Morgan Axberger was the killer they had been looking for all along.

First of all, he had murdered a young woman for sheer pleasure. Then he had killed a fifty-year-old lawyer, so that those bloody books, which had obviously been written before the film was made, couldn’t be traced back to him or Thea’s ex, Manfred. And then a young girl who got too close.

Morgan Axberger. The most unlikely murderer, the most unimaginable.

Alex cursed his own failure to see the wider picture.

His mobile weighed heavy in his hand. Please let them find Morgan Axberger before nightfall. He had a great deal on his conscience, and there was no telling what he might do if he felt cornered.

Alex squeezed the phone, knowing exactly who he ought to call.

Diana.

Lena, will you ever forgive me?

There were those who believed it was possible to talk to the dead. Alex wasn’t one of them. But since Lena’s death, he had been able to sense her presence. When he lay alone in their bed. When he was having breakfast. When he saw their children.