Authors: Kristina Ohlsson
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Mystery & Detective, #General, #Crime
‘Did Johan know about Morgan’s involvement in the film?’
‘All I said to Johan was that Morgan owed me a favour, so he might give Johan a job,’ Thea whispered. ‘He didn’t know anything else.’
Fredrika knew she had reached the limit. She wasn’t going to get any further with Thea.
‘We’ll be back,’ she said as she moved towards the door. ‘We’ll need to speak to you again.’
The author who had remained silent for almost thirty years followed her with her eyes as Fredrika left the room. Perhaps it was time to leave the silence behind at long last.
Fredrika’s thoughts were with Rebecca. In a way, she had succeeded in achieving her aim: she had shown that Thea Aldrin was innocent of the crime of which she had been convicted. However, there could be no talk of redress for a person like Thea, who, in spite of the fact that she had never murdered anyone, had so much blood on her hands.
When Fredrika reached the car park a little while later, she called Alex to report back on her conversation with Thea. He promised to bring in Johan Aldrin for questioning again, but made it clear that he didn’t expect it to lead anywhere.
‘He’ll say exactly what he said last time,’ Alex said, his voice heavy with resignation. ‘That Rebecca never asked him for help in contacting Axberger. That he was unaware that Rebecca knew about his past. That he therefore did not supply Axberger with the information that subsequently led to Rebecca’s death. And with regard to the murder of his father . . . Unfortunately, even if we managed to tie him to the scene of the crime, we don’t have a scrap of evidence to prove that he was in fact the killer. The fact that Thea, who has already been convicted of the murder, says that he was the perpetrator is not enough. And as we’ve already said, the crime is beyond the statute of limitations.’
‘I couldn’t give a toss,’ Fredrika said. ‘I just want to see Johan’s name dragged through the dirt. It doesn’t matter whether his mother is taking the blame or not; we know that it was Johan who tipped off Axberger.’
Or do we?
Fredrika was sure of her ground. Thea had saved her son for the second time. As far as Fredrika was concerned, she didn’t care how long it took. One day she would put a stop to Johan Aldrin’s success story, and make him answer for what he had done.
She ended the conversation with Alex, then made another call. Margareta Berlin, Head of Human Resources, picked up right away.
‘Fredrika Bergman. I thought I’d give you my final report. You asked me to keep an eye on Alex Recht when I came back from maternity leave.’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s absolutely fine. You don’t need to give it another thought; he’s perfectly capable of doing his job.’
She was about to ring off, but Margareta Berlin slipped in a comment.
‘I’ve received some rather worrying information that suggests otherwise.’
‘Oh?’
‘He’s embarked on a relationship with Rebecca Trolle’s mother Diana. During an ongoing investigation. That’s hardly a sign of sound judgement.’
Fredrika didn’t know what to say.
‘Alex is with Diana Trolle?’
‘So it seems, even if he probably wouldn’t put it quite like that.’
Margareta Berlin laughed drily.
Fredrika leaned against the car, staring up at the deep blue sky. Why must certain people make something bad out of something that was actually really good?
‘Alex has been to hell and back,’ she heard herself say. ‘If you and your colleagues stand in the way of his happiness, I will resign with immediate effect.’
Without waiting for a response, she ended the call.
Then she rang Spencer, who seemed to have been the least well-informed member of The Guardian Angels. The very thought of the club and the snuff movie frightened the life out of her. The fact that several versions of the film existed indicated that Manfred and Morgan had intended to show it, perhaps even distribute it widely, but without any risk of exposing their own involvement. Was there really a demand for that kind of thing? Fredrika shook off the unpleasant feeling. She didn’t believe it. Who would want to see a film that was over forty years old, showing a young woman dying in the most brutal way?
Spencer’s voice was weary, and Fredrika could hear her daughter babbling away in the background. She pressed the phone close to her ear and whispered the three words she needed to say, the words she thought he wanted to hear:
‘I miss you.’
66
The feeling of deep dissatisfaction usually came when darkness fell. It was at its strongest on those evenings when he was alone. He couldn’t honestly say that he loved his wife any longer, but she was adept at balancing his good and bad sides. Therefore, he wasn’t lying when he sometimes whispered in her ear that he would never be able to manage without her, because it was perfectly true. Without her he would be lost, in spite of the fact that her main function was to act as a kind of backdrop for his life.
He knew that he was a successful man. The newspapers mentioned him from time to time, quoting his comments as if they came from some higher power. He enjoyed the role that he had been given, half concealed behind the company’s annual reports and achievements, half in plain sight for anyone who wanted to seek him out.
A normal man. He believed that was how people thought of him, and that gave him a certain peace of mind on those evenings when the desire became too strong. The first time he felt it, he hadn’t been able to work out what was wrong. It spread like an itch throughout his entire body, allowing him no respite.
In that respect, he was eternally grateful to modern technology. Over the past ten years, it had become significantly easier to make contact with like-minded individuals. He was careful, of course. It was essential to leave no traces behind, otherwise there was always the risk of humiliation, of being remembered only for one’s sins.
He shuddered.
The weather had turned chilly. The last cold snap before the summer, the forecasters promised. As usual.
The desire increased as he stood up, pulsing through his body in time with the throbbing of his heartbeat. So it was to be one of those evenings. He sighed wearily as he moved through the house. The scent of her perfume was everywhere. Sometimes he wondered if she went around secretly spraying each room, so that he would sense her presence wherever he was. Even when she wasn’t there.
He unlocked the door of his study and went inside. The smell of her perfume disappeared as soon as he closed the door behind him. At least she couldn’t get in here. She had stopped asking long ago why she wasn’t allowed in his study. Perhaps she had accepted his assertion that he wanted one room in the house that was his and his alone. Perhaps she realised that she didn’t want to know why she wasn’t welcome.
He switched on the desk lamp, knelt down in front of the bookcase and removed several volumes from the bottom shelf. With practised hands he stacked the books on the floor and pulled out the object that had been concealed behind them. A projector. Modern technology was for the purpose of communication, not for experiences. There were times when he preferred to watch films with sound, but this evening he wanted a classic. And the classic was silent.
He placed the projector on the desk, facing the white wall at the other end of the room. He settled down in the armchair beside it and fed the strip of film into the machine. Then he turned the switch to start it, and the first images flickered into life on the wall. The distinctive summerhouse where all the windows were covered with sheets appeared, then the young woman walked in.
He had to smile when he saw the anxious expression on her face. It was so perfect that it was painful to behold. The film had cost him a small fortune, and he had been assured that it had an extremely limited distribution. He had always known that his particular desire was very rare, that there were very few people like him. The awareness that he was special, chosen, brought tears to his eyes.
It didn’t get any better than this.
Without taking his eyes off the woman’s face, he reached out and switched off the desk lamp.
Then there was only the film, and the silent scream of the woman in the summerhouse.
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
The book you have just read is fiction. As far as I know, it has no connection with reality. If there are any such similarities, they are wholly unintentional.
The third book. And I have no idea how that came about. Why did I suddenly start writing books? I remember being bored, thinking that I didn’t know how I was going to shake off that feeling in the near future. So I wrote a crime novel. Closed my eyes, let myself be carried along, and shot from the hip. Bang.
Once I had started, I couldn’t stop. One book wasn’t enough: I wanted to write more. There was another book, and then another. Right now, I’m busy working on the plot for the fourth book, in spite of the fact that I had intended to take a break from writing.
I am not short of imagination. However, I have considerably less patience. Hardly any, in fact. When I was writing this book, I was able to recognise with grim satisfaction that I have become better at certain things. Suddenly I was less at sea, and the narrative almost wrote itself. But only almost. Therefore, it is only right that I should thank those who helped me in my work.
First of all, thank you to all those wonderful, amazing people at Piratförlaget! You are my sanctuary when it comes to recuperation and inspiration. Special thanks to my publisher Sofia and to my editor Anna, who together drive my writing ever onwards.
Thank you also to everyone at the Salomonsson Agency, who continue to ensure that my books reach readers all over the world. So. Cool.
And thanks to Mats and Malena for allowing me even more time to write. Malena, on the whole, it’s been a pleasure. Mats, good luck with the new job.
And finally, thanks to my family and friends who continue to show such overwhelming enthusiasm and joy in my work and my successes. They are an invaluable asset to have behind me as I sit here writing at the computer.
Thank you.
Kristina Ohlsson
Vienna, winter 2011
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