It had been Spencer’s idea to take an early holiday. He had come up with the idea back in January, long before anyone even thought of booking their annual leave, long before life fell apart. He got his way in the end, and they went to Italy, rented a villa in Tuscany. They spent the last few days back in Stockholm, surrounded by concrete and steel. When it was time for Fredrika and Spencer to return to work, the children joined their maternal grandparents at their summer cottage. The fact that she was working and the children were getting a taste of the summer they deserved kept Fredrika on an even keel.
‘Why do you have to work with things the way they are?’ her mother had asked. ‘Why can’t you take some time off, be together?’
With things the way they are.
Was that an adequate description of a life from which virtually every scrap of joy had been removed?
‘Spencer doesn’t want to do that,’ Fredrika replied.
She could have expressed herself more clearly. She could have said that Spencer really didn’t want to spend all summer on holiday.
‘Why the hell would we do that?’ he said when she broached the subject. ‘So that we have all the time in the world to sit here and stare each other to death? No chance.’
His anger made her laugh then cry, but not until she had left the apartment to go shopping on her own.
Alex Recht called when she was in the car on the way to a music session. The violin that she had once hoped to make her career had become more important than ever. Music was her breathing space, her refuge.
‘Fredrika.’
‘Hi, Fredrika, it’s Alex. How quickly can you get to Nacka?’
Fredrika sighed.
‘I can be there first thing tomorrow morning.’
‘How about in half an hour?’
‘Alex, it’s my day off.’
Spencer hadn’t completely won the battle over their summer plans. Fredrika had sneaked in odd free days in July, days when she didn’t go to work, but made time for reflection, for playing the violin. And – like today – time for a meeting that couldn’t be postponed.
‘That might be the case,’ Alex said. ‘But tomorrow and for many days after that you’ll be investigating a murder.’
Fredrika didn’t respond.
‘I need you,’ her boss said.
And that was all it took to make her turn the car around and head for Nacka instead. She would still have time for her meeting; it wasn’t for a few hours. And the violin could wait. Alex had called on behalf of the dead; that wasn’t something she could ignore.
*
The place was unusual, almost like a modern haunted house. If it had been in a children’s cartoon it would have been festooned with cobwebs, dust and dirt, and the odd broken window. In reality it was clean and tidy, but soulless. Fredrika got out of the car and walked towards the front door, which was wide open. A colleague supplied her with protective clothing before she was allowed inside. This was no longer a private residence, but a crime scene where every trace of the perpetrator must be secured, every trace of the police noted and eliminated.
Fredrika slipped on her shoe covers and thought how easy it was to switch into work mode. The transformation was blissful; all the bad thoughts were temporarily sent packing when she disappeared into her professional role.
She found Alex in the living room, the deceased seated in an armchair. There was a corner sofa facing a TV, but Malcolm Benke hadn’t been watching television when he died. He had been gazing at the open fire – at least that was how it looked to Fredrika.
‘Is he known to us?’ she asked Alex, wondering if he had a criminal record. She took in his silver-grey hair, his pleasant face.
He seemed to want to whisper ‘welcome’.
‘No,’ Alex said. ‘Not as far as we can tell.’
That didn’t necessarily mean a great deal, and they both knew it. Benke could have been involved in criminal activity without the police being aware of it; there were an alarming number of felons out there.
Fredrika glanced around. The decor exuded gravitas and a conscious attempt to appear stylish, giving the impression that everything was expensive and carefully chosen. It reminded her of an exclusive hotel. This wasn’t a home in the real sense of the word; it was just a place where Benke spent more time than anywhere else.
‘I’ll take a look around,’ she said. Alex didn’t answer; he was talking to one of the CSIs.
Fredrika moved silently through the house. The kitchen was one of the nicest she’d seen. Top-quality French tiles and glossy cupboard doors in a subtle shade. Perfect for someone who enjoyed cooking. But was Benke the kind of man who wandered into the kitchen and threw together a boeuf bourguignon? It seemed unlikely.
There was a loaf and a bread knife on a board.
‘Was he eating when he died?’ Fredrika asked a CSI who was busy examining the rubbish bin under the sink.
‘There’s an empty plate on the table next to the armchair,’ he said. ‘We think he made a sandwich and ate it in front of the fire.’
Fredrika wondered what Benke would have chosen if he’d known it was to be his last meal. Probably not a sandwich. She continued into the hallway, past what appeared to be a study. There wasn’t a single sheet of paper on the desk. She felt the same as she had in the kitchen: did he ever work in there? She stepped inside, examined the well-organised bookshelves (so well-organised that it was hard to envisage anyone ever picking out a book). She went upstairs and found more rooms with clear functions; again, she couldn’t imagine Benke using them himself. Two guest rooms and a TV room furnished with two Chesterfield sofas. She tried one and thought it would be impossible to find a comfortable position. Finally she reached a large bedroom that must be Benke’s. The bed was made, a tie lying on top of the covers. Yesterday’s paper was on the bedside table.
She opened the wardrobe and stared at the shirts, trousers and suits. She didn’t know what she was looking for, what she thought she might find.
She went back downstairs. Alex was on the phone to his partner Diana.
‘I’m not sure when I’ll be home – I’ll call you later. Love you.’
Love you.
Wasn’t that too personal? Or had Fredrika become oversensitive? She’d never been one for exposing her private life, or for involving herself in the affairs of others. However, she knew she’d been unusually quiet during the spring – even for her. She never asked Alex if everything was okay at home, mainly to avoid similar questions in return.
How are things with you and Spencer?
Pretty bad, actually.
Fredrika blinked and focused on the living room. There were several large paintings on the walls, acquired presumably because they were expensive and impressive rather than because Benke appreciated the artists. There were only three framed photographs, arranged on the mantelpiece. They were all of children, and Fredrika guessed they were taken during the 1980s. Once again, the balance seemed wrong; why so little of a personal nature in his own home?
‘How many children did he have?’ she asked Alex, who’d finished his call.
‘Two.’
Fredrika noticed the drinks trolley over by the wall, close to Benke’s armchair. She frowned. There was a Polaroid snap next to the fruit bowl. She studied it for a long time, wondering why it was there and who the subjects were. Three men were gazing into the camera, their expressions serious. One was Benke; she didn’t recognise the other two. It was impossible to establish any kind of context; none of them were dressed up. Benke was wearing a pair of chinos and a blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Fredrika’s heart skipped a beat. There was a fourth man who looked as if he would rather be anywhere else. He was partly turned away, half his face in shadow. And yet she was sure.
She recognised him.
She showed Alex the photo.
‘Do you know who that is?’ she said, pointing.
‘No. I’m guessing it was taken quite a while ago – Benke’s much younger.’
>
Fredrika turned the picture over and was disappointed to see no names, no date on the back. She replaced it on the trolley. The CSIs would take it back to HQ, make a copy.
‘The brutality,’ Alex said, interrupting her train of thought.
‘Sorry?’
‘There’s something about this murder that feels brutal. I mean more brutal than usual.’ He sounded almost embarrassed.
‘Depends what you’re comparing it with,’ Fredrika said dryly.
‘Of course. Obviously we’ve seen much worse, but this is . . . unusual. Check the entry wound. The killer didn’t want to risk failure.’
Memories of investigations that had driven her to the brink of insanity floated to the surface.
Brutal, Alex had said. And he was right.
Maybe I’ve become inured to it all. I don’t react the way he does.
She took another look at the Polaroid. It must mean something to Benke. Or to his murderer.
Fredrika wanted to know what that was, but most of all she wanted to know who the fourth man was, the one refusing to look into the camera.
Could he really be the only one who suspected that something was wrong? Noah Johansson found it difficult to believe that was the case. He didn’t even need to check his diary; if someone asked he could immediately tell them how many weeks and days Dan had been gone. And Noah hadn’t a clue how he was going to get him to come back.
It was a horrible realisation, particularly as Noah had begun to think that time was running out. If he didn’t find Dan soon, it would be too late. This was a fresh thought, and unbearably painful. However hard he tried, time just kept on passing, and soon there wouldn’t be any left. Noah felt as if he was going crazy. He was so alone. The police weren’t interested, and his friends didn’t understand why he was so upset. Anxiety could punch great big holes in friendships. Of everything that had happened over the past few weeks, that was what had shocked him the most.
Roine, his oldest friend and one of the few who was still around, had been honest with him over a drink only last week.
‘I’m trying to understand,’ he’d said. ‘But . . . the way you talk, it scares me. Why can’t you come to terms with the fact that your brother’s gone to Australia? Get over it. Be your old self again.’
Australia.
Fucking Australia.
Noah had had to make a decision. Either he let the harsh words go unchallenged, or he would lose Roine. He chose to keep his friend. He couldn’t cope with being any more isolated than he already was; he couldn’t bear to lose Roine too. But he hadn’t heard from Roine since that evening . . .
At first Noah had thought everything was okay with Dan and his family. They’d been talking about moving to Australia for several years. They hadn’t actually emigrated; it was more of a family adventure. They were planning to live abroad for one or two school terms. They had discussed Thailand (too much sun), then London (too expensive). Finally they had decided on Australia. After New Year the details had been firmed up. Both Dan and his wife had applied for and secured interesting jobs, after online interviews. The children’s school applications had been submitted, and eventually everything was settled.
‘We’re leaving two weeks before the end of term,’ Dan had said. ‘I’ve got a couple of meetings I need to attend in late May, and there’s no reason why we shouldn’t all travel out together. That will give us a few weeks before work and school kick in.’
Noah freely admitted that he’d never been keen on the project. He thought it was a frivolous idea, and unfortunately he’d expressed his opinion more than once. The brothers had fallen out, and when Noah was offered the chance to attend an industry conference in Majorca in the week of Dan’s departure, he decided to go. He extended his stay on either side of the conference, took an early holiday. When he came back everything seemed so empty. Dan was gone, his house deserted. There was an envelope in Noah’s mailbox containing the key and a note from his brother:
Can you look after the house as we agreed? Thanks.
Noah had been furious. They hadn’t agreed any such thing! Someone else could do that. Besides which, Noah already had a key. One week passed, then two. Noah heard nothing from Dan. The silence soon became distinctly uncomfortable. They couldn’t go on like this. He picked up one of the keys and went over to the house. He wanted to see what needed doing before emailing Dan to ask how things were going.
That was where he first got the feeling something was wrong. The house didn’t look the way he’d expected, given the fact that the owner was planning to be away for a year. There was laundry hanging up in the airing cupboard. Dirty dishes in the dishwasher. And then there were the wardrobes: they were crammed with clothes. Were Dan and his family intending to buy everything new in Australia? Surely not.
Noah emailed his brother from his phone while he was still in the house, but didn’t receive a reply until two days later. The tone was brusque, the words few. Noah needed to stop looking for problems, stop nagging. They would organise their trip however the fuck they wanted. However the fuck they wanted. That was what did it for Noah. Dan had never, ever sworn at him. That word, together with the key in his mailbox, convinced Noah that something was wrong. Very wrong. So he called the police.
Unfortunately they didn’t take him seriously either, not even when he burst into tears and told them about finding his brother’s bike on the drive on the afternoon when he’d realised there was a problem. It looked like any old bike, but Dan had inherited it from their grandfather, and never left it unlocked. After a very brief investigation the police concluded that Noah was simply imagining things. They claimed to have been in touch with Dan, who had confirmed that he’d gone to Australia and everything was fine. That was the end of the matter, as far as they were concerned.
But Noah couldn’t let it go.
He had contacted the Swedish embassy in Canberra. They’d promised to check whether Dan and his family had arrived in the country, but couldn’t guarantee that they’d be able to help. Someone would call him within a few weeks; it was holiday time, and the embassy was understaffed. Noah had continued to search, his stress levels increasing by the day, but he’d got nowhere. The airlines all had a duty of confidentiality, and were unable to confirm that Dan had flown with them. Noah went back to the police, but they refused to help. Obtaining lists of airline passengers was a huge task, didn’t Noah understand that? Without real evidence that something was wrong, they wouldn’t lift a finger.
Noah swallowed hard. His next client was due, and Noah needed to be on top of his game. This man had very specific requirements. Noah had actually intended to postpone the meeting, but hadn’t got around to it. Which had to be the very definition of having too much to do – not even having time to clear his diary.
The client arrived, the bell over the door jingled. Noah took a deep breath and went to greet him.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said, with the smile that many people believed was largely responsible for his success.
A pleasant smile, a warm smile, but above all a smile that couldn’t be interpreted as anything other than sympathetic. Not by those who were grieving, nor by those who knew they would soon die – as was the case with the man who had just arrived.
*
‘My wife has reconsidered since our last visit,’ the man said. ‘She’d prefer me to be buried in the white coffin. The black one is too posh for her.’
He laughed, his teeth dazzling white against his tanned skin. No one would ever guess that he was less than two months from his own death.
Noah made a note. ‘She’s not with you today?’ What a stupid thing to say. Obviously she wasn’t with him today.
But the man didn’t seem bothered by the funeral director’s brain-dead comment. On the contrary, he seemed happy to respond.
‘She’s working.’
Noah nodded. ‘Just one small detail: you say you and your wife have decided that you’ll be buried in the white coffin rather than the black
one.’
‘Yes?’
‘So does that mean you’ve also changed your mind about cremation and would prefer to opt for interment?’
The man recoiled and inhaled so sharply that Noah became concerned.
‘What the hell . . . ? No, absolutely not!’
Noah calmed him down.
‘I thought that was the case, but I had to ask.’
The man pursed his lips.
‘Do people still go for that? Being buried in the ground?’
‘Yes indeed. Many hate the idea of being incinerated, if you’ll forgive my choice of words.’
The man shook his head.
‘So they’d rather be eaten by worms and stink to high heaven. That doesn’t make sense!’
Noah thought so too, but it wasn’t his place to share his own preferences with his clients.
‘And are we sticking to the date as agreed?’ he asked.
The man’s eyes changed in a second, as if a lamp had been switched off. Any trace of liveliness disappeared, replaced by two deep pools filled with such sorrow that Noah had to stop himself from reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.
‘Yes. The first of September is the end, and the service will be held the following week as arranged.’
Noah’s throat went dry. Money could buy a lot of things, including peace of mind. Which was just as well. The man sitting opposite him would have the death he wanted. He would die with dignity. What could possibly be wrong with that?
It’s important not to lose hope, Noah thought.
Dan had been gone for almost eight weeks. How much longer would Noah be able to cope with the anxiety that threatened to suffocate him? How much longer before he lost all hope of being able to save his brother?
There was no stamp or postmark on the letter; it had been left in her mailbox in the foyer by someone who had gone to the trouble of delivering it in person. In person but anonymously.
Lovisa Wahlberg frowned as she examined the white envelope. No addressee, no sender’s name on the back.
The Flood Page 3
