Strange.
The ancient lift rattled and screeched as it made its way upwards. Lovisa could have taken the stairs – should have taken the stairs – but she didn’t have the energy. She was worn out after running on the treadmill for over an hour. She just wanted to get home, pull off her sweaty clothes, have a shower.
And open the letter.
She’d hardly got through the door before she dropped her bag on the floor and ripped open the envelope. It was so light, so thin. For a second she thought it might be empty. Or maybe it was meant for someone else – whoever had brought the letter could have slipped it in the wrong mailbox. That kind of thing did happen.
That kind of thing did happen.
But not to her.
Because as soon as she looked into the envelope, all such thoughts disappeared. This was meant for her and no one else. A newspaper cutting. An article written in Spanish, printed on yellowing paper. She carefully removed it. The envelope fell to the floor, remained lying on the doormat. She could hear someone walking up the stairs.
She panicked, petrified of whoever was out there. She locked the door, backed into the kitchen, away from the footsteps.
Her mobile. She must get out her mobile. It was in the side pocket of her sports bag. She dashed into the hallway, dug out the phone, stopped dead and listened hard. Not a sound.
Her heart was pounding like a jackhammer and her mouth had gone dry. She returned to the kitchen. She hadn’t heard the main door open and close, so whoever was in the stairwell must still be there. Outside her apartment? On the floor below?
Her hands shook as she stared at the cutting. The picture told her everything. Everything. It contained terrible information, evoked an unbearable feeling of guilt. She didn’t need the article itself.
She hadn’t meant anyone any harm, hadn’t realised that by saving herself she was sacrificing someone else. She hadn’t had the opportunity to grasp the violent consequences of her decision. She had known that her strategy was selfish, but fatal? No, that had been beyond her comprehension.
I just wanted to get home.
Her entire body was shaking as she crept into the hallway once more. She had no idea how long she’d been standing in the kitchen. All she knew was that she was shivering in her sweaty clothes; she ought to go and have a shower. But not until she’d peeped through the spy hole, made sure there was no one out there waiting for her.
She leaned forward cautiously, wanting and not wanting to know. At first she couldn’t see a thing. The light had gone out automatically, and no one had switched it back on. There was no natural daylight in the windowless stairwell, but gradually her eye grew accustomed to the darkness. And then she saw him. The shadow among the shadows. He was standing motionless outside the lift, staring straight at her door.
Straight at her.
Lovisa ran into the bathroom and locked the door. She sank down on the cold tiles, drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her legs.
How could she have been so stupid?
How could she have believed it was all over?
She felt incredibly naïve.
And terrified beyond all reason.
They gathered in the Lions’ Den just after four to review what they knew so far. Everything was the same, nothing was the same. Alex Recht’s special-investigation team seemed to be the only one that had survived the restructuring. He was grateful, but the problems that the team had experienced from the beginning still remained. It was still difficult to bring in additional resources and support when necessary, and it was still difficult to explain exactly where the team fitted into the new organisation, although of course there was an official answer to that question. They were in Margareta Berlin’s department within the Stockholm police, and were based in police HQ at Kungsholmen. Fortunately they were able to work with a wide range of other departments; Alex would have gone crazy if he’d been working directly under Berlin.
Although on this occasion she had delivered, to be fair. They had been given additional personnel to help with the investigation into Malcolm Benke’s murder; in fact so many new colleagues had appeared that there weren’t enough chairs in the conference room. Alex noticed that Fredrika Bergman already seemed to have forgotten that this was supposed to be her day off. He must remember to thank her. He was really bad at expressing his gratitude and appreciation, as Diana often pointed out.
‘Okay,’ he said, raising his voice to silence the room. ‘Let’s make a start.’
A new body, a new murder. It must never become routine, but on the other hand there was no point in pretending they hadn’t learned from previous cases. Alex often wondered how death’s gloomy presence affected someone like Fredrika. She’d never intended to work for the police; she’d dreamed of an entirely different career. He knew she’d been deeply affected by what had happened during that dreadful winter when two Jewish boys had been shot dead out on the island of Ekero, but things had been pretty quiet since then, hadn’t they? There had been no spectacular cases since the murders of the two children. As far as Alex was concerned, life on the domestic front had also been unusually calm and harmonious. He’d looked after his grandchildren, read books, gone fishing, met up with colleagues for a drink after work. He felt he’d achieved a good balance – until a few months ago, when Berlin became his boss.
Is this when it all changes? he thought. Is this when the peace and harmony slip through my fingers?
When he got back to HQ after the visit to Nacka, he felt inexplicably uneasy. The feeling was inexplicable not because of what he’d seen – good God, the day he reacted to the sight of a dead body he’d know it was time to retire – but rather because of what he hadn’t seen.
He tried to shake off his unease by focusing on the meeting.
The ring.
If only it hadn’t been for that damned ring.
‘Malcolm Benke,’ he began. ‘Where are we with his private life? According to the records he lived alone, but that doesn’t tell us much.’
The younger officer who’d been at the scene of the crime spoke up. By this time Alex had learned his name: Ivan. A strange name for such a young man.
‘Benke had a seat on two boards and one major interest group,’ Ivan said. ‘I haven’t got very far yet, but I did manage to make a couple of calls during the afternoon. Apparently it’s well known in Benke’s circles that he had a relationship with Gudrun Manner a few years ago, and has been single ever since they broke up.’
‘Gudrun Manner the fashion designer?’ Fredrika couldn’t hide her surprise.
‘That’s right.’
‘Wow.’
If it hadn’t been for Diana, Alex wouldn’t have had a clue who they were talking about, but as it was Manner needed no further introduction. She was in her early sixties and had a shop in Östermalm. She was famous for using only three colours: black, white and grey. Alex had discreetly tried to dissuade Diana from shopping there; just walking past the window made him feel miserable.
‘Anything else?’
Only a few hours had passed since the discovery of Benke’s body. The picture they had begun to build up was based mainly on official records; they still had a lot to do.
‘No, but I’m looking at his social network,’ Ivan replied. ‘The technicians are working on his computer and mobile phone. I’ve barely scraped the surface, but so far there’s no indication that Benke had been subjected to threats, or was involved in any kind of dispute that might have led to his death.’
‘Good,’ Alex said. ‘Good.’
What was so good about the fact that they didn’t have a single lead? He turned to Fredrika.
‘How about his family?’
She didn’t answer at first; she seemed to be lost in thought. It took a few seconds before she glanced up and realised she’d been spoken to.
You’re not yourself, Alex thought. And you haven’t been for a long time.
‘Right, yes,’ she said, gathering the papers in
front of her. She pushed back a strand of hair that had escaped from the thick braid hanging down her back. The braid had become her signature; no one could imagine her without it. Alex remembered exactly what he’d thought the first time he met her: that she looked like the kind of person who’d read too many books and met too few real people. That she didn’t belong in the police. They’d come a long way since then – she even had silver running through her hair now.
The thought made him smile, and Fredrika frowned.
‘What . . . ?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
I’m smiling because you have threads of silver in your hair, and I’m embarrassed because I’m thinking that it really suits you.
‘Benke had two children,’ Fredrika said. ‘His son, Bernhard, has been living in Vienna for the last ten years. He moved there when his sister died and his parents divorced. Benke’s ex-wife, Karin, still lives in Stockholm. They had a prenuptial agreement that spelled out any eventual settlement. Virtually all the money was Benke’s, as was the house they lived in.’
‘So she left the marriage with nothing?’ said a colleague who’d remained silent until now.
‘Yes, but you could hardly describe her as poor,’ Fredrika went on. ‘She had plenty of her own money.’
‘Her own money or inherited money?’ Alex wanted to know; he thought there was a clear difference between the two.
‘Inherited, I’m guessing,’ Fredrika said. ‘I’ve checked her tax returns and there’s nothing there to explain how she can afford a summer cottage in the archipelago and a large apartment in Östermalm.’
Alex leaned back. The ring on Malcolm Benke’s little finger – it gave him no peace.
‘Do we know the name of the daughter’s husband? If she was married, of course.’
‘Richard – just as it said inside the ring,’ Fredrika replied.
The room fell silent.
‘Anyone else have the feeling that Benke didn’t usually wear his daughter’s wedding ring?’
Several people nodded.
‘We need to speak to the ex-wife,’ Fredrika said. ‘About Benke, but also about their late daughter.’
Alex felt the weight of unpleasant memories. The hardest memories of all – those involving parents who had lost one or more of their children. It was something they all seemed to learn to live with, but could never really put behind them. Alex had felt as if something died inside him the day his wife Lena passed away from cancer. One minute she was there, then she was gone. He had said it was the worst thing that could happen, and he had meant it. He had honestly believed that he loved her more than their children – until the day his son became entangled in a plane hijacking that could have gone badly wrong.
I would never have recovered, he thought. It would have been unbearable.
He pulled himself together. ‘What do we know about the daughter’s death?’
‘Not nearly enough. She’d been living in England with her husband for several years when she died,’ Fredrika informed him.
Alex looked around the room.
‘Anyone else have anything to contribute? CSI – where are we with the murder weapon?’
‘All I can tell you is that it’s notable by its absence,’ a female technician said. ‘Our initial assessment suggests that the bullet came from a Colt 45. We’ve checked all the doors and windows – no sign of forced entry. And as those of you who were at the crime scene could see, there was nothing to suggest that a struggle had taken place in the house.’
‘So Benke knew his killer,’ Fredrika said. ‘Well enough to let him in, at least.’
‘Either that or he was taken by surprise,’ the technician countered. ‘It wouldn’t be impossible to pick the lock on the front door and sneak inside – if you knew what you were doing.’
‘In other words, the perpetrator has found his way through locked doors before,’ Alex said slowly.
‘Exactly.’
‘Do we even know if the door was locked?’ Ivan wondered.
‘The cleaner who found Benke said it was locked when she arrived in the morning. It’s a classic dead latch – you don’t need a key to lock it.’
Alex reached for the computer.
‘How far have we got with house-to-house enquiries?’ ‘Ongoing,’ Ivan replied. ‘Nothing to report as yet.’
So no witnesses either. Great.
Alex clicked on the notes he’d made when Renata Rashid called him just before the meeting.
‘In Renata’s opinion, Benke had been dead for between ten and twelve hours when he was found at nine o’clock in the morning, so we’re looking at between nine and eleven the previous evening. However, that tells us nothing about when the perpetrator arrived, how long they were together before Benke died.’
He glanced up.
‘The only thing we know for sure is that the cause of death was the wound caused by the shot to his chest. That’s not enough. I want more information about his contacts; we need to exclude the possibility of a threat that he was aware of. And I want feedback when the house-to-house is done.’
The ring. That damned ring.
‘We also need to speak to the ex-wife as soon as possible.’
He slammed the computer shut and turned to Fredrika.
‘You and I will go over there right now. We’ll all reconvene in the morning.’
Chairs scraped against the floor as everyone stood up and left the Lions’ Den. Fredrika was in front of Alex, head down, lost in thought.
‘Is everything okay?’ he asked.
She gave him a smile so fleeting it was hardly there.
‘Of course.’
He immediately regretted the question. She was lying, which made him uncomfortable. It wasn’t just that there was a problem – she wasn’t prepared to tell him what it was. He cleared his throat, tried to put into words what was bothering him on a professional level.
‘I can’t get my head around this case,’ he said.
Fredrika reacted with confusion.
‘Surely that’s nothing unusual at such an early stage?’
Alex ran a hand through his hair.
‘That’s not what I meant. It’s . . . there seems to be a kind of symbolism about this murder, and I find it disturbing.’
At that moment Torbjörn Ross walked past, a coffee cup in his hand, Wellington boots on his feet.
‘How’s it going?’ he said.
‘Fine,’ Alex replied, hoping his colleague would keep walking.
Which he did. Ross disappeared into the kitchen.
Torbjörn Ross had once been his friend. These days he was someone Alex preferred to avoid. The passing years had made Ross difficult, and his judgement was poor. Alex was aware that they were in the same department, but so were plenty of others. Ross kept himself to himself; Alex had no idea what he got up to, and he didn’t want to know.
Fredrika shook her head when he’d gone.
‘The ring,’ she said.
‘Exactly. Benke looked so calm, sitting there in his armchair – a grotesque contrast to what had happened to him.’
Fredrika agreed. ‘Grotesque is exactly the right word.’
But no more grotesque than two Jewish schoolboys shot in the back, Alex thought grimly, allowing his mind to take him back yet again to the nightmare in which he and Fredrika had found themselves a few years ago. It had been a bitterly cold winter, and an ice-cold killer had wandered the streets of Stockholm, closely followed by the legend of the evil Paper Boy.
And then.
The thought came out of nowhere, threatened to floor him.
‘The photograph,’ he said. ‘The photograph on the trolley.’
Fredrika immediately straightened up.
‘What about it?’
‘I know who the fourth man is, the one who refused to look into the camera.’
‘I’ve been thinking about him all afternoon,’ Fredrika said. ‘Go on – who is he?’
We thought he was dead. That was w
hat Alex wanted to say, but in the heat of the moment he couldn’t remember the man’s name. Instead he simply came out with the name of his wife.
‘Eden,’ he said.
Eden Lundell, who had been the head of Säpo, the Swedish security service, and who had chosen to leave Sweden after one of her daughters had been murdered. Her husband’s name was Mikael. As far as Fredrika knew, the family lived in Israel. She shuddered when she thought about Eden, about the investigation in which she had been involved. No case had had more layers, more low points than the one that began with the shooting of a teacher at the Solomon school and ended with Eden losing a child.
Had Eden also lost her mind? Fredrika wondered as she and Alex drove over to see Karin Benke. I would have done.
The thought of any contact with Eden and her family filled her with dread.
I have nothing to say to someone like her.
Instead she focused on Karin Benke. All roads leading away from the darkness were equally welcome. As a child Fredrika had loved to play with the doll’s house her grandmother had given her. It had been like travelling to a different place, a place that belonged to someone else, yet she was allowed to visit whenever she liked. She had experienced the same feeling when she started working for the police and was let into other people’s homes in different situations, either to carry out a search or to conduct an interview. And sometimes to deliver terrible news.
Malcolm Benke’s ex-wife had already been informed of his death when they arrived at her apartment in Östermalm. Fredrika had tried many times to define the difference between an apartment and a flat; in this instance it was crystal clear, for once. The high ceilings, the space, the impressive and well-preserved original details from the last century; there was no doubt that this was an apartment.
Karin, on the other hand, was a very ordinary, down-to-earth person, open and straightforward, with an unmistakable air of integrity.
‘Our condolences,’ Alex said when she’d let them in.
‘Thank you.’
She led the way into the kitchen, where they sat down at the table. Orchids in the window, no curtains, white-painted walls.
The Flood Page 4
