I could live here, Fredrika thought instinctively.
Alex began tentatively, allowing small talk to shift into a standard interview without Karin really noticing the change. He was good at this, Fredrika said to herself, just as he was at so many other things. She felt an embarrassing sense of relief; it was important that Alex held it together when she was falling apart.
She couldn’t help a faint blush rising to her cheeks.
I have to tell him. I have to tell him what’s on my mind. But not now. Another day.
‘What can you tell us about your ex-husband’s life?’ Alex said. ‘Were you close?’
‘No.’
‘But maybe you met up through your son?’ Fredrika asked.
‘No. We preferred not to have any contact whatsoever.’
‘I understand.’ Alex sounded surprisingly empathetic.
Fredrika moved on to Beata. ‘I believe your daughter lived in London?’
Karin’s face closed down, trying to conceal the way she felt.
‘That’s right.’
‘How long was she there?’
‘Many years. She was at university there for four years, then she got a job.’
‘So altogether . . . ?’ Alex prompted her.
‘Twelve years.’
‘What did she study?’ Fredrika asked.
‘Languages – Latin and English. She worked as a teacher at a grammar school in East London.’
‘Her husband was British – was that why she stayed in the city?’
Things were getting more difficult now. Karin was a woman who gave the impression of being in control most of the time, but grief and horror are not so easily subjugated. Fredrika knew that, and so did Karin.
‘I think so. On the other hand, there was no mention of her moving back to Sweden even before she met him. She loved London.’
‘Was her husband also a teacher?’
‘No, he was a stockbroker.’
It struck Fredrika that she didn’t refer to him by name; Karin’s son-in-law was ‘he’ and nothing else. She thought about the ring on Malcolm Benke’s little finger. Forensics had already established that there were no prints on it – not Benke’s or anyone else’s.
‘What was he like?’ Fredrika pushed a little harder, keeping her voice quiet. ‘Your son-in-law Richard, what was he like?’
Karin looked as if she was about to get to her feet, but remained seated.
‘He was horrible. Really horrible.’
She didn’t say any more. Horrible. A word Fredrika’s children liked to use, frequently and sometimes at full volume.
‘You’re HORRIBLE!’ her son would roar when Fredrika refused to buy him sweets in the supermarket.
Alex also reacted to Karin’s choice of word.
‘Horrible in what way?’ he said.
Karin’s face changed again, but this time it wasn’t sorrow they could see in her eyes. She was angry – furious, in fact. She took a deep breath; she seemed to have a problem forcing the air out of her lungs.
‘Horrible,’ she repeated. ‘That’s the best way of describing him. Everything Richard did was horrible, everything had an ulterior motive. We didn’t realise to start with, and nor did Beata. He was totally dysfunctional. He changed jobs as often as the rest of us change our underwear. And then there were all his ridiculous so-called investments. Money disappeared at an alarming rate, first from their joint account and then from Beata’s own account.’
‘So he was manipulative,’ Alex commented.
‘Incredibly.’
Fredrika hesitated, wondering how to formulate the question that had to be asked.
‘Was he violent towards her?’
Karin looked away, unable to meet their gaze.
‘Yes.’
Alex and Fredrika exchanged a glance. Alex ran a hand over the surface of the table, the scars pale pink against skin that had been burned on the day he saved a little girl from searing flames.
‘She died ten years ago,’ he said. ‘If it’s not too painful, could you tell us what happened?’
Karin didn’t speak for a moment, then she looked Alex straight in the eye and said: ‘He murdered her.’
‘Richard?’
‘Yes.’
‘So he’s in jail?’ Fredrika asked.
‘No.’
‘No?’
‘There was no evidence, but we all knew what he’d done, and so did the police.’
‘They didn’t look for another perpetrator?’
‘At first, maybe, before they realised what had gone on.’
Fredrika swallowed hard. Karin’s story was hardly unique. If reasonable doubt exists, there can be no conviction. Many people got away with crimes because society was unable to find the necessary proof. Some regarded this as a weakness in the justice system, others as an indication that the democratic process was working.
‘So how come he got away with it?’ she wanted to know.
Karin shook her head. ‘They couldn’t even prove he was home on the night she died, and they never found the murder weapon.’
Alex cleared his throat. ‘This might sound like a strange question, but we were wondering about Beata’s wedding ring.’
‘Her wedding ring?’
Alex nodded. ‘What happened to it after she died?’
Karin’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I’ve no idea. We did receive a package from the police containing the jewellery she’d been wearing when she . . . when she was found, but I don’t remember what happened to it. I took a pair of gold earrings that Beata had inherited from my mother, but as for the rest . . . I don’t even recall whether or not we discussed it. I was in a kind of fog for a long time. Excuse my language, but I can’t imagine anyone would want that fucking wedding ring.’
‘You used the word “we”,’ Fredrika said. ‘Who received the package?’
‘Me, Malcolm and Beata’s brother, Bernhard.’
‘Not her husband?’
‘Absolutely not. They’d already arrested him by then.’
‘Could Malcolm or Bernhard have kept the ring?’
‘I suppose so, but why are you asking about the ring? Why is it important now?’
‘I’ll happily explain further down the line,’ Alex said, ‘but right now we have more questions than answers.’
Karin seemed satisfied with that. Maybe she just wanted them to leave. It was impossible to tell whether she was mourning her ex-husband; they didn’t know enough about their relationship. Fredrika decided to try to find out why Karin and Malcolm had split up.
She made an effort to sound as warm and pleasant as Alex always did.
‘You and Malcolm divorced in the year Beata died,’ she ventured.
Karin looked up. ‘Yes.’
‘Forgive the intrusion, but can I ask why?’
Karin got up and went over to the sink. She filled a glass with water and drank it without asking if anyone else would like one.
‘Because grief doesn’t necessarily bring people together,’ she said eventually. ‘That’s how it was for us, and I know it’s the same for many others.’
The honesty in her voice was clear, but the fact that she was keeping something from them was equally clear.
What is it you don’t want to tell us? Fredrika thought.
Alex took over. ‘How were things before Beata’s death? Did you and Malcolm agree about your son-in-law?’
‘Definitely,’ Karin said firmly. ‘We both disliked him equally.’
There. Another statement that wasn’t a lie, but didn’t reveal the whole truth. Fredrika’s frustration was growing by the minute.
‘But?’ she said.
‘But what?’
‘You were in agreement, but not about everything. Tell us how your views differed.’
Karin shook her head. ‘We both felt exactly the same.’
Fredrika believed her – so what had been left unsaid?
Alex had draped his jacket over the
back of the chair; he turned, reached into the inside pocket, and brought out a copy of the Polaroid they’d found on the drinks trolley in Malcolm Benke’s living room. The one that showed Eden Lundell’s husband, Mikael, among others.
‘Who are these men?’ Alex asked, handing Karin the photo. Her face relaxed; someone or something in the picture had cheered her up.
She pointed to the men on Benke’s left. ‘These two were Malcolm’s childhood friends, Eskil and Sten. Eskil died a few years ago, but Sten’s still alive. He’s a really good person – Sten Aber.’
‘And who’s this?’ Alex pointed to Mikael.
‘I don’t actually know. Talk to Sten – he’ll be able to tell you when the photo was taken.’
‘You weren’t there?’
‘No – I don’t remember ever having seen it before. It must be pretty old though, mainly because Eskil’s there.’
Alex didn’t seem entirely happy with Karin’s answer. It was the same old story; they had to speak to a hundred people to find out what they needed to know, a time-consuming task that would try the patience of a saint. It was enough to make a sane person start climbing the walls.
They thanked Karin for making the time to see them, and got ready to leave. Fredrika made a careful note of Sten Aber’s contact details, then Karin asked to see the photo again. Alex passed it over.
‘The wallpaper,’ she said. ‘I should have noticed it right away.’
Fredrika took a closer look. The snap had been taken indoors, and behind the four men she could just make out wallpaper with a colourful pattern.
Karin’s face was ashen. ‘That’s Beata’s apartment. She redecorated just a few months before she died, and she sent me some pictures. But . . .’
‘But?’ Alex prompted her.
‘But I didn’t see it for real until I visited the apartment after her death.’
*
When they emerged onto the street a little while later, the air was cool and the sky overcast.
‘We need to speak to Sten Aber,’ Fredrika said immediately.
‘And I guess we also need to speak to Eden’s husband,’ Alex said grimly.
Fredrika shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. She still couldn’t face thinking about Eden.
The ring, however . . .
It altered the picture of the murder, made it clear that this was personal as far as the killer was concerned. It also suggested that Malcolm’s death had something to do with the murder of his daughter.
But they still had no trace whatsoever of the perpetrator.
Holiday brain – wasn’t that what people suffered from in July? Malin thought so. Holiday brain felt quite different; it was a slower version that mixed up days and times, but you could always make the excuse that you’d been off work for too long, setting all duties and obligations to one side. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were coming today – I thought it was tomorrow.’
She sorted the children’s clothes into two piles. She had switched on the washing machine at some point over the weekend, she thought, but then she’d forgotten all about it until her daughter informed her that she couldn’t find any clean knickers. Only then had Malin emptied the machine and dried the laundry.
The effect of a traumatised brain.
She took a deep breath.
What would she give to regain her everyday life and security?
Anything.
However, while she waited for life to get back to normal (if that day ever came), she had to focus on keeping her head above water.
Routine.
The word came back to her several times a day.
They needed routine.
She’d read it in countless articles and books about people who’d been deprived of their freedom for long periods: how they’d survived in captivity, where misery and impotence threatened to break them.
They created routines. Without them they’d have gone crazy.
Hedvig came into the bedroom.
‘Want some help?’
Malin shook her head. ‘I’ve finished.’ She passed Hedvig her pile of clean clothes. A very small pile.
Hedvig swallowed. ‘How long . . . ?’
Malin shrugged. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
Hedvig left the room without another word, and Malin sank down on the edge of the bed. She hated her weakness, her inability to provide answers. Was this the last memory the children would have of her?
Was this where the whole family was going to die?
The article that had been left in her mailbox gave Lovisa Wahlberg no peace. She burst into tears several times during the day and evening. She’d called friends, talked and talked, but hadn’t dared to put into words what she really wanted to say.
She was scared.
She didn’t want to be alone.
And her boyfriend had other plans, so he wasn’t available to keep her company.
The only people she hadn’t called were her parents. They would have asked far too many questions, messed with her head even more.
‘Tell me you’re not having problems again!’
That was exactly what her mother would say.
Then she would sigh.
Sigh and groan and shake her head.
I’m such a disappointment.
Lovisa went and lay on the sofa, pretended to watch TV, but stayed there for only a few minutes. Resting, trying to switch off, just made her panic. Someone was after her, there was no doubt about it.
I ought to call the police.
She dismissed the idea immediately. They wouldn’t listen to her, not after what had happened, everything that had come out. The police knew she’d been lucky to get away with it. Things could – should – have ended very differently for Lovisa. The officer who’d interviewed her on her return to Sweden had made that very clear.
‘Don’t imagine we’re not aware that you should have gone down too,’ he’d said. ‘I hope you’re not under the illusion that we regard you as a victim in all this.’
Lovisa stared blankly at the newspaper article. No, she hadn’t been a victim. Not last time.
But maybe this time . . .
She shuddered and went into the hallway yet again. Just like before, she held her breath as she peered through the spy hole.
No one there.
Only shadows.
No one there.
Only shadows.
So why was she so convinced that someone was following every move she made?
‘The art trail in Österlen in August,’ Diana Trolle said. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think it sounds just about as boring as counting grains of sand on the shore,’ Alex Recht replied.
‘Oh, Alex!’ Diana couldn’t help laughing.
‘Seriously – how long have we been together now? You know I’m nowhere near as interested in art and . . . culture as you.’
‘But you like Österlen.’
‘I like most places. You wander round the art trail and I’ll find something else to do in the meantime – I’ll go and lie on a nice beach and read my book.’
Diana smiled and went into the kitchen, leaving Alex in front of the TV. He’d just finished vacuuming the entire house, and now he wanted to watch a film or an interesting programme. Something entertaining. I’ll go and lie on a nice beach and read my book. Had he really said that? He could understand why the comment had amused Diana; Alex rarely had time to read books, and as for lying on a beach . . .
The new me, he thought. Beach boy 2016.
He could hear the clink of crockery and cutlery as Diana emptied the dishwasher. The sounds of everyday life. The best of the best. Alex couldn’t understand people who constantly longed to escape from the power of habit, the pattern of routine. He loved the lack of change. He loved the fact that he had a life that felt whole.
Diana was without doubt the best thing that had happened to him since Lena’s death. The realisation made him feel alive, made him love her. When Lena died he hadn’t thought it
would be possible to find his way back to becoming a functioning human being. He and Lena had been married for what seemed like an entire lifetime; neither of them had ever wanted anyone else. They had created a home together, two children, security and intimacy. Summarising their marriage in those few words made it sound pathetic, almost cliched, but he had experienced a contentment that he found difficult to describe to his children. They had families of their own now, but it was as if they couldn’t sit still in their nests. There were dancing lessons and cookery lessons and couple time and alone time. Just listening to them made Alex feel nervous. Tired.
The television had nothing suitable to offer. Alex sipped his coffee and wondered whether to call his daughter. He was much better these days at nurturing his relationship with the children, saw them more often.
His work mobile rang, making the decision for him. He had a bad feeling; it was nine o’clock. Had there been another death?
The last thought bothered him. I have to stop expecting the worst.
However, he couldn’t shake off the nagging worry that had been there since he saw Malcolm Benke’s body; the visit to Karin Benke hadn’t exactly helped.
The ring, the ring, the ring.
If it wasn’t for the ring, Alex thought things would have been different.
‘Hi, it’s Ivan,’ a voice said when he answered.
Ivan? It took Alex a few seconds to place his younger colleague.
‘Yes?’
‘I just wanted to let you know that I spoke to the police in London about Beata Benke’s death. One of the detectives who worked on the case is on a course in Stockholm right now; she’s happy to meet us, talk us through the inquiry.’
‘Great,’ Alex said, then he fell silent. Was this a sidetrack worth pursuing, or not? He still hadn’t got his thoughts in order after the conversation with Karin; he didn’t really know what to think. They needed to speak to Sten Aber, the man in the photograph. And Mikael Lundell. And Malcolm Benke’s son, who lived in Vienna. Did they really need to drag a British detective into the circus as well?
‘It can’t do any harm to pick up more information, can it?’ Ivan said when the silence went on.
‘Okay.’
Ivan exhaled audibly.
‘Good – she’s coming in tomorrow at four.’
The Flood Page 5
