The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

No, of course not. But we have to try, don’t we?

  And they had to keep on trying.

  She closed the fridge door.

  ‘We need to work out a plan. Try to get out of here.’

  She didn’t recognise her own voice.

  ‘Again?’ Dan said. ‘Make yet another pointless attempt?’

  Then he went and sat with the children in front of the television, leaving Malin alone in the kitchen with her fear.

  Spencer Lagergren was going to die, and Fredrika Bergman was going to become a widow. She had considered embroidering the words on a piece of fabric and framing the damned thing, just to make them easier to take in. Because however many times she repeated them to herself, they just didn’t stick. They didn’t mean anything.

  A widow? Me? That can’t be right.

  ‘Are you having fun, Saga?’

  Fredrika didn’t know what her daughter was laughing at, but it didn’t matter. The sound of the child’s joy was enough to make her feel secure. The children were happy.

  ‘We’re going SWIMMING today!’ Saga shouted down the phone.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit too cold?’ Fredrika asked.

  ‘No,’ Saga said firmly.

  Fredrika was in her office; she’d just arrived at work. She and Alex were due to meet Malcolm Benke’s friend Sten Aber in one of the interview rooms shortly.

  ‘Can I speak to Grandma, please?’

  Her mother came on the line. ‘How are you, Fredrika?’

  For God’s sake, how many times could she ask the same question?

  ‘Fine, thanks. I just wanted to check that the kids were okay.’

  ‘Well, I suppose so,’ her mother replied. ‘I mean they’re alive, they’re healthy.’ And then, a second later: ‘Forgive me! I’m so sorry, I don’t know what . . .’

  Fredrika couldn’t help smiling. A new skill she had not only acquired, but was rapidly developing to world-championship level: the art of contemplating the destruction of her life with a smile on her face.

  ‘It’s okay,’ she whispered, her voice close to breaking.

  She heard her mother move away from the children.

  ‘They’re asking about you and Spencer. I think they can tell something’s wrong,’ her mother said after a moment.

  ‘Of course they can – they know Spencer’s sick.’

  ‘But not how sick. There’s a time and place for everything, and yours is here and now. You have to tell them.’

  There’s a time and place for everything. How could such an inaccurate assertion have endured for so long? Because whichever way you looked at it, there was no right time or place for death. Not in Fredrika’s life, especially when death had come after one of the people she loved most.

  ‘We’ll talk to them when they get home.’

  Her mother let out a sob.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not trying to interfere, I just want to help.’

  ‘It’ll be fine, Mum. It’ll be fine.’

  But when the call was over and loneliness overwhelmed her, Fredrika couldn’t hold back the tears. She put her head down on the desk and let them come.

  Nothing would ever be fine again.

  *

  ‘Have you got a cold?’

  Alex sounded genuinely concerned when they met outside the room in which Sten Aber was waiting.

  The question was a matter of politeness; Fredrika had glanced in the mirror and knew exactly what she looked like. Swollen eyelids, bloodshot eyes.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I had to sort something out. And no, I haven’t got a cold. It’s an allergy.’

  Alex touched her arm. ‘If I can help in any way . . .’

  Fredrika bit her lip and shook her head.

  Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry.

  But one question echoed inside her head, the question she didn’t dare ask.

  How did you cope?

  Alex had travelled this same road. Watched as the love of his life was consumed by a disease, saw her die. Disappear from their shared existence, never to return.

  Spencer won’t even call me. How can I bear not hearing his voice for the rest of my days?

  ‘Another time,’ she said. ‘There will come a time when I need your help. But not today.’

  She pushed open the door of the interview room.

  ‘Fredrika Bergman,’ she said, holding out her hand to greet Sten Aber. Alex did the same.

  Fredrika sat down on the cold, hard chair. Alex tried to catch her eye, but she concentrated on her notes, then focused on Sten.

  ‘Thank you for coming in at such short notice,’ she began. The standard opening comment always amused her; as if he had any choice. Whatever you chose to call this encounter, it was an interrogation. Not that Sten was suspected of any crime, but because there was reason to believe that he could provide important information. If he hadn’t turned up, he would have been brought in.

  ‘This has been a real shock,’ Sten said. ‘I’ll help in any way I can.’

  He seemed genuinely distressed. His eyes were tired, and it was clear that the news about Malcolm Benke’s death had hit him hard. Fredrika had closely monitored what had appeared in the press so that she would know what he might have been able to find out. As usual the journalists had behaved like predators in their hunt for information, but had secured relatively few details. The headlines screamed ‘murder’, and they knew that Benke had been shot, but that was more or less all. They hadn’t printed Benke’s name. Not yet. Which was a good thing.

  ‘So how did you know Malcolm?’ Alex asked.

  ‘We were in the same class at school right from the start, and we’ve been friends ever since. We did our military service together, and even went to the same university.’

  ‘Both of you are – or rather were – engineers?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Fredrika checked her notes.

  ‘You also ran your own construction company, just like Malcolm. Were you competitors?’

  Sten gave a little smile.

  ‘It would be foolish to pretend otherwise,’ he said. ‘However, I can’t remember a single occasion when our rivalry led to any kind of conflict. We had an enormous amount of respect for each other.’

  The smile faded. Fredrika liked his voice, his attitude. He had presence and focus. There was a precision in the way he expressed himself; he didn’t want to be misunderstood.

  He misses his friend, she thought. And he’s not the one who shot him.

  Alex brought out the photograph they’d found on the trolley.

  ‘When was this taken?’

  Sten took out a pair of glasses from the breast pocket of his shirt and put them on. He looked closely at the picture, and his face changed. The sorrow was replaced by something else, something . . . more severe.

  ‘I don’t remember,’ he said, putting down the snap.

  Fredrika picked it up.

  ‘We’re not expecting you to give us an exact date,’ she said. ‘But surely you can give us a rough idea?’

  Sten folded his arms. ‘It might have been on a business trip, but I can’t remember which one.’

  ‘A business trip? Okay – which country are we talking about?’ Alex said.

  Fredrika’s eyes were fixed on the wallpaper Karin had recognised from her daughter’s home in London.

  ‘Probably France,’ Sten said. ‘We often went over there. Paris.’

  Fredrika leaned back; every scrap of sympathy she’d felt for the man was gone in a second. So he was playing games? He would have cause to regret that. She folded her arms, mirroring his posture.

  ‘I’m sure you did. Go to Paris, I mean. It’s a wonderful city. But this photograph wasn’t taken there, as you well know.’

  The ensuing silence became uncomfortable for all three of them.

  Tell us what you know, Fredrika thought. Because we don’t have the patience to play the waiting game.

  ‘Have another look.’ Alex took the photo from Fredrika and passed it across
the table.

  Fredrika was in no doubt: Sten Aber knew exactly where it had been taken, but for some reason he didn’t want to explain the context.

  She cleared her throat and said firmly:

  ‘Okay, let’s temporarily ignore the fact that you’re pretending you don’t remember. Tell us who the other people are.’

  The acrimonious tone of her voice provoked a reaction from both Alex and Sten. A smile played around the corners of Alex’s mouth for a second, while Sten looked furious.

  ‘I’m not pretending. I don’t remember.’

  ‘Whatever. So who are the others?’

  Sten glared at her.

  ‘Well, that’s obviously Malcolm,’ he said, pointing. ‘The guy next to him is Eskil, a mutual friend of ours who died a few years ago.’

  He fell silent.

  ‘And the fourth man?’

  To Fredrika’s surprise, Sten leaned back in his chair and spread his hands.

  ‘That’s where my memory fails me again. I don’t recall who he is.’

  Alex and Fredrika couldn’t believe their ears. It took a few seconds for the significance of what Sten Aber had just said to sink in.

  Fredrika shook her head.

  ‘Enough. You claim you can’t remember when or where this photograph was taken. You can’t even name everyone in it. Your friend Malcolm lived in a great big house; there were only three photographs on display in the whole place. Three. And then we found this one, on the drinks trolley. At the moment we don’t know what it was doing there, but the very fact that it was in Malcolm’s living room tells us that it must have meant something to him. Or possibly his killer – he or she might have brought it along and left it there.’

  She broke off. It wasn’t like her to experience such a surge of adrenaline during an interview.

  It’s because life has changed beyond recognition. And I hate it.

  Sten didn’t speak. It wasn’t a cheap silence; trying to appear unconcerned was obviously costing him a great deal. Fredrika wanted to beg and plead, shout and scream. Help us to help you! But if there was one thing she’d learned during her time with the police, it was that the help she and her colleagues were prepared to offer wasn’t always sufficient. People got themselves into the most peculiar – and sometimes dangerous – situations. Under those circumstances they often weren’t prepared to confide in the police, either because they thought involving the cops would just make things worse, or because they had something to hide. She didn’t know whether either of these applied to Sten Aber, but it infuriated her that he was preventing them from moving forward with the investigation.

  Faced with Sten’s continuing silence, Alex too was unable to hide his frustration.

  ‘Let me give you a clue. This wallpaper is in Beata Benke’s hallway in her apartment in London. And the man you claim not to recognise is Mikael Lundell. He’s a priest, and he spent a number of years with the Swedish church in London.’

  Sten opened his mouth then closed it again.

  ‘So we already know where the photograph was taken and who’s in it,’ Alex went on. ‘But we’d like to find out why it was taken, and why it was so important to Malcolm.’

  Sten sighed.

  ‘We went on so many trips together, Malcolm and Eskil and I. It’s very difficult for me to remember the kind of detail you’re asking for.’

  ‘How many times were you in Beata’s apartment in London?’ Fredrika asked.

  Sten thought for a moment. ‘Ten, maybe?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Alex said.

  And with that the interview was over.

  *

  They went back to Alex’s office.

  ‘Stubborn fucker,’ Fredrika said.

  Alex raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Have you started swearing, fru Bergman?’

  ‘I’ve been swearing since I was three years old, herr Recht.’

  Alex smiled.

  ‘What now?’ Fredrika wondered.

  Alex immediately grew serious.

  ‘Now we contact our friends in Israel.’

  Wishful thinking was something that took up far too much of Mikael Lundell’s time. Whenever he’d been told that something was impossible, he’d thought that his determination and obstinacy, along with prayers to the higher powers of whose existence he was absolutely convinced, would make all the difference. He had genuinely believed that this was how you achieved the improbable.

  Like the idea that he and Eden would live together happily ever after.

  ‘I don’t understand how you can delude yourself like this,’ his father had said after meeting Eden for the first time. ‘How could a woman like her ever be your wife? How could she be anyone’s wife? She’s like a wild horse – impossible to restrain. If you try, you’ll just make yourself look ridiculous.’

  Mikael had hated that gross comparison with a horse. Who would want to restrain another person? Not Mikael, or anyone he respected. What made Eden so attractive was the wildness that his father saw as an obstacle to a successful relationship. With hindsight, however, he had to admit that his father had been partially right. It had been difficult to create a life with Eden, and it had cost Mikael more than he could ever have imagined.

  A child.

  Or two, depending on how you looked at it.

  Dani was dead, Saba was still here. But neither of the girls had been Mikael’s – at least in the biological sense. That was the biggest sacrifice he had been willing to make in order to hold on to his relationship with Eden – realising the truth, then silently accepting the idea of being a father to children Eden had conceived with someone else. She had asked him how he’d known. He’d told her that he’d seen it the second they were born, but the truth was that he’d suspected as soon as she told him she was pregnant. The dates didn’t work. They’d been going through a bad patch just before she revealed that she was expecting; it was easy to think back to the times they’d had sex, and it just didn’t fit with her due date.

  Wishful thinking. Maybe that was what made the impossible possible. That and his love for Eden. Mikael couldn’t explain it any other way; as far as he was concerned, he had been Dani and Saba’s father. When Dani was murdered, he thought he was going to lose his mind.

  Even then I never considered leaving her, he thought.

  He knew that love could be a senseless, destructive force. Many people had been driven to the brink of insanity by what they called love. Perhaps it was Mikael’s faith in God that had kept him alive in the darkness, together with the fact that Eden had fallen pregnant again. And this time Mikael knew that the child on the way was his.

  He could hear Eden playing with their daughter in the living room.

  ‘Look at these lovely colourful bricks!’ she said.

  She’d never behaved like that with Dani and Saba. Her approach to parenting had been to have as little as possible to do with the children.

  And I allowed it to happen.

  Mikael liked an orderly life, but not to the point of fanaticism. He was a pragmatic individual. The events of the past few years had made him a little more spiky, he was aware of that. He had grown harder, while Eden had grown softer.

  He listened to Eden and their youngest daughter for a while longer. This couldn’t last forever, and that was probably a good thing. There would come a day when Eden would want to go back to work, when being with her family wasn’t enough to fill her life. Mikael had asked himself what they would do then. Eden could hardly apply for jobs in Israel, which meant going back to Sweden. At the moment that didn’t tempt her at all.

  Mikael went and sat at the computer. He wanted to check if there was anything new on Malcolm Benke’s death. Eden had insisted that they couldn’t be sure it was him – the newspapers hadn’t named the victim – but Mikael was in no doubt that Malcolm was dead. And Mikael was afraid he knew why.

  Eden wasn’t happy; she didn’t like the fact that he knew things about Malcolm, that the outside world was encroaching on their safe bub
ble. However, Mikael couldn’t help it if he’d once been drawn into Malcolm’s life. Or rather his daughter’s. It was an encounter he was unable to forget. Not that anyone had blamed him, regarded his input as a failure, but that didn’t stop him from feeling that way. Things had taken a very unpleasant turn, and he had withdrawn before it was too late. Too late for him. That was what he’d told himself at the time: he had to protect his own interests. And the question that haunted him was whether this was what had cost Beata Benke her life in the end.

  That wasn’t the only reason, he thought. My failure wasn’t the only thing that led to her death. But I was a part of it.

  At that moment a phone rang. Eden’s. Saba had changed the ringtone to one so shrill that you answered immediately just to make it stop.

  ‘Eden,’ he heard her say.

  Then: ‘Yes?’

  Like a question.

  She moved into the bedroom, closed the door behind her. Mikael got to his feet, didn’t hesitate for a second. When he pushed open the bedroom door Eden gave a start.

  ‘Okay, fine,’ she said, and ended the call.

  ‘Who was that?’ Mikael was using what he had begun to call the New Voice. The one that was so harsh it immediately made Eden and the children look uneasy.

  She was holding her mobile with both hands.

  ‘Who was that?’ he repeated.

  ‘Alex Recht.’

  Mikael let out a sigh of relief. Alex was a good person, not the kind to bother them with unnecessary problems.

  ‘Does he want you to go back to work?’

  Eden was surprised. ‘No. No, he didn’t say anything about that.’ She laughed. ‘Anyway, Alex was never my boss.’

  ‘So what did he want?’

  He felt foolish – why was he asking the question? Eden didn’t have to report back on conversations with former colleagues, if Alex fell into that category.

  ‘He wanted to speak to you,’ Eden said.

  Now it was Mikael’s turn to be surprised.

  ‘Okay . . .’

  ‘I said you weren’t home.’

  ‘What the—?’

  She interrupted him.

  ‘It was about the murder of Malcolm Benke. You were right – he is dead. I asked Alex to call back later.’