‘Weird,’ she mumbled again, and went back down to the fifth floor. She rang one of the doorbells, but no one answered. She tried the other three; no luck.
She returned to her own apartment; she had an advertising campaign to finish off. She closed the door and went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of coffee. She stood beneath the air vent inhaling the disgusting smell.
Something’s rotting, she thought.
Lovisa Wahlberg didn’t have much to be proud of, and plenty of people had felt the need to tell her this over the years – mainly her parents. She hadn’t achieved a fraction of what they had expected of her.
‘You need to get yourself a decent apartment,’ her mother had said on her last visit.
By which she meant ‘an apartment of your own’, not one that belonged to someone else. As if it was just a matter of making the decision. As if absolutely anyone could buy an apartment in Stockholm, or magic up a rental agreement rather than a sublet. Lovisa had stopped listening. She’d been living here for over a year now, and would be able to stay for four more years. The owners were in Dubai and loved the life out there. No doubt Lovisa would have loved it too.
She didn’t look around when she left the cake shop in the Söder district where she worked. She went straight across the street to her bicycle. The fear was in her blood, there was no getting rid of it. It made her focused and distracted at the same time.
She was just about to unlock her bike when the shadow appeared in her peripheral vision. The shadow that meant her harm. If she hadn’t received the letter the previous day, she wouldn’t have reacted, but now everything happened very fast, in spite of the fact that she was very tired after lying awake for most of the night. She didn’t even raise her head to confirm her suspicions, she simply trusted her instinct that danger was close by. The lock came off, releasing the bike. People were passing by on the pavement, all preoccupied with their own affairs.
I’ll scream if he tries to hurt me.
She got on her bike, pedalled down onto the road. There was a bump from the parcel shelf as the wheels hit the tarmac. Then, and only then, did she turn her head. She had to see who the shadow was, but he’d backed away, was partly hidden behind a bus shelter. Her heart was pounding, the adrenaline surging through her body.
Who the hell was he?
She cycled down the street, not caring whether she took a right or a left at the traffic lights, she just had to get away. A red light forced her to stop.
‘Hey!’ someone shouted behind her.
Red, amber, it would be green in a second.
I don’t care if I get run over, I’m just going to go for it.
As she got ready to push down, someone came up alongside her – not the shadow, but a shorter, skinnier guy. He smiled at her.
‘Sorry, I didn’t meant to scare you. I just wanted to tell you that you’re in danger of losing the book on your parcel shelf.’
She looked over her shoulder in confusion. She didn’t have a book on her . . . She blinked several times. What the . . . ?
Someone had attached a book to the shelf. A green book with no pictures on the cover. The traffic began to move. She reached for the book, glanced over at the bus shelter.
The shadow was gone.
And the book was one she’d never heard of.
She read the strange title, trying to process what was going on:
I Am Putting Everything Right
Those who are grieving must be left in peace. Noah Johansson’s parents had made that very clear when they were training their son, preparing him to take over the business.
‘There’s no payback,’ his mother used to say. ‘We’re here to serve, and we do that with generosity.’
She meant that if a painter and decorator came to see them because his wife had died, they didn’t save his phone number in case they needed someone to do up the kitchen in twelve months’ time. They would call a different painter. Noah had always stuck to this rule, but not any more. He was faced with an emergency, and his parents would have understood if they’d still been alive. This was about their son, after all.
If only they were still around. They too would have realised that something had happened to Dan. Neither Noah nor Dan had expected to lose their parents so early, before Noah or his brother had turned forty. They had died in a car crash on the island of Crete. The dividing line between life and death was so thin, so thin.
One of Noah’s clients had been a police officer, a man in his fifties whose wife had died of cancer. Noah searched his database for the man’s name. Alex – or Alexander – Recht. There he was. A quick internet search brought up references that were no more than a few months old; Alex Recht had spoken out on some union issue. Good, in that case Noah dared to hope he was still with the police.
However, he wasn’t sure if he had the right contact details. He wasn’t too bothered about the address, but he wanted to be certain that he could reach Alex Recht on this phone number. He was utterly sick of the way the police had handled, or rather failed to handle, the disappearance of Dan and his family. It was beyond belief that someone could be missing for almost two months without anyone taking action.
Noah punched Alex’s number into his mobile. Tina’s visit had changed everything. She was the one who’d given him the strength, even though she didn’t know it. He was no longer alone; someone else could see there was something very wrong with this move to Australia.
‘I can’t get hold of them,’ she’d said. ‘They’re not answering their phones, and I’ve had these weird emails asking me to stop bothering them.’
However, something else had given Tina cause for concern. Like Malin’s father, she had spoken to Malin on the Thursday, two days before they were due to leave.
‘I’ve got a million things to do,’ Malin had told her. ‘Can I call you tomorrow? I should have time in the afternoon.’
She hadn’t called. And Tina, who didn’t want to be a nuisance, thought it best not to ring Malin in case she was busy. Instead she’d sent a text wishing them the best trip ever. A text that didn’t get a reply. She texted again a few days later asking for their address so that she could send them some Swedish treats the children particularly liked. No reply. They’d already found a house and were planning to move in before the school term began and they both started working full time, but hadn’t got round to passing on the address to their nearest and dearest.
If only I’d been more interested, Noah thought. If only I’d been more positive, shared their enthusiasm about the adventure.
Tina hadn’t stayed long, but they’d arranged to meet up again. Before then Noah would try to speak to Alex Recht, hoping to find a new point of access to the police.
The phone rang several times before anyone answered.
‘Alex Recht – I can’t talk right now, but if you give me your name and number I’ll call you back.’
‘Hello . . . My name is Noah Johansson and I’m a funeral director. I . . . Am I disturbing you?’
Alex was clearly surprised. When he spoke again, his voice had changed.
‘I remember you,’ he said slowly. ‘Very well, in fact. My children and I thought you were fantastic. You really helped us.’
Noah blushed, mainly because he was embarrassed at how happy Alex’s words made him; such accolades always meant too much. But also because he felt a little spark of hope, the hope that Alex would be the one who listened.
Alex was speaking quietly to another person. Noah pressed the phone to his ear, wishing he’d gone to the police station and tried to see Alex in person.
‘Listen, Noah, things are a bit tricky at the moment – can I call you later or tomorrow?’
Noah thought about all the days that had passed since his brother disappeared, and now Alex wanted to waste even more time.
‘No problem,’ he said.
He tried not to let his disappointment come through, but of course it did.
‘Has something happened?’ Alex as
ked.
Noah hesitated. How could he explain that the situation had been critical for weeks?
‘My brother’s gone missing.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘My brother Dan has gone missing. Together with his entire family. They’re supposed to be in Australia, but that’s not true.’
Even though he was telling the story exactly as it was, he suddenly felt doubtful. It seemed so improbable.
‘That sounds terrible,’ Alex said, but the warmth in his voice had gone. ‘It would be better if you call the main switchboard number, tell them you want to report a missing person, then someone will look into—’
‘No,’ Noah interrupted him. ‘No, they won’t look into anything, that decision has already been made. That’s why I called you.’
Once again he heard Alex talking to someone else.
‘I’ll get back to you later,’ Alex said to Noah. ‘Okay?’
‘Okay.’
Noah put the phone down on his desk and sank back in his chair. Then he sat there and waited. And waited.
There was something about colleagues from overseas, there was no denying it. Above all it was the fact that Alex rarely came into contact with them. He reminded himself of this when he and Fredrika sat down in one of the smaller meeting rooms with the investigator from London. The room was furnished with sofas rather than a table and chairs. Alex had seen the disappointment in Ivan’s eyes when he hadn’t been asked to join them; after all, it was Ivan who’d tracked down Linda Sullivan and arranged for her to come in. However, that couldn’t be helped; the demands of the case had to come first, even at the expense of hurt feelings. Right now he needed Ivan to focus on Malcolm Benke’s social network and any possible threats against him.
Fredrika caught Alex’s eye as they sat down.
‘Everything okay?’ she said quietly in Swedish.
He gave a brief nod. He was okay. Even though he’d just spoken to the man who’d arranged Lena’s funeral, even though someone had left an anonymous letter in his mailbox at home. He was okay, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t brooding over both those things. His blood pressure was rising and his hands felt cold.
‘Who called you?’ Fredrika went on equally quietly, smiling at their British colleague as if to apologise for speaking Swedish.
Linda smiled back politely.
‘Later,’ Alex said.
Or not at all, depending on what Noah Johansson wanted. The conversation had been bewildering in every way. Alex didn’t have a bad word to say about the man, but that didn’t explain why he’d called Alex, talking about a missing brother. The whole thing made Alex uneasy. Something was wrong, and he wasn’t sure he ought to get dragged into whatever it might be.
He turned his attention to their guest. Linda Sullivan appeared to be a few years older than Fredrika. She wore ripped jeans, which Alex hated, and smelled of cigarette smoke.
‘Thank you for making the time to come in,’ he began.
‘No problem – I was in town anyway.’
‘You were involved in the inquiry into the murder of Beata Benke?’ Fredrika said.
‘That’s right. It was a while ago, but I hope I’ll be able to help.’
‘I’m sure you will,’ Alex said. ‘The only information we have comes from Beata’s mother. We were hoping you’d be able to supply us with a more detailed account, and confirm what we’ve already been told.’
Linda’s version largely overlapped with what they’d been told by Karin Benke. The Metropolitan Police had questioned Beata’s friends, colleagues and members of her family, and had built up a picture of her life. At first everything had seemed promising for Beata and the man who later became her husband. He was the best boyfriend ever. The change took place at some point during the first year of their marriage. According to her friends, Beata had started to behave differently, pushing away those who were close to her. She wasn’t very successful; they thought too much of her to accept it.
‘So one day she was confronted by a small group of her friends. They eventually managed to get the truth out of her: Richard was controlling every aspect of her life. He beat her and threatened her, and the situation was rapidly deteriorating. However, she felt trapped, unable to get away from him no matter how hard she tried. One of the friends contacted Beata’s family, told them what was going on. You can imagine how they reacted.’
There.
The detail Alex had been waiting for without realising.
‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘How did they react?’
Linda made a dramatic gesture, spreading her arms wide.
‘They were distraught. Furious. Her parents were very well off, as you probably know. They came storming over to London, did everything they could to help their daughter. But you know how it is – some things just can’t be fixed.’
Ain’t that the truth, Alex thought. So the question is – what do you do instead?
He suddenly felt grateful that Ivan had set up this meeting.
‘You said they did everything they could – what exactly does that mean?’ Fredrika asked.
‘They talked to Richard, tried to get him to let Beata go. But he had her in a grip of iron, which Karin and Malcolm found incredibly frustrating. The thing is, he could be so sweet, so loving. Beata forgave him over and over again, with the result that she became smaller and smaller in every sense of the word. It was so difficult for those around her; she would ask for help, then immediately withdraw when anyone attempted to get close.’
‘Did her parents contact the police?’
‘Yes. They asked for help and advice just a few months before she was murdered, but Beata refused to cooperate, insisted she didn’t need any support. Out of pure fear, I should think. The police frightened her more than anything else. And then the call came in to say she’d been found dead at home, and it turned into a murder investigation.’
The way such situations often ended – no one needed to put it into words.
‘Who found her?’ Alex realised he had slid too far down and shuffled to adjust his position. The shiny sofa was unforgivably ugly; he wondered where the hell they’d found it. No doubt tight-fisted Margareta Berlin was somehow responsible . . .
‘Her husband. He called the emergency services in total panic mode.’
Alex suppressed a sigh.
‘What made it so difficult to convict him?’
‘He had an alibi. We worked like dogs to crack it, but we got nowhere. We couldn’t prove he’d been at home when Beata was thought to have died, and that was the crucial point. Plus the murder weapon was never found.’
‘Did you follow up on any other suspects?’ Fredrika asked.
‘No. I don’t mean we didn’t bother – we were open to the possibility that it could be someone other than Richard. Aggravated burglary, for example, but when there isn’t a single piece of evidence, you can’t really go in that direction.’
Another detail that stuck in Alex’s mind. Not a single piece of evidence to suggest that Beata had been killed in connection with an aggravated burglary. Not a single piece.
‘Can you elaborate on that?’ Alex could hear the thickness in his voice; it always happened when he was tense. ‘What do you mean when you say there was no evidence to link Beata’s death to a burglary?’
‘There was absolutely no indication of forced entry into the apartment,’ Linda explained. ‘Which could mean that she’d forgotten to lock the door, of course, but all of her friends insisted that the front door was always locked. That left two alternatives: either she let the murderer in, or the person in question had a key.’
‘And you concluded that the second option was the most likely?’ Fredrika said.
‘Yes. Because of the way she died, it seemed that she’d been surprised by the perpetrator and hadn’t heard him coming.’
Alex frowned. ‘Because of the way she died?’
‘She was shot at close range. The bullet hit her in the chest; she would have died instantly.’
Alex and Fredrika looked at each other, both equally surprised. Alex could feel the unease clawing at his body. Beata had been killed in exactly the same way as her father. With a bullet to the chest. This was what he’d known all along, deep down: the murder of Malcolm Benke was hiding a bigger story. Maybe even big enough to encompass the letter writer who had sent Alex a cryptic message.
I am doing what you cannot do.
Fredrika crossed her legs. ‘Do you happen to know whether Beata was wearing her wedding ring when she was found?’
Linda slowly shook her head.
‘I can’t remember, to be honest – but I can certainly check.’
There was a brief silence. Alex thought they were unlikely to get any further, and might as well bring the meeting to a close. Then Fredrika spoke:
‘Where exactly was she when she died?’
‘In the living room. She was sitting in an armchair in front of the open fire.’
The working day was drawing to a close. Fredrika had to think back a long way to recall a time when she had felt so powerless. She couldn’t have predicted the turn the investigation would take, how surprised she would be. Nor could she have expected Alex to receive an anonymous message at home. Her stomach contracted with fear. Everything was out of balance, both at work and at home.
And I thought I’d be able to fix this.
She shouldn’t have gone along with Spencer’s suggestion that they should carry on working as normal, rather than ‘sitting staring at each other’ all summer. What the hell had they been thinking? This was Spencer’s last summer – of course they should be sitting staring at each other!
The Flood Page 9
