Noah’s breathing was shallow.
‘I don’t know. I mean, I suppose the kidnapper might have been after my sister-in-law, but Dan’s a psychologist. He’s worked with criminals, and he’s certainly failed more than once.’
‘Failed?’
‘I’m not sure how to put it – that’s not my world at all. But he’s worked with deeply depressed individuals, and some of them – maybe two or three – have taken their own lives.’
A bird crashed into Alex’s window, making him jump.
Noah interpreted his silence as an invitation to keep talking.
‘He has a duty of confidentiality, of course; he says very little about his work. He was very upset last autumn though – he actually received threats.’
It was like quietly starting up an engine then allowing it to idle. Alex shuffled uncomfortably, not wanting to acknowledge what he was feeling. A spark had been ignited within him; elements of Noah’s account had captured his interest.
‘What happened last autumn?’
‘It was all over the papers. A man shot his family, then himself. He was Dan’s patient. And Dan didn’t manage to stop him.’
Malin was moving through the house like an apparition. She was looking for Dan, calling his name.
‘Dan?’
She hated the way her voice seemed to echo, bouncing off the walls. There were curtains and rugs, but it didn’t make any difference. The house was like a sink hole they couldn’t possibly fill.
She remembered with horror what the children had asked in the beginning:
‘How long, Mummy? How long do we have to stay here?’
She’d answered:
‘I don’t know, but Daddy and I want to get out too.’
They’d stopped asking when they were going home. It was as if they’d capitulated, or as if something inside them had broken. They’d stopped – and started – doing so many things. Her daughter had stopped crying and started remaining silent. Her son had stopped talking about his friends and started wetting the bed at night. At her lowest moments Malin thought the decline she was witnessing was irreversible. If the children came out of this house alive (something she doubted more and more with each passing day), they would do so as damaged individuals.
‘Dan?’
She went upstairs, the carpet stifling any sound.
Dan was in the bathroom. He’d had a shower and was standing in front of the mirror combing his hair. He’d refused to cut it ever since they arrived, and by now he looked like a hippie. It had been this long once before, over twelve years ago, when their relationship was still pretty new. Dan had lost his job, and had declared that he wasn’t going to get a haircut until he found a new post. It had taken a good six months, by which time both Dan and his hairstyle had changed beyond recognition.
Malin thought back to what she’d said when unemployment threatened to break him.
‘You can’t give up. Things don’t happen by themselves.’
The fact that he’d become so weak so quickly had terrified her. Did she really love this man? Was he the kind of person she ought to invest in? Would he be able to shoulder responsibility for their relationship, their life together? Would he want to? Then came the day when his face lit up; he had an interview. The day Malin found out she was pregnant. She’d pushed aside all her doubts; she didn’t have time to worry about their future, it would have to take care of itself. On the whole it had gone pretty well. Their careers had flourished, their life had been so perfect that she’d sometimes wondered how one family could be granted so much happiness.
With hindsight, she knew better. Life was like any bank. If you withdrew too much, one day you would discover that the account was empty.
‘Why don’t you answer when I call you?’
Dan blinked at his reflection.
‘I didn’t hear you.’
‘Nonsense – of course you did.’
Malin wanted to cry, to sit down on the cold tiles and let the tears flow, but she couldn’t do it. Her legs refused to bend and her eyes were dry.
Dan walked past her into their room. He dropped the towel on the bed and pulled on a pair of underpants. Malin had no idea when they’d last had sex. Or when she’d last reminded him not to drop his wet towel on the bed.
Things that had once been important no longer seemed to matter. She followed him and closed the bedroom door behind them.
‘We need to talk,’ she said.
He stiffened, then began to pick out the clothes he wanted to wear. Shirt and trousers. No socks. His feet were just as white as hers. They didn’t look as if they belonged to a living person. That was why Malin always wore socks – so she didn’t have to see what their stay in this house was costing them.
She searched for the right words. It didn’t go too well.
‘We . . . we have to start doing something.’
Dan stared at her.
‘Like what?’
‘Something. Anything.’
Malin spread her hands wide; to her relief her eyes were no longer dry.
‘Darling, we’re falling apart,’ she whispered. ‘Soon we won’t exist any more.’
His face grew stern, then shut down.
‘Isn’t that the point?’ he said.
She wanted to scream, more than anything, but it was impossible. The children would hear, they’d be scared. They already had so many questions she was unable to answer.
‘Of course that’s the point!’ Her voice was so strained that it was as hoarse as his. ‘But that doesn’t mean it has to be that way! Don’t you understand? We have to start resisting, we have to . . .’
‘Resisting?’
He spoke the single word so quietly that her blood froze.
‘Resisting, Malin? Who do you suggest we . . . resist?’
She shook her head. If only the tears would flow. If only everything that had become so hard and solid would grow warm and begin to thaw.
‘Him. We tried once, but . . .’
Dan took a few rapid (much too rapid) steps in her direction.
‘Leave it.’
Malin automatically backed away as he came towards her. Gone were the days when she used to run straight into his open arms. Why wasn’t he prepared to talk about how they could get out of here?
Maybe because he knew deep down, just as she did, that it was pointless.
Because they knew their every move was being monitored.
Because they didn’t know how quickly the man who had done this could get to the house, they didn’t know how far away he was.
Because a failed escape attempt could mean their deaths.
‘We can’t go on like this,’ she said. ‘The children . . .’
‘The children feel like shit,’ Dan said.
There. At long last. A single tear ran down her cheek.
‘Exactly!’ she said. ‘Exactly. The children feel like shit. We can’t allow this to continue. We have a responsibility as parents. This nightmare isn’t simply going to end; we have to realise that, we . . .’
Dan stepped back, silencing her with the movement.
‘I’ve already realised that,’ he said in a voice that was too calm. It was filled with resolve, and it made her suspicious. He was also smiling – a joyless smile.
‘I’ve been thinking,’ he went on. ‘It might work after all.’
His words should have brought relief, but Malin’s reaction was the opposite. She was stressed, terrified.
‘Yes?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Yes. Yes. Wait a few days and you’ll see.’
He didn’t say another word all evening. Malin’s fear grew along with the silence. Her heart was pounding so hard it was painful.
Two things were perfectly clear following her conversation with Dan.
First of all, he’d lost his grip on reality.
And secondly Malin now believed he was a danger to both himself and his family.
The evening sun caressed the tarmac on which Fredr
ika Bergman was walking. She was heading home from work. Away from the equally unpleasant and incomprehensible letter that had been sent to Alex, away from an investigation she didn’t understand. Everywhere she looked she saw people hurrying along in the fine weather, hurrying to enjoy themselves. She thought that was a good answer to the question ‘What is typically Swedish?’: living in cold and darkness for so much of the year that the odd summer’s day evoked anxiety more than happiness.
What happens if I don’t enjoy myself enough?
When will the next opportunity come along?
Spencer rang as she was crossing Torsgatan and passing Vasa Park. He wanted to meet at the outdoor cafe on Odenplan, make the most of the sunshine. Of course. He had more reason than anyone to seize the day.
So many things to fit in.
So many things he would never have the chance to experience again.
Fredrika’s lungs burned as she inhaled.
‘Wouldn’t you prefer somewhere by the water?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Odenplan isn’t exactly charming.’
‘By the water? What difference does that make? I’m happy with good food and decent wine.’
She let him decide. This was his last summer; she had to allow him to make his own choices.
She dashed away the tears from her cheeks. More tears. She couldn’t think of another summer when she’d cried so much, or another autumn she’d dreaded as much as the one that lay just weeks away. In her darkest hours she saw everything slipping through her fingers, the children being placed in foster care when she died of a broken heart. It was as if she needed to reach rock bottom in order to find the strength to climb up again.
The children.
It was for their sake that she would continue to put one foot in front of the other. Anything else would be unthinkable, unforgivable.
‘What’s the worst thing?’ her mother had asked. ‘What’s the worst thing about what you’re going through?’
Fredrika hadn’t hesitated for a second.
‘The certainty,’ she’d said.
She hated – hated – people who insisted it ‘must be good to know for sure’. As if the doctors’ diagnosis brought peace of mind, according to the totally meaningless principle that ‘it’s better to know than to worry’. Only the lucky individual who’d never seen their worst nightmare become a reality could possibly think that way.
I won’t accept it, she thought. I won’t.
‘Don’t cry, Fredrika,’ Spencer said on the phone. His voice was gentle, his patience endless. Unlike hers. Quite the reverse.
That was where it ended, in fact, right then and there.
I
won’t
accept
it.
She stopped dead and voiced her despair.
‘How the fuck can it be like this?’ she yelled so loudly that people passing by turned around. ‘How can you leave me? I don’t get it!’
She was sobbing now, sobbing for all the things that would never be, all the things they hadn’t got around to doing, for the children who were so small, and for her own pitch-black future.
‘Do you know how it feels?’ she whispered. ‘It feels as if I’m going to die along with you.’
She heard Spencer’s breathing and felt incredibly guilty.
The kingdom of sorrow was too cramped. There wasn’t room for both of them.
‘See you soon,’ Spencer said in a muffled voice, and ended the call.
Fredrika wept all the way to the cafe. When she arrived Spencer was sitting at one of the round tables. Thinner than before he fell ill, but only someone who’d known him for a long time would notice. From a distance he looked strong and healthy. He spotted Fredrika and raised a hand in greeting.
She waved back, then hurried over and kissed him on the lips. Spencer opened with his favourite question:
‘Hard day?’
‘Same as usual.’
The events of the day had already been filed away in her mind, leaving the boundless love for the man she’d adored for virtually all of her adult life. Their time together might be limited, but her love was not.
‘I want us to reconsider,’ she said. ‘I want us to give up work, be together instead.’
Spencer shook his head.
‘Grief would drive us both crazy. It’s out of the question – I don’t want you to remember my last few weeks in that way.’
‘But if we’re talking about my memories, then surely I have the right to choose?’
‘Sorry, I didn’t express myself very well. It’s not just about your memories, it’s also about how I’m going to cope with the realisation that every single thing I do this summer will be for the last time.’
He sighed.
Fredrika swallowed. ‘There are other options,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t have to stick to the choice you made.’
Spencer flinched.
‘Are you crazy? What are you saying? Do you expect me to wait for a slow death that will inevitably be a living hell? To experience how it feels to lose control over my bodily functions, one by one? Never, Fredrika. We’ve already discussed this.’
And of course they had. And of course she understood his thought process. His brain encompassed everything that made him the man he was, and letting his illness slowly obliterate him was out of the question.
‘I ordered you a glass of red,’ he said.
‘Perfect.’
‘It’s a Burgundy – the one we had at the Erlandssons’ a few weeks ago. Heavy and voluptuous – do you remember?’
‘I do.’
He took her hand and kissed it.
‘That’s what makes it easier,’ he said, leaning across the table. ‘The fact that you remember.’
Fredrika started crying again. Spencer put both arms around her and drew her close. The person who was dying consoling the person who was fit and well. And all he could say was:
‘Why does it have to end like this?’
The letter weighed exactly thirty-two grams. Almost nothing at all. And yet Alex suspected that it made a huge difference. He looked at the copy he’d brought home. The short lines, the assertion that something needed to be put right, and that Alex was incapable of doing what must be done.
Diana had been shaken when he got back. She realised the letter was important, and was afraid it might also be dangerous.
‘If we’re under threat then I need to know,’ she’d said.
Alex had calmed her, assured her there was no threat, that he had no idea why the letter had arrived. She’d looked resigned when she went off to meet a friend a little while ago, almost as if she didn’t believe him.
Now he was alone in the house, slumped in the chair behind his desk. He had called forensics, learned that there were no fingerprints on either the letter or the envelope. No trace of the sender. Hardly unexpected, but a disappointment nevertheless. A couple of colleagues had made discreet door-to-door inquiries in the neighbourhood; no one had seen the letter being delivered.
He wondered whether to call Fredrika. They hadn’t finished discussing the letter; in fact they’d hardly started, because as usual Berlin had got in the way with her stupid questions, making a fuss and showing off, pretending to understand what was going on. As if there was anything to understand at such an early stage.
Alex reached for his phone, then hesitated. He had other things to think about, such as the conversation with Noah Johansson about his missing brother. Alex was very sceptical about the idea that an entire family could have been abducted from their home and were being held in an isolated location without arousing suspicions. It just didn’t make sense, even after Noah had passed on the story of the client who’d killed his family and himself. According to Noah, he was more or less the only one who thought something was wrong – apart from a friend of his sister-in-law. As far as Alex was concerned, this was a clear sign that Noah had got the wrong end of the stick.
Anyway, if they have been abducted they’
re no longer alive.
It was a troubling thought, but surely it was the only answer. In which case, would they ever find the bodies of the missing family?
His phone rang and he picked it up, trying to ignore the soreness and stiffness in his fingers. His father had taught him everything he knew about rheumatism, which was a hell of a lot more than Alex wanted to know. Alex didn’t have rheumatism. He’d made the decision, and that was the end of the matter.
He glanced at the display: Peder Rydh.
His first feeling was a surge of happiness. Peder was a colleague he’d worked with for a long time, someone he’d missed ever since the day Peder had been forced to leave the police. Which led him straight to the second feeling: anger. Because for all that time Alex had been fighting to bring him back. At first it had seemed impossible, then things began to look a little more positive. That was immediately after the fatal shootings in the Jewish community, the Solomon Community, where Peder had been working as head of security. Unfortunately Peder had changed his mind, decided he didn’t want to return to the police. He was happy on the outside.
In which case he could damn well stay there.
‘Alex Recht.’
He couldn’t help liking Peder. He wanted to hear his voice, find out how things were going.
‘Hi, Alex.’
‘Hi.’
That treacherous smile that kind of sneaked out of its cage and plastered itself across his face when he spoke to Peder.
‘Hi,’ Peder said again. ‘I just wanted to see how you were. It’s been a while.’
A year, Alex worked out. They hadn’t been in touch for a year, and it was Peder who’d called him on that occasion too. Anger gave way to a guilty conscience.
‘How are things?’ he asked.
Peder gave a brief answer; he didn’t seem interested in discussing the details. He mentioned that his sons were growing up, that they needed less care than when they were tiny.
‘You remember, don’t you?’ he said. ‘When they were babies and everything was crap?’
The Flood Page 11
