She closed the door behind her.
What the hell has happened to you? Alex thought.
He remembered her reaction when she heard that Noah Johansson had been murdered: shock and something resembling consternation.
As if to confirm that he was right to be concerned, she immediately said:
‘Have we heard any more about the funeral director? The murder Berlin told us about yesterday?’
Alex moved a pile of papers that were perfectly fine where they were.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I was just . . . I thought it might be important because of the way she came rushing in.’
‘Important in what way? Did you know him?’
Alex sounded more brusque than he’d intended, which provoked a reaction from Fredrika.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ she said.
He slammed a drawer shut.
‘I could ask you the same question. I can see there’s a problem. Something’s been wrong for months.’
Suddenly he was afraid; he hadn’t felt that way since he was a child. Why hadn’t he considered the idea that Spencer might have visited a funeral director on behalf of his wife? As he had once done. Lena had wanted everything arranged before she died, so they had met Noah while she was still alive. On at least one occasion Alex had gone to see him alone while Lena was at home.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude. You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I . . .’
‘It’s fine.’
But it obviously wasn’t. Alex thought he could see sorrow in her eyes, maybe fear too.
Tell me. Tell me.
The door flew open to reveal Margareta Berlin.
‘Same old same old,’ she said. ‘You two closeting yourselves away with your secrets.’
Alex couldn’t deal with this crap right now. He shot out of his chair and strode towards the door, much to Berlin’s surprised. He shouted so loudly that he almost frightened himself more than her.
‘Out! Get out of here, you mad witch!’
He slammed the door in her face. Had he ever felt this good? He didn’t think so.
‘Waste of fucking space,’ he muttered to himself as he turned around to see Fredrika staring at him, open-mouthed.
‘You’re crazy,’ she said quietly. Then she burst out laughing. Alex laughed too, because he needed the release – not because he felt particularly cheerful. He was still wondering what was wrong with Fredrika.
‘Just let me know if there’s anything I can do,’ he said.
‘Thank you.’
*
As the team gathered, Alex saw Berlin glide past in the corridor. She didn’t even deign to look at him, nor did she comment on the fact that they were using the Lions’ Den when she’d said only the previous day that it wasn’t to be used. Ross hadn’t been invited; they would update him later.
‘So where are we?’ he began. ‘Fredrika, could you tell us what you heard from London yesterday?’
Fredrika passed on the information Linda Sullivan had given her. Beata Benke’s husband had also been murdered, and they now knew that he’d taken Beata’s wedding ring after her death.
‘Do we seriously think he died as a result of a random burglary?’ Ivan asked when she’d finished.
Eager Ivan. He seemed a little less eager now, which made Alex feel sad.
‘No, we don’t. Or at least I don’t.’
‘Nor me,’ Fredrika said, which made Ivan’s face light up. ‘The murderer knew exactly what he was after. On the other hand, I’m not sure if the person who took the ring had intended to kill Beata’s husband, or if it became necessary in the heat of the moment, so to speak.’
Alex was trying to work out a timeline. ‘When did he die?’
‘In June.’
‘In June . . .’ An unpleasant thought was taking shape in Alex’s head; the murderer they were looking for had made his plans months in advance.
‘That still doesn’t explain why Lovisa Wahlberg also had to die,’ Ivan said.
He was absolutely right. Nor did they know whether there was a connection with Noah Johansson’s death – if it hadn’t been for the letter Alex had found. The letter that had kind of hidden itself behind the bookshelf.
Could the words used in that letter be dismissed as a coincidence?
He didn’t think so.
He thought it had been written by the murderer.
But what the hell was it doing in Noah’s office?
He cleared his throat, unsure of how to proceed.
‘Did you want to say something?’ Fredrika was looking at him. ‘I was going to talk about the book we found at Malcolm Benke’s house.’
Alex waved his hand in a gesture of agreement, and Fredrika went over what she’d found out from her husband, the professor. This was news to Alex.
‘So there are very few copies of this book around,’ she concluded.
‘Could it help us to find our perpetrator?’ Alex asked.
‘I doubt it, unfortunately.’
‘It might still be worth contacting antiquarian bookshops in the Stockholm area,’ Ivan suggested. ‘See if they’ve heard of the book, if anyone’s asked about it.’
Alex glanced at Fredrika.
‘Good idea,’ she said. Ivan made a note.
Alex took over. ‘The murder weapon – we must have more information by now.’
One of the CSIs sat up a little straighter. If she’d been a cat she’d have purred.
‘We certainly have. I also took the liberty of contacting our colleagues in London. I didn’t want to say anything until we were sure, but now we are.’
‘Sure about what?’ Fredrika just wanted her to get straight to the point.
The CSI wasn’t happy, but she managed to keep her voice steady:
‘Sure that Malcolm Benke was shot with the same kind of gun as the one that killed his daughter. A Colt 45.’
A low hum of conversation broke out in the room.
‘The same kind?’ Alex said slowly. ‘Not the same gun?’
‘No.’
Alex processed what he’d just heard. Whoever had killed Malcolm had gone to considerable lengths to make his murder match that of Beata.
‘Thanks, that’s extremely valuable. Now on to something else. Yesterday a funeral director by the name of Noah Johansson was killed. There are reasons to believe that his death could be connected to the others.’
Silence.
Alex knew he’d shocked his colleagues with his brutal statement.
‘Another murder?’ someone said.
‘Yes. Another murder.’
He went on to tell them about the letter. He left out his own involvement, but reported on the content of the letter and its possible significance for their investigation.
‘Can we read it?’ Fredrika asked.
Her face had lost all its colour. She seemed completely floored by this new information.
‘Of course.’
‘I don’t understand the link to Noah Johansson.’
‘No one does.’
‘I mean, seriously.’
‘I am being serious.’
‘Did the murderer leave a message for you?’
Fredrika’s question took Alex by surprise. Everyone was looking at him with curiosity.
‘No – at least not that we’ve found so far. And I don’t think we will.’
The last few words just slipped out.
The murder of Noah Johansson was something different.
Alex had no doubt that it had been driven by a different motivation from the murders of Malcolm Benke and Lovisa Wahlberg. However, he was equally convinced that the perpetrator was the same person.
Ivan thought for a moment, then said:
‘We still haven’t found a link between Benke and Wahlberg?’
Torbjörn Ross.
‘No.’
‘No mutual interests or acquaintances?’
Torbjörn Ross.
‘Not as far as we know.’
How crazy was Ross?
Not that crazy. That was the short answer, the only one that mattered.
And as if he’d sensed that Alex was thinking about him, he knocked on the door. Everyone turned around as Torbjörn Ross entered the Lions’ Den. His gaze swept the room and he realised this was a gathering to which he should have been invited.
‘We’ve just interviewed Lovisa Wahlberg’s boyfriend,’ he said. ‘Could you come with me to check on something, Alex?’
‘I’m in the middle of a meeting. I’ll be along in—’
‘Now,’ Ross said. ‘Berlin wants you there now.’
Alex gave a dry laugh.
‘Tell her I’ll be there when I have time.’
Neither Berlin nor Ross could tell Alex what to do; they both needed to understand that.
How could such a short document change so much? That was what Fredrika asked herself when she read the letter Alex had found in Noah’s office. A three-page declaration of love that also contained a devastating confession. Someone had run over a woman then left the scene of the accident without calling for help. Without getting out of the car to see what could be done for her.
Fredrika felt her deodorant dissolve, felt the sweat begin to pour from her armpits.
Because in the letter were sentences that made her want to set fire to it, make it disappear. Sentences and phrases that glowed as if they had been written in red-hot lava.
When you read this, I will be gone . . . It is incomprehensible – impossible to grasp – that I am sitting here writing, yet I am aware that my time is measured out.
Yes, she thought. It is incomprehensible.
She knew exactly who had written the letter. She had tried and tried to find a reason to be doubtful, but such a reason didn’t exist. She couldn’t even make it up. She read the letter seven times before she admitted defeat. There was no doubt. None whatsoever.
Spencer.
Spencer had written the letter.
Spencer was the man who knew he was going to die, and had therefore written a farewell letter to someone he called ‘my darling’. Unless he had more surprises up his sleeve, Fredrika assumed he was writing to her. But she wasn’t sure. Of anything. Not any more.
Do you remember just after our daughter was born, when I was still recovering from the car accident?
Oh yes, she remembered.
I was careless just once. Once. But that was enough to ruin another person’s life.
Her memory failed her at this point. Which occasion was he talking about?
I got in the car and drove to Uppsala to meet my boss in connection with a dinner that was to be held later that evening.
Uppsala. Always Uppsala. The place where Fredrika had loved being a student, but hadn’t wanted to stay. The major sticking point in her relationship with Spencer. He would have loved to carry on living there, with no need to commute. Fredrika had won that battle. But at what cost?
By this point I’m sure you are deeply shocked, castigating me for my cowardice, wondering what the hell I was thinking. I was thinking about myself – that’s the short answer. And you and our daughter, and later our son.
His fucking ego. Yes, Spencer. I am castigating you for your cowardice.
And that’s the way it stayed until a few months ago.
When you found out you were going to die, Fredrika added.
Others have done similar things, behaved atrociously and evaded all responsibility, but I don’t want you to remember me that way. That’s why I want to tell you that I’m different from those people. I am actually trying to take responsibility, in spite of all the years that have passed. As an author once said: I am putting everything right.
At that point Fredrika’s heart stopped, every single time she read the letter.
I am putting everything right.
I am putting everything right.
I am putting everything right.
Only words, taken from a little-known author, but that was of minor importance. Because certain things just couldn’t be true. It was very simple. The fact that Spencer was going to die was one of those things. The idea that he’d turned into a serial killer, driven by guilt, was another. Wasn’t that what he was saying? He was going after people who he thought should pay with their lives, for one reason or another.
It can’t be true.
Not one single word.
Waves of panic coursed through her body.
Sick in the head.
That’s what he was, quite literally.
But was he sick enough to have lost his mind?
Could the tumour have transformed him into a psychopath?
‘For fuck’s sake!’ Fredrika shouted, and hurled the letter at the wall. The three sheets of paper drifted to the floor, mocking her with their silence.
She hurried over and picked them up, afraid that someone would have heard her outburst and would come to see what was wrong.
She had to pull herself together, try to think clearly.
How the hell was she supposed to do that?
At best she was married to a man who had run over another human being. At worst this incident had turned him into a serial killer.
Fredrika’s hands were shaking. Who else would be able to work out that Spencer had written the letter? She glanced through the text yet again, searching for revealing details. It was obvious that the writer was a man with two children, who’d been involved in a car accident and who worked in Uppsala.
Not good. Not good at all.
Then she calmed herself. She hadn’t told anyone at work that Spencer was dying and that Noah Johansson had been his funeral director. However, it was only a matter of time before they went through Noah’s client records and found Spencer’s name.
Her breathing was laboured.
The letter didn’t necessarily prove that Spencer was the murderer they were looking for. Quite the reverse. It was illogical to think that Spencer was trying to atone for running over the woman by killing a series of innocent people – people she was certain he didn’t even know.
She put her head in her hands, tried to gather her thoughts, which were galloping off in different directions like wild horses. She didn’t know what she ought to feel, what she ought to think. There was an infinitesimal chance that someone else had written the letter, that the man she was married to hadn’t left a woman with life-changing injuries. But she didn’t believe it for a second. Spencer was the writer, and she was meant to receive the letter after he was gone.
I am putting everything right.
If only it wasn’t for those words, particularly in combination with the reference to compensation:
I’ve tried to compensate my victim, as far as possible at least. I’m afraid that in doing so I have inevitably left a trail.
‘What the hell have you done, Spencer?’ she whispered. ‘And to whom?’
It was going to take weeks to get rid of the revolting stench. Vendela was given this depressing news by the cleaning company the housing committee had brought in; apparently getting rid of the source of the problem wasn’t enough.
Vendela had slept for only a few hours. She couldn’t shake off the nightmarish memory of finding Henry Lindgren, of how painful it had been to see his ex-wife’s reaction. Why had they split up? There seemed to be a lot of love left in their relationship. Clearly it hadn’t been enough.
She wandered restlessly around her apartment. On a day like this she could have done with an office. She had to get out, get away, go for a walk. Anything to stop her thinking about Henry.
At that moment the doorbell rang. Vendela padded into the hallway, hating the fact that she felt unsafe. It didn’t matter that the police hadn’t been particularly worried; they assumed he’d died of natural causes. His death was the issue as far as Vendela was concerned; she hated death.
Henry’s ex-wife was at the door. Vendela was about to give her a hug, as if Vera was a long-lost frie
nd she hadn’t seen for ages, but managed to stop herself in time.
‘I thought I’d go up to Henry’s apartment and water his plants, but I don’t want to go on my own,’ Vera said. ‘Will you come with me?’
That wasn’t at the top of Vendela’s wish list, but she didn’t like to say no to the older woman. What was the point of watering the plants? It wasn’t as if Henry had gone away and would soon be back.
‘Of course. Wouldn’t it be easier if you took the plants with you? I mean, otherwise they’ll just end up . . .’
She broke off, unsure of how to continue.
Vera fiddled with the keys in her hand.
‘I’m not sure what the rules and regulations are. I don’t know if I’m allowed to take anything, or even if I’m allowed in. We’re not married any more; on paper I’m only a friend.’
Vendela thought for a moment. Would there be a problem if they went into the apartment without permission? Then again, who was there to ask? Surely you weren’t meant to bother the police with that kind of thing?
‘Okay, let’s go,’ she said decisively. ‘Of course the plants need watering.’
They walked up the stairs in silence, forever united by having found a man dead in his own home.
‘I told him to go to the doctor,’ Vera said as she unlocked the door. ‘Over and over again I told him, but he wouldn’t listen.’
Her hands were shaking, her voice on the point of breaking. Vendela placed a hand on her arm but said nothing.
The door swung open. ‘So here we are again,’ Vera said.
Even though they’d left the windows open overnight, the smell was appalling.
‘Jesus,’ Vendela whispered.
‘It’s horrible,’ Vera agreed. ‘I’ll just nip into the kitchen and grab the watering can.’
And that was exactly what she did. She filled the can and turned to water the plants on the windowsill, but then she froze in mid movement.
The Flood Page 18
