The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  The odd giggle could be heard around the room.

  ‘Wonderful,’ Alex said dryly. ‘Absolutely wonderful.’

  ‘Wonderful or not, that’s where he is.’

  ‘How long has he been in there?’ Ivan asked.

  The head of surveillance picked up his mobile and read the latest entry into the log.

  ‘He went in six minutes ago and he’s just come out.’

  Fredrika smiled along with the others, but exhaustion was etched on her face. Alex couldn’t help being disappointed when she passed on what she’d found out from Solid Security – both at the fact that Peder had been fired, and that he’d lied. The guy was a mess; this had gone on for years, and Alex just had to accept it. He’d thought the post with the Solomon Community would give Peder security and clear parameters, but he’d still managed to fuck up. Alex didn’t know whether it was that or something else that had caused problems, but obviously family issues had cost him a job.

  ‘Is Ross on his way here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, he should be here in a few minutes. He’s in the lift.’

  ‘Not on his own?’ Fredrika said.

  ‘A member of our team is with him all the time. We’ve brought in surveillance officers from Uppsala, so we’re pretty sure he won’t recognise them.’

  Alex thought his colleague was wrong, but he didn’t say so. He had thought long and hard about the fact that surveillance had lost Ross, and come to the conclusion that it wasn’t an unfortunate mishap. Quite the reverse. Ross knew he was being followed, and there was no way he was going to lead them to a place of interest while they had eyes on him.

  ‘I presume we’ve put a tracker on his car?’

  ‘We have; the problem is that he uses other vehicles. When we lost him yesterday he was driving his wife’s car.’

  ‘His mobile?’

  ‘Switched off.’

  Alex let out a bark of laughter.

  ‘So when he disappeared he was in his wife’s car with his phone switched off? And you think he doesn’t know he’s under surveillance? Do me a favour.’

  The room fell silent, then Ivan’s phone pinged.

  He got to his feet. ‘Sorry, back in a minute.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Alex snapped. That was his way of saying that it should wait, but Ivan headed for the door.

  ‘Won’t be long.’

  Berlin scowled as he disappeared. ‘He’d better hurry up or he’ll miss what I have to say about the latest decision by the prosecutor.’

  ‘Which is?’ Alex prompted her.

  ‘Which is that he’s given us the green light to open the wills.’ She looked very pleased with herself. Fredrika stared at her.

  ‘What wills?’

  ‘This is something we discussed last night after you’d gone home,’ Alex informed her. ‘There are fingerprints on the letter I found in Noah Johansson’s office, but they don’t match anything in our database. Ivan thinks the letter was written by one of Noah’s clients, who has also deposited a will with Noah.’

  ‘So we need access to the wills to see if we can match the fingerprints,’ Berlin added.

  Fredrika was still staring at Berlin as if she’d just said something utterly incomprehensible. She took a sip of water, then put down her glass with a bang.

  ‘We have at least four murder victims. Malcolm Benke, Lovisa Wahlberg, Henry Lindgren and Noah Johansson. Dan Johansson and his family might also be dead, we don’t know. But we do know that we have little or no forensic evidence. We don’t have a single fingerprint from any of the crime scenes, or a trace of DNA, or a single witness. And yet we think the perpetrator is so fucking clumsy that he’s left his prints on a letter that’s essentially a confession? Really?’

  Her outburst took Alex by surprise.

  ‘We know all that, but surely we have to look into the letter before we can eliminate it?’

  Fredrika swallowed.

  ‘Of course. I just mean we shouldn’t waste time on the letter as a way of linking Noah’s death to the others. We already have a connection through his brother.’

  Alex didn’t take his eyes off her.

  ‘It can hardly do any harm to check out the wills.’

  ‘Maybe not.’

  There was no time for guessing games, no time for mutiny. Alex didn’t know what was upsetting Fredrika, but if she wasn’t prepared to talk, then she would be overruled.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ he said.

  Ivan reappeared.

  ‘So the prosecutor’s agreed that we can open the wills,’ Alex told him.

  But Ivan wasn’t listening. His cheeks were pink with pleasure.

  He looks like a child.

  ‘Good news?’ Berlin asked.

  ‘I’m going to meet a man who owns an antiquarian bookshop. I rang around several second-hand and antiquarian shops, asked if they were familiar with Sander’s book, and if they’d sold any copies recently. This guy sold five copies a few weeks ago.’

  Alex could have cheered.

  ‘How come he had five copies?’ Fredrika asked dubiously.

  ‘He’s the author’s grandson.’

  Alex slammed his fist down on the table in sheer euphoria. Something was happening at last!

  ‘Well done, Ivan. Show him a picture of Ross – if we can secure a positive ID, we’ve got him.’

  In his peripheral vision he could see that the colour had drained from Fredrika’s face for the second time in minutes.

  ‘Do you realise what this means?’ she said.

  Berlin sighed. ‘That we’re even closer to our perpetrator.’

  Our perpetrator, Alex thought. Not Ross. Berlin still had her doubts.

  Still.

  ‘Not just that,’ Fredrika said. ‘Five books. Five. We’ve found only two.’

  Everyone froze.

  ‘There must be one in Henry Lindgren’s apartment.’ Alex’s voice was suddenly hoarse.

  ‘There was a delivery note,’ Ivan recalled. ‘The postman had tried to deliver a thick package, but it wouldn’t go through the letterbox, so he took it back to the sorting office.’

  ‘That’s the book. Henry was supposed to receive it before he died, but he didn’t pick it up in time.’

  In time for his own death, in time for his murderer to get into his apartment.

  ‘Should we put out a warning?’ Berlin wondered.

  ‘Are you crazy?’ It wasn’t exactly polite, but Alex didn’t care. ‘We have nothing to suggest that these books are being given out with a particular degree of forward planning, plus there would be total chaos if we issued such a warning.’

  ‘On the other hand, there could be chaos if we don’t,’ Berlin countered. ‘We’ll be in a very difficult position if there are more deaths.’

  ‘There won’t be,’ the head of surveillance stated firmly. ‘That’s why we’re keeping a close eye on Ross.’

  ‘Yes, that’s gone really well so far,’ Fredrika said quietly.

  Her colleague gave her a dirty look, full of excuses no one wanted to hear.

  ‘Henry Lindgren,’ she went on. The note on his fridge. I can’t stop thinking about the sentence “Do you understand now, Alex?” It sounds like a plea. The perpetrator wants us to see something that’s clearly passing us by.’

  Alex spread his hands wide.

  ‘I’m so sick of these guessing games!’

  He’d also wondered about that sentence; it had haunted him during the night. Do you understand now, Alex?

  No, he had to confess. He didn’t understand. And he couldn’t help feeling that the day he did understand he would be deeply, deeply unhappy.

  It was decided that Fredrika would accompany Ivan to the bookshop in the Söder district. She didn’t say a word during the entire journey. She drove, while Ivan sat in silence in the passenger seat, staring out of the window. He was clearly uncomfortable, but Fredrika did nothing to alleviate the situation. She’d spent the night on the sofa; she was worn out, but totally focused on th
e tasks ahead.

  First of all she wanted to be absolutely sure that it was Ross rather than someone else who’d bought Morgan Sander’s books. Then she wanted to get to the bottom of the story of Ross’s dead daughter.

  She’d put all other thoughts aside for the time being. She couldn’t keep brooding over what Spencer had done, couldn’t think about the letter found in Noah’s office. And she definitely couldn’t face worrying about what would happen when they took fingerprints from all the wills and compared them with those on the letter. Why did Ivan have to be so keen?

  A young girl had once accused Spencer of forcing her to have sex with him in exchange for good grades. He had been arrested, held in custody, and eventually released, completely exonerated. Fredrika wondered how it would end this time, and how she would cope if he went to prison.

  She parked outside the bookshop.

  ‘You’re not allowed to park here,’ Ivan pointed out.

  ‘Right.’ She got out of the car, yanked open the shop door and was overwhelmed by the smell of dust and old books. She usually loved books, she’d spent thousands of hours in libraries when she was growing up. So many good habits, lost over the years.

  ‘Are you Jan?’ she heard Ivan say. He was talking to an elderly gentleman with his glasses perched on the end of his nose.

  ‘I am.’

  Fredrika wondered if Ivan had realised the same as she had.

  The man was blind. Why he was wearing glasses she had no idea; he couldn’t see a thing.

  Fuck.

  Ivan hesitated.

  ‘My name is Ivan Nilsson, and this is my colleague Fredrika Bergman. I’m the one who called you about Morgan Sander.’

  Jan nodded eagerly and held out his hand. Fredrika shook it first, then Ivan.

  ‘That was the strangest thing! I mean, we don’t even have those books on display; they were in a box up in the loft. They’d been there ever since Father died.’

  ‘You’re Morgan Sander’s son, not his grandson?’ Fredrika said.

  Jan raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m much too old to be Morgan’s grandson.’

  ‘I must have misunderstood when we spoke.’ Ivan glanced at Fredrika, wanting to bring the conversation to a close as quickly as possible. This was a waste of time.

  ‘When did you first meet the man who wanted to buy the books?’ Fredrika asked.

  ‘He came in one day towards the end of June, after Midsummer. I remember him well; he had a very pleasant voice. He called first, asked about the books. When I told him I’d be happy to sell him five, he was absolutely delighted.’

  ‘So how many copies did you have to begin with? Before you sold those five?’

  Fredrika instinctively liked the old man. There was nothing devious about him; he was honest and straightforward.

  ‘Ten, but we wanted to keep the other five.’

  Fredrika looked around. The shop was quiet; there was no sign of anyone else.

  ‘You said “we”. Who else works here?’

  Jan laughed. ‘My son and I run the business. I had poor eyesight for many, many years, but when I went blind two years ago I couldn’t manage on my own. He’ll be back soon – he’s just popped out.’

  ‘Did your son meet the man who bought the books?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Did he say why he wanted them?’ Ivan asked.

  ‘Not exactly. He said he needed them for his wife. I assumed she was some kind of collector. It’s not my place to poke around in other people’s private affairs.’

  Fredrika smiled. ‘Of course not.’ She thought about what Jan had just said: the man needed the books for his wife. For his wife?

  Ivan wasn’t prepared to give up. ‘Was there anyone else in the shop at the same time? Anyone who might be able to give a description of the customer?’

  ‘No, but I do remember his aftershave. It’s the same one my son-in-law uses – Boss.’

  Boss?

  It wasn’t a fragrance Fredrika associated with either Spencer or Ross. She shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, unable to shake off the feeling that they were heading in the wrong direction.

  Then Ivan had an idea.

  ‘If I play you a voice, do you think you might be able to tell us if it belongs to the man who was here?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  Ivan took out his phone and searched for a TV interview Ross had given a year or so ago in connection with another investigation.

  ‘Okay, here we go.’

  Ross’s voice was loud and clear.

  ‘As I’ve already said, I’m afraid the police are unable to confirm that . . .’

  Jan pursed his lips and shook his head.

  ‘No, he definitely wasn’t the one who bought the books. Not a shadow of a doubt.’

  Fredrika shook her head. Shit.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘One hundred per cent.’

  Ivan and Fredrika thanked Jan and left. It wasn’t Ross who’d bought the books. It was a different man.

  Sometimes things happened unbelievably fast. Therese, a member of the Solomon Community, expressed an interest in The Sanctuary, wanted to use it as a writer’s retreat during the winter months. Ed, the head of security who was responsible for the house, said that was fine as long as no one who was in need of protection contacted them in the meantime. He was always pleased when problems solved themselves. Therese was the daughter of one of Ed’s colleagues; that was how she had become part of the small circle who knew about The Sanctuary and its prerequisites.

  He arranged a meeting with her to underline the importance of not inviting any visitors to the property.

  ‘We regard The Sanctuary as our ultimate secure bastion,’ he said with deadly seriousness. ‘It’s a place where those in dire need of a safe haven can go. If such a situation arises you will have to move out immediately. On rare occasions we allow people outside the family to use it.’

  The family was his name for the Jewish people. The man currently leasing The Sanctuary was not a member of the family, but he was trusted because Peder Rydh had recommended him so highly. He was a middle-aged detective inspector with many years’ experience in keeping quiet about things that must not be said out loud. Ed had immediately seen the advantages of signing a contract with this particular individual.

  ‘I understand,’ Therese said. ‘As I said, I’m planning to write a horror novel, and I think the isolated spot will be just perfect.’

  She smiled. Ed smiled back.

  ‘You’ll need to sign a confidentiality agreement.’

  ‘I realise that. Would it be possible to see the place? Mum didn’t have any pictures to show me.’

  That didn’t surprise Ed; there weren’t any.

  ‘No problem. I could drive you over there now, but we won’t be able to go inside.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Because the house is occupied; we have a family living there. It’s part of the contract that only the tenant or tenants will enter the house, unless of course we find out that something untoward is going on. Then the agreement no longer applies.’

  Therese glanced at her watch.

  ‘Okay, I’ve got time now – let’s go.’

  *

  The stillness in the glade where The Sanctuary was located was always overwhelming. No cars, no people, only the forest and the land and the animals that belonged there. As Ed and Therese got out of the car they caught a glimpse of two roe deer.

  ‘Fantastic!’ Therese exclaimed.

  She inhaled deeply, almost as if she were tasting the fresh air.

  ‘Will you be all right on your own when it’s dark?’ Ed wondered.

  ‘I think so.’

  The sky was overcast, but there was no wind. On the whole it was quite a pleasant day.

  ‘Couldn’t we ring the bell, ask if they’d mind letting us in?’

  Ed looked at the closed front door. ‘No.’

  The house was in darkness; there appeared to be no lights o
n, which worried Ed. If the family had already moved out, he should have been informed. Maybe it would be a good idea to ring the bell after all? Check things out? Then he thought about the tenants and their history. The man who’d rented The Sanctuary had told Ed how much his daughter had suffered, how abusive her husband had been. It was of the utmost importance that she and her children were allowed to rest, to feel safe.

  Apparently they would be able to return to normality in the autumn.

  ‘You know how difficult it is to secure a conviction for that kind of behaviour,’ the man had said. ‘Women aren’t safe even if they get away in time. Because there’s no such thing as “in time” for them.’

  Ed knew exactly what the man was talking about, and was happy to help. However, he couldn’t help wondering what kind of life the tenants were living. He came over regularly just to make sure that everything was okay, but the family never seemed to go outside. Not the leaseholder’s daughter, nor her children or her new partner. They were always indoors. Ed couldn’t understand it.

  ‘There’s a lake a few hundred metres away,’ he told Therese. ‘I can show you the way through the forest if you feel like a walk.’

  She nodded, and Ed set off through the tall trees. Therese followed; after a couple of minutes she laughed and commented that it wouldn’t be easy to find the way back.

  ‘There’s no proper track!’

  ‘You have to keep an eye on the direction,’ Ed explained. ‘It’s to the west of the house.’

  That clearly didn’t help; it just made Therese laugh even more.

  ‘You’re not bringing me out here to kill me, are you? Remember, I write horror novels.’

  Ed glanced at her and to his relief saw that her eyes were sparkling. She definitely wasn’t scared of him.

  ‘Not far now.’

  ‘Can you fish in the lake?’

  ‘You certainly can.’

  They passed a grove of overgrown fir trees, then the lake opened up before them. The surface of the water was dark and looked strangely hard without the wind to cause ripples. As if you might knock yourself out if you tried to dive in.

  ‘It’s a good place to swim too – there’s a little beach,’ Ed said, pointing.

  ‘Okay.’ Therese didn’t look as if she had the least interest in swimming.