The Flood

by Kristina Ohlsson

  ‘Absolutely, same here.’ Berlin didn’t want her to think she didn’t care about the job.

  ‘I’d like a word about Torbjörn Ross.’

  ‘I thought that might be it.’

  ‘This can’t go wrong. The stakes are too high, the interest from the outside world is too great. So let me ask you this: are you absolutely certain we can’t come up with any more evidence?’

  ‘Apart from the books and the murder weapon?’

  ‘We can’t tie Ross to any of the crime scenes except the Solomon Community’s safe house. And we both know that’s a problem. There has to be something else,’ the prosecutor insisted.

  Berlin glanced at her watch, then at the darkening sky. Then at her watch again.

  ‘Give me another two hours.’

  ‘Two hours? You’ve got days, maybe weeks. We have enough to charge him, but I want this to go all the way. I want him convicted of the whole lot.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ Berlin said, ending the call.

  *

  Torbjörn Ross was asleep when Berlin walked into his cell. He sat up looking dazed. Berlin realised he hadn’t slept for a long time.

  I saw him every single day, and I didn’t even notice.

  He made a move to get up.

  ‘No, we’re staying here.’ Berlin closed the cell door and leaned against the wall. A boring green wall. ‘I have a problem.’

  Ross looked at her, his expression faintly amused.

  ‘We haven’t found a single trace of you at any of the crime scenes. Nor in the place where Lovisa Wahlberg was found.’

  ‘That’s because I was never there.’

  ‘So who hates you enough to plant a murder weapon in your garage? And books in your wardrobe?’

  Ross lowered his gaze. ‘It’s not my place to answer that question. It’s your job to find the guilty party, not mine.’

  ‘I’ve already found the guilty party. He’s sitting right in front of me.’

  Ross didn’t answer. He started picking at a cuticle that looked infected. Berlin suppressed a shudder.

  ‘You’ve always been a better police officer than me,’ she went on. ‘Help me out here, Torbjörn. Point me in the right direction.’

  The cuticle began to bleed. Ross pressed a finger onto the sore to stop the blood.

  ‘You wouldn’t have asked that question if you really believed I was the perpetrator,’ he said quietly.

  ‘In one case there’s not a shred of doubt.’

  ‘You’re right, I abducted Dan Johansson and his family. But all the rest . . . no. It wasn’t me.’

  Berlin thumped the wall with her clenched fist.

  ‘So who was it? Don’t you realise how this looks? I gave you Lovisa Wahlberg’s case, and if you didn’t kill her, then you must have taken the job seriously. So what did you find? You’ve had days – how far did you get? Or were you too busy with your kidnapping project?’

  Ross sighed. The paper sheet beneath him rustled.

  ‘What did you find?’ Berlin repeated. And was completely floored when Ross replied:

  ‘A police officer.’

  Berlin stiffened.

  ‘A police officer?’

  ‘Think about it. No signs of a break-in at Malcolm Benke’s house, or Lovisa Wahlberg’s apartment, or Henry Lindgren’s. What does that tell you?’

  ‘Oh, come on! It tells me that all the victims recognised their killer – you. I certainly don’t believe for a second that it was a police officer they’d never seen before, and that they let him in just because of his police ID card. It’s too simple, too naïve.’

  ‘Too simple? For fuck’s sake, Maggan, it’s always simple. Take a look at the most famous cases in Swedish history and you’ll find the most banal explanations as to how certain things happened.’

  Berlin shook her head. This was a bad idea, she should never have come.

  ‘If your only theory is that it was some unknown colleague who murdered those poor souls, then there’s no reason for me to stay here.’ She turned away, ready to leave.

  ‘I didn’t say it was some unknown colleague.’

  Berlin paused.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Check it out for yourself,’ Ross said. ‘There’s one name that comes up in every single investigation.’

  ‘I don’t have time to go through every case,’ she snapped. ‘Tell me who you’re talking about.’

  Ross took his time.

  ‘When Beata Benke died, the Met police contacted Stockholm. Since I had a personal relationship with her father, I asked a younger colleague to answer their questions. The same colleague was by my side when Lovisa Wahlberg was accused of drugs offences later that year. And the same colleague worked with Alex when Henry Lindgren was involved in the investigation into Lilian Sebastiansson’s disappearance.’

  Berlin’s heart skipped a beat.

  ‘Who? You have to give me a name!’

  Ross’s expression was tortured.

  ‘He’s called me several times during the spring and summer. Asked for favours in return for his help when I needed a reference to secure the lease on The Sanctuary. His desire for information about our progress has been insatiable.’

  Berlin could hardly breathe. She was finding it difficult to hear what Ross was saying, kept missing vital details.

  ‘An officer who wasn’t part of the team has been asking you for information, and you just passed it on? You didn’t report him? Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘I thought he wanted to come back. I thought he wanted to be . . . part of it all. He’s so bitter.’

  ‘Who?’ Berlin shouted. ‘Who the hell are we talking about?’

  Ross got to his feet and moved closer.

  ‘Who worked for the security firm that provided Dan Johansson with protection? Who helped me to lease The Sanctuary?’

  ‘Oh my God,’ Berlin whispered.

  She opened the door and ran to call Alex.

  When Alex arrived home he found Diana reading in the living room. She seemed to be absorbed in her book.

  ‘Everything okay?’ he said.

  Diana put down the book.

  ‘Not really. It’s a bit depressing, sitting here reading in the armchair. It would be much better on a beach.’

  ‘I’m going to keep hearing that, aren’t I?’

  ‘Difficult not to keep repeating such a fantastic sentence,’ Diana said with a smile.

  Alex sat down in one of the armchairs Diana had picked up at an auction. Most of the furniture was hers. He hadn’t brought much when he’d moved in; he’d passed on a few things to the children and got rid of the rest.

  Diana pushed her hair back from her face.

  Alex thought about Fredrika and what she’d told him about Spencer. Death had no compunction.

  ‘Has something happened?’ Diana asked him.

  ‘Yes and no.’

  He didn’t want to tell her, not until he’d got used to the idea. What would the consequences be? Fredrika didn’t see the police as her natural environment, and she would be left alone with two children. Would she stay on as part of Alex’s team, or would she look for a new job, since her life was going to change beyond recognition?

  If she goes, I’ll have some lonely years ahead of me until I retire.

  His body tensed as soon as it heard any talk of retirement. He intended to dig his heels in, refuse to leave. There was a dire shortage of police officers; surely they couldn’t get rid of someone with his experience who wanted to stay on in the new organisation?

  Diana shifted in her chair.

  ‘I went to the graveyard today. To visit Rebecka.’

  Alex reached out and placed his hand on hers.

  ‘How was she?’

  ‘She was absolutely fine,’ Diana said, her eyes filling with tears. Her daughter Rebecka was the reason why she and Alex had met. She would always have a special place in his heart, even though he’d never met her.

  ‘I saw one of your former co
lleagues there,’ she went on.

  ‘Oh yes?’

  He was surprised; Diana didn’t know many of Alex’s colleagues.

  ‘Peder.’

  ‘Peder Rydh? What was he doing there?’

  ‘I wondered the same thing. I don’t think he saw me, he was completely focused on what he was doing.’

  ‘And what was he doing?’

  ‘It looked as if he was standing talking to someone. Nothing strange about that – I talk to Rebecka. But – and this sounds really stupid – when he’d gone I went over to the grave. I don’t know why, I suppose I was just curious.’

  Alex sat up a little straighter without realising it.

  ‘Was it his brother? They were very close, and he died in extremely traumatic circumstances.’

  ‘No, there was a woman’s name on the headstone. Ylva.’

  Alex recoiled as if she’d slapped him.

  ‘But that’s his wife.’

  ‘You didn’t know she was dead?’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  What the hell?

  Alex had spoken to Peder – how come he hadn’t mentioned something so important?

  Then he remembered what Fredrika had been told at Solid Security, and his blood turned to ice. Peder had been fired because he wasn’t doing his job properly. Because of something that had happened in his family.

  That was the last thing he needed.

  ‘You look very shocked,’ Diana said.

  ‘I am. I . . . I don’t know what to say. Did you notice when she died?’

  ‘Back in the autumn. November, I think.’

  ‘Back in the autumn . . . There wasn’t anything about how she died?’

  ‘On the gravestone? Of course not.’

  Alex felt stupid, but for reasons he couldn’t put into words he felt it was important to find out.

  At that moment his mobile rang: Berlin.

  ‘I have to take this.’

  ‘I’ll make us something to eat,’ Diana said, heading into the kitchen.

  ‘Alex, can you come back in? Right now?’ Berlin sounded stressed.

  ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘We’ve got a new lead.’

  ‘Someone we can link to the crime scenes?’

  ‘No, but it’s someone we can link to all the victims.’

  ‘We’ve already got a candidate who fits that category. We found the murder weapon in his garage, if you recall.’

  ‘We don’t yet have confirmation that the gun in Ross’s garage is the murder weapon, but in any case this is something we have to follow up.’

  There was something about Berlin’s voice that bothered him. It was as taut as one of Fredrika’s violin strings.

  She’s scared. He felt a sudden pressure in his chest.

  ‘Who are we talking about?’

  ‘Peder Rydh.’

  Perhaps the answer should have floored him, but it didn’t. Not because he’d expected it, but because he’d just been sitting here thinking about Peder, had sensed that something was wrong. No, not just wrong – disastrously wrong.

  I had him within reach all along.

  He called me.

  And I didn’t understand.

  ‘You have to come in.’

  Alex got to his feet.

  I’ll never forgive myself for this.

  ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  *

  They called Fredrika too. She tore herself away from her home, her family, to work a few more hours.

  Alex didn’t think they should have brought her in. Now he knew the situation at home, now he understood the significance of the letter, he wanted to leave her in peace.

  They met in the Lions’ Den. Alex felt numb. He knew what Berlin was going to say before she uttered a single word.

  Ross wasn’t their man.

  It was Peder. Broken Peder. Lost Peder.

  ‘First of all,’ Berlin began, ‘we’ve received important information earlier than expected. There’s no doubt that the Colt we found in Ross’s garage is the murder weapon.’

  Alex nodded. Good to know, but it added a further complication.

  ‘Ivan has collected the package addressed to Henry Lindgren,’ Berlin went on. ‘The one that was too large to fit through his letterbox.’

  ‘Morgan Sander’s book?’ Fredrika said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  One piece of the puzzle after another, but the picture still wasn’t complete. Not until Berlin took a deep breath and continued:

  ‘Peder Rydh. I’m sorry to tell you that his wife died in the autumn. She was in her car when a drunk driver crossed over onto her side of the carriageway. He left the scene; she didn’t stand a chance.’

  Alex heard Fredrika inhale sharply. It was obvious that this information had come as a huge shock; she’d clearly had no idea what the meeting was about until now. Or to put it more accurately – who the meeting was about.

  Do you understand now, Alex?

  Yes, I understand.

  ‘Did they find the driver?’ he asked.

  ‘A witness took down the number of his car. He was charged and convicted of causing the death of another person, but took his own life days before he was due to present himself at the prison to serve his sentence.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘A combination of tablets and alcohol. The official cause of death was registered as suicide; it was assumed that his guilty conscience got the better of him.’

  ‘But you no longer believe that.’

  Berlin shook her head. ‘No. I think he was forced into it. By Peder.’

  Fredrika took a deep breath.

  ‘Hang on, how did we get here? I don’t understand – have we completely given up on the idea that Ross is our perpetrator?’

  ‘I sent Ivan to see the man who sold five copies of Morgan Sander’s book,’ Berlin explained. ‘Ivan played him a recording of Peder’s voice, a snippet of an interview.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He wasn’t sure. It might have been Peder who bought the books, but he couldn’t be certain.’

  Fredrika looked distraught.

  ‘He lost his footing when his brother died.’ Her voice was thick with tears.

  ‘He lost it long before that,’ Berlin said.

  Alex wanted to protest, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Peder had been like a son or a younger brother to him. Someone he cared about, someone he liked having around. The current situation hurt far more than he could have imagined.

  He heard his own voice: ‘I should have done more.’

  Fredrika placed a hand on his arm. ‘So should the rest of us.’

  ‘I couldn’t have imagined . . .’

  ‘Nor could anyone else.’

  Fredrika removed her hand. ‘I wonder if he’s done.’

  ‘With the murders? Of course not. He’s busy tidying up; I think there will be plenty of names left on his list,’ Berlin said.

  Alex was turning into a pressure cooker. This was worse than anything he’d experienced in the past. ‘So what do we do now? We have no evidence linking him to any of the crimes.’

  ‘We start a new round of interviews, we knock on doors.’ Berlin was resolute. ‘He must have made a mistake somewhere along the line. I’ve already got him under surveillance, because as I said, I don’t believe he’s finished.’

  ‘So we wait for the next murder and take him then?’ Alex said.

  Berlin’s face lost its colour.

  ‘You do realise we might have to wait for quite some time?’ Fredrika pointed out. ‘Peder isn’t stupid; he knows we’ve arrested Ross, which means he stands a chance of getting away with it if he keeps his head down, doesn’t rock the boat.’

  ‘My feeling is that his desire for revenge has become an itch he just has to scratch,’ Berlin replied. ‘He knows he can get away with it, but he has so much more to do. So much more to put right.’

  Alex couldn’t stop thinking about the messages they’
d found. The messages that were addressed to him.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered.

  Berlin gave him a surprisingly sympathetic look. ‘I believe this will be over before the week is out. It’s Friday today. We’ll have him by Sunday.’

  ‘I think you’re wrong,’ Fredrika said.

  It was just before midnight when Peder Rydh went to bed. The boys must have sensed his unease, because they woke up more than once during the evening. Peder went into their room, stroked their backs gently and whispered:

  ‘It’s all right, I’m here. Everything’s fine.’

  Everything’s fine.

  And that was the way it would stay.

  He had to stop now, he realised that. In the middle of all his hard work. Otherwise he would get caught. His mother had looked increasingly anxious each time she turned up to babysit. She didn’t ask any questions, but Peder knew she was wondering how he could possibly have so much to do in the middle of summer, why he’d had so much on his plate for so long. Deep down he was eternally grateful to her. Who else could he have called when he went over to England to pick up Beata’s wedding ring?

  No part of Peder felt good; the fear and anxiety seemed to be howling inside his head.

  But I did the right thing.

  The only right thing.

  Commitment, efficiency, availability. The three key principles of police work. Peder liked to think he’d been a good soldier. His commitment recently had been indisputable. His efficiency impeccable. And he had certainly been available.

  No one he’d killed had been innocent. He’d seen so many people get away with it over the years – parents who had failed in their responsibility to their children, those who had stood by passively, well aware of the crimes of others, those who had committed crimes themselves, those who in one way or another had made it possible for someone else to do the most terrible things. He put them all in the same category as hit-and-run drivers, and there were so many of them. Hundreds.

  When Ylva died, it was as if the last part of Peder that had been whole was shattered. He’d fought so hard during the years that had passed since he shot the man who’d murdered his brother, tried to find a path to reconciliation with what had happened, but such a path did not exist. Jimmy was gone. And Peder was a murderer. His action had been justified, but he had still extinguished a life. Outwardly he pretended that he was at peace with what he’d done, but a war was raging inside him, a war that escalated with each passing year. He couldn’t shake off the fear that he had joined the ranks of evil, and in the end that was why he declined Alex’s offer to speak up for him, try to get him back into the police. Peder didn’t belong there.