‘I’ve just got a few questions,’ said Fredrika, adjusting her blouse as she sensed Magnus’s eyes on her cleavage.
Magnus gave a slight smile and raised his eyes. He said nothing.
‘Can you see from your paperwork whether Sara stayed on as an employee of the centre when the writing course was over?’
Magnus leafed through the file.
‘Yes. We asked her to stay on for the rest of the summer. We always asked someone to do that; the other tutor and I – he lives in Sydney now, by the way – needed some help with the admin and so on.’
‘How did you decide who got to stay?’ Fredrika asked.
‘It was either decided in advance, or by us once we could see if any of the students were particularly gifted. I mean, they all wanted to stay on; I suppose it was seen as some kind of feather in their cap.’
‘And how did you come to pick Sara Lagerås?’
Magnus consulted his file again.
‘She wrote to us beforehand,’ he said. ‘I’ve got the letter here. Says she wants to work in Umeå for the summer, and she sent in some stuff she’d written, for us to see. She seemed capable, so we gave her a chance.’
‘May I see the letter?’
Magnus passed her the file.
There was nothing interesting in the letter from Sara. It was just a straightforward application for a summer job at the centre.
‘She didn’t mention any other reasons she might have had for wanting to stay?’ asked Fredrika.
‘None that I can recall,’ sighed Magnus.
Seeing Fredrika’s expression, he went on:
‘The thing is, though I do honestly remember this girl, she was only one of the many summer-job students we’ve had here. She lived at the centre and used to hang out with some of the students from previous courses. I can’t remember even talking to her all that often. We definitely didn’t discuss anything personal. We talked work and creative writing.’
Magnus reached for the file, and Fredrika passed it back automatically. She sat in silence as he leafed through it again.
He suddenly straightened up.
‘Oh, yes,’ he said under his breath.
He looked at Fredrika.
‘There was one thing a bit out of the ordinary: a fuss about a particular date.’
Fredrika pulled an enquiring face.
‘The girl, Sara, suddenly told us she absolutely had to have a particular day off, and it happened to be the day we’d planned a seminar that we really needed her to help with. But she wouldn’t budge; claimed she’d given us plenty of notice. My memory was pretty poor even then, so even if she had told us well in advance, I didn’t remember. I was bloody cross with her, but it didn’t seem to make any difference.’
Magnus peered at the contents of the file again.
‘The twenty-ninth of July, it was.’
Fredrika made a careful note.
‘And what was the upshot?’ she asked.
‘She took the day off, of course. She evidently couldn’t reschedule this activity of hers. But it was a bit odd, we all thought so. And the seminar was totally chaotic without her there to help.’
Magnus shook his head.
‘You never asked her where she was that day?’ queried Fredrika.
‘No, she just said she really had to see someone,’ Magnus said. ‘Someone who was only in town that one day. I don’t think she said anything about it to anyone else, either. She was a bit standoffish. I remember I made some note about her being rather antisocial. Her thoughts were always somewhere else.’
Fredrika gave a slow nod.
‘Anything else you can remember?’
Magnus gave a short laugh.
‘I remember I ran into her later on that day, in the evening. She was so white in the face it wasn’t true. Really put the wind up me. But she said she’d be fine if she could go and rest. I assumed it was something to do with whoever she’d been to see, and things not going the way she’d hoped.’
He shrugged.
‘She wasn’t a minor, I couldn’t damn well force her to go to the police or a doctor.’
Fredrika gave a rather stiff smile.
‘No, you’re right,’ she said.
Then she put her card on top of Magnus’s green file.
‘In case you remember anything else,’ she said, and got to her feet.
‘Or feel like a bit of company,’ said Magnus with a wink.
Fredrika managed another stiff smile.
‘I’ll find my own way out,’ she said.
Alex Recht felt miserable. Miserable, and infuriated. In the course of his long police career he had made mistakes, of course he had. No one was perfect. But this. This whole child abduction thing. Sitting there in his office, Alex felt like punching somebody – anybody. He had completely disregarded the possibility of more children being snatched. They all had. Even after the investigation had ruled out Gabriel Sebastiansson as its prime suspect, he had been quite sure that all the events revolved round Sara’s life. Not for one second, until it was too late, had he considered that they might be dealing with evil personified. And by then it was too late – again.
Alex’s chest hurt as he breathed out. His anger was aching somewhere deep down in his throat.
He fiddled with the desk diary in front of him. It was Saturday, and five days since Lilian had been reported missing from an X2000 train from Gothenburg. Five days. That was hardly any time at all. That was what had thrown the police investigation, more than anything else: the speed at which the case had developed. Just as they felt they were in control of the situation, the case was already heading in a different direction entirely. Alex turned over the expression ‘one step behind’ in his mind. He and the team were not one step behind – they were miles behind.
Alex listened to the sounds from the corridor outside. Generally there was hardly anyone there at weekends, but now everything was bustling. The analyst from the National Crime Squad was working himself to death with all the tip-offs coming in on the police hotline. Alex vaguely wondered if there was any point in feeding them all into a database. It hadn’t done them any good at all so far. Admittedly that was to some extent because of the way his team of investigators chose to work. Peder, for example, had not talked to the analyst when the call came through about the woman’s death in Jönköping. If he had, they would have made the link to their own case more quickly. But Fredrika had supplied the necessary information soon enough. That confirmed what Alex had maintained ever since computers started taking over more and more of the paperwork – they had a limited range of applications, because there was always somebody who kept the facts in their own little head. If a team was welded closely enough together, information flowed as it should, even without the help of computers.
Alex heaved a sigh and looked out into the blue sky, flecked with cloud.
Maybe he was getting old and grumpy. Maybe the spark was going out of him. Or still worse – maybe he was turning into the sort of reactionary DI no newly qualified police officer wanted to work with. How long could you carry on being known as a legend if you didn’t deliver the goods? How long could you live on your reputation?
He shuffled the papers on his desk. Fredrika had just rung from Umeå to confirm that Sara Sebastiansson had been lying about when she first knew she would be staying at the course centre after her friend left. Alex frowned. It was depressing that Sara was lying about her Umeå links. He felt the anger flare in him. He would go out to his car and go round to Sara’s himself. He didn’t give a damn that she was suffering the deep hurt of bereavement. She was obstructing the work of the police, and that could never be permitted. No matter how distressed a person felt.
Then Alex retreated into his room again. Sara hadn’t really lied about her links to Umeå, she’d lied about one particular detail. A detail she had thought she could conceal from the police, but which the police, by contrast, believed to be an important piece in the jigsaw. The team had been working on the a
ssumption that something happened in Umeå which decided the future course of Sara’s life, but that must be at least partly wrong. Something must have happened before Sara went on the course that summer, something Sara had tried to remedy by staying away longer.
And now she was being punished for it by someone murdering her child. Possibly the person she had claimed she had to see that day.
Alex rooted through his papers to find the horrible pictures of the dead Lilian. Why had someone marked her with the word ‘Unwanted’? Why had someone decided she was a child no one wanted? And why had she been found outside A&E? Was the location important? Could she just as well have been dumped somewhere else in Umeå? Or in any old town?
Alex fidgeted uneasily. The obvious question was whether the next body would also turn up outside Umeå hospital.
Alex tried valiantly not to think about the missing baby. He hoped Fredrika’s interview with the Jönköping woman’s grandmother would produce something. And he hoped they would soon find the mysterious Monika Sander. Without her, everything for the moment looked pretty hopeless, he was afraid to say.
He got to his feet with fresh resolve. A cup of coffee was what he needed. And he must shake off all this anxiety. If he was already speculating about where the next dead child would be found, then he had lost the battle.
Peder Rydh had slept incomprehensibly well the previous night. He and Ylva hadn’t had much to say to each other when he got home just after ten. The boys were asleep, of course. He stood at the end of one of their beds, watching the sleeping child. Blue monkey pyjamas, thumb in mouth. A slight twitch in his face; was he dreaming? Peder gave a wan smile and ran a gentle hand across the boy’s forehead.
Ylva asked questions about the second missing child, and he gave minimal answers. Then he had a glass of wine, watched TV for a while, and went to bed. Just as he put out the light, he heard Ylva’s voice in the darkness.
‘We’ve got to have a proper talk one day, Peder.’
At first he said nothing.
‘We can’t go on like this,’ she continued. ‘We’ve got to talk about how we feel.’
And then for the first time he told it like it was:
‘I can’t take any more. I just can’t.’
And he added:
‘I don’t want this to be my life. No way.’
He was turned towards her in the bed as he said it, and despite the darkness he saw her face fall and heard the change in her breathing. She was waiting for him to go on, but he had nothing more to say. Then he fell asleep, strangely relieved but not a little concerned by the fact that he felt nothing. No regret, no panic. Just relief.
In the car on the way to work, he tried to think clearly about the abducted children case.
Initially his thoughts were distracted by remembering that he hadn’t rung Jimmy to say he wouldn’t be able to come and see him as planned. They would have to have their posh cake with marzipan another day, because Peder was busy. How much Jimmy understood of what Peder told him was always hard to gauge. His brother seldom got the subtler points in conversations, and Jimmy related to time in an entirely different way to other people.
There was something nagging at the back of Peder’s mind, something he’d overlooked. Some simple but crucial detail that had vanished out of his head. The newspapers had dutifully printed Monika Sander’s name and picture and said she was wanted by the police. The identikit drawing was published again, along with a passport photo taken some 10 years before. Alex and Peder had asked themselves whether it was a good idea to publish the old photo they had got from Monika’s foster mother. It bore little resemblance to her current appearance and there was a strong risk that all sorts of people from her past would dash to the phone to report things from a time that had no bearing on the life she was living now. They were also aware of the need to share every last scrap of information they had. The investigation could not afford any more gaps in its knowledge. Monika Sander had to be dragged into the open – at any price.
Peder had spoken to Alex that morning. Nobody had rung in with any sensible information to date. Peder felt a sudden weariness and dejection. How far did they really think they were going to get with an ancient photo, a useless identikit drawing and a name that Monika Sander might not even use any longer?
Then it suddenly came back to Peder what he had overlooked when they released the information about Monika. He parked outside HQ and rushed up to the department.
Alex had just come back to his room with a cup of coffee when Peder came hurtling through the door.
Alex hardly got his ‘Good morning’ out before Peder started.
‘We’ve got to issue a double name,’ he gabbled.
‘What are you talking about?’ asked a bewildered Alex.
‘Monika Sander,’ Peder blurted. ‘We’ve got to ring the tax people and find out what her name was when she first came to Sweden. She was adopted, wasn’t she? She might have found out the name she was born with and be using it as an alias or something.’
‘Well we’ve already gone public with the name Monika Sander, but . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘I was just going to say that it’s a very good idea, Peder,’ Alex said evenly. ‘Get Ellen on the case; she can ring the tax office.’
Peder dashed out of the room and sprinted off in the direction of Ellen’s room.
Alex gave a wry smile. It was amazing to see a human being with that much energy.
In another part of Stockholm, two people with considerably less energy than Peder Rydh were also busy. Ingeborg and Johannes Myrberg were down on their hands and knees at either end of their large garden, weeding conscientiously between the shrubs and flowering plants. The rain had kept them from any sort of work in the garden until now, but at least summer seemed to have arrived. Admittedly there were a few clouds loitering around the sun, but as long as it was still shining and shedding its warmth, Ingeborg and Johannes Myrberg were more than happy.
Ingeborg took a quick glance at her watch. It was almost eleven. They had been out there for nearly two hours. Without a break. She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked across to her husband. Johannes had had a few prostate problems in recent years and was usually hurrying off to the toilet all the time. But not this morning. No, this morning they had both worked on undisturbed.
Ingeborg’s face broke into a smile as she watched her husband weeding round the rhubarb. They still took a childlike delight in their domain. In their heart of hearts, they had never really believed the house would be theirs. So many properties had passed them by. Either they were too expensive, or they turned out to have mould in the basement or damp patches on the ceilings.
Ingeborg surveyed the big, white house. It was attractive and a good size. There were enough rooms to accommodate all the children and grandchildren when they came to visit, but was still compact enough to retain its charm and the sense of really being someone’s home. Their home.
‘Johannes!’ Ingeborg called into the quietness of the garden.
Johannes almost overbalanced at the sound of Ingeborg’s shout, and she laughed.
‘I was just going to say: I’m going in for a minute to get a drink. Would you like one, too?’
Johannes gave that slightly lopsided smile, so familiar to her throughout their married life. For thirty-five years, to be exact.
‘A glass of the strawberry cordial would be nice.’
Ingeborg got slowly to her feet, her knees protesting slightly. When she was young, she had never considered that her body would feel weaker and frailer one day.
‘What a summer we’ve had,’ she said under her breath as she stepped into the house from the terrace.
Then she froze. Afterwards she couldn’t really explain why she had stopped just there, just then. Or how she had sensed without going any further that something was wrong.
She walked slowly through the guest room that gave onto the terrace, and out into the corridor between the four bedrooms. She looked
left, where the bedrooms were, but nothing was moving. She looked right, towards the main hall, the kitchen and the living room. She could see nothing strange or out of the ordinary there, either. Yet she still knew that someone had been there, that her home had been violated.
She shook her head. What a ridiculous thought; was she getting paranoid in her old age?
She regained control of her thoughts and her home by striding off to the kitchen and making two big glasses of cordial for herself and her husband.
She was just on her way out with the little tray when she decided it would be as well to pop to the toilet while she was in. She just couldn’t fathom how Johannes had managed to go for so long without a pee.
The bathroom was at the far end of the house, beyond the bedrooms. Afterwards, she couldn’t really remember how she got there. She only remembered putting the tray down and being aware that she needed to go to the loo. Whether she remembered it or not, she must have gone from the kitchen to the hall, and along the corridor to the bathroom. Put her hand on the handle, pressed it down, opened the door, turned the light on.
She saw the baby straight away. It was lying naked on the bathroom mat, curled up in a foetal position.
For a few seconds, Ingeborg did not really understand what she was seeing. She had to step forward and bend down. Automatically her hand went out to touch the baby. It was only when her fingers made contact with the hard, cold body that she started to scream.
Fredrika Bergman got the call about the discovery of the dead baby at the elderly couple’s house just as she was being served tea by Margareta Andersson, grandmother of Nora who had been found murdered in Jönköping. Fredrika had to excuse herself and go out onto the balcony.
‘On a bathroom mat?’ she repeated.
‘Yes,’ said Alex grimly, ‘in a house in Bromma. With the same word on her forehead. I’m heading there now. Peder’s on his way to see some psychologist.’
Fredrika frowned.
‘All this must have really got to him, then?’
Alex gave a chuckle of surprise.
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