Magdalena looked troubled, as if she did not understand.
‘Where did you lose the baby?’ whispered Fredrika.
Magdalena’s face dissolved and she put her hand to her mouth, as if to smother a scream.
‘In the bathroom at Mum and Dad’s house,’ she wept. ‘I lost the baby where he left Natalie.’
Peder Rydh was in a bad mood when he got to work on Sunday. The only bright spot was that he’d managed to make Jimmy’s day when he rang him on the way in.
‘Posh cake soon, Pedda?’ cheered Jimmy on the phone.
‘Posh cake very soon,’ Peder agreed. ‘Maybe even tomorrow.’
Assuming there’s anything to celebrate by then, he added silently to himself.
Peder’s early morning grumpiness was not improved by the fact that Ellen still hadn’t been able to get the results from the files that he’d asked for.
‘That sort of thing takes time Peder; just be patient, please,’ she begged.
He couldn’t stand that phrase, but he had no grudge against Ellen and didn’t want to fall out with her. So he went back into his room before he said something he’d regret.
That night had not afforded him the same peace of mind as the one before. He had slept on the settee, and that had never happened before. He had briefly considered driving to Jimmy’s assisted living unit and bedding down there instead, until he realized how confused and anxious it would make his brother.
Lack of sleep made Peder less than rational, and he knew it. That was why he hadn’t exchanged a single word with Ylva before he left home that morning, and had started his working day with two big cups of coffee.
He sat down at his computer and looked up a few things at random in various registers, but found the task beyond him. He didn’t have full access to the files, and there were some to which he had no access at all.
He opened his filing cabinet and got out all the material he had amassed. He repeated the phrases they had all been trotting out in recent days. What do we know? What don’t we know? And what do we definitely need to know to solve this case?
They thought they knew why: the women were being punished because they had once had abortions. That fitted with the words ‘women who don’t love all children equally are not to have any at all’. To begin with, Peder had interpreted the phrase to mean that the man somehow wanted to punish all women who didn’t literally love all children equally, but now he knew that to be wrong.
What the team did not know, however, was how the man selected these women from among all those in Sweden who had had abortions and then gone on to have children. Could the murderer actually be the father of the ‘rejected’ children? Peder didn’t think it very likely. The murderer was, or had been, on the margins of the women’s lives when they had their abortions. So he could be a doctor, for example. Unless he came across their names later, in old case notes or something like that. In that case, he might not even have known them at the time of the abortions.
Peder sighed. There was an almost infinite number of alternatives to choose from.
He returned doggedly to his notes.
There were several indications that the man they were looking for could be linked in some way to a medical setting, like a hospital. There were the traces of talc from hospital gloves; there were the drugs to which he seemed to have access. Sedatives, but also more lethal substances.
Peder reflected. The drugs weren’t that uncommon in themselves. They were no doubt to be found in every hospital in Sweden. But not all hospitals had staff members who had served sentences for serious crimes of violence. Was that sort of thing checked up on? And if it was, could the man they were looking for have been working in a hospital under a false identity?
Peder doubted it. Surely hospitals kept tabs on that kind of thing? Unless of course the change of name had been done entirely legally.
Peder shuffled his facts this way and that. All the while, the phrase ‘There must be a way of checking this’ was echoing in his head. It became a mantra, a life-buoy to cling on to. Somewhere out there was the man they were looking for. All they had to do was find him . . .
Peder had no idea how long he had been sitting there, deep in thought, when Fredrika rang to confirm what they had suspected, namely that Magdalena Gregersdotter had also had an abortion years ago. For Peder, the link to the bathroom in Bromma was both tragic and fascinating.
Half an hour later, Fredrika walked into his room. She looked different, in jeans and a cord jacket, with a sleeveless top underneath. Her hair was pulled back from her face in a tight ponytail and she had scarcely any make-up on. Peder was surprised to find how pretty he thought she looked.
‘Have you got time?’ asked Fredrika.
‘Sure,’ he replied.
Fredrika sat down on the other side of the desk. She had a sheaf of papers in her hand.
‘I’ve had the women’s hospital records faxed over,’ she said, brandishing the papers. ‘From the time of their abortions.’
Peder felt reinvigorated.
‘You think the murderer works at a hospital, too?’
‘I think the murderer works, or worked, in some part of the healthcare system,’ Fredrika said guardedly. ‘And I think that’s where the women might have met him. They didn’t necessarily meet him in person, but I still tend to think they did. And I think the reason they don’t remember him today is that his role in their treatment was a very minor one.’
‘A man on the margins,’ Peder mumbled.
‘Just so,’ said Fredrika.
She tossed half the pile of paper onto Peder’s desk.
‘Shall we do this together, while you’re waiting for Ellen to get you your results? Who knows, maybe it could be the shortcut we’ve been looking for.’
It was getting hotter and hotter in Ellen’s office. She could feel her deodorant evaporating and the sweat prickling her skin. She knew this was yet another sign that she was nervous. She always sweated at times like that.
Why had she still heard nothing from Carl? And why had she decided to wait until the evening before she started ringing the hospitals? It felt an indescribably long time away.
Ellen was so anxious she was close to tears. What had really happened? She touched the bouquet of flowers Carl had sent her a few days before. She had so much love to give; why did he have to make it so hard?
My emotions are all over the place, thought Ellen, smiling at what she was finding harder and harder to see as a coincidence.
Then she felt her anxiety and dejection turning to sheer frustration. Not hearing from Carl was one thing, but why weren’t the children answering her texts? Didn’t they realize she’d be worried?
It was late morning, so she was sure they wouldn’t still be asleep. She lifted the receiver of her desk phone and tried ringing the landline instead. She must have let it ring twenty times, but there was no answer.
Anxiety gnawed inside her. The children certainly wouldn’t be asleep at eleven in the morning, but they could hardly have gone out, either. Or was she so stressed she’d forgotten one of their activities? Some gym display or football training session?
Ellen tried to work for a while. She was still waiting for Peder’s results. After a while she rang home again. Still no answer. She rang both children’s mobiles. Neither answered.
Ellen sat silently at her desk. She was worried about the children. She was worried that Carl hadn’t been in touch. She looked at the flowers on her desk. She thought of all the confidences she and Carl had exchanged. She remembered him saying that she was so important to him. That she gave him ‘everything he needed’.
Then Ellen realized how everything fitted together. Suddenly she wasn’t worried or irritated any more. She was terror-stricken.
Alex Recht barely had time to hang up before Peder and Fredrika came into his room and lined up in front of his desk. Like two schoolchildren. Alex smiled to himself.
‘I assume you two have heard the good news?’
Peder and Fredrika looked at each other.
‘That we’ve got him?’ Alex clarified.
Fredrika and Peder both stared at him.
‘But how’s that possible?’ exclaimed Fredrika.
‘Simple,’ Alex said delightedly. ‘He tried to take a flight from Copenhagen to Thailand and was stopped at passport control. We were just in time getting Interpol on side, to block his passport.’
‘Sorry, but who are you talking about?’ asked a confused Peder.
Alex frowned.
‘Gabriel Sebastiansson, who else?’
A heavy sigh escaped Fredrika and she was obliged to sink into Alex’s visitor’s chair.
‘We thought you meant the murderer,’ she said under her breath.
‘No, no,’ Alex said irascibly. ‘We’ve scarcely even identified him yet.’
Peder and Fredrika exchanged looks again.
‘Well, we might have,’ said Peder.
Alex gestured to him to take the other chair.
Fredrika was about to say something when Ellen came rushing in.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said in a choked voice, ‘but I’ve got to go home for a little while. I’ll be back soon.’
‘What’s happened?’ asked Alex, concerned. ‘We really do need you here just now . . .’
‘I know,’ sighed Ellen, ‘but the children aren’t answering any of the phones and they’re not used to being left on their own at home. I rang their dad as well, and friends they sometimes go to. Nobody’s seen them. I just want to pop home and check everything’s all right. And give them a good telling off for not answering when their poor, worried mum rings.’
‘Okay, but hurry back,’ said Alex.
Alex had raised children of his own. He would have done exactly the same thing in Ellen’s place. And he would most certainly have told them off. In no uncertain terms.
‘Tell them you’ll send me round next time,’ he called after her.
Then he turned his attention back to Fredrika and Peder.
‘We think he’s a psychologist, just like he told Nora and Jelena,’ Fredrika began eagerly, her eyes gleaming.
‘And we think it was his work as a psychologist that brought him into contact with the women whose children have been murdered,’ Peder went on.
Alex hoped they weren’t going to carry on with this double act. It would only end up confusing him.
‘It’s standard procedure, you see, for women to be offered counselling when they have an abortion,’ Fredrika explained. ‘And we’ve found entries in both women’s hospital notes saying they accepted the offer.’
Peder flicked through the sheets of paper he was holding.
‘According to her file, Magdalena Gregersdotter had a session with a psychology student who was on a placement at Söder Hospital at the time. Because of the trauma that resulted from the complications she had after the abortion, she also saw a fully qualified psychologist later on. But initially, when they thought the abortion had gone to plan, she spoke to a youngish guy who was still in training. According to her notes, his name was David Stenman.
Alex frowned. David?
‘Sara Sebastiansson’s abortion was done some years later, in Umeå. She had a counselling session, too,’ reported Fredrika. ‘According to her file, she saw a psychologist, but unfortunately there’s no name, just some initials: DS. I rang Umeå Hospital and they confirmed it was the same person.’
Alex looked from one to the other.
‘Did Ellen have time to give you the list of potentially interesting people from our own files?’ he asked Peder.
‘No,’ said Peder. ‘And we’ve looked up David Stenman in the National Registration Service records, and there’s nobody of that name.’
‘But we did find he had a criminal record,’ Fredrika put in. ‘He was sentenced to psychiatric care in early 2000 for arson, and released last autumn. There were extenuating circumstances: the person who died in the fire was his grandmother, who apparently abused him dreadfully when he was growing up in her care. For example: she used to burn him with matches to punish him if he’d done something stupid.’
‘And now he’s punishing others the same way,’ Alex said quietly.
‘Yes,’ responded Peder. ‘There are various other interesting details. Such as the fact that he was never meant to be born. His mother was an addict and tried to abort him herself with a knitting needle.’
‘Hence his hatred of women who allow themselves the luxury of choosing and thus – in our murderer’s eyes – commit a sin,’ Alex said matter-of-factly, and leant across the desk. ‘But if you found he had a criminal record, you must presumably have found his personal ID number and been able to check it against the registration records? Perhaps he’s changed his name?’
‘That was exactly what he did on his release,’ said Fredrika, putting a computer print-out in front of Alex.
‘He changed his name to Aron Steen. According to the National Registration Service records, he’s registered at an address in Midsommarkransen. And here’s an old passport photo, too.’
Fredrika put another sheet of paper on the desk.
Alex felt his heart pounding as he scrutinized the photograph of a rather distinguished-looking man.
‘What do you say then, Alex?’ asked Peder uneasily.
‘I say we’ve bloody well found our murderer,’ Alex replied grimly.
He clapped his hands.
‘Right,’ he said firmly. ‘Here’s how I suggest we proceed. Peder, you contact our friends in the emergency response unit. I want them to go to that address straight away and bring him in. With any luck, he may not have realized how warm we’re getting and not had time to go underground.’
Alex cleared his throat and went on.
‘Gather all the information about this bloke you possibly can on a Sunday. Talk to Magdalena and Sara again if you need to. Ask them if they remember him. It’s vital to be thorough. We mustn’t leave any stone unturned here. We need to chart every step he’s taken since they let him out. And don’t forget to report to the examining magistrate asap. Get hold of the poor bugger who’s on call today. He’s going to have plenty to do today. And go through the list as soon as you get it from Ellen. I don’t want to exclude the possibility that it’s someone else we’ve got on our files.’
Fredrika and Peder nodded eagerly, hardly able to contain themselves. Even Fredrika had been swept up in the excitement this time.
‘We’ve managed to locate his probation officer,’ she said. ‘Our friend Aron Steen’s been behaving impeccably since his release, and he’s even managed to find a job. With a cleaning company. It wouldn’t surprise me if that company happened to have had a contract with a hospital these past six months. Then we’d know where he got hold of the drugs and the surgical gloves.’
Fredrika was smiling as she spoke. Her voice was insistent, her body language full of pent-up energy.
She’s got it in her, thought Alex. I was wrong. And so was she. She’s deluding herself when she says she hasn’t got the hunger for it.
They heard quick footsteps in the corridor outside. Ellen stuck a flushed face round his door.
‘I’ll forget my own head next,’ she said, clearly under pressure. ‘Left the car keys in my room.’
She stopped when she saw their exhilarated expressions.
‘What’s happened?’
The question made them all start to laugh. It was the laughter of relief, Alex noted.
‘We think we’ve got him, Ellen,’ he said with a grin.
‘Are you sure,’ asked Ellen, blanching.
‘Well,’ said Alex. ‘You can never be a hundred per cent sure, but we’re as sure as we can be at this stage.’
He pushed the sheet of paper with the print-out of the passport photo across the desk to her.
‘Let me introduce . . .’ he began, but then stalled. ‘What was this joker’s name again?’ he asked irritably.
Fredrika and Peder smiled.
‘Well, if you’re not going to listen to what we tell you, we’d better start reporting to some other boss,’ sighed Peder with a flamboyant sweep of his hands.
None of them noticed how Ellen reacted as she took two steps towards the desk and stared at the man in the photo. None of them noticed her cheeks turning pink and her attempts to blink away the tears that were blurring her vision. But they all heard her murmur:
‘Thank you God.’
They all fell silent.
She pointed a trembling finger at the picture.
‘I thought for a while it was . . . I thought it might be the man I was . . .’
She gave a laugh.
‘What daft ideas we get into our heads sometimes,’ she said with a sob, smiling through her tears.
Then her mobile rang. Her son was gabbling at the other end, his voice strained.
‘Mum, you’ve got to come home right now.’
‘What’s happened, love?’ asked Ellen, still with the smile on her lips.
‘Mum, please come now,’ her son repeated nervously. ‘He says you’ve got to come now. Come home as quickly as you can. He doesn’t seem very well at all.’
It came like a bolt from the blue when the last child disappeared. They got the news just as they were making final preparations for the swoop on Aron Steen.
Alex charged out into the corridor and found Fredrika and Peder in the Den, the latter in the middle of strapping on a bulletproof vest. Fredrika was poring over some papers, frowning.
‘He’s taken another child,’ Alex said. ‘A four-year-old boy’s gone missing from a children’s playground in Midsommarkransen, near where Steen lives, half an hour ago. The parents rang in and said they’d found his clothes and what looked like tufts of his hair left behind a tree on the edge of the playground.’
‘But we’ve got his place under surveillance,’ exclaimed Peder. ‘They reported seeing him through the window of the flat, and they haven’t seen him come out.’
‘Well he must have done,’ said Alex tersely, ‘because another kid’s been snatched.’
‘Well he can’t have got very far,’ said Fredrika, fiddling with a piece of paper in front of her.
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