None of the pundits whose views were in print had been present at the raid. But Alex had been. He would maintain until the day he died that the raid could not have been done in any other way. If they had made their presence known at the door and then retreated for firefighting equipment, the boy’s life would have been in dire jeopardy. The moment they went into the block of flats, there was only one way for them to go. Forward.
The articles Alex found less infuriating and more interesting were the big features about the murderer. Here, the newspapers had been more thorough in their research and got access to better background material, which made for more satisfactory reading. For Alex, the features showed that the journalists didn’t really know which leg to stand on. It was impossible to relate Aron Steen’s tragic story without an element of understanding and sympathy creeping in. Not forgiveness, they stressed, but understanding.
Aron was really one of those people who never had a chance, Alex thought grimly. Even as a babe in arms he had been horribly mistreated by his mentally unstable grandmother, who went on to spend years belittling him as a person, distorting his perception of right and wrong, and preventing him from developing even the most basic capacity for empathy. He turned up at school in soiled clothes, looking wild and angry, day after day. He stank of his grandmother’s cigarette smoke. The other children teased him, called him grandma’s little girl. He was so skinny and had such long hair that it was hard to tell if he was a boy or a girl, they said. His worst tormentors were inspired by the smell of smoke and his dirty appearance. They called him Cinderella.
The boy was fifteen before social services finally intervened and he was placed in a foster home. His grandmother made no bones about blaming him for his mother’s, her daughter’s, death, and told social services that she couldn’t for the life of her see that he would ever develop into a normally functioning person.
It seemed at first as though Aron Steen’s grandmother was wrong. He completed his school career, went to university and qualified as a psychologist, and left home. But there were warning signs. His nursery school teacher had reported that even at a very young age he took great pleasure in inflicting pain on animals. He found it hard to make friends and maintain relationships. Yet he was outgoing and good at expressing himself verbally. In adult life he was considered good-looking, which helped him socially.
He found it hard to adapt to new workplaces, and was constantly changing job. He was always on the move, and seen by those around him as a restless soul.
At the time he met Nora, he was back in Umeå where he grew up, working at the hospital. According to the papers, the break-up with Nora must have triggered some kind of psychosis, because that was when he went to his grandmother’s home in the middle of the night and set fire to it, burning her alive in her bed.
The rest was, as they say, history. Alex had recently spoken to the parents of the little boy Aron Steen had taken hostage. The boy was slowly recovering. His injuries were much more extensive than Alex’s, but at least he was alive. His parents were very grateful for that. Only time would tell whether the boy felt the same gratitude.
Though resolute police work had uncovered the identity of the perpetrator, many other questions remained unanswered. It was impossible to establish exactly where Aron had murdered the children. In all probability, Lilian had been killed in Jelena’s flat, and Natalie in Aron’s, but nothing could be proved. Nor had the investigation reached any conclusion about why Nora had been murdered at precisely that point in time. When they interviewed Jelena Scortz, she claimed she knew nothing about it.
As for Jelena, she had been discharged from hospital and was being held on remand in Kronoberg Prison, awaiting trial. She denied all the charges, but there was technical evidence confirming Lilian had been in her flat. Lilian’s panties had been found in a bag in the rubbish collection area in the basement of her block. Jelena refused to say anything about how they came to be there. Alex couldn’t decide if he felt sorry for her or not.
Alex switched on his computer and flicked through his desk diary. He only had a couple of weeks at work before he and Lena were off on their trip to South America to see their son. It was going to be a wonderful and exciting trip, Alex was in no doubt about it.
There was an unobtrusive little knock at Alex’s door.
Fredrika was loitering hesitantly in the doorway.
‘Come in,’ said Alex with real warmth in his voice.
Fredrika smiled as she came in and sat down in the visitor’s chair.
‘I just wanted to see how you were,’ she said. ‘Is everything okay?’
Alex nodded and smiled.
‘Almost everything’s very okay indeed,’ he said. ‘How about you, are you okay?’
It was Fredrika’s turn to nod. Yes, she was fine.
‘Did you have a good holiday?’ asked Alex, sounding genuinely interested.
Fredrika was caught out by the question. The summer and her holiday both felt so very far away.
But his query brought back happy memories of the week she and Spencer had spent at a little guest house in Skagen.
She smiled, but her eyes clouded over.
‘I had a lovely holiday,’ she replied emphatically.
Saying it conjured up the image of Spencer, sitting on the sand, looking out over the sea. The wind in his face and his eyes like narrow slits, protecting themselves from the sun.
‘It won’t get any better than this, Fredrika,’ he said.
‘I know,’ she answered.
‘Just so you don’t feel I’m misleading you.’
‘You don’t need to worry about that. I’ve never felt anything but safe with you.’
Then they sat there on the sand, looking out over the water where the tall waves chased each other back and forth, until Fredrika, agonizing, hesitantly broke the silence.
‘Talking of misleading each other, there’s something else I think we should talk about . . .’
Alex cleared his throat as Fredrika’s attention drifted away.
‘Thanks for the CD you sent,’ he said. ‘Lena and I both love it. We play it almost every day.’
‘Oh, I’m glad,’ she said. ‘I’m very fond of that one myself.’
Then there was silence.
Alex shifted uneasily in his seat and decided to ask a more urgently topical question, but Fredrika got in first.
‘When’s Peder expected back?’
Alex had to think.
‘The first of November,’ he said. ‘Unless he opts to be a stay-at-home dad.’
Fredrika had to smile.
Peder and Fredrika had joined forces to conclude the investigation that started when Lilian Sebastiansson went missing from a train at Stockholm Central Station. It had been a fruitful collaboration that had given them new respect for each other, and they had parted as good colleagues when Peder went on paternity leave at the start of August.
That was the last they had heard of each other. Fredrika wondered a few times whether to give him a ring, but never got round to it. Perhaps it was because she saw him as just that, a colleague, rather than a friend. And now too much time had passed for it to feel a natural thing to do. There was also quiet but persistent gossip on the corridor about Peder and his wife having a ‘trial separation’, as it was put, though he was also said to have asked a lawyer friend to act for him in the question of divorce proceedings and dividing the joint property.
Tragic, thought Fredrika.
Alex thought the same.
But neither of them put it into words, simply letting it hang there in the air.
In the resulting silence, Alex again tried to ask the question he needed answering.
‘And what about you, Fredrika? Are you going to stay on here with us?’
Fredrika drew herself up and looked Alex straight in the eye.
‘Yes,’ she said with composure. ‘I am.’
Alex smiled at her.
‘I’m glad,’ he said honestly.
&nb
sp; More mutual agreement that didn’t need words. Fredrika briefly considered whether this was the time to say that although she wanted to stay with Alex, certain things would have to change. Certain things to do with his assessment of her competence, and how her background was valued. The media had drawn attention to her involvement in the case, which had turned a spotlight on tensions between police and civilian personnel in the force. Fredrika had refused no fewer than two invitations to take part in discussion programmes. But she felt no urge whatsoever to give vent to her personal opinions on television.
Fredrika decided the issue could wait. It was Alex’s first day back at work since the fire; it didn’t feel right to force him into such a major discussion.
And anyway, there was another question she wanted to take up with him.
‘I’ve got to tell you that I shall be on parental leave from the end of April next year.’
Alex gave a start. Fredrika had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself bursting out laughing.
‘Parental leave?’ Alex repeated in amazement.
‘I’m going to be a mother,’ said Fredrika, feeling her cheeks glow with pride.
‘Congratulations!’ Alex said automatically.
He studied her.
‘It doesn’t show yet,’ he blurted out before he could stop himself.
Fredrika simply smiled, leaving Alex free to put his foot in it a second time.
‘Is there going to be a shotgun wedding?’
It was Fredrika’s turn to flinch, and Alex made a defensive gesture with his damaged hands to show he took the comment back. Fredrika found herself giggling, entirely involuntarily. Shotgun wedding. What a phrase.
I owe him this one, thought Fredrika, and answered the question.
‘No, I’m afraid not. The father’s already married, you see.’
Alex stared at Fredrika with a foolish grin, waiting for her to take back what she had just said. But she didn’t.
Alex turned to look out of the window instead.
It’ll do me good to get away to South America, he thought.
AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This is my first book and therefore the longest list of thanks I shall probably ever write.
This book would have been impossible to write if I had not already spent twenty years amusing myself writing endless tales and stories. You have to start somewhere, after all. And for me that was when I wrote my first so-called storybooks at school, at the age of seven. I owe a great debt of gratitude to the amazing teachers in primary and lower secondary school who taught me at an early stage to love reading and writing, and then didn’t stop encouraging me to write more when they saw how much I was enjoying it: Kristina Göransson, Kristina Permer and Olle Holmberg.
I have no idea where the idea for this book first came from. It was like all my other ideas: one day it was just there, begging to be turned into a story. It was August 2007 and I had eight days of holiday left. By January 2008 the first draft was finished. It was an emotional moment. I had never seen a book project through before. There are several reasons why it was different this time, and I want to thank my writer colleague Staffan Malmberg for one of them. His words ‘You just have to get past page 90 when you’re writing! Then you’ll be able to go on as long as you want!’ helped convince me that not all my stories had to end up in the desk drawer as fragments of novels.
The book is a detective novel, and entirely the product of my own imagination. At least as far as the plot is concerned. I have been employed in a police organization since the autumn of 2005. That doesn’t make me into a fully trained police officer, though I have learnt a lot in those years. So I must thank Sven-Åke and Patrik who made useful and amusing comments on my manuscript, drawing on their own extensive police experience, and also taught me what I needed to know about the sharp end of detection. Both of you, in your different ways, make a great contribution to the Swedish police force. Any mistakes (or conscious departures from standard police procedure) that remain are entirely my own.
The act of writing, contrary to what one might think, is actually a relatively small part of the job of producing a finished book. I write very quickly. But everything else happens at a much slower speed. Every author realizes sooner or later that Stephen King, genius that he is, was right when he wrote: ‘To write is human. To edit is divine.’ Editing is something with which one almost always needs help. Help is what I have had, and of the most superb calibre.
First of all: A huge thank you to my publisher Piratförlaget and its amazing staff, who had faith in me and decided to publish my book. The very first time I came through the door into your offices, I knew I was going to be happy there. Particular thanks go to Sofia Brattselius Thunfors and Anna Hirvi Sigurdsson. Sofia introduced me to the world of publishing with great enthusiasm and patience and guided me through the process that leads up to the actual publication of a book, as well as making sound, constructive comments on my manuscript. Anna, with incredible feeling for the written word and a firm grip on her magic pen, was a real rock in the editing of the text.
Thanks also to my peerless sister-in-law Caroline Ohlsson, who not only asked me to be godmother to her firstborn daughter Thelma but also, in spite of being in the advanced stages of pregnancy, took the time to read and comment on my very first draft, which at that stage was in a fairly wretched state.
Many thanks to Helena Carrick, who read the book at a later stage and contributed vital views and comments. A terrific reader, a sharp-eyed critic and most of all a wonderful friend. It is a real gift to have such an inspiring, energizing person on hand.
And finally Sofia Ekholm, who has not only shown uncompromising and unbounded loyalty, but who also rose to every occasion and made me believe by her words and actions that this really is something I can do, and do well. You are part of this book in many respects, and there is so much that would be a lot less fun without you.
Thank you.
At my desk, Stockholm, spring 2009
Table of Contents
PART I: Signs of Deception
MONDAY
TUESDAY
WEDNESDAY
THURSDAY
PART II: Signs of Anger
FRIDAY
SATURDAY
THE LAST DAY
PART III: Signs of Revival
THE END OF SEPTEMBER
Unwanted Page 35
