Another sigh, then he gave her a name.
The call was answered almost immediately. Fredrika explained her question as Alex reversed into a space that felt at least half a yard too small.
“We thought about that, of course,” their colleague said, “but we got nowhere. The name of the delivery firm wasn’t on the bag, and the secretary couldn’t remember whether the person who handed it over was wearing any kind of logo.”
“Shit,” Fredrika said.
Her colleague laughed.
“We said much the same thing.”
“Have you tried ringing around different firms?” Fredrika said. “They ought to remember if they were asked to deliver a plant in a bag with a big face drawn on it.”
“We called a dozen or so, but it was no good. The only thing we had to go on was that, according to the secretary, the girl who brought the plant in didn’t speak Swedish.”
Fredrika froze. Alex was already out of the car.
“She didn’t speak Swedish?”
“No, but why would she need to? She only had to hand over a plant.”
But Fredrika didn’t agree.
“Send a sketch artist over to the secretary,” she said. “Right now.”
“But why?” Her colleague was taken aback.
“Because I think the girl who delivered the plant was the one who lay on the roof and shot Josephine.”
The feeling that he had hit upon something vital was intoxicating. Peder Rydh had known he was right all along, but now he thought he could prove it.
I need to speak to Alex about this.
He just wanted to check one more thing.
His hands were shaking slightly as he dug out a list of contact details for the witnesses the security team had interviewed. He called one of the parents, the father of a three-year-old boy.
The man sounded wary when Peder explained who he was and why he was calling.
“I’ve already spoken to the police and the community’s security team. What’s this about?”
“I wonder if you could help me understand a couple of things,” Peder said. “For example, what was Josephine doing outside? Why did she leave the school building?”
The man didn’t say anything for a moment, presumably because he was trying to recall.
“There was nothing strange about it,” he said eventually. “Three parents had arrived at the same time; everything was just the way it always was. We went inside and collected our children, helped them to put on their outdoor clothes, and said good-bye to the staff and the children who were still there. Just as we got outside, Josephine came after us. She said that one of the children, a little girl called Lova, was wearing the wrong hat. That caused a bit of a discussion, because Lova flatly refused to give it back. Josephine came out to retrieve the hat; that’s all there was to it.”
So chance had brought Josephine outside and led to her death.
“I believe the last thing Josephine did was to call a child who was still inside,” Peder said.
“That’s right. She wanted the little girl who owned the hat to come to the door and bring Lova’s hat, because of course it was still sitting on the shelf.”
Peder’s brain was working overtime, desperate for more details. Every scrap of the instinct that had once made him a skilled investigator was screaming at him to keep digging. Because there was more to come.
“Was there something special about this particular hat? Why did it cause such a fuss?”
God knows, small children didn’t need a sensible reason to start squabbling, but Peder still felt he had to ask.
“Actually, it wasn’t just any old hat,” the parent said. “It was a big red hand-knitted hat.”
Peder found it difficult to understand why a big red hand-knitted hat would be so popular.
“One of those that looks like a berry?”
“Not at all—it was more like a big red ball. Several of the parents laughed when Polly turned up in it; none of us could have produced anything like it, but Carmen is very talented.”
Carmen?
“I’m sorry? Carmen?” Peder said. “Carmen Eisenberg? Simon’s mother?”
“That’s right—Polly is Simon’s little sister. Or rather she was . . . Well, you know what I mean.”
The man’s voice broke with emotion.
And suddenly Peder understood.
He was so agitated that it was all he could do to stop himself shouting down the phone.
“So what you’re saying is that when Josephine was shot, there was a child standing next to her wearing a big red hat? A hat that actually belonged to Polly Eisenberg?”
“Yes.”
“But Polly wasn’t picked up at the same time?”
“She should have been, but Carmen was obviously running late.”
She should have been.
Polly Eisenberg, Simon’s little sister, should have been going home at the time when her teacher was shot. She should have been outside the school just after three o’clock, wearing her big red hat.
Peder closed his eyes, thought about the snow that had fallen that day, and the fact that it was already starting to get dark. He thought about the distance from the roof to the school entrance.
And he thought that a big red hat would have been the perfect target.
The investigation was beginning to resemble the tracks in the snow out on Lovön: the leads appeared to be going around in circles, taking the team in all directions. However, as Alex Recht had already established, most led in the same direction.
To Israel.
“We have a man who’s traveled from Israel to Stockholm to recruit a head of security for the Solomon Community,” he said to Fredrika as they walked from the car to the Eisenbergs’ apartment. “A man who is either a bloody good investigator, or who is disturbingly well informed about our inquiries. At the same time, we have someone calling himself the Lion who has been exchanging messages with Simon and Abraham. From Israel. He claims his name is Zalman.”
“Efraim Kiel could have sent those messages, if we’re looking at him as a possible suspect,” Fredrika said. “The correspondence took place before he came to Sweden.”
They had reached the apartment block.
“The Lion, whoever he is, could be the person who picked up the boys,” Fredrika said.
“I know.”
“In which case he—or she—must have rented or borrowed a car. Or driven here from Jerusalem, which seems highly unlikely, wouldn’t you say?”
She attempted a wan smile, which Alex returned.
“I think that sounds like great fun,” he said. “Driving to Jerusalem. Perhaps Diana and I should give it a go sometime.”
“Have you heard anything from Eden yet?”
Alex’s expression grew serious.
“No. She said she’d be in touch when she had something to tell me. If she had something to tell me.”
He held the door open for Fredrika. If his daughter had seen him, she would have given him a long lecture about why opening a door for a woman constituted oppression. Alex couldn’t give a damn. Opening the door for a woman was just like closing the door when you went to the toilet; it was just something you did.
“There are several things we need to ask Carmen and Gideon about,” he said as they went up the stairs. “The Paper Boy and the paper bags are our number one priority. The Lion, and why they left Israel ten years ago, are also important. I can’t shake off the feeling that’s where the answer lies—or part of it, at least.”
“We also need to ask them about Efraim Kiel,” Fredrika pointed out.
Once again they were standing outside the Eisenberg family’s door. Alex was just about to press the doorbell when his cell phone rang. It was Peder Rydh. After listening to him for less than a minute, Alex signaled to Fredrika to follow him back down the stairs.
The visit to the Eisenbergs would have to be postponed.
• • •
A big red hat on a little girl’s head.
Without it, Peder’s argument was nothing.
They met in a café on Östermalm Square; Alex had already forgotten the name of it. Alex, Peder, and Fredrika: just like the old days. But they had never met in a café; it was a new environment for the old team.
“Thanks for this—I thought it was best if you didn’t come to the community center.”
Alex agreed.
What Peder had done was far beyond the remit of his role as head of security; he had done the police’s job for them, and he had done it well.
“You have to take back Josephine’s case from the National Crime Unit,” Peder said. “I’m sure they’ve given up any attempt to link the murder to organized crime by now; it could just be lying there, with no one making much of an effort.”
He took a sip of his coffee, then bit into a cinnamon bun the size of a saucer.
Fredrika was drinking tea and eating a marzipan cake.
“I thought you didn’t eat crap like that,” Peder said.
“Well, there you go.” She took a big bite. “What made you think that?”
Peder looked down, picking sugar crystals off the tablecloth.
“I thought you were too much of a gourmet for that kind of thing.”
Alex was about to interrupt the discussion before Fredrika made mincemeat of Peder, but discovered that he no longer needed to act as playgroup leader. Those days were gone. The years that had passed had tempered both of them, in different ways.
Fredrika looked as if she was about to burst out laughing. No doubt she realized that she was partly to blame; she had been quite difficult in the past.
Obviously Peder still didn’t quite know where to draw the line, because when he noticed that he had got away with his comment about the cake, he decided to carry on:
“Since you’ve started eating like a cop, maybe you could try dressing like one, too,” he said, glancing at her smart blouse and jacket, which looked more like something a banker or stockbroker might wear.
At that point Alex decided he had had enough; they didn’t have time for this.
“A red hat,” he said. “Worn by the wrong child. You think that’s enough to jump to the conclusion that the Eisenbergs’ daughter was the target, not the teacher?”
Peder bristled.
“You wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t think the same.”
Always difficult when people knew you . . .
“Besides,” Peder went on, “this doesn’t just come down to a red hat.”
“Convince me.”
“First of all, the timing. The killer was lying high up on a roof. It was snowing and several degrees below freezing. So he or she wouldn’t want to stay there for too long. Therefore, I believe we can assume he was intending to carry out his mission at about three o’clock, which was when Polly was due to be picked up. Secondly . . .”
“How did the killer know she was due to be collected then?” Fredrika asked.
“I don’t know. But we can assume he checked it out; if he knew what school she attended, it seems likely that he would have found out when her parents usually came for her. Polly is collected at three o’clock every day; her parents take it in turns. The killer could easily have watched the family for a few days and very quickly gotten a handle on their routines.”
“But why shoot the child outside the school?” Alex said. “There must be a hundred other opportunities to choose from.”
“In the heart of Stockholm?” Peder said. “Think about it. You found the two boys out on Lovön. In broad daylight. Not far from Sweden’s head of state. Not a particularly discreet crime. You have to admit the person you’re dealing with here is seriously disturbed.”
The three of them fell silent.
“Or someone who likes the attention,” Peder added so quietly that Alex had to lean forward to hear what he said.
“Okay, I’ll stop interrupting,” he said. “Carry on. You were talking about the timing.”
• • •
Alex Recht gave his former colleague one more chance to prove his point.
Peder felt a fresh surge of energy.
“Secondly, as I said, it was very cold on Wednesday, and it was windy, too. And it was snowing. Our friend on the roof can’t have wanted to stay there any longer than absolutely necessary. Polly Eisenberg was supposed to go home at three o’clock, not Josephine. There was no reason whatsoever why the sniper would have expected to see Josephine out there before five o’clock, when she finished work. And another thing: the angle of the shot is wrong. If Josephine hadn’t crouched down to help a child do up his shoelace, the bullet would have hit her in the leg, not the back.”
“Which suggests that he was aiming at someone shorter than Josephine,” Fredrika said.
“Exactly.”
“In which case he missed,” Alex said.
“It was snowing,” Peder said. “Visibility was very poor. And just as the shot was fired, the little girl who was wearing Polly’s hat moved. Josephine turned around to call to Polly, who was still inside, and the girl who had taken Polly’s hat got angry and pulled away from her father. Then the gun went off.”
“You mean if she had stayed where she was, she would have been hit?”
“I only have secondhand accounts to go on, but yes, it looks that way.”
Alex sipped his coffee. He had decided against a pastry; Diana had suggested that both of them ought to be eating less rubbish. Reluctantly he had accepted that it was a good idea, particularly on days like this.
He caught Fredrika’s eye.
“What do you think? This is what you said right from the start: that there was a chance the bullet wasn’t meant for Josephine.”
Fredrika finished off her cake.
“That was just a guess, but at the time I didn’t know there was a link to the Eisenberg and Goldmann families.”
“And now?”
The door of the café opened and closed as a customer came in. Cold air sliced across the floor.
Fredrika hesitated.
“I don’t think we can rule it out. But regardless of what I think, Peder has managed to reinforce one key point.”
“Which is?”
“That Josephine died by pure chance. There is absolutely no reason to believe that someone would have stayed up there on the roof for hours, just waiting for her to appear. It’s out of the question.”
“So where does that leave us?” Peder said.
“Either things really are as bad as in some TV drama, and we’re looking at serial killers who specialize in Jewish victims . . . but, in that case, why haven’t we seen more victims, given how quickly things happened that first day? Or the bullet actually did hit the right victim, but she was chosen at random: the killer was prepared to shoot whoever was outside the school at that particular moment.”
Alex prayed that Peder wouldn’t pick up the additional information Fredrika had just revealed—information that was most definitely not intended for anyone outside the team.
His prayer was in vain, of course.
“Serial killers?” Peder said.
“That’s just one theory we’re considering,” Fredrika said.
“I understand that, but you’re talking as if there’s more than one killer.”
Fredrika blinked.
“Sorry, I made a mistake.”
“No you didn’t. It was the same murder weapon. Are you still saying there was more than one killer?”
A man and a woman, Alex wanted to say. We think there could be two of the bastards working together.
But it was too soon to share information like that with an outsider.
“It’s just one of a number of theories we’re considering at the moment,” he said, placing a calming hand on Peder’s shoulder. “I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself.”
Peder reluctantly agreed.
Alex knew exactly what he was thinking. He had taken the trouble to call them, placed all his cards on the table, and now Fre
drika and Alex wouldn’t let him in.
Fredrika tried to move the discussion forward.
“To be honest, I think Peder’s idea is the closest to the truth.”
“You believe Polly Eisenberg was the intended victim?” Alex said.
She nodded. Peder looked pleased.
“In that case, we have a problem,” Alex said.
“We do.”
“But isn’t it a good thing if Polly was the target?” Peder said. “It means this is personal, so you’re not looking at a serial killer. In other words, we don’t need to worry about more victims.”
Alex raised his eyebrows; he could see that Fredrika shared his unease.
“Unfortunately I don’t think we can make that assumption,” he said.
“Because . . . ?”
“Because if Polly was the target, then the killer has failed to achieve his goal. Which means we have a five-year-old girl who won’t be safe for a second until we have caught whoever is after her.”
The sunshine made Stockholm look even more stunning than usual. The most beautiful capital city in the world, Eden had once said. Efraim Kiel had contradicted her, saying he couldn’t imagine a lovelier city than Jerusalem. They had spent a day driving from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Taken tea on the magnificent terrace of the King David Hotel. Strolled through the Old City and visited the Western Wall. Eden had slipped her hand into his and he had let it happen. He had sensed, believed, that her love for him would eventually be so strong that he would be able to win her over to their side.
He had failed. Failed, but he had been convinced that she was the only one who would have to pay.
How wrong he had been.
How very wrong.
Efraim Kiel was sitting motionless on the edge of his bed in his hotel room. He had left the glorious winter weather behind; he wanted no part of that particular idyll. He had waited for Eden outside the door of her apartment block, thinking that she and her family wouldn’t want to stay indoors on a day like this.
Right so far.
Her carefree attitude had surprised him; at no point had he thought she might spot him. That was one of the main reasons why he had been tempted to creep up on her as he had done: he had wanted to put her in her place, make her realize that it didn’t matter how many of her Säpo goons she put on his tail.
The Chosen Page 20
