Silenced: A Novel

by Kristina Ohlsson

Whether it was the effect of her pregnancy or for some other reason, Fredrika did not seem to have any objections to that arrangement, either.

  She’s not herself, thought Alex, and started to brood. She generally advanced her ideas more tenaciously.

  A knock at the door interrupted the meeting, and Peder came in. He did not look anyone in the eye, merely sank into a spare seat at the table.

  ‘Hi,’ he said.

  One step behind him came a man whom Alex knew was from the technical division.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ he drawled, standing in the doorway. ‘I thought you might like to see this,’ he went on, passing Alex some sheets of paper.

  ‘What are these?’ asked Alex.

  ‘Print-outs of emails sent to Jakob Ahlbin’s church email account,’ said the technician. ‘We were given access today. He seems to have been receiving threats for a while now. He’d saved the emails in a separate folder.’

  Alex raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Really?’ he said.

  The technician nodded.

  ‘See for yourself,’ he said. ‘They were threatening to do some really nasty things, if Jakob didn’t stop his activities. He seems to have got involved in some dispute he ought to have kept out of.’

  Joar got quickly to his feet and moved so he could read over Alex’s shoulder.

  ‘Look at the dates,’ he said, pointing. ‘The last one came less than a week ago.’

  Alex felt his pulse racing as he read the print-outs.

  ‘So he was receiving threats, after all,’ he declared.

  And with that, the case of the late Jakob and Marja Ahlbin took a new turn.

  BANGKOK, THAILAND

  Her friend had told her to wait until he got back to her with instructions. He had promised to be in touch by two o’clock the next day. She looked uneasily at the time; it was just after three. Back home in Sweden it was nine in the morning.

  For the hundredth time she took her mobile out of her bag and checked it. Still no missed calls. But then, timekeeping had never been his strong point.

  The proprietor of the internet café offered her another cup of coffee. He recognised her now, and looked sorry when she declined.

  ‘Can I help?’ he asked.

  She tried to smile and shook her head.

  ‘No, but thanks anyway.’

  Her eyes went back to the computer screen. She instinctively wished that her problems were the kind that could be solved by the intervention of a Thai café owner. She had carried on ringing her parents, but to no avail. The only thing that had changed since yesterday was that her mother’s mobile was now cut off, too. Her email was still not working and Thai Airways still maintained they had never heard of her booking.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ her contact said. ‘I’ll get this mess sorted out for you. If you can just hang on till tomorrow you’ll see, it’ll all be okay.’

  She wondered if she should ring him again, ask why he had not rung back.

  Her stomach was rumbling and her head felt heavy. She ought to eat and drink something, top up her energy levels. She decided on the spot to go back to the hotel and try to find something to eat on the way.

  The heat hit her as she came out onto the pavement. She went along Sukhumvit, the great artery through Bangkok city, relieved to know that her hotel was only two blocks away. Her handbag was rubbing her shoulder and she upped her pace. She slipped into a side street to get out of the sun. Her head turned from side to side as her eyes looked out for the first suitable place to eat.

  Her mind on food, she was not concentrating and did not see him until it was too late. Suddenly he was there on the pavement with his knife drawn and his lips compressed. The cacophony of cars and people was less than thirty metres away, but in the side street it was just the two of them.

  I’m not going to get out of this, she thought, and did not initially feel any fear.

  The fear only came when he started to speak.

  ‘Your bag,’ he spat, threatening her with the knife. ‘Your bag.’

  Standing there, she felt like crying. Not so much because she was being robbed for the first time in her life, but because she would now face even greater problems. Everything was in her bag. Her purse, her Visa card, her mobile. That had been her decision for the whole trip; she had judged it more risky to leave anything of value in the hotel than to carry it with her. The only exception was the computer, which she could not face lugging round with her. But that had been emptied of all information.

  Her breath came in gasps. The bag reluctantly dislodged itself from her shoulder and slid down to her elbow.

  ‘Quick, quick,’ the man with the knife exhorted, gesturing to her with his free hand to let go of the bag.

  When she did not immediately do so, he launched himself forward and forced her to take two rapid steps back to avoid a stab wound to her arm. She tripped on an uneven bit of tarmac and fell over. The bag slipped to the ground and in a second the man was standing over her, grabbing it.

  But he did not go. He unzipped the bag and started going through the contents.

  ‘USB,’ he demanded.

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  ‘USB,’ he shouted. ‘Where is it?’

  She swallowed several times, shaking her head frantically.

  ‘I haven’t got one,’ she answered in English, trying to shuffle backwards along the pavement, still on her back.

  The man leant forward and yanked her to her feet. She struggled to get free, twisting like a snake. Then the knife lunged at her again, very close this time. He pressed it to her face and she gave an involuntary jerk as she felt the cool metal against her skin.

  Stressing every syllable, he said again:

  ‘Where is it?’

  In silent panic she weighed up the alternatives. There were none, she realised as she saw the man’s expression. It was angry and aggressive, but very controlled. He knew all too well what he was looking for.

  She fumbled for the memory stick on the chain round her neck. He was still gripping her, far too hard. When he saw what she was doing, he wrenched at the chain and it broke. The memory stick fell onto the tarmac and he dived after it.

  There would be no better chance of escape than this.

  She ran faster than she had ever run before, her sandals slapping on the tarmac. If she could just get out onto Sukhumvit she’d be safe.

  ‘Stop!’ shouted the man from behind her. ‘Stop!’

  But naturally she did not stop, convinced as she was that it would be the most dangerous thing she could possibly do. This man had been employed by someone, and his assignment was not just to rob her. She had realised almost at once what was strange about his behaviour. Muggers do not usually go through a handbag hunting for a USB stick. And how could he have known? How did he even know there was a USB stick to look for?

  She ran all the way back to the hotel, taking a route that meant she could keep to the bigger streets all the way. She did not know exactly when he had given up the chase, but he stopped shouting after she put on a spurt along Sukhumvit. She did not turn round until she was in the hotel lobby, almost fainting and drenched in sweat. He was not there.

  She sank to the lobby floor in despair.

  A security guard and one of the receptionists came dashing over. Was she all right? Could they help her?

  She wished with all her heart she could have laid the whole story in their open arms. She was tired now, incapable of summoning up the inner resources to see her project through. Coming on this trip alone suddenly seemed like a really stupid idea. What had she been thinking? Hadn’t she understood the risks, sensed imminent danger?

  ‘I’ve been robbed.’

  The hotel staff were dismayed. Robbed? In broad daylight in Bangkok? A white woman? They looked shocked, said they had never heard of such a thing before. The female receptionist went to get some water and the guard to ring the police.

  As she drank, the receptionist enquired kindly whether s
he needed anything else.

  ‘No,’ she replied, trying to smile. ‘I’d just like my key so I can go up to my room and wash.’

  The receptionist disappeared off to the desk and the guard paced impatiently up and down the lobby.

  ‘The police will be here within half an hour,’ he assured her.

  She tried to look grateful, well aware that the police could hardly help her in any significant way.

  The receptionist returned. She looked worried.

  ‘Pardon me, but what room number did you say it was?’

  ‘214,’ she said wearily.

  She gulped some more water, picked herself up and went over to the desk.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss,’ said the receptionist. ‘In 214 we have a man who booked in the day before yesterday. Are you sure you have the right number?’

  Suddenly she could not breathe. She stared at the hotel logo, which was all over the reception area to remind guests where they were.

  Manhattan Hotel. The hotel where she had been staying for the past five nights.

  Panic rose inside her. The hotel staff were now observing her with watchful eyes. She tried to keep her voice steady as she spoke.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said with an effort. ‘I must have got mixed up. You’re right, I don’t remember my room number.’

  ‘Miss, we want to help you, but your name is not on our computer. Not for any room.’

  She swallowed hard.

  ‘Okay, then perhaps you’ve registered me as having checked out, by mistake.’

  The receptionist gave an unhappy sigh.

  ‘According to the computer, you have not been staying here at all.’

  A few seconds passed. She blinked to hold back the tears.

  She looked the receptionist entreatingly in the eye.

  ‘But you must recognise me. I’ve been going in and out of this hotel for several days now.’

  The receptionist exchanged glances with the guard, looked as though she wanted to ask something. Then she shook her head.

  ‘Sorry, miss,’ she said, appearing genuinely sorry. ‘I have never seen you before. And no one else here has, either. Would you like me to help you ring for a taxi?’

  STOCKHOLM

  Peder Rydh tried to keep his anger in check as Joar and Alex set off for the Ahlbin sisters’ house at Ekerö. Alex had left him the job of going through the emails that had come to light and working with the technical section to try to establish who had sent them. Fredrika had been entrusted with finding out as much as possible about Jakob’s activities with refugee organisations. Even that seemed more exciting than poring over lousy emails.

  Peder took out his mobile and tried ringing his brother Jimmy. There was no answer and Peder threw the phone onto his desk. Of course he hadn’t answered, everything else was going down the pan, so why not that, too?

  A sense of guilt set in almost immediately. He should be glad Jimmy was not answering his phone, because it meant he was too busy doing something he enjoyed more.

  ‘Jimmy’s lucky having a big brother who cares about him so much,’ said the carers at the assisted living unit whenever Peder went there.

  It sometimes seemed as if the unit was the only place on earth where Peder still made a good impression and felt welcome. Jimmy had lived there since he turned twenty, and seemed happy. It made his world the size he could handle and he was surrounded by people like himself who could not manage on their own.

  ‘You have to remember that in spite of any setbacks, you’re still living an enormously privileged life,’ his mother would say.

  Peder knew what she meant, but it still bothered him to hear her say it. Fredrika Bergman, for example, hadn’t got a sibling who had suffered brain damage at the age of five in a stupid game that went wrong; did that mean she was less duty-bound than Peder to make the most of herself and her life?

  Sometimes when he was sitting with one of his little boys on his lap he would think about how incredibly fragile life was. Indelible images from childhood reminded him of the accident with the swing that had destroyed his brother’s life and underlined how easily something could be irrevocably lost if you were not careful.

  Careful. Trustworthy. Aware.

  God knew when he had last been any of those things.

  His mother, who functioned more or less as a nanny to the twins, had started watching him with a worried look when he got home late smelling of beer or went for drinks after work three evenings in a row. Something had happened to him to make him less considerate and more neglectful. It had happened when the boys were born and Ylva was sucked into that goddamn post-natal depression that went on and on.

  But now it was as if he was the one who couldn’t get his health back on track, not her. When they first separated he had felt strong and responsible. He had broken out of an impossible situation and done something radical to improve his life.

  But it had all gone to hell in a handcart.

  As usual he just gritted his teeth. At least at work he had other things to think about.

  He went through the checklist he had put together of all the threats sent to Jakob Ahlbin’s church email account in the past two weeks. The tone grew more hostile as time went on, and the threats seemed to have started after the clergyman intervened in some dispute that the sender felt was none of his business. The emails were not signed with a name, but with the initials SP. The initials also featured in the email address used to issue the threats.

  Peder frowned. He was not sure what SP stood for.

  He read the emails again. The first was dated 20 January.

  Dear Reverend Scumbag, we advise you to back off while you still can. SP

  Back off from what, wondered Peder.

  The next email had come a few days later, 24 January.

  We damn well mean it, vicar. Keep away from our people, now and for ever. SP

  So SP was some kind of group, Peder could work out that much. But what else? The rest of the threatening emails did not offer any more contextual clues, but Peder saw that the tone had hardened. An email from the last day of January read:

  If you don’t give a toss about our friends, we don’t give a toss about yours. We’re going to make it hell for you. An eye for an eye, you fucking priest. SP

  Hardly well-written. But the message was clear. Peder wondered what Jakob Ahlbin himself had thought. He had not reported any of the threats as far as Peder could see. Did that mean he had not taken them seriously? Or that he had other reasons for keeping the messages from the police?

  The last two emails had arrived in the final week of Jakob’s life. On 20 February, the person had written:

  You ought to listen to us, vicar. You’ve got the trials of Job ahead of you if you don’t stop your activities right away.

  And then the last one, on 22 February:

  Don’t forget how it all ended for Job; there’s always time to change your mind and do the right thing. Stop looking.

  Peder pondered. Stop looking for what? The name Job sounded familiar, but he could not place it. He was assuming it must be biblical. A quick internet search confirmed it.

  Job was apparently the man God tested more than any other to show the Devil how far he could push those who lived righteously.

  Job lost everyone, Peder noted grimly. But he himself survived.

  He reached for the telephone receiver and rang the technical division to see if they had come up with any names for the sender of the anonymous emails.

  It took no more than half an hour to drive out of Stockholm to Ekerö. The roads were clear in the middle of the day, not clogged with rush-hour traffic.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Joar non-committally.

  ‘I don’t think anything,’ Alex said firmly. ‘I prefer to know. And I know too little in this case to be able to say anything. But it’s a cause for concern that Jakob received such serious threats just before he was found dead.’

  Alex did not need to spell out why it was a cause for concern.
The problem was clear. If it turned out that there was proof Jakob had not been the perpetrator, they were in deep trouble with the investigation. Forensics had been through the flat with a fine-toothed comb without finding a shred of evidence that anyone else had been there at the time of the shootings. In his heart of hearts, Alex hoped Jakob would turn out to have done it. Otherwise things were going to get hellishly complicated.

  They parked in the driveway and got out of the car. The sky was cloudless and the snow frozen hard. The best kind of winter weather and not the sort of conditions you spontaneously linked with death and misfortune.

  The snow lay pristine in front of the house and all round it.

  ‘No one’s been here for a while,’ said Joar.

  Alex said nothing. For no particular reason, his thoughts went to Peder. Maybe he had been too hard on him; the case had been his from the start. But colleagues in this business had to expect a severe reprimand to result from improper behaviour. It was irrelevant that he was having a rotten time at home; you could not bring private problems to work with you. Especially if you were a police officer.

  ‘We’ll go in as soon as the technicians get here,’ Alex said out loud, to stop the thoughts chasing round in his head. ‘I think they were just behind us on the road.’

  They had been granted a search warrant by the prosecutor because a criminal act was suspected. Finding a key to the house had been harder. Elsie and Sven Ljung may have had a spare key to Jakob and Maria’s flat at Odenplan, but they did not have one to the house, and the daughters obviously could not be asked. In the end they had asked permission to go into the Ahlbins’ and Karolina’s town flats to look for the key, but could not find anything. So the technicians were coming to help them force entry through the front door with minimal damage.

  ‘What did Karolina’s place look like?’ Alex asked Joar, who had been in on the search.

  Joar initially did not seem to know quite how to answer.

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t say it looked like the home of a drug addict,’ he said finally. ‘We took some pictures; you can see them later.’

  ‘Did it look as if someone had gone in and cleaned it up afterwards?’ he asked, thinking of Johanna, who might have done something of the kind after her sister’s demise.