‘I hope you don’t have to sleep alone every night,’ her mother said with a meaningful glance at Spencer.
‘Sometimes I do,’ Fredrika said non-committally.
‘Oh?’ said her mother.
‘Ah,’ said her father.
And then they lapsed into silence. Absence of sound can be a blessing, or a curse, depending on the context. In this case there was absolutely no doubt: this wordless dinner was going to be a disaster.
Fredrika could not help feeling exasperated. What had her parents expected? They knew Spencer was married, knew she often slept alone, knew she would be bringing up the child at least partially as a single mother. An unorthodox arrangement, admittedly, but hardly the only lapse from orthodoxy in their family history. Fredrika’s uncle, for example, had been bold enough to come out as a homosexual back in the 1960s. And the family had always welcomed him on the same terms as everybody else.
Then Spencer asked a few polite questions about Fredrika’s mother’s interest in music, and the mood round the table grew a bit more cordial. Her father went to the kitchen for more potatoes and her mother put on an LP she had picked up in a second-hand shop a few days before.
‘Vinyl,’ she said. ‘You can’t beat it.’
‘I agree with you there,’ said Spencer, and snorted. ‘You wouldn’t catch me buying a CD.’
Fredrika’s mother smiled, and this time the smile even reached her eyes. Fredrika started to relax a little. They had broken the ice and the temperature was rising. Her father, seemingly still a bit wary of this son-in-law of his own age, cleared his throat and said: ‘More wine, anybody?’
It sounded almost like a plea.
They carried on chatting, the words coming more easily for everyone at the table, even her father.
Fredrika wished she could have drunk more wine. Somewhere out there, a murderer was on the loose. And they had no sense at all of whether he thought he had finished the job now, or whether the murders of Jakob and Marja Ahlbin were part of something bigger.
Her thoughts went to their daughter Johanna, who must have found out about their deaths on the internet by now. And then to Karolina, the one Elsie Ljung called Lazarus.
A day of rest tomorrow, thought Fredrika. But on Monday that’s the very first thing I shall tackle. If Karolina Ahlbin is alive, why on earth hasn’t she been in touch?
A thought flashed through her mind. Two sisters. One certifies the other’s death and then leaves the country. But neither has actually died.
A bloody good alibi for both of them.
Could the simple, woeful case be that Karolina and Johanna were the murderers the police were looking for? Was it the daughters pulling all the strings and choreographing developments with such precision?
The thought made Fredrika feel light-headed and it hit her that drastic measures would be required if there was to be any hope of getting off to sleep that night and not lying awake thinking about those murders.
Maybe she should get her violin out again? Playing for a while ought to bring some peace of mind. Just for a while. Any more than that would be a waste of time.
She quietly drained her wine glass.
Time’s running out for us, she thought. We need a new line of investigation. And we’ve got to find Johanna, double quick.
SUNDAY 2 MARCH 2008
BANGKOK, THAILAND
The flat was tiny and hot. The sun was kept out by thick curtains intended as a shield against prying eyes. As if anybody would be able to see into a flat on the fourth floor.
She paced restlessly to and fro between the little living room and kitchen. She had drunk all the water but did not dare to go out for more, or to drink the tap water. Dehydration and lack of sleep were taking their toll, trying to force her over the edge which she knew all too well she was balanced on. Below gaped a yawning chasm that threatened to swallow her alive. She tried to think constantly about where she was putting her feet, almost as if she did not trust the floor of the flat to bear her weight.
It was two days since she had learned from the online press that her family had died, probably the victims of murder. She could scarcely remember the first hours after she found out. Seeing her collapse into tears, the café owner resolutely closed his premises for the evening and took her home with him. He and his wife put her to bed on their settee and took turns to sit with her all night. Her weeping had been wild and uncontrolled, her grief insupportable.
It was the terror that was her salvation in the end. The news of what had happened to her family put her own situation in a different light. Someone was trying methodically, systematically, to dismantle her life and her past, and wipe out her family. Wondering what could possibly be the motive for such actions, she was suddenly horror-struck. And the horror and fear brought new, rational insight, forcing her to take action on her own behalf. As the sun rose over Bangkok that Sunday morning, she was calm and collected. She knew exactly what she had to do.
She did not know the background to the tragedy she was now being forced to live through. But she knew this much: her own disappearance was a vital part of the operation. People did not stage nightmare scenarios involving murder and conspiracy without a good reason. She sensed that it was all directed more at her and her father than at her mother or sister. Presumably because they were both so actively involved with migrant issues. Possibly prompted by the information-gathering trip she had just undertaken. Information that was now gone.
It was all pointless, she thought. The whole thing.
Her lack of personal documents and possessions frightened the trafficker to whom she turned for help.
‘Are you a criminal?’ he asked anxiously. ‘I can’t help you, if so.’
She had met him when she first came to Bangkok. She had been following the refugee trail, mapping out how things worked in Thailand. It seemed absurd and incomprehensible that people from the Middle East travelled to Europe via Thailand. It took her several days to win his trust, to convince him that she was nothing to do with the police, but had come to the country on her own initiative.
‘Why would a vicar’s daughter get involved in this sort of thing?’ he demanded scornfully.
‘Because she’s part of the reception system in Sweden,’ she answered, eyes lowered. ‘Because her father spent years hiding illegal migrants and now she’s following in his footsteps.’
‘So how do you view me, then?’ he asked, his voice full of doubt. ‘Unlike you, I’m not in it for anything but the money.’
‘Which could be seen as reasonable,’ she replied, though she was far from convinced. ‘Since you’re also taking enormous risks and could face a long prison sentence. So it seems reasonable for you to be paid in line with that.’
That was how she had won his confidence and trust. He let her shadow him, meeting passport forgers and travel document providers, individuals engaged in subversive activities at airports and key figures in the provision of safe houses. The network was unobtrusive but extensive, and constantly pursued by a corrupt police force, half-heartedly trying to clamp down. And at the core of it all were the people the entire operation revolved round. The people in flight, delivered up to a network that was criminal at heart, with hopeless, empty eyes and years of chaos and disintegration behind them.
She had taken photographs and documented. Borrowed an interpreter and talked to a number of the people involved. Explained that her aim was to present a fair picture of all parties, that there was great public ignorance on the subject in Sweden and that it would be to the benefit of everyone for this misery to be more widely known. To those earning money from the trafficking she promised complete anonymity and offered the carrot of indirect publicity and rising demand for their services. As if they could be more in demand than they already were; as if people had anyone else to turn to.
Bangkok had been her final destination. The journey had started in Greece, one of Europe’s major transit countries, where she had documented the treatment of asylum seekers
and how they reached mainland Europe. She had moved on to Turkey and then to Damascus and Amman. There were over two million Iraqi refugees currently parked in Syria and Jordan. Their options were exceedingly few; if they returned home they would in many cases become what were known as internal migrants – still without a home or any sound basis for a life. Out of two and a half million migrants, a very small proportion went on to Europe. There seemed to be innumerable ways of doing it, but most took the land route through Turkey. She went back to Turkey herself, accompanying one particular family to observe things at close quarters.
It was when they told her of their expectations of their new life in Sweden that her tears came. They had dreams of a bright new future, of jobs, and good schools for their children. Of houses and gardens and a society that would welcome them in a way best described as unrealistic.
‘They need labour in Sweden,’ the man told her with conviction. ‘So we know everything will work out once we get there.’
But she, like all those with inside knowledge, was all too well aware that few of the family’s expectations would be met and that it was only a question of time before they found themselves rendered passive and apathetic, and stuck in a cramped flat on some estate, waiting for a Migration Agency decision that could take an eternity and still be a no. And then the real running away would start. Running away from deportation.
She had rung her father at home and cried down the phone line. Said she understood now what it was that had utterly broken his heart when he got involved in this desperate struggle for human redress.
And now here she was in one of the safe flats in Bangkok herself, fleeing an enemy she did not even have a name for. The only thing that consoled her even the slightest was that she had made that phone call to her father.
When she thought back over her trip, she began to suspect it was the final stage that had been the problem and perhaps triggered the catastrophe that had now befallen her. There had been talk of a new way of getting to Sweden from Iraq, Syria and Jordan. Disconnected little hints, nobody could confirm anything. But what she heard fitted with what had come to her father’s notice in Sweden. That there was a new operator on the scene, whose method involved a different set of values and smaller sums of money. Someone who was offering a simple way of getting to Europe, if you promised not to reveal anything about the arrangement before you left. But of course people occasionally let things slip anyway, which was how the secret had started circulating.
The new way used established travel routes, always via Bangkok or Istanbul. And always by air, never the overland route. That had given her pause for thought, because smuggling people in on flights was much more risky. But on the other hand, the new network only seemed to be taking on a very small number of clients. None of the people she approached had personal knowledge of anyone who had gone that way, it was all just hearsay. She had already been to Istanbul twice, and Bangkok had seemed a good place to round off the trip. So in one last attempt to contact someone working for the new operator, she went there. Made an extensive search, but without results. Or at least, without any results she had been aware of. But that might well be the answer to the riddle: she had got too close without knowing it.
She was weak with fatigue, paralysed by grief. She took her pen and paper with her and lay down in the little bedroom. The air was still and heavy, and outside it was almost unbearably hot. But her body seemed to have switched off and refused to react. She curled into a ball on the bed and shut her eyes. When she was little, that had always been her best trick for shutting out all the bad things.
Her protector, the people trafficker, had been surprised to see her again so soon.
‘I need your help,’ she said, and that made him listen.
She would pay when she got back to Sweden. When she tried to get at her bank details and have money transferred to Bangkok, she was informed that her accounts were closed and she could not possibly be the person she said she was. So payment would have to wait, and her protector accepted that. Maybe he saw her as a part of an exciting project, because he seemed positively elated at the prospect of helping her.
And as for her, she had only one thought in her head – getting home. At any price. Because although she believed the catastrophe that had befallen her was related to her own investigations, she was beginning to suspect that the full picture was less simple than that. The truth might lie closer to her and her family and be much more personal.
She dropped off, and did not wake again until it was dark outside.
And her nightmare just went on and on.
STOCKHOLM
He waited for them at the agreed place, a few hundred metres from the Globe. The giant golf ball was fabulously illuminated in the darkness. He was one big smile; his heart was pumping wildly and the adrenalin made him see everything so vividly that evening. He had reached his goal at last, his journey was over and now he could make his final payment. He stared up into the clear, starlit night, his head aching with the relief. Happiness hurt when it was this big.
A black car of a type he did not recognise pulled up alongside the pavement where he was standing. A window slid down and the person inside gestured to him to put his haul in the boot and get into the back, right-hand seat. He immediately complied. Opening the car door, he found the woman who had met him at the station sitting in the other back seat. Her face was impassive as he climbed in.
They drove through a cold, wintry Stockholm bathed in moonlight. He was virtually sure they were driving north this time. The spoils lay in their protective black sack in the boot. They must really trust him, since they hadn’t even bothered to check he wasn’t trying to swindle them.
The trust was mutual by this stage, so he felt no unease as they made the short journey. They took a turning off the main road into what looked like some kind of park. Despite the gleam of the moonlight, the night was too dark for him to be able to see properly. They indicated to him to get out, and he did so. The passenger who was sitting beside the driver did so, too. It was the man with the disfigured face. They kept the engine running.
The man’s instructions were wordless; he merely pointed down towards the darkness of the park. Ali followed the pointing finger with his eyes and thought he could see someone standing there, down amongst the trees. Someone waving. The person stepped forward from the shadows. It was the man who spoke Arabic.
He wondered why the meeting had to take place in a deserted park in the middle of the night. Perhaps because their agreement was too sensitive to be dealt with when other people were around. He set off resolutely towards the Arabic speaker. The disfigured man was two steps behind him.
‘I gather it went well today,’ the Arabic speaker said when he reached him.
He smiled at Ali, who beamed back at him.
‘It all went fantastically well,’ he confirmed with the eagerness of a five-year-old keen to impress.
‘You’re a good shot,’ the man said. ‘Lots of other people would have missed a target that was moving so fast.’
Ali could not help feeling proud.
‘I have many years of training behind me, I’m afraid.’
The man gave a satisfied nod.
‘Yes we know, and that was why we chose you.’
He seemed to be wondering what to say next.
‘Come with me,’ he went on, bowing his head in the direction of the woods, where a lake could be seen glittering through the mass of tree trunks.
Ali felt a sudden stab of doubt.
‘Come along,’ said the man. ‘There’s just one more little detail to be taken care of.’
He gave such a warm smile that Ali’s mind was immediately put at rest.
‘When can I see my family again?’ he asked as he went after the man into a clearing.
‘Very, very soon,’ said the man, and turned round.
A second later, a shot rang out. And Ali’s journey was over.
MONDAY 3 MARCH 2008
The corridor was full
of bustling activity when Fredrika Bergman got into work on the Monday. Ellen Lind gave her a wide grin as they met, just outside her room.
‘You look radiant! Are you sleeping better now?’
Fredrika nodded and returned the smile happily, feeling almost embarrassed without knowing why. She did not really know why she was sleeping better, either. Perhaps the effect of Saturday’s family dinner had been more positive than she had predicted. And perhaps playing her violin was helping. Now that she had started, she could not stop. The memory was in her fingers and although she made some mistakes, she found she could play piece after piece.
Alex, by contrast, looked as though he had not slept particularly well as he opened the meeting in the Den a short time later and ran through what had come to light over the weekend.
He’s sinking, Fredrika thought anxiously. And we’re not lifting a finger to help him.
Peder and Joar had chosen seats as far away from each other as they could and were both staring fixedly straight ahead. The group had gone from tight-knit to unravelling in just a few days. Fredrika noted with some relief that for once the conflict did not centre on her.
‘I’ve checked out what Ragnar Vinterman told us about Erik Sundelius: the official warnings from his professional body and the prosecution for manslaughter. And it’s all correct,’ said Peder. ‘The question is how it’s significant, in the context.’
‘Need it be significant at all?’ Fredrika asked. ‘Need it be significant in this particular case that Jakob Ahlbin’s psychiatrist treated two other patients negligently, resulting in their suicide? We still don’t think Jakob killed either himself, or his wife.’
Silenced: A Novel Page 21
