Silenced: A Novel

by Kristina Ohlsson

  Strange he’s not using his mobile, she thought.

  ‘Is that Fredrika Bergman?’ said an unfamiliar female voice.

  Taken aback at the realisation of who she must be talking to, Fredrika stopped dead in the deserted corridor.

  ‘Yes,’ she said finally.

  ‘This is Eva Lagergren. I’m Spencer’s wife.’

  Fredrika had worked that out already, but somehow it was still such a shock that she had to sit down. She sank slowly to the floor. Then Eva Lagergren said the words that nobody wants to hear:

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve got bad news.’

  Fredrika held her breath.

  ‘Spencer’s been involved in a car crash. He’s in hospital in Lund.’

  No, no, no. Anything but this.

  Misery hit her like a punch in the stomach, and she had to lean forward and clutch her belly.

  Deep breaths. In, out.

  ‘How is he?’

  Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

  She heard the other woman’s intake of breath.

  ‘They say he’s critical but stable.’

  Eva seemed to be hesitating, and it sounded as if she was crying when she went on:

  ‘It would be good if you could get there this evening. He’s sure to want you there when he wakes up.’

  Alex had a strangely festive feeling as he drove back into the city. His body felt far too wired for him to want to go straight home from Ekerö, so he went to HQ to write his report and wind down. Fredrika must have called it a night; her light was off and her coat had gone.

  Alex was still feeling quite upbeat as he turned into the drive of his house in Vaxholm. Then it struck him that he and Lena were meant to be having a talk that evening, and he hadn’t even rung to tell her he would be very late.

  He glanced at his watch. It was after one in the morning. The chances of Lena still being awake were minimal.

  So he was very surprised to find her sitting in an armchair in the living room. He could see she had been crying, and it also struck him that she had lost weight. A great deal of weight, what was more. Then fear washed through him like physical pain. It was as if he was seeing his wife properly for the first time in several weeks. Thin, pale and without lustre.

  I’ve missed something crucial, something dreadful.

  ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, and sat down on the sofa, facing her.

  She shook her head.

  ‘I rang the switchboard and they told me what was happening. Did it go all right?’

  The question made him want to laugh.

  ‘Depends what you mean by all right,’ he muttered. ‘But basically no, it didn’t go all right. Not at any level, in fact. The special group’s future looks shaky, to say the least.’

  Lena shifted uneasily in her seat, grimacing as if it hurt to move.

  ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘Something I’ve known for a while, but . . . I just couldn’t say anything. Not until I knew for sure.’

  He frowned, feeling his anxiety turn to panic.

  ‘Knew what for sure?’

  What was it that she couldn’t even tell her very best friend? Because he knew he was, just as she was his. That was what lay at the core of their long, secure marriage. Their relationship was founded on friendship.

  Guilt cut his soul like a knife. She wasn’t the one who had forgotten it; he was.

  I’ve spent so bloody long chasing ghosts that I’ve lost my senses, he thought hopelessly.

  And even before she started speaking, he knew that what she was going to say would change everything and rob him of any chance of making up for his grotesque mistake.

  ‘I’m going to have to leave you,’ she sobbed. ‘You and the children. I’m ill, Alex. They say there’s nothing they can do.’

  Alex stared at her, blank-eyed. As the consequences of what she had just said sank in, he knew with utter clarity that for the first time he was facing a situation he would never be able to accept. Still less learn to live with.

  They fell asleep with their arms around each other. It was late. The house was dark and silent and outside the snow had stopped falling. That was the last of that winter’s snow, except for a few showers in April.

  And by the time autumn came, it was all over.

  AUTUMN 2008

  The compassionate Detective Inspector

  STOCKHOLM

  ‘Did you have a good summer, Peder?’

  Peder Rydh reflected.

  ‘Yes thanks. It was great, actually.’

  ‘Do anything in particular?’

  Peder’s face lit up.

  ‘We had a motoring holiday in Italy. With our little boys and my brother Jimmy. Totally crazy, but unforgettable.’

  ‘So you and Ylva are together again now?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve sold my flat and moved back home.’

  ‘And that feels good?’

  ‘Very good.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘We met a couple of times before your summer break, and I seem to recall you were a bit negative about our sessions to start with.’

  Peder squirmed.

  ‘My experience of psychologists has been pretty mixed. I didn’t know what to expect.’

  ‘Ah, I see. And now what do you think?’

  Peder hesitated for a moment, but then decided there was no reason to lie.

  ‘It’s been good for me,’ he said simply. ‘I’ve realised a few things.’

  ‘Things you weren’t aware of before, you mean?’

  He nodded.

  ‘There was a lot of friction last winter between you and one of your colleagues, Joar. How are things now?’

  ‘Under control. I couldn’t care less about him.’

  ‘Really? But you have to work together, don’t you?’

  ‘No, he was transferred back to the Environmental Crime Agency. Or maybe he asked to go, I don’t know.’

  ‘So that only leaves you and Alex Recht?’

  Sadness made Peder’s eyes fill up.

  ‘Er, it’s just me and a stand-in at the moment. Nothing’s been decided for definite, you could say. Alex is on leave for a few weeks.’

  His voice petered out.

  ‘I wanted to see you to follow up on how you were, Peder. And to ask you a few last questions.’

  Peder waited.

  ‘What’s the very worst thing that could happen to you today?’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Today.’

  Peder pondered.

  ‘Don’t think so much, say something spontaneous.’

  ‘Losing Ylva, that would definitely be the worst thing.’

  ‘And the boys?’

  ‘I don’t want to lose them, either.’

  ‘But it wasn’t them who came spontaneously to mind when I asked.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love them. Just that I love them in a different way.’

  ‘Try to explain.’

  Peder took a deep breath.

  ‘I can’t. I just know that’s how it is. If I woke up tomorrow and Ylva wasn’t there, I wouldn’t be able to carry on. I just wouldn’t be able to cope with what Alex is going through at the moment.’

  Peder ran out of words. Ylva had given him a fresh chance. Now it was up to him to make the most of it.

  BAGHDAD, IRAQ

  Farah Hajib had already accepted that the man she loved was dead and would never come back, when a grey-haired, Western-looking man turned up at her front door.

  He spoke no Arabic at all, and the English she had learned at school was not enough for her to make out what he was saying. So she signed to him to go with her to the house next door where her cousin lived, because he was good at English and had worked as an interpreter for the American forces.

  Guests from the West were still a rarity in Baghdad. Those who did come were nearly all journalists or from one of the diplomatic missions bold enough to maintain a permanent presence in the area.
But Farah could see straight away that her guest was of another kind. He had a different sort of physical fitness and his eyes were constantly scouring his surroundings for danger or things worth observing.

  Police, she guessed. Or the military. Not American, but perhaps German.

  But it was not the man’s behaviour Farah would remember. It was the boundless sorrow and pain she thought she could see in his eyes. A sorrow so deep she could hardly look at him. She decided her guest was too strange to be bringing any sort of good news. It would be a short visit to her cousin.

  ‘There’s something he wants to give you,’ her cousin said after a few minutes’ conversation with the man.

  ‘Me?’ she echoed in astonishment.

  Her cousin nodded.

  ‘But I don’t know him.’

  ‘He says he comes from Sweden and works for the police. But he’s on leave at the moment. He says he investigated your fiancé’s death last spring.’

  The words took Farah’s breath away and she looked at the older man’s grief-stricken face.

  ‘He says he’s afraid he can’t stay long because there’s someone else he has to see before he goes home. Another woman who lost her husband last spring. His name was Ali.’

  Just then, her cousin’s wife came out of the kitchen, curious to see who this guest in their house was.

  The stranger gave her a cautious nod and said something to Farah’s cousin.

  ‘He congratulates you on the baby you’re expecting,’ the cousin said to his very pregnant wife. ‘One of his close colleagues had a baby a few months ago and he’s going to be a grandfather by Christmas himself.’

  Farah gave a melancholy smile, still at a loss as to why this man had come to see her out of the blue.

  Then he quietly put his hand in his pocket and took out a tiny object.

  Her fiancé’s engagement ring.

  Without even thanking him, she took the ring and looked at it until the memories that it evoked overwhelmed her and her tears began to flow. When she looked up at the man who said he was a Swedish police officer, she saw he was crying, too.

  ‘It was his wife’s suggestion that he should come here and give you the ring,’ the cousin explained in a mumble, troubled by the guest’s tears.

  ‘You must thank her and send my greetings,’ Farah said stiffly.

  She could almost have sworn that the stranger was smiling through his tears.

  AUTHOR’S ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Daring to say thank you is important. At least it is for me. In thanking someone you are acknowledging that they had a hand in your work. That you did not do it all by yourself. And should – in fact – not try to do it all by yourself.

  Writing a book is really like baking a very complicated kind of cake. As you struggle with the mixture and the meringue and the icing, you need extra pairs of hands. And you need time and energy, motivation and patience.

  I find it easy to write. The words come of their own accord; there’s no need to force or coax them out. But sadly that is no guarantee that they will be perfect. I see it the minute I print the text out from the computer; I can tell where the story isn’t holding together. And I wrestle with all those letters and words, trying to force them to lie in the right way. Sometimes it works. But sometimes it doesn’t work at all.

  First of all, a warm thank-you to everyone at my Swedish publishing house, the fantastic Piratförlaget! Sofi, Jenny, Cherie, Madeleine, Ann-Marie, Lasse, Mattias, Lottis, Anna Carin and Jonna – where would I be without your energy and constant encouragement? Particular thanks to my publisher Sofia, who carries on constructing a framework to keep the way ahead open, and makes me believe I can write any number of books. And to my editor Anna who always, always (and that repetition was deliberate, Anna) has the stamina to go on even when I don’t, and is the raising agent in the part of the cake mixture that’s called editing.

  Many thanks, too, to everyone at the ultra-competent Salomonsson Agency – Niclas, Leyla, Tor, Catherine and Szilvia – which has secured enormous success abroad since the start of our collaboration in May 2009. I’m proud to be represented by you!

  Thanks to all the friends and readers who are following my journey through the book world step by step, almost as if I were a rock star and not a writer. It’s wonderful the way you don’t just read my books but even get me to sign them when you’ve bought them as presents for other people.

  Thanks to Malena and Mats, who provide me with time.

  Thanks to Sven-Åke who continues to support me when my own knowledge of police work runs dry.

  Thanks to the sales staff at Walter Borgs Jaktbutik who helped me select the perfect murder weapon.

  Thanks to designer Nina Leino who makes my books look so incredibly smart.

  Thanks to Sofia Ekholm who continues to occupy a special place in my writing. There’s soon going to be a new typescript to read through – I hope you have the time and the appetite!

  And thanks to my family, who take such unconditional delight in my successes and travel the length and breadth of the country to be there when I’m talking about my book or kicking my heels behind the signing desk in some bookshop or other.

  Thank you.

  Kristina Ohlsson

  Baghdad, spring 2010