by Viveca Sten
He slipped the phone back in his pocket and headed for the subway entrance. Peter Moore lived on Karlbergsvägen; Aram had memorized his address. If he took the green line, he could be there in ten minutes.
It wouldn’t do any harm to check him out.
CHAPTER 71
The Vaxholm ferry docked with a little bump against the quayside. Nora craned her neck to see if Adam and Simon were waiting.
There they were, along with Henrik.
He waved when he spotted her in the prow. She recognized the moss-green hat she’d given him for Christmas a few years ago. It was a silly present, but it was hand-knitted; she’d bought it at a school bazaar. Nora waved back; she couldn’t wait to disembark and give her boys a hug.
Simon ran toward her, arms wide open, the words spilling out.
“We’ve made you dinner. Spaghetti Bolognese. Dad can stay over and eat with us, can’t he? There’s chocolate pudding, too—how good is that?”
Henrik wasn’t far behind. He put his arm around Simon’s shoulders and smiled.
“If that’s OK with you?”
Nora could hardly speak; it had taken all her energy to drive along the dark, winding road to Stavsnäs. She was still badly shaken, but she didn’t want to disappoint her son.
“Of course Dad can stay for dinner,” she said, and Simon’s face lit up.
Adam gave her a hug, too, then gave her a searching look.
“Are you upset about something?”
It was so typical of him to notice how she was really feeling. She blinked away the tears.
“I’m just tired, sweetheart. It’s been such a long day.”
The cold tightened its grip on her body; she was aching with exhaustion and shock in equal measure.
“Please, can we go home?” she said. “I’m freezing.”
“I’ve got your bag,” Henrik said, kindly picking it up.
When Thomas walked in, he was met by Pernilla, who was just closing Elin’s bedroom door.
“She fell asleep two seconds ago,” she said, coming over and kissing him gently on the lips. She smelled exactly like Elin, a mixture of vanilla and baby powder. Thomas drew her close, enjoying her warmth, the feeling of belonging together, knowing that it was OK to rest his forehead against hers for a moment.
Do you have any idea how much I love you?
“Are you hungry?” she said. “I’ve bought strip steak, and I’ve made a potato gratin—it’ll only take a few minutes to warm up.”
“Sounds fantastic. Sorry I didn’t call you, but it’s been one of those days. I hardly even managed lunch—I grabbed a couple of hot dogs.”
“No problem. I wasn’t sure when you’d be home, which is why I made something that was easy to reheat.”
Pernilla waved a hand in the direction of the kitchen, but just for a second her gaze lingered on Elin’s door, as if she wanted to make sure that everything was all right, that Elin really was breathing.
Thomas recognized her anxiety only too well, but she said: “Come on, let’s fix dinner—I’m starving. Would you like a beer? Or a glass of wine? There’s a bottle of white in the refrigerator.”
Thomas sank down at the table. The rectangular kitchen wasn’t very large, but it had been carefully planned. A wide, solid wooden countertop ran along one side and continued under the window, with the washing machine and dishwasher tucked in beneath it.
“A beer would be good.”
He liked watching Pernilla, her quick movements as she prepared dinner, efficient yet ever-present.
They had once lost each other. That couldn’t happen again.
Pernilla handed him a cold Carlsberg, then poured herself a glass of wine.
“Skål,” she said. “You look worn out. How’s the case going?”
Thomas took a swig of his beer.
“Good question. I wish I had a good answer.”
“No progress?”
“We don’t seem to be moving forward, although it’s probably too soon to expect much; it’s only been three days since Jeanette was found.”
“So why do you feel that way?”
“We just can’t find anything concrete to go on. It’s all vague rumors, an angry ex-husband, no real leads.”
Pernilla checked on the gratin in the oven, then took out a frying pan and added a lump of butter. The steak was already waiting beside the stove.
Thomas put down the beer and thought about Michael Thiels’s reaction when the dispute over Alice was brought up.
“How far do you think a man would go to win a custody battle?”
“Are you talking about Jeanette Thiels’s ex?” Pernilla asked.
“Yes.”
“As far as necessary. There are men who abduct their own kids, even murder them to make sure the ex-wife doesn’t get to keep them.”
Thomas thought for a moment.
“He’s a well-educated man with solid relationships who works for Ericsson. His neighbors all sing his praises, and he’s a devoted father.”
Pernilla let out what was for her an unusually harsh laugh. “And?”
Thomas couldn’t help smiling. “You sound like some hard-bitten old cop—I thought that was my role.”
“The killer is often someone close to the victim—isn’t that what you always say to me? How far would you go?”
“Let’s hope we never need to find out.”
Thomas reached out and drew her close for a quick hug.
“The night before Christmas Eve, Jeanette exchanged text messages with someone listed in her address book as M. It could be her ex, but then he’s already in there as Michael.”
Thomas could feel the frustration bubbling up as he spoke.
“It doesn’t make any sense,” he went on. “Why would she have two different numbers for him, if he’s our killer?”
“Maybe he’s threatened her before?”
“What do you mean?”
“A smart guy wouldn’t use his own phone to hassle someone—he’d use a burner phone. Jeanette might have figured out that it was him, and saved the number under M.”
Thomas doubted it.
“No. She invited this M to her apartment on Christmas Eve. She wouldn’t have done that if she was scared of her ex.”
“She might have wanted to talk things over—one last attempt to reach an agreement?”
Alice had said that her dad hadn’t been home in the morning. It didn’t take very long to drive from Vaxholm to the Söder district—no more than forty-five minutes if there wasn’t much traffic.
Enough time to arrive at Jeanette’s place at eleven, somehow get her to ingest the poison beans, then return home to celebrate Christmas with the family.
Could Michael Thiels be so cold-blooded?
Pernilla’s voice brought him back to reality.
“Could you set the table? Dinner is almost ready.”
Thomas stood up and opened the cupboard where the plates were kept, his mind still turning the question over and over.
How far would a man be prepared to go in order to retain custody of his daughter?
CHAPTER 72
Aram looked around as he emerged from the subway onto Sankt Eriksgatan.
The slushy snow still lay thick on the road surface, but exhaust fumes and tires had turned it dirty brown. By the curb lay a filthy teddy bear, dropped by a child who was no doubt heartbroken by now. Aram could imagine how his daughters would react if they got home to find that their favorite toy was missing.
There weren’t many pedestrians out and about in the cold. Aram pulled his scarf a little tighter and set off toward Peter Moore’s apartment. It was down at the end of Karlbergsvägen, in the area of Vasastan known as Birkastan.
He slowed down as he approached the address. On both sides of the street were old-fashioned apartment buildings with smooth façades in pale colors: beige, lemon, pink. In spite of its proximity to the busy traffic on Sankt Eriksgatan, this place had a calm feeling, almost a small-town atmosphere.
He couldn’t see anyone nearby, but he pulled his hat down before trying the handle. It was locked, of course; there was an intercom buzzer and keypad, but he didn’t really want to announce his presence. He stuck his hands in his pockets and decided to wait a while in the hope that someone would come along and let him in. He moved to the side; he didn’t want to make it too obvious.
Ten minutes passed, then another ten. The cold was starting to get to him; it must have been at least minus fifteen. He would give it another fifteen minutes, then call it a night.
His phone rang: Sonja. He rejected the call, but sent her a brief text message saying he would try to speak to her later.
After five more minutes, he thought he heard a noise behind the pale wooden door. A woman wearing a thick padded jacket and walking a dark-colored terrier on a leash opened the door, and Aram quickly stepped forward.
The woman took no notice of him, and simply set off with her dog trotting behind her.
The entrance hallway was well cared for. A neat, clean mat led to the elevator, and there was a Christmas tree in one corner. Aram opted for the stairs; the elevator might make a noise when it stopped on the floor where Peter Moore lived.
If he was home.
When Aram reached the third floor, he stopped. There were three apartments on each level, and Moore’s was the one on the right, next to the stairs. The door was made of dark wood and looked solid, expensive.
Aram thought about his own apartment block in Hagsätra. He’d never be able to afford to live like this, not on a police officer’s salary and what Sonja earned in the health-care industry. Most rental properties in the inner city had been sold, thanks to the change in government policy, and there was nothing left for people like him.
Still, he shouldn’t complain; they were happy to have found a decent apartment close to a good preschool for the children. At least they didn’t have to live with their parents, as so many couples did when they were starting out.
He walked silently over to Moore’s front door and put his ear against it. Not a sound; it seemed as if he wasn’t there. Cautiously Aram pushed open the mailbox and peered in through the narrow opening. He saw several envelopes lying on the floor, plus a couple of leaflets advertising local stores, which suggested that Moore wasn’t home yet.
He was working late; was it Pauline Palmér who kept him busy in the evenings?
Aram knew he ought to leave. He didn’t have a search warrant, so he had no right to enter Moore’s apartment. And yet he hesitated, fingering the tool in his pocket. It wouldn’t be hard to get in.
A sound from the ground floor made him jump. Someone had come in from the street. He ran upstairs and positioned himself outside another door with the names Almblad and Petersen on it.
He heard the hum of the elevator moving upward. It reached the third floor, kept on going, stopped on the fifth.
Aram stood there motionless, looking up and waiting to see who emerged. A woman stepped out; she was speaking on her phone as she dug her keys out of her purse. The door of her apartment slammed behind her as she carried on talking.
Aram lingered for a moment, once again feeling the tool with his fingertips. Then he went back downstairs. If he could just have a few minutes alone in the apartment . . . It could give them the breakthrough they needed in the investigation.
He made up his mind. For Jeanette’s sake. He inserted the slender steel instrument between the door and the frame. The bottom lock was easy to open, but the top one just wouldn’t click, however hard he tried. It was clear that Moore had taken steps to avoid unwelcome visitors; this was no standard lock.
Admittedly it was only a detail, but it made him uncomfortable.
It was nearly nine o’clock; he’d been there for almost an hour. What should he do next? The sensible thing would be to forget about trying to get into Moore’s apartment, take the subway back to Hagsätra. An early night wouldn’t be a bad idea; the last few days had been intense, and his eyes were aching.
Or he could wait for Moore to come home. That could take hours, and he had no idea how he would pass the time. However, it went against the grain to walk away with nothing more than a locked door to show for his trouble.
For the want of something better to do, he set off up the stairs again. He eventually reached the top floor—the sixth. There were only two apartments here, which meant they must measure close to a couple thousand square feet. Who the hell needed that much space?
The staircase continued for a short distance, and Aram saw that it led to a door made of pale brown wood, covered in black scuff marks.
The attic. Unlike many other buildings in the city center, this one didn’t appear to have been converted into an exclusive loft apartment.
The door was secured with nothing more than a simple padlock. It took him seconds to get in.
CHAPTER 73
The light on the stairs went out as the door closed behind Aram. He fumbled for a switch on the wall, scratched his hand on the untreated wooden planks, but eventually found something hard and round. An old-fashioned bulb came on above his head. It dangled from the ceiling on a black electrical wire and looked temporary. Presumably people rarely came up here.
It took some time for his eyes to get used to the dim glow, but after a while he was able to make out a row of storage units behind old-fashioned, unpainted doors with chicken wire covering the open structure. There was a hallway between them that disappeared around the corner.
Aram peered into the first compartment, which was full of cardboard boxes. In the next he could see a rusty bicycle, boxes of books, and an old loom. There were lots of storage compartments in here, he realized. Which one belonged to Peter Moore?
His own footprints were clearly visible on the dusty floor, and when he turned around a cloud of dust whirled up, making him sneeze.
I don’t even know what I’m looking for, he thought, but kept on going. Suddenly the light went out, and the attic was pitch-black. As usual he reacted instinctively, crouching down in a defensive posture. Then it struck him that five minutes had passed, and the light must be on an automatic timer.
He broke into a sweat. There was nothing he hated more than darkness. At home he always left the lights on, one in each room, even in the summer.
Sonja had complained at first, but then she’d understood that it was important to him—essential, in fact.
Even though he wasn’t prepared to explain why.
It had begun during the family’s flight from Iraq, when the only place they had to sleep was a shipping container. The strange noises during the night, the bugs scuttling over his arms and legs. His mother had said they couldn’t risk any kind of light in case someone discovered them. He had lain there with his eyes wide open all night, rigid and terrified. Having his siblings by his side was no help at all; he knew that something terrible would happen if he closed his eyes.
That irrational fear was still a part of him. It was his most shameful secret: he was afraid of the dark.
Taking a deep breath, he straightened up and took out his flashlight. It was hardly thicker than his thumb, but it fulfilled its purpose. He always kept it in his pocket, its presence a consolation as well as a practical measure. He switched it on, went back to the door, and felt the relief flood his body as he pressed the button for the ceiling light once more.
He heard the faint hum of the elevator; maybe the woman with the dog had returned.
He spotted a number above each storage compartment, starting with one, not surprisingly. He worked out that Moore’s should be number nine, then pressed the button again in the hope that it would give him a couple of extra minutes.
Number nine was around another corner, at the far end of the attic. It was large, and looked bigger than the others. A sturdy piece of wood had been fixed to the door behind the c
hicken wire so that no one could see inside. The frame had also been reinforced to prevent anyone from breaking in; steel bars at the top and bottom were secured with heavy padlocks.
The light was fainter here; there was another bulb dangling from the ceiling, but it wasn’t much help; it simply made the shadows longer and distorted what he could make out.
He moved the beam of his flashlight slowly back and forth, trying to find a gap he might be able to look through, something that would give him a lead. What the hell was in there?
It was a waste of time; he couldn’t see a thing.
The light went out.
Aram swore; he would have to hurry back to the door to press the button.
An unexpected draft of cold air against his face.
He stopped dead, tried to listen, tensing every muscle.
Was someone there?
To be on the safe side, he tucked the compact flashlight into the palm of his hand so that its beam wouldn’t reveal where he was.
The elevator hummed into motion once more.
OK. Aram relaxed, headed for the door. He would have to persuade Thomas that they ought to come back here with a search warrant and an axe. There was something inside storage facility number nine that needed investigating, he was sure of it. Why else would Peter Moore go to so much trouble?
The guy had secrets, and now Aram could prove it.
He suddenly had the horrible feeling that he was being watched. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, even though he didn’t know why.
He stopped again, remained motionless. Sniffed the air, trying to sense if someone else was there in the darkness.
His hand moved toward his gun, but before he could touch it he felt something cold against his neck.
“Don’t move,” a voice whispered from behind him. “Or I’ll cut your throat.”
CHAPTER 74
Nora was sitting on the sofa in the TV room; she could hardly keep her eyes open. Her body felt heavy—was she coming down with something? Her limbs felt sore, and her skin was crawling.
Henrik and the boys had done such a wonderful job of organizing dinner. The table had been laid in the dining room, and Simon had placed a red paper napkin in each glass at a jaunty angle. Adam had helped out, too, without being asked.
