The Silent Girl (Sebastian Bergman 4)

by Michael Hjorth

  ‘Someone’s tried to kill Nicole twice – what the fuck are they thinking?’ Sebastian lowered his voice to a whisper; he was in the living room.

  ‘I presume they’re not thinking at all, but I’ve increased your security – there will be two officers in the stairwell.’

  Sebastian nodded to himself, but his increasing anger made it impossible for him to stand still. He started pacing around the room as he hissed down the phone:

  ‘She needs peace and quiet right now, and as normal a life as possible.’

  ‘No one will get near you,’ Torkel assured him.

  ‘A normal life doesn’t mean isolation and a constant threat.’ Sebastian realised he was overemphasising his words once more. ‘She has to have the chance to go out if she wants to, without reporters and photographers hiding in the bushes, and without someone trying to shoot her.’

  Torkel wondered whether to inform Sebastian that the days of photographers lurking in the bushes were long gone, but he understood what his colleague meant.

  ‘We’ll move you again,’ he decided. ‘We have several safe houses.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s the problem,’ Sebastian said, surprised that Torkel hadn’t put two and two together. ‘You have no safe houses – there’s a leak.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Torkel realised he had immediately adopted a defensive stance, as always when his organisation was criticised.

  ‘You just read the proof out loud to me.’

  In an instant Torkel realised Sebastian was right. The information about where Maria and Nicole were could only have come from someone within the police service. There weren’t many names to choose from, and he made a mental note to find out exactly who the guilty party was, and to make sure they were out on their ear in no time.

  But that wasn’t the immediate problem.

  ‘So what do you suggest?’ he asked Sebastian, tossing the offending newspaper on the bed.

  Sebastian allowed himself to share the thought that had come into his mind as soon as Torkel revealed that their hiding place was no longer a secret.

  ‘They can stay with me.’ Torkel didn’t respond right away; Sebastian interpreted his silence as an initial resistance to the idea. ‘I’ve got plenty of space, they’ll have their own room, and no one – apart from you and me and the team – needs to know where they are.’

  Somewhere deep down, Torkel felt he ought to say no, that it was out of the question, it was a terrible suggestion, it went against every rule in the book. However, the problem was that it actually wasn’t a bad idea. Not at all.

  Quite the reverse.

  The girl seemed to have formed a bond with Sebastian, and Torkel was convinced he could be good for her. After all, they were dealing with a traumatised psyche, and that was Sebastian’s area of expertise. He didn’t trust Sebastian on a whole range of things, but he had complete confidence in him when it came to Nicole. They had an urgent problem, and Sebastian had given him a solution which could work, and at least give them a breathing space.

  ‘I’ll send a car,’ he said. ‘How soon can you be ready?’

  ‘Wow, this place is huge!’

  Sebastian gave a start at Maria’s words. After taking their outdoor clothes and telling them to have a look around and make themselves at home, his eyes had fallen on that spot on the wall in the hallway.

  Again.

  It had been a few days, but had he really thought it was over?

  That he’d have forgotten?

  That he’d be able to walk into his apartment without thinking he could see traces of red, pick up the iron-rich smell of blood?

  Yes, he probably had, he realised. Deep down he had hoped that company, other living beings, would dispel the memories and somehow cleanse the home in which he was finding it more and more difficult to spend time. Clearly it hadn’t worked.

  Not yet, anyway.

  He turned away from the wall and saw Maria standing in the living-room doorway with Nicole’s arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

  ‘Sorry, what did you say?’

  ‘This is a huge apartment.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is.’

  Sebastian reached for a hanger and hung up Maria’s coat.

  ‘Do you live here on your own?’ Maria asked as she and Nicole carried on along the passageway to the rest of the apartment.

  ‘Yes,’ Sebastian replied as he hung Nicole’s jacket on a hook.

  Maria stopped in front of a white-painted door. ‘What’s in here?’

  ‘Open it and see.’

  Maria did as she was told.

  ‘I thought this could be your room,’ Sebastian said as he joined them.

  ‘It’s a beautiful room.’

  Sebastian looked around and realised Maria was right. It was a beautiful room, if a little narrow. Lily had insisted that they needed a guest room, and had furnished it from a single extremely expensive visit to an auction in Norrtälje. Pale blue wallpaper, a stylish white rococo chest of drawers and a desk along one wall. Black-and-white portrait photographs in black frames. White curtains. Beneath the window a wide bed with a heavy wrought iron frame. All from the same estate, even the pictures. They had no idea who these people were who had once got dressed up and posed for a photographer, but Lily had thought they should stay with the rest of the furniture. Lovely things that went together perfectly, but they needed a living presence to become something more than a pretty room, to become part of a home.

  ‘Will you be OK sharing the bed, or shall I bring in another mattress?’

  ‘We’ll be fine,’ Maria assured him. ‘Thank you so much for … for all you’ve done. I really appreciate it.’

  Sebastian didn’t respond immediately. It struck him how unused he was to receiving compliments. He was good at giving them, automatically and without an ounce of sincerity, but it was a long time since someone had genuinely expressed their appreciation to him. That was probably his own fault, but even so … it felt good.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ he said honestly, meeting her gaze. ‘I’m happy to help.’

  ‘Thanks anyway. I don’t know how we would have coped without you.’

  There was another brief silence before Sebastian took a deep breath and stepped back.

  ‘I haven’t got much in, so I’ll go and do some shopping while you two find your way around,’ he said in a slightly louder voice, efficiently breaking the moment of intimacy that had arisen between them. At the same time he jerked his thumb in the vague direction of the front door.

  ‘When I get back maybe Nicole and I could have a little chat.’ He turned to the child, who was studying the photographs on the chest of drawers. ‘What do you think?’

  Nicole turned and met his gaze. Then she gave a faint nod. It was a tiny gesture, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it moment, but it was there. A reaction. The door to her self-imposed prison had opened, just a fraction.

  Sebastian gave her a warm smile, and for the first time since that evening he didn’t glance at the wall in the hallway as he left the apartment a few minutes later.

  Ove Hanson was a giant of a man.

  Torkel saw him in the corridor as the local uniformed officers led him to one of the interview rooms. Well over six feet tall, and if he got on the scales, Torkel thought they would show over 140 kilos. Maybe more. A series of tattoos was visible above the neckline of his sweatshirt. Earrings. Huge hands with tattoos on the backs, and an unkempt black beard which completed the image of a potential thug. Torkel knew it was wrong to judge people by their appearance, but he had no difficulty picturing Ove Hanson walking around inside the Carlsten house with a shotgun.

  His train of thought was interrupted as Erik stuck his head around the door.

  ‘They’ve put Ove Hanson in room one.’

  ‘Thanks. Are we waiting for legal representation?’

  Erik shook his head. ‘He doesn’t want anyone.’

  ‘What did you say to him?’ Torkel asked as he gathered up the printout of Hanson’
s first interview, which he had been reading.

  ‘I just told him we wanted to talk to him in connection with the Carlsten murders.’

  ‘And he still didn’t want a solicitor?’

  Erik shook his head again, and disappeared. Torkel glanced at his watch. He had time to grab a coffee while he was waiting for Vanja. He had seen a service technician working on the coffee machine when he came in this morning, so with a bit of luck he would be able to get a hot drink.

  ★ ★ ★

  Vanja let the cold water drip off her face as she studied her reflection in the mirror.

  Dark circles under her eyes. She was sleeping badly these days. She would wake only an hour or so after falling asleep, then she would lie there, doze for a little while, then wake again. She didn’t really know why; she didn’t feel anxious when she woke up, there were no conscious thoughts demanding her attention, no unsolved problems.

  She just couldn’t sleep.

  Last night she had dreamt about walking with Valdemar – she didn’t even think of him as Dad in her dreams any more – out on Djurgården. They had stopped at the lake she had never known the name of, where herons nested in the trees. They had talked. About everything, just like they used to do. When he had been the most important man in her life.

  Before the lies that had torn everything apart …

  In the dream he had put his arm around her shoulders as they strolled along by the water. She had been aware of the warmth of his hand through her thin jacket. She had felt safe. Loved.

  It had been a good feeling.

  In her dream.

  With an irritated sigh she yanked two paper towels out of the holder on the wall and dried her face. She had never thought she would admit this to herself, particularly after the events of recent months, but she missed Sebastian. She had no problem with Torkel or Billy, but if she was ever going to talk to anyone about the way Valdemar and Anna had betrayed her, it would be Sebastian.

  Strange, but true.

  She didn’t like him.

  She didn’t even trust him.

  But on those occasions when she had toyed with the idea of actually talking to someone, of letting everything out rather than carrying the burden all by herself, it was Sebastian who had come into her mind.

  However, right now he was in Stockholm, and she had an interview to take care of. She threw the paper towels in the bin, and with a final glance in the mirror she went to find Torkel.

  ★ ★ ★

  ‘This is Vanja Lithner, my name is Torkel Höglund and we’re from Riksmord.’

  Ove Hanson merely nodded as Vanja and Torkel sat down opposite him. Vanja pressed ‘Record’ on the little tape recorder beside her and gave the date, time, and the names of those present, then glanced at Torkel to see if he wanted to go first. Which he did.

  ‘Tell me about the Carlsten family,’ he said, leaning forward and clasping his hands on the table.

  ‘What do you want me to say about them?’ Hanson replied in a quiet and surprisingly well-modulated voice which didn’t seem to go with his huge, almost brutal body. ‘I didn’t like them – they reported me to the police for next to nothing. But I didn’t kill them.’

  ‘Why did they report you to the police?’

  ‘I was selling anti-fouling paint that can’t be used for environmental reasons,’ Hanson said patiently. The look he gave Torkel made it clear that he was well aware that Torkel already had this information. ‘But selling it isn’t illegal,’ he concluded, looking directly at both his interrogators.

  Vanja opened her folder and glanced down at the contents – mainly for appearances’ sake; she had already memorised Hanson’s previous interview, but it gave the questions extra weight if the person being interviewed believed they were based on documented facts.

  ‘You have no alibi for the day of the murders,’ she stated, looking into those brown eyes beneath bushy brows.

  ‘I have an alibi for some parts of the day,’ he said calmly, holding her gaze. ‘As I recall you were unable to say exactly when the murders took place.’

  Which was true. Ove Hanson had given a fairly detailed account of his activities on the Wednesday. There were gaps here and there when no one could corroborate his story, but as they didn’t have an exact time of death for the victims, they had been unable to link those gaps to the murders.

  Vanja let it go, changed tack.

  ‘What were you doing on Saturday between nine and eleven?’

  ‘Saturday just gone? The day before yesterday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Between nine and eleven in the morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I suppose I was in the shop. We open at ten on Saturdays.’

  ‘You suppose you were in the shop?’ Torkel interjected.

  ‘I was in the shop,’ Ove corrected himself, with a weary look at Torkel.

  ‘Were you alone?’ Vanja wanted to know.

  ‘I open up on my own, then there are two of us from lunchtime until we close at four.’

  ‘So you were alone in the shop on Saturday morning?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you have any customers? Did anyone see you there?’

  ‘What happened on Saturday?’

  Torkel and Vanja exchanged a glance. Torkel nodded. Vanja consulted the folder again as if she was searching for facts with which to confront Ove, but in this case there weren’t any. Only guesses. Circumstantial evidence, if you were feeling generous.

  ‘Your car was seen in the vicinity of the Bear’s Cave, where we later found Nicole Carlsten,’ Vanja lied blithely.

  The truth was that a car which could have been Ove Hanson’s had been seen near the cave, but the truth was no help in the current situation.

  ‘The girl who was in the house?’ Ove said, genuinely taken aback. ‘I was nowhere near the Bear’s Cave on Saturday,’ he went on when he got no reaction to his question.

  ‘So how do you explain the fact that your car was there?’ Vanja demanded, slowly closing the folder.

  ‘It wasn’t.’

  ‘Are you sure? You hadn’t lent it to someone else? Could someone have taken the keys without your knowing?’ Torkel spread his hands wide in a gesture that said he had heard stranger things. Vanja waited; the tension was unbearable. If it was Ove’s car that the witness had seen in the forest, and if Ove had put it there, Torkel was giving him the chance to explain how it got there without admitting any personal involvement. At least that would confirm that they were on the right track, then all they had to do was expose the lie.

  ‘No. I took the car to work in the morning, and nobody drove it all day.’

  Vanja breathed out; she was so disappointed. He hadn’t taken the bait, and she couldn’t detect any falseness in his tone. Weariness, perhaps; she had the feeling that Ove Hanson had been questioned and accused many times over the years just because of his size and daunting appearance. She made one last attempt.

  ‘So you can’t explain how your car ended up near the Bear’s Cave on Saturday?’

  ‘It wasn’t there,’ Hanson stated firmly.

  Torkel and Vanja exchanged another glance and remained silent. Most Swedes don’t like silence. They feel the need to fill it. Sometimes this tactic produced results as the interviewee tied himself up in explanations and hypotheses the police hadn’t even asked for. After only a few seconds it seemed as if this might be the case with Ove Hanson as he shuffled uncomfortably and took a deep breath.

  ‘What was the registration number of the car up there?’

  Another glance. Not an explanation. Not a hypothesis aimed at helping them along the way. A question.

  They had three options.

  Lie – they knew Ove’s registration number.

  Ignore the question completely.

  Tell the truth – they didn’t know the number of the car the witness had seen.

  Vanja thought it best to leave the decision to Torkel.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said with
a sigh that suggested he was running out of patience. ‘You’re part of this investigation because you had a motive.’

  Option two, Vanja noted.

  ‘A complaint to the police that went nowhere? That’s not a motive.’ Ove Hanson leaned across the table. ‘I know several people who have better motives than me. A million times better.’

  It was time to take a more defensive approach.

  He didn’t like it, but he had been lying awake since sunrise, and he couldn’t come up with an alternative solution. He was still furious when he thought about how close to success he had been in the cave. If only he’d got there five minutes earlier, the girl would no longer be a problem. She had been right there, in the little space inside the crevice.

  He had been on the right lines.

  In the right place.

  But at the wrong time.

  He wouldn’t even have needed five minutes – three would have been enough. Or two. Then all his troubles would have been over.

  He had briefly considered shooting both of them, the girl and the slightly overweight cop or whoever he was, who had sat down to talk to her and eventually persuaded her to leave her hiding place. Killing them would have been easy, but how would he have got away? The shots would have been amplified by the cave and would have been heard outside; the area was crawling with police. He could have run the other way, into the darkness, deeper into the cave system, but no one knew if there was another way out. He had been trapped.

  So he had been forced to let them go. Watch them disappear.

  And then there was the hospital.

  It should have been simple, but he couldn’t find her.

  So far he had been proactive, but as he got up and went down to the kitchen to put the coffee on, he had realised the truth: twice he had been so close, twice she had got away. There would be no third chance. It would be impossible to get to her now.

  The girl was alive. According to the papers she wasn’t talking; no doubt that was true, otherwise the police would have come knocking on his door by now.

  Because she must have seen him, mustn’t she?

  He was working on the assumption that she had, so what could he do now? Make sure there was as little forensic evidence as possible if – or when – she decided to tell the police what she had witnessed. There must be nothing in his home that could link him to the crimes.