The Chosen (30 page)

The thought made her feel sick. She dug out her phone and called home.

‘Has something happened?’ Mikael said anxiously, highlighting the fact that Eden didn’t usually do that kind of thing.

‘I just wanted to check on you,’ she said.

‘You left forty minutes ago.’

‘Speak soon.’

She ended the call, cursing herself. She never got nervous. There was no room for weakness. And fear was the greatest weakness of all.

Eden realised she was watching the people around her, scanning her surroundings like radar, alert for the slightest deviation from the norm.

Efraim. What would she do if he sought her out again?

Because his appearance in the park had been anything but a chance encounter. He wanted something.

He
’
s deliberately stressing me out. Provoking me. I just don
’
t understand why.

Alex Recht thought that Efraim might have something to do with the murder of the two boys, and that he had taken another child.

But Alex didn’t know that Säpo had been watching Efraim, shadowing his movements outside the hotel; at least insofar as he was willing to be be shadowed.

Where the hell had Säpo been when he turned up in the park?

Eden had realised something then: she would never be free of Efraim. Not unless that was what he wanted. She thought about the gaps in the surveillance reports, the fact that Efraim appeared to
be spending far too many hours in his hotel room. They had changed their approach after Eden had pointed out the failings in their routine; they had located alternative exits from the hotel, which
were now covered.

But Eden knew that wasn’t enough. His appearance in the park proved her point.

A catastrophic incident. Thinking about it caused her physical pain.

Her mobile rang; it was GD.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ he said.

‘So have I.’

She hadn’t got round to telling her boss about what had happened earlier. She felt a surge of pure rage. If the surveillance operatives hadn’t been such amateurs, Efraim would
never have been able to get so close to her. God only knew what he had been up to during all those missing hours.

She thought about the two boys, lying in the snow with paper bags over their heads.

She pushed the suspicion aside; it was impossible.

Surely the man who was the father of her children couldn’t have murdered someone else’s sons?

‘You first,’ Buster said.

Eden gave a brief outline of Efraim’s appearance in the park, but she omitted the worst part of all: the fact that Efraim had seen Dani, and realised what she hadn’t told him before
they broke up. Eden’s silent revenge, her darkest secret.

Buster didn’t say a word.

‘Are you still there?’ Eden said.

‘I am. So the bastard came and found you? In the park, when you were with your family?’

Technically, some of them are his family.

‘Yes. So it’s obvious that the surveillance just isn’t working.’

Don’t sound angry, don’t flare up. It was so easy to ignore people who flew off the handle.

‘Which is exactly why I called,’ Buster said. ‘Because something has gone terribly wrong with our surveillance. I rang to warn you Eden. I’m very sorry that it was
too late.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘They haven’t seen him since yesterday. Eventually they went into the hotel and spoke to the receptionist; he’d checked out.’

‘So now we have no idea where he is?’

‘Correct.’

She forced herself to breathe calmly.

‘Have they seen anything of the person who’s leaving him messages?’

‘Not yet.’

Not yet. As if they had all the time in the world.

‘Alex Recht has been in touch again,’ she said. ‘They seem to think that Efraim might be involved in the murders of those two children from the Solomon Community.’

‘Shit.’

Buster’s voice was a stress-filled exhalation.

‘The question is whether we can provide him with an alibi,’ Eden said. ‘Although that seems unlikely, under the circumstances.’

‘But why are they interested in Kiel?’ Buster wanted to know.

Eden passed on what Alex had told her. The police had nothing concrete to go on, but their suspicions were growing, and the fact that he was so difficult to get hold of didn’t exactly help
his case.

‘It definitely sounds as if we ought to tell them that we’re following him too,’ Buster said. ‘Where are you, by the way?’

‘Arlanda.’

‘Eden, please don’t do anything stupid. Where are you going?’

‘I’ll tell you when it’s over.’

‘No you bloody won’t. You’ll tell me right . . .’

‘I’ll be away on Monday, but I should be back on Tuesday.’

‘Just so you know – I can’t support you if you’re running your own race. I want to make that perfectly clear.’

Behind Eden, on the other side of the huge windows, the illuminated runways sparkled with frost and snow. She would soon be on her way.

‘You can’t help me with this, Buster.’

‘How do you know? You won’t even let me try.’

‘You have tried. Efraim ended up following me and my children to the toboggan run.’

‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am about that.’

‘I know. But it’s not enough. Säpo can’t access the information we need. Only I can do that, on my own.’

A plane taxied past the window, its white metallic bulk moving slowly towards the runway.

Eden’s flight was called; it was time to board.

‘I have to go.’

‘Will you call Alex Recht, or shall I ask someone else to do it?’

Eden thought for a second.

‘I’ll speak to him when I land.’

She was about to end the call, but Buster hadn’t finished.

‘Be honest with me, Eden. Just between the two of us. Do you think Efraim Kiel is involved in the murders?’

She stopped.

Pictured him. Tall, dark and tanned. Hand in hand at a market in Jerusalem. Whispering in her ear, telling her how much he loved her.

The most treacherous, lying bastard she had ever met in her entire life.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

And realised to her horror that she meant what she said.

She didn’t know what she thought about the question of Efraim Kiel’s guilt.

As long as she had any doubt on that issue, she couldn’t be sure that her family was safe.

U
p on deck the air was cold and damp. The wind seared his cheeks, brought tears to his eyes. Efraim Kiel stood alone at the rail, watching the dark water foam against the metal hull. It was ten
o’clock at night. The following morning they would be in Helsinki; he would fly back to Stockholm before lunch. Good.

He thought about the latest message from the Paper Boy and realised someone had been watching him. And he hadn’t noticed.

Although it wasn’t the fact of being followed that bothered him the most. Much more critical was the question of what would happen when the Paper Boy discovered that the next victim
had disappeared. Would he choose someone else, or let it lie?

Efraim knew better than to count on the latter.

The Paper Boy never gives up; he always comes back.

Efraim was aware that his options were limited. The Paper Boy was impatient, and with good reason. However, Efraim must engender a meeting with him, explain why the hunt must end. Justice had
been done, vengeance served. So the game must stop. Immediately.

It won
’
t get any better than this. You have to accept that.

The water carrying the ship billowed beneath the hull. Anyone with a tendency towards seasickness had chosen the wrong night to sail. The northerly climate was merciless. Only the darkness was worse. Efraim couldn’t remember when he had last
felt so tired.

The cold made him shiver, reminding him of why he had gone up on deck in the first place. He wasn’t dressed for the biting wind that had come with nightfall. Soon he would have to go back
inside.

He looked around, to the right and to the left. There was no one there, no one to see him. Quickly he bent down, unzipped his bag with gloved hands. Felt for the object he had wrapped in towels
and items of clothing. It was right at the bottom.

Efraim’s hands closed around the black metal with practised ease.

He stood up, leaned over the rail.

Not a living soul saw him as he dropped the gun that had killed three people into the sea.

T
he inspector who is standing in the street outside the apartment block where a man and his children have been murdered is wishing that the weather was different. Because right now everything is
so horrific that a fresh snowstorm is the last thing he needs.

But the weather is not his biggest worry.

It is the woman who has lost her family; he doesn’t know what to do with her.

Resolutely she turns her back on him and walks away. He calls her name, once, twice. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn around. She just walks. And he lets her go. Decisively he
signals to his colleagues to follow her, on foot or by car. They do both. He watches her disappear in the snow, sensing the thoughts whirling around in her head.

Feeling frustrated, he goes back to the apartment. He cannot stay out here in the street.

The CSIs look up when he walks in.

‘Worst I’ve ever seen,’ one of them says.

The inspector does not respond. He thinks that he has probably seen worse, but nothing more incomprehensible. He even thinks that he will never be able to learn to live with this. They lowered
their guard for just a few hours, and this is what happened.

There is a wedding photograph on the chest of drawers. It hurts the inspector’s eyes to look at it, and he moves away.

He wonders if the deceased knew the killer. If so, it shouldn’t be too difficult to work out who he or she is.

But there are no guarantees. If the perpetrator has got away with it up to now, there is a risk that they will never find the person in question.

‘Where did they die?’ he asks.

‘We think the man died instantaneously when he was shot in the hallway. It seems likely that the children were attacked in here; they were probably already in bed.’

The words go round and round inside the inspector’s head. He cannot process what he is hearing, cannot take it in.

His mobile rings.

‘We’ve lost her,’ says his colleague. ‘She was walking along the pavement, and then she was gone. It was as if the snow just swallowed her up.’

T
he last day of the week. Peder Rydh was moving restlessly around the house. One of his sons had woken up with a temperature, the other with far too much energy.

‘I’ll take him out,’ Peder said to Ylva.

She looked grateful as he dressed the boy in several layers of warm clothing.

‘Where will you go?’ she asked.

‘I’ve just got to call in at the office.’

Gratitude was replaced by annoyance, but he got in before she had time to say anything:

‘I have to show my face. I’m head of security, and another child has gone missing. I have to show that I care, because I do. And it’s good for our kids to be in town
occasionally.’

It had been Ylva’s idea to move out of the city, and Peder had taken a great deal of persuasion. Reluctantly he admitted that there were many advantages to living in a house rather than an
apartment. The garden was a blessing when the weather was good enough for the boys to play outside; their parents could watch their every move from the kitchen window, without having to go out
themselves. Ylva had commented that their garden looked more like a prison exercise yard by the time Peder had finished reinforcing the boundary with impenetrable shrubs and a high fence.

‘It’s important to make sure they can’t get out into the street,’ was his justification.

But deep down he knew it was more about making sure that no one could get in. Following the death of his brother, he had become dependent on setting boundaries, both mental and physical. As far
as his home was concerned, the fence was critical. Inside there was security, outside everything that fed his many fears.

Peder parked outside the main entrance of the community centre. He got his son out of the car, and as they stood hand in hand on the pavement, he wondered whether it had been such a good idea to
bring the boy.

Another child was missing.

Polly Eisenberg.

The very thought made Peder furious.

How the hell had they let her slip through their fingers?

The only thing that calmed him slightly was the fact that Polly had disappeared just hours after they had begun to suspect that she could be at risk. Her disappearance also seemed to have had
the effect of reassuring the members of the community; they no longer thought there was a serial killer out there, picking off victims because they were Jewish. Everyone now believed this was a
private vendetta against the Goldmann and Eisenberg families, who were now paying an unacceptably high price for what must be an old transgression.

But what justified the loss of your children?

Peder couldn’t understand it at all.

Nor did he understand the logic of punishing a person by hurting someone else, someone who had done nothing wrong.

He thought about the boys, hunted down like animals out on Lovön. The feeling of his son’s hand in his gave the illusion of security. If the children stayed close to him or Ylva,
everything would be fine.

The community centre was much quieter than it had been when Simon and Abraham went missing. Peder thought gloomily that this was probably to be expected; people had learned something since the
last time. They weren’t going to find the perpetrator by sitting around making phone calls, working their way through class lists.

One of the assistants came towards them, smiling at his son.

‘Do you like chocolate cake? And how about a glass of juice?’

Peder left his son with her and went into his office, leaving the door open. Trust was good, but control was better.