The Disappeared (19 page)

Håkan and Rebecca’s child, twelve weeks old.

He sat up on the bed, breathing heavily as he gazed at the scan.

‘Why did you have to destroy everything?’ he whispered.

23

The balcony was bathed in evening sunshine. There was a cool breeze, but it was very pleasant sitting outside with a cardigan around their shoulders. Peder and Ylva sat in silence at the table, drinking wine. They caught each other’s eye and burst out laughing.

‘Bloody hell, we’re sitting here like two pensioners,’ Peder said.

‘You mean like two worn-out parents!’

Ylva’s voice, always husky but never less than strong. A smile so wide that it had made Peder go weak at the knees the first time they met.

‘Do you want more children?’

He hardly knew why he had asked the question.

‘No, I don’t. Do you?’

‘I don’t think so.’

God knows, we had enough problems last time, didn’t we?

She followed his movements without saying anything as he drank a little more wine then put down the glass.

‘Why do you ask?’

He twisted in his chair, trying to get the sun on his face.

‘I don’t really know; I was just thinking about it.’

‘About what?’

‘Kids. How many people should have, how many people can cope with.’

Ylva tilted her head on one side so that she could see his face properly.

‘I don’t think you and I can cope with any more than we have at the moment.’

There was no hint of accusation in her words; it was more a statement of fact. A pleasant contrast to the way they used to speak to each other, shouting and crying, furious and hurt. Looking back, he couldn’t understand how they’d ever ended up in that state.

‘I agree,’ Peder said.

He thought back to another time when he had lied to her and deceived her; how he had despised himself in those days.

‘You have to forgive yourself,’ the therapist had said. ‘You have to find the courage to believe that you deserve your wonderful family and a good life with them.’

It had taken time, days and nights of his thoughts going round and round. But now he knew that he had reached safe harbour. He felt contented. Calm and secure.

‘By the way, Jimmy rang again,’ Ylva said.

‘It’s because I haven’t had time to ring him all week. I’ll give him a call tomorrow.’

‘No need. He’s coming over for a meal. Just try to be here.’

Peder raised an eyebrow.

‘Of course I’ll be here. Where else would I be?’

‘At work?’

He shook his head.

‘Not this weekend.’

She shivered, pulling her cardigan a little tighter.

‘Do you want to go inside?’

‘No, I’m fine.’

She took a sip of her wine.

‘Tell me about your new case.’

He pulled a face.

‘Not tonight. It’s too revolting to talk about.’

‘But I want to hear. It keeps coming on the news.’

Where should he begin? What could he tell her? What words could describe the case facing Alex and his team? A girl who had disappeared in Östermalm and been found by a man out walking his sister’s dog. Two years later. The colour drained from Ylva’s face when he told her about the bin bags and the chainsaw. About Rebecca’s peculiar friend Håkan and her repulsive supervisor. About the false sex profile that had appeared on the internet after her death, and about all the dead ends they had come up against so far.

‘Who would do a thing like that?’ Ylva said thoughtfully, referring to Rebecca’s photo on the website.

‘A sick bastard,’ Peder said.

‘Are you sure about that?’

He looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m not sure it was a sick bastard, as you put it. You said the profile appeared two weeks after she went missing. That means nobody knew what had happened to her; some people probably thought she’d just gone off of her own free will.’

Peder considered what she had said.

‘You mean someone uploaded the profile because he or she was angry?’

‘Exactly. Or because they felt hurt or betrayed. That could explain why it was taken down again.’

‘When the person in question realised that there was something not quite right about Rebecca’s disappearance after all,’ Peder said.

Ylva took another sip of wine.

‘It was just a thought.’

Their neighbour appeared on his balcony; Peder and Ylva waved and he sat down with a beer.

‘And what about the man?’ Ylva asked.

‘The body that was found near Rebecca’s? No idea. Alex thought he might have found out who he was, but I’m not sure.’

‘How terrible for his family.’

‘Not knowing?’

‘Yes, not having that closure.’

Peder swallowed.

‘How long do you think a person could wait?’

Ylva frowned.

‘What do you mean?’

‘How long would you wait before you gave up? If a friend or a member of the family disappeared and was missing for decades . . .’

His voice died away.

‘Sooner or later you have to move on,’ Ylva said. ‘Is that what you mean?’

‘Yes.’

She tucked a strand of hair behind one ear.

‘That doesn’t mean you’d ever stop wondering what happened.’

Peder looked over at the neighbour’s house and down at the street where they lived. The man who had been buried must have had a family who missed him and agonised over what had happened to him. The question was whether the police would be able to find them and provide the answers they had been waiting for.

The trees cast long shadows over Alex. He was standing alone in the forest glade, aware of his colleagues standing guard a short distance away. The crater in the ground lay at his feet; he could see that the process of digging had been difficult. Rocks and tree roots had got in the way of the police team’s spades and had needed to be moved out of the way.

Alex crouched down, staring at the ground. On at least two occasions, a murderer had dragged a dead body here. Or he might have killed his victims on the spot. They couldn’t be sure, but every instinct told Alex that the murders had taken place elsewhere.

You dragged or carried your victims to this place. I can feel it: you moved through the trees like the angel of death.

He tried to reconstruct the course of events. Someone drove to the car park where he had just left his own car. Opened the boot, picked up the body and began to walk. It must have been dark. And he must have been there before. You don’t head off into a dark forest unless you know the way, know exactly where you’re going.

The grave must have been prepared before the perpetrator arrived. He could hardly have carried both the victim and a spade. Unless of course, he went back and forth to the car. Alex closed his eyes, trying to picture the scene. Had the murderer stood on this very spot holding a spade? Had he driven it into the ground, over and over again, until the grave was deep enough for the victim of his crime to disappear?

You were careless.

Alex opened his eyes. They would never have found the dead man if they hadn’t been digging. And they wouldn’t have been digging if they hadn’t found Rebecca first. Why had the killer made such an error? How come he had buried Rebecca so close to the surface that a dog had managed to dig her up?

Everything pointed to the fact that the killer had been stronger when the first murder was committed, which made sense. The first time, between twenty-five and thirty years ago, he had been strong enough to dig a grave almost two metres deep. He had also managed to carry his victim all the way here. The second time, things were very different. He wasn’t capable of digging such a deep grave, and he had dismembered the body so that he could carry it. And to make identification more difficult. However, if the only purpose of dismembering the body had been to make sure Rebecca couldn’t be identified, then the killer would have contented himself with removing the hands and head, rather than chopping the body in half.

There could be other reasons behind the dismemberment: sadism and sexually motivated murder sprang to mind. But Alex no longer believed this was the case. The perpetrator was a pragmatist. It was entirely possible that he had carried out the murder and chopped up the body without the slightest feeling of guilt or angst; Alex knew nothing about that. However, these were not the actions of a psychopath, in Alex’s opinion.

He straightened up. He was doing his best to push the thought aside, but the fact remained: they
could
be dealing with two different killers. Who were working together. Or perhaps one took over when the first couldn’t cope any more.

Whatever the situation might be, it was no coincidence that Rebecca and the male victim had been buried in the same place. And it would be difficult, if not impossible, to solve one murder without solving the other at the same time.

The ringtone from his mobile was so loud that Alex almost fell head first into the grave. He dug the phone out of his pocket, fumbling as he answered.

‘Alex Recht.’

‘It’s Diana Trolle. I’m sorry to keep ringing you.’

He took a step back from the edge.

‘No problem. How are things?’

She hesitated. ‘Not so good.’

‘I can understand that.’

There was a brief silence; Alex waited.

‘I feel as if I’m going mad. I’m trying to remember all kinds of things that would help you with the case, but it’s as if my brain is completely empty. I can’t remember a single thing she said that would have told me she was in trouble. I’m such a bad mother, Alex.’

He tried to calm her down. No one had asked her to start digging through painful memories, or trying to re-interpret things her daughter had said that didn’t mean anything.

‘But I should have realised,’ Diana said. ‘Done something to help her. How could she have been pregnant and not told me?’

That thought had occurred to Alex several times. How could Rebecca have been pregnant for several months without telling a single person? With the exception of the child’s father, in all probability. Håkan Nilsson.

But had she known?

Alex held his breath. With the help of DNA testing, the police had been able to establish the identity of the father. But had Rebecca been certain? There was much to suggest that she had believed it was Håkan’s child, but there was also a chance she had thought it might be someone else’s.

‘Children don’t tell their parents everything,’ he said.

‘Rebecca did.’

Not everything, Diana. Definitely not.

‘Would you like to come over for a glass of wine?’

Alex stiffened.

‘Sorry?’

‘No, I’m the one who should apologise, it was a stupid idea. I just wanted . . . I feel so desperately lonely.’

Me too.

‘It wasn’t a stupid idea, but . . . Perhaps we should wait.’

He looked around the forest. Wait for what? For the sky to fall, for Rebecca to come back from the dead, or for a week with two Sundays in it to come along?

‘That sounds sensible. Let’s wait.’

Sod it.

‘I can be with you in an hour. But I’m driving, so I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on the wine.’

‘You’re very welcome in any case.’

He thought she was smiling.

He could feel the ground quivering beneath his feet, almost as if it was sighing loudly because of all the secrets buried there. He walked quickly back to his car. A thought struck him when he had almost reached it:

Would he have been able to cover the same distance carrying a dead man?

SATURDAY

24

Yet another night of no peace. The thought was upsetting. Fredrika didn’t have time for sleepless nights. Spencer was breathing deeply by her side, enjoying the sleep Fredrika needed. She suppressed the urge to reach out and stroke his hair. There was no reason to wake him. He seemed to have enough troubles of his own, as far as she could tell.

At one o’clock she got out of bed, passing Saga’s room on her way to the kitchen. The little girl always slept well. Her head was resting on the pillow with an air of self-assurance that sometimes made Fredrika go weak at the knees. Saga was not a temporary visitor in their lives; she was a permanent fixture, and Fredrika was expected to love and care for her in the decades to come – a commitment that would not be possible without all the love only a parent can feel for a child.

The shadows in the library were calling to her. She tiptoed into the room without switching on the overhead light, and sank down in the armchair where Spencer had been sitting when she got home from work. She could smell him on the blanket draped over the arm of the chair and pulled it closer.

Spencer had no recollection of meeting Rebecca Trolle through his work, or in any other context. But in that case, why had she made a note of his name? Had Rebecca been planning to ring him, but disappeared before she got around to it? That must be the answer. Rebecca hadn’t been happy with her supervisor, and no doubt she had wanted to consult someone else.

That must be the answer.

Fredrika gazed at the silent spines of the books lining the shelves. Spencer’s books interspersed with her own; it was only natural, now that they shared so much. In spite of the hour, the room wasn’t completely dark. The light from the street lamps reached Fredrika through the window, giving her a welcome sense that she was part of a living context rather than a vacuum. Her fingers itched with the desire to pick up her violin and play. Few things made her feel better.

It had once been written in the stars that Fredrika would have a career as a violinist, but an accident had put paid to her plans. Her mother had wept when Fredrika told her that at long last she had begun to play again in her spare time.

‘What a gift for Saga,’ she had said.

Fredrika wasn’t too sure about that. Her daughter showed little interest when her mother played, and was an uninspired listener. Perhaps things would change as she got older. Perhaps she would begin to play an instrument of her own? A burst of envy flared briefly within Fredrika, but quickly died away. She would never begrudge Saga such joy. Just because she had been forced to dedicate her life to a profession that rarely matched up to what her expectations had once been, she would never feel bitter if her daughter was given the opportunity to live a different life.