Without a Trace (11 page)

Annika turned her laptop so Valter could see the screen. ‘A classic argument,’ she said. ‘There are loads of different versions of it online. Aaron Sorkin used it in an episode of
The West Wing
, but there are plenty of examples in social media.’

She pulled the laptop back towards her. ‘According to Exodus thirty-five, verse two, we should kill everyone who works on a Sunday. And Deuteronomy twenty-one, verse eighteen onwards tells us what to do when a child is disobedient – they’re to be stoned to death outside the gates of the city.’ She looked up at him. ‘Do you think it has to be the gates of the city? Wouldn’t outside in the garden do just as well?’

Valter chortled.

‘There are loads of them,’ Annika said. ‘If you go to the barber and get your hair and beard trimmed, you’re committing a sin, according to Leviticus nineteen, verse twenty-seven. If you swear, the whole congregation has to stone you to death, Leviticus twenty-four, verses fifteen and sixteen. And this one’s my favourite – listen. “When a man sells his daughter into slavery, she shall not go out as a male slave may.”’ She gazed at him thoughtfully. ‘Mind you, she did say a few things that are worth checking up … Do you know how to get hold of information on Swedish companies?’

While Valter looked for details of Ingemar Lerberg’s business activities, Annika read up about his resignation. What if the woman was right? She scrolled down the list of search results for ingemar lerberg tax.

The first articles about his dodgy tax affairs had appeared on a Tuesday morning in November seven and a half years ago. Several of the big media companies seemed to have gained access to the information simultaneously: the big tabloids, the main morning paper and Swedish Television. Sjölander had dealt with the story for the
Evening Post
. The headline was stark and loud:

She skimmed the article, trying to read between the lines and see through the fanciful phrasing. ‘Tax raid’ meant that the tax office had requested Lerberg’s accounts for investigation. It happened to most limited companies at regular intervals.

The party secretary’s quote was accurate, no doubt, but he had been talking about the party’s attitude towards crime in general, not Ingemar Lerberg. How else could he have replied to the journalist’s question? ‘We are relaxed about all forms of criminality’?

No one in the party leadership appeared to have expressed an opinion about Lerberg, either for or against.

Day two had seen the media coverage escalate in the expected manner:

To the average newspaper reader, Ingemar Lerberg’s fate was now sealed. The police had been brought in, a prosecutor was looking into the case, and all that remained was a severe custodial sentence. The fact that he hadn’t already resigned as a Member of Parliament seemed incomprehensible.

But when Annika took a metaphorical step back from the text, it was obvious that Lerberg had been reported to the police by some concerned citizen with no particular insight into the case, an Angry Taxpayer, who thought it was disgraceful that well-known people cheated at the expense of ordinary citizens. The prosecutor would have had to weigh up the evidence to see whether it was worth setting up so much as a preliminary investigation.

She did another search.

Day three: the dramaturgically correct third act:

Ingemar Lerberg had met the criticism head-on in a self-penned piece published in the
Evening Post
. Like most people under pressure, he had written too much, almost to the point of jeopardizing his legal case, and the ultimate effect was to make him look guilty. He explained various points in so much detail that they became baffling and dull, and all his arguments came across as excuses.

On day four, the story of Ingemar Lerberg’s ‘tax fraud’ concluded as expected: the politician resigned and stepped down from his parliamentary seat with immediate effect.

Annika sighed. Why did people in positions of power never learn how to handle the media? She leaned back in her chair and watched Valter staring at his computer screen.

For the following day’s paper she needed a more in-depth angle on the politician’s missing wife, Nora. The articles about the search for her and an update on her husband’s condition were already finished and online (Ingemar Lerberg was still unconscious, and Nora was still missing without trace) – she had to update them before she went home – but she should really try to find something more substantial for tomorrow’s print edition. The Lerbergs’ children were being cared for by a relative, Ingemar’s sister Kristine Lerberg, but she was refusing to talk. Annika had called twice and had been sent packing in no uncertain terms on the second occasion: didn’t she realize that Kristine was waiting for news about Ingemar and Nora? She couldn’t switch her phone off and Annika was taking up time and energy in the midst of her grief – she might even be stopping important information reaching her.

Annika had put together a short piece about the anguish of the relatives, quoting Kristine Lerberg, but hadn’t got much further than that. The problem was that there was very little public information about Nora. She was mentioned a few times in various media in connection with Ingemar Lerberg’s election campaign eight years ago, but since then she evidently hadn’t participated in her husband’s political life. She didn’t appear to have a job, she wasn’t active in any organizations, and she wasn’t on Facebook. She didn’t blog or tweet under her own name, and hadn’t taken part in any digital debates.

So, what did she spend all her time doing?

She had three children, of course, aged one, three and five, and, considering her husband’s religious and political preferences, Annika assumed that state childcare was out of the question. She had at least registered a mobile phone number, and Annika tried calling it for a third time. The phone was still switched off.

Annika looked at her computer screen. Silvervägen 63. Nice address. Maybe she was friendly with the neighbours. Went for walks with a triple-seat buggy and the now murdered dog, chatting about the weather and house prices across wooden fences and lilac hedges, gossiping about the other women in the local mothers’ group, the latest books and films?

Annika brought up a street view of Solsidan and took a slow walk along the virtual Silvervägen. The pictures must have been taken last summer: the weather seemed rather grey but the trees were in leaf. When the road wasn’t full of police cars and media it looked much classier. Annika clicked along the somewhat distorted perspective, scanning the edge of the screen, then saw what she was looking for.

There, on the lawn in front of Silvervägen 48, was a colourful plastic tractor next to a little inflatable paddling pool. She typed the address into the online population database, and two seconds later she had the full names and ages of everyone who was registered as living there.

Just as she’d thought.

The Lindenstolphe family had two children, aged five and three. She had found the Lerberg children’s little playmates.

The phone numbers were all in the public domain, landline, work and mobile, for Therese and Johan. Annika cleared her throat and picked up her mobile.

Therese answered on the landline – she was at home, then. She was rather taken aback when Annika introduced herself as a reporter from the
Evening Post
, but she didn’t hang up.

‘Obviously it was a huge shock. That sort of thing isn’t supposed to happen on our road,’ she said.

‘Do you know the Lerberg family?’ Annika asked.

‘Yes, of course. Nora and I belong to the same mums’ group – our boys are the same age.’

Bingo.

‘I’m trying to get a clearer picture of the family,’ Annika said, ‘so I can give an idea of them as something more than just victims of crime. And, of course, I’d like to hear how this has affected you, as their closest neighbours.’

Therese paused. ‘I don’t know, there are other people who know them much better …’

‘We’re not after family secrets or anything like that,’ Annika said. ‘We’re just trying to get a bit closer to this tragic occurrence.’

Therese thought for a moment, then gave in. The children had to have their lunch, and then a nap, but Annika was welcome to visit in an hour’s time.

Annika breathed a sigh of relief. No matter what Therese had to say, the story was safe. It would almost be enough just to print a picture of the anxious neighbours accompanied by the caption, ‘We never imagined that something like this could happen on our road!’

‘Do you fancy coming on an outing to the real world?’ she asked Valter.

He looked up from his computer. ‘What about Ingemar Lerberg’s company?’

She put her feet on the desk and looked at her watch. ‘What have you found?’

He held up a printout and read from it: ‘“International Transport Consultancy was set up seven years ago, has three employees, and a turnover of six point eight million kronor. Main activities: consultancy in management, administration, transport and business development …”’

‘I get it,’ Annika said. ‘And no doubt it ends with a statement that the company isn’t permitted to be involved in anything that could be legally interpreted as banking or the provision of credit. Those are just the standard phrases. Who’s on the board?’

He raised the printout again. ‘Ingemar Lerberg is MD, chairman of the board and sole shareholder. Kristine Lerberg is on the board, and Nora Lerberg is listed as a director.’

The sister who was taking care of the children, and his wife. Typical family business.

‘Their accountant is Robert Moberg, of Moberg & Moberg Accounting Services in Saltsjöbaden,’ Valter said. ‘The company’s profit margin is around five per cent.’

As far as Annika understood, that was pretty reasonable. She wondered how well informed the CD woman really was. ‘Does he have any dormant businesses?’

‘Four,’ Valter said. ‘Lerberg Investment, TL Investment Consulting, TL Consult Expert, and Lerberg Consulting.’

Annika raised her eyebrows. ‘What does it say at the end of the report?’

Valter picked up the next sheet and read out, ‘“Self-employed tax status withdrawn. Bankruptcy discharged.”’

Maybe Marianne Berg-Holmlund had known what she was talking about after all.

‘When did the last company collapse?’

Valter looked through the printouts as Annika stood up and pulled on her jacket. ‘Seven years ago,’ he said.

‘Let me see,’ Annika said, reaching for the sheets of paper.

The officers of the bankrupt companies were exactly the same as those of the active business, with the exception of Lerberg’s wife. Even the accountant was the same, Robert Moberg. She went back to her desk, looked up Moberg & Moberg on the internet, and found office and mobile phone numbers for the two accountants, Robert and Henrik.

‘What are you doing?’ Valter watched Annika write the numbers on her notepad.

‘If the bankruptcy has been discharged and there’s no suspicion of tax fraud or other impropriety, the company’s financial records will be publicly available. They have to be kept for ten years. They’ll be stored somewhere, and Robert and Henrik will know where. Besides …’ Annika switched off her computer ‘… I’ll be damned if they don’t remember what happened when Ingemar Lerberg’s businesses collapsed. Oops, I just swore. Leviticus twenty-four, verses fifteen and sixteen.’

‘Do you reckon the newsroom would do as the whole congregation?’ Valter wondered.

‘Let’s go,’ Annika said.

*

I can’t breathe on my own: I can’t get enough oxygen without help. Space ended when my mum died – her last breath drained the world of life-giving air. I was left alone in the void, falling and falling with no hope of avoiding the wild beast at the bottom. I have to keep hold of myself all the time to stop myself slipping. The scream inside me is silent and boundless. I’ll do anything –
absolutely anything
– to escape. Freedom is nothing: give me boundaries, any boundaries – I’ll pay.
I’m happy to pay
.

*

Annika turned off towards Solsidan. The coarse winter grit crunched under the tyres. Presumably whatever private company had won the contract for road maintenance hadn’t had time to get out there and take care of it.

Valter was gazing intently through the window. ‘I thought there’d be loads of massive luxurious houses out here,’ he said, sounding rather disappointed.

The houses lining the road were mostly villas built in the seventies, with outsize roofs that were the result of a strange glitch in government construction grants, meaning that roofs had expanded briefly to absurd proportions when Annika was a child.

‘Don’t worry, Valter,’ she said. ‘They’re coming up soon.’

A minute or so later they reached the really fancy ones, with bay windows, leaded glass, hedges, little brick walls, gravel paths and raked lawns. The Church of the Epiphany and the school, the Sea Scouts’ hut and the beach at Erstaviken.

‘The one with the most money when he dies is the winner,’ Valter said.

‘Says the young heir to the Wennergren fortune,’ Annika said.

Forest took over. Silvervägen clung to the Saltsjöbanan railway line like a pair of figure-skaters. The villas weren’t as impressive there, mostly small wooden houses from the thirties and others built of large pale bricks. They passed the station, a colourful building that reminded Annika of the Tyrol, with a bistro and a fast-food kiosk. A little blue train was waiting at the platform.

Silvervägen 48 was a recently built, white-stuccoed villa, a modern design. Annika got out of the car and turned her face into the wind. She squinted and could just make out the Lerbergs’ small house by the turning circle at the end of the road.