Without a Trace (18 page)

‘Do you know where Nora is?’

The man’s entire body arched up, the eye widened and stared at her in terror. A noise emerged from his throat – it sounded like a moan. Dr Kararei hurried over to him and Nina took a step back in alarm.

‘Ooooh!’ Ingemar Lerberg’s arms jerked uncontrollably, his legs cramping.

Dr Kararei pressed the alarm button: a red light began to flash outside the room and a siren sounded. Two nurses came rushing in and Nina took several more steps back.

‘Nooooo,’ Ingemar Lerberg shouted. ‘Noooohhhaaa …’

She stared at the man, frozen to the spot in horror. The door behind her flew open and hit her hard in the shoulder as another doctor ran into the room. She stumbled to one side, then rushed out into the corridor, away from the ward, away from the hoarse screams. She didn’t catch her breath until she reached the lift area. She took the stairs down from the fourth floor and hurried through the large glazed lobby and out into the rain.

She got back to her sterile room at National Crime. She closed the door – she’d had quite enough introductions. As an operational analyst she was a resource, someone who was supposed to help structure a great deal of information, and to do that she needed peace in which to think. According to her job description, she was expected to present the results of her analysis to the group both verbally and in writing, so she ought to be given the space in which to come up with them.

She sank gently onto her chair, let out a deep breath, then took out a bottle of mineral water and an apple and put them on a napkin on her desk. The documents from that morning’s group meeting were spread out in front of her. Someone must know something – someone must have seen something. The surveillance footage from Solsidan station hadn’t revealed anything. No Nora caught on camera at the entrance or on the platform. She could have passed the station on foot, outside the range of the cameras, or left by car. But not in one of the two cars at the family’s disposal, a Mercedes registered to Ingemar Lerberg’s company, or the Nissan Micra that he owned privately.

There was a knock at the door, hard and rapid. Before Nina had time to react Lamia had entered the room and made herself comfortable on her desk. ‘Were you able to talk to him?’

She was sitting on the documents. Nina took hold of the papers and tried to pull them out. Lamia raised one buttock to release them.

‘He was conscious,’ Nina said, ‘but his larynx is swollen and he’s got a hole in his throat for the ventilator.’

‘What did he say?’

Lamia reached for the bottle of water, unscrewed it and took a deep gulp. Nina glanced at the Barbie woman: she was swinging one foot and beaming like the sun.

‘He communicated by blinking,’ Nina said. ‘He was assaulted by two men. He’d never seen them before. They wanted information from him – something he didn’t know. He reacted extremely strongly to the question of where Nora might be, had convulsions and screamed her name.’

‘Do you want that apple?’ Lamia was pointing at it.

‘Er, yes,’ Nina said.

The woman reached for the apple and took a big bite, then put it back on the napkin. ‘The passenger manifests have arrived,’ she said, with her mouth full. ‘There’s a result for Nora.’ Then she picked up the water-bottle, opened it and drank some.

Nina felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. Why the hell couldn’t she have said that at once? ‘Where is she?’

‘We don’t know where she is, but we know where she’s been. She flew to Switzerland two weeks ago, to Zürich with Swiss Air, just for the day.’

Nina was struggling against various impulses that struck her one after the other: to throw the woman out of her room, to move the bottle of water away from her, and get her to explain what had happened.

‘Switzerland?’ she said, almost under her breath. ‘What was she doing there?’

‘The people at Ingemar’s company knew nothing about it – I’ve called and asked. They don’t have an office in Zürich, or any clients. And there’s nothing to indicate any business connections with Switzerland, or any secret bank accounts, not in any computer or files or financial records. The Lerbergs never declared any capital income abroad.’

She smiled cheerily.

‘These days it’s actually possible to get hold of information about Swiss bank accounts,’ she said, screwing the lid back on the bottle and putting it down on the desk.

‘Nora’s passport was found in the house, wasn’t it?’ Nina said, leafing through the forensics report.

‘In a drawer in the bedroom,’ Lamia said. ‘Issued on the thirteenth of December last year. Her previous passport was reported stolen to Nacka Police at the end of November. It disappeared at the same time as her purse, along with her driving licence, credit cards, ID card, car and house keys, when her handbag was stolen in a café in Nacka shopping centre while she was doing some Christmas shopping.’

Nina stared at her. There was something really odd about the woman. ‘Have you got a photographic memory?’ she asked.

‘There’s no such thing,’ Lamia said. ‘But I have got an eidetic memory, from the Greek
eidos
, to see.’ She tilted her head to one side.

Nina didn’t understand her answer and wasn’t sure what to say.

‘Ingemar Lerberg wasn’t working for the security services, by the way. At least not as far as the people working for him know,’ Lamia went on, untroubled.

‘If the work was secret, then presumably his staff wouldn’t tell you about it anyway,’ Nina said.

Lamia wasn’t about to be put off. ‘They’re not aware of any couriers or deliveries of secret material, and they look after all the administration and invoicing—’

‘Why did Nora have her passport in her handbag?’ she interrupted.

Lamia blinked her long eyelashes.

‘You don’t need your passport for Christmas shopping,’ Nina said. ‘And she had her driving licence and ID card with her.’

Lamia smiled. ‘Ingemar Lerberg’s company has three big customers who make up ninety per cent of the business’s turnover: Panama General Cargo, Philippines Shipping Lines, and Cargo International España …’ She went on to provide figures for turnover and profit, but Nina wasn’t listening.

The only time you needed a passport was if you were planning to cross a border outside the Schengen Area. And she thought that some airlines required a passport as ID, even if a Swedish ID card worked practically everywhere in Europe, apart from the United Kingdom.

‘Where did Nina’s handbag go missing? Exactly, I mean,’ Nina asked, cutting off Lamia mid-sentence.

‘At Hot Spot Coffee. It’s on the ground floor.’ The answer came without a moment’s hesitation.

‘Were there any witnesses?’

‘That wasn’t clear from the report.’

Nina tugged at her ponytail. ‘Do you think you could move a bit?’ She reached for the phone, which was hidden behind Lamia’s backside.

‘Oops, of course,’ the blonde said, and jumped onto the floor.

‘Can you shut the door after you?’ Nina said.

‘Sure,’ Lamia said, and trotted out of the room on her high heels.

Nina picked up the receiver. Slowly she dialled the number of her colleagues out in Nacka: this was definitely a long shot. When the receptionist answered, she explained that she was calling from the National Crime Unit, even if the words still felt odd in her mouth. She asked for Superintendent Lundqvist, the officer in charge of the local investigation into the Lerberg case. The receptionist put her through without any questions.

Lundqvist sounded very stressed when he eventually answered. ‘Nora Lerberg’s handbag? I don’t know anything about a stolen handbag. When’s it supposed to have gone missing?’

‘Her passport was inside the bag. She had a new one issued on the thirteenth of December last year.’

‘That’s six months ago!’

Nina looked at the closed door, glad that no one could hear her. ‘I’d like to know the circumstances surrounding the disappearance of her handbag and what she said when she reported it missing.’

There was a noise in the background, and someone shouted something.

‘Listen, Hoffman, things are a bit hectic right now.’

‘Anything we ought to know?’

The superintendent let out a loud sigh. ‘This morning one of our local talents was found hanging from the branch of a tree out near Kråkträsken, naked and smeared with honey, a plastic bag over his head.’

Nina’s head was buzzing.

‘Local talents?’

‘One of society’s lost sheep. They hang around in Orminge shopping centre.’

‘Is he dead?’

‘As a doornail. So if you’ll excuse me …’

Naked, smeared with honey, and asphyxiated with a plastic bag?

Hanging from a branch?

Hanging from a branch?

Images ran through Nina’s head, names, methods. ‘Was he hanging from his knees, with his wrists tied below his knees?’

Lundqvist lost his thread. There was silence on the line. Then he cleared his throat. ‘How …?’

La Barra
.

‘I’m coming out to you,’ she said. ‘Right away. Kråkträsken, you said?’

‘What—’

She hung up and looked at Jesper’s bookcase.

The method has several names: apart from La Barra it is also known as El Pollo (the chicken) or Pau de Arara (the parrot’s perch)
.

She pulled on her jacket, put her mobile into her pocket and headed for the exit.

Lovisa Olsson lived in one of the really showy old villas in Saltsjöbaden, on Vikingavägen, with lots of decorative carving, a three-car garage and a big glazed veranda facing the sea. Annika parked on the road in front of the house, locked the car and looked about her in the pouring rain. The lawn had been raked clear of leaves, and there were tulips growing along the front of the house. She could make out a swing behind the garage, and a tarpaulin on the ground, presumably covering a swimming-pool.

The porch had two ornate wooden doors, with both a doorbell and a brass knocker. She hesitated, then decided to use the bell. It rang inside, the sound echoing between the rooms. She was almost expecting a maid in uniform and lace cap to answer the door, but in the end a little boy with a runny nose opened it. He stared at her. He had curly black hair and a comfort blanket in one hand.

‘Is your mummy at home?’ Annika asked.

The boy looked up at her warily. ‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

‘Annika,’ Annika said. ‘What’s yours?’

‘Come in!’ Lovisa called, from somewhere inside the house.

‘Mark,’ the child said, and ran off.

Annika went in and closed the door behind her.

Lovisa hurried into the hall, without any make-up, her hair loosely tied up. In her arms she held a little girl, her head covered with cornrow plaits, just like Serena’s.

‘Welcome,’ she said, shaking Annika’s hand. ‘I’ve got the children at home today. I hope that isn’t a problem – they can’t seem to shake off their colds in all this rain.’

Annika hung up her coat. The water dripped onto the hall floor. Lovisa turned and led her into a vast sitting room.

‘I was rather surprised when you called,’ she said, glancing over her shoulder. ‘Wasn’t yesterday enough, at Therese’s?’

‘Almost,’ Annika said.

Lovisa was clearly agitated. She went into the kitchen. ‘I’ve got a doctor’s appointment with Mark in a little while.’

The kitchen was enormous, with black and white chequered tiles on the floor, and custom-made fittings, no wall cabinets, just shelves. Multi-coloured LED lights were set into the ceiling. There was a black granite island containing a glass hob and griddle, and a bar with inbuilt lighting. Annika had never seen anything like it outside interior-design magazines.

‘You seemed to be the one who knew the Lerberg family best out of the mums’ group,’ Annika said, sitting on a tall bar stool. There were crispbread crumbs on the granite worktop.

‘Is this going to be in the paper?’ She sounded worried.

‘Probably,’ Annika said. ‘Is that a problem?’

Lovisa put the little girl in a child’s chair. ‘I’m just going to put a film on for Mark,’ she said, and went off into the house.

Annika was left sitting with the little girl beside her. The child stared fixedly at her, wide-eyed and wary, on the verge of crying at the slightest provocation. One of the lights in the ceiling cast a bright blue spot on the granite between them. Annika tried to focus on the spot, but her eyes kept meeting the child’s. She realized it was Serena’s silent anger that she was seeing in them.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘My name’s Annika. What’s yours?’

The toddler’s face crumpled into tears and she tried to get out of her chair. Annika glanced around desperately for something to distract her, but before she could find anything Lovisa ran in and picked up her daughter.

Annika brushed her hair from her face, discreetly swept the crispbread crumbs onto the floor, took out her pen and notepad and put them down in front of her. ‘You’ve got a lovely home,’ she said.

‘Thanks,’ Lovisa said.

‘Have you lived here long?’

‘We bought it when I was expecting Mark.’

Annika smiled and tried to relax her shoulders. So Lovisa and her husband were loaded. She felt curiosity simmering inside her. She tilted her head, then wrote the date and time on the pad, concentrating, as if it was important.

‘What line of work is your husband in?’ she asked lightly.

‘He’s with the IMF,’ Lovisa said.

Annika blinked.

‘The International Monetary Fund,’ Lovisa said. ‘At their offices in Geneva. But that’s not where we got the money. My dad owns a number of ICA supermarkets.’

Annika looked down at her notepad. Lovisa had seen through her question, and she blushed.

‘My husband was born in Sweden,’ Lovisa went on, in a clearer, drier voice than before. ‘His parents are from Nairobi, both doctors. Samuel’s dad is head of Intensive Care at Södermalm Hospital. He’s looking after Ingemar.’

Annika did her best to maintain a neutral expression. Lovisa gave her daughter a beaker containing a red liquid.

‘How is he getting on?’ Annika asked.

Lovisa gave her a look that seemed almost amused. ‘Samuel’s dad? Oh, he’s fine, thanks. We read that he was Ingemar’s doctor in the
Evening Post
. He never tells us anything.’