Silenced (31 page)

In parallel he had to consider the anomalies surrounding Karolina Ahlbin’s death, the alleged trigger for an act of desperation on the part of her father. What the hell would their next step be if it turned out not to be Karolina who had died?

Peder racked his brains. The group had made certain basic assumptions. For example, the fact that the threats sent to Jakob Ahlbin from the Sons of the People email account from computers other than Tony Svensson’s had a direct link to his subsequent murder.

But need that be the case? wondered Peder. Maybe it was a red herring.

The third one in a row, if so. It wasn’t suicide and it wasn’t Tony Svensson and the SP. And maybe it wasn’t the mystery emailer, either.

But that couldn’t be right. It must all hang together, even if for the time being it was impossible to see how.

Fredrika had drawn her colleagues’ attention to the fact that the mystery emailer seemed to know his Bible, and well enough to use it to make allusions that would provoke the recipient.

So could there be a link to the Church?

Peder had a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. And what about the man run over outside the university who was now, via the murdered Muhammad Abdullah, tenuously linked to the Ahlbin murder case as well? How did he fit into the picture?

Alex had given Peder and Joar a quick account of Fredrika’s latest idea. Her theory that the victims were being silenced so they would not reveal a highly sensitive secret. A classic motive, but Peder could not for the life of him see what secret could be so big that it was worth murdering several people for.

He decided to backtrack a little. He could hear Joar out in the corridor, talking in a warm voice to someone he was clearly on very close terms with. Peder pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to keep his thoughts in check. If he let himself think about Pia Nordh now, all would be lost. He stared intently at his notes from the last Tony Svensson interview.

One phrase leapt out at him.

‘It’s not somebody like me you’re looking for, you fucking numbskulls.’

The words had been Tony’s response to Peder and Joar’s suggestion that he look at some police pictures to pick out the person who had forced him into the conspiracy against Jakob Ahlbin. What was he getting at? Peder’s pulse started to race. Tony was intimating that the police would not have a picture of that person on file because he was not a known criminal, unlike Tony himself. The words ‘not somebody like me’ took on a different significance if you let your imagination range more freely. Not somebody like me . . . but somebody like you. Was that what he was hinting at? So a police officer did figure in this investigation after all.

And various clergymen.

It was hard to think of categories of people who had less in common with Tony Svensson than those two.

Peder brought up the telephone lists on his computer screen. Tony Svensson had indeed rung Viggo Tuvesson, on three occasions, but had never been rung by him. Not on that phone, anyway. What was more, all three calls were made after Tony Svensson stopped emailing Jakob Ahlbin and someone else took over. Peder brought up more lists, this time Tony Svensson’s overall call log. Had he been rung from some other number in the crucial period that they could link to Viggo Tuvesson?

The group’s administrator had done sterling work and identified the most frequently occurring numbers. But there were also lots of calls from mobiles with unregistered pay-as-you-go accounts, and it was impossible to say who owned or was using them. Tony Svensson had been contacted from fifteen such numbers in the past month. Maybe one of them belonged to the man – or woman – who had approached him and forced him into the role of double dealer? Maybe a policeman, or maybe a vicar. Someone who was not like Tony Svensson.

Peder closed the Excel files of phone numbers. He would have to start all over again and take a fresh approach. Just then, Joar knocked at his door. Peder did not say a word, but glared as crossly as he could.

‘Surveillance rang,’ Joar said curtly. ‘We were right: Tony Svensson’s daughter’s as free as a bird. He went straight round to her school.’

‘Good,’ said Peder, equally curtly.

‘And he made two calls when he was with his daughter.’

Peder was in suspense.

‘One was to the girl’s mother, his ex, and the other was to an unregistered mobile.’

Peder sighed. What had he expected?

‘But we were at least able to tell roughly where the owner of the phone was when he took the call, and the record of calls and connections to phone masts told us where he’d spent his day.’

‘And where was that?’ asked Peder, on the edge of his seat.

‘Here in Kungsholmen. In the area of, or indeed in, the Kronoberg block.’

‘In Norrmalm Police Station, for example?’

Joar smiled.

‘Hard to say, but yes, maybe even there.’

On the way back from Skärholmen, Fredrika Bergman had an idea.

‘Could we go out to Ekerö and have a look at the daughters’ house?’

‘Why?’ asked Alex with a look of surprise.

‘Because I haven’t had a chance to see it yet,’ was Fredrika’s simple answer. ‘And I think it would help me to understand Karolina and Johanna better.’

‘So you feel sure both of them are implicated in the murder of their parents?’ Alex asked curiously.

Fredrika put both hands on her stomach.

‘Perhaps,’ was all she said.

Alex rang the prosecutor and got verbal permission to make a follow-up visit to the house, so they went via HQ to pick up the copy of the house key that the technical boys had made since the last visit. Half an hour later, they pulled up outside the house.

Alex frowned as they got out of the car.

‘Somebody’s been here,’ he said, pointing to parallel tyre tracks in the snow, which was just beginning to thaw.

‘Aren’t they the ones you made last time you were here?’ Fredrika asked.

‘No, they’re from a different car,’ said Alex, starting to take pictures of the tracks with the camera in his mobile phone.

Fredrika looked around her, breathing in the cool air and appreciating the silence.

‘It’s a lovely place,’ she said out loud.

‘No doubt it was even nicer before,’ said Alex, putting his phone away. ‘There used to be a meadow here,’ he said, pointing to the neighbouring property. ‘But the local council sold it off for development, of course.’

‘A meadow,’ repeated Fredrika, and a dreamy look came into her eyes. ‘Must have been pretty idyllic, growing up here.’

Alex went ahead of her to the house. The snow was compacted under his feet. The lock grated when he turned the key and the door made a faint protest as he opened it.

‘Well here we are, do come in,’ he said to Fredrika, standing aside to let her go first.

It was always fascinating to come into someone else’s home. Fredrika had been along on a number of house searches and often found herself starting to fantasise about the people who lived in the house or apartment. Whether they were happy or unhappy, poor or rich. Sadly enough, the reason for the police being there was often all too obvious to see. The home sent out signals of misery or social exclusion, and the dust lay thick on every surface.

The Ahlbin sisters’ house was not one of those. It felt homely and welcoming, even though it was clearly only a holiday place. Alex seemed busy with something in the kitchen, so Fredrika took a tour of the rooms, first downstairs and then upstairs. All the beds were made up, but under the heavy bedspreads the sheets smelled of damp. The wardrobes were empty apart from a few items of casual wear, all in Jakob Ahlbin’s size. The rooms were tastefully uncluttered but the furnishings still managed to be personal. Fredrika’s eye came to rest on a pressed flower in a frame, hanging on the wall. She had to go closer to see it properly. A pressed daisy, so old and brittle that it looked as though it might disintegrate any moment. All alone on an otherwise bare wall.

I wonder why? thought Fredrika, moving on to the next room.

She looked at all the family photos hanging on the walls and standing on chests of drawers, and all the toys and children’s shoes that must have belonged to the girls when they were little. Just as her male colleagues had done, she noted Johanna Ahlbin’s disappearance from the pictures. She was in them, and then suddenly she wasn’t.

Was it symbolic? she asked herself. Did Johanna come to be seen as a less important part of the family? And if so, why? Or was it she who broke with the rest of them?

Fredrika started going through the pictures systematically. First the upstairs ones and then those on the ground floor. She took down the frames, opened them and checked the back of each photo for any dates or annotations. She was pleased to see that whoever framed the pictures had been very methodical, identifying virtually all of them.

‘Jakob, Marja, Karolina and Johanna, autumn ’85.’

‘Jakob and Johanna laying up the boat for the winter, ’89.’

‘Marja and Karolina when the well froze, ’86.’

Fredrika was so engrossed in the operation that she did not hear Alex come up behind her.

‘What are you doing?’ he asked, making her jump.

‘Look,’ she said, holding out one of the photos. ‘Someone’s dated them all.’

Alex followed her long, agile fingers with fascination as she silently opened up frame after frame. When she had finished, it was impossible to tell that every frame had been taken down, opened and then put back together again.

‘In 1992, something changes,’ she said with conviction, clapping her hands to get the dust off.

She pointed to one of the photos.

‘Here,’ she said. ‘The family celebrating midsummer 1992. It seems to have been the last midsummer they were all here.’

She waved a hand along the top row of pictures.

‘They were here every year from the time Karolina was born. It seems to have been just them, nobody else. Just Jakob, Marja and the girls.’

Alex took down the 1992 picture with a thoughtful expression.

‘According to Elsie and Sven Ljung, this was about the time Jakob stopped hiding the refugees,’ he said.

‘Yes, you’re right,’ said Fredrika. ‘But we weren’t really told why.’

‘No,’ said Alex, hanging the picture back on the wall.

His pregnant colleague raised her magic finger again and pointed.

‘This is the other time,’ she said. ‘The other one Elsie mentioned.’

Alex looked at the picture.

‘It’s the last picture Johanna’s in, taken in 2004 which just fits. A family barbecue in the garden.’

‘What happened in 2004?’ asked Alex.

‘That was when Jakob Ahlbin started talking about going back to hiding refugees. Which apparently upset Johanna a great deal. And then Sven and Jakob fell out after Sven suggested Jakob could make some money out of the operation.’

‘Christ,’ muttered Alex. ‘Capitalising on human misery, what the hell made him think that was such a great idea?’

The pine floor creaked beneath their feet as they moved to and fro along the wall.

‘This was where it started, with his refugees in the basement,’ Alex said with a lump in his throat. ‘I just can’t get my head round how, though.’

Fredrika shivered.

‘We’ve simply got to find Johanna Ahlbin now,’ she said. ‘It feels to me as if time’s running out.’

‘I feel the same,’ Alex said grimly. ‘As if we’re heading for a bloody meltdown and can’t lift a finger to save the situation.’

Fredrika did up her jacket, which she had left undone while they were going round the house.

‘But at least we know now when it all started,’ she said. ‘This was where the Ahlbin family fell apart and this was where someone came to get the murder weapon. It all started here, in 1992.’

Daylight was fading by the time Alex and Fredrika got back to Kungsholmen. Alex often thought how senseless it was that it got dark in the middle of the afternoon for large parts of the year. And then never got dark in the summer. There was no moderation at these latitudes, he thought.

He called his group together for a quick update before they all went home. Fredrika had to slip straight out again to take a call.

‘If nobody has any objections I’d like to start by declaring the right-wing extremist angle defunct, and dropping it,’ he began.

Nobody objected.

‘The only thing of value we’ve learnt about the extremists and the threats from Tony Svensson and Sons of the People is that they came to someone else’s attention, and that person then exploited the dispute between SP and Jakob Ahlbin to conceal his own crime,’ Alex concluded.

He was about to go on when the door burst open and Fredrika came in with a look of triumph.

‘Tell us then,’ said Alex.

Peder pulled out a chair for Fredrika to sit on, keen to have her on his side of the table rather than Joar’s. Joar pulled a face and Alex suppressed a sigh.

‘A simple blood test proved that the woman, the drug addict, can’t possibly be related to Marja and Jakob.’

‘Well, well . . .’ began Peder.

‘Which at least in theory rules out her being Karolina Ahlbin. I mean, she could be adopted or something. Not that it’s likely, but the hospital wanted to make sure it had covered itself this time. So they did what they should have done from the word go: asked for copies of her dental records. And no – the woman
wasn’t
Karolina Ahlbin.’

‘Bloody incredible,’ said Joar, tossing his pen onto the table.

Alex looked in his direction. He could not recall having heard him swear before. Peder sent him a look too, but not a sharp one.

He’s already seen that side of him, thought Alex. I’m the one not keeping up.

Peder’s mobile rang and he hastily switched it off.

‘My brother,’ he said. ‘He’s been ringing all day, he just keeps on.’

‘If you want a word with him do feel free to pop out,’ said Alex, who was aware of Jimmy’s situation but kept it to himself.

Peder shook his head firmly.

‘Then we know for sure that Karolina’s sister deliberately identified another woman as her sister,’ Alex said. ‘But we haven’t heard from Karolina despite the fact that the news of her parents’ deaths is splashed all over the newspapers.’