Let him open the door for his other woman, Fredrika thought waspishly, but kept her mouth shut.
She could see her mother through the kitchen window, which looked out on the road. The two of them were often told they were very alike. Fredrika waved. Her mother waved back, but to judge by her expression she was – despite having doubtless prepared herself – shocked to see her heavily pregnant daughter with a man the age of her own husband.
‘Okay?’ asked Fredrika, slipping her hand into Spencer’s.
‘I suppose so,’ he answered, holding her hand in a warm clasp. ‘Can hardly be any worse than other things I’ve experienced in this context.’
Fredrika had no idea what he meant.
Things got off to a bad start when she made the mistake of accepting a glass of wine she had not been offered.
‘Fredrika,’ her mother exclaimed in dismay. ‘You’re not drinking while you’re pregnant?’
‘Good grief, Mum,’ said Fredrika. ‘On the Continent, pregnant women have been drinking for millennia. The public health body in Britain has just changed its recommendations and says they can drink two glasses a week with no ill effects.’
This did nothing to reassure her mother, who had little time for the British findings and looked at her daughter as if she were insane when she raised the glass to her lips and took a gulp.
‘Mmm,’ she said, with an appreciative smile at her father, who also looked extremely quizzical.
‘Being in the police hasn’t turned you into an alcoholic, has it, Fredrika?’ he asked with a troubled look.
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake,’ she cried, not knowing whether to laugh or weep.
Her parents gave her long stares, but said no more.
The seating arrangement reminded Fredrika of the way she used to set out her dolls when she was playing with her doll’s house as a child. Mummy and Daddy on one side of the table and Guests on the other.
I’m a guest, she thought with fascination. In my own parents’ home.
She tried to think when she had last introduced anyone to her parents. A long time ago, she realised. Ten years, to be precise. And the man in question had been called Elvis, which had amused her mother no end.
‘I understand you work at Uppsala University,’ she heard her father say.
‘That’s right,’ said Spencer. ‘It sounds absurd to admit it, but I’ve been teaching there for thirty-five years now.’
He laughed loudly, not noticing the way Fredrika’s parents stiffened.
They ought to have lots in common, really, thought Fredrika. Spencer’s only five years younger than Dad, after all.
Again she felt the same desire to burst out laughing that had come over her in the car. She coughed discreetly. She asked her mother if she could pass the gravy, which went so well with this delicious roast. Complimented her father on his choice of wine, but then realised it was a mistake to draw attention back to the fact that she was drinking at all. Her father asked how work was going and she said it was all right. Her mother wanted to know if she was sleeping any better now and she said sometimes, but mostly not.
‘I hope you don’t have to sleep alone every night,’ her mother said with a meaningful glance at Spencer.
‘Sometimes I do,’ Fredrika said non-committally.
‘Oh?’ said her mother.
‘Ah,’ said her father.
And then they lapsed into silence. Absence of sound can be a blessing, or a curse, depending on the context. In this case there was absolutely no doubt: this wordless dinner was going to be a disaster.
Fredrika could not help feeling exasperated. What had her parents expected? They knew Spencer was married, knew she often slept alone, knew she would be bringing up the child at least partially as a single mother. An unorthodox arrangement, admittedly, but hardly the only lapse from orthodoxy in their family history. Fredrika’s uncle, for example, had been bold enough to come out as a homosexual back in the 1960s. And the family had always welcomed him on the same terms as everybody else.
Then Spencer asked a few polite questions about Fredrika’s mother’s interest in music, and the mood round the table grew a bit more cordial. Her father went to the kitchen for more potatoes and her mother put on an LP she had picked up in a second-hand shop a few days before.
‘Vinyl,’ she said. ‘You can’t beat it.’
‘I agree with you there,’ said Spencer, and snorted. ‘You wouldn’t catch me buying a CD.’
Fredrika’s mother smiled, and this time the smile even reached her eyes. Fredrika started to relax a little. They had broken the ice and the temperature was rising. Her father, seemingly still a bit wary of this son-in-law of his own age, cleared his throat and said: ‘More wine, anybody?’
It sounded almost like a plea.
They carried on chatting, the words coming more easily for everyone at the table, even her father.
Fredrika wished she could have drunk more wine. Somewhere out there, a murderer was on the loose. And they had no sense at all of whether he thought he had finished the job now, or whether the murders of Jakob and Marja Ahlbin were part of something bigger.
Her thoughts went to their daughter Johanna, who must have found out about their deaths on the internet by now. And then to Karolina, the one Elsie Ljung called Lazarus.
A day of rest tomorrow, thought Fredrika. But on Monday that’s the very first thing I shall tackle. If Karolina Ahlbin is alive, why on earth hasn’t she been in touch?
A thought flashed through her mind. Two sisters. One certifies the other’s death and then leaves the country. But neither has actually died.
A bloody good alibi for both of them.
Could the simple, woeful case be that Karolina and Johanna were the murderers the police were looking for? Was it the daughters pulling all the strings and choreographing developments with such precision?
The thought made Fredrika feel light-headed and it hit her that drastic measures would be required if there was to be any hope of getting off to sleep that night and not lying awake thinking about those murders.
Maybe she should get her violin out again? Playing for a while ought to bring some peace of mind. Just for a while. Any more than that would be a waste of time.
She quietly drained her wine glass.
Time’s running out for us, she thought. We need a new line of investigation. And we’ve got to find Johanna, double quick.
SUNDAY 2 MARCH 2008
BANGKOK, THAILAND
The flat was tiny and hot. The sun was kept out by thick curtains intended as a shield against prying eyes. As if anybody would be able to see into a flat on the fourth floor.
She paced restlessly to and fro between the little living room and kitchen. She had drunk all the water but did not dare to go out for more, or to drink the tap water. Dehydration and lack of sleep were taking their toll, trying to force her over the edge which she knew all too well she was balanced on. Below gaped a yawning chasm that threatened to swallow her alive. She tried to think constantly about where she was putting her feet, almost as if she did not trust the floor of the flat to bear her weight.
It was two days since she had learned from the online press that her family had died, probably the victims of murder. She could scarcely remember the first hours after she found out. Seeing her collapse into tears, the café owner resolutely closed his premises for the evening and took her home with him. He and his wife put her to bed on their settee and took turns to sit with her all night. Her weeping had been wild and uncontrolled, her grief insupportable.
It was the terror that was her salvation in the end. The news of what had happened to her family put her own situation in a different light. Someone was trying methodically, systematically, to dismantle her life and her past, and wipe out her family. Wondering what could possibly be the motive for such actions, she was suddenly horror-struck. And the horror and fear brought new, rational insight, forcing her to take action on her own behalf. As the sun rose over Bangkok that Sunday morning, she was calm and collected. She knew exactly what she had to do.