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.