Fredrika was thinking furiously, trying to fathom how it all fitted together.
‘When were these calls to Sven Ljung made?’
‘Two days before the robbery was committed.’
Fredrika took a deep breath. The circle appeared to be closing, but she still did not understand what she had in front of her.
‘Oh, there’s one other thing,’ said the detective. ‘We were able to secure traces of metallic silver paint on the victim’s clothes, which also happens to be the colour of Sven Ljung’s Mercedes.’
‘Have you been able to match them?’ asked Fredrika, suddenly unsure what was technically possible.
‘We thought about that – it isn’t necessarily significant, there are loads of cars that colour, but when we discovered Sven Ljung had reported his car stolen the evening before the murder took place, we thought it was all getting more interesting.’
Thoughts were whirring round in Fredrika’s head and anything to do with Spencer found itself relegated to a kind of mental waiting room.
‘Have you spoken to him? Sven Ljung, that is?’ she asked, her voice husky with suspense.
‘Not yet, but we’re working on it,’ replied the detective.
They had a few more exchanges about the likelihood of Sven Ljung being an accessory to the hit-and-run murder, and thus possibly also the murder of Jakob and Marja. Then they ended the call and Fredrika pocketed her phone.
People came crowding out of the room she had just left. The press conference was clearly over. Then her phone rang again.
Spencer, thought Fredrika automatically.
She was wrong again.
‘This is very peculiar,’ said her contact in the technical division. ‘I checked Jakob Ahlbin’s emails again and he had one from his daughter, several days after she died. As if she was still alive.’
Fredrika gripped her phone tightly.
‘From which daughter?’ she asked, quietly so none of the reporters would hear what she was saying.
‘From Karolina,’ said the technician, sounding baffled. ‘But she’s dead, isn’t she?’
Fredrika ignored his objection.
‘Can you read me out the email, please?’ she said.
‘Dad, sorry to have to tell you this by email, but I get no answer when I try ringing your mobile. It’s all a complete disaster here. Stuck in Bangkok in a terrible fix. Need help right away. Please answer as soon as you get this! Love, Karolina.’
Bangkok. So it was Karolina who tried to ring her mother. Fredrika felt tears coming into her eyes.
‘So she didn’t know,’ she whispered, mainly to herself.
‘Hello?’ the technician broke in. ‘It can’t have been Karolina who sent the email, can it? Because she’s dead.’
In Fredrika’s head there was only one answer to his question:
‘Lazarus.’
BANGKOK, THAILAND
Still oblivious of her own death and resurrection, Karolina Ahlbin boarded a flight from Bangkok to Stockholm later that evening. Paralysed by the belief that she was returning to her home city to bury her entire family, she was scarcely able to feel the pressure of the situation facing her. According to the smuggler, a nationwide alert had been issued and her picture had been in all the Thai newspapers. So she could not leave the flat and had to resign herself to being cut off from the flow of news about the murder of her parents and sister in Sweden.
Her ally, the people smuggler, had worked fast since she asked him for help. But he freely admitted that it was a tricky challenge. His usual modus operandi when helping migrants get from Bangkok to Sweden was to get hold of the passport of an individual as similar in appearance to the migrant as possible. If the migrant travelled in possession of a genuine passport indicating citizenship of an EU country, there was nothing to prevent them entering Europe.
The fact that there was a widespread trade in passports was not much help to Karolina’s smuggler. The passports he was able to buy on the second-hand market were those not of Swedish citizens with blond hair and blue eyes but of people originally from other countries. So when Karolina sought him out in desperation and begged for a way of leaving Thailand ‘in the next few days’, he was faced with a problem. After a few hours of brooding, the smuggler decided the only thing to do was to identify a Swedish tourist who looked vaguely like Karolina and then steal her passport.
She scrutinised the picture suspiciously when he handed her the passport.
‘You can’t leave the country except in disguise, anyway,’ the smuggler assured her when he saw how downcast she looked. ‘They’ll be on the look-out at the airport for you and anyone else wanted by the police. Change your hairstyle and colour, and get some new glasses. At least then you’ll have a shadow of a chance.’
As mechanically as if she were a clockwork toy, she took the steps he suggested. Cut her hair short and dyed it. Then she sat apathetically on the edge of the bed for hours. Now she had even lost her own appearance. And she still did not know why.
An hour later she was at the airport with the stolen passport in her pocket, feeling her pulse rate rise as she approached security and passport control. The airport was crawling with uniformed police and Karolina had to make a real effort to avoid eye contact with any of them. When she was finally waiting at her gate, her pulse slowed a bit at last and sorrow washed over her again.
I’ve lost everything, she thought emptily. My identity and my life, my freedom. And above all – my family. I’ve nothing and nobody to go home to. May the Devil take whoever did this.
Sinking into her airline seat half an hour later and fastening her seatbelt, she felt too exhausted even to cry. Her escape had become cold and mute.
And she was beyond all salvation.
I have become a non-person. I have become the sort of person who feels nothing.
She leant her head on the backrest and thought one last thought before sleep claimed her: God help me when I find out who did this. Because I can’t be answerable for what I might do.
At another airport in a different part of the world, considerably nearer to Sweden, Johanna Ahlbin prepared to board a plane home to Stockholm, unaware that her sister was heading to the same destination on a different plane.
Her yearning for home intensified when she shut her eyes and pictured her beloved. The one who was always at her side, the one who had sworn never to leave her. He thought he was the stronger of the two of them, but in fact he was exactly as inferior as he had to be.
Her love for him was strong and solid, in spite of everything.
The only man she had ever let near her, the only one scarred enough to keep her secret without being terrified by it.
My darling prince of peace, she thought.
And she reached a decision, just as she heard the loudspeakers announce that all passengers were to fasten their safety belts and switch off their mobile phones.
She would ring the police straight away and tell them she was on her way home. Once through to the switchboard, she asked for the man who had spoken at the press conference she had seen on TV earlier in the day.
‘Alex Recht,’ she said. ‘Can you put me through to him at once? My name is Johanna Ahlbin. I think he’s been waiting for my call.’
TUESDAY 4 MARCH 2008
It was almost as if Alex Recht sensed the moment he woke up that this was the day he would later look back on as the one that changed his life. At least that was how he would remember it, when everything was over and he was left alone: the certainty he felt in his body and mind the moment he opened his eyes, ten minutes before the alarm clock rang.
He got up quietly and crept out to the kitchen to make the first cup of coffee of the day. He could not even bring himself to look at Lena as he left the room. The very sight of her unyielding back was painful to him. When he got back from work the day before she had been so tired that she could scarcely say a word to him. She said her head ached and went to bed before eight, just a few minutes after he came through the door.