‘Drove out the second child, and shot him when he was fifty metres from his friend,’ Fredrika said.
‘That is a possible scenario.’
Alex tried to process what he was hearing. A man walking purposefully among snow-covered trees. A man who didn’t appear to be in any hurry. Who didn’t leave until he had finished what he had set out to achieve.
What he had set out to achieve.
Bloody hell.
The realisation struck Alex like a punch in the face.
Fredrika put his thoughts into words:
‘I don’t think the boys escaped. I think he let them go. One at a time. Then he pursued his prey, like a hunter. The paper bags over their heads aren’t necessarily a hidden message meant for a particular recipient; they could just as easily be his calling card.’
The meeting had lasted no longer than fifteen minutes, but it had stirred things up for Peder Rydh. Efraim Kiel had come to see him. In spite of the fact that he had appeared calm and collected, Peder had sensed an air of frustration, a degree of stress that he couldn’t quite figure out.
Kiel asked questions about the murdered teacher and the boys; wondered if there was any information about whether the killer had marked his victims, or left some kind of calling card at the scenes of the crimes. He was particularly interested in the murder of Josephine.
Peder was surprised and confused.
A calling card?
Not that he’d heard of, no.
But if that was the case, he was certain the police would keep quiet about that particular detail. It could jeopardise the entire investigation if there was a leak about what made this killer unique.
‘I do realise that,’ Efraim Kiel said. ‘But I’m not asking you what you’ve read in the online press, but what you’ve found out from your former colleagues.’
‘Next to nothing,’ Peder replied.
Truthfully.
‘Well, I suggest you contact someone you can trust and find out how far they’ve got. Because we need that information.’
Do we?
Peder didn’t like Kiel’s tone of voice, and nor did he understand what ‘we’ meant. Wasn’t Kiel supposed to have gone home by now?
Then Kiel asked what Peder thought about the two cases.
‘Are they connected?’ he said.
Peder hesitated. How much did he dare say?
‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘We can’t rule out the possibility that the bullet was meant for someone else.’
Efraim Kiel looked pleased.
Satisfied.
‘I agree. It would be unfortunate if any other members of the community died just because we ignored the obvious, wouldn’t you say?’
It wasn’t a question.
It felt more like a threat.
‘Of course,’ Peder agreed, trying to sound as if he was on top of things, as if he understood the background to their conversation. Which he didn’t. Not at all.
‘I’ll be staying in town for a while,’ Efraim Kiel said finally. ‘And while I’m here we’ll be working together. Understood?’
Peder understood. He nodded, got to his feet and shook hands.
He understood that he didn’t understand people like Kiel, that he had never been a part of that world. And when he was alone in his office with a cup of coffee a little while later, he couldn’t help wondering: Why was someone like Efraim Kiel interested in the murder of a teacher and two boys in Stockholm?
Peder thought about going home. The working day was over; the phone had stopped ringing. There was a high level of anxiety among the members of the community; people had started asking whether they ought to keep their children off school. Peder didn’t think that was necessary.
There were two inquisitive journalists for every anxious parent. In the police service such calls went straight to the information unit, but at the Solomon Community Peder was expected to deal with them personally. When it came to that particular aspect of his job, he felt weak and inadequate. And he had absolutely no patience.
And then there was Efraim Kiel, asking questions about calling cards at the scene of the crime. Why hadn’t he gone back to Israel as planned? Peder didn’t like the feeling that someone was keeping an eye on him, questioning his actions. However, was it advisable to fall out with a man like Efraim Kiel over the issue?
He thought not.
It was almost six o’clock, and Eden Lundell was already on the way home to her family. She was feeling better since she had been to see GD and demanded to know what they were going to do about Efraim Kiel.
‘We have to be patient,’ GD had said. ‘Wait for him to make a mistake. So far all he’s done is move between his hotel and the Solomon Community in Östermalm. We can hardly deport him for that.’
From a logical point of view Eden knew that GD was absolutely right, but on a more emotional level, it wasn’t enough. She knew both Efraim and his employer, Mossad. Something was going on, otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed for so long.
She was a little calmer after speaking to a former colleague in the National Crime Unit; he had been in touch with the Solomon Community because of the murdered teacher, and told her that the community was in the process of appointing a new head of security. That sounded like something Efraim might be involved in.
But guesses weren’t enough for Eden. She wanted to know exactly what she was talking about. The simplest method would be to confront him, of course, demand an answer. But could she really do that? Did she have the strength to see him?
I don’t think so.
It took her less than fifteen minutes to walk from Police HQ at Polhemsgatan 30 to their apartment on Sankt Eriksplan.
‘Perfect,’ Mikael had said when they first went to see it. We’ll be able to walk to Vasa Park with the girls.’
Eden had been taken aback, then she had burst out laughing.
‘Of course we will, darling,’ she had said, squeezing his hand.
In spite of the fact that they both knew that the only person who would be taking the girls to the park was Mikael.
A wonderful aroma filled her nostrils as she opened the front door.
Her daughters were drawn to the sound of her key in the lock like iron filings to a magnet. They raced into the hallway and hurled themselves at her. Eden opened her arms and gave them a big hug.
You do know I love you, even though I rarely say it out loud?
Twin girls. Non-identical in appearance, and even more different when it came to their personality. Saba was like Eden, spirited and straight-backed, stubborn and uncompromising. She even looked like a copy of her mother. Dani, on the other hand… Sometimes it actually hurt when Eden looked at the child who had been born fourteen minutes after her sister.
Because Dani was a carbon copy of the twins’ father.
But Eden was the only one who could see it.
The apartment was almost completely silent when Fredrika Bergman got home. The only sound came from the TV in the living room. For a moment she was gripped by an illogical fear that something had happened.
‘Hello?’ she said, when she had hung up her coat and taken off her boots.
She walked quickly down the hallway, glanced into the kitchen, which was empty.
Her son came rushing towards her out of nowhere. He was grinning from ear to ear and babbling at the top of his voice. He was a clever boy, but unfortunately he couldn’t talk yet.
She picked him up and held him tight. Inhaled the smell of him, stroked his hair. Tried not to think about the boys she had seen lying in the snow that morning. Tomorrow the parents would be interviewed again. A colleague had asked a few brief questions when they were informed of the deaths; neither family had been able to think of a single person who would have any reason to do this to them. And both couples had alibis for the time when the boys went missing. That was enough to begin with.