Very similar, even though so much had changed.
Harmony. A word that would have made her feel queasy just a couple of years ago. But not now. Now it had acquired a new meaning; it wrapped itself around her soul like cotton wool, and lit a spark in her eyes. Fredrika Bergman had found peace.
For the time being, at least.
There had once been a Jewish bloodline in Alex’s family, but it had been broken several generations ago. Since then, none of his relatives had any links to Judaism, and the only trace that remained was his surname. Recht.
Nevertheless, he felt that the name gave him certain advantages as he set off for the Solomon Community in Östermalm, as if its Jewish origins would be enough to bring him closer to a people he had never felt part of.
The air was cold and damp as he got out of the car on Nybrogatan. Bloody awful weather. January at its worst.
The Östermalm police had cordoned off the area around the body. Huddles of curious onlookers were leaning over the plastic tape. Why did blood and death attract so much attention? So many people shamelessly gravitated towards misery, just so they could feel glad they hadn’t been affected.
He quickly made his way over to the cordon where he could see several younger colleagues in uniform. He had once been like them, young and hungry, always ready to put on his uniform and get out there to keep the streets safe. He was rather more disillusioned these days.
One of the officers introduced him to the community’s general secretary, a man weighed down by a tragedy that was only a few hours old. He could barely speak.
‘None of the witnesses is allowed to leave,’ Alex said, placing as much emphasis on the first word as he could muster. ‘As I understand it, a number of parents and children saw what happened. No one goes home until we’ve spoken to them, or at least made a note of their contact details.’
‘Already done,’ one of his Östermalm colleagues said tersely. Alex realised that he had overstepped the mark. Who was he to come marching onto their turf issuing orders? They had asked him to help out, not take over.
‘How many witness are we talking about?’ he said, hoping that he had managed to soften his tone.
‘Three parents and four children aged between one and four. And of course various people who happened to be passing when the incident took place. I’ve asked those who came forward to stick around, but of course I can’t guarantee that’s everyone.’
It shouldn’t be a problem; Alex had been told that the school entrance was covered by CCTV, so it would be fairly straightforward to get an idea of how many people had been passing at the time of the shooting.
‘Who’s your head of security?’ Alex asked, turning to the general secretary.
‘We don’t have one at the moment. Our security team is running itself until we fill the post.’
Alex looked over at the body. The falling snow was doing its best to bury the scene of the crime, but without success. The warm blood that had poured out of the woman was melting the snowflakes as effectively as if they had landed on a radiator. She was lying on her stomach, her face on the ground. She had been shot in the back as she turned towards the open door of the school to call to one of the children. Alex thanked God that the bullet hadn’t hit one of the little ones instead.
‘According to the parents, there was just one single shot,’ said his colleague from Östermalm.
Alex looked at the body. Clearly one shot was all that had been required.
‘Shall we continue inside, where it’s warmer?’ the general secretary suggested.
He led the way into the building, where another man appeared and introduced himself as the headteacher of the Solomon school.
‘I need hardly say that we are devastated by what’s happened, and that we expect the police to give this matter the highest priority,’ the general secretary said.
‘Of course,’ Alex said sincerely. Shooting someone down in broad daylight in the middle of the city wasn’t exactly common.
They sat down in the general secretary’s office. The walls were adorned with pictures of various places in Israel arranged in neat rows – Jerusalem, Tel Aviv, Haifa, Nazareth. Alex had visited the country several times, and recognised virtually every location. In the window an impressive menorah spread its seven branches: one of the classic symbols of Judaism. Alex wondered if he had one at home; if so it must be in one of the boxes in the loft.
‘Tell me about the woman who died,’ he said, trying to remember her name. ‘Josephine. How long had she been working for you?’
‘Two years,’ the headteacher replied.
‘Which age group did she work with?’
Alex knew nothing about the way pre-schools were organised, but he assumed that children of different ages were separated into groups. His own children were grown up now, and parents themselves. Sometimes when he listened to their talk of day care and school and dropping off and picking up, he wondered where he had been when they were little. He certainly hadn’t been with them, at any rate.
‘Early years – one to three. She and two colleagues were responsible for a dozen or so children.’
‘Have there been any threats directed against Josephine or the school in the past?’
The headteacher looked at the general secretary, waiting for him to respond.
‘As I’m sure you know, there are always threats against Jewish interests, irrespective of time or place, unfortunately. But no, we haven’t received any concrete threats recently. Unless you count all the vandalism, that is. Which we do, even if it isn’t directed against individuals.’
‘I know you keep a close eye on people moving around outside your premises; have you noticed anything in particular that you’d like to share?’
Once again the answer was no; everything had been quiet.
‘What about you?’ the general secretary said, leaning across the desk. ‘I realise that the investigation is at an early stage, but do you have any leads that you think could prove interesting?’
There was something about the man’s tone of voice that made Alex suddenly wary. He decided to answer a question with a question, which he directed to both the headteacher and the general secretary.
‘What do you know about Josephine’s private life?’
A pale smile flitted across the headteacher’s face.
‘She was twenty-eight years old. The daughter of two members of our community who have been close friends of mine for many years. I’ve known Josephine since she was little. She was a lovely girl.’
But? There was always a but.
‘But?’
‘She was a little… wild. It took time for her to find the right path in life. However, I had no hesitation in giving her the job. She was fantastic with the children.’
A little wild. That could mean anything from ‘She robbed a bank but she didn’t mean any harm,’ to ‘She hitched her way around the world twice before she decided what she wanted to be when she grew up’. Alex didn’t understand words like ‘wild’. It was new a invention, coined by a generation with too many choices and skewed expectations of life.
‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘Given that you know her parents so well, I assume you’re also aware that she was living with a man fifteen years older than her, with convictions for a series of serious crimes?’
Their reaction took him by surprise.
They hadn’t had a clue. Or had they? Alex gazed at the man who looked the least surprised: the general secretary. But he was also the person who had most to lose if it appeared that he had no idea what was going on within his community.
‘There must be some misunderstanding,’ the headteacher said. ‘We didn’t even know she was living with someone.’
Alex remembered that they had been co-habiting for only a few months, according to the records.