Efraim was aware that his options were limited. The Paper Boy was impatient, and with good reason. However, Efraim must engender a meeting with him, explain why the hunt must end. Justice had been done, vengeance served. So the game must stop. Immediately.
It won’t get any better than this. You have to accept that.
The water carrying the ship billowed beneath the hull. Anyone with a tendency towards seasickness had chosen the wrong night to sail. The northerly climate was merciless. Only the darkness was worse. Efraim couldn’t remember when he had last felt so tired.
The cold made him shiver, reminding him of why he had gone up on deck in the first place. He wasn’t dressed for the biting wind that had come with nightfall. Soon he would have to go back inside.
He looked around, to the right and to the left. There was no one there, no one to see him. Quickly he bent down, unzipped his bag with gloved hands. Felt for the object he had wrapped in towels and items of clothing. It was right at the bottom.
Efraim’s hands closed around the black metal with practised ease.
He stood up, leaned over the rail.
Not a living soul saw him as he dropped the gun that had killed three people into the sea.
CONCLUSION: FRAGMENT V
The inspector who is standing in the street outside the apartment block where a man and his children have been murdered is wishing that the weather was different. Because right now everything is so horrific that a fresh snowstorm is the last thing he needs.
But the weather is not his biggest worry.
It is the woman who has lost her family; he doesn’t know what to do with her.
Resolutely she turns her back on him and walks away. He calls her name, once, twice. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t turn around. She just walks. And he lets her go. Decisively he signals to his colleagues to follow her, on foot or by car. They do both. He watches her disappear in the snow, sensing the thoughts whirling around in her head.
Feeling frustrated, he goes back to the apartment. He cannot stay out here in the street.
The CSIs look up when he walks in.
‘Worst I’ve ever seen,’ one of them says.
The inspector does not respond. He thinks that he has probably seen worse, but nothing more incomprehensible. He even thinks that he will never be able to learn to live with this. They lowered their guard for just a few hours, and this is what happened.
There is a wedding photograph on the chest of drawers. It hurts the inspector’s eyes to look at it, and he moves away.
He wonders if the deceased knew the killer. If so, it shouldn’t be too difficult to work out who he or she is.
But there are no guarantees. If the perpetrator has got away with it up to now, there is a risk that they will never find the person in question.
‘Where did they die?’ he asks.
‘We think the man died instantaneously when he was shot in the hallway. It seems likely that the children were attacked in here; they were probably already in bed.’
The words go round and round inside the inspector’s head. He cannot process what he is hearing, cannot take it in.
His mobile rings.
‘We’ve lost her,’ says his colleague. ‘She was walking along the pavement, and then she was gone. It was as if the snow just swallowed her up.’
EARLIER
The last day of the week. Peder Rydh was moving restlessly around the house. One of his sons had woken up with a temperature, the other with far too much energy.
‘I’ll take him out,’ Peder said to Ylva.
She looked grateful as he dressed the boy in several layers of warm clothing.
‘Where will you go?’ she asked.
‘I’ve just got to call in at the office.’
Gratitude was replaced by annoyance, but he got in before she had time to say anything:
‘I have to show my face. I’m head of security, and another child has gone missing. I have to show that I care, because I do. And it’s good for our kids to be in town occasionally.’
It had been Ylva’s idea to move out of the city, and Peder had taken a great deal of persuasion. Reluctantly he admitted that there were many advantages to living in a house rather than an apartment. The garden was a blessing when the weather was good enough for the boys to play outside; their parents could watch their every move from the kitchen window, without having to go out themselves. Ylva had commented that their garden looked more like a prison exercise yard by the time Peder had finished reinforcing the boundary with impenetrable shrubs and a high fence.
‘It’s important to make sure they can’t get out into the street,’ was his justification.
But deep down he knew it was more about making sure that no one could get in. Following the death of his brother, he had become dependent on setting boundaries, both mental and physical. As far as his home was concerned, the fence was critical. Inside there was security, outside everything that fed his many fears.
Peder parked outside the main entrance of the community centre. He got his son out of the car, and as they stood hand in hand on the pavement, he wondered whether it had been such a good idea to bring the boy.
Another child was missing.
Polly Eisenberg.
The very thought made Peder furious.
How the hell had they let her slip through their fingers?
The only thing that calmed him slightly was the fact that Polly had disappeared just hours after they had begun to suspect that she could be at risk. Her disappearance also seemed to have had the effect of reassuring the members of the community; they no longer thought there was a serial killer out there, picking off victims because they were Jewish. Everyone now believed this was a private vendetta against the Goldmann and Eisenberg families, who were now paying an unacceptably high price for what must be an old transgression.
But what justified the loss of your children?
Peder couldn’t understand it at all.
Nor did he understand the logic of punishing a person by hurting someone else, someone who had done nothing wrong.
He thought about the boys, hunted down like animals out on Lovön. The feeling of his son’s hand in his gave the illusion of security. If the children stayed close to him or Ylva, everything would be fine.
The community centre was much quieter than it had been when Simon and Abraham went missing. Peder thought gloomily that this was probably to be expected; people had learned something since the last time. They weren’t going to find the perpetrator by sitting around making phone calls, working their way through class lists.
One of the assistants came towards them, smiling at his son.
‘Do you like chocolate cake? And how about a glass of juice?’
Peder left his son with her and went into his office, leaving the door open. Trust was good, but control was better.
He hadn’t heard any more from Efraim Kiel. He had no idea whether that was a good thing or a bad thing, but he realised that the police were interested in Kiel, which worried him.
It couldn’t do any harm if Peder checked out the man who had recruited him. He would begin by finding out whether Kiel could possibly be in the frame for the shooting of the teacher and the kidnapping of the two boys. If the Solomon Community could provide an alibi, then he could be eliminated as a suspect.
The police officer within Peder was still there, occupying his body like a restless soul. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t get away. Not that he wanted to. The desire to know more drove Peder from his desk and down the corridor to the general secretary’s office.
He looked up when Peder tapped on the door and walked in.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘Have you heard anything from the police about Polly Eisenberg?’