Fredrika thought for a moment.
‘Are we even sure that Josephine was the target? He could have been aiming at someone else who was around at the time, and missed.’
‘But in that case he would have tried again, wouldn’t he?’
‘I’m not so sure. The shot would have frightened people, made them start running around all over the place. He might not have got a second chance.’
Alex was doubtful. The woman had been shot in the back. Her death had been inevitable and instantaneous. He couldn’t imagine the bullet had been meant for anyone else, and yet that didn’t make sense either: why would someone think of firing from that distance in such terrible weather? It hadn’t been quite so windy at the time, but it had been snowing heavily, with the storm already moving in.
‘We’ll speak to her parents,’ he said. ‘Then we’ll know where we stand.’
The silence that followed was pleasant and comfortable. Many of his colleagues seemed unable to cope with an absence of noise, and would therefore ramble on about nothing at all. But not Fredrika. Alex glanced at her profile; she was thinking something over. Alex was well aware of what his male colleagues thought of her appearance, and how many of them harboured inappropriate fantasies about her.
Which was stupid of them, particularly in view of the fact that she was taken. Married, actually. To a man who was older than Alex, and who had been her professor and lover when she was a student in Uppsala, according to the rumours. He would probably never know the truth of the matter; Fredrika shared a great deal, but not confidences of that kind.
‘How was the rehearsal?’ he asked.
She gave a start.
‘Good. Great, thanks.’
Alex made an attempt to comment on her pensive mood, although he wasn’t at all sure it was a good idea.
‘You look as if you’ve got something on your mind.’
‘It’s nothing. It’s just that Spencer’s going away.’
‘So you’ll be on your own with the kids?’
Fredrika looked as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
‘Exactly. If one parent goes away for a few weeks, that leaves just one at home. But I’m sure it’ll sort itself out.’
Alex’s phone rang. It was a man speaking English, who introduced himself as the person responsible for human resources at the Solomon Community. He wanted to know what Alex could tell him about his former colleague, Peder Rydh.
Alex gave the same answer as always.
He spoke briefly about one of the most talented police officers he had ever met.
The press just kept on calling. The journalists were drawn to the dead body in the snow just like those who happened to walk past the scene of the crime. It took them less than an hour to identify the victim, to find out where she lived and to expose her boyfriend’s background. From then on the reports followed two separate strands: either they talked about the fatal shooting as an example of hate crime and anti-Semitism, or they suggested that the murder might have links to organised crime in the city. The police said nothing, and the Solomon Community tried to keep any comments as brief as possible.
Efraim Kiel left the room where the general secretary was dealing with one call after another from the press. It looked as if they finally had a satisfactory solution to the problem of the vacant post; Peder Rydh had made a good impression. Efraim would have liked to avoid making a temporary appointment, but Peder Rydh seemed more than capable of doing the job.
Efraim got in touch with the three referees in Rydh’s application; the last call was to his former boss, Alex Recht.
He had no problem in eliciting the information he wanted. Just as Efraim had suspected, Peder Rydh had been an extremely conscientious and very popular police officer. A little hot-headed, perhaps, and there were one or two issues regarding his attitude towards female colleagues in the past, but otherwise Alex Recht had nothing negative to say.
‘What’s your personal view of the incident that led to his dismissal?’ was Efraim’s final question.
‘What do you mean?’
‘What’s your assessment of the situation? Do you think that what he did – shooting the man who murdered his brother – is indefensible, or can you understand his actions?’
Alex was silent for a moment, then he said:
‘I have no personal opinion on the matter; I do, however, have a professional view, which I am prepared to share only with my colleagues and superiors.’
‘I understand,’ Efraim said, and ended the call.
With considerable relief he handed over the relevant paperwork. He would spend his last evening in Stockholm checking on how the investigation into Josephine’s murder was going. He really wanted to ask how someone with such poor judgement could have been appointed to a post at the Solomon school, but it was none of his business to allocate blame; the members themselves could do that.
Efraim’s train of thought was interrupted by the general secretary who had come to find him, his eyes darting from side to side, his forehead shiny with perspiration.
‘Has someone else been shot?’ Efraim asked dryly.
‘I do hope not, but we’ve had a call from one of the families within our community. Two ten-year-old boys appear to have gone missing. They were supposed to have a tennis coaching session after school, but they didn’t turn up. And now no one knows where they are.’
A quick glance out of the window reminded Efraim of the cold and the heavy snowfall.
A tragedy was rarely an isolated event. But people never learned.
A grief so deep that it threatened to swallow up all sense and understanding. The interview was necessary, but it would be brief.
‘What do you know about your daughter’s boyfriend?’ Fredrika asked the couple sitting opposite her.
Josephine’s mother and father. They were rather older than Fredrika had expected.
They were still in shock, their grief fresh and raw. They had seen their daughter in the hospital morgue little more than an hour ago, and now they were back in their apartment, where life was expected to go on. Fredrika didn’t have the words to explain how that was supposed to happen. Alex had more idea, having lost his wife a few years earlier. Sorrow had etched fine lines on his face.
Josephine’s mother glanced at her husband, who answered:
‘Not much, and we’re not interested either. We just assumed she would eventually realise what a waste of space he was, and leave him.’
‘In what way do you regard him as a waste of space?’ Alex said, making an effort to sound as neutral as possible.
‘A man with a criminal record longer than the Torah is hardly likely to have made very many good choices in life.’
‘So how come you knew about his background?’
Josephine’s father sighed and folded his arms.
‘Contacts,’ he said tersely.
In the police, no doubt, Fredrika thought, and decided not to pursue the matter. Alex seemed to be of the same opinion, and changed tack.
‘Were you aware that they were living together?’
‘Yes.’
‘Were they happy?’
A sound that was somewhere between a sob and a snort escaped Josephine’s mother.
‘Happy? I’m sorry, is that supposed to be a serious question?’
She shook her head, angry and upset at the same time.
‘Am I to understand that your daughter was dissatisfied with the relationship?’ Fredrika asked gently.
Or was it just you and your husband who felt that way?
‘Interpret it however you want. I’m not saying that happiness is always the same thing, but the relationship between my daughter – our daughter – and that man was rotten.’