The pregnancy that had frightened Rebecca, because she suspected that the father would want to keep the child. Would Valter Lund have expressed such a view? Would he have wanted to have a child with a student who was only half his age? And if he had, would he have been so upset over her decision to terminate the pregnancy that he killed her? Because Rebecca herself had probably not known who the child’s father was; perhaps she had thought it was Valter Lund.
Murdered, dismembered and buried.
Fredrika rested her head in her hands. The killer’s MO had to be taken into account. They couldn’t disregard the fact that the body had been dismembered; there had to be an explanation. The thoughts that had kept her awake at night were back. The person who had lifted a chainsaw above Rebecca’s dead body and sliced it in two could not possibly have been a first-time killer. It was out of the question. An inexperienced killer made mistakes, dumped the body where it could be found, left evidence behind, was spotted by witnesses. People didn’t disappear from a built-up area in the middle of Östermalm, only to have their dismembered body turn up two years later. Things like that happened in only the most evil tales.
18
As usual, there was no sound from the old lady’s room when Malena Bremberg knocked. She pushed the door open and saw that the lamp on the bedside table was on.
‘Are you reading, Thea?’
She moved quietly towards the bed, almost as if she were afraid of being seen. Thea lowered the book she was holding, looked at Malena then went back to her reading.
Malena wasn’t sure what to do next. She picked up an apple core that Thea had left beside the bed, along with some papers. She threw the rubbish in the bin and came back to the bed. She looked at the old lady, who was ignoring her completely. According to the information the care home had received, Thea hadn’t spoken since 1981. Malena had no idea what had provoked this self-imposed silence. In a way, she could see certain advantages in not needing to communicate with those around you, not being expected to join in all the time. But at the same time, she could see the high price Thea paid for her silence.
Thea was regarded as unhealthily antisocial. She never took part in the group activities that were organised at the home, and she always ate in her room. At the beginning, her divergent behaviour had caused serious concern for the staff, who had consulted a doctor on Thea’s behalf. The doctor offered to prescribe antidepressants, but when he heard about the background he changed his mind. Someone who had chosen not to speak for almost thirty years was unlikely to start playing bingo with other pensioners all of a sudden, simply because he or she was being fed antidepressants. He left his card with Thea and said that she was welcome to contact him at any time. Malena had sneaked a look in the drawer of Thea’s desk and seen that the card was still there.
In the end, Malena moved one of the visitors’ chairs over to Thea’s bed and sat down. She didn’t say anything; she simply gazed at the old woman in silence. After a while, Thea lost patience and lowered her book again, resting it against her chest. The expression in the pale blue eyes looking at Malena was razor sharp.
Don’t think I’m stupid just because I choose not to speak.
Malena swallowed several times.
‘I need your help,’ she said.
Thea stared at her.
‘If you don’t want to speak, then you have to help me in some other way,’ Malena whispered.
She broke off, trying to choose her words with care.
‘You know what I want to talk about; you’ve been following the news too over the past few days.’
Thea turned her head away and closed her eyes.
‘Rebecca Trolle,’ Malena said. ‘You have to tell me what you know.’
19
Peder Rydh breathed in the cool afternoon air through the half-open car window. The interior smelled unpleasant as a result of too much use and too little cleaning. His colleague in the passenger seat looked frozen, but said nothing. Peder kept his eyes fixed on the doorway of Gustav Sjöö’s apartment block on Mariatorget.
They had rung the bell, but no one had answered. Peder had shouted through the letterbox without success. There was a risk that Sjöö might be at his summer cottage in Nyköping; Peder had contacted the local police and asked them to send a patrol car to his address. They reported that the house was in darkness, and seemed to be empty.
Peder slid down in his seat. A man like Gustav Sjöö didn’t suddenly decide to live rough. He was out there somewhere, and soon he would come home.
Ylva called, reminding him of what was important in life. A cosy Friday evening with the boys – he hadn’t forgotten, had he? He assured her that he hadn’t, but explained that he would be late.
‘Very late?’
‘I’ll ring you if that’s the case.’
This new routine they had established was amazing. Ylva’s tolerance for his working hours evoked a feeling of guilt that he didn’t recognise. In the past he had been too busy defending his choices in life to have any room for guilt. If they hadn’t ended up quarrelling, he had reacted by feeling unhappy. He didn’t really understand the logic of it all.
His colleague tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Isn’t that him?’
Peder wasn’t sure. The court case and recent upheaval must have taken more of a toll on Sjöö than Peder had realised. The man was pale and looked old, very different from the pictures Peder had seen in his file.
They got out of the car and stood behind Sjöö as he was about to open the door of the apartment block.
‘Gustav Sjöö?’
It was lucky that he was holding onto the door handle. Every trace of colour drained from his face; even his lips went pale and his eyes widened as Peder and his colleagues held up their ID.
‘What the hell do you want now?’
The interview with Gustav Sjöö began at four o’clock in the afternoon. Peder found it difficult to summon up a great deal of enthusiasm. Håkan Nilsson had left HQ just a few hours ago, and now Peder was about to embark on his second interview of the day. He was working with a female officer, Cecilia Torsson. She was a new experience for Peder; he had heard that Fredrika had complained about her to Alex, but obviously she hadn’t got very far, because Cecilia was still here. In his former life as the Casanova of HQ, he would have been interested and would have asked her out for a drink afterwards. Now he barely looked in her direction, focusing instead on Sjöö.
‘You seem to be finding things rather difficult at the moment?’
He looked at Sjöö, who chose to keep his eyes fixed on the table.
‘You could say that.’
His voice sounded as if it was used too infrequently; it was hoarse and rough. His shoulders sloped with the weight of the burden that had been placed upon them. Gustav Sjöö looked exhausted, like a man who has used up all his strength and given up hope of ever regaining it.
‘Rebecca Trolle,’ said Cecilia. ‘Do you remember her?’
Sjöö nodded. ‘She disappeared.’
‘As I’m sure you’ve heard on the news, we’ve found her.’
Sjöö looked up, his expression simultaneously sad and surprised.
‘You’ve found her?’
Peder stared at him.
‘I’m sorry, but where have you been for the last few days?’
‘At my summer cottage. I’d just come back when you picked me up.’
‘And you have no contact with the outside world when you’re there?’
‘No, that’s the whole point of going there, so that I can be alone. I had no idea that you’d found Rebecca. Where was she?’
Cecilia replied, ‘Buried on the outskirts of Midsommarkransen. A dog owner found her.’