There couldn’t be.
There mustn’t be.
Fredrika knew that she was off balance, that she wouldn’t be able to handle a confrontation with Spencer while her disappointment over the fact that he had kept his problems from her was bubbling away inside her.
She picked up the Post-it note Ellen had given her and keyed in the telephone number. The chair of the residents’ association answered almost immediately. He listened to her explanation, then said:
‘I know which apartment you mean. It was sold two years ago. The name of the previous owner is Helena Hjort.’
43
It was still early in the morning when Spencer Lagergren presented himself at the passport office in the police station on Kungsholmsgatan. He glanced at Saga in her buggy, thinking that they were close to Fredrika. He had no intention of calling in to see her. The call from her colleague, combined with the fact that the same colleague had been to see Eva, frightened him. From being suspected of sexual harassment and the abuse of power, he now appeared to be a suspect in a murder investigation. Why else would they ask about that bloody conference, which was an alibi in a way?
Perhaps he was even suspected of several murders.
There were unconfirmed rumours all over the radio and television, suggesting that yet another body had been found in Midsommarkransen. It seemed unlikely that the police would suspect him of one murder, and not the other. Spencer didn’t know what to think; he just wished the whole sorry mess was a bad dream, and that he would soon wake up.
There were four numbers ahead of him in the queue; with a bit of luck he would be seen before Saga woke up.
His whole body was aching with anxiety; the feeling that he was genuinely miserable was growing stronger with every passing day. He knew he should have spoken to Fredrika. Right from the start. Had confidence in her, trusted that she would believe him.
The anxiety turned to anger. Because Spencer wasn’t the only one who should have revealed his secrets. She had asked him straight out if he had known Rebecca Trolle, then turned away, pretended that there was no particular reason for her question.
It didn’t make any sense.
How could she trust him at home alone with her child all day if she secretly suspected that he had murdered several people? Hacked a young woman’s body to pieces, carried those pieces through a forest, dropped them into a hole in the ground and walked away?
We don’t know each other at all, do we?
He loved to remember their first meeting, at a time when they were both somehow more undamaged, their relationship undemanding. They saw each other when they had the time, the desire, the opportunity. The relationship had been both innocent and sinfuclass="underline" innocent because it was characterised by a rare honesty, and sinful because he was married.
They had had so much in common. Interests and values. On those rare occasions when they fell out, love quickly mended what was broken. Their mutual dependency, their need, bound them closer and closer, and they began to meet with increasing frequency. They had taken risks, put Spencer’s colleagues in a difficult situation when Fredrika discreetly arrived at conferences, creeping into his room and sharing his bed.
It was almost two years since she had turned everything upside down by telling him how much she longed for a baby. She had talked about adopting a child from China, bringing it up without a father on the scene. Without him. Once he got over the shock, he had made himself clear: he would like to give her a child, if that was what she wanted.
Give. Like a bunch of flowers.
He had sounded like someone from another century, and yet she had said yes. Said there was no one she would rather have as the father of her child. As if she had several candidates to choose from.
Spencer was woken from his reverie by the fact that it was his turn. He had requested an urgent meeting with his solicitor, and had explained the situation in which he believed he now found himself. Uno, his solicitor, had gone pale and said: ‘How the hell did you end up in this mess, Spencer?’
The answer was that he didn’t have a clue. And his friend had no advice to offer. Spencer would just have to wait; if the police seriously suspected him of murder, he would be brought in for questioning and presumably held in custody if they believed he was dangerous. Which they really ought to do, given the crimes of which he was suspected.
He had no trouble in deciding on a course of action. After leaving the solicitor’s office, Spencer went straight home and dug out his passport. He had had enough of all the crap; if things got worse he wanted to be able to leave the country quickly. Temporarily. For the sake of his own peace of mind.
But his passport was only a few months from its expiry date, which limited the number of countries to which he could travel. Therefore, like the lost soul he had become, he marched straight down to the passport office to apply for a new one.
As a last resort.
If it should become necessary.
Back at HQ, Alex and Peder swept down the corridor and disappeared into their respective offices. Peder switched on his computer and checked his messages. Fredrika walked in, her face rigid, her eyes full of sorrow. In a way, Peder felt as if he had foregone his right to ask her what had happened, since he was preparing to question her partner.
‘Helena Hjort,’ Fredrika said.
She sank down on a chair, tiredness etched on her face.
Peder felt a burst of renewed energy.
‘Is she the person who bought the gold watch?’
Fredrika nodded.
‘I managed to identify her with the help of the chairman of the residents’ association, and I’ve got her current address. She lives in the Söder district, at Vita bergen.’
Peder leaned forward eagerly, keen to hear more.
‘Have you called her?’
‘I thought I might go over there.’
A brief hesitation, as if she was considering whether to add something.
‘Would you like to come with me?’
They had worked together for two years, and never once had she asked him to go anywhere with her.
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Absolutely.’
He finished what he was doing and popped into Alex’s office to tell him where they were going.
‘I thought you and I had something else to take care of.’
Spencer Lagergren.
‘Couldn’t we do that later?’
Alex didn’t raise any objections. He was just as loath as Peder to tackle the thorny issue of Spencer Lagergren.
‘What was that all about?’ Fredrika asked as they were walking to the car.
Peder hated playing the role of Judas; he felt the lie stick in his throat as he spoke.
‘Nothing in particular.’
Fredrika could probably make a living as a mind-reader if she left the police; Peder could feel her eyes burning into his back, and he knew she didn’t believe him.
He had to smooth over his sin, hide it. He turned to face her.
‘Honestly, it was nothing.’
‘Right.’
The silence in the car was dense. Buildings lined the road, the sky was a clear blue with so much sunshine it almost felt unreal. The car sped across Västerbron and cut through Södermalm.
‘I don’t want to go via Slussen,’ he said. ‘Too much bloody traffic.’
Fredrika said nothing; she didn’t care which way he went.
He glanced at her profile, trying to work out what she was thinking. He wanted to apologise, but he didn’t know how or for what. He pulled up outside the block where Helena Hjort allegedly lived. According to the records, she was single and childless. She had been married, but not since 1980, and her ex-husband had emigrated the following year.