As far as Peder was concerned, it made no difference whether Thea Aldrin was insane or not, because that was hardly a crime. Nor was writing tasteless books. And when it came to the film, Peder couldn’t understand what Ross was driving at. Ross and his colleagues had concluded that the film was a fake – not a snuff movie at all, in fact – and as far as Peder could tell, no new information had emerged to change that judgement.
‘There was something about that case,’ Ross had said. ‘Something that was never cleared up at the time.’
Peder felt sure that Alex wouldn’t take any notice of such far-fetched nonsense. However, both Alex and Peder were aware that it was no longer possible to disregard Thea Aldrin in their investigation. The fact that she couldn’t talk was irrelevant. They would have to go and see her, try to communicate with her in some other way. If they could make her understand that their errand was important, then hopefully, she would co-operate.
Alex’s voice interrupted Peder’s thoughts.
‘Tomorrow we’ll start off by interviewing Valter Lund. The press will go mad, but that can’t be helped. We need to find out what was going on there – whether Rebecca and Valter had a relationship.’
Something else occurred to Peder.
‘What about Håkan Nilsson? Have we found him?’
‘No, but it’s only a question of time. Lake Mälaren is large, admittedly, but not large enough for a person to disappear completely.’
What linked a young man fleeing on his boat to a silent woman in a care home and one of Sweden’s most influential industrialists? Peder couldn’t see it; he couldn’t even begin to imagine what it might be.
‘I’m going home,’ he said. ‘I’ll take some of Fredrika’s stuff on Rebecca Trolle’s dissertation with me.’
‘Good idea,’ Alex said. ‘I won’t be far behind you.’
An edge of tiredness in his voice made Peder doubt that. Alex was lonely, rootless. Why go home when he might just as well stay at work?
‘By the way, have we heard anything from forensics on the latest body?’
‘Only that it’s probably a woman,’ Alex replied. ‘Around one metre sixty-five tall. Young. Hadn’t given birth. Difficult to say how long she’d been down there, but around forty years.’
‘How did she die?’
‘The pathologist wasn’t willing to commit himself, but he could see that she had sustained a number of stab wounds. He wasn’t sure if that was the actual cause of death.’
Peder was taken aback.
‘Stab wounds?’
‘Yes, there was evidence of damage to the ribs. And there were also blows to the head. He observed a deep groove in the skull that can’t be explained in any other way.’
The evening sun pouring in through the window fell on Alex’s face, casting shadows over the lines.
‘Are you thinking the same as I am?’ Peder said. ‘The axe and the knife that had been buried?’
‘Yes, that did occur to me.’
‘Perhaps we’ll find out more tomorrow – if they match as murder weapons, I mean.’
‘I’m sure we will,’ Alex said.
Peder got up, keen to get home to Ylva and the boys.
‘It looks as if you’ve got something on your mind,’ he said, pausing by the door.
Alex looked worried.
‘Fredrika,’ he said. ‘I’m just hoping she’s not doing something she’ll regret in Uppsala.’
It was several hours before Tova Eriksson came home. Meanwhile, Fredrika sat waiting with Saga on a bench outside her apartment block. Fredrika recognised Tova from the university’s website, which had featured a picture of her.
Tova’s fair hair stood out around her head like a ragged halo. Big blue eyes, well-defined eyebrows. Skin already tanned. Long legs, short skirt, a jacket slung over one arm. She didn’t notice Fredrika until they were standing just a few metres apart, face to face.
‘Do you know who I am?’ Fredrika asked.
The girl shook her head.
‘Sorry, no. I don’t think we’ve met.’
Fredrika took a step closer. She left the buggy by the bench, not wishing to taint her daughter with Tova’s presence.
‘My name is Fredrika Bergman. And I live with Spencer Lagergren.’
Tova’s face changed instantly from open to closed, from relaxed to horrified. She quickly tried to walk around Fredrika, but Fredrika barred her way.
‘Forget it,’ Fredrika said. ‘You’re not going anywhere until you and I have finished talking.’
The sun was in Tova’s eyes, and she blinked.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
She stuck her nose in the air, trying to look tough.
But Fredrika was tougher; she had considerably more to lose than her reputation.
‘But I have something to say to you,’ she said. ‘You are in the process of destroying Spencer’s life completely. And mine. And his daughter’s. You’re wrecking an entire family, Tova.’
She tried to catch Tova’s eye; she wanted to see her expression change.
‘You have to put a stop to this while you still can.’
It might have been because of the sun, but Tova’s eyes were filled with tears.
‘It’s not my fault if you’re living with a sick bastard. Or that you chose such a monster as the father of your child.’
‘He’s a wonderful partner and a wonderful person,’ Fredrika said, feeling her voice break. ‘I have no doubt that he’s capable of hurting others, but you’re playing with very high stakes, Tova. Tell me what makes you so angry.’
Tova was transformed before Fredrika’s eyes. She became smaller, more pathetic. And it struck Fredrika that she hadn’t thought through her actions. She hoped she hadn’t managed to create even bigger problems for herself.
‘Was he a poor supervisor?’
It was a bit thin, but it was the closest she could get to a reasonable guess. Tova remained silent, refusing to answer Fredrika’s question.
‘Or was it because he didn’t want you? In spite of the fact that you wanted him?’
Fredrika had also experienced the unique embarrassment that follows a rejection; it burned a hole in the soul. She knew that humiliation could lead to insanity, but not in the way that it appeared to have affected Tova.
‘You’re going to regret coming to see me!’
The voice was rough with unshed tears, the eyes shining with concentration.
‘And you’re going to regret trying to destroy my life,’ Fredrika said when Tova had walked away.
She knew those were empty words, however. There was very little that could be done about the situation in which Spencer now found himself. All they could do was pray for a miracle. And an assessment of the so-called evidence that would stand up to the scrutiny of due process.
48
This was the third evening in less than a week, and Alex could no longer deny, to himself or anyone else, that there was something going on here. Nor could he deny his feelings.
Lust. Longing. And sorrow.
Another evening at Diana’s.
It was too early to start a new relationship – less than a year since Lena’s death.
Or was it?
What would the children say? And his superiors? As long as he was working on Rebecca’s murder, it was patently irresponsible to embark on a relationship with her mother.
But he wanted to. And that desire cast immense shadows over his doubts.
She knew exactly how he was feeling, knew exactly why she was sitting alone on the sofa while he sat opposite, with the coffee table between them. He thought she could cope with waiting for him.
‘You still love her,’ Diana said, taking a sip of her wine.
‘I’ll always love her.’
Diana lowered her gaze.
‘That doesn’t mean you couldn’t love another woman. As well as Lena.’
Alex was overwhelmed by her generosity.
‘Perhaps.’