‘By the way, you’ve had several faxes from the Norwegian police about Valter Lund,’ Ellen said.
More paper, more work.
Fredrika went back to her office and read through what her Norwegian colleagues had to say. They had done quite a bit of digging. Among other things, they informed her that Valter Lund’s uncle had reported him missing at the beginning of the 1980s, when he signed on as a crew member on a car ferry, and was never heard of again. According to the police, this uncle still turned up at the local station in Gol on a regular basis, year after year, to ask if they’d found out anything about his nephew.
But why? Valter Lund was known all over northern Europe, and was frequently featured in the Scandinavian press. Didn’t the old man realise that the successful man who now lived in Stockholm was his missing nephew?
Fredrika frowned. Could there have been a mix-up? Was there more than one Valter Lund who had emigrated from Norway to Sweden in the same year?
Probably not.
She took out a picture of Valter Lund and stared at it. Why hadn’t he been in touch with his only remaining relative in Norway? And, even more to the point, why hadn’t his own uncle recognised him?
The night had been interminable. All the unfamiliar sounds, smells and impressions pierced Spencer Lagergren’s skin like needles, forcing him to stay awake. As the lonely hours passed, a new certainty formed in his mind. Even if they let him go, the life he had lived before was gone forever. He would only ever be remembered as the man who raped his female students. Who showed such contempt for women that he felt compelled to subject them to physical violence.
There was no margin for error when it came to sexual offences, Spencer knew that. Nobody wanted to be the one who had been wrong after the event, the one who had given the benefit of the doubt. So in the end it didn’t matter if Spencer was cleared of the crimes which Tova claimed he had committed; the verdict of his colleagues and the outside world would still be the heaviest burden to bear.
No smoke without fire. Not when it came to sexual offences.
And as if that wasn’t enough, his partner’s colleagues suspected him of being involved in a murder. With hindsight, he bitterly regretted not having told Fredrika what was going on from the start. To a certain extent, he blamed this obvious error of judgement on his problems with Tova. There hadn’t been room for two situations of such gravity; he could only deal with one at a time. In addition, he had only recently become aware that he was a suspect in a murder case – far too late for him to be able to work out how to behave. There had been just one thought in his head, and that had been born out of a state of sheer panic.
He needed a passport so that he was ready to leave the country.
He hardly dared to think about what that mistake had cost him, and it wasn’t much of a defence to state that he had applied for a new passport because he was suspected of a completely different crime: murder.
It was after nine o’clock when he was taken to an interview room. The custody officer informed him that it was the Stockholm police rather than Uppsala who wanted to speak to him. Spencer was only too well aware of the reason for this.
The officer from Stockholm introduced herself as Cecilia Torsson. A colleague from Uppsala was also present. Spencer felt that Cecilia Torsson came over as almost a caricature copper. The handshake was a parody of a normal handshake: far too firm, far too long. If her plan was to gain respect, she was distinctly wide of the mark. Her voice was loud, and she emphasised every word as if she thought he had severe hearing difficulties. In a different context her behaviour would have made Spencer smile. Now he just found it upsetting.
‘Rebecca Trolle,’ said Cecilia Torsson. ‘How did you know her?’
‘I didn’t know her at all.’
‘Are you sure?’
Spencer breathed in, then out. Was he sure?
His memories of the spring when Rebecca Trolle went missing were relatively clear. He had had quite a lot to do as far as work was concerned, and he and Fredrika were seeing each other with increasing frequency. At home, the silence had been dense, the distance between him and Eva immense. As a consequence he had spent more and more time at work, more and more time away from home, even more evenings in the apartment in Östermalm with Fredrika.
That spring might well have been one of the best in his adult life.
But did Rebecca Trolle fit in somewhere? Had she passed through his life that spring, so fleetingly that he didn’t remember it when he looked back? He searched his memory, feeling that there were events he ought to be able to recall.
‘She called me once.’
He was surprised to hear his own voice.
‘She called you once?’
Cecilia Torsson leaned forward across the desk. Spencer nodded; it was all coming back to him now.
‘I had a message from the switchboard saying that a girl by that name had tried to get hold of me, but she didn’t ring again. That must have been in March or April.’
‘Didn’t you react when she disappeared?’
‘Why would I do that? I mean, I remember the newspapers ran stories about her disappearance, but to be honest I wasn’t sure if it was the same girl who had called me, even if the name was a little unusual.’
Cecilia Torsson looked as if she accepted his argument.
‘She didn’t leave a message asking you to call her back?’
‘No, I was just told that she had rung, and that she would try again. It was to do with a dissertation she was working on.’
More memories came to the surface.
‘I remember thinking I didn’t really have time for her. It’s not unusual for students to ring up asking for help.’
Spencer shrugged.
‘But I rarely have the time. Unfortunately.’
‘I understand,’ Cecilia said.
She turned the page in her notebook.
‘The Guardian Angels,’ she said.
The words were as much of a shock as if the ceiling had collapsed. He hadn’t heard those words for a long, long time.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘You were a member of that particular film club?’
‘I was.’
Spencer was on full alert; he had no idea where the conversation was going.
‘Could you tell me a little more about it?’
Spencer folded his arms, trying hard to think back to a time that was so many years ago. What was there to tell? Four adults, three men and one woman, who regularly got together to watch films, then went for something to eat and drink and wrote poisonous reviews.
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
‘Why? What have The Guardian Angels got to do with all this?’
‘We think there might be a connection between the film club and the murder of Rebecca Trolle.’
The laughter came from nowhere. Spencer pulled himself up short when he saw the expression on Cecilia Torsson’s face.
‘But for goodness’ sake, that film club has been defunct for over thirty years. You must see how unreasonable it would be for…’
‘If you could just answer my questions, we’ll both get out of here a lot sooner. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to explain why the film club is of interest to us, but we would be very grateful for any information you can provide.’
Her tone was almost pleading by the end, as if she was hoping that Spencer would produce a magic wand and transform the entire investigation in a trice.
‘I’m afraid I have to disappoint you,’ he said, hoping he sounded honest. ‘I was the last person to be chosen as a member of the group before it was dissolved. Morgan Axberger and I knew each other from an evening class in French that we had both attended in the mid-’60s. That was before he became a high-flyer; he spent all his time smoking, drinking and writing poetry.’
The memory made him smile.
‘After that, things moved quickly for Morgan. He became a different person when he realised he could shoot up the corporate ladder in record time. But he still had an interest in film, and in the early ’70s we bumped into one another at an art exhibition. He told me about the film club – I’d already seen articles about it in the newspapers, of course – and hinted that there was an opening if I wanted to join. Naturally, I said yes.’