Or you were, Fredrika thought. Now the police had exposed his false identity, his life would be turned upside down. It was far from certain that all those who had looked up to Valter Lund would continue to do so once they realised that everything was built on a lie.
Alex’s mobile rang again. This time the officer in charge at Midsommarkransen was in no doubt. They had managed to dig up the body that had been buried very recently.
Jimmy was dead.
63
It was evening on the island of Storholmen. The sky was a beautiful shade of blue, adorned with just a few fluffy clouds that knew their place and were keeping well away from the evening sun. Peder had walked around the island several times, looking at the isolated houses; in many cases they were empty, waiting for their summer occupants. Gardens and cottages of every size and colour. Peace and quiet. The kind of place that Ylva would love.
Perhaps they might be able to buy a little summer cottage out here one day. If they could afford it. When all this was over. When he had found Jimmy and taken him back to Mångården.
Nausea overwhelmed him.
Jimmy, Jimmy, Jimmy.
His entire body was suffused with fear; it was a very physical sensation. His heart seemed to have lost his natural rhythm, and he had to remember to breathe regularly. In, out. In, out.
The lack of sleep and food combined with all the stress he had experienced over the past twenty-four hours was knocking out one function after another in his brain. He clutched his head in his hands; for a moment he felt as if it was going to explode.
His mobile was in his pocket, switched off. He ought to call Alex. Or Ylva. Or his mother. Nobody knew where he was. Nobody. The realisation worried him. He could die out here on Storholmen, and no one would ever find him.
He stopped outside the house Thea Aldrin had described in such detail. Bright yellow, with white eaves. Irregular corners and two large balconies. The garden was huge. Mature fruit trees, colourful shrubs. In the far corner he could just make out a summerhouse. The sun sparkled on the windows. It was so beautiful it hurt his eyes.
This was where Thea Aldrin had spent the summers of her childhood. Peder could picture the scene: Thea running across the garden with her notepad and pen, hiding in the summerhouse. Or perhaps she hadn’t run; perhaps she just sat inside.
He couldn’t put it off any longer. The house looked dark and deserted, but Peder could sense the proximity of his enemy.
Slowly, he set off along the gravel path leading to the door.
Alex was standing outside HQ when Ylva called him.
‘Peder isn’t answering his phone.’
A stab of pain so sharp that it brought tears to his eyes robbed him of the ability to speak for a moment.
Oh, God, is there anything more agonising than death?
‘Alex, are you there?’
How many times had Alex met Peder’s wife? Three? Four? He couldn’t remember exactly, but he did remember Ylva. She matched the picture Alex had formed from Peder’s descriptions of her: strong and beautiful. The turbulence of the last few years had definitely left their mark, but she gave an impression of stability.
She would be able to cope with the truth.
‘I’m here.’
His voice trembled slightly as he spoke.
‘Ylva, please listen. I’m afraid I have some very bad news.’
She must have realised what he was going to say, because she was crying before he spoke the terrible words.
‘Jimmy is dead. We found him… a little while ago.’
‘How…?’
‘That doesn’t matter right now. The important thing – the only important thing, Ylva – is that Peder doesn’t find out over the phone. Do you understand what I’m saying? He has to hear it from one of us, and not until we’ve found him. I’m afraid he’ll do something he’ll regret for the rest of his life otherwise.’
The decision had virtually made itself after the interview with Johan Aldrin. Alex had sent a patrol over to Storholmen to pick up Morgan Axberger, and another to the care home at Mångården. If Thea Aldrin would write down what had happened when Jimmy disappeared, the truth would come out. When they dug up Jimmy’s body, they found that he had suffered a severe blow to the back of the head. There was no longer any doubt that his disappearance was directly linked to the investigation that had begun with the discovery of Rebecca Trolle’s body.
The forensic pathologist had also called to confirm that the other girl in the grave had probably been murdered in exactly the way shown in the film. Therefore, the girl in the film and in the grave were one and the same.
Morgan Axberger was the killer they had been looking for all along.
First of all, he had murdered a young woman for sheer pleasure. Then he had killed a fifty-year-old lawyer, so that those bloody books, which had obviously been written before the film was made, couldn’t be traced back to him or Thea’s ex, Manfred. And then a young girl who got too close.
Morgan Axberger. The most unlikely murderer, the most unimaginable.
Alex cursed his own failure to see the wider picture.
His mobile weighed heavy in his hand. Please let them find Morgan Axberger before nightfall. He had a great deal on his conscience, and there was no telling what he might do if he felt cornered.
Alex squeezed the phone, knowing exactly who he ought to call.
Diana.
Lena, will you ever forgive me?
There were those who believed it was possible to talk to the dead. Alex wasn’t one of them. But since Lena’s death, he had been able to sense her presence. When he lay alone in their bed. When he was having breakfast. When he saw their children.
Hesitantly, he keyed in the number that his fingers were itching to call. She answered immediately.
‘There was something I wanted to ask you,’ Alex said.
He didn’t have much time; he had to be brief.
‘Yes?’
He could tell that she was pleased to hear from him, and it made him wonder. Was it possible that he had met another woman who could accept that he was always impossible to get hold of, always short of time, always in a different place from her?
That question can wait.
‘Would you like to meet up this evening?’
There. It was done. For the first time the initiative had come from him rather than Diana.
‘Yes. That would be lovely.’
‘Great. I’ll be in touch.’
He ended the call, and the phone immediately rang again.
‘Where are you?’ Fredrika asked.
‘Outside HQ. I’ve just spoken to the patrol who’ve gone off to Storholmen.’
‘Tell them to hurry up.’
‘Any particular reason?’
‘Peder.’
‘He doesn’t know anything about this, Fredrika. He doesn’t even know Jimmy’s dead.’
‘But he might find out,’ Fredrika said calmly. ‘I’m afraid he’s gone after Morgan Axberger, because he’s the only person we haven’t questioned yet. Jimmy is closer to him than anyone else in his life. Believe me, Peder will search for him night and day if necessary.’
Alex ended the call with an all too familiar feeling. The feeling that everything, yet again, was about to go badly wrong.
He called the patrol as he hurried back inside.
‘Get a bloody move on,’ he bellowed. ‘We don’t have much time!’
As Peder raised his hand to ring the bell, he suddenly hesitated. What would he do when, or if, Morgan Axberger opened the door? Ask if he was keeping Jimmy prisoner? Ask if he could have him back?
He was armed. It was small consolation, but at least it made him feel a little more secure. His eyes itched, and however much he blinked, it was becoming more and more difficult to see clearly. He wondered whether he ought to go back down the steps and take a walk around the outside of the house instead. He hadn’t done enough of a recce to form a picture of the place and its extent. If he lost control of the situation, it was important that he could get away. Particularly if he had Jimmy with him.