Without a Trace (Annika Bengtzon 10) Page 6

  ‘You sound like you’re a lorry driver,’ Serena muttered.

  To her dismay, Annika’s eyes filled with tears. Why did the girl have to be so unkind to her?

  ‘Annika got some ice-cream on the way home,’ Jimmy said. ‘Would anyone like any?’

  ‘Yeees!’ Kalle, Ellen and Jacob cried.

  Serena tossed her hair back. ‘No, thanks.’

  Annika cleared the table while Kalle got the ice-cream out of the freezer.

  Once the sprinkles, the caramel sauce and the Belgian strawberries were on the table, Serena changed her mind and helped herself to a big dishful.

  After dinner Jimmy disappeared into the combined office and library. Ellen and Annika filled the dishwasher. The other children slumped in front of the television.

  ‘Aren’t we supposed to be with Daddy this week?’ Ellen said, as she put the forks in their own compartment in the cutlery tray.

  Annika wiped the worktop. ‘Yes, you are, but Daddy isn’t feeling very well, and he’s got such a lot to do at work …’

  ‘Don’t you and Jimmy have a lot to do at work?’

  Annika put the dishcloth down, sat on a chair at the kitchen table and pulled her daughter onto her lap. ‘I’m just pleased I get to have you with me,’ she whispered, kissing Ellen’s ear.

  ‘Can’t you move home again? To Daddy?’

  Annika’s arms stiffened. ‘Daddy and I don’t love each other any more. I live here now, with Jimmy.’

  ‘But Daddy loves you. He said so.’

  She put the child down. ‘Thanks for helping,’ she said. ‘Off you go and play now.’

  She was left sitting in the kitchen, alone.

  *

  I still don’t understand where they come from, how they can be so complete, so contained. Sometimes I can see myself in them, and maybe Ingemar, but they’re unique. The combination of potential inherited traits is exactly the same in all three of them but they’re still so different. You can’t even see that they’re related.

  They’re part of me. I created, carried and gave birth to them, but ever since they began to breathe they’ve been entirely themselves. I’m replaceable, just like their father. The thought makes me feel breathless. Could I live without them?

  *

  The man shifted position among the low fir-trees at the edge of the forest. There were still forensics officers working inside the house. At least three, possibly four, he could see their shadows move behind the net curtains. He actually felt great respect for the methodical way they went about their work, the pride they took in it. By extension, it was a reflection of the value of his own contribution, and their regard for his professionalism.

  He was patient. There was no hurry. Sooner or later she would appear. As he waited he focused on his breathing. He liked to live each moment consciously, and breathing anchored him in the here and now.

  But in his mind he wasn’t there at all.

  He was in a restaurant in Stockholm. He had invited a work colleague to dinner and was discussing the purchase of some forest in Hälsingland. They had come to the conclusion that the amount of timber available was considerably higher than the survey had indicated – it had probably been carried out during the winter, the depth of the snow not taken into account.

  He moved deeper among the trees.

  He was aware that he was leaving footprints in the soft snow, but the cheap trainers he was wearing could never be traced back to him, or to his mirror-image. He would get rid of them as soon as he left Solsidan.

  He looked upwards, peering through the branches of the firs. The rain had stopped, but the wind was tugging at the branches, and dark clouds were scudding across the sky. He regretted not being able to hear the rustling of the treetops. Tomorrow would be another cold, wet day. That would make things more difficult, considering what he was probably going to have to do. Not insurmountable, just slightly more complicated.

  But he wasn’t the sort of person to dwell on negatives. He saw possibilities where other people focused on problems. Maybe she was on her way. Maybe she was just waiting for the forensics team to pack up and leave. He was patient. There was no hurry. He saw one of the forensics officers inside the house straighten his back and yawn.

  Maybe it was almost time.

  Sooner or later she would come.

  TUESDAY, 14 MAY

  The meeting room was at the end of the corridor on the eighth floor. Nina stepped through the door at nine o’clock sharp, not sure whether she should have been a little early or a few minutes late. The room was large and light, with windows on both sides, and was crowded with furniture. Straight ahead, a blank wall acted as a huge noticeboard. It was covered with information about ongoing cases she knew nothing about, one of them apparently called PLAYA.

  The others had already arrived, three of them – evidently the recently convened investigative team. Commissioner Q was one of them, today dressed in a pink Hawaiian shirt. A large man, with a bald head and serious sideburns, introduced himself to her as Johansson, the group’s secretary. He looked mournful. Nina shook his hand. The Barbie doll from yesterday, who had supplied her with a passcard and a computer and had shown her to her desk, was also there. Her name was Lamia Regnard, and she worked as an investigator and researcher. Her face was lit up like a sunrise.

  ‘Have you had coffee?’ Q asked, passing Nina a mug. She took it and sat down. The others were at neighbouring desks, surrounded by pads and sheets of paper, which they leafed through and read as they drank from similar mugs. Lamia was staring intently at a laptop.

  ‘Why do you think Turkey are going to win?’ she asked. ‘They haven’t won since Sertab represented them in 2003.’

  ‘It’s the final on Saturday,’ Johansson explained, glancing at Nina.

  The Eurovision Song Contest.

  He handed out copies of the forensic report from the crime scene, then leafed back through his notepad. Nina looked through the seven-page report, trying to block out Lamia’s singing.

  ‘Who wants to start?’ Q asked, leaning back in his desk chair.

  Lamia put down her mug and pushed back her laptop. She adjusted her hair, then began to speak from memory.

  ‘We’ve had a reply from the mobile operator. According to them, it was the wife, Nora Lerberg, who alerted the emergency services. The trace indicates that she was in the vicinity of Solsidan station at the time. That’s about four hundred metres from the house.’

  Nina’s mind instantly flew back to the crime scene, and she saw Solsidan from above, the house at the end of the narrow road, the forest, the footpaths. That was where the wife had called from. Why? Why did she go to the station before sounding the alarm? It must have taken something like five minutes – five minutes that might have been critically important. She must have had an extremely good reason. Clearly she wanted to stay out of the way. Unless she’d thought he was dead.

  ‘Is there a recording of the call?’ Q asked.

  Lamia poured herself some more coffee from a flask. ‘It wasn’t a call – she sent a text message.’

  Nina opened her mouth to protest: it wasn’t possible to text the emergency services.

  Lamia went on: ‘You can do that if you register your number in advance on the internet. Nora Lerberg registered both her mobile phones about six months ago.’ She gabbled off the numbers.

  Johansson was writing quickly. Nina wondered why the woman had memorized them.

  ‘Why does she have two mobiles?’ Q asked.

  Lamia fiddled with her hair.

  ‘I’ve got two as well,’ Johansson said. ‘One for work, and a private one.’

  ‘What did the text message say?’ Q asked.

  Lamia tilted her head to one side. ‘Help. And then the address.’

  ‘And Nora Lerberg hasn’t turned up overnight?’

  ‘Negative.’

  ‘What do we know about her?’

  ‘Nora Maria Andersson Lerberg, born on the ninth of September, twenty-seven this yea
r, married to Ingemar for eight years. Gave up studying economics at Stockholm University. Housewife.’

  Why would she have a work mobile if she was a housewife? Nina wondered.

  ‘Okay,’ Q said. ‘Obvious possibilities. Is she dead? Injured? Could the perpetrators have taken her with them? Has there been any sort of ransom demand?’

  Lamia shook her head.

  ‘What about the children?’

  ‘They’ve been with their aunt, Kristine Lerberg, since Thursday. Ingemar’s sister lives at Grusvägen fifteen in Vikingshill.’

  ‘Okay. We’ll be treating Nora Lerberg’s disappearance as a separate investigation from now on. Can you put out an alert, Lamia?’

  She nodded, blonde curls bouncing. She pulled her laptop towards her and began to feed the command into the system. ‘The risk factor is high,’ she said, still typing. ‘Hospitals and mortuaries were checked yesterday. Nora Lerberg’s computer and one of her mobiles were still in the house. The computer’s with forensics, and we’ve requested the call histories of both mobiles.’

  Nina looked at the blonde doll-woman for a moment, then down at her own papers. She leafed through them intently: where was all this information?

  ‘We’ve requested credit-card records, information from her bank and passenger lists,’ Lamia went on. ‘Our colleagues in Nacka are talking to the neighbours.’

  ‘We should get their report today,’ Q said, then turned to Johansson. ‘Forensics?’

  Johansson finished writing something, which took almost a minute. They all waited in silence. Nina’s hands felt as if they were growing in her lap. Then the man cleared his throat.

  ‘The upper floor of the house, where the victim was found, is probably also where the assault was carried out. There are traces of blood and saliva in several locations up there, on the landing, in the bedroom, on the stairs, and possibly also in the children’s rooms.’

  Johansson got a paper handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose. Nina thought it almost looked like he was wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.

  ‘We’ve found prints from six individuals all over the house,’ he continued. ‘Three adults and three children.’

  ‘In the parents’ bedroom as well?’ Q asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did they have a home-help? A cleaner, an au pair?’

  ‘Not known at present.’

  Johansson turned a page of his pad. ‘We haven’t found any evidence on the outside of the property. No sign of a break-in. All the doors were locked when the patrol arrived, so the perpetrator locked up afterwards when he or she left. It’s difficult to determine whether anything has been stolen, but items that are usually of interest to thieves, such as passports, computers, iPads, mobiles and so on, all seem to have been left. Obviously some individual items may have been taken, but that can’t be confirmed right now.’

  ‘Lerberg’s business?’

  Johansson bent over a different bundle of papers and looked through them slowly. ‘The company has three main clients who account for ninety per cent of the turnover – a shipping company in Panama, another in the Philippines, and a transport business in Spain.’

  ‘Can you check them out?’ Q said to Lamia.

  Johansson glanced up at them over his glasses. ‘Forensics were finished by three o’clock this morning, but we’re keeping the cordon in place for the time being.’

  ‘What about his political activities?’

  Johansson coughed. ‘Lerberg was a member of the Committee for Social Services and Care of the Elderly, which is responsible for funding youth and children’s services, financial support, refugee centres, psychiatric and addiction issues, as well as care of the elderly and disabled.’

  ‘Quite a few loaded issues there, then,’ Q said. ‘Distribution of money, refugees, not to mention drug addicts, alcoholics and the mentally ill. Any specific threats against Lerberg?’

  ‘Nothing the Security Police are aware of,’ Lamia said.

  ‘Was he in favour of any particularly controversial policies? Open-door immigration? Slashed benefit payments?’

  ‘Our colleagues in Nacka are looking into that.’

  Q turned to Nina. ‘How’s the victim doing this morning?’

  ‘I spoke to his doctor a little while ago. His condition is unchanged. He’s still sedated after the operation.’

  ‘Can you give us an account of his injuries?’

  Nina looked through her notes, then at Lamia. The woman was peeling an orange. She pulled out a segment and offered it to Nina with a smile.

  ‘Er, no, thanks,’ Nina said. ‘The assault appears to have taken place between Thursday evening and Friday morning last week. It looks as if the perpetrators – there were probably at least two – stuck to tried and tested torture methods. How much detail should I …?’

  ‘Go for it,’ the commissioner said.

  She straightened her back.

  ‘Falaka, or foot whipping, is one of the oldest torture methods we know of … Blows with batons or sticks cause extreme pain that starts in the soles of the feet and travels all the way up to the head.’

  Johansson took notes, shaking his head. Lamia ate her orange, licking her fingers. Q was watching Nina intently.

  ‘Ingemar Lerberg was beaten on the soles of his feet with a hard, thin object, probably a whip or a telescopic baton … Well, that’s just my supposition. Both his arms were out of their sockets, so he could have been subjected to a spread-eagle …’

  Johansson’s shoulders began to shake. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought he was crying.

  ‘That means the victim’s hands are tied behind his back, then he’s lifted up by his wrists. The strain on the shoulders is immense, and the victim soon passes out from the pain.’

  ‘Where at the crime scene could that have been carried out?’ Q asked.

  Nina visualized the interior of the house. There were lamp-hooks in the ceilings, but nothing strong enough to hold the weight of a grown man. And she couldn’t recall any items of furniture solid enough. ‘Possibly the upstairs landing. There’s a wrought-iron railing at the top of the stairs. It seemed a bit loose – they could have fastened the rope there.’

  Nina looked at Q, who nodded for her to continue. ‘He was also subjected to a cheera, or tearing, as it’s also known. That means that the legs are pulled apart until the muscles tear. Lerberg had suffered severe bleeding in his groin.’

  The secretary blew his nose again. Yes, he really did seem to be crying. Nina glanced at Lamia and Q, but neither of them seemed to have noticed the man’s emotional state. She picked up the third page of the forensics report. ‘The plastic bag that was found in the children’s room could have been used for a dry Submarino. That’s an asphyxiation technique – Lerberg showed signs of oxygen deprivation. He had also been severely beaten, primarily in the face – one eyeball had split.’ She was feeling slightly sick.

  Q nodded in encouragement. ‘What does this tell us about our perpetrators? Is it possible to trace their methods to a particular geographic area?’

  ‘Falaka is especially popular in the Middle East. Cheera is used in India and Pakistan, among other places, and the spread-eagle is also known as Palestinian hanging. It’s used in Turkey and Iran, for instance.’

  Johansson made more notes.

  Q stood up. ‘So a relatively uneducated guess would suggest that we’re dealing with an area south-east of Sweden?’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Nina said. ‘These are tried and tested methods everywhere. The Submarino is also known as La Bañera, which suggests south-west rather than south-east.’

  ‘Unpleasant,’ the commissioner said. ‘What business was Lerberg in? Something to do with shipping?’

  ‘Coordination of maritime transport,’ Lamia said.

  ‘What the hell could he have been shipping that would have warranted such an excess of violence? Drugs? Money? Children? Nuclear weapons?’

  ‘He didn’t ship anythin
g himself, just arranged the loading of different vessels and made sure they weren’t travelling empty between harbours,’ Lamia said.

  Q looked at the rain-streaked windows and sighed. ‘This is getting ridiculous. How the hell can there be so much water up there?’ He turned back to Nina. ‘I want you to find out what this is all about,’ he said. ‘You’re right, there must have been at least two perpetrators, but what drove them to this insane torture? Lamia, put in a request to see his accounts. And where on earth is the wife? Did they take her with them? If so, where, and why?’

  Nina quickly noted down what the commissioner was saying. When she looked up Lamia was typing again. Johansson blew his nose. Q was on his way out through the door.

  Nina assumed that the meeting was over. It had lasted exactly twenty-two minutes.

  The newsroom was suffused with the same grey light that had characterized it all year. Not just because of the climatic conditions outside the windows. Since the centre of journalistic activity had slipped from print to the online edition, the sharp edges of the newsroom had faded and dissolved. The daily cycle had disappeared – the room seemed to have stopped breathing. There were no longer any deadlines – or, rather, every moment was a new deadline.

  Annika put a plastic mug of coffee from the machine on her desk and caught sight of her reflection in the rain-streaked glass.

  Back in the Stone Age, when Annika had first been taken on at the Evening Post, two editions had been published on normal days: the early one, commonly known as the backwoods edition, and a later version, which reached the suburbs and areas around major cities. Under extreme circumstances an even later updated edition was occasionally published, but only for central Stockholm. The entire editorial machinery had lived and worked according to those deadlines. Mornings were a time for staff to catch their breath, for contemplation, planning and, hopefully, reflection. The noise began to rise in the afternoons. Chair legs scraped across the linoleum floor. What to lead with? Was there anything from the regions? What did the news agencies have? And the mix! The mix had to be right! Entertainment? Sport? And something funny! Any amusing animals for page sixteen? A cat that had walked a hundred and eighty kilometres to get home? Pictures! The name and age of the cat!