The Chosen (15 page)

Kiel asked questions about the murdered teacher and the boys; wondered if there was any information about whether the killer had marked his victims, or left some kind of calling card at the
scenes of the crimes. He was particularly interested in the murder of Josephine.

Peder was surprised and confused.

A calling card?

Not that he’d heard of, no.

But if that was the case, he was certain the police would keep quiet about that particular detail. It could jeopardise the entire investigation if there was a leak about what made this killer
unique.

‘I do realise that,’ Efraim Kiel said. ‘But I’m not asking you what you’ve read in the online press, but what you’ve found out from your former
colleagues.’

‘Next to nothing,’ Peder replied.

Truthfully.

‘Well, I suggest you contact someone you can trust and find out how far they’ve got. Because we need that information.’

Do we?

Peder didn’t like Kiel’s tone of voice, and nor did he understand what ‘we’ meant. Wasn’t Kiel supposed to have gone home by now?

Then Kiel asked what Peder thought about the two cases.

‘Are they connected?’ he said.

Peder hesitated. How much did he dare say?

‘I’m not sure,’ he said. ‘We can’t rule out the possibility that the bullet was meant for someone else.’

Efraim Kiel looked pleased.

Satisfied.

‘I agree. It would be unfortunate if any other members of the community died just because we ignored the obvious, wouldn’t you say?’

It wasn’t a question.

It felt more like a threat.

‘Of course,’ Peder agreed, trying to sound as if he was on top of things, as if he understood the background to their conversation. Which he didn’t. Not at all.

‘I’ll be staying in town for a while,’ Efraim Kiel said finally. ‘And while I’m here we’ll be working together. Understood?’

Peder understood. He nodded, got to his feet and shook hands.

He understood that he didn’t understand people like Kiel, that he had never been a part of that world. And when he was alone in his office with a cup of coffee a little while later, he
couldn’t help wondering: Why was someone like Efraim Kiel interested in the murder of a teacher and two boys in Stockholm?

Peder thought about going home. The working day was over; the phone had stopped ringing. There was a high level of anxiety among the members of the community; people had started asking whether
they ought to keep their children off school. Peder didn’t think that was necessary.

There were two inquisitive journalists for every anxious parent. In the police service such calls went straight to the information unit, but at the Solomon Community Peder was expected to deal
with them personally. When it came to that particular aspect of his job, he felt weak and inadequate. And he had absolutely no patience.

And then there was Efraim Kiel, asking questions about calling cards at the scene of the crime. Why hadn’t he gone back to Israel as planned? Peder didn’t like the feeling that
someone was keeping an eye on him, questioning his actions. However, was it advisable to fall out with a man like Efraim Kiel over the issue?

He thought not.

I
t was almost six o’clock, and Eden Lundell was already on the way home to her family. She was feeling better since she had been to see GD and demanded to know what they were going to do
about Efraim Kiel.

‘We have to be patient,’ GD had said. ‘Wait for him to make a mistake. So far all he’s done is move between his hotel and the Solomon Community in Östermalm. We can
hardly deport him for that.’

From a logical point of view Eden knew that GD was absolutely right, but on a more emotional level, it wasn’t enough. She knew both Efraim and his employer, Mossad. Something was going on,
otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed for so long.

She was a little calmer after speaking to a former colleague in the National Crime Unit; he had been in touch with the Solomon Community because of the murdered teacher, and told her that the
community was in the process of appointing a new head of security. That sounded like something Efraim might be involved in.

But guesses weren’t enough for Eden. She wanted to know exactly what she was talking about. The simplest method would be to confront him, of course, demand an answer. But could she really
do that? Did she have the strength to see him?

I don
’
t think so.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to walk from Police HQ at Polhemsgatan 30 to their apartment on Sankt Eriksplan.

‘Perfect,’ Mikael had said when they first went to see it. We’ll be able to walk to Vasa Park with the girls.’

Eden had been taken aback, then she had burst out laughing.

‘Of course we will, darling,’ she had said, squeezing his hand.

In spite of the fact that they both knew that the only person who would be taking the girls to the park was Mikael.

A wonderful aroma filled her nostrils as she opened the front door.

Her daughters were drawn to the sound of her key in the lock like iron filings to a magnet. They raced into the hallway and hurled themselves at her. Eden opened her arms and gave them a big
hug.

You do know I love you, even though I rarely say it out loud?

Twin girls. Non-identical in appearance, and even more different when it came to their personality. Saba was like Eden, spirited and straight-backed, stubborn and uncompromising. She even
looked like a copy of her mother. Dani, on the other hand . . . Sometimes it actually hurt when Eden looked at the child who had been born fourteen minutes after her sister.

Because Dani was a carbon copy of the twins’ father.

But Eden was the only one who could see it.

T
he apartment was almost completely silent when Fredrika Bergman got home. The only sound came from the TV in the living room. For a moment she was gripped by an illogical fear that something
had happened.

‘Hello?’ she said, when she had hung up her coat and taken off her boots.

She walked quickly down the hallway, glanced into the kitchen, which was empty.

Her son came rushing towards her out of nowhere. He was grinning from ear to ear and babbling at the top of his voice. He was a clever boy, but unfortunately he couldn’t talk yet.

She picked him up and held him tight. Inhaled the smell of him, stroked his hair. Tried not to think about the boys she had seen lying in the snow that morning. Tomorrow the parents would
be interviewed again. A colleague had asked a few brief questions when they were informed of the deaths; neither family had been able to think of a single person who would have any reason to do
this to them. And both couples had alibis for the time when the boys went missing. That was enough to begin with.

Saga came racing after her little brother.

‘Daddy’s reading us a story,’ she said.

Fredrika bent down, put an arm around her and kissed her cheek.

‘Lovely,’ she said.

Saga took her hand, pulling Fredrika towards her bedroom.

Spencer was sitting on his daughter’s bed with a book of fairy tales on his knee. He looked abandoned. His silver-grey hair was sticking up, and his shirt was creased.

A mature parent of two small children.

‘Hi,’ she said.

‘Hi yourself,’ he said, looking up.

They smiled at one another.

She moved towards the bed, and Saga immediately scrambled up and onto Spencer’s lap. Fredrika put down her son, who crawled under his daddy’s arm. Fredrika joined them on the
edge of the bed.

If I wasn
’
t around, would he be able to bring them up
himself?

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘Have you eaten?’

It was only six thirty, but the children ate early.

‘We had macaroni and sausage an hour ago. There’s some left if you want it.’

She did. She got up and went into the kitchen, took out a plate and filled it with food from the pans on the hob. As she warmed it in the microwave, she allowed herself to reflect on the small
things that they had lost since having children. There had been a time when they ate only delicacies and drank obscenely expensive wines when they got together. On the other hand, back then
they had had nothing else apart from the food and wine.

If she was forced to lose her current life . . .

If someone took her children away . . .

Would she be able to replace them with a good cheese and a glass of fine wine?

She swallowed hard. Some things couldn’t be changed; it went against nature. These days she couldn’t care less what she ate, just as long as her family was alive and healthy.

She tried to make sense of all the images that had come crowding in during the day. The boys who had died, their grieving parents. And she still couldn’t shake off the feeling that they
had overlooked something, that the material they had to work on was somehow too much and yet at the same time, too little.

We’re missing something, she thought again. Something fundamental and important. Something to do with the Eisenberg and Goldmann families. And the paper bags. The killer’s calling
card. Suddenly Fredrika was convinced that there would be more victims. She just didn’t know when.

Alex wasn’t really a fan of unwritten rules, particularly as they usually passed him by and made him appear clumsy and insensitive. Which he wasn’t. But there was one rule that he
always observed to the letter: the one that said he wasn’t allowed to talk about work at home if the case involved children or young people who had died or been mistreated.

The background to this rule was both simple and painful. That was how he and Diana had met; he had been investigating her daughter’s disappearance. He had promised
Diana that he would never stop looking, that he would make sure she got her daughter back. Which she did. But it took three years before he found the place where her killer had laid her to
rest.

So Alex didn’t mention the two boys when he got home.

‘Have you had a good day?’ Diana said as they stood in the kitchen with a glass of wine.

‘Absolutely,’ Alex said, taking a sip.

She stroked his arm.

‘Could you make a salad?’

‘Of course.’

If his children could see him now . . . Over all the years he had been married to their mother, they had never seen him make a salad. Or anything else, for that matter. Lena had taken care of
all the cooking, along with everything else in the household.

At an early stage Diana had made it clear that she didn’t want things to be that way. She wanted them to build and look after their home together. They had never argued about it; he had
simply fallen in with her wishes. He was still embarrassed to think about how he had let Lena fight to keep the home and family running smoothly while he worked.

‘It doesn’t matter whether you get home at six o’clock or ten o’clock,’ Diana had said. ‘I’ll wait for you, and we’ll eat when you get in. And it
will be a meal that we have prepared together.’

Simple and fair. A routine he had grown to love.

But the boys with the paper bags over their heads refused to leave him in peace. They were in his thoughts as he washed rocket leaves and sliced tomatoes.

Just before he left work he had received the news he had been dreading. The news he didn’t want to hear.

The boys had been shot with the same gun as the preschool teacher. Therefore there was an undeniable connection between the two cases.

And outside the snow began to fall once more.

I
t is time to remove the bodies. The child who is still alive has already been taken to Karolinska Hospital in Solna, but her mother refused to go with her.

‘She won’t need me until she comes round,’ was all she said when someone pointed out that there was room for her in the ambulance if she wanted to go with her daughter.

The inspector is in hell.

The air in the apartment is thin, lacking in oxygen, and he has to fight for every breath.

Eventually he goes over and opens the bedroom window.

The dead are placed on trolleys, ready to be wheeled out of the room.

Then at last the woman moves; until now she has remained standing by the doorway as if she has been turned to stone.

Slowly she walks over to her husband and looks at his lifeless body.

‘He will never come back,’ she says.

It is impossible to tell whether this is a question or a statement. The inspector decides to act as if it is the former.

‘No, he won’t.’

The inspector watches as the woman processes what he has just said. But what can he see in her face?

Relief?

Of course not. Why would she be relieved because her husband is dead?

Then she turns to the child.

‘I will miss you until the day I die,’ she says.

She bends down and kisses the child’s forehead, then she straightens up and moves back a step.

The scene is so upsetting that the inspector doesn’t know what to do with himself.

And he cannot take his eyes off the violin. Music can have a healing power, but the inspector isn’t sure it will be enough in this case. Particularly if the child who has been taken to
hospital dies.

If that happens, it will all be over.

When the trolleys have been wheeled out, he goes over to the woman who has been robbed of her family. He doesn’t touch her, but stands close.

‘How can I help you?’ he says. ‘If there’s anything at all . . . I’ll do whatever you ask.’

Her gaze is fixed on something outside the bedroom window.

‘Thank you, but I don’t need anything.’

And so they stand there. All around them the CSIs work silently and with total concentration. You get the feeling that if they interrupted their task for just one second, they would burst into
tears. The inspector feels as if he is walking on brittle glass. One false move and the ground will collapse beneath his feet.

During his entire career, he has never known a greater tragedy. Never.