The Chosen (26 page)

‘There are several things we need to ask Carmen and Gideon about,’ he said as they went up the stairs. ‘The Paper Boy and the paper bags are our number one priority. The Lion,
and why they left Israel ten years ago, are also important. I can’t shake off the feeling that’s where the answer lies – or part of it, at least.’

‘We also need to ask them about Efraim Kiel,’ Fredrika pointed out.

Once again they were standing outside the Eisenberg family’s door. Alex was just about to press the doorbell when his mobile rang. It was Peder Rydh. After listening to him for less
than a minute, Alex signalled to Fredrika to follow him back down the stairs.

The visit to the Eisenbergs would have to be postponed.

A big red hat on a little girl’s head.

Without it, Peder’s argument was nothing.

They met in a café on Östermalm Square; Alex had already forgotten the name of it. Alex, Peder and Fredrika: just like the old days. But they had never met in a café; it was a
new environment for the old team.

‘Thanks for this – I thought it was best if you didn’t come to the community centre.’

Alex agreed.

What Peder had done was far beyond the remit of his role as head of security; he had done the police’s job for them, and he had done it well.

‘You have to take back Josephine’s case from the National Crime Unit,’ Peder said. ‘I’m sure they’ve given up any attempt to link the murder to organised
crime by now; it could just be lying there, with no one making much of an effort.’

He took a sip of his coffee, then bit into a cinnamon bun the size of a saucer.

Fredrika was drinking tea and eating a marzipan cake.

‘I thought you didn’t eat crap like that,’ Peder said.

‘Well, there you go.’ She took a big bite. ‘What made you think that?’

Peder looked down, picking sugar crystals off the tablecloth.

‘I thought you were too much of a gourmet for that kind of thing.’

Alex was about to interrupt the discussion before Fredrika made mincemeat of Peder, but discovered that he no longer needed to act as playgroup leader. Those days were gone. The years that had
passed had tempered both of them, in different ways.

Fredrika looked as if she was about to burst out laughing. No doubt she realised that she was partly to blame; she had been quite difficult in the past.

Obviously Peder still didn’t quite know where to draw the line, because when he realised that he had got away with his comment about the cake, he decided to carry on:

‘Since you’ve started eating like a cop, maybe you could try dressing like one too,’ he said, glancing at her smart blouse and jacket, which looked more like something a banker
or stockbroker might wear.

At that point Alex decided he had had enough; they didn’t have time for this.

‘A red hat,’ he said. ‘Worn by the wrong child. You think that’s enough to jump to the conclusion that the Eisenbergs’ daughter was the target, not the
teacher.’

Peder bristled.

‘You wouldn’t be sitting here if you didn’t think the same.’

Always difficult when people knew you . . .

‘Besides,’ Peder went on, ‘this doesn’t just come down to a red hat.’

‘Convince me.’

‘First of all: the timing. The killer was lying high up on a roof. It was snowing and several degrees below freezing. So he or she wouldn’t want to stay there for too long.
Therefore, I believe we can assume he was intending to carry out his mission at about three o’clock, which was when Polly was due to be picked up. Secondly . . .’

‘How did the killer know she was due to be collected then?’ Fredrika asked.

‘I don’t know. But we can assume he checked it out; if he knew what school she attended, it seems likely that he would have found out when her parents usually came for her. Polly is collected at three o’clock every day; her parents take it in turns. The killer could easily have watched the family for a few
days, and very quickly got a handle on their routines.’

‘But why shoot the child outside the school?’ Alex said. ‘There must be a hundred other opportunities to choose from.’

‘In inner-city Stockholm?’ Peder said. ‘Think about it. You found the two boys out on Lovön. In broad daylight. Not far from Sweden’s head of state. Not a
particularly discreet crime. You have to admit the person you’re dealing with here is seriously disturbed.’

The three of them fell silent.

‘Or someone who likes the attention,’ Peder added so quietly that Alex had to lean forward to hear what he said.

‘Okay, I’ll stop interrupting,’ he said. ‘Carry on. You were talking about the timing.’

Alex Recht gave his former colleague one more chance to prove his point.

Peder felt a fresh surge of energy.

‘Secondly, as I said, it was very cold on Wednesday, and it was windy too. And it was snowing. Our friend on the roof can’t have wanted to stay there any longer than absolutely
necessary. Polly Eisenberg was supposed to go home at three o’clock, not Josephine. There was no reason whatsoever why the sniper would have expected to see Josephine out there before
five o’clock, when she finished work. And another thing – the angle of the shot is wrong. If Josephine hadn’t crouched down to help a child do up his shoelace, the bullet would have hit
her in the leg, not the back.’

‘Which suggests that he was aiming at someone shorter than Josephine,’ Fredrika said.

‘Exactly.’

‘In which case he missed,’ Alex said.

‘It was snowing,’ Peder said. ‘Visibility was very poor. And just as the shot was fired, the little girl who was wearing Polly’s hat moved. Josephine turned around to
call to Polly, who was still inside, and the girl who had taken Polly’s hat got cross and pulled away from her father. Then the gun went off.’

‘You mean if she had stayed where she was, she would have been hit?’

‘I only have second-hand accounts to go on, but yes, it looks that way.’

Alex sipped his coffee. He had decided against a pastry; Diana had suggested that both of them ought to be eating less rubbish. Reluctantly he had accepted that it was a good idea, particularly
on days like this.

He caught Fredrika’s eye.

‘What do you think? This is what you said right from the start: that there was a chance the bullet wasn’t meant for Josephine.’

Fredrika finished off her cake.

‘That was just a guess, but at the time I didn’t know there was a link to the Eisenberg and Goldmann families.’

‘And now?’

The door of the café opened and closed as a customer came in. Cold air sliced across the floor.

Fredrika hesitated.

‘I don’t think we can rule it out. But regardless of what I think, Peder has managed to reinforce one key point.’

‘Which is?’

‘That Josephine died by pure chance. There is absolutely no reason to believe that someone would have stayed up there on the roof for hours, just waiting for her to appear. It’s out
of the question.’

‘So where does that leave us?’ Peder said.

‘Either things really are as bad as in some TV drama, and we’re looking at serial killers who specialise in Jewish victims – but in that case, why haven’t we seen more
victims, given how quickly things happened that first day? Or the bullet actually did hit the right victim, but she was chosen at random – the killer was prepared to shoot whoever was outside the
school at that particular moment.’

Alex prayed that Peder wouldn’t pick up the additional information Fredrika had just revealed – information that was most definitely not intended for anyone outside the team.

His prayer was in vain, of course.

‘Serial killers?’ Peder said.

‘That’s just one theory we’re considering,’ Fredrika said.

‘I understand that, but you’re talking as if there’s more than one killer.’

Fredrika blinked.

‘Sorry, I made a mistake.’

‘No, you didn’t. It was the same murder weapon; are you still saying there was more than one killer?’

A man and a woman, Alex wanted to say. We think there could be two of the bastards working together.

But it was too soon to share information like that with an outsider.

‘It’s just one of a number of theories we’re considering at the moment,’ he said, placing a calming hand on Peder’s shoulder. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d keep it to yourself.’

Peder reluctantly agreed.

Alex knew exactly what he was thinking. He had taken the trouble to call them, placed all his cards on the table, and now Fredrika and Alex wouldn’t let him in.

Fredrika tried to move the discussion forward.

‘To be honest, I think Peder’s idea is the closest to the truth.’

‘You believe Polly Eisenberg was the intended victim?’ Alex said.

She nodded. Peder looked pleased.

‘In that case, we have a problem,’ Alex said.

‘We do.’

‘But isn’t it a good thing if Polly was the target?’ Peder said. ‘It means this is personal, so you’re not looking at a serial killer. In other words, we
don’t need to worry about more victims.’

Alex raised his eyebrows; he could see that Fredrika shared his unease.

‘Unfortunately I don’t think we can make that assumption,’ he said.

‘Because?’

‘Because if Polly was the target, then the killer has failed to achieve his goal. Which means we have a five-year-old girl who won’t be safe for a second until we have caught whoever
is after her.’

T
he sunshine made Stockholm look even more stunning than usual. The most beautiful capital city in the world, Eden had once said. Efraim Kiel had contradicted her, said he couldn’t imagine
a lovelier city than Jerusalem. They had spent a day driving from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Taken tea on the magnificent terrace of the King David Hotel. Strolled through the Old City and visited the
Western Wall. Eden had slipped her hand into his and he had let it happen. He had sensed, believed, that her love for him would eventually be so strong that he would be able to win her over to
their side.

He had failed. Failed, but he had been convinced that she was the only one who would have to pay.

How wrong he had been.

How very wrong.

Efraim Kiel was sitting motionless on the edge of his bed in his hotel room. He had left the glorious winter weather behind; he wanted no part of that particular idyll. He had waited for Eden
outside the door of her apartment block, thinking that she and her family wouldn’t want to stay indoors on a day like this.

Right so far.

Her carefree attitude had surprised him; at no point had he thought she might spot him. That was one of the main reasons why he had been tempted to creep up on her as he had done; he had wanted to put her in her place, make her realise that it didn’t matter how many of her
Säpo goons she put on his tail.

He would always win.

That’s how he had felt when he walked up to her.

Before he saw the child who was obviously her daughter.

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

It was like staring at a carbon copy of his younger sister. She had died in a car crash as a child, and he still carried a picture of her in his wallet. Eden had seen that picture, which had
been a big mistake; he should never have let her touch any of his personal possessions. Everything he had shown her had been a facade, an invention, a stage set. The small amount that was not a
part of this facade was in his wallet, but the only thing Eden had been interested in on that one occasion when she unconsciously got too close to the truth was the photograph of his sister.

She had thought it was his daughter.

‘You’re so alike,’ she had said.

‘We were,’ he had said. ‘But she’s not around any more.’

And he had immediately come up with a story of how his sister had been blown up in a terrorist attack, and how his parents had never got over it. The last part was true, in a way; his parents
were still grieving for their lost little girl. But there had been no terrorist attack, just an unnecessary car accident.

Efraim closed his eyes, conjuring up once again the image of Eden’s daughter.

Their daughter.

But how was that possible?

They had used protection. Every single time. Or had they? Efraim recalled just one time when he hadn’t used anything, but Eden had stroked his cheek –
how fucking stupid had he
been?
– and said:

‘It’s okay. I’m already pregnant.’

Why had she said that?

Efraim had had no reason to doubt her, because after a while the pregnancy had begun to show, and Mossad’s leaders had decided to put the project on the back burner. If motherhood meant
that she was likely to move back to Sweden and leave MI5, then she would no longer be of interest to them. But Eden had given birth to her children and remained in London. Six months later, Efraim
had made another attempt. It took a few weeks, but then she was his once more.

That was when he had realised that she was in love.

Deeply in love.

During the first phase of their relationship she had been driven by lust, but in this second phase it was all about love. He had been surprised when he saw the change in her, and he hadn’t
been slow to capitalise on it. Recruiting an MI5 agent was invaluable.

Thank God she had fallen for him.

She must have known he was the father of her children. The only question was what he should do with that information now.

Efraim felt as if the challenges were beginning to pile up, but the fact that he had unexpectedly become the father of two little girls didn’t necessarily need to be one of them. Eden
clearly had no intention of causing him any problems, and if he had interpreted the situation correctly, she hadn’t told her husband what she had done. Hadn’t mentioned that he wasn’t the father of the children he loved and supported.

How the hell could she live with such a huge lie?

Efraim wondered if he was supposed to feel something for the kids. He didn’t think so. He hadn’t been there at the birth, hadn’t been a part of their lives. He hadn’t
even known they existed, so he hadn’t missed them either.