The Disappeared (14 page)

Spencer shuddered. Saga was tired of the swing and wanted to be picked up.

‘Haven’t you got a lovely granddad?’ the woman standing beside them said, smiling at Saga as Spencer picked her up.

He forced a smile in return and carried Saga back to the buggy. The fact that he still hadn’t told Fredrika about the hell he was going through was making him feel more and more guilty by the minute. He would have to start talking very soon.

Spencer had dismissed the idea that Tova might be interested in him, told himself he was being a silly old fool. He had thought he was doing the right thing, when in fact he couldn’t have done anything more wrong.

The garage was bigger than Fredrika Bergman had expected. A broken ceiling light, an undisturbed layer of dust. The place hadn’t been used for a long time. Diana Trolle’s sister confirmed this as she handed Fredrika a torch.

‘We use the garage as a storage room. I don’t know how many times we’ve said we ought to sort it out, get rid of all the old stuff. But we never quite get around to it somehow . . .’

She sighed.

‘I suppose it will be easier to throw it all away now we know she’s dead.’

Fredrika could understand the logic. The beam of the torch swept across boxes piled on top of one another. A few black bin bags, stuffed to the brim, had been pushed into one corner. A sofa was standing on end in the middle of the room, next to some chairs and a dining table that had been dismantled.

‘She didn’t have much furniture; it was mainly clothes and bits and pieces. It’s all in these boxes.’

‘What’s in the bin bags?’

‘Bedding, that kind of thing.’

Fredrika looked around. The garage door leading to the street was closed; they had come in through a door leading from the house. All the windows had been covered with cardboard; hardly any light found its way inside.

‘Give me a shout if you need any help.’

Diana’s sister disappeared back indoors, leaving Fredrika alone. The relatively meagre pile of belongings made her feel sad; Rebecca hadn’t acquired very much during her life.

Resolutely, she marched over to the pile of boxes and opened the top one. Dust and grime stuck to her hands as she began to rummage. She propped the torch on another box to give her some light. The box contained books. Fredrika pulled out one after another; they were all children’s books, titles that she too had read: The Famous Five, Anne of Green Gables, the story of Kulla-Gulla the little orphan girl, Whitenose the pony. She closed the box, lifted it down onto the floor and opened the next one.

More books.

The third box contained what looked like textbooks. She recognised several of them from her own degree course. She took them out one at a time, flicked through them, read the back cover, put them back. She carried on searching even though she didn’t actually know what she was looking for.

Another box, more books. Right at the bottom, a magazine rack full of newspapers and journals. Fredrika noted that Rebecca Trolle had been very organised; everything had its allotted place. On closer inspection she had noticed that several piles of books were arranged in alphabetical order according to the author’s surname. She couldn’t imagine that whoever had packed the boxes would have bothered to do that, so they must have been in order on Rebecca’s bookshelves. Fredrika, who had always read a great deal, felt an intuitive affinity with Rebecca.

She moved on to the next pile of boxes, wishing they were marked in some way. The top box contained household items, the next one shoes. The torch fell to the floor; Fredrika shook it anxiously as it flickered. It would be impossible to carry on without light. She was relieved to discover that it had survived, and she resumed the search. The sight of all those shoes almost made her feel ill, as if they brought her too close to Rebecca. Shoes seemed somehow private; it was obvious that they had been worn. Hesitantly, she picked one up: pink, with high heels. When did you wear that kind of shoe? She dropped it back in the box and moved on.

Notes. Fredrika’s heart beat a little faster and she picked up the torch so that she could see better. Files and folders and a hardbacked notebook. Fredrika grabbed the box and with a sweeping movement she tipped everything out on the floor. Then she sat down cross-legged and started to leaf through all the papers. The garage floor was cold; Fredrika dug out a book and sat on it.

Two of the files were full of what she presumed were lecture notes. Page after page of neatly written phrases, snatched from their context to the uninitiated reader. Weighty words on the significance of Selma Lagerlöf for Swedish women writers, summarised in a few simple sentences.

Fredrika put the files to one side and opened the notebook. On the first page, Rebecca had written ‘Thea Aldrin and the lost Nobel Prize’.

Thea Aldrin. The name evoked memories that washed over Fredrika like warm waves. Thea Aldrin’s books about an angel called Dysia had been Fredrika’s absolute favourites when she was a little girl. She had been surprised when she found out that the publisher had stopped reprinting them, on the basis that there was no demand. Anyone who wanted to read Thea’s books had to seek them out in a library or a second-hand book shop.

Fredrika thought this was ridiculous, and suspected that the publisher’s lack of interest in new editions was more than likely due to the fact that they didn’t want anything to do with the author. Fredrika knew only the salient points about Thea Aldrin’s life story; from time to time, she would appear in a double-page spread in one of the tabloids under the headline ‘Unforgettable Crimes’. She knew that Thea had been sentenced to life imprisonment for the murder of her ex-husband, and that the police had also suspected her of the murder of her teenage son, who had been missing since the early 1980s. There was also a suggestion that she was the author behind two extremely vulgar works that had been published under a pseudonym in the seventies. Fredrika had no idea what Thea was doing today; she only knew that she had been released in the nineties.

But Rebecca had found out a great deal more. From her notes Fredrika could see that she had got quite a long way in her research into Thea’s life. How had Alex put it? He had said that Rebecca was writing her dissertation about a children’s author. An author who, according to many critics in days gone by, was likely to be the first children’s writer to be awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. Fredrika flicked quickly through the notebook. She decided to take it with her and read it properly later.

The folders contained a plethora of photocopied articles on the fate of Thea Aldrin, covering every possible angle. There were feminist critics, insisting that the interest in Thea’s books would never have faded if she had been a man. More traditional researchers claimed that Thea’s writing would not have attracted so much attention if she hadn’t been such a controversial figure, challenging the basic values prevalent in the 1960s.

Fredrika found a carrier bag and started packing up the files and notes. She couldn’t find a draft of the dissertation, which annoyed her. The dissertation had obviously not been completed, which meant that the likelihood of the university having a copy was increasingly unlikely.

She went through the last two boxes. One contained ornaments and photo albums. Fredrika assumed the albums had already been checked and dismissed as being of no interest, but she couldn’t resist opening them. There were pictures of lots of different places and people she didn’t recognise. She must remember to mention the albums to Rebecca’s aunt; the pictures would mean a lot to the family.

She put them back and opened the last box. Even more papers, and – right at the bottom – two floppy disks, which indicated that Rebecca had owned an old computer. Fredrika was surprised that the police hadn’t taken the disks; then again, perhaps they had been checked and returned to the family. She picked them up and turned them over; one was labelled ‘
DISSERTATION
’ and the other ‘
THE GUARDIAN ANGELS
’.

She put them both in her bag.

Among all the papers there was a mass of administrative information relating to her course. One of the brochures was entitled ‘Welcome to your studies in the History of Literature’. Fredrika felt quite nostalgic as she turned the pages and read about how the department worked. Somewhere in the middle she stopped as one particular sentence caught her eye:

‘Not sure what to do after graduation? Come and find out more about Alpha, our mentoring network!’

The exhortation was signed by the president of the students’ union.

The mentoring network again. Now it had a name: Alpha. Fredrika knew something about the process, and she was aware that by no means all students who showed an interest were allocated a mentor. An assessment was made based on the student’s profile and ambitions. According to Alex, the financier Valter Lund had been Rebecca’s mentor; he was a man who had climbed rapidly within Axbergers, a major company. He was originally from Norway. But how had this come about? How did a girl who was studying the history of literature end up with Valter Lund as her mentor? Fredrika decided to take a closer look at Alpha.

On the last page of the brochure, she found a list of those who worked in the department, together with their contact details. Gustav Sjöö, Rebecca’s supervisor, was circled in red ink.

And next to his name, written by hand in the same red ink,

‘
SPENCER LAGERGREN
,
DEPARTMENT OF THE HISTORY OF LITERATURE
,
UNIVERSITY OF UPPSALA
’.

The red ink seemed to glow, and Fredrika suddenly felt weak at the knees.

Without thinking, she folded the brochure in half and slipped it into her pocket. She put everything else she wanted to take with her into the carrier bag, then switched off the torch and went back into the house.

‘I’ve finished now, thank you,’ she said to Rebecca’s aunt. ‘I’d like to take this with me, if that’s OK.’

She held up the carrier bag, the brochure burning a hole in her pocket. She could hardly breathe.

Spencer.

The man who had once promised he would never lie to her again. Who had suddenly decided he wanted to go on paternity leave.

What are you hiding from me, my love?

17

Alex Recht couldn’t decide how to proceed. Håkan Nilsson had been allowed to go home, but he was still being kept under surveillance, and both his mobile and landline were being monitored.

Fredrika had come back from her visit to Rebecca’s aunt, and was closeted in her office with the material she had brought in. She had given him a brief verbal report, suggesting that they should look more closely at the mentoring network. Alex didn’t really agree with her, but since none of their other lines of inquiry were entirely satisfactory, he didn’t raise any objections.

We need to keep every line of inquiry alive.

He glanced at the clock. Fredrika would probably leave in a few hours, and she wouldn’t be back until Monday morning. He hoped she would be able to balance work and home life successfully; the team didn’t need another Peder.

Alex decided to call Torbjörn Ross and thank him for the invitation to go fishing at the weekend. Unfortunately, he would have to say no; he had far too much on at work. Far too much to think about. Far too much to . . .

‘Torbjörn Ross.’

‘Hi, it’s Alex. I just wanted to let you know that I’d really like to come over this weekend.’

Would I?

His palms suddenly felt sweaty. Had he taken leave of his senses?

‘That’s great,’ said Torbjörn. ‘I thought you’d say no.’

So did I.

‘It was the fishing trip that persuaded me.’

‘Thought so. I’ll ring Sonja and tell her you’re coming with us.’

‘Hang on. I think it’s best if I bring my own car; I have to work tomorrow, and I’d like to join you a bit later, if that’s OK.’

Of course it was OK. There was nothing that couldn’t be sorted out. The important thing was that Alex was coming to the cottage, getting away from the city for a while. Fresh air and a glass or two of cognac with Torbjörn.

When he had ended the call, Alex rang his daughter to tell her about his plans for the weekend. He could hear how pleased she was, and knew that he was sending out signals that she found very welcome. Look, I’ve got a life. Friends, leisure interests. Everything I need.

His chest contracted with pain. The loss of Lena had proved that there are very few things people actually need. In the end, there hadn’t been a single thing he wouldn’t have given up to get her back. Not a single thing.

His mobile rang, providing a welcome distraction. Something to focus on.

‘It’s Diana Trolle. Am I disturbing you?’

‘Of course not. How are you?’

What would she say? What could he cope with? What if she said that her life was meaningless, that she could hardly bring herself to get out of bed in the mornings? She spared him the worst; it was understood.

‘I’m getting there. I just wanted to know how things were going.’

Alex closed his eyes for a second, wishing he could say that things were going really well, that they had identified the killer who was now under arrest in Kronoberg. Instead, he said:

‘Do you recognise the name Gustav Sjöö?’

‘No. Or . . . hang on. Yes, I do. He was Rebecca’s supervisor at the university.’

‘What was his relationship with Rebecca like?’

‘There was no relationship, as far as I know.’

‘I mean did they get on well on a professional basis?’

‘No, I don’t think they did. She wasn’t satisfied with him.’

‘What was the problem?’

‘He never seemed to have time for her. I remember she felt frustrated; she thought he could have done a better job. She even tried to change to another supervisor, but the university wouldn’t let her. Why are you asking about him? Is he a suspect?’

A question Alex didn’t want to answer.

‘We’re looking at a number of different people.’

Evasive, not warm and confiding as he had wanted to be.