The Disappeared (23 page)

‘Yes.’

Daniella picked up the printouts, gazing at them one by one. She cleared her throat.

‘She didn’t know I had them. I took them when she was asleep.’

‘So I see.’

Her tone was more acidic than she had intended.

‘I didn’t mean any harm. She looked so beautiful lying there; I just wanted a picture of her.’

‘And how did they end up on the Internet?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh, come on!’

Daniella was distraught.

‘It’s true! I don’t know!’

‘You’re not seriously telling me that someone got into your apartment, stole these photos and put them on a sex website? Do me a favour.’

She raised her voice, feeling the surge of adrenalin. Daniella had chosen the wrong day to mess with Fredrika. But Daniella stood her ground, her voice thick with tears.

‘I’m telling you, I don’t know how they got there. I took them, but I would never have done such a thing. Why would I?’

‘I think you were furious, Daniella. I think you were absolutely bloody livid. That makes a person do stupid things – me included. When Rebecca didn’t get in touch, you thought she’d just decided to go away. So in order to get your revenge, you uploaded a profile on the Internet. Then you realised something must have happened, and you felt guilty and took them down.’

Daniella was shaking; her chin had begun to quiver.

‘You don’t understand jack shit, do you?’

Fredrika took a deep breath and tried to gather her thoughts. She was getting nowhere fast.

‘OK, help me out here. Who else had the photos?’

‘Nobody!’

‘In which case, you have to understand that . . .’

‘Hang on, Håkan Nilsson had them.’

Fredrika was taken aback.

‘Håkan Nilsson?’

Daniella looked down at the table.

‘Rebecca was so sick of him following her around. And he hated me. Said horrible things to me when I turned up at parties and he was there. I sent the pictures to him to get my revenge.’

‘When was this?’

‘The week she disappeared; a day or two beforehand.’

Daniella started to cry.

‘I wanted to make him jealous, I wanted him to see that she was happier with me than with him.’

Bloody hell. Håkan Nilsson again.

‘Have you still got the email, Daniella?’

Daniella went and fetched her laptop; she came back and opened it up. The sun was reflected in the screen. She turned it around so that Fredrika could see, then opened the email program and searched for the message she had sent to Håkan.

‘Here.’

And there it was, a short message:

‘Have a good look, Håkan. Have you ever seen Rebecca as relaxed as this when she’s been with you? I thought not. And guess what? She never will be. Never.’

28

He had actually intended to leave during the night, but the darkness frightened him and he was far too tired to make the effort to go. Håkan fell asleep on top of the bedclothes, his arms wrapped around the photograph album. He didn’t wake until seven, when he heard the noise of the bin wagon out in the street.

Those fucking nude pictures.

How he hated the fat cow who had sent them to him. Not because he had had to look at them, but because she had taken them. Violated his lovely Rebecca as she slept.

He stayed away from the windows, certain that the police were out there keeping him under surveillance. He put the television on while he had breakfast and got dressed: kids’ programmes, devoid of both meaning and content.

He remembered being alone at home with his father once when he was a little boy. They had eaten ice cream and watched TV for hours. Håkan had been allowed to sit on his father’s knee, and they had ordered pizza. When his mother got home, she ruined everything. Called Håkan’s father irresponsible, screamed that he was spoiling their son.

‘You make me look worthless,’ she had said.

Not true, Håkan had thought. His mother could do that perfectly well all by herself.

He had spent less and less time with his father, who was away for long periods and could not be contacted. Håkan would stand at the kitchen window looking out for him for hours and hours. Sooner or later he would turn up, with a deep furrow in his brow, but always pleased to see his son.

As Håkan grew up he began to understand how serious the situation was. His mother was in the process of driving his father away forever. Håkan couldn’t think of anything worse. The days in school were endless. When they were finally over, he would run all the way home.

And one day everything was over.

His father was hanging from the ceiling hook in the hallway. With his strong hands he had relieved the light of its duties as a source of illumination, and had hanged himself with a rope attached to the hook. Håkan saw him the second he opened the door. He had never screamed more loudly in his entire life.

What would he have done without Rebecca then, when he lost his reason and wanted to kill his mother?

Håkan placed the album in his bag with the rest of the things he had decided to take and fastened the bag carefully. If he went out the back way, the police wouldn’t see him leaving the building.

29

The woman on the switchboard at the University of Uppsala informed Peder Rydh that Professor Spencer Lagergren was on leave for an unspecified period of time, and could therefore not be reached by telephone at the moment. She did not have access to the professor’s mobile number, but there was a possibility that he would still be checking his emails.

Peder typed a short message and sent it to the email address he had been given. Almost immediately he received an automatic reply informing him that Spencer Lagergren was unavailable, and that it might be some time before he was able to respond to the message.

He had more success through directory enquiries. He found a Spencer Lagergren who lived in Uppsala, and made a note of his mobile number. Less than a minute later he was able to speak to him.

Peder introduced himself and explained why he was calling.

‘I’m currently working on the investigation into the death of Rebecca Trolle. Do you have time for a brief chat?’

He could hear the hesitation in the other man’s voice.

‘I suppose so. What’s this about?’

‘It’s to do with a conference that took place in Västerås in the spring of 2007. I would really like to meet up with you, but as I understand it you live in Uppsala. I don’t suppose you happen to be coming into Stockholm either today or tomorrow?’

Silence.

‘I’m on paternity leave at the moment; I’d really prefer to clear this up over the phone.’

Paternity leave. Peder struggled to hide his surprise. He hadn’t checked on Spencer Lagergren’s age yet, but thought he sounded too old to be at home with a baby. On the other hand, Fredrika Bergman had somehow persuaded her other half to stay at home with their daughter, and he was getting on a bit.

‘I understand,’ Peder replied. ‘In that case I’ll run through my questions now, and if anything else comes up I’ll be in touch again.’

‘Fine.’

Peder peered at his notes.

‘So we’re looking at a conference in Västerås at the end of March 2007. Do you remember whether you were there?’

He heard the professor clear his throat.

‘Yes, I do remember. I gave a talk.’

‘Interesting,’ Peder said, without meaning it. ‘Do you remember roughly how the conference programme looked?’

Spencer Lagergren laughed.

‘Yes and no. One conference is much like another. Were you thinking of anything in particular?’

Peder suddenly felt unsure of himself. Was this really something that should be dealt with over the phone?

Sod it, Gustav Sjöö is of no interest in our investigation anyway.

‘Do you remember whether you met a man by the name of Gustav Sjöö?’

‘Gustav Sjöö? From the University of Stockholm?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I definitely remember him. He gave a very good lecture on the contribution of modern crime fiction to Swedish literature as a whole.’

‘Did you speak to him during the course of the evening?’

He was trying to sound relaxed, but the reason behind his question was all too apparent.

‘I’m sorry, but what is this about?’

‘It’s about the fact that Gustav Sjöö has stated that you can confirm that he did not leave the conference in Västerås once the working day was over, and that you and he chatted before dinner.’

He could hear the professor breathing at the other end of the line.

‘Now you come to mention it, I do remember us having quite a long chat during pre-dinner drinks. I usually try to avoid that kind of thing, but Sjöö had raised several important points during his lecture, and I wanted to discuss them with him.’

‘Do you remember what time this was?’

‘Not off the top of my head. Between seven and eight.’

And there was the confirmation. Gustav Sjöö had been in Västerås when Rebecca disappeared, and couldn’t possibly be the killer they were looking for. Now it was just a matter of checking that the distinguished Professor Lagergren wasn’t hiding some terrible secret, but that seemed unlikely. At the end of the day, the professor was just a university lecturer on paternity leave.

Alex was lost in thought when the phone rang.

Diana.

Her voice aroused so many conflicting emotions that Alex considered putting the phone down immediately. He ought to say something, explain that he didn’t have time to talk. Which was true.

But he wanted to.

Her tone was apologetic. She didn’t want to be a nuisance, but she was wondering how the investigation was going. Had anything new happened over the weekend?

He tried to be evasive; he didn’t want to make any promises.

‘Valter Lund,’ he said in spite of himself.

‘Her mentor?’

‘Do you remember if they met up often?’

‘No, I don’t think they did.’

He knew she was curious: Why was Alex asking about Valter Lund? Was he involved? Then again, he had asked about so many different people by this stage that it was difficult for her to follow the way the police were thinking.

‘Thanks for Friday, by the way.’

He said it so abruptly that he almost interrupted her mid-sentence.

‘No, thank you – I’m glad you came.’

Me too.

He hesitated, unsure of what to say next.

‘You know you can ring me any time.’

‘Will you come over again soon?’

A knock on the open door of his office made Alex look up. Fredrika was standing there with her coat on. Her cheeks were rosy, her expression eager.

‘Unfortunately, I have to speak to a colleague right now; I’ll be in touch.’

Not a lie, but cowardly all the same. Had he always been like that?

‘What is it?’ he said to Fredrika.

‘It wasn’t Daniella who uploaded those pictures of Rebecca. It was Håkan Nilsson. I’m absolutely certain.’

‘Well I’ll be . . .’

Peder appeared behind Fredrika.

‘In that case, let’s bring him in. For real, this time. He’s lied his way throughout the whole bloody case; he’s given us nothing. Enough is enough.’

Alex nodded.

‘I’ll speak to the prosecutor, then we’ll ask surveillance to pick him up.’

Fredrika was still standing there, looking unsure of herself.

‘What are you thinking about?’

‘Håkan Nilsson. And the case. A few hours ago, we were convinced it wasn’t him. And now . . .’

‘And now we still don’t think it was him. But we think he might have been involved. That he’s withholding further information.’

‘In that case, I agree,’ Fredrika said. ‘We need to search his apartment too.’

‘Of course. I’ll mention it to the prosecutor.

Fredrika went to her office, and just as Alex picked up the phone to call the prosecutor, Ellen Lind appeared.

‘I checked out those initials you sent me on Friday.’

Alex looked slightly puzzled.

‘You asked me to find out whether any of the staff in the Department of the History of Literature at Uppsala University had the same initials as the people we hadn’t managed to identify in Rebecca’s diary.’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘I got a match with SL. There’s a Spencer Lagergren in the department, but he’s on leave at the moment.’

Alex put down the phone.

‘Spencer Lagergren. Why do I recognise that name?’

‘He’s already in the investigation log,’ Ellen said. ‘When Gustav Sjöö was interviewed, he said that Spencer Lagergren could confirm his alibi.’

‘Which means that Spencer Lagergren also has an alibi for the night Rebecca went missing,’

‘Have a word with Peder,’ Ellen said. ‘I think he was intending to ring Spencer Lagergren this morning.’

‘I’ll just give the prosecutor a call first.’

The only negative point about the good weather was that it destroyed Peder’s focus when it came to his job. Police work was best carried out in the fog or rain. A beautiful sunny day took away his sharpness.

Fredrika had returned from her visit to Rebecca Trolle’s ex-girlfriend with some interesting news, which meant that Håkan Nilsson was once again relevant to the investigation. He was an unlikely perpetrator, but he didn’t appear to be entirely innocent either.

The surveillance team reported that Håkan had not been seen leaving his apartment that morning. Because they were monitoring his phone, they had heard him ring work and call in sick. Peder couldn’t explain why, but he felt uneasy. Håkan had any number of good reasons to call in sick, but Peder still thought something else was going on.

He shook off his misgivings and moved on to a routine check on Spencer Lagergren. He opened the police address database and entered the professor’s name. If he could get a personal ID number the check would only take a couple of minutes, and he wouldn’t need to ask Ellen for help.

There was only one Spencer Lagergren, but contrary to what directory enquiries had told him, this Spencer Lagergren was registered at an address in Vasastan in Stockholm, not in Uppsala. Peder frowned and made a note of his ID number.

I would really like to meet up with you, but as I understand it you live in Uppsala. I don’t suppose you happen to be coming into Stockholm either today or tomorrow?