The Disappeared (33 page)

Spencer.

Whom Rebecca Trolle had tried to get in touch with. Who had been a member of the same film club as Thea Aldrin. Who wouldn’t say why he was so tense and unhappy. Fredrika didn’t really believe for a moment that Spencer was involved, but she hated constantly stumbling over leads connected to him. Her sense of frustration grew, and she could feel the tears threatening.

I am bloody well not going to be the kind of person who sits at her desk crying.

She looked at the note with the phone number of the residents’ association and picked up the phone. She raised her hand to key in the number, but keyed in a different number altogether. She called the switchboard at the University of Uppsala and asked to be put through to Erland Malm, Spencer’s Head of Department.

Spencer would never forgive her. But she had to know. She had never exchanged confidences with Erland Malm in the past, but as someone close to Spencer, she surely had the right to call and ask what had happened. At least that was what she told herself.

Erland’s voice was as deep as ever when he answered. Only Spencer’s was deeper. And only Spencer was more popular than Erland, more successful. It was fortunate for Erland that Spencer had never wanted the kind of power and influence that went with the role of head of department.

‘Hello, Erland, it’s Fredrika Bergman.’

How many times had she and Erland met? Quite a few. From an early stage Erland had been aware of her relationship with Spencer, and had accepted the fact that she would turn up like an extra piece of luggage at various conferences. He had always been polite, never condescending like some others, who knew the situation and despised her. As the Other Woman, she was regarded as a loser, while Spencer was seen as cock of the walk.

She tried to put her anxiety into words, hesitant at first, then with increasing assurance.

‘What’s happened? I don’t recognise him these days.’

A lump formed in her throat; she swallowed to get rid of it. She felt she ought to end the call, but was struck by Erland’s silence.

‘The thing is, Fredrika, I can’t really discuss this matter. You must realise that. You need to speak to Spencer.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t even know what I’m supposed to realise. And I
have
spoken to Spencer. Several times. He won’t tell me anything; he just freezes me out.’

The words turned into a physical pain in her chest. She didn’t want to be pushed away when she had exposed herself like this.

Help me, for God’s sake.

Erland’s voice was full of hesitation when he spoke.

‘We’ve found ourselves in a rather tricky situation, to say the least. Last autumn Spencer was supervising a young woman, Tova Eriksson. Has he mentioned her?’

‘In passing. He said she wasn’t happy.’

Erland laughed wearily.

‘That’s one way of putting it, I suppose. No, she wasn’t happy. She’s accused him of sexual harassment, Fredrika. And of having used his position of power to obtain sexual services.’

Fredrika was dumbstruck.

Empty.

‘What? This has to be a misunderstanding.’

Erland’s tone became harsh.

‘The department cannot express a view on the issue of culpability; we have to . . .’

‘Of course you bloody can!’ Fredrika yelled.

‘She’s reported him to the police. We have no choice but to await the results of the police investigation.’

Police. Sexual services. Spencer’s sudden desire to take his paternity leave.

‘Has he been sacked?’

‘Originally, he was encouraged to take some time off, but as soon as Tova Eriksson reported him to the police he was formally suspended.’

There was nothing more to say. Fredrika ended the call, felt the fight go out of her. What else had Spencer lied about? In Fredrika’s mind there had never been any secrets between them. Cards on the table, all the way; that was what had carried their relationship forward.

Should she go home? Interrupt her working day to grab hold of him, shake him, curse him for keeping quiet about all this?

Rebecca Trolle.

Fredrika knew instinctively that Spencer had nothing to do with the case. The fact that he had been a member of the film club was irrelevant, it had nothing to do with Rebecca’s death. But what about this other student, the one who had reported him to the police? Was there even a grain of truth in her story?

There couldn’t be.

There
mustn’t
be.

Fredrika knew that she was off balance, that she wouldn’t be able to handle a confrontation with Spencer while her disappointment over the fact that he had kept his problems from her was bubbling away inside her.

She picked up the Post-it note Ellen had given her and keyed in the telephone number. The chair of the residents’ association answered almost immediately. He listened to her explanation, then said:

‘I know which apartment you mean. It was sold two years ago. The name of the previous owner is Helena Hjort.’

43

It was still early in the morning when Spencer Lagergren presented himself at the passport office in the police station on Kungsholmsgatan. He glanced at Saga in her buggy, thinking that they were close to Fredrika. He had no intention of calling in to see her. The call from her colleague, combined with the fact that the same colleague had been to see Eva, frightened him. From being suspected of sexual harassment and the abuse of power, he now appeared to be a suspect in a murder investigation. Why else would they ask about that bloody conference, which was an alibi in a way?

Perhaps he was even suspected of
several
murders.

There were unconfirmed rumours all over the radio and television, suggesting that yet another body had been found in Midsommarkransen. It seemed unlikely that the police would suspect him of one murder, and not the other. Spencer didn’t know what to think; he just wished the whole sorry mess was a bad dream, and that he would soon wake up.

There were four numbers ahead of him in the queue; with a bit of luck he would be seen before Saga woke up.

His whole body was aching with anxiety; the feeling that he was genuinely miserable was growing stronger with every passing day. He knew he should have spoken to Fredrika. Right from the start. Had confidence in her, trusted that she would believe him.

The anxiety turned to anger. Because Spencer wasn’t the only one who should have revealed his secrets. She had asked him straight out if he had known Rebecca Trolle, then turned away, pretended that there was no particular reason for her question.

It didn’t make any sense.

How could she trust him at home alone with her child all day if she secretly suspected that he had murdered several people? Hacked a young woman’s body to pieces, carried those pieces through a forest, dropped them into a hole in the ground and walked away?

We don’t know each other at all, do we?

He loved to remember their first meeting, at a time when they were both somehow more undamaged, their relationship undemanding. They saw each other when they had the time, the desire, the opportunity. The relationship had been both innocent and sinful: innocent because it was characterised by a rare honesty, and sinful because he was married.

They had had so much in common. Interests and values. On those rare occasions when they fell out, love quickly mended what was broken. Their mutual dependency, their need, bound them closer and closer, and they began to meet with increasing frequency. They had taken risks, put Spencer’s colleagues in a difficult situation when Fredrika discreetly arrived at conferences, creeping into his room and sharing his bed.

It was almost two years since she had turned everything upside down by telling him how much she longed for a baby. She had talked about adopting a child from China, bringing it up without a father on the scene. Without him. Once he got over the shock, he had made himself clear: he would like to give her a child, if that was what she wanted.

Give. Like a bunch of flowers.

He had sounded like someone from another century, and yet she had said yes. Said there was no one she would rather have as the father of her child. As if she had several candidates to choose from.

Spencer was woken from his reverie by the fact that it was his turn. He had requested an urgent meeting with his solicitor, and had explained the situation in which he believed he now found himself. Uno, his solicitor, had gone pale and said: ‘How the hell did you end up in this mess, Spencer?’

The answer was that he didn’t have a clue. And his friend had no advice to offer. Spencer would just have to wait; if the police seriously suspected him of murder, he would be brought in for questioning and presumably held in custody if they believed he was dangerous. Which they really ought to do, given the crimes of which he was suspected.

He had no trouble in deciding on a course of action. After leaving the solicitor’s office, Spencer went straight home and dug out his passport. He had had enough of all the crap; if things got worse he wanted to be able to leave the country quickly. Temporarily. For the sake of his own peace of mind.

But his passport was only a few months from its expiry date, which limited the number of countries to which he could travel. Therefore, like the lost soul he had become, he marched straight down to the passport office to apply for a new one.

As a last resort.

If it should become necessary.

Back at HQ, Alex and Peder swept down the corridor and disappeared into their respective offices. Peder switched on his computer and checked his messages. Fredrika walked in, her face rigid, her eyes full of sorrow. In a way, Peder felt as if he had foregone his right to ask her what had happened, since he was preparing to question her partner.

‘Helena Hjort,’ Fredrika said.

She sank down on a chair, tiredness etched on her face.

Peder felt a burst of renewed energy.

‘Is she the person who bought the gold watch?’

Fredrika nodded.

‘I managed to identify her with the help of the chairman of the residents’ association, and I’ve got her current address. She lives in the Söder district, at Vita bergen.’

Peder leaned forward eagerly, keen to hear more.

‘Have you called her?’

‘I thought I might go over there.’

A brief hesitation, as if she was considering whether to add something.

‘Would you like to come with me?’

They had worked together for two years, and never once had she asked him to go anywhere with her.

‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Absolutely.’

He finished what he was doing and popped into Alex’s office to tell him where they were going.

‘I thought you and I had something else to take care of.’

Spencer Lagergren.

‘Couldn’t we do that later?’

Alex didn’t raise any objections. He was just as loath as Peder to tackle the thorny issue of Spencer Lagergren.

‘What was that all about?’ Fredrika asked as they were walking to the car.

Peder hated playing the role of Judas; he felt the lie stick in his throat as he spoke.

‘Nothing in particular.’

Fredrika could probably make a living as a mind-reader if she left the police; Peder could feel her eyes burning into his back, and he knew she didn’t believe him.

He had to smooth over his sin, hide it. He turned to face her.

‘Honestly, it was nothing.’

‘Right.’

The silence in the car was dense. Buildings lined the road, the sky was a clear blue with so much sunshine it almost felt unreal. The car sped across Västerbron and cut through Södermalm.

‘I don’t want to go via Slussen,’ he said. ‘Too much bloody traffic.’

Fredrika said nothing; she didn’t care which way he went.

He glanced at her profile, trying to work out what she was thinking. He wanted to apologise, but he didn’t know how or for what. He pulled up outside the block where Helena Hjort allegedly lived. According to the records, she was single and childless. She had been married, but not since 1980, and her ex-husband had emigrated the following year.

Emigrated. Both Peder and Fredrika had reacted to that piece of information, as if they had expected it to say ‘buried’. If people really did think he had emigrated, and if he had no other ties to Sweden, it was less surprising that no one had reported him missing.

‘We need the names of friends and acquaintances,’ Fredrika said as they made their way up the stairs. ‘We must be able to trace him somehow.’

‘You don’t think it’s his body we found?’

‘I think we might have found his watch. If Helena bought the watch for him in the first place. But it seems odd that a man who emigrated could lie dead for thirty years without anyone missing him.’

Peder’s jaw muscles tensed; he would have liked to run up the rest of the stairs.

Helena Hjort was an old woman, almost eighty. There was a distinct possibility that she wouldn’t be as much help as they might have wished.

Lonely, Peder thought as they rang the bell. She must be incredibly lonely.

The door opened and an elderly woman appeared. She was the epitome of a Bohemian singleton who had survived the winter. Her clothes were so colourful they were almost painful to look at.

Peder allowed Fredrika to take the lead; she introduced them and explained why they were there.

‘We wondered whether you’ve seen this before.’

The gold watch on Fredrika’s open palm made Helena Hjort take a step backwards.

‘Where did you find that?’

‘Perhaps we could come inside?’

The apartment was enchanting. The ceilings were almost four metres high, wonderful stucco work, white walls and freshly polished floorboards. Discreet works of art on the walls, with only a small number of personal photographs on display. The curtains would have made Peder’s mother green with envy, as would the authentic rugs on the floor.

Helena Hjort showed them into the living room, indicating that they should sit down on the large sofa facing the window. She sat down on one of the armchairs opposite.

Fredrika passed her the watch, observing Helena as she examined it.