Without a Trace (12 page)

‘Can you get the tripod from the back seat?’ she asked Valter, and headed towards the Lindenstolphes’ home.

Ignoring the doorbell, she knocked cautiously on the outer door – the children were supposed to be having a nap. Therese opened the door a couple of seconds later: she must have been waiting just inside.

‘Welcome,’ she said in a low voice, and shook Annika’s hand, a firm, dry touch. ‘Kids are funny, aren’t they? They can tell when something’s going on. It was almost impossible to get Sebastian off to sleep.’

Annika stepped inside and found that the house didn’t have a hallway. The entire ground floor consisted of a single space: the ultimate in open-plan living. There was nowhere to hang coats. She took off her muddy shoes, put them by the wall and walked across the polished stone floor. The cold went straight through her damp cotton socks, sending little shockwaves up her calves. She looked around, trying not to seem too obviously inquisitive. A staircase over by the kitchen area led up to the floor above and she could hear the Disney Channel coming from that direction. Next to the staircase there was an oak dining table, minimalist, oiled wood, the middle-class ideal. Oddly shaped bookcases without any books on them were arranged along the walls – Annika recognized them from some design magazine she’d flicked through.

‘I called a couple of friends,’ Therese said. ‘People who know the Lerbergs a bit better …’ She gestured towards a group of sofas at the other end of the room. Two women stood up and came towards them. ‘Sabine and Lovisa …’

Annika felt a pang of annoyance. Group interviews were always harder than individual conversations. The participants always took more notice of each other than the questions. She gave them a strained smile.

Sabine and Lovisa shook hands. They had both had a French manicure. All three women were wearing indoor shoes; she and Valter were the only ones in their socks.

‘The whole thing feels unreal,’ Sabine said. ‘It seems impossible that something like this could happen here, in Solsidan …’

The friends were confusingly similar, all conforming to the restricted uniform of a well-to-do thirty-something woman: glossy bleached hair, gym-toned body, dark clothes of good quality.

‘Let’s go and sit on the sofas,’ Therese said. ‘Would you like coffee?’

‘I’m fine, thanks,’ Valter said.

‘That would be great,’ Annika said. ‘And Valter would like some as well.’

Therese smiled and went off towards the kitchen area at the other end of the room.

Two gently curved sofas were positioned on either side of an oiled oak coffee-table, with two more formal armchairs at each end.

‘Is it okay if we film this?’ Annika asked. ‘It’s for the website.’

Sabine straightened and adjusted her hair, but Lovisa seemed uncertain. ‘I don’t really know,’ she said, glancing at Therese, who was busy with the coffee-machine.

‘We can’t promise that we’ll definitely put anything up. That depends on how the rest of the news looks,’ Annika told her, and Lovisa said no more.

‘It’s horrible when it comes this close to you,’ Sabine said, checking that her graphite-grey cashmere cardigan was buttoned properly. ‘I mean, we’re neighbours – we were in the same mums’ group when the children were younger, and that creates a bond. You’ve got something in common, which sort of ties you together.’

Annika passed the camera to Valter. ‘Do you want to do the filming?’

Valter looked horrified. ‘But I’ve never …’

‘Just hold it still and the autofocus will keep the picture sharp. Don’t move it around too much, and never use the zoom – that makes it impossible to edit smoothly.’

Together they set up the tripod and fixed the camera to it. As they finished Therese appeared with a tray of coffee. ‘The buns are from this morning, but I think they’re still edible.’

Their hostess set out cups and plates for the buns. The coffee was strong, thick as tar and extremely good – real espresso.

‘I can understand your reaction,’ Annika said, putting down her empty cup and looking at Sabine. ‘Your neighbours have been the victims of an extremely unpleasant crime, and there doesn’t seem to be any obvious explanation. How is that affecting the way you and your family think, seeing as you live so close?’

Annika hoped she’d say what she had said before the camera was switched on, and Sabine evidently understood what was expected of her. She fluttered her eyelashes and couldn’t help glancing at the lens. ‘It all feels unreal,’ she repeated. ‘It seems impossible that something like this could happen here, in Solsidan … It’s horrible when it comes so close to you. We were in the same mums’ group when the children were younger, and that creates a bond – you’ve got something in common, which sort of ties you together.’

Annika couldn’t help smiling. She must have practised her lines in front of the mirror.

‘We had our boys at the same time, my Leopold and her Isak, just a few weeks apart …’ Sabine embarked upon a detailed account of her first delivery. Annika waited for her to finish.

‘Could you describe the Lerberg family, how well you know them?’

Sabine ran a hand over her hair, adjusting a few stray strands. ‘They’re very … particular. Like when they have people round, for instance. Everything’s so well organized. Everything matches, from the invitations to the table decorations and place-cards. Nora always has a theme, maybe a colour or a season, a song or a particular style of dress.’

‘Do they often have people round?’

‘Well, maybe not that often … They tend to keep to themselves. Nora’s so incredibly busy with her home. She bakes, makes jam and knits – she always has so much to do.’

‘Where could she be? Do you think she left of her own accord?’

The atmosphere in the room changed. Sabine’s eyes widened: the thought that something serious might have happened to Nora evidently hadn’t struck her before.

‘I … It’s terrible.’ She said no more.

Annika looked at Therese. ‘What do you think?’

Therese sat completely still. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I’ve been thinking about Nora since I heard about it yesterday morning. She’s … a very serious person. Shy, perhaps. We usually see each other at the children’s morning playgroup at the church. None of our children goes to nursery …’

Annika was taking notes. ‘What do you usually talk about?’

Therese swallowed. ‘I don’t think Nora usually talks much with any of the other mums. She’s mostly preoccupied with her children and her audio books.’

‘Audio books?’ Annika said.

Therese put down her cup. ‘It’s actually a bit odd,’ she said. ‘Nora’s always listening to audio books. Streamed through her mobile. I once asked her if she’d like to join our book group, but she said she didn’t have time to read …’

Annika stopped writing.

Sabine had found her tongue again. ‘I know!’ she said. ‘Nora says such strange things. I asked if she’d like to join our cookery club on Wednesday evenings, but she said she went to yoga at the Studio then … but she doesn’t. My friend Bettan is the yoga leader for that class.’

Silence descended around the table again. Annika could hear the whirr of the little fan in the video-camera. This wasn’t going very well. She turned to Lovisa. ‘How do you know the Lerberg family?’

The young woman tucked her hair behind one ear in an automatic gesture. ‘I don’t know Ingemar, but Nora was in the same class at school as my younger sister, out in Gustavsberg. She used to come round to ours sometimes.’

Her hair fell forward again, and she tucked it back. ‘I used to feel sorry for her,’ she said quietly.

‘Why?’ Annika asked, writing again.

Lovisa hesitated for a moment. ‘She had a stammer.’

‘Did she?’ Sabine was surprised.

Lovisa picked up a bun and took a little bite. ‘She learned to hide it. The stammer, I mean. You can’t hear it now.’

Sabine looked genuinely concerned. ‘But why haven’t you mentioned it before?’

‘We moved to Saltsjöbaden and I didn’t see her again until we ended up in the same mothers’ group.’ Lovisa leaned back in the sofa and crossed her arms and legs, evidently done with being interviewed and talking.

Annika studied the young woman thoughtfully. She was just as blonde and thin as the others, with a big diamond on her left ring finger and a Rolex on her wrist, but she was pale, and her eyes were evasive. ‘Do you still see each other?’

‘No, not much.’

‘Where do you think she might be?’

She twisted a lock of hair between her fingers, an obvious sign of stress. ‘No idea. What do we ever really know about anyone?’

Sabine shifted uncomfortably, possibly unsettled by the idea that she had no real control over her neighbours.

Annika decided to try another angle. ‘Do any of you know how she met her husband, Ingemar?’

‘There’s a big age gap, obviously,’ Sabine said. ‘He’s – what? – twenty years older?’

‘Eighteen,’ Therese said, biting into a bun.

‘Nora was young when they got married, wasn’t she?’ Annika said. ‘Just a teenager?’

No one said anything.

It was a rhetorical question: Annika already knew the answer. Nora and Ingemar had got married the year Nora turned nineteen, on 25 May, just in time for Ingemar’s campaign for election to Parliament.

‘So the Lerbergs’ children don’t go to nursery?’ she tried instead. ‘Does Nora have a job?’

‘No,’ Sabine said. ‘Her husband’s a politician, after all, a Christian Democrat. He thinks women should be chained to the stove, have children and devote themselves to keeping their husbands happy and healthy.’

Therese stiffened. ‘It can actually be a conscious choice to stay at home with your children,’ she said.

Sabine stretched her back. ‘Of course,’ she said. ‘I’m all in favour of choice in family life. I just think it’s odd that a modern individual would choose to ignore all aspects of personal development.’

Therese’s cheeks had turned bright red. ‘We don’t all have two Filipinas in the basement to do the washing and cleaning,’ she said.

Now it was Sabine’s turn to look upset. ‘Is there something you’d like to say about the way I live my life?’

Annika felt it was definitely time to round things off. ‘Valter,’ she said, ‘can you take some close-ups of everyone so I’ve got something to use in the editing?’

The women remained on the sofa for a few more minutes while Valter filmed them.

Then Annika stood up. ‘I won’t take up any more of your time,’ she said. ‘Thanks very much for letting us intrude.’

Valter switched off the camera.

Sabine got to her feet. ‘It’s a shame you didn’t get a chance to meet our kids,’ she said. ‘But perhaps there’ll be a chance for that another time.’

Annika quickly packed away her pen and notebook, then the video-camera and tripod, and shook their hands. They left the women standing by the door. Annika could feel their eyes on her back as they walked towards the car.

‘Christ,’ Valter said, as they set off along Silvervägen. ‘What are we going to do with that?’

‘There are some decent quotes we can edit together.’

‘You mean the clichés? “How could something like this happen?”’

She gave him a wan smile. ‘You’re a quick learner.’ She fished her notebook out of her bag and handed it to him. ‘Moberg & Moberg’s office is on the way back. Can you look up the address?’

Valter set about the task with great energy, but not even his youthful enthusiasm had any effect on the car’s complicated satnav system. Eventually Annika parked at a bus-stop and Googled the address on her mobile.

She called the office, found out that it was open until five o’clock, then drove off towards the motorway.

‘Why are we going there?’ Valter wondered. ‘To look at Ingemar Lerberg’s old accounts?’

‘Not just that,’ Annika said. ‘I want to know if Ingemar really was fiddling his tax.’

It had stopped raining, but the brown sludge from the tyres of the cars in front kept splattering the windscreen. Annika switched on the wipers. The cleansing fluid had run out, and the brown sludge smeared messily across the windscreen. She slowed down.

‘You shouldn’t underestimate the value of old accounts. Lerberg ran that last bankrupt company while he was an MP for almost a year. If he was doing business with Saudi oil sheiks at the same time as pushing for a trade embargo against Saudi Arabia, that’s kind of exciting, isn’t it?’

Valter Wennergren stared out through the windscreen. ‘We’d still have to give him the chance to comment before we published, though, surely.’

‘Of course,’ Annika said.

‘If he survives,’ Valter said.

The roadside was now lined with scrub, scrawny birches and hazels that should have been in leaf for several weeks now. Big out-of-town stores, car-repair workshops, plant nurseries, power lines. They passed Fisksätra, endless rows of concrete apartment blocks, a viaduct bearing a poster for an art exhibition in a gallery in Saltsjöbaden. Valter sat and stared out of the passenger window for a long while, then turned to Annika.

‘Shouldn’t the relatives be informed before we publish the name of a victim of crime?’ he asked. ‘His wife hasn’t been told, has she, seeing as no one knows where she is?’

Annika glanced in the rear-view mirror, then pulled into the right-hand lane. ‘Every situation is different,’ she said. ‘There’s no fixed template, sadly. It would be much easier if there was.’

‘But this case isn’t that complicated, is it?’ Valter said. ‘The wife doesn’t know anything, but we’re still publishing the victim’s name and picture. Isn’t that in breach of press ethics?’

She was overtaken by a lorry that threw a cascade of water across the windscreen, washing off the worst of the sludge.

‘The local press in Nacka published Lerberg’s name and picture on their websites the moment the ambulance drove off,’ Annika said. ‘His neighbours and employees began to make statements. Practically everyone close to him already knew what had happened by the time we went public. It would have looked very odd if we had concealed his name under those circumstances, as if there were something dodgy about the whole situation.’

Annika indicated right and turned off onto the main motorway towards Stockholm.