Silenced: A Novel Read online

  ‘It turns out, perhaps not surprisingly, that when it comes to the crunch, there aren’t enough of us and we need reinforcements, and in between times we’re often on loan to the Stockholm Police Homicide Department to help out with their cases. So the question has been asked: do we need to be a permanent group, or should we be dispersed among the Stockholm Police or the county CID instead?’

  Peder was the one who looked most dismayed.

  ‘But, but . . .’

  Alex held up a hand.

  ‘There’s been no formal decision yet,’ he said, ‘but I just wanted to let you all know that it’s on the cards.’

  No one said a word, and the projector stopped whirring.

  Alex fiddled with the papers he had in front of him on the desk.

  ‘Anyway, we’ve now got a case, well two actually, that our friends in the Norrmalm Police need a hand with. A couple in their sixties, Jakob and Marja Ahlbin, found dead yesterday evening in their flat by another couple who had been invited round for dinner. When nobody answered the door, and the other couple couldn’t get through on any of the phones either, they opened the door with their own key and found the pair dead in the bedroom. According to the preliminary police report, which is based mainly on a suicide note written by the dead husband, he shot his wife and then himself.’

  The computer belatedly began to cooperate, and crime-scene pictures flashed up on the white screen behind Alex. Ellen and Joar each gave a start at the sight of the enlarged pictures of bodies with gunshot wounds, but Peder was spellbound.

  He’s changed, Alex thought to himself. He wasn’t like that before.

  ‘According to the note, he had found out two days earlier that their elder daughter, Karolina, had died from a heroin overdose, and he saw no reason to carry on living. He himself was treated for serious and recurring bouts of depression all his adult life. Only this January he underwent ECT treatment, and he was on anti-depressants. A chronic sufferer, in fact.’

  ‘What’s ETC?’ asked Peder.

  ‘ECT,’ Alex corrected him. ‘Electroconvulsive therapy, it’s used in particularly difficult cases of depression. As a way of kick-starting the brain.’

  ‘Electric shocks,’ said Peder. ‘Isn’t that illegal?’

  ‘As Alex said, in controlled form it has had very positive benefits for severely ill patients,’ Joar interjected in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘The patient is under anaesthetic during the actual treatment and the vast majority show striking improvement.’

  Peder stared at Joar but said nothing. He turned to Alex.

  ‘Why have we been saddled with this case? It’s already solved, isn’t it?’

  ‘It might not be,’ replied Alex. ‘The two people who found the couple say it’s impossible to believe that the man murdered his wife and then shot himself. They did recognise the weapon, a 22-calibre hunting pistol, because the two men would often go hunting together, but they were adamant when questioned that it would be entirely out of character for him to be so crazed by grief as to act like that.’

  ‘So what do these friends think did happen, then?’ asked Fredrika, making her first contribution to the meeting.

  ‘They think they must have been murdered,’ said Alex, giving her a look. ‘Both of them apparently held positions in the Swedish Church: he was a vicar and she was a cantor. Jakob Ahlbin has been quite prominent in recent years in debates about immigration. These friends of the couple claim they were such fervent believers that suicide simply wouldn’t have been on the cards. And it seems incomprehensible to them for Jakob to have received the news of his daughter’s death and not passed it on to his wife.’

  ‘So what do we do?’ asked Peder, still not convinced the case was worthy of their attention.

  ‘We’ll interview the two who found the couple again,’ Alex said firmly. ‘And we need to get hold of the Ahlbins’ younger daughter, Johanna, who has probably not been informed of her sister’s and parents’ deaths. That may prove tricky; no one’s managed to locate her yet. I dread the thought of the media releasing the names and pictures of the deceased before we find her.’

  He looked at Joar and then at Peder.

  ‘I want you two as a team to interview the friends, once you’ve been to the scene of the crime. See if there seems any good reason to pursue this any further. Then divide your forces and interview other people if you need to. Find more people who knew them in the Church.’

  As they were getting to their feet, Peder asked:

  ‘And what about the other case? You said there were two.’

  Alex frowned.

  ‘The other one I’ve already allocated to Fredrika,’ he said. ‘Just a routine thing, an unidentified man found dead near the university this morning. He seems to have been in the middle of the road after dark and was run over by someone who didn’t dare to stop and hand himself over to the police. And don’t forget what I said.’

  Peder and Joar waited.

  ‘Make sure you find the daughter double-quick. Nobody should have to get the news that their parents have died from the tabloid press.’

  BANGKOK, THAILAND

  The sun was just disappearing behind the skyscrapers when she realised she had a problem. It had been an incredibly hot day with temperatures way above normal, and she had been feeling hot and sticky since early that morning. She had had a long succession of meetings in stuffy rooms with no air conditioning and a picture had started to emerge. Or perhaps it was more of a suspicion. She could not decide which, but the follow-up work when she got home would undoubtedly answer all her questions.

  Her return to Sweden was not many days away. In fact it was approaching all too quickly. It had been her original intention to round off the long trip with a few days of holiday sunshine down in Cha Am, but circumstances beyond her control had put paid to the plan, and she realised the most practical thing now was to stay in Bangkok until it was time to go home.

  What’s more, her father’s latest email had made her uneasy:

  You must be careful. Don’t extend your stay. Be discreet in your investigations. Dad.

  Once the last meeting of the day was over, she asked to borrow a phone.

  ‘I have to ring the airline to confirm my flight home,’ she explained to the man she had just interviewed, taking out the plastic wallet with the electronic tickets she had printed out.

  The phone rang several times before the operator answered at the other end.

  ‘I’d like to confirm my flight back with you on Friday,’ she said, fiddling with a Buddha figurine on the desk in front of her.

  ‘Booking number?’

  She gave her booking reference and waited as the operator put her on hold. Tinny music began to play in her ear, and she looked idly out of the window. Outside, Bangkok was on the boil, getting ready for the evening and night ahead. An unlimited choice of discothèques and nightclubs, bars and restaurants. A constant din and a never-ending stream of people going in all directions. Dirt and dust mixed with the strangest sights and scents. Hordes of shopkeepers and street vendors, and the occasional huge elephant in the heart of the city, although they were prohibited. And between the maze of buildings, the river cutting the city in two.

  I must come back here, she told herself. As a proper tourist, not for work.

  The tinny music stopped and the operator was back on the line.

  ‘I’m sorry, miss, but we can’t find your booking. Could you give me the number again?’

  She sighed and repeated the number. The man who had lent her his office was clearly losing patience, too. A discreet knock at the door indicated his wish to reclaim it.

  ‘Won’t be a minute,’ she called.

  The knocking stopped as the endless loop of music resumed. She was kept waiting longer this time and was deep in reverie, imagining future tourist trips to Thailand, when the operator’s voice broke in.

  ‘I’m really sorry, miss, but we can’t find your booking. Are you sure it was with Thai Airways?’


  ‘I’ve got my e-ticket right here in front of me,’ she said irritably, looking at the computer print-out in her hand. ‘I’m flying from Bangkok to Stockholm with your airline this Friday. I paid 4,567 Swedish kronor. The money was taken from my account on the 10th of January this year.’

  She could hear the operator working away at the other end; he had not bothered to put her on hold this time.

  ‘May I ask how you travelled to Thailand, miss?’ he asked. ‘Did you fly with us?’

  She hesitated, recalling the earlier stages of her trip, which she did not want to refer to.

  ‘No,’ she replied. ‘No, I didn’t come with you. And I was not travelling from Stockholm when I entered Thailand.’

  The names of a string of cities flashed on and off in her mind. Athens, Istanbul, Amman and Damascus. No, it wasn’t information anyone else needed to know.

  The line went quiet for several minutes, and the man knocked on the office door again.

  ‘Will you be much longer?’

  ‘There’s a bit of a problem with my airline ticket,’ she called back. ‘It won’t take long to sort out.’

  The operator came back on the line.

  ‘I’ve made a really thorough check and spoken to my line manager,’ he said firmly. ‘You have no booking with our company and as far as I can see, you never did have.’

  She took a breath, ready to protest. But he pre-empted her.

  ‘I am very sorry, miss. If you would like to make another booking, we can help you with that, of course. Not for Friday, I’m afraid, but we can fly you home on Sunday. A single ticket will cost you 1, 255 dollars.’

  ‘But this is ridiculous,’ she said indignantly. ‘I don’t want another ticket, I want to fly on the one I’ve already bought. I demand that you . . .’

  ‘We’ve done everything we can, miss. The only thing I can suggest is that you check your email account to make sure it really was our airline you booked with and not someone else. There are sometimes false tickets on sale, though it’s extremely rare for that to happen. But as I say, check that and then contact us again. I’ve reserved a seat for you for Sunday. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ she answered in a weak voice.

  But it was not okay. Not at all.

  She felt weary as she hung up. This was the last thing she needed just now. The whole trip had been dogged by administrative hitches. But it had never occurred to her to worry about the flight home.

  She strode out of the room into the corridor.

  ‘I’m sorry to have taken so long, but there seems to be a problem with my flight home.’

  He looked concerned.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help?’

  ‘Is there a computer with internet access I could borrow? Then I could get into my email and double-check my booking.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Sorry, miss, I’m afraid we haven’t got one here. Our internet connection was so bad that we decided we’d be better off popping to the internet café round the corner when we needed to go online.’

  She took her leave, thanking him for his help and all the important information he had been brave enough to entrust her with, and went to the café he recommended.

  There was a spring in her long-legged step as she entered the café and asked to use a computer for fifteen minutes. The proprietor showed her to computer number three and asked if she wanted coffee. She declined the offer, hoping she would be on her way back to the hotel very shortly.

  The fan inside the computer whirred as the processor tried to upload her inbox onto the screen. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the table, sending up a silent prayer for the system not to crash so she had to start all over again. She knew from experience that the internet abroad was not what it was in Sweden.

  The café’s air conditioning was as noisy as a small tank rumbling along, reminding her of the region she had visited before her trip to Thailand. Her hand went automatically to the chain she wore round her neck, under her blouse. Her fingers closed round the USB memory stick that hung on it, resting against her chest. There, encased in that one little bit of plastic, were all the facts she had collected. She would soon be home and all the pieces of the puzzle would fall into place.

  ‘Sure you’ll be all right?’ her father had asked with an anxious note in his voice, the evening before she left.

  ‘Course I will.’

  He stroked her cheek, and they said no more about it. They both knew she was more than able to look after herself, and anyway, the trip had been her own idea, but the question still needed asking.

  ‘Just ring if you need any help,’ her father said as they parted at Stockholm’s main airport.

  But she had only rung once and the rest of their communication had been by email. She had deleted the emails as she went along without really knowing why.

  The computer had finally accessed the site and something came up on the screen.

  ‘You have entered the wrong password. Please try again.’

  She shook her head. This was clearly not going to be a good day. She tried again. The computer growled as it laboured away. And again:

  ‘You have entered the wrong password. Please try again.’

  She tried three more times. Each time the same message. She swallowed hard.

  Something’s going wrong. Really wrong.

  And another part of her mind threw up the thought: should she, in fact, be scared?

  STOCKHOLM

  Peder and Joar drove in silence through Kungsholmen, over St Erik’s Bridge and on towards Odenplan where the elderly couple had been found dead. Peder was at the wheel, racing to every red light. A suspicion had planted itself in the back of his mind after the croissant incident in the staff room. Joar had not even cracked a smile when Peder came out with his funny cock joke. That was bad. Clearly a sign. Peder had got better at observing those over the years. Signs. Signs that a colleague was of the other persuasion. Batting for the other side. Gay.

  Not that he had anything against it. Absolutely not. Just as long as he didn’t try it on with him. Then he’d see him in hell.

  He squinted sideways at Joar’s profile. His colleague’s face was remarkably finely drawn, almost like a painting. A face like a mask. The eyes were ice-blue, the pupils never dilated. The lips were a little too red, the eyelashes implausibly long. Peder screwed up his eyes to get a better look. If Joar wore make-up, he could take his own car in future.

  The traffic lights turned from green to red and Peder had to put his foot down to get through. He did not need to look at Joar to know his colleague disapproved.

  ‘Hard to know whether to stop or speed up when it’s like that,’ said Peder, mainly to have something to say.

  ‘Mmm,’ responded Joar, looking the other way. ‘What was the name of the street?’

  ‘Dalagatan. They lived on the top floor. Big flat, apparently.’

  ‘Are the bodies still there?’

  ‘No, and forensics are supposed to be finished now, so we can go in.’

  They said nothing as Peder parked the car. He fished out the parking permit and slunk after his colleague into the building. Joar ignored the lift and set off up the five flights of stairs to the couple’s flat. Peder followed, wondering why the hell they weren’t taking the lift when it was so many floors up.

  The stairwell was freshly decorated, the walls white and shiny. The steps were marble, the window frames painted brown. The lift shaft in the middle was an old-fashioned, wrought-iron affair. Peder’s thoughts went to the woman from whom he had separated, Ylva. She hated confined spaces. Peder had once tried to seduce her in his parents’ guest cloakroom during a boring family dinner, but Ylva found making love in such a small space so stressful that her skin came up in bumps and she couldn’t breathe properly.

  They had laughed over that story countless times.

  But not this past eighteen months, Peder observed bitterly. There hadn’t been much bloody laughing at all.

 
There was no sign of forced entry to the couple’s front door. The label on the letterbox simply said ‘Ahlbin’. Joar rang the bell and a uniformed police officer opened the door. He and a crime-scene technician were the only ones there.

  ‘All right if we come in?’ asked Peder.

  The officer nodded.

  ‘They’re just doing the windows, then they’ll be finished on the forensic side.’

  Peder and Joar advanced into the flat.

  ‘Was it rented?’ asked Joar.

  The officer shook his head.

  ‘Owner-occupied. They’d lived here since 1999.’

  Peder gave a whistle as he went round the flat. It was spacious and had high ceilings. All the rooms had beautiful stucco work and the expanses of white wall were sparingly hung with paintings and photographs.

  Peder thought Fredrika would have loved this flat, though he had not the least idea how her own home was decorated.

  Why was that? Why didn’t people go round to each other’s places nowadays? The fact that he had never been to Fredrika’s was not very surprising, but with other colleagues it was harder to understand. He hated the lonely evenings in the flat where he had moved the previous autumn. Although he was buying rather than renting, he hadn’t done any work on it. His mother made curtains and bought cushions and tablecloths, but when he showed no sign of wanting to help she lost interest. He could hardly blame her.

  The couple’s flat had windows looking out in three directions and there were four main rooms. The kitchen and living-room area was open plan. A sliding wall divided the living room and library. Then there was a guest bedroom and the bedroom where the two bodies had been found.

  Peder and Joar stopped at the door and surveyed the room. They had both seen the crime-scene report written by the officers who were first to arrive. The initial assessment would presumably hold good even once forensics had finished their job. Jakob Ahlbin had shot his wife in the back of the head. She must have been standing with her back to the doorway, where Jakob had presumably been. So she had first fallen headlong onto the bed but subsequently slipped onto the floor. Then her husband had walked round the bed, lain down on it and shot himself in the temple. The farewell letter had been on the bedside table.