Dark Secrets (32 page)

“When did she die?”

Sebastian stiffened. Okay, enough. Question time was officially over. There was the line, and Torkel had crossed it.

“Several years ago. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s private and you’re not my therapist.”

Torkel nodded. True, but there had been a time when they had known most things about each other. Perhaps it would be overstating the case to say that Torkel had missed those days; he hadn’t given Sebastian more than a passing thought for several years. However, now he was back, now Torkel saw him at work, he realized that his job, and perhaps his life, had been more boring during the years Sebastian hadn’t been around. There were other factors as well as Sebastian’s absence, but still, Torkel couldn’t shake the feeling that he had missed his former colleague. His old friend. More than he had thought he would. Torkel had no expectations that the feeling was mutual, but at least he could give it a try.

“We used to be friends. All those times you had to hear about my problems, about Monica and the kids and all that crap.” Torkel looked directly at his colleague across the table. “I’m happy to listen.”

“To what?”

“To anything you like. If there’s anything you want to tell me.”

“There isn’t.”

Torkel nodded. He hadn’t expected it to be easy. After all, he was talking to Sebastian Bergman.

“Is that why you invited me to dinner? So you could hear my confession?”

Torkel picked up his coffee cup, buying himself a little time before he answered.

“I just get the impression you’re not feeling too good.” Sebastian didn’t answer. No doubt there was more to come. “I asked Vanja how things went today. Apart from the fact that she thinks you’re an awkward bastard, she said it seemed as if… I don’t know… She got the feeling that perhaps you were carrying some kind of burden.”

“Vanja ought to concentrate on her work.” Sebastian stood up, left the newspaper, but took his cup and screwed it up. “And you shouldn’t take any notice of all the crap you hear.”

He left the room, throwing the cup in the trash can by the door on his way out. Torkel was left alone. He took a deep breath and let the air out very slowly. What had he expected? He should have known better. Sebastian Bergman didn’t allow himself to be analyzed. And he’d lost his dinner companion for the evening. Billy and Vanja were working, and there was no point in thinking about Ursula. But he really didn’t want to sit through another dinner all on his own. He took out his cell.

Sebastian strode through the deserted office. He was furious. With Torkel, with Vanja, but mostly with himself. Never before had Sebastian given a colleague the feeling that he was “carrying some kind of burden.” Nobody had even been able to hazard a guess at what he was thinking before. The only things they knew about Sebastian were the things he allowed them to know. That was how he had reached the position he used to occupy.

At the top.

Admired.

Feared.

But he had given himself away in the car. Lost control. And in Lena Eriksson’s apartment, too, when he thought back. Unacceptable. It was his mother’s fault. Hers and those letters. He had to make some kind of
decision on what to do about that. Right now it was affecting him more than he could permit.

There was a light on in the conference room. Through the glass Sebastian could see Billy sitting with his laptop open. Sebastian slowed down. Stopped. Every time he had thought about Anna Eriksson during the day he had come to the conclusion that he ought to forget it. There was too little to gain, too much to lose. But could he do that? Could he just forget what he knew and carry on as if nothing had happened? Probably not. Besides which, it wouldn’t do any harm to have that address if someone could find it. Then he could decide later what he was going to do. Use it or throw it away. Go around there or stay away. He could even go and check out the lay of the land. See what kind of people lived there. Get an idea of how he might be received if he introduced himself. He made a decision. It was just stupid not to keep all his options open.

He pushed open the door. Billy looked up from his computer.

“Hi.”

Sebastian nodded, pulled out a chair, and sat down on the edge of the seat, legs outstretched. He pulled over the fruit bowl on the table and took a pear. Billy had turned back to the computer.

“What are you doing?”

“Just checking out Facebook and a few other social networking sites.”

“Does Torkel let you do that during work hours?”

Billy looked up at him over the top of the screen, smiled, and shook his head.

“No chance. I’m checking up on Roger.”

“Find anything?”

Billy shrugged his shoulders. It depended on how you looked at it. He had found Roger, but nothing of interest.

“He wasn’t particularly active. I know he didn’t have a computer of his own, but it’s still more than three weeks since he wrote anything on Facebook. Actually, it’s not so strange that he wasn’t on there more often. He had only twenty-six friends registered.”

“Is that a small number?” Sebastian knew what Facebook was, of
course—he hadn’t spent the last few years living under a rock—but he had never felt the urge to find out exactly how it worked or to become a member, or whatever it was called, himself. He had no desire to keep in touch with old school friends or former work colleagues. The very thought that they might “add” him as a friend and terrorize him with artificially imposed intimacy and stupid trivialities made him feel quite exhausted. In fact, he made a real effort not to associate with anyone, either in real life or in cyberspace.

“Twenty-six friends is nothing,” said Billy. “You get more than that just by registering, virtually. Same thing on MSN. He hasn’t been on there for more than four months, and his only contact was with Lisa, Erik Heverin, and Johan Strand.”

“So he had hardly any cyber friends.”

“Looks that way. No enemies either, though—I haven’t found any bad stuff about him on the Net.”

Sebastian decided he had pretended to be interested long enough to broach what he had really come for. Why not smooth the way with a little flattery?

“You’re pretty good with computers, from what I’ve heard.”

Billy couldn’t suppress the smile that said it was true.

“Above average. It’s cool, I enjoy it,” he said, rather more modestly.

“Do you think you might be able to help me with something?”

Sebastian took the letter out of his inside pocket and tossed it over to Billy.

“I need to find someone called Anna Eriksson. She was living at this address in 1979.”

Billy picked up the letter and examined it.

“Is she connected to the investigation?”

“Could be, yes.”

“In what way?”

Hell, why were they all so keen on sticking to the rulebook in this place? Sebastian was too tired and too slow to come up with a good lie, so he decided to go with something vague, hoping it would suffice.

“It’s just something I’m following up on my own, a bit of a long shot. I haven’t said anything to the others, but with a bit of luck it may work out.”

Billy nodded and Sebastian relaxed slightly. He was just about to get up when Billy stopped him.

“But in what way is it related to Roger Eriksson?” Okay, so that didn’t work. What happened to people just doing as they were told? If it all went pear shaped Billy could always blame Sebastian, who in turn would claim that Billy had misunderstood him. Torkel would get a bit upset. There would be talk of revising procedures. Everything would carry on as normal. Sebastian gave Billy the chance to take the hook without adding any further bait.

“It’s a long story, but it would be a good thing for you too if you could help me out. I really think this could lead somewhere.”

Billy turned the envelope over, studied it. Just in case Billy wasn’t going to bite, Sebastian started working out a story in his head. He thought he might say there was a chance that Anna Eriksson could be Roger’s biological mother. No, it wasn’t listed in any adoption register—this was inside information. No, he couldn’t say who from. That might work. If it was biologically possible. Sebastian started calculating. How old would Anna Eriksson have been when she had Roger, in that case? About forty? It worked.

“Okay.”

Sebastian came back to reality, unsure of what he had heard, whether he might have missed something.

“Okay?”

“Sure, but it’ll have to wait a while. I’ve got a load of files from the CCTV cameras to look at by tomorrow.”

“Of course, there’s no rush. Thank you.” Sebastian headed for the door. “Just one more thing.”

Billy looked up from his computer.

“I’d appreciate it if we could keep this between ourselves. It’s a long shot, as I said, and people like nothing more than to gloat if someone gets it wrong.”

“Sure. No problem.”

Sebastian smiled gratefully and left the room.

Limone Ristorante Italiano. She had made the reservation, but Torkel got there first and was shown to a corner table next to two windows, with metal spheres the size of bowling balls hanging from the ceiling. A table for four. Two sofas instead of chairs. Hard, straight-backed. Upholstered in a dark purple fabric. Torkel sipped a beer straight from the bottle. Had this been a bad idea? Inviting Hanser to dinner? Although he hadn’t really asked her out per se. He just wanted to have a more in-depth discussion about the case with her; their brief meetings during the day had only scratched the surface, and he might as well do that over a meal as in her office. Admittedly Hanser had voluntarily taken a step back and allowed them to run the investigation as they wished, but it was important to remember that she was ultimately responsible, and Torkel had the feeling he had been a little grumpy with her lately.

Hanser arrived, apologized for being late, sat down, and ordered a glass of white wine. The local police chief had sought her out to check on the current state of things. He was concerned at the news that they had released Leonard Lundin and keen to hear that another arrest was imminent. Of course, she had to disappoint him. He was also under pressure: the interest from the press, particularly the tabloids, had not diminished at all. At least four pages, every single day. The interview with Lena Eriksson was repackaged and presented as something new. They focused on Roger’s loneliness, speculated that the perpetrator may not have been known to Roger. In which case it could happen again. An “expert” explained that when a person killed for the first time—which could be the case in this instance—they crossed a line from which there was no way back. It was likely that this person would kill again. Probably quite soon. Good old-fashioned scaremongering journalism, in the same category as the latest pandemic hysteria, or the
COULD YOUR HEADACHE
BE A BRAIN TUMOR?
headlines.
Expressen
had managed to sniff out the cock-up from the first weekend when the boy’s disappearance wasn’t followed up, and they were questioning the efficiency of the police. In connection with the article they had already produced information panels on other unsolved murder cases, with the murder of Olof Palme at the top. Hanser explained that she was meeting Torkel and hoped to have more information for the chief superintendent the following day. He had settled for that, but before he left he made it clear that (a) he hoped it had not been a mistake to call in Riksmord, and (b) if it had been a mistake, then she and no one else would bear the responsibility.

When the waiter brought her glass of wine and asked whether they were ready to order, they spent a short while studying the menus. Torkel already knew what he wanted.
Salmone alla calabrese
: fried fillet of salmon with cherry tomatoes, leeks, capers, olives, and a potato cake. He wasn’t one for starters. Hanser quickly decided on
agnello alla griglia
: grilled rack of lamb with parmigiana potatoes and a red-wine sauce. More expensive than his choice. Not that it mattered. He was the one who had asked for her company. He regarded it as a working dinner, in which case of course he was paying. Riksmord was paying.

While they were waiting for their food they went over the case. Yes, Torkel had read the papers. Vanja had followed the same line of thought, but only briefly. Unknown perpetrator. But the discovery that Roger had been shot disproved that theory, according to Sebastian. A person who had decided to kill, regardless of who his victim might be, didn’t use a gun that would mean he’d have to carve out the bullet afterward in order to avoid being identified. Unfortunately this was not something Hanser could release to the media. They didn’t want the public—and, thus, the murderer—to find out that they knew Roger had been shot. Apart from that, Torkel didn’t have much to tell. They hadn’t made any impressive progress except for the Axel Johansson angle, and a great deal would depend on the following day and the forensic reports from SKL. Torkel’s cell vibrated in his inside pocket. He took it out and looked at the display:
Vilma.

“Sorry, I have to take this.”

Hanser nodded and took a sip of her wine.