Unwanted (44 page)

Peder and Alex looked blank.

‘What you just said was: “why weren’t we told this earlier?”’ she explained. ‘“Weren’t told”, rather than didn’t find out. If we thought of facts as things we have to uncover – by asking the right questions, for example – then we wouldn’t be so vulnerable and reliant on the information other people feel like giving us.’

Alex and Peder exchanged glances. They both wore a faint smile.

‘Don’t you think?’ asked Fredrika, suddenly unsure.

Alex laughed out loud for the first time in days.

‘You could well have a point,’ he grinned.

Fredrika flushed.

‘Sara didn’t want to say anything about the abortion, but we all kind of assumed that if she had some specific connection to the hospital and not just Umeå in general, she’d tell us about it of her own accord,’ Alex said thoughtfully, looking serious again. ‘That was a mistake. We should have stuck to our guns, pressed her harder even though it didn’t feel quite right.’

He gathered up his papers.

‘We’ll carry on in the morning,’ he said. ‘It’s late and we’ve come a long way today. I’d even say a very long way.’

‘That’s why it doesn’t feel right to go home just now,’ Peder said grumpily.

‘I know it seems tough, but we all need a bit of rest,’ Alex insisted. ‘We’ll reconvene in the morning. I’ve already rung round to warn everyone it’ll be a full day’s work tomorrow. We’ll have to take our days off some other time.’

Fredrika glanced out of the window at the dull grey, cloudy summer sky.

‘We can take them when summer comes,’ she said drily.

E
llen Lind was the first one in on Sunday morning. She was the first to arrive and the first to leave. She liked working that way.

She sent a text to her daughter as she turned on her computer. She had asked the children about a hundred times if they really thought they’d be all right at home on their own without a babysitter. They had assured her at least as many times that they’d be absolutely fine.

Peder’s request was at the top of Ellen’s inbox. She opened the email. Good grief, what sort of searches did that man think you could do in the police files? He still hadn’t registered that he wasn’t on the set of some American TV crime series, but in the real police world.

Ellen decided to give it a go anyway. She rang her contact at the National Police Board for help. The woman sounded cross and moaned about having to go in.

‘Bloody hell, on a Sunday,’ she muttered.

Ellen made no comment. For her, these were exceptional circumstances. And though they were downright grotesque ones, she had to admit she thought it was all rather exciting.

Less exciting, and more frustrating, was the fact that she hadn’t heard a word from Carl. She had kept her mobile switched on overnight in the hope that he’d be in touch, but he hadn’t sent so much as a line. Ellen didn’t really think there was any reason to doubt Carl’s love, and felt it was more likely that something had happened to him. If she had heard nothing by that evening, she would start ringing round the hospitals.

And yet.

And yet there was something not quite right. A scarcely perceptible feeling of anxiety began to grow and creep over Ellen. However hard she tried, she couldn’t shake it off.

Feeling restless, she went to empty the fax machine, which had been receiving messages during the night. Fredrika had a number of faxes from Umeå University Hospital. Ellen frowned as she leafed through the pile. It was clearly the medical record of somebody called Sara Lagerås. There was a short message for Fredrika, too.

‘Patient file herewith. Permission received from Sara Sebastiansson by phone. Regards, Sonja Lundin.’

Ellen was immediately curious.

Whatever had she missed by going home first last night?

Fredrika Bergman’s head was as heavy as lead when she woke up on Sunday morning. She reached wearily for the alarm clock. It wasn’t due to ring for another ten minutes. She burrowed her head as far into the pillow as it would go. Must rest, must rest.

Leaving the flat an hour later, she remembered she hadn’t devoted much attention to the phone message from the Adoption Centre. Not
enough
attention, at any rate. Fredrika excused this by concluding it was far too big a decision to make while she was caught up in such a weighty and far-reaching police investigation.

Fredrika focused on the job in hand. She drove straight round to Magdalena Gregersdotter’s and rang on the way to say she was coming. She stressed that she would need to speak to Magdalena alone.

A tall, dark-haired woman opened the door when she rang the bell.

‘Magdalena?’ asked Fredrika, realizing she hadn’t the faintest idea what Natalie’s mother looked like.

‘No,’ replied the woman, holding out a cool hand. ‘I’m Esther, her sister.’

Esther showed Fredrika into the family living room.

Neat and tidy, she thought. This family has no truck with any kind of messiness or disorder. A very appealing characteristic, in Fredrika’s world.

She stood alone in the middle of the living room. So many homes were opened to you when you rang at the door in your professional police capacity. What an enormous stock of trust her employer enjoyed in ordinary domestic settings. The thought almost made her head swim.

Then Magdalena Gregersdotter came into the room, and Fredrika was dragged back to reality.

It struck her that Magdalena was not at all the same kind of woman as Sara Sebastiansson. A woman who would never paint her toenails blue; you could tell by the way she carried herself, by the impression of integrity she gave, that her experiences were far removed from those of the more exuberant Sara. If she admitted to seeing through an abortion in her parents’ bathroom, Fredrika was going to have a bit of difficulty believing it.

‘Shall we sit down?’ she prompted gently.

At least she hoped it sounded gentle. She knew all too well how abrupt she could appear in certain situations.

They sat down. Magdalena perched on the edge of the sofa, Fredrika in a huge armchair. It was upholstered in a multicoloured fabric that contrasted starkly with the white walls. Fredrika couldn’t make up her mind if she thought it was attractive or disgusting.

‘Have you . . . got anywhere?’

The look in Magdalena’s eyes was plaintive.

‘I mean . . . in the investigation, that is. Have you found someone?’

Someone.
The magic word that hounded every police officer. Find someone. Pin someone down. Hold someone responsible.

‘We haven’t identified an individual, but we’re working on a theory that could prove very fruitful for the investigation,’ Fredrika said.

Magdalena nodded and nodded. Good, good, good.

‘And it’s our theory that brings me here today,’ Fredrika went on, now she had been given a starting point. ‘I really only have one question for you,’ she said, catching the other woman’s dulled eye.

Fredrika deliberately paused to make sure she had Magdalena’s undivided attention.

‘It’s a terribly private question, and it feels grotesque to have to ask it, but . . .’

‘I’ll answer anything you ask,’ Magdalena broke in. ‘Anything at all.’

‘All right,’ said Fredrika, feeling oddly reassured. ‘All right.’

She took a deep breath.

‘I wonder whether you’ve ever had an abortion.’

Magdalena stared at her.

‘An abortion?’ she repeated.

Fredrika nodded in confirmation.

Magdalena did not drop her eyes.

‘Yes,’ she said huskily. ‘But it was a long time ago. Almost twenty years.’

Fredrika waited with bated breath.

‘It was just after I left home. I was with a man almost fifteen years older than me. He was married, but he promised to leave his wife for me.’

Magdalena gave a hollow laugh.

‘But he never did, of course. He went into a total panic when I told him I was pregnant. He shouted at me, told me to get rid of it straight away.’

Magdalena shook her head.

‘It wasn’t a lot to ask,’ she said curtly. ‘I got rid of it, of course. And I never saw him again.’

‘Where was the actual abortion done?’ asked Fredrika.

‘Here in Stockholm, at Söder hospital,’ Magdalena said quickly. ‘But it was so early in the pregnancy that I had to wait several weeks before I could have it done.’

Fredrika could see the other woman’s eyes clouding again.

‘It was all very weird. You see, the abortion didn’t work, but they didn’t realize. So I went home thinking the baby was gone, when in fact it was still inside me. A few days later I felt very ill, and miscarried. My body completed the abortion by rejecting the baby, as it were. I think that’s why I never managed to get pregnant again. The infection I got afterwards made me sterile.’

She fell silent. Fredrika swallowed and looked for the right words to formulate the vital question:

‘Where was the abortion completed?’ she asked in a low voice.

Magdalena looked troubled, as if she did not understand.

‘Where did you lose the baby?’ whispered Fredrika.

Magdalena’s face dissolved and she put her hand to her mouth, as if to smother a scream.

‘In the bathroom at Mum and Dad’s house,’ she wept. ‘I lost the baby where he left Natalie.’

Peder Rydh was in a bad mood when he got to work on Sunday. The only bright spot was that he’d managed to make Jimmy’s day when he rang him on the way in.

‘Posh cake soon, Pedda?’ cheered Jimmy on the phone.

‘Posh cake very soon,’ Peder agreed. ‘Maybe even tomorrow.’

Assuming there’s anything to celebrate by then, he added silently to himself.

Peder’s early morning grumpiness was not improved by the fact that Ellen still hadn’t been able to get the results from the files that he’d asked for.

‘That sort of thing takes time Peder; just be patient, please,’ she begged.

He couldn’t stand that phrase, but he had no grudge against Ellen and didn’t want to fall out with her. So he went back into his room before he said something he’d regret.

That night had not afforded him the same peace of mind as the one before. He had slept on the settee, and that had never happened before. He had briefly considered driving to Jimmy’s assisted living unit and bedding down there instead, until he realized how confused and anxious it would make his brother.

Lack of sleep made Peder less than rational, and he knew it. That was why he hadn’t exchanged a single word with Ylva before he left home that morning, and had started his working day with two big cups of coffee.

He sat down at his computer and looked up a few things at random in various registers, but found the task beyond him. He didn’t have full access to the files, and there were some to which he had no access at all.

He opened his filing cabinet and got out all the material he had amassed. He repeated the phrases they had all been trotting out in recent days.
What do we know? What don’t we know? And what do we definitely need to know to solve this case?

They thought they knew why: the women were being punished because they had once had abortions. That fitted with the words ‘women who don’t love all children equally are not to have any at all’. To begin with, Peder had interpreted the phrase to mean that the man somehow wanted to punish all women who didn’t literally love all children equally, but now he knew that to be wrong.

What the team did
not
know, however, was how the man selected these women from among all those in Sweden who had had abortions and then gone on to have children. Could the murderer actually be the father of the ‘rejected’ children? Peder didn’t think it very likely. The murderer was, or had been, on the margins of the women’s lives when they had their abortions. So he could be a doctor, for example. Unless he came across their names later, in old case notes or something like that. In that case, he might not even have known them at the time of the abortions.

Peder sighed. There was an almost infinite number of alternatives to choose from.

He returned doggedly to his notes.

There were several indications that the man they were looking for could be linked in some way to a medical setting, like a hospital. There were the traces of talc from hospital gloves; there were the drugs to which he seemed to have access. Sedatives, but also more lethal substances.

Peder reflected. The drugs weren’t that uncommon in themselves. They were no doubt to be found in every hospital in Sweden. But not all hospitals had staff members who had served sentences for serious crimes of violence. Was that sort of thing checked up on? And if it was, could the man they were looking for have been working in a hospital under a false identity?

Peder doubted it. Surely hospitals kept tabs on that kind of thing? Unless of course the change of name had been done entirely legally.

Peder shuffled his facts this way and that. All the while, the phrase ‘There must be a way of checking this’ was echoing in his head. It became a mantra, a life-buoy to cling on to. Somewhere out there was the man they were looking for. All they had to do was find him . . .