reading

Michael Hjorth is one of Sweden’s best-known film and TV producers, and a renowned screenwriter whose work includes several screenplays of Henning Mankell’s Wallander.

Hans Rosenfeldt has hosted both radio and television shows, and is Sweden’s leading screenwriter and the creator of The Bridge, which is broadcast in more than 170 countries.

About the Book

On the side of a mountain in Sweden, six bodies have been found. Skeletons, more precisely.

The Criminal Investigation Department has been called in to investigate, and psychological profiler Sebastian Bergman is involved. The call-up seemed like the perfect opportunity to escape his ex-girlfriend and spend some more time with Vanja. To try and build a relationship with her before it’s too late.

The police are stumbling at the first hurdle – identifying the six bodies. Two of them they can trace, but the other four, a family, are proving a mystery. Every time they think they have an answer, more questions arise. Someone has gone to great lengths to keep the truth of what happened on this mountainside hidden from view.

Acknowledgements

As always, thanks to everyone at Norstedts: Eva, Linda, Catherine, Sara, Tulle, Zandra, Loveina and everyone else who works so hard to make sure our books are read. We really appreciate all the effort you put in.

Once again special thanks to Susanna Romanus and Peter Karlsson for your unshakeable optimism and constant support. It means a great deal to us.

Thanks to our overseas publishers for believing in us, and for your commitment to getting Sebastian out there all over the world.

Thanks once again to Rolf Lassgård for everything you have given us when it comes to the creation of Sebastian Bergman. You are a joy to exchange ideas with, and a true inspiration.

I would particularly like to thank all the fantastic staff at St Erik’s eye hospital in Stockholm, above all Dr Manoj Kakar, whose skill and vast professional expertise mean that I won’t have to read Braille for the rest of my life.

Camilla Ahlgren, who has been my dear friend for the past twenty years, and who makes my life easier by taking on so much responsibility for the projects on which we work.

And of course to my family: Lotta, Sixten, Alice and Ebba. Thank you for all the love and all the laughter.

I would like to thank all my colleagues at Tre Vänner, with Jonas, Mikael, Tomas, Johan and Fredrik leading the way. My warmest thanks go, as always, to my wonderful family. You are my backbone through thick and thin. Caesar, William, Vanessa and my darling Astrid, I love you all. You are amazing, and you are the most important part of my life. A million hugs. And then some more.

In the beginning, a long time ago, that had been the most difficult thing: reacting when hotel receptionists or cab drivers called her name.

But that was then. Now she became the name on her new ID documentation as soon as she received it. So far only one person had used her name on this trip – the guy at the car rental desk in Östersund, when he came to tell her that the car she had booked in advance had been cleaned and was ready to go.

She had landed on time, just after five o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, and had caught the Arlanda Express into central Stockholm. It was her first visit to the Swedish capital, but she restricted herself to an early and pretty boring dinner in a nearby restaurant.

Just before nine she boarded the night train to Östersund. She had reserved a single occupancy sleeper; she didn’t think that anyone would ever catch her, regardless of how many people might provide the police with her description, but she just didn’t like sleeping with strangers. Never had done.

Once the train had left the station she had gone to the buffet, bought a small bottle of white wine and a packet of peanuts, then settled down in her compartment to read I Know What You’re Really Thinking, a new book with the slightly bizarre subtitle Reading Body Language Like a Trial Lawyer. The woman who was temporarily known as Patricia Wellton wasn’t convinced that trial lawyers were particularly adept at reading body language; she had certainly never met one who stood out in that respect, but the book was at least short and entertaining. Just after one o’clock in the morning she had slipped between the clean white sheets and turned off the light.

Five hours later she stepped off the train in Östersund, made a few enquiries and was directed to a hotel where she ate a leisurely breakfast before heading to the Avis office where she had booked a car. She had to wait, and was offered a cup of coffee while the car was cleaned and checked over.

After a journey of just over 100 kilometres, she reached Åre. She had stuck to the speed limit; there was no need to attract unwanted attention, even though it wouldn’t change anything in practical terms. The Swedish police weren’t in the habit of searching a car involved in a minor infringement of the law, as far as she was aware; perhaps they didn’t actually have the authority to do so either. However, if anyone should discover that she was armed, her assignment would be jeopardised. She had no papers giving her the right to bear arms in Sweden; if they found her Beretta M9, they would start digging, and would soon discover that Patricia Wellton existed nowhere else apart from right here, right now. So she slowed down as she drove past the grassy-green ski runs and into the little village on the hill leading down to the lake.

She went for a short walk, chose somewhere to have lunch at random and ordered a panini and a Diet Coke. As she ate she looked at the map. Just over fifty kilometres to go on the E14 before she was due to turn off and leave the car, then a twenty-kilometre stretch. She looked at her watch. Three hours to get there, one to tidy up, two to get back to the car, file her report . . . She would be in Trondheim in time to catch her flight to Oslo, then home on Friday.

She took another stroll around Åre, then got back in the car and headed west. Her work had taken her to many different places, but she had never seen a landscape like this. The soft, rolling mountains, the clearly defined treeline, the sun glittering on the water in the valley down below. She could be happy here. The isolation. The silence. The clear air. She would like to rent a remote cottage here, go for long walks. Go fishing. Experience the light in the summer, sit reading by an open fire on autumn evenings.

She left the E14 when she saw a sign with Rundhögen on it pointing to the left. Shortly after that she got out of the car, picked up her rucksack and her map of the area, and began to run.

She stopped 122 minutes later; slightly out of breath, but not tired. She hadn’t run at her full capacity, not even close. She sat down and had a drink of water as her breathing quickly returned to normal. Then she took out her binoculars and focused on the log cabin about 300 metres away. She was in the right place. It looked exactly like the picture she had been given by her informant.

If she had understood correctly, the cabin dated from the Thirties: no one would be permitted to build there at the foot of the mountain these days. A company director who had a good relationship with the Royal Court had needed some kind of shelter during his hunting trips, and to be honest you couldn’t really call it a house, or even a cottage. What size was it? Eighteen square metres? Twenty? Tiny windows and a small chimney poking up through a felt-covered roof. Two steps leading up to the door, and something resembling a shed about ten metres away. One half had a door, and she assumed it housed an outside toilet. The other side was open, and as there was a chopping block outside, she guessed it was a wood store.

She put down the binoculars, reached inside her rucksack and took out the Beretta. With rapid, practised movements she screwed on the silencer. She got to her feet, slipped the gun into the specially made pocket in her jacket, picked up her rucksack and set off. From time to time she glanced over her shoulder, but there was no sign of any movement. The cabin was a little way off the marked trail, and at this time of year, the end of October, the area wasn’t exactly crawling with walkers. She had encountered only two since leaving the car.

When she had less than fifty metres to go, she took out the gun and held it against her leg. She considered the options. Knock on the door and shoot as soon as he opened it, or assume the cabin was unlocked, walk in and take him by surprise. She had just decided to knock when the door opened. The woman stiffened for a second, then immediately crouched down. A man in his forties came out onto the step. Open terrain. Nowhere to hide. The best she could do was to keep still; the least movement could attract his attention. She tightened her grip on the gun. If he saw her she would be able to stand up and shoot him before he had time to run. Forty metres. She would definitely score a hit, probably fatal, but that wasn’t what she wanted. If he was injured he might be able to get back into the cabin; what if he had a gun in there? If he spotted her, things would become so much more difficult.

But he didn’t give any sign of having seen her. He closed the door, walked down the steps and headed for the shed, where he grabbed the axe from the block and started chopping wood.

She straightened up slowly, edged slightly to the right so that the house would hide her if the man took a break, turned around and gazed out across the beautiful landscape.

The axe. Could it become a problem? Unlikely. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn’t have the chance to register her as a threat, let alone attack her with a close combat weapon such as an axe.

She stopped by the house, exhaled, took a few seconds to focus, then walked around the corner of the building.

The man looked surprised to see her, to say the least. He started to ask a question; the woman assumed he was wondering who she was, perhaps what she was doing out there in the middle of the mountains in Jämtland, whether there was something he could help her with.

The man stopped moving immediately, as if someone had pressed the pause button while watching a film. The axe slid out of his hand, his knees buckled to the left, his body fell to the right. A dull thud as his eighty kilos hit the ground. His heart punctured by the bullet, he was already dead when he landed, as if someone had simply thrown him down on his side.

The woman walked over to the body, straddled it and calmly took aim at the man’s head. One shot to the temple, three centimetres from the left eye. She knew he was dead, but fired another bullet into his brain, about a centimetre from the first.

She slipped the Beretta back into her pocket, wondering whether to do anything about the blood on the ground, or to let nature take its course. Even if someone realised the dead man was missing – and someone would, she knew that – and came up to the little cabin to search for him, they would never find the body. The blood would indicate that something had happened to him, but that was all. Even if they thought the worst, no one’s suspicions would ever be confirmed. The man would be gone for ever.

The woman drew her gun again as she spun around. A single thought went through her mind.

He was shaking. Trembling. His head and shoulders. Strange – he couldn’t connect the movement with the dream. Was he actually dreaming? It wasn’t the usual dream, if so. No little hand in his. No roaring, rushing sound, inexorably coming closer. No swirling chaos. But he must be dreaming, because someone was saying his name.

He opened his eyes. Looked straight into another pair of eyes. Blue. Beneath black hair. Short. Tousled. Above a snub nose and a smiling mouth.

With some difficulty, Sebastian raised himself on his elbows. The woman who had woken him seemed pleased with her efforts. She walked over to a full-length mirror at the foot of the bed, selected a pair of earrings from a nearby shelf and started to put them on.

The sleep immediately left Sebastian’s brain, to be replaced by the memory of the previous day.

Gunilla, forty-seven, nurse. They had seen each other a few times at Karolinska Hospital. Yesterday had been his final outpatient appointment, and afterwards they had left together, gone out on the town, then back to her place. Surprisingly good sex.

He realised he was stating the obvious, but he wasn’t entirely comfortable with the situation: lying naked in a strange bed while the woman with whom he had spent the night was up and dressed, ready to meet the day. He was usually the one who got up first, preferably without waking his temporary partner. That was how he wanted it. The less he was required to talk before he left them, the better.

Sebastian leaned over and picked up his watch from the bedside table. Almost half past eight. Gunilla was now fastening a slender silver chain around her neck. Sebastian gazed incredulously at her. Forty-seven years old, living in inner-city Stockholm. Surely no one could be that trusting and naive.

‘Are you crazy?’ he said, sitting up. ‘You only met me yesterday. I could take off with half the contents of your apartment.’

After a final check on her appearance, Gunilla came round to his side of the bed. She sat down and placed a hand on his chest.

‘I didn’t meet you yesterday. I went out with you yesterday. I’ve got all the information I need about you at work, so if the TV is gone when I get home, I know where to find you.’

For a moment Ellinor passed through Sebastian’s mind, but he quickly pushed the thought away. He would have to devote a considerable amount of time and energy to her before long, but not now. Gunilla smiled at him again. She was joking. Sebastian thought back to the previous day.

Gunilla quickly leaned forward and kissed him on the mouth before he had time to react. She got to her feet, and on her way to the bedroom door she said:

‘Jocke?’ Sebastian searched his memory for a link to someone called Jocke, but found nothing.

‘Joakim. My son. You can have breakfast with him if you like; he’s up and about.’

Sebastian simply stared at her. He couldn’t think of anything to say. Was she serious? Her son? Here in the apartment? How old was he? How long had he been here? All night? As far as Sebastian recalled, they hadn’t exactly been discreet.

‘Thank you,’ Sebastian managed to say before Gunilla left the room, closing the door behind her. Sebastian slid down onto the pillows once more. He heard her say goodbye to someone – presumably her son – then he heard another door close. The apartment was silent.

Sebastian stretched. It didn’t hurt. It hadn’t hurt for the last few weeks, but he was still enjoying the sensation of moving his body without pain.

He had been stabbed just over two months ago, in the calf and the stomach – by Edward Hinde, psychopath and serial killer. Sebastian had undergone surgery immediately, and things had looked good, very good in fact, but then there had been complications. A drain had been attached to his punctured lung for just over a week, and when it was removed he was told that it would only be a matter of time before he was fully recovered. However, he then developed pneumonia and a build-up of fluid on the lung, so they made another hole in him. Drained off the fluid and stitched him up. He was given instructions on what to do and what not to do, and exercises to do at home. Too many, too difficult, too boring. Anyway, he was better now; yesterday he had been officially declared fit and well.

His body might have recovered, but the Hinde case was never far from his thoughts.

This was partly because Hinde had taken his revenge by having several women killed, women with whom Sebastian had had a sexual relationship. He hadn’t been able to carry out the murders himself, of course, because he had been locked up in the secure unit at Lövhaga since 1996, thanks to Sebastian, but with the help of a cleaner in the unit he had still managed to achieve some aspects of his revenge.

The feeling that the deaths of the four women were his fault was irrational, but he still couldn’t completely shake it off. When the National Murder Squad, known as Riksmord, had picked up the cleaner, Hinde had escaped from prison and abducted Vanja Lithner.

It wasn’t a random kidnapping. It wasn’t because she worked with Sebastian. No, Hinde had somehow worked out that Vanja was Sebastian’s daughter.

Edward Hinde was dead, but sometimes Sebastian thought that if the serial killer had been able to suss out the truth, perhaps others could do the same. He didn’t want that to happen; his relationship with Vanja was good now, better than it had ever been.

He had saved Vanja’s life out there in that remote house with Hinde, and of course that played its part. Sebastian didn’t give a damn whether Vanja put up with him out of gratitude; she was doing it, and that was what mattered. It was more than putting up with him, in fact. She had sought his company twice over the last two months. First of all she had visited him in hospital, and then, when he was discharged but before the pneumonia laid him low, she had suggested they should meet for a coffee.

He could still recall the feeling that flooded his body when he heard her voice.

He hardly remembered what they had talked about. He wanted to commit every detail to memory, every nuance, but the occasion was overwhelming, the situation too much for him. They had sat in a café for an hour and a half. Just the two of them. Her choice. No harsh words. No arguments. He hadn’t felt so alive, so present in the moment, since Boxing Day 2004. Time after time he went back to those ninety minutes they had spent together.

It could happen again. It would happen again. He could go back to work. He wanted to go back to work. Sometimes he even found himself longing – for some kind of context, certainly, but the most important thing was to be near Vanja. He had come to terms with the realisation that he would never be her father. Any attempt to take that role from Valdemar Lithner would end with Sebastian destroying everything. He hadn’t managed to build up very much so far – one hospital visit and ninety minutes over coffee, but it was something.

Sebastian threw back the duvet and got up. He found his underpants on the floor and the rest of his clothes on the chair where he had thrown them nine hours earlier. He ran his fingers through his hair, and after a quick glance in the mirror he opened the bedroom door and stood there for a moment. Sounds from the kitchen. Music. A spoon clinking on china. It seemed that Jocke was having breakfast without him. Sebastian slid into the bathroom and locked the door. He really wanted a shower, but the idea of stripping off with Gunilla’s son just metres away made the idea considerably less appealing. He used the toilet, then washed his hands and face.

On his way to the front door he realised he would have to walk past the kitchen and that was exactly what he intended to do. Walk past. Jocke would see nothing but Sebastian’s back if he happened to look up. Sebastian headed into the hallway, found his shoes and put them on, then started looking for his jacket. No sign.

‘Your jacket’s in here,’ a deep voice announced from the kitchen. Sebastian closed his eyes and swore quietly to himself. He had wanted to seem in a bit of a hurry last night, as if he might not be able to stay, even though they both knew that was exactly what he was going to do. He had taken off his jacket in the kitchen while Gunilla was opening a bottle of wine.

He sighed deeply and went into the kitchen. A young man aged about twenty was sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal and an iPad in front of him. He nodded at the chair opposite without taking his eyes off the tablet.

The young man still hadn’t taken his eyes off the iPad. Sebastian looked at him. No doubt the easiest thing for both of them would have been to let the last remark pass without comment, and for Sebastian to turn around and leave, but why go for the easy option?

‘Is there any coffee going?’ Sebastian asked as he put on his jacket. If Gunilla’s son didn’t want him there, then he would stay a while. It made no difference to him. The young man glanced up in surprise.

‘Over there,’ he said, nodding in Sebastian’s direction. Sebastian turned around. There was no sign of a coffee machine or a percolator or a cafetière, but then he spotted a black semi-circular object that looked like a futuristic motorcycle helmet, with a grid under some kind of tap. Buttons on the sides. Metal on top. There were three small glass cups next to it, so Sebastian assumed it delivered some kind of beverage.

‘Do you know how it works?’ Jocke asked when Sebastian made no attempt to approach the machine.

Jocke glanced wearily at him, took a capsule from a rack that Sebastian hadn’t even noticed, opened the lid of the machine, put the capsule inside, closed the lid, placed one of the glass cups under the tap, then pressed a button.

He went back to his seat. Sebastian suddenly had the feeling that Joakim had experienced slightly too many mornings with slightly too many strange men in his kitchen. He picked up the cup in silence. The coffee was certainly strong. And hot. He burned his tongue, but finished it off without saying a word.

It took him a few seconds to get his bearings and work out the shortest route home. To the apartment on Grev Magnigatan.

His lodger, or whatever she might be. How she had ended up living with him was still something of a mystery to Sebastian.

They had met when Hinde started murdering his former sexual partners. Sebastian had gone to see Ellinor in order to warn her, and she had moved in with him. He should have thrown her out right away, but she was still there.

He had spent a great deal of time trying to work out his relationship with Ellinor. There were some things he was absolutely sure of.

Did he even like her? Not really. But part of him appreciated what she had done to his life. She gave it some level of normality. Against all the odds, he found himself enjoying her company. They cooked together. Lay in bed watching TV. Had sex. Often. She whistled. She giggled. When he got home she told him she had missed him. He didn’t want to admit it to himself, because he didn’t want it to be true, not with Ellinor, but her presence had meant that, for the first time in many years, he had started to think of his apartment as home.

Was he using her? Absolutely. He didn’t really give a shit about her. Everything she said went in one ear and out the other. She was like background music. But she had been fantastic during his convalescence. In all honesty, he couldn’t imagine how he would have coped without her during the weeks when the pneumonia knocked him for six. She had taken time off from her job at Åhlén’s department store, she hadn’t left his side. But however grateful he might be for her efforts, it just wasn’t enough.

Ellinor was an admiring, almost self-effacing, not entirely sane home help with whom he had sex. Even if his life had become easier and more comfortable in every way, it wouldn’t work in the long term. The normality of everyday life that Ellinor had introduced was no more than a construct. A chimera. He had appreciated it for a while, encouraged it perhaps, but now he was certain he didn’t want it to go on.

He had recovered, he had slowly begun to establish a relationship of sorts with Vanja, he assumed he had a job. The seeds of something that could become a life.

Shibeka Khan was waiting. As usual. She was sitting by the kitchen window on the third floor of the run-down 1960s apartment block in Rinkeby. Outside the leaves had begun to turn yellow and red. Pre-school children were shouting and screaming in the open spaces between the blocks. Shibeka couldn’t remember how many years she had sat watching the children play. Same window, same apartment, different children. Time passed so quickly out there. In her kitchen it felt as if time had stopped.

She loved the hours after her sons had left and before the day got under way. She was active, she had many friends, she worked as a care assistant, she was making excellent progress in learning Swedish, and the previous year she had gained a place on a training course to become a nurse. But, for a couple of hours on those mornings when she was free, she would sit and watch the outside world. It was her other life, somehow. A time when she could show her respect and love for Hamid.

If she thought back, she knew she would be able to work out exactly how many years she had been sitting here, but right now she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t cope with remembering. Her boys were the clearest sign of the time that had passed. Mehran was in his final year at secondary school now, while Eyer was struggling a couple of years below him; he didn’t find things as easy as his older brother. Eyer had been four when Hamid disappeared; Mehran had just turned six. Shibeka recalled his smile when his daddy gave him a new bag, black with two blue stripes, ready for starting school in the autumn. His smile, his dark eyes shining with pride because he was growing up. The warm embrace between father and son. A week later Hamid was gone, just as if the ground had opened and swallowed him up. It was a Thursday. A Thursday a very long time ago.

Oddly enough, she almost missed him more as the years went by. Not in that intense way she had felt at first, but in a more sorrowful, painful way.

Shibeka was suddenly angry with herself. She was back there again, with her memories. Those memories were exactly what she couldn’t cope with, but her mind took no notice of what she wanted. It slipped past her attempts to control it, found its way into the past. Found the friends who helped in the search. The children’s questions and tears. Hamid’s best suit, the one she had picked up from the dry cleaner’s, waiting for him in vain. A carousel of images and individual moments, driven by the hope that her mind might find something she had missed, something that would make sense of it all. But she was always disappointed. She had examined every detail thousands of times, every face was already familiar to her. It was pointless.

In order to get away from her whirling thoughts, Shibeka got up and walked to the window. It was Friday and soon he would come, she knew that. After today it would be two days before he came again. Not that she believed he would bring anything, they had stopped replying long ago, but she refused to give up. She had carried on sending them. Practised her Swedish, her handwriting, using the right words, the official language. She had become so skilled at writing to the authorities that many of her friends now asked for her help.

Then she saw him. The postman. As usual he cycled up the path, then began his round in block two, then four and six, then he would come into block eight. Her block.

She waited until she saw him emerge from number six before tiptoeing into the hallway, trying to be as quiet as possible. Not that it was necessary, but she hoped that her silence would somehow increase her chances.

She positioned herself by the door, listening. After a while she heard the dull metallic click as the main door opened downstairs. She pictured him walking to the lift, pressing the call button. He always went up to the top first, then worked his way down. That was his routine. Hers was to stand in silence in the hallway.

She pressed her body against the door. Two different sounds. One from outside, far away. One very close – her own breathing and the hum of the fridge in the kitchen. Two worlds, separated by wood and a metal letter box. The steps came closer. For Shibeka, there was something religious about this moment.

With a noise that seemed almost deafening the letter box flicked open and a number of colourful flyers fell to the floor in front of her. Everything around her faded away as Shibeka bent down. Beneath the latest special offers from the local supermarket lay a white envelope.

Well, it was, but it was a mistake. Anyone could make a mistake, couldn’t they? Maria was being totally unreasonable. OK, she was tired, but who wasn’t? And it wasn’t as if Karin had deliberately taken them on a detour.

Maria had celebrated her fiftieth birthday in July, and Karin’s present had been a trip to the mountains. The Jämtland triangle.

She thought the names alone made the trip seem more exotic than it actually was. The plan was to do some fairly easy walking, nothing too adventurous. Short, manageable routes each day, then a shower, sauna, food, wine, and a proper bed when they reached the various mountain stations. Karin had done some walking in the area with Fredrik many years ago, and thought it would be just perfect. A restorative encounter with nature, with a little luxury thrown in.

It was a lovely present. An expensive present. With the journey up there, and four overnight stays, including dinner for the two of them, the cost ran to five figures, but Maria was worth it. She had been Karin’s best friend for many years. She had been there for Karin when others had backed away a little. Breast cancer, divorce, the death of her mother. They had gone through it all together. They had also had a lot of fun, of course, but they had never been walking. In fact, Maria had never been north of Karlstad. Now it was time.

Karin had chosen the last weekend that the mountain stations were open: the end of September. This was partly to avoid the relatively busy summer period, and to give Maria time to plan and book a few days’ leave from work, but also because Karin was hoping that the autumn would have kicked in, bringing high, clear air and a colourful display provided by the natural landscape. She wanted the mountains to show themselves at their very best to her beloved friend.

She hadn’t even considered the possibility that it might pour with rain almost non-stop from the minute they got off the train in Enafors.

‘They say it’s going to be much better at the beginning of next week,’ the bus driver taking them to Storulvån mountain station assured them when they asked if he knew anything about the weather prospects.

‘Things can change very quickly up here,’ Karin said encouragingly. ‘It’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

And their stay had started well. They had arrived at the mountain station, found their room to be simple but pleasant, gone for a walk in the surrounding area, taken an afternoon nap, had a sauna and bathed in a mountain spring, and in the evening they had enjoyed a delicious meal in the restaurant, treating themselves to wine and then a liqueur with their coffee.

This morning they had got up at seven. After breakfast they made a packed lunch and filled a Thermos with coffee before setting off shortly before eight thirty. The sky was clear, but they knew there were no guarantees, so they both had wet-weather gear, sturdy boots and a change of warm clothing with them.

They crossed the river and made their way along the lush valley, which, according to the map in the hotel, was known as Parken. They took their time, chatting and stopping to take photographs or simply to enjoy their surroundings. They were in no hurry. It was only twelve kilometres from Storulvån to Blåhammaren, which was their next stop. After three kilometres they left the mountain birch forest and carried on along a plateau, heading up towards the shelter at Ulvåtjärn. By the time they arrived, they had almost forgotten it was raining. They could see a long uphill climb beyond the shelter, so they took plenty of time over their lunch and coffee. They agreed that the appalling weather was something they would remember and laugh about later. Much later, probably, but one day . . . Eventually they set off again, sometimes chatting away, sometimes walking in silence.

After another hour or so they saw Blåhammaren station up on the top of the mountain. They decided that their top priority was a shower and a sauna, and marched across the barren, sodden landscape with renewed vigour.

With only a kilometre left to go they stopped, took out their plastic cups and drank from a stream gushing down the mountainside. Afterwards Karin couldn’t remember why she had pulled out the plastic folder containing the booking confirmation. She had opened her rucksack to get a packet of nuts and raisins, and for some reason she had glanced at her documents.

She couldn’t make any sense of what she was seeing. None at all. She looked again, realised what had happened and slid the folder back into her rucksack while she worked out the best way to tell Maria what she had just discovered. There was no good way. There was only the truth.

‘Shit,’ she said, making it clear that she too was disturbed by what she had just read.

‘What’s the matter?’ Maria asked, her mouth full of cashew nuts. ‘If you’ve forgotten something you can go back on your own. In my head I’m already in the sauna with a beer.’

‘And?’ Maria dipped her cup in the water, took a sip then threw the rest away.

‘What are you talking about? It’s up there. Did we miss something along the way?’

Maria attached the cup to her rucksack and got ready to move on. Karin gritted her teeth.

‘But you’ve been saying Blåhammaren all the time. From Storulvån to Blåhammaren to Sylarna. That’s what you’ve said all along.’

‘I know, that’s what I thought, but we’re booked into Sylarna tonight and Blåhammaren tomorrow night, according to the booking confirmation.’

Maria was still staring at her. Not now. Not when they were so close. Karin was joking. She had to be joking.

Karin met Maria’s gaze, and Maria realised immediately: she wasn’t joking. But maybe it wasn’t the end of the world? They’d gone a bit wrong; hopefully they would only have to go back about a kilometre.

Karin hesitated. She could tell from Maria’s tone of voice that she was about to lose her temper, but saying ‘not too far’ or ‘just a bit further’ wasn’t an option. Once again, only the truth would do.

‘It’s nineteen kilometres from Blåhammaren to Sylarna. We haven’t quite reached Blåhammaren, so eighteen. Maybe seventeen.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Karin! We’ll never get there! Can’t they take us up there tonight, and we’ll move on to Sylarna tomorrow? Surely we can rebook?’

For a moment Karin felt a wave of relief. Of course, that was the solution. Sensible Maria. Secure in the knowledge that everything was going to be all right, she took out her mobile phone and the booking confirmation.

No, it wasn’t possible to rebook, apparently. Everywhere was full. The last weekend they were open was extremely popular. If they had an inflatable mattress or a sleeping mat they could bed down out in the shed, and they could book a table for dinner after 21.30. Karin and Maria had considered the offer, but Maria made it very clear that she wasn’t going to sleep in a fucking shed. She grabbed her rucksack and strode off.

To begin with it seemed that Maria didn’t want to talk, but after a while Karin came to the conclusion that she was probably beyond speech. In spite of the fact that it was raining and the headwind was biting at their cheeks, Maria’s face was greyish-white, and her skin seemed loose, as if she had no facial muscles.

She looked utterly exhausted. She hardly answered when Karin spoke to her; Karin was trying to keep their spirits up, but it was becoming more and more difficult.

‘Hang on, let’s have a little rest,’ Karin said after they had been walking for an hour and a half.

‘Don’t be so fucking stupid. We might as well keep going, then at least we’ll get there at some fucking point.’

‘Have some nuts, they’ll give us an energy boost. I need to fill up my water bottle anyway.’ She nodded in the direction of the rushing water a few metres below.

Karin sounded more convinced than she felt; she was determined to keep up the positivity rather than moaning and giving in to Maria’s bad mood. She hoped that dinner and a night’s sleep would make her friend feel better so that the whole trip wouldn’t be ruined. She walked towards the edge of the plateau. Maria was right, it was going to be difficult to get down; it was pretty steep. Difficult, but not impossible.

Karin took a step closer to the edge and the ground disappeared beneath her feet. She fell, screamed, tried to grab something to hold on to. Her left hand found a grip on the way down, but it broke off and she rolled down the slope along with earth, mud and debris. She banged her right knee and just had time to think that it wasn’t going to stop her from reaching Sylarna when she landed about a metre away from the stream. A few small stones followed her down, scattering in the mud.

Laboriously Karin hauled herself into a sitting position. Her light-coloured waterproof looked as if she had undergone ten rounds of mud wrestling, but her body seemed to have survived. Her knee was hurting a bit, but that was all.

Was she holding something? Karin looked and threw it away with a horrified shriek.

What Maria had thought were sticks were the bones of the forearm, snapped off at the elbow. Karin looked up at the slope where she had fallen. A metre below where Maria was standing she could see the rest of the arm protruding, and next to it there was a skull embedded in the mud.

Valdemar Lithner sighed. She had turned up for the first time just over two months ago. Called the company and booked an appointment. Insisted on seeing him, apparently. The point of her visit had been less than clear, and the subsequent meetings hadn’t exactly helped. Something to do with a business she was hoping to start; she needed advice and assistance. He had done his best, but nothing had happened. Ellinor was no closer to running her own business today than she had been the first time he met her. He had asked her why she wanted to see him in particular, and she told him he had been recommended by an acquaintance of hers. Valdemar had wondered who that might be, but she had been extremely vague. It turned out that she was extremely vague on a number of issues, such as what kind of business she was thinking of and what she was going to do.

But today was to be their final meeting, and then he could forget Ellinor Bergkvist for good. On his way to the door he pressed his hands against his aching back and stretched his spine as best he could. Ellinor was waiting in the small reception area and got to her feet as soon as she saw him.

She smiled at him as they shook hands. He showed her into his office and she took off her red coat before sitting down opposite him with her oversized handbag on her knee.

‘Ellinor,’ Valdemar interrupted, and there was something about the way he said her name that made her stop rummaging and look up. ‘I don’t think you should continue to be our client.’

Ellinor stiffened. Had he become suspicious? Had she made a mistake? Had he somehow worked out that she wasn’t there for financial advice, but because . . . why was she there, actually? She had just wanted to see who he was. What he was. It had been exciting, sitting there opposite a criminal who was guilty of fraud, who had threatened her man and possibly been involved in murder.

When she had moved in with her beloved Sebastian, she had found a carrier bag full of papers. Sebastian had seemed stressed when she mentioned the bag, and had told her to throw it away. Destroy it.

She had read the contents. Recognised a name – Daktea Investments – and realised that Valdemar Lithner was definitely a criminal. She was convinced that no one who had been involved in the tangled affairs of Daktea could be innocent; there had been so much about it in the papers a few years ago.

When Sebastian was at home suffering from pneumonia, she had once asked him about Valdemar. She had just wondered who he was, nothing else. Sebastian had been furious, demanded to know where she had heard the name, what she knew. She had told the truth, said she had looked in the carrier bag. Then she had lied in response to his next question. Assured him she had thrown it away.

At the same time, she had been pleased. Sebastian’s strong reaction proved that she was on the right track. He seemed to be afraid of Lithner. She really was helping Sebastian by investigating Valdemar Lithner under her own steam, with the aim of eventually bringing him to justice. But now it was over.

‘Why not?’ Ellinor asked, shuffling towards the edge of her chair, ready to flee if Valdemar turned violent.

‘Because I don’t think I can help you. This is our fourth meeting, and you haven’t even started your business yet.’

‘Let me make a suggestion. You get your business up and running, then, when you’ve got all the paperwork in place, come back and we’ll see what we can do.’

Valdemar didn’t move. For some reason he had expected resistance. After all, she had spent more than six hours in his office. She had paid for his time, and got nothing out of the experience. He had assumed she would try to cling on. He didn’t really know why; she just seemed to be that type.

Ellinor smiled at him as she left the office. She stopped in reception to put on her coat, her thoughts in a whirl. Had he seen through her?

She took a deep breath. Steadied herself. Looked calmly at the situation. She was still registered at her old address, there was no link between her and Sebastian unless Lithner had followed her, which seemed unlikely. There was probably nothing to worry about; he really didn’t think he could help her. She wasn’t going to get any further; it was time for the professionals to take over. Sebastian would never need to know that she was responsible for Valdemar Lithner’s disappearance. It would be her secret gift to him. A token of her love.

Shibeka was pacing around the apartment. She was excited, yet at the same time she had waited so long for something like this that now it was actually happening, she was almost afraid. She sat down, picked up the letter that she had carefully placed on the kitchen table, and read it again. The text covered only the middle of the page. It seemed strange that something so important could be so short.

Dear Shibeka,

Thank you for your letter – sorry it’s taken so long to reply. The production team have evaluated the information you gave us, and would very much like to get in touch with you. It would be great if we could meet, with no obligation on either side of course; this would give us the opportunity to gain a better understanding of your story and to decide how to proceed on the subject of your husband’s disappearance.
Please call me.

Lennart Stridh

Reporter

Investigation Today

At the bottom of the page there was an address and a couple of telephone numbers. Shibeka put down the letter. Should she tell her sons about it? Probably not. As far as she was concerned, the spark of hope could flare up and die away, it had happened many times over the years, she was used to it. But her children had to be protected. It had been painful enough for them, growing up without a father. But she wasn’t sure. Could she really do this on her own? She read the letter again, as if to see if it could provide any answers, but it led back to the same questions. What did ‘with no obligation on either side’ mean? Was it just a way of not taking responsibility? What would they think of her story? It was true, but would that be enough? Could she really meet this man alone? Her family and friends wouldn’t approve. They would be right, in principle, but she didn’t want anyone with her. They would hold her back, speak on her behalf, make her sit in silence, and then everything would have been in vain. She didn’t want that. She wanted to hear her own voice this time, make it count. Her friends knew how she had struggled, refused to give up, but would they understand that this was Sweden, a country where women could meet men without a chaperone? Unlikely.

So no one else could know. She went into the hallway and sat down next to the black cordless telephone. It was on a small table, and she remembered when she and Hamid brought it home. A telephone. They had bought it in the big department store down by the area that was now known as Bromma Blocks; she had never seen so many television sets in her life, and at first she couldn’t believe her eyes. An entire wall of moving images. Row upon row of boxes containing everything from headphones to DVD players. The excess. She and Hamid had looked at one another and smiled at the thought of all those people who thought they had lots of money, but in fact had so little.

They had bought a telephone and the cheapest TV they could find. Said had given them a lift home. She remembered sitting in the back of the car, eagerly turning over the white box with a picture of a telephone on it. She couldn’t wait to get it open. Hold the phone in her hand.

They had spent many evenings trying to reach friends and relatives in Kandahar. It had always been difficult. Their mobiles rarely worked, and if Shibeka and Hamid did get through, the connection could be broken at any moment. However, she still remembered those times with a warm glow.

About the Author

About the Book

Acknowledgements