A Death in Sweden(28)

“You’re right. But we have something to go on. We find out everything we can about Sabine Merel and her connections, how she died, where, whether anyone was ever caught or suspected. We find out who Jack Redford was, by which I mean, what he did, what his job was and how that brought him into contact with Sabine and conflict with Brabham.”

She nodded this time and said, “He and Brabham must have known each other for sure, and Brabham must have had a strong reason for sending someone up here to look around Redford’s house.”

“We might find out more about Sabine here, and I want to see if any of the rest of this leads back to her. Patrick should be able to tell us more about Redford.”

“You hope.”

“It depends if he was a company man, or known to them. Looking at his stockpile, I just have the feeling we’re dealing with someone who worked the dark side, and if he did that any time in the last twenty years, Patrick White will know who he is.”

She turned and looked at the picture of Sabine again. Inger was standing in profile to him as a result, a beautiful sight that somehow caused him another little pang of longing, even in the midst of the low-level adrenalin rush he felt now that they’d made a breakthrough. He found himself transfixed, the strand of blonde hair loose behind her ear, the unpierced lobe, the smooth skin of her neck.

Inger stared at the photograph for a few seconds, and finally said, “Whatever he did, he was quite a selfless man, wasn’t he?”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, we don’t know his connection to this girl, but whatever it was, he still dedicated a big part of his life to seeking some kind of justice for her.”

“You don’t know that’s what he was looking for.”

“No, but it seems likely, in one form or another. And then his last act, saving the person nearest to him. I’ve seen people in situations like that, perhaps you have too, and they don’t think they’ll be the hero, but they can’t stop themselves when the moment comes.”

“I’ll give you that, his last act was selfless. And maybe this was too.” He smiled. “I’m sorry to say I’m not quite as noble. I’m only looking at saving me.”

She smiled and said, “Maybe your moment just hasn’t come yet.”

Maybe. He liked to think it might be true but, as things stood, his record didn’t look good—he’d delivered plenty of pain in his life, but had never yet saved anyone, not even those who’d mattered most.





Chapter Seventeen


Sabine Merel had been an art student in Paris, studying sculpture, sharing a small apartment with a couple of other girls. She’d been working late in the studio at the art college one night in May, but had arranged to meet her friends later at a party. They’d thought little of it when she’d failed to show up.

The next morning, her body had been found in the alley at the back of a restaurant. She’d been punched hard in the face, then strangled with her own scarf some short time later. She’d been robbed, and her clothes, casual clothes for the studio, had been left in disarray, top pulled up, jeans and underwear pulled down, but there had been no evidence of a sexual assault beyond that.

The police had subsequently suggested that both the robbery and the interference with Sabine’s clothing might have been post-mortem attempts to suggest a false motive, and they’d speculated that Sabine had more likely been killed by someone known to her.

A student who’d also been in the studio that night had been questioned but then released without charge. A brief media storm had followed because the male student was of Algerian origin and, given the strength of his alibi, the police had faced accusations of racism.

There had been no other suspects in the murder of Sabine Merel and no one had ever been charged with the crime. It seemed that in the fourteen years since, no further leads had ever arisen, and the death of this young art student had been quietly forgotten, probably by everyone except her own family and friends and, of course, Jack Redford.

It had taken Dan the last hour of the afternoon to piece together that much, working through the French in the articles Redford had saved. In one sense it was nothing new or surprising to him. He’d known, seen, and sometimes even brought about, too many unjustified deaths to be much moved by the story of another.

Yet it had moved him in some way, his mood sinking as the hour had ground on, perhaps because of the gradual drip-feed of information, bringing the girl back to life, even though he knew it was an illusion and that nothing would undo what had been done to her all those years before. He doubted anything would stir within him the indignation Redford had clearly felt, but he felt sad all the same, and mystified by that sadness, for a woman he’d never known, who’d been dead a long time.

As they walked back through the twilight, a darkness that seemed to rise up from the woodland floor rather than descend from above, he summarized what he’d learned for Inger’s benefit. She walked ahead of him in complete silence, though he could tell she was listening intently.

It was a simple story, yet harrowing for all that, and he felt his energy sapping away just in the telling of it, the all-too-familiar tale of a young woman with a promising future snuffed out for no reason at all.

He finished just before they got to the cabin and at the door Inger turned and shook her head and he noticed that a tear had worked its way free and glistened on her cheek. In some way he was both pleased and sorry that it had upset her.