Watching You(36)

‘How are we getting on with Sollentuna?’ Berger asked, speaking over the recording.

‘Nothing yet,’ Deer said. ‘Syl’s working on it. If a fifteen-year-old girl disappeared there she’ll find it.’

‘If that’s true, then I managed to miss it. It must be hidden behind something else. Look for other crimes in Helenelund the summer before last.’

‘That’s a pretty wide search, I promise you. But what struck me most about that was your in-depth knowledge of Sollentuna.’

Deer pointed at the screen. Berger was just saying: ‘Stupv?gen. The shopping centre at Helenelund. That fits with the car park under the blocks of flats.’

Berger nodded. ‘I grew up there.’

Then Allan returned, smelling of smoke. Berger had just been thinking to himself that it was remarkable Allan had never smoked a single cigarette in his life. He chuckled as he detected a smell of wet fabric alongside the smoke. In all likelihood Allan hadn’t been to the toilet at all, but on one of Police Headquarters’ smoking balconies. He was soaked.

Berger saw a pool of water start to form around Allan’s beautifully polished shoes, and something fell into place inside him.

When you’re out in the rain you get wet.

He took out his mobile phone and swiped to find the most recent photograph. Nathalie Fredén standing inside the front door of her flat on Vidargatan, having just switched the light on. And the floor around her feet was completely dry. Not a single raindrop shimmered on her off-white raincoat. It was completely dry.

Micrometeorology.

‘OK,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘My turn to go to the toilet.’

He left the office and hurried down the stairs and along the deserted corridors. After a few more sets of stairs and corridors he reached the media room and stormed through it. He yanked open one of the inner doors.

Syl looked up from her computer screens with her thin hair sticking up above a pair of bloodshot eyes and said, actually sounding surprised: ‘Sambo? Aren’t you in the interview room?’

‘Later,’ Berger said. The office chair next to Syl had been reclined as far as it would go, and on it was a Winnie-the-Pooh pillow and duvet. A small head with thin, mousy hair stuck out from the gap between them. The little panting breaths had a dampening effect on Berger’s agitated state.

‘My daughter, Moira,’ Syl said, smiling a smile that Berger had never seen before. ‘I had to bring her in with me; there’s been a hell of a lot of overtime lately.’

‘I didn’t even know you were married,’ Berger whispered, bewildered.

‘Is that obligatory?’ Syl said with a wry smile. ‘You and Freja were never married, were you?’

Berger looked at the peacefully sleeping child and couldn’t help smiling softly. Whoever the father was, his genes hadn’t stood a chance. Moira was the spitting image of her mother, Sylvia Andersson.

‘But Syl,’ Berger exclaimed. ‘How old is she?’

‘Five,’ Syl said. ‘Don’t tell Allan.’

‘The day I start gossiping to Allan you’ll know I’m just seconds away from smelling burning hair,’ Berger said. ‘She’s beautiful, take good care of her.’

Syl looked at him for a moment. Something like sympathy appeared on her face. It disappeared as she said: ‘What did you want, Sambo?’

‘Yes, what did I want?’ Berger said, unable to take his eyes off Moira. ‘Oh yes, have you checked out Wiborg Supplies?’

‘I think Maja’s doing that. But where the bike was bought is hardly that big a deal …’

‘It’s just that Wiborg sounds familiar somehow. It’s not ringing any bells?’

Syl slowly shook her head.

‘Can you do an anonymous search?’ Berger said.

Syl looked distinctly disapproving. ‘What did we agree when I helped you dig out the investigations into Julia and Jonna?’

‘That it was the last time you’d do anything illicit for me. But I also happen to know that not only can you do it, but you also find it quite exciting.’

‘It’s risky …’

‘Do it. I’ll take any flak.’

He walked out, taking one last look at Moira’s peacefully sleeping form. He went and got his car from the deserted police garage and drove through the black, rain-drenched city. He reached Vidargatan, and double-parked as close as he could. To save getting wet.

As if that were possible.

It was just after three o’clock when he entered the stairwell, turned the lights on and climbed the stairs. The door was sealed with police tape. He looked at it for a moment; there was no sign that it had been touched, let alone broken. He tore it off, picked the lock, stepped inside and stopped in the darkness behind the door, caught his breath.

Yes, he could tell. Someone had been there. But that wasn’t enough, obviously.

He switched his torch on and shone it over the walls of the small hallway. Now that he knew what he was looking for it was easy enough to find. It hadn’t been there the last time he was in the flat.

The centimetre-wide hole just above the door to the kitchen seemed to radiate a sort of luminous darkness. A few tiny grains of white lay on the threshold. Berger crouched down and ascertained that it was plaster. He found a stool and climbed on top of it. Poked the hole.