Watching You(51)

‘For fuck’s sake,’ Berger said.

He didn’t even have enough energy to feel angry any more. He felt hopelessly lost. Exposed. And at the same time something else was going on inside him. A process. A process that involved a pink Post-it note.

‘Winter clothes, I’d say,’ Blom went on, unconcerned. ‘Winter clothes, even though it looks rather springlike in that ditch with all that coltsfoot. What’s the old peasants’ saying? Bring in the spring with a sweat, and the autumn with a shiver? I’d guess the second half of April. What year?’

Berger remained silent.

Blom slammed her fist down on the table, then fixed her flaring eyes on him and roared: ‘There’s no way you’re going to sit there and sulk, you pathetic excuse for a cop! The clock’s ticking for Ellen Savinger.’

‘If I was the murderer,’ Berger muttered in surprise, ‘why would I care about that?’

‘Answer my questions. That’s all you have to do. Answer the questions as quickly as possible. Don’t say anything else.’

He wondered how many times he thought he’d seen his first glimpse of the real Molly Blom.

‘You know exactly when the picture was taken,’ Berger muttered. ‘You just have to look at my phone; it’ll tell you, down to the minute.’

He looked up and met her gaze. It hadn’t changed at all.

‘If you really do want to save Ellen,’ he went on, forcing himself to meet that stony gaze, ‘why did you spend so long on all that mysterious Nathalie Fredén crap? To see what I knew? You could have done it this way instead, with a bit of standard-issue torture from your external resources; it would have gone much faster. No, that’s not true. You’re the sharpest instrument Internal has got – the sharpest those clowns have ever had – and you weren’t putting on that performance for my benefit. You don’t think I’m guilty at all. This is another performance. I wonder what kind.’

Blom’s eyes were on fire now. She clenched her fist and looked off to the side, up towards one of the small cameras embedded in the ceiling. Two seconds later the man called Roy yanked open the door and stared at Blom with his nostrils flaring. She shook her head briefly. Roy returned to the control room, apparently disappointed.

‘Next time I’ll let him do what he likes,’ Blom said with strained calm. ‘Are you ready to give precise answers to my questions?’

Berger looked into her eyes. They were different now. He tried to put together the barest outline of what was going on. Whatever was happening was completely out of his control, and didn’t seem to have anything to do with Roy either. He nodded.

‘When did you last see your twins?’ Blom asked.

‘Like you said, that picture was taken in April, two years ago, two and a half. One month later that scum took them from school, three weeks before the end of term. Year 2. They were eight then, they’re eleven now.’

‘I assume you’re aware of how much information your reply contained, Sam?’

He made a grudging gesture with his head but remained silent.

Blom went on: ‘You use the term scum to refer to your ex-wife? The same name you’ve given our kidnapper?’

‘She is scum,’ Berger said. ‘And we were never married, thank God.’

‘Well, at least it’s refreshing that you don’t call her a whore,’ Blom said. ‘After all, you’ve turned poor Desiré Rosenkvist into your Madonna, your little Deer.’

Before Berger had time to respond Blom flipped the second frame, the bright blue one, revealing a picture of Berger’s former partner. It was a wonderful picture, taken on the beach in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, and he still couldn’t quite bring himself to look at it. It was always turned the wrong way round on his desk at home. But now he looked away too late.

‘Here we have “scum” number two,’ Molly Blom said. ‘Originally known as Freja Lindstr?m. You lived together for eleven years. During those years you had Oscar and Marcus together. Freja didn’t marry you during those eleven years, Sam, but when she met French businessman Jean she got married after just six months. The whole family now lives in Paris. Freja is now Freja Babineaux, and your sons are now Marcus and Oscar Babineaux. Is it true that you haven’t seen them since that April day two years ago? When she took them and ran?’

Berger’s eyes had been closed for a while. Now he opened them.

‘Ran?’ he said.

‘There’s a police report from Arlanda Airport,’ Blom said. ‘Some sort of altercation with the security personnel, committed by a Samuel Berger. Came to blows. But Freja, Marcus and Oscar Lindstr?m were all on the next flight to Paris. Little more than a month later they were Freja, Marcus and Oscar Babineaux. So yes, “ran” seems to be the correct word.’

‘No,’ Berger said quietly. ‘My life fell apart when she left, I wasn’t in a fit state to look after two unruly eight-year-olds. I let her have custody. But I’d hardly have done that if I’d known she was going to take the twins out of the country. When I found out, I went to Arlanda to try to persuade her to stay.’

‘And instead you assaulted the staff at the security check?’

‘Hardly assaulted …’

Berger closed his eyes again. He was trying to stop them overflowing. But he couldn’t hide the situation with his hands. Nothing to wipe the inevitable tears with.