Dark Secrets (48 page)

That was what Ursula regarded as the key to her love for him. He never gave up. In spite of all the failures, the lapses, the shattered hopes, he struggled on. More determined than her, stronger than her. He fell, he failed, but he got up and carried on.

For her.

For Bella.

For the family.

And Ursula was loyal to those who fought for her sake. Unswervingly loyal. It wasn’t particularly romantic, it wasn’t a teenage girl’s dream of a perfect relationship, but Ursula had never been very impressed by that kind of thing. She had always valued loyalty above love. You needed people who were there for you, and you stuck with those people. They deserved it. If there was something missing within the relationship, you had to find it elsewhere.

Torkel wasn’t her first lover, although he no doubt thought he was. No, there had been others. Early on in her relationship with Mikael she had complemented him with others. In the beginning she had tried to disapprove of her actions, but it had been impossible. However hard she had tried. She didn’t entirely believe that she was letting Mikael down. Her extramarital adventures made it possible for her to stay with him. She needed both the emotional complexity she found in Mikael and the undemanding physical closeness of someone like Torkel. She was like a battery that needed both a plus and a minus pole in order to function. Otherwise she felt empty.

There was, however, one thing she demanded from both of them.

Loyalty.

Which was where Torkel had let her down. That was the simple
explanation for her decision to bring the two poles together and cause a short circuit. It had been a childish and emotional decision, and she hadn’t thought it through. But at least it had worked.

And dinner had been pleasant.

She left Mikael outside the restaurant, promising to be back at the hotel as soon as possible, but explaining that it might take a while. Mikael said he had brought a book with him, so he’d be fine. No need for her to worry.

After the encounter with Mikael, Torkel’s evening continued on its downward trajectory. Billy called on his way back from Groth’s house, reporting that they hadn’t found anything. No blood on any items of clothing, no muddy shoes, no trace that Roger—or anyone else, for that matter—had been in the house. No Pirelli tires on the car, no traces of blood in the car or the carport. No container of highly flammable liquid, no clothes reeking of smoke. Nothing to link Groth to the murders of either Roger Eriksson or Peter Westin.

Nothing.

Not a thing.

Billy was intending to go through Groth’s computer one more time, but advised Torkel not to expect too much.

Torkel ended the call with a sigh. He sat down at the table and stared unseeingly at the wall with all the pictures and information about the case. They could hold Groth for twenty-four hours, but Torkel honestly couldn’t see how they could strengthen the case against him at the moment. No prosecutor in the world would agree to his arrest on the basis of what they had now. So it didn’t make much difference whether they let him go tonight or tomorrow afternoon.

Torkel was just about to get to his feet when Vanja came hurtling into the room. He hadn’t expected to see her again today. She’d said she had some private business to take care of.

“Why the hell did you bring Sebastian Bergman into this investigation?”

Her eyes flashed with anger. Torkel looked at her wearily.

“I think I’ve explained that enough times.”

“It was a stupid decision.”

“Has something happened?”

“No, nothing’s happened. But he has to go. He’s ruining everything.”

Torkel’s phone rang. He looked at the display. The chief superintendent. Torkel gave Vanja a slightly apologetic look and answered. They exchanged information for barely one minute.

Torkel was told that
Expressen
had linked Peter Westin to Palmlövska High, and therefore to Roger Eriksson. It was on the Internet.

The chief superintendent was told that Torkel intended to release Ragnar Groth, and why. Torkel was told that the chief superintendent was not happy. The case needed to be solved. And soon.

The chief superintendent was told that they were doing their best.

Torkel was told that the chief superintendent expected Torkel to speak to the journalists who had gathered outside the station before he left for the evening.

The chief superintendent hung up. So did Torkel, but that didn’t mean his troubles were over; he realized this as soon as he met Vanja’s gaze.

“We’re letting Groth go?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“You heard what I said on the phone, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“There you go, then.”

Vanja stood in silence for a moment, as if she was processing the information she had just been given. She quickly came to a conclusion.

“I hate this case. I hate this whole town.” She turned and walked toward the door, opened it, then stopped halfway and looked back at Torkel.

“And I hate Sebastian Bergman.”

Vanja left the room, closing the door behind her. Torkel watched
her march through the empty office. He picked up his jacket somewhat wearily from the back of the chair. His snap decision to bring in Sebastian really had cost him.

Half an hour later Torkel had sorted out all the details relating to the release. Ragnar Groth had been polite but said little. He had repeated his hope that they had been discreet and demanded an unmarked car or a taxi to take him home. From a door at the back of the station. He had no intention of walking out the front and becoming a target for the press. It wasn’t possible to get hold of an unmarked car at this late hour, so Torkel ordered a taxi. They took their leave. Groth expressed the hope that he wouldn’t have to see them again. Torkel couldn’t help thinking the feeling was mutual. He waited until the rear lights of the cab had disappeared from view. Stood there. Tried to think of something that needed doing. Something he could prioritize with a clear conscience. He failed. He had no option but to go and face the press.

If there was one thing Torkel loathed about his job, it was the way in which the relationship between the police and the press had become increasingly important. He understood the public’s need for information, of course, but he had seriously begun to question if that was really what drove journalists these days. It was all about attracting readers, and nothing seemed to sell better than sex, fear, and sensationalism. This led to a tendency to frighten rather than inform, and a reluctance to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. The press also decided at an early stage that it was in the best interests of the public to reveal the identity of any possible perpetrator. Names and photographs. Before the trial.

And always, in every single report, Torkel felt there was a terrifying underlying message:

This could happen to you.

You are never safe.

It could be your child.

That was what Torkel found most difficult. The press simplified complex situations, wallowed in tragedy, and created nothing but fear and suspicion among the public.

Lock yourself in.

Don’t go out at night.

Trust no one.

Fear.

That was what they were selling.

When Ursula finally got back to the hotel after a good two hours, she was in a foul mood.

It was only going to get worse.

By the time she had returned to Groth’s house, Billy had almost finished. They’d sat down at the kitchen table so that he could tell her what he had found. It hadn’t taken long.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

Ursula had sighed. At first she had appreciated Ragnar Groth’s love of tidiness, but now that any interesting discoveries were conspicuous by their absence, she felt that his pedantic nature was simply detrimental to the investigation. Groth would never do anything unconsidered or unplanned. He would never carelessly conceal something, never allow key evidence to be discovered by chance. If he hid something, he would make sure it remained hidden.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

They found no porn, no banned substances, no hidden love letters, no suspect links on the computer, nothing to confirm a sexual relationship with Frank Clevén or other men. His cell phone was not the one that had sent the text messages to Roger Eriksson. For heaven’s sake, they didn’t even find a reminder to pay a bill. Ragnar Groth was inhumanly perfect.

Billy shared Ursula’s frustration, and he had disconnected the computer so that he could take it back to the office and go through it for a third time, with better software.

It wasn’t only anything forbidden that was missing, though. There was nothing particularly personal among Groth’s belongings at all. No pictures of himself or someone who seemed fond of him, no parents, no relatives, no friends, no letters, no Christmas cards tucked away, no thank-you notes, no invitations. The most personal thing they found was a copy of his qualifications. Perfect, of course. Billy and Ursula became more and more convinced that the principal’s inner life—if he had one—must be somewhere else.

They decided that Billy should take the car back to the station and report to Torkel. Ursula stayed on to go through the upstairs one more time. Determined to make sure she hadn’t missed anything because Mikael had turned up. She found nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

She took a taxi back to the hotel and went straight up to her room.

Mikael was in front of the TV watching Eurosport. Ursula felt that something was wrong as soon as she walked into the sparsely furnished room. Mikael got to his feet a little too quickly and his smile was a little too cheerful. Without a word Ursula walked over to the minibar and opened it. Empty, apart from two bottles of mineral water and a can of juice. In the trash can she could just see the forbidden little plastic bottles. He hadn’t even tried to hide them. Not enough to get him drunk. But even a little was too much.

Way too much.

Ursula looked at him and wanted to feel angry. What had she actually expected, though? There’s a reason the plus and minus poles are on opposite sides of a battery.

They’re not supposed to meet.

Haraldsson was drunk.

It didn’t happen often. His consumption of alcohol was usually modest, but to Jenny’s surprise he had opened a bottle of wine with dinner and emptied it himself within two hours. Jenny had asked if something
had happened and Haraldsson had mumbled something about a lot going on at work. What could he say? Jenny knew nothing about the lies he had spread. She knew nothing about his private surveillance of Axel Johansson’s apartment block, and the consequences of his actions. She didn’t know, and she was never going to know.

She would think he was an idiot.

Which he was.

A slightly tipsy idiot at the moment. He was sitting on the sofa flicking through the TV channels. The mute button on to avoid waking Jenny. They had had sex. Of course. His mind had been somewhere else altogether. It hadn’t made any difference. Of course. And now she was asleep.

He needed a plan. He had been dealt a vicious blow by Hanser today, although he wasn’t down for the count. He would show them that it wasn’t possible to knock out Thomas Haraldsson. When he walked into work tomorrow, he would take his revenge. Show them all. Show Hanser. All he needed was a plan.