“You can’t go into my apartment,” said Fredriksson.
It was the first thing he had said since she cuffed him. She opened the apartment door and shoved him inside.
“You have no right. You have to have a search warrant –”
“I’m not a police officer,” she said in a low voice.
He stared at her suspiciously.
She took hold of his shirt and dragged him into the living room, pushing him down on to a sofa. He had a neatly kept two-bedroom apartment. Bedroom to the left of the living room, kitchen across the hall, a small office off the living room.
She looked in the office and heaved a sigh of relief.
She heard Fredriksson moving and went back to the living room, rapped him once across his lower back and then dragged him into the office and sat him down on the floor.
“You stay there,” she said.
She went into the kitchen and found a paper carrier bag from Konsum. She took down one picture after another and then found the stripped album and Berger’s diaries.
“Where’s the video?” she said.
Fredriksson did not answer. Linder went into the living room and turned on the T.V. There was a tape in the V.C.R., but it took a while before she found the video channel on the remote so she could check it. She popped out the video and looked around to ensure he had not made any copies.
She found Berger’s teenage love letters and the Borgsjo folder. Then she turned her attentions to Fredriksson’s computer. She saw that he had a Microtek scanner hooked up to his P.C., and when she lifted the lid she found a photograph of Berger at a Club Xtreme party, New Year’s Eve 1986 according to a banner on the wall.
She booted up the computer and discovered that it was password-protected.
“What’s your password,” she asked.
Fredriksson sat obstinately silent and refused to answer.
Linder suddenly felt utterly calm. She knew that technically she had committed one crime after another this evening, including unlawful restraint and even aggravated kidnapping. She did not care. On the contrary, she felt almost exhilarated.
After a while she shrugged and dug in her pocket for her Swiss Army knife. She unplugged all the cables from the computer, turned it round and used the screwdriver to open the back. It took her fifteen minutes to take it apart and remove the hard drive.
She had taken everything, but for safety’s sake she did a thorough search of the desk drawers, the stacks of paper and the shelves. Suddenly her gaze fell on an old school yearbook lying on the windowsill. She saw that it was from Djurholm Gymnasium 1978. Did Berger not come from Djurholm’s upper class? She opened the yearbook and began to look through that year’s school leavers.
She found Erika Berger, eighteen years old, with student cap and a sunny smile with dimples. She wore a thin, white cotton dress and held a bouquet of flowers in her hand. She looked the epitome of an innocent teenager with top grades.
Linder almost missed the connection, but there it was on the next page. She would never have recognized him but for the caption. Peter Fredriksson. He was in a different class from Berger. Linder studied the photograph of a thin boy in a student cap who looked into the camera with a serious expression.
Her eyes met Fredriksson’s.
“Even then she was a whore.”
“Fascinating,” Linder said.
“She fucked every guy in the school.”
“I doubt that.”
“She was a fucking –”
“Don’t say it. So what happened? Couldn’t you get into her knickers?”
“She treated me as though I didn’t exist. She laughed at me. And when she started at
“Right,” said Linder wearily. “I’m sure you had a terrible childhood. How about we have a serious talk?”
“What do you want?”
“I’m not a police officer,” Linder said. “I’m someone who takes care of people like you.”
She paused and let his imagination do the work.
“I want to know if you put photographs of her anywhere on the Internet.”
He shook his head.
“Are you quite sure about that?”
He nodded.
“Berger will have to decide for herself whether she wants to make a formal complaint against you for harassment, threats, and breaking and entering, or whether she wants to settle things amicably.”
He said nothing.
“If she decides to ignore you – and I think that’s about what you’re worth – then I’ll be keeping an eye on you.”
She held up her baton.
“If you ever go near her house again, or send her email or otherwise molest her, I’ll be back. I’ll beat you so hard so that even your own mother won’t recognize you. Do I make myself clear?”
Still he said nothing.
“So you have the opportunity to influence how this story ends. Are you interested?”
He nodded slowly.
“In that case, I’m going to recommend to Fru Berger that she lets you off, but don’t think about coming into work again. As of right now you’re fired.”
He nodded.
“You will disappear from her life and move out of Stockholm. I don’t give a shit what you do with your life or where you end up. Find a job in Goteborg or Malmo. Go on sick leave again. Do whatever you like. But leave Berger in peace. Are we agreed?”
Fredriksson began to sob.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” he said. “I just wanted –”
“You just wanted to make her life a living hell and you certainly succeeded. Do I or do I not have your word?”
He nodded.
She bent over, turned him on to his stomach and unlocked the handcuffs. She took the Konsum bag containing Berger’s life and left him there on the floor.
It was 2.30 a.m. on Monday when Linder left Fredriksson’s building. She considered letting the matter rest until the next day, but then it occurred to her that if she had been the one involved, she would have wanted to know straightaway. Besides, her car was still parked out in Saltsjobaden. She called a taxi.
Beckman opened the door even before she managed to ring the bell. He was wearing jeans and did not look as if he had just got out of bed.
“Is Erika awake?” Linder asked.
He nodded.
“Has something else happened?” he said.
She smiled at him.
“Come in. We’re just talking in the kitchen.”
They went in.
