by Mikaela Bley
So close.
She couldn’t keep herself from wondering whether there was still blood on the ground.
Maybe it would feel better if she let in a little fresh air? She picked up the flowerpot with the pink plastic geranium in the window to take out the key to the terrace door, but it wasn’t there.
Hanna picked up the pot alongside to see whether perhaps she had put it in the wrong place, but there was nothing under that one either.
Her pulse raced. Last night? She must have put it back? True, she was careless, but she almost never misplaced the key. Especially not now, after what had happened. She remembered double-checking that everything was locked before they went to bed last night.
She pulled down the door handle. The terrace door opened with a creak.
‘Stoffe!’ she screamed. ‘Stoffe!’
Within a few seconds he came running downstairs in just boxer shorts and T-shirt. ‘What’s happening?’
‘The door. It was open, I remember that I locked it yesterday … The key is gone.’
Without a word he went up to the door, closed it, and looked out over the fields before he pulled the curtains, though they weren’t wide enough to cover the whole window. Then he walked firmly to the hall.
She followed like a shadow, incapable of doing anything.
Stoffe stumbled on the baby gym that was on the floor of the hall and swore. ‘Will you please get rid of these baby things?’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered. She had had neither the energy nor the time to remove them. But he was right, it was very stupid to leave them lying around.
The front door was unlocked, too. Hanna covered her mouth. ‘Stoffe, what is happening?’
He stared past her with glassy eyes.
‘I locked up yesterday. I know I locked up yesterday,’ she said, hearing that she was sounding hysterical. ‘Has someone been in here while we were asleep?’ Hanna tried to swallow, but felt her stomach turn. Tried to remember the night, if she had heard anything, or if that was just rationalisation.
She threw herself into the bathroom and leant over the toilet bowl, vomited down into the toilet until she was completely empty. But the nausea was still there.
Stoffe came up to her and hugged her hard. Kissed her on the head and stroked her hair. ‘Try to take it easy. I’m sure we’re just confused.’
She couldn’t stop shaking and let him hold her.
ELLEN
8.30 A.M.
The body and the car were gone. The road had been reopened, and the barricades were adjusted accordingly. Today there was only one police car in connection to Solbyn.
Ellen parked a short distance away and walked slowly up to the plastic tape swaying in the wind.
She was actually on her way to Nyköping to see Dr Hiralgo, but she had a little time before her appointment. She couldn’t understand why the murder wasn’t getting more attention, and it made her furious. Even though she knew it wasn’t possible to report on everything, in contrast to the assault on Sveavägen this was like a mockery. The attitude of the police made Ellen boil with rage. There was too much truth behind their words for her to be able to dismiss them as shoptalk.
Ellen went to Liv’s Facebook page again; there still wasn’t a single message from anyone mourning her. Did her friends not know she was dead? Could that be possible?
There was something about Liv Lind that felt strange and sad. What was she doing in Stentuna, and why did she seem so anonymous?
She glanced up towards Ahlvarssonskan’s farm and then checked the time on her phone, realising that she shouldn’t drive up there and that she didn’t have time either. She had to stifle her curiosity.
A memorial had started to grow by the side of the road, anyway. Flowers and condolences were set outside the plastic tape. But the pile was modest and the greetings impersonal. People had a strange way of becoming best friends with someone who was dead, even if they’d never met them.
I am thinking about you and your family, was on a card attached to a flower.
Rest in peace, said another.
One card stuck out. Sorry, it said in childish handwriting. Ellen took out her phone and took a photo of the card.
‘It sure is tragic, isn’t it?’
When she looked up, she saw an older woman with short, grey hair with an equally grey-haired dachshund on a leash.
‘Yes, very,’ said Ellen. ‘Did you know her?’
The dachshund went up and sniffed the flowers.
‘No. Not at all. I usually walk here with the dog. We live here …’ She pointed at one of the three houses in Solbyn. ‘But I haven’t heard or seen anything strange. No one seems to have. Hope they find the guilty party soon — this sort of thing spreads fear in the village, as I’m sure you understand. I’m hardly daring to go out with the dog.’
The dachshund lifted one leg to pee on the heap of flowers. Ellen didn’t know whether or not to alert the dog owner to what was about to happen. ‘I work at the news on TV4,’ she said instead. ‘If you think of anything, feel free to call me.’ She rooted out a business card from her bag and handed it to the lady, who immediately hurried away as if she was trying to run out of the picture.
Ellen looked around. A little further down the road she noticed a little girl running barefoot on the grass in front of one of the three red houses. Her hair was exactly the same length as Elsa’s had been and the pink dress reminded her of the one Elsa was wearing in her last school photo, when they were in second grade. Ellen blinked a few times as she started walking towards the girl, wanted to call after her so that she wouldn’t get away. She started trotting after her, but at the same moment the girl slipped behind the house.
Ellen slowed down and shook her head. What am I up to? she thought, ashamed of how she had just reacted. Then she caught sight of an older boy with a blond bowl cut who was monotonously jumping up and down on the trampoline alongside the house. He stared ice-cold at her, without changing expression. The sound of the jumping was rhythmic, and the frame swayed every time he landed on the bounce mat, which seemed much too small for him. He didn’t take his eyes off her.
She shuddered and got the feeling that she ought to leave, even though she was so close. Maybe the people who lived there knew something about Liv Lind?
A woman came out of the house carrying a load of stuff. Ellen went up to the fence. ‘Oh, that’s a lot of baby things,’ she said to the woman, who was roughly the same age as her. She had long, curly hair and a white, loose-hanging tunic on. Under her arm, she was carrying a baby gym.
‘Yes, I’m doing a bit of a clean-out. Do we know each other?’ She squinted at Ellen.
‘Sorry. My name’s Ellen Tamm.’ She took a few steps into the yard and extended her hand.
The woman set the baby gym down on the ground, and it started to flash and play a song that Ellen recognised.
‘Hanna Andersson,’ she said quietly, taking Ellen’s hand.
‘I work at TV4 and I’m here in connection with the murder.’ She looked over at the scene of the crime. ‘Did you know her?’
‘No,’ said Hanna, shaking her head. ‘What happened is just awful, but I don’t know any more than you do, and I’ve already spoken to the police.’ She picked up the baby gym and started heading towards what Ellen assumed was the shed.
‘I understand,’ said Ellen. ‘I don’t mean to snoop, just wanted to ask.’
What was going on? Why didn’t anyone want to talk to her, and why was everyone turning their back on Liv Lind?
‘Do you feel unsafe?’ she persisted, even though she knew that she was crossing an invisible boundary.
Hanna stopped and turned to Ellen. ‘Yes, of course you do when something like this happens here in little Stentuna,’ she said. ‘Of course it’s upsetting.’
‘Is it okay if I ask a few quick questions? I’m
not going to put it on TV. No cameras.’ She clarified by holding up her hands to show that she wasn’t hiding a camera anywhere.
‘No, I don’t want anything to do with this. Sorry, but my classes are starting soon.’ She looked at her watch.
Hanna looked scared, and Ellen understood that the situation must be unpleasant to say the least. She’d seen that fear many times in people she’d met.
A man came out of the house. He was tall and well built with greying hair at his temples and a few days’ beard stubble. Ellen guessed that he was in his fifties.
‘Darling,’ Hanna said, ‘this is, sorry, what was your name again?’
‘Ellen Tamm.’
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the little girl appeared and ran up to them. ‘Daddy,’ she called. When she caught sight of Ellen, she slowed down.
She was so like Elsa. And Ellen herself at that age. Her hair was as wavy as it could get when you slept with braids. ‘Is she eight years old?’ Ellen asked without thinking.
‘Seven,’ said Hanna with surprise, pulling the girl close to her.
Ellen crouched down. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Mummy said I mustn’t talk to strangers.’
‘Your mother is right.’ Ellen stood up again.
‘Ellen is from TV4, she’s here to talk about, you know …’
‘What?’ The girl looked up. ‘Talk about what?’
‘Nothing, honey,’ she said, stroking her hair. ‘This is my partner, Stoffe,’ she continued, turned towards Ellen.
Ellen wondered about people who said ‘partner’ about each other. It sounded so unromantic, like an agreement — a practical solution rather than a life companion or someone you were in love with.
The man, who still hadn’t said anything, extended his hand in greeting. His handshake was firm, and his hand and gaze lingered a little too long for Ellen to feel totally comfortable.
‘So this is interesting to TV4?’ he asked, finally releasing her hand.
‘Alice, go in and get your backpack, we’re going to school soon.’
‘But why …’
‘Just do what I said.’
Alice obeyed reluctantly.
‘Why? Do you think it shouldn’t be?’ It was the second time in two days that Ellen had been asked that question. ‘Why shouldn’t this woman be interesting? This concerns a murder.’
‘You’re right. Of course, it’s shocking for those of us who live here, but you tend to think that maybe it’s not interesting for the whole country.’
‘I understand that you’re shaken,’ Ellen said, choosing not to comment on whether it was interesting for all of Sweden or not. ‘Sorry, I won’t disturb you any more.’ She handed her card to Hanna. ‘But please call if you think of anything, or just want to talk.’
Ellen walked slowly back to the car. When she turned around the pair of them were still standing looking at her.
She couldn’t help wondering why they were so reserved. Usually people wanted to get things off their chest when something awful happened. Maybe not in front of the camera, but they’d readily make small talk and ask questions.
The kid on the trampoline was still jumping monotonously up and down, and she felt his eyes burning on the back of her neck.
ELLEN
12.30 P.M.
The questions from Dr Hiralgo were grinding around in her head as she drove out of the parking lot. She’d been there for almost two hours as it was their first appointment and he wanted to form an understanding of Ellen. She was completely worn out, and her body felt heavy.
They should start at the beginning, as he put it. Go through what happened that day, when Elsa disappeared, and process the memories. You should become friends with your history. Not put a lid on it, as Ellen had done for all these years. He had prattled on about identical twins and how complicated that relationship could be, especially if one of them died. How hard it could be for the surviving twin to move ahead and how that person could feel guilt after the death, guilt about being the one who survived. That was why Ellen had a hard time letting go of Elsa. She had heard that explanation countless times from psychologists, therapists, and others who tried to understand her and help her, but it hadn’t helped; they wanted to put her in a compartment, and that only made things worse and made her heart pound so hard that she thought it would stop.
What do you remember? What were you doing? What did you feel?
Everything was murky and unclear. Feelings of guilt mixed with anger and hopelessness. The conversations with Dr Hiralgo wouldn’t fix anything; it was just going to stir up the sort of thing that she didn’t want to remember.
‘Death, death, death!’ Ellen screamed, hitting the steering wheel so hard her palms ached.
How could her mother force her to go to this clown? He didn’t even have a licence to prescribe sleeping pills. As luck would have it, she had a few left.
Dr Hiralgo had asked about her dreams. That kind of hocus pocus. For once she actually agreed with her dad. The image of Elsa burnt in her memory.
She’d imagined Dr Hiralgo as the type that sat on a pillow and inhaled incense, but instead they’d each sat on a stick-back chair in a room that was tiled all over. It was like a big bathroom with white tiles on the walls and floor and black seams that held them all together. No other furniture. It was incredibly strange. Had her mother actually sat there? Ellen couldn’t picture it. And what had they talked about?
He had asked about her father. What their relationship had been like when she was little. The questions had been as numerous as they were intrusive, and Ellen had a hard time remembering.
Then he’d tried from another angle. ‘Do you remember what you had for breakfast that day?’
Of course she didn’t. She was eight years old.
He gave her a little notepad, where she was supposed to write down everything she thought of so they could talk about it next time they met. Little fragments. Dreams. Whatever.
She didn’t want to. No — she couldn’t go there any more.
Slowly she drove up the street in the Östra Villastaden neighbourhood. She didn’t really know what she was doing there, but for some reason she’d got the idea that she ought to drive past her father’s house. He was at work anyway at this time of day, so there was no risk of running into him.
She turned on the stereo. Didn’t know what she was listening to. But she needed sound.
‘Welcome to Suburban Idyll Deluxe,’ she said out loud to herself as she drove past the homes from the nineteen-twenties in different pastel colours. Here, everyone lived in their little bubbles, as if the world were a fine place where everyone was happy and fortunate. Everyone was friends and drove each other’s kids to soccer practice and such. You focused more on bouquets of fresh flowers and what fruit the kids should take with them to school than on getting involved in world politics and the refugee crisis and how the world was in the process of falling apart. For God’s sake, she thought, but knew it was hypocrisy — she was just as awful herself.
And in reality, they were probably unfaithful to each other, the whole lot of them.
Ellen found herself thinking about a friend in high school who lived on this street, but a few houses further down. His parents had socialised with the neighbours across the street. One summer they’d been on holiday together, and when the summer was over his mother moved in with the neighbour and the other mother moved in with Ellen’s friend and his father. Completely undramatic. They simply exchanged partners. It worked for six months, then the neighbour’s dad came over with a shotgun and wanted to shoot Ellen’s friend’s dad.
In the end they all moved.
And into the villas moved new, happy families.
Slowly she drove up to her father’s house. She’d forgotten that it was pink. Elsa’s colour. Because they were identical twins, people had a hard
time keeping track of which was which, so they’d each been assigned a colour. Elsa became the pink little princess, and Ellen got yellow. Yellow was ugly. She felt completely cold inside, though it hurt at the same time.
It was clear enough that all that had had nothing to do with anything, but it sure as hell hurt. Every time. It was as if she was stepping on the same mine over and over again. Like a toy train that just circled around and around, and broke into different pieces every time it went through the tunnel. Each time it needed to be built up again, but small pieces disappeared along the way.
She stretched up in her seat and tried to see into the garden, but a big hedge hid the view, and it was only possible to peek in through the gate. For a brief second, she thought about going in, but realised she wasn’t strong enough and so continued staring at the well-tended garden with the pool. She hadn’t remembered that they had a pool and had a hard time taking her eyes off of it.
That he could even have a pool, considering that one of his daughters drowned. Actually, she didn’t understand how anyone with children could live near water.
When she’d driven past so far that she couldn’t see any more, she turned her eyes ahead. Was forced to slam on the brakes and was thrown forward against the steering wheel, even though she was driving so slowly.
She was only a few centimetres from having run over a girl on a moped.
The girl had no helmet. Her hair was tied up in a bun on the top of her head and she was wearing a short, extremely short, black jumpsuit and dark sunglasses.
Ellen tried to unbuckle the seatbelt to get out and apologise, but couldn’t get it undone. Shaken and unfocused, she swore and rolled down the window instead. The girl on the moped accelerated.
‘Wait!’ Ellen shouted.
The girl turned towards her, raised her hand, clenched it, and slowly raised her middle finger and formed her mouth in slow motion.
Fuck. You.
Then she sped away.
Ellen leant back and closed her eyes. Tried to breathe regularly and made herself push away the image of what could have happened.