Liv

by Mikaela Bley

  ‘Right, which is kind of the same thing.’

  ‘It isn’t at all, and to be frank, I haven’t asked for your opinion — or anyone else’s for that matter. You have no insight into what my job involves. Can you be on News Morning or not?’

  She shrugged. ‘Can you come to my place tonight so we can talk about everything?’

  ‘Ellen. That’s not a good idea, I don’t think …’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Ellen, regretting that she’d been so forward. What was she thinking? She stood there a few more seconds just to humiliate herself a little more before she left the glass cage.

  ‘Ellen!’ he called after her.

  She turned around reluctantly.

  ‘Are you limping?’

  She shook her head and closed the door.

  Everyone waited with tense expectation for Ellen to tell them what Jimmy had said, but she ignored her colleagues and vanished down to Make-up.

  ELLEN

  8.30 A.M.

  While the feature about the murder in Stentuna was being broadcast, Ellen sat down across from Steffo and Jenny at the table in the News Morning studio. They were laughing at a feature they’d done earlier about a foreign correspondent whose name Steffo had pronounced incorrectly.

  The laughter was contagious, even though Ellen hadn’t even heard the mispronunciation.

  She admired them for the way they succeeded in pairing heavy topics with cooking and fashion. Happiness and sorrow. She would never have been able to work on the couch that way. She got too involved and was far too bad at concealing her emotions and opinions. Philip always said that he would bet everything he owned if he was playing poker against her.

  Jenny wiped away tears of laughter.

  Philip’s assistant from Make-up came up and dabbed a little at her cheeks and under her eyes. Ellen also got a freshening up.

  On the table in front of them, the day’s newspapers were spread around with headlines like:

  THE CHILD-SUSPECT ANGLE

  POLICE STILL SEARCHING FOR FATHER OF THE BABY

  REFUGEE HOUSING IN STENTUNA VANDALISED

  Ellen turned to the camera, feeling uncomfortable knowing that Jimmy was in the control room watching her.

  ‘Are you working full-time now?’

  ‘No, I have to go back to my mother’s this afternoon. I’m still on seventy-five per cent sick leave, and a teenager again, who’s had to move back to my childhood room,’ Ellen said, smiling to show that she had distance from the whole thing.

  ‘Yeah, I heard that. How are you doing?’

  ‘Things are okay, thanks.’ It was considerate of Jenny to ask, but Ellen didn’t get the feeling she wanted an honest answer. Mainly, they didn’t have time for one. She wished, deeply, that she could just be normal and not feel the way she did. It was unfair.

  ‘Ten seconds.’ The studio man started counting down as the report that Ellen and Andreas had made the day before concluded. The screens behind them changed colour and mimicked a kind of forest background.

  ‘We welcome our crime reporter Ellen Tamm, who is here with us to talk about the terrible tragedy that’s taken place in Stentuna. Ellen, it seems like there’s a lot of speculation about different scenarios?’ Jenny turned it over to Ellen.

  ‘It looks like the police are working from the basis of several different leads, and are still asking for tips from the general public. Perhaps someone has noticed something in the vicinity of the scene, seen someone acting strangely, or whatever. Any of that will be of great help.’

  ‘As I understand it, DNA has been found from the person believed to be the perpetrator,’ Steffo commented.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. But the DNA that was found on Liv isn’t in our registers.’

  ‘So the person in question has no previous convictions. What might the motive be?’

  ‘Motive doesn’t mean, of course, that it’s right, but that there is a logical connection,’ Ellen answered. ‘And it’s the lack of a logical connection that’s confusing it all. The police don’t know very much about Liv Lind, or whether she had any connection to Stentuna, either. There doesn’t seem to be anything to indicate that at the present time.’

  ‘According to reports, she was pregnant?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s not yet known who the father of the child was. It’s not known yet, either, what kind of relationship they had.’ She didn’t go into any more details. Took a gulp of water and hoped they would understand.

  ‘And is there also now speculation that children could be involved?’ asked Steffo.

  ‘That’s not something I’ve been able to confirm, but there are rumours that traces have been found from children or, rather, adolescents, in the vicinity of the crime scene, and that the police are now investigating that lead.’

  ‘People around there must be feeling anxious?’

  ‘Sure, no one wants their children to have been involved in something like this or to have seen something inappropriate. I’ve received information that a number of interviews have been held, which don’t seem to have led to anything concrete yet. Of course, it’s considerably more complicated to question children, but I want to emphasise that this is just one lead that the police are investigating and that there doesn’t need to be any substance to it whatsoever.’

  ‘How does this affect the children and the community?’

  ‘Summer ended with a murder, barricades, police, and journalists.’ Ellen straightened up in the chair. ‘Stentuna is a small community. It consists of single-family houses and farms, but also some apartment buildings. It looks idyllic when you pass by or stop to visit.’

  ‘Last night, a refugee centre was vandalised not far from the site of the murder,’ Jenny continued. ‘There have been rumours that the new arrivals had something to do with the murder, and that a gang was going to get even with the refugees. Others have had the same idea.’ She pointed at the headlines in one of the newspapers lying on the table.

  ‘Personally, I haven’t received any such indications from the police.’

  ‘So, a lot of different theories. What happens now?’

  ‘More people will be swabbed, and more interviews held.’

  ‘What happened in Stentuna is terrible, and we hope that the police will soon clear up what actually happened to Liv Lind. Thanks for coming in today, Ellen. We’ll now move on to something completely different. All of Sweden Bakes is premiering later today and we’ll be looking at a little teaser.’

  Once the clip had started, Ellen stood up and excused herself. Her mike was removed, and she followed the stream of tired colleagues up the stairs to the editorial office on the third floor, which for some reason was also called the fourth floor. She was fascinated by the way everyone walked on the right side, no one daring to breach the norm and walk against the stream. That was a problem, she observed, but she stayed in line.

  Before she had time to turn on her computer, Leif sat down on the chair beside her. ‘Sleep in late?’ He grinned. ‘Oh right, I forgot that you get to do exactly what you want.’

  Ellen didn’t bother telling him that she’d just been on News Morning, which he should have been aware of because the program was being shown on almost every screen in the editorial office.

  ‘Ellen, a tip came in during the broadcast,’ one of the editors called. ‘Might be something to check out, I’ll forward it to you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Ellen, refreshing her inbox.

  The tip was sent from someone who wanted to remain anonymous. She had to read it several times, because even though it was concise, the message was incoherent. She tried to dissect what it really wanted to say. It was sent from someone who claimed to know Liv, and this person said that Liv had been loose-living and involved in a number of violent situations. The sender encouraged them to look into her past to find out who Liv Lind really was.


  It seemed genuine. Liv Lind had probably been abused even earlier, which had already occurred to Ellen.

  ‘Listen, I’ve put together a little information about the Bosängen family,’ said Agatha, who was sitting opposite. She took off her zebra-patterned glasses and let them hang around her neck. ‘Bosängen is a farm located twenty kilometres outside Karlstad. The family that owns it has the same surname as the farm, which has been in the family’s possession since the mid-seventeenth century. There are rumours that the family has lived in a kind of separate little community in which men have several wives. The tradition died out when the head of the family, Bengt Bosängen, died in 1976. Now his first wife, Eva Bosängen, lives at the farm, and the others have moved away.’

  ‘What did you say?’ said Leif.

  ‘Polygamy?’ Ellen thought feverishly.

  ‘Yes. I don’t know if it has any religious connotations,’ said Agatha.

  ‘And so Patrik is Bengt Bosängen’s son?’

  ‘Yes, according to the census registry.’

  ELLEN

  1.10 P.M.

  They walked the last stretch down Odengatan. The heat was hard to handle; she didn’t know why she hadn’t gotten used to it by now. Ellen had parked in a bus lane as it was impossible to find a parking space anywhere close to Sara’s apartment.

  So, she’d been right. It must have been Patrik whom she’d met at Hanna’s house. She and Alexandra were apparently living with the same man.

  ‘I don’t know how he copes,’ said Andreas, rubbing the top of his shaved head. ‘I find it hard enough keeping up with one wife.’

  ‘Maybe wives are easier to handle when there are several of them,’ said Ellen with a shrug. She really wanted to be understanding.

  Andreas laughed. ‘If that was the case, we’d probably all be living like that, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I think you’re stuck in norm thinking. Who knows, maybe they don’t get how we can live in monogamous relationships. The modern family can look any number of different ways.’

  ‘So you mean you think you could live in that kind of relationship?’ He laughed.

  ‘Yeah, why not?’ Ellen knew that she wouldn’t really want to at all — the jealousy would totally eat her up, but she was trying to see beyond herself and be open-minded.

  ‘You’d never be able to do it.’ He shook his head.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because women who live like that become like sisters.’

  ‘I see, and you know all about it, do you? So? That sounds great.’

  ‘But you’re not a sister person.’

  Ellen stopped and looked at him. ‘What do you mean by that?’ She felt her cheeks starting to grow hot.

  ‘Take it easy, it’s just the way you are. There’s nothing wrong with it. Women feel threatened by you, and you feel threatened by women.’

  ‘Just because I work better with men?’ She continued walking.

  ‘No, I’m not just talking about work. How many female friends do you actually have?’

  Ellen was not appreciating this analysis of her and didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m no expert, and perhaps it’s a normal reaction if you’ve lost your sister, but you feel threatened by Elsa, even though she’s dead.’

  ‘Okay, that’s enough, thanks!’ They had arrived at Sara’s entry. Ellen angrily entered the code and stepped into the darkness. ‘I’ll take the stairs.’

  ‘Ellen, stop it, please. Take the lift with me. I’m sorry.’

  Ellen stood there, waiting for the elevator.

  ‘Did you bring the cinnamon buns?’ he asked.

  She nodded reluctantly.

  There was barely room for both of them in the elevator with all the equipment.

  ‘You know you can’t mention this stuff about polygamy to her sister. Maybe she doesn’t know diddly, and it could be it doesn’t have anything to do with her sister.’

  Andreas zipped his mouth with his fingers.

  ‘What’s your guess?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘A three-room. They bought it four years ago and thought it was horribly expensive then, now they’re grossly satisfied that it’s risen in value — they can’t believe their luck. They’re not just millionaires, they’re multi-millionaires, they’ve made money just living there and now everything’s taken care of. They’re going to buy a house that they can live in till they die.’

  Ellen laughed. ‘My God, the anxiety!’

  ‘Anxiety? Isn’t it what you want, too?’

  ‘No, I don’t really want that. You’ve got to stop thinking that you know all about me. I want a family and that whole package, but I really don’t want to live in the same house the rest of my life. It would feel like life had already ended. Don’t you think?’

  The elevator opened.

  ‘No,’ said Andreas. ‘I can’t imagine anything better.’

  They rang the doorbell. ‘Good thing we’re not married, then. Ellipse table or Myran chairs?’

  ‘Both. Of course.’

  ‘Rabbit children’s lamp or bird lamp that lights up?’

  ‘Lamps usually light up.’

  ‘Ha ha, very funny.’

  ‘Bird. Bookshelf or no books at all?’

  ‘No books. Wine chiller or bathtub?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  When Sara opened the door, she looked surprisingly fresh for someone who’d lost a sister only a few days ago, but what did Ellen know about sisterhood. Apparently nothing, according to Andreas. She immediately cursed herself for judging Sara according to her appearance and wondered self-critically how she would have thought about it if Liv had had a brother instead. But even so, her thoughts continued in the same vein. Maybe because looks were so much easier to observe and draw conclusions about. Her hair looked freshly washed and blow-dried, and she had put on a bit too much make-up. The powder was like a thick cake on her skin. She had sprayed on way too much perfume, and Ellen had to stop herself from explaining that scents weren’t transmitted through the TV screen.

  ‘Come in,’ said Sara, and they stepped into the light-filled hallway. It was all very orderly. Maybe she was in the stage of denial, if there was such a thing. Grief could look very different in different people, and Ellen never stopped being surprised at its various forms. Grief was almost more palpable when it wasn’t being lived out.

  They walked down a long corridor that led through to the kitchen and a large living room. On the TV stand was a photograph of Liv and a candle, plus two bouquets. Ellen had to restrain herself from going over and reading the cards.

  ‘Would you like anything?’ Sara asked.

  ‘A little coffee would be nice — we’ve brought buns,’ said Ellen as Andreas checked the lighting and tried to find a good place to do the interview.

  ‘Oh, you didn’t need to do that. Otto is asleep, so if we hurry, we can get it done before he wakes up. That would be easiest, I think.’

  ‘Where’s your husband?’ asked Ellen.

  ‘At work. He works every other weekend. Because of course you don’t take time off just because someone in the family has died.’ She put the cups out on the table with a bang.

  Ellen wondered how to word it, but decided to get right to the point. ‘Sara, I’d like to ask you a question before we start the recording.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Sara, but sounded more uncertain than she tried to let on.

  They sat down on the white Myran chairs around the elliptical table, and Andreas gave Ellen a triumphant look, which she ignored. Sometimes, they were forced to amuse themselves with little games to try to lighten up the heavy work.

  Ellen told Sara about the email tip she’d received earlier.

  Sara got up quickly. ‘What are you trying to insinuate? That it was Liv’s fault that she was murd
ered or something? What do you mean “loose-living”? Is someone trying to say she’s a prostitute? Who sent that email?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Ellen. ‘A lot of people choose to remain anonymous when they send in tips. But it must have been someone who knew Liv. Could it be an old boyfriend? Do you have any idea who it could be?’

  Sara shook her head.

  ‘Do you think there’s any truth whatsoever in what it says? The person in question claimed that Liv had been assaulted, is that true?’ She tried to make her voice gentle.

  ‘What if these kinds of rumours start spreading about Liv? This person might have sent the same email to other journalists?’ Sara fetched the coffee and poured it into the cups. Sat down and let her shoulders droop. ‘I want to give a different picture of Liv. We’re a normal family, and Liv was a wonderful person.’

  Ellen leant back in the chair. ‘Tell us about it.’

  ‘I think she might have been assaulted in a previous relationship.’ Sara thought for a few seconds before she continued. ‘She often had scratches and bruises on her body, and she always had lame excuses that were so obvious somehow. Despite that, I didn’t do anything about it. She could be so convincing. You know, when you hear a lie often enough, and you want it to be true, you end up almost believing the story.’

  Ellen nodded and wondered why Sara hadn’t mentioned this when they’d last met. ‘What did the injuries look like?’

  ‘She had bruises on her throat. She said she was going to get it checked out, as if it were an illness. Sometimes strange scratches on her arms. She got this deep gash on her cheek that turned into a scar. She went and checked if she could have it removed.’

  ‘How did she explain the gash?’

  ‘She had so many rationalisations. I don’t even remember if I tried to get a sensible answer.’

  ‘Do you know where she went when she sought medical help?’

  ‘Yes, actually, though it wasn’t a doctor in that way. She was going to get the scar removed, so it was more cosmetic. I went along with her because I thought it was a little exciting, and because Liv felt unsure. It was all so secretive — she was afraid that people would think she was having plastic surgery or using Botox or something like that.’