by Will Dean
‘Ain’t just recent,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Been tough for years.’
I stay silent.
‘She hasn’t got over it. Lost her house, her car, even pawned her wedding ring. Saddest part is that my niece, the red-haired girl you spoke to, she’d not been talking to my parents these past six or seven years. My niece likes to make a fuss, just the way she is, and Mamma and Pappa always told her to keep complaints to herself and hold onto her job, this was years ago, I suppose it’s a generation thing.’
I stay silent again but this time it doesn’t work.
‘You should never not talk to your family. It’s too late for my niece now. She didn’t get to say goodbye to my folks even though I know deep down she loved them.’
My eyes start to sting and I remember my last words to Mum and they were not ideal, they were not what they should have been.
‘Grimbergs got problems up there since the old man passed,’ he says. ‘Someone’ll buy the place soon you mark my words.’
‘Buy the place?’
‘Expensive lawyer, the one with the Mercedes 4x4, gets a new G-Wagon every other year, he’s been sniffing around it. Owns half the shop buildings in Gavrik, probably owns your newspaper office. And his missus works in the office at the factory so I’d say he’s got the town pretty much sewn up.’
‘Interesting,’ I say.
‘Damn right,’ he says, lifting his grey tracksuit trouser to scratch his dry shin, the flakes showering off him like white sparks. ‘If he does buy the factory he’ll fire half the people and leave this town as a husk. Town’ll be dead like a zombie, a goddam husk.’ He gestures an apology for cursing. ‘My Mamma and Pappa phoned me. They wanted to talk about something before they had their accident, and I expect it was something about the factory. Mamma sounded agitated. Worried. And I told her I didn’t have time.’ He looks at me and then down at the photos. ‘Reckon they couldn’t get hold of my sis on account of her being in the hospital with the bronchitis. Reckon they drove up there to tell her whatever was on their minds. It’s my fault. I should have stopped and listened and then maybe they’d still be alive.’
I look at him, urging more words out of his mouth.
‘What do you think they were worried about?’
‘The factory.’
‘Anything specific?’ I say, a little too keenly.
‘I know they’ve been walking up there each day, it was part of their exercise route, Doc Stina told them they need to keep on walking no matter how slow,’ he says. ‘They were both very slow. Anyway, the day Grimberg jumped off his chimney, they both saw the whole thing. I expect they were shaken.’ He looks at the sofa. ‘You want me to find you a nice photo of Mamma and Pappa for your newspaper?’
‘That would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Never was no pain, that’s what the policewoman said.’
I nod as he looks through the albums.
‘Quick and painless,’ he says.
I glance over at the sideboard. There’s a fire poker and a scrapbook and another stainless steel craft knife and a glue stick. He’s been slicing the photos and arranging them in some sort of collage.
He carefully lifts a photo out from beneath its sticky cellophane cover and focusses on it and smiles but then puts it back and keeps on searching and then he looks up at me.
‘In a way it’s a blessing, don’t write this in your newspaper, but it’s blessing when you’re in your eighties and you’ve had a good life like they both did, and you get to pass on nice and quiet out in the nature in your own vehicle quiet and painless, d’you know what I mean? I’m no good at explaining things, but like I was telling my niece, it’s better to go like that than to die years apart, or to spend weeks in a hospital bed with tubes and wires and bleeping machines and people bothering and picking all over you and running tests. I’d say it was a blessing in a strange sort of a way.’
My stomach feels hollow and hard and all I can think of is mum and the bruises on her hand and the state her veins were in by the end.
‘I think you’re right,’ I say. ‘You’re a wise man, Johan.’
He bats that away with his forearm and picks out another photo.
‘This was Pappa’s seventieth down by the reservoir. Sis did him a picnic, real nice spread with cider and herring and all his favourites.’ Tears fill his eyes. ‘Pappa loved a mustard herring.’ A tear runs down his cheek and I watch it land on his shirt. ‘Had to have his mustard herring.’
I take the photo and look at it.
‘Thank you. It’s perfect.’
19
Systembolaget’s window display is full of pink cava and rose wine. Like anyone wants to drink cold red romance drinks just because it’s Valentine’s on Friday.
The door bleeps and I make a quick sweep of the sterile aisles with their liquor and beer and wine, ordered by price – like the decision to choose a Spanish Rioja over an Australian Pinot Noir is some kind of spreadsheet macro result. There’s Linus who got fired from the driving school and there’s Great White, the Grimberg taster with the screw-in teeth, and I recognise the distinctive fur hat of Gavrik’s resident flasher but I reckon he’s retired now or else it’s just too damn cold.
I select two bottles of rum and take them to the handsome Sudanese guy with the perfect hairline I usually buy from. It’s February-busy so I have to queue.
‘ID,’ he says.
I give him my national ID card – I take it as a compliment – and he glances at it and passes it back and bleeps the two bottles of Jamaican rum and one carrier bag through his till.
‘Four-hundred and sixty,’ he says.
I slot my card into the machine and place the rum inside the narrow Systembolaget bag and then put that bag inside the ICA Maxi bag I took from the filing cabinet at work. This should see me through to Malmö, God willing.
An old hunched man walks past me as I step out into the cold and he has his coat hood pulled so tight over his head he must be looking out of a hole the size of a clenched fist. He has a stick to help him walk and the top of it looks like a ball of polished granite.
I leave the bottles in my truck. They won’t freeze, the alcohol content’s too high, maybe that’s the trick, maybe I can learn something.
When I get back to work and strip off my winter gear there’s a copy of Wermlands Tidningen on my desk.
‘How come they knew about this detail and you didn’t?’ asks Lena, creases on her forehead, walking over from her office, her fleece zipped up to her chin.
‘What detail?’
‘Complaint filed seven years ago against Per Gunnarsson. Someone claimed they saw Gunnarsson propositioning a minor.’
‘He’d ask kiddies for photos,’ says Lars from his corner. ‘Been rumours about him for years.’
‘Can we talk in your office?’ I ask her.
I close the door behind me and sit down.
‘Who was the minor? Who was the complainant?’ I ask. ‘Have the police commented?’
‘This is what you’re supposed to be telling me, Tuva.’
‘I’ll find out,’ I say. ‘I should have told you something else. I’m juggling a special assignment this week and I know you’re going to hate it but I promise it’ll help me get deeper access to the factory. It’ll help me get the inside story.’
‘Special assignment?’ asks Lena, crossing her arms.
‘I’m doing freelance research for Holmqvist, the ghostwriter in Utgard forest. Won’t interfere with my work here, I promise. I’m interviewing the Grimbergs for him in my lunch breaks. It’ll get me deep inside the story. Assuming that’s okay with you?’
I see her face morph from confusion to fury.
‘This is a murder case, Tuva,’ she says. ‘There is a sadistic killer loose in Gavrik town and you’ve taken on a side job? Call him and quit or I’ll do it for you.’
She hands me her phone.
‘Listen. Without this project I can’t get access to the three Grimberg women. An
d they know things, I can tell. Let me do the bare minimum for Holmqvist and it will pay dividends for the paper. Trust me.’
She shakes her head but it’s a shake of acceptance rather than refusal.
‘Do not let me down, you hear?’ she says.
I nod. ‘Nobody’s talking much.’
‘Use your techniques,’ she says.
‘I have to tread softly, they’re all mourning.’
‘Helps to talk,’ she says. ‘You’re free therapy.’
I bite my lip.
‘What are you doing tomorrow night?’ she asks.
‘I’m moving out of my apartment and moving onto Tammy’s sofa. Landlord wouldn’t extend my lease for another week.’
‘Well,’ says Lena. ‘The new Tuva Moodyson arrives tomorrow afternoon, not to work but to meet everyone so he can start clean next Tuesday morning at your desk. I know you’ll be flat out on Ferryman but we should grab a quick coffee the three of us, okay?’
Poor schmuck.
‘Okay.’
I get back to my desk and Lars offers me a coffee and I swear he gets through five litres a day. Swedes are amongst the biggest coffee drinkers in the world, after the Finns, so that tells you just about all you need to know about us right there. We also have some of the fastest broadband and we eat the most sweets and we’re almost the tallest and our salt liquorice is the saltiest you can find.
I text Thord about the Per Gunnarsson complaint regarding a minor. Then I email my bank details to Holmqvist and write up the frozen-couple-in-the-car story.
‘What do you know about the Grimberg family, Lars?’
He looks at me like a sloth might gaze at an out-of-reach berry.
‘They do a lot for the town.’
‘Are any of them capable of murder? You actually met any of them in person?’
He thinks about this and then shakes his head and then a snowball hits our office window and it bangs and shakes in its frame and Lars says, ‘kids.’
‘Know anything about a stamper they let go years ago? Sister of one of the local firefighters?’
He closes his eyes and frowns and I just stare at him. The clock on the wall ticks. He opens his eyes.
‘Some talk of an affair,’ he says.
‘Okay, good,’ I say. ‘With whom?’
He wrinkles his nose. ‘One of the Grimbergs. Not sure if it was the old man or Gustav, may they both rest in peace. Talk of lawyers being involved if I remember right. Some kind of blackmail. Probably just gossip.’
When I leave the office I notice an unmarked cop car parked outside the factory gates. I look up to the attics to try to see Cici looking back through her opera glasses but there’s nothing there. I scrape my windscreen and it hits me that tomorrow morning might be the last time I ever do this to my trusted Hilux. I’ll drive up to the garage near the sewage-treatment works and I reckon they’ll extend my rental for a week but they might try to palm me off with the new model or a demo Landcruiser. The very idea makes me nauseous.
The rum’s sloshing around on the passenger side as I drive home and I’m getting thirsty. I need a drink after that chat with Lena. I’m desperate for it. I call Anna-Britta at the factory office but Agnetha Hellbom picks up. The rum’s still sloshing. I can almost taste it. I tell Agnetha that I can’t make the drive tonight with delivery truck number one.
Today is goodbye to the flat and tomorrow is goodbye to my Hilux and Thursday night is goodbye to my colleagues and next Monday is goodbye to Tammy at Karlstad train station. So many goodbyes from a place I never wanted to live in to begin with.
I walk into my apartment and lock the door behind me. I stick on some Johnny Cash and take off my clothes, literally pull them down into a hot damp pile. Static crackle. I dump them all on my sofa. I open the rum and remove my aids and slip on my pyjamas and lay down on my bed. My eyes are facing the photo of Mum and Dad, the one from before Dad’s crash, before that June twenty-fifth; that black day just after Midsummer, that worst day of every year of my life since I was fourteen. They look happy in the picture, young and in love and uncomplicated, and that just makes me feel more alone here in this barely-functioning life; empty fridge and empty savings account, no partner. I guess their generation grew up faster but I feel a deep and very real fear that I’ll be like this my whole life, some transient hack drinking too much with no family whatsoever, apart from the aunt I never knew I had, the one I met at Mum’s funeral just before Christmas, the one who looked like Grandma but with better hair. Aunt Ida. Thick scar across her throat from some kind of ’70s surgery. Aunt Ida who I now plan to visit someday.
I look in the fridge and pull out one of those party pre-mixed mojito cans. I take my rum and mix the drink. ‘Walk The Line’ is playing on a loop and I can’t hear Johnny but I know he’s there.
I’m not a good packer. When I go on holiday I don’t iron and fold all my clothes and pack them between sheets of tissue paper with rosebuds and lavender sprigs. I push it all in and squeeze like a professional rugby-forward scrumming businessmen into a carriage of the Tokyo subway. Then I zip up, no regrets.
So I pack my clothes and make-up and all the leads for the obsolete digital cameras I trashed years ago; but the lead may come in handy one day, you know? I throw away a half-opened bottle of shampoo that was medium expensive and turned my hair into an Olympic cyclist’s helmet. And then I’m done. Three-and-a-half years of life contained in three black wheelie-suitcases.
I drink and check my email and there’s a long message from David Holmqvist. He’s appraised my work to date and makes it quite clear that if this book is to sell, and in his words ‘sell, it must’, then it needs more drama. He explains that even the historical non-fiction memoir of a Swedish industrial family needs conflict and peaks and troughs and challenges and triumphs, and a dozen other buzzwords.
I take a sip and reply that I’m starting gently because the family are in pain. The truth is I’m busy writing up the Gunnarsson murder but I tell him how for ongoing stories I always build trust at the beginning to differentiate myself from other journalists and to get the better story. I tell him leave it with me, I got this.
The flat feels cold so I shower and heat some ready-made rice pudding, the kind that in Sweden gets sold in a condom-style plastic wrapper, and then I pull my aids back on gently and listen to Johnny and his guitar, laying on my bed, my head at the feet end, my feet at the head end, my mind imagining the new policewoman’s life, pondering her likes and dislikes, movies and food, the way she brushes her teeth in the morning, how she’d look in a robe, and thinking about her hair and the back of her neck. The light in the room changes. Blues flash off my white walls. I step to the window and see an ambulance drive off toward the reservoir, and then a minute later a cop car sets off from the station with its sirens blaring.
One mojito, extra strong. I can probably still drive. I have to. A cop car and an ambulance together. Could be important. Could be another Ferryman attack.
I pull on the old clothes I’d discarded on the sofa and swill mouthwash and pull on my boots and turn off Johnny Cash and run outside into the night.
20
I can hardly see through the windscreen. No time to scrape. The blower and the blue antifreeze start to work but my wipers are fused to the glass. I drive at eighty and slow down for corners like we get taught on our driving tests, the ones with the cardboard elks on frozen ice courses that we’re told to miss. Didn’t help you though, did it, Dad?
I can’t see the ambulance or cop car but there’s only one road in this direction. The glass clears and I speed up and take a handful of wine gums from the passenger seat and stuff them in my mouth in a neutron bomb of high fructose flavour. Blue lights up ahead. Please, no more Ferryman victims. No more salty black-liquorice eyes. No more blood.
I dab my brakes into a corner and my wheels slide the wrong way so I steer out of it, the counterintuitive direction, the ‘what the hell am I doing I am steering straight into a ditch’ method, an
d straighten up and carry on. The ambulance is in my headlights now and its exhaust fumes are freezing in this minus fourteen blackness; freezing into heavy, grey clouds and sitting low in the air waiting for me to drive through.
The sirens come on. They’re doing this for me, to tell me they’re here as if I didn’t already know. Then the red brake-lights flash on and off as they dab their brakes and the ambulance slows and the sirens change tempo and they park up pretty much in the centre of the road, and I pull in behind. I can see a police car parked further up with its roof lights flashing and strobing the snow crust of this dry northern tundra.
I get out and pull on my jacket and I step around the ambulance. There’s a truck down in the ditch. Again. The cop car’s parked so its headlights illuminate the scene and it looks like an outdoor theatre set, spotlights picking out the smoking Grimberg delivery truck, one of the vintage boxy vans with narrow wheels that looks quaint and all but has no place in a Swedish winter.
The cop’s at the truck talking at the driver through a mangled door. Reassuring him. Soft words. A dark red smudge on the window. The paramedics join her and then, together, heaving, they manage to release the door. They gently lift out a short man and place him on a stretcher they’ve had to leave down on the soft powder-snow covering the verge. He looks familiar. Blood runs down one side of his face. The paramedics fit a neck brace. One of his legs is facing the wrong way and they look at it and look at each other and then they cover him with an aluminium foil sheet.
I have my camera in the Hilux and this is one of those journalist moments where what’s the right thing to do and what’s the smart thing to do are not the same thing. I should be photographing but there are only three of us out here in this minus-fourteen nothingness so the camera can wait.
‘Can I help?’ I shout.
‘Wait in your vehicle,’ yells Noora.
I ignore that instruction and watch the paramedics lift the braced man into the rear of the ambulance with all the carefulness and precision of two veteran watchmakers. He doesn’t seem to shake or jolt a bit as they load him in and close the rear doors and drive off.