Black Ice

by Ian Giles

  Was it one of these elements, or all of them in combination, that had driven the man who had raped Sandra to steal away her son? If there was no child, then there was no father. The child was the only thing that could support loosely created theories about rape and drunk driving, which might in turn lead to accusations of manslaughter, hit-and-run, and even murder. A kidnapping added to the charge sheet hardly mattered.

  Or another murder.

  Perhaps it might make the difference between the longest time-specific sentence that could be handed out and a life sentence—if the murder of Peter Norling and all the other stuff wasn’t worth a life sentence, then a child murder would be. But for Hallin, it probably didn’t make much difference. He didn’t want to be deprived of his liberty, full stop, and he was clearly prepared to do whatever it took to avoid it.

  Perhaps even killing a child.

  Sandra entertained little hope that the police surveillance on Hallin would lead anywhere. Assuming they had even taken her misgivings seriously. He had killed Peter Norling with a heavy shovel—it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. If the intention was for Erik to die, then he was already dead and buried by now.

  Sandra tried to keep that incomprehensible thought away from herself. She alternated between padding back and forth by the window with a sob in her throat and working, biting her lip so hard that she tasted blood. She didn’t sleep a wink that night—there was no time.

  THREE-YEAR-OLD MISSING AFTER KINDERGARTEN OUTING TO WOODS

  During an outing to the Furulundsskogen woods on Friday afternoon, staff realised that the boy was missing. It has not yet been determined how he disappeared, but according to sources the children were bird-watching when the boy ran away.

  Shortly after the alarm was raised, police initiated a massive search effort. In addition to multiple police patrols, search-andrescue dogs and helicopters were also deployed. Around one hundred volunteers also joined the search, which has continued throughout the night.

  “At present, we do not suspect that any crime has been committed, but we are working without any preconceptions,” said the officer in charge of the search. “We would urge anyone who may have seen or heard anything of interest to contact the police.”

  The boy has short blond hair and is around 90 centimetres tall. At the time of his disappearance, he was wearing blue jeans, a red sweatshirt, and green boots, according to the police.

  GOTLANDS ALLEHANDA

  JULY

  2018

  52

  Kerstin

  JEANETTE WAS BACK to her heavy boozing, and Kerstin was sitting next to her, watching. Taking in the way she curled up like a kitten in Lubbi’s arms and sucked up the attention she generated around her whenever she was in that kind of mood. There she is, Kerstin thought to herself. The woman who left Kerstin’s great love to suffer and die for her own gain. The one who wasn’t interested in the money, but still let him die because her own great love thought it was a good idea.

  At certain moments, Kerstin managed to summon the energy needed to put herself in this unforgiving state, but for the most part she didn’t. More often, she saw Jeanette as a woman who had lost her child and then lost her footing. In the same way that she, Kerstin, had when she had lost her husband. For the most part, she remained fairly neutral, observing Jeanette with cool interest—just like anyone else who moved around the fringes of the woman’s consciousness. She supposed that was where she had ended up in her ponderings—somewhere in between, in the harsh landscape of indifference.

  It was the first day of the political festival known as Almedalen Week and political aficionados had begun to stream in from all directions. They flooded the town for a week, parking thousands of bicycles by the East Gate. But they were fun to watch. They were nothing like the average tourist; they represented other values. As a rule, they were happy and enthusiastic, and surprisingly well-behaved given the amount of rosé they tipped back. More often than not, they were engaged in lively conversations with each other.

  Kerstin was glad that she now had Sandra to talk to, and that they also had a joint project to focus on. Kerstin had already carried out some tasks, and Sandra had been very happy. Now it looked like Kerstin was going to let her down when it came to the money, because Jeanette had no other worthwhile ideas up her sleeve. A break-in at the Norling family’s house while they were on holiday didn’t seem constructive. Partly because Kerstin no longer engaged in criminal activities—disregarding the break-in at the summer house, of course, which had been for a good cause and had not led to anything being destroyed or stolen. Partly because the money would have been found long ago if it was at the Norlings’ house—by the police, if nobody else, since they had probably turned the house upside down in their hunt for the truth behind the disappearance. The same was likely to apply to the garage he had worked at.

  No, Jeanette seemed to have completely lost interest, and Kerstin had no ideas of her own. How was she supposed to come up with anything? Norling had probably got in his car and gone into the woods and buried the bags somewhere. Sooner or later, someone would stumble onto them, and it wouldn’t be Kerstin. What was more, it would be too late—the clock was ticking quickly now.

  Kerstin decided she would call Sandra that evening and explain the situation. Apologise that neither Jeanette nor she had any more ideas about where Norling might have hidden the cash, but emphasise clearly how eager she was to help in all other ways imaginable.

  Jeanette was shouting to her from the grass a small distance away, merrily running away with some of the younger boys chasing her. Kerstin didn’t care about her—that exhilaration might at any moment be transformed into depression and tears, or a thirst for battle and virulence. She was hammered too; there was probably a tear to her clothing or a twisted ankle in her near future.

  But Jeanette shouted again. At the same time she was choking with laughter as one of the young guys—Jimmy—wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her down into the grass.

  “. . . hunting . . . !” Jeanette shouted indistinctly.

  Yes, I suppose he is hunting you. Big deal, Kerstin thought to herself.

  “A hunting tower or something!” Jeanette tried again, and now the penny dropped.

  She was talking about Peter Norling—she was taking advantage of feeling light and happy to think. Kerstin’s heart softened again, and she reflected that Jeanette was fighting things her own way, and that she had underestimated her.

  A hunting tower, Kerstin thought to herself. Surely it wasn’t possible to hide something in a place used by many people . . . But a hunting cabin? That sounded more promising. Not that she knew what that was exactly—a cabin for spending time in before and after the hunt, maybe? With a shed where they could hang up the dead animals, perhaps . . . Did they skin them? Or was that an outdoor activity? There might be bunks too, if the hunt lasted for several days.

  A hunting cabin was surely not all that different to a summer house, except that it would be out in the middle of the forest somewhere. In other words, a suitable hiding place. But where? In which forest? And even if Jeanette could answer that question, she wouldn’t know the address. If hunting cabins had addresses, that was. Consequently, asking around would not be an option on this occasion.

  Then it occurred to her that there had to be a way of finding out which properties someone owned. Maybe you had to go to court, she thought to herself. Wasn’t there a population registry office? That sounded familiar. She got out her mobile and searched using the keywords. She found the property registration database on the Swedish mapping agency’s website. She clicked on “Order information about a property,” but it all looked very complicated. It seemed she needed to represent a company, and she might only be able to find out about one property, rather than seeing which properties someone owned.

  But she was going to get to the bottom of this, rather than skipping over it because it might be hard. On Monday, during business hours, she would call their
customer service line and ask how it worked—but first she would ask Sandra. She probably knew how to do it. She might even be able to access the information they needed quicker than that. Why hadn’t she thought of that straight away? It might have saved them the trouble of wandering around Tofta disguised as confused cleaners.

  Sandra and Kerstin had exchanged phone numbers now so that they could reach each other at any time. Sandra was no longer just a voice in the night but also a friend she could call whenever she liked. And vice versa. Kerstin was very reluctant to abuse that trust, but this was about the six million kronor, which was important to their joint project. And it was urgent. So she stepped to one side and called Sandra, who picked up straight away.

  “I’m so glad I caught you,” Kerstin said. “And sorry to bother you like this on a Sunday afternoon. But I wonder whether you’d be able to make use of your contacts to find out which properties Peter Norling owned? Or owns—he must still be in the system.”

  Sandra was silent for a few seconds before replying.

  “I should be able to do that. But not until I get to work, and I’m not sure when that will be. Is this about the stolen money?”

  “It is,” Kerstin confirmed. “We found a summer house that we turned upside down, but with no joy. There may be a hunting cabin too, but if there is then we have no idea where it is. There might be more—I hope you can find that out?”

  “As soon as possible. I’m a bit tied up right now.”

  “Then I’ll get out of your hair,” said Kerstin.

  “I’ll be in touch,” said Sandra, and she ended the call.

  She sounded unusually curt. Kerstin hoped she hadn’t transgressed some invisible boundary by calling her on a Sunday.

  53

  Sandra

  THE HOPE THAT Erik would knock on the door had dissipated, so on Saturday Sandra had moved back into her parents’ place. It was now Sunday evening and Erik had been missing for more than forty-eight hours. The shared worry characterised the movements and tones of voice of all three of them, but none of them allowed themselves to lose their grip. Each one of them was processing their emotions in their own way and was preparing for what was to come.

  Her mother was working in the kitchen, filling the fridge and freezer so that no one had to go hungry either now or when they became exhausted.

  Her father had been out searching all weekend together with the police, dogs, helicopters, and hundreds of volunteers. Despite heavy rain and thunder, more people than expected had participated in the search—or perhaps that was why. But there was no trace to be found of Erik, no clue as to where he might have gone.

  Sandra had reluctantly realised there was nothing she could do to streamline or speed up the search; there were already plenty of people out there and her presence would not add anything to that. Everyone was working their hardest at their assigned task. The best thing she could do was to assiduously continue her work on the thing that would hopefully make at least some small difference to a few of them. The thing that she had spent almost all her free time on since Erik’s name day when the first threat had materialised.

  Even if her parents didn’t waste words expressing their anxiety about what had happened to Erik, they spoke quite plainly when it came to Sandra’s sleep habits and the frenetic way in which she continued to work on whatever it was she was doing. Sandra was secretive and didn’t initiate them into the project she was carrying out behind a door that was both closed and locked. On the other hand, she fully agreed with what they had to say about her all-too-brief nighttime slumbers, though she didn’t do anything about it. She worked until she fell into bed at night, and got up a few hours later to do it all over again.

  There was the occasional break when she stopped by work for a while, mostly to check that everything was proceeding as it was supposed to, despite her absence. It seemed to be, and she delegated the responsibilities she would normally have covered to a couple of her closest colleagues. Everyone was sorry about what had happened and expressed their conviction that it would all turn out for the best. This was something Sandra doubted more and more, but she refused to give up hope.

  In her thoughts, she was with Erik, talking with him, calming and comforting him. The fact that she couldn’t physically share whatever he was experiencing with him made her feel like an inadequate parent. But the fictitious conversations brought him to life and that was what she needed to keep her spirits up. She felt his presence throughout her entire being, and while she was aware deep down that the feeling wasn’t anchored in reality, she continued to tell herself that it was.

  On Sunday evening, they received visitors in the form of the policeman Sandra had spoken to at Gråbo, just after Erik’s disappearance. Sandra caught sight of him through the window and met him out in the street.

  “My parents need to be kept out of this,” she said in a low voice. “They’re not aware of Jan Hallin.”

  “No problem,” said the policeman.

  “You absolutely mustn’t contact him. Do you understand?”

  “Absolutely. We’ve made that decision ourselves. We generally try to avoid precipitating rash responses from desperate people.”

  “It could be disastrous. At least wait another few days.”

  “That’s what we’re going to do,” the policeman reassured her. “Sooner or later, we’ll obviously have to question him, but at the current time we don’t want to take any risks. If subjecting him to questioning would put Erik’s safety at risk, then obviously we’ll stick to watching Hallin from a distance.”

  “And you’ve been doing that?” Sandra wanted confirmation.

  “We’ve had our eyes on Hallin for forty-eight hours now, but nothing suspicious has taken place.”

  Which was unfortunately more or less what Sandra had expected. If Hallin had had anything to do with the disappearance, she would probably have heard about it almost straightaway. At the same time she was grateful that the police had listened and had taken what she had said seriously enough that they had put Hallin under surveillance, so the knowledge that it hadn’t paid dividends was crushing. He wasn’t keeping Erik captive anywhere with the intention of handing him back if certain conditions were met or once enough time had passed—what he had done had already reached its conclusion. That was what common sense told her, but everything inside her was in tumult and she desperately wanted to believe something else.

  The rest of the conversation took place with her parents in the kitchen, but nothing emerged that provided any relief. There was no trace of Erik, and despite the huge search effort they were none the wiser. Sandra was tempted to give in to her emotions and just scream, but that would have been letting go and giving up, and she couldn’t allow herself to do that, even for one moment.

  And now she was forced—despite all her promises and intentions—to contact Jan Hallin anyway. It was still too soon to drop him in it with the police completely, but she had to try and get hold of him. What else was she supposed to do? After all, doing the opposite would hardly help . . . Sandra knew that he was behind the threats, the sabotage, and Erik’s disappearance. She couldn’t just sit there and let something unthinkable take place. Unless it already had.

  It was a desperate measure, but her tone of voice couldn’t be allowed to divulge her desperation. She had to show despondency, but not rage. That was why she initiated the call in a controlled voice.

  “I’d like to apologise for calling on your wife. It was stupid of me, and I’m genuinely sorry if it’s caused any problems.”

  “Yes, you can be sure it has. Do you think you’ll get any richer by getting my wife involved? Or do you think apologising will do it?”

  “I don’t want any money,” said Sandra. “I’ve withdrawn my demands. You’ll never hear about my son and never hear from me again.”

  There was a few seconds’ silence, then sarcasm dripping in venom.

  “That sounds just super. And not a moment too soon.”

  “On the con
dition that Erik shows up again, of course,” Sandra said. “Alive.”

  “Erik?” said Hallin. “Who the fuck is that?”

  Sandra didn’t reply. She was perfectly sure he already knew the answer to that question.

  “Oh, the son?” he said with clearly feigned surprise. “That sounds dramatic. Has he gone missing?”

  Sandra could have sworn she could hear a smile in his voice. He was toying with her, but she didn’t plan to give him the satisfaction of hearing her despair. She had to keep her cool and provide a calm and collected version of herself.

  “It’s about time we called a day on this,” she said. “Just make sure he comes home.”

  Hallin laughed out loud.

  “You’re blaming me for the kidnapping?”

  “Not at all. I’d just appreciate it that if you happened to bump into him you would please make sure he gets home safely.”

  Sandra took great care not to level any accusations. If he felt in the slightest bit threatened, there would be no incentive to cooperate. On the other hand, if he wasn’t expressly identified then there was always a chance that Erik might simply turn up somewhere. Without the police necessarily having to suspect a crime. That was what she was gambling on right now. She was pursuing a secret agreement of sorts in which nothing was spelled out, but where both parties knew what was expected of them.

  “I promise,” said Hallin. “If I run into the boy, I’ll put him on the first bus home.”

  His tone was one of gentle amusement, and that was frightening in itself. His wording suggested he had no specific plans to meet the three-year-old, which could mean it was all over. But Sandra couldn’t give up this easily. This was her chance to influence the outcome, and she couldn’t waste it.