Black Ice

by Ian Giles

  The door opened and the nurse looked in again—the one with the old-fashioned spectacles. She gave Sandra a sunny smile, nodded without saying anything, and withdrew back into the corridor, as if they were communicating in some shared code where a nod meant everything was under control.

  She realised that she had completely forgotten about the bilberry soup that she had been given earlier in the evening. It was standing together with the apple juice slightly concealed behind her toilet bag on the nightstand. She reached for the glass and took a big gulp. It tasted just like she remembered: sweet, but not too sweet. It was tasty, with a distinct bilberry flavour minus that natural acidity, and with lovely small seeds that lingered on your tongue. She downed the lot in just a few short gulps, and immediately regretted not having taken two glasses when she’d had the opportunity. She didn’t feel like apple juice right now, so she didn’t touch it.

  She cast another disillusioned glance at the incomprehensible picture on her computer, felt impatient, and thought that she could at least ask Kerstin whether she was awake. She fired off a text message and got an answer straight back saying it was fine to call. So she did.

  “Aren’t you sleeping?” she asked.

  “No, I’m actually out for a walk,” Kerstin replied. “I thought I’d look in on Jeanette.”

  “Why?” Sandra said with concern. “Don’t you trust her?”

  “No, I wouldn’t put it like that. She found my business card with a photo of me on it attached to one of the bags. Then she realised that it was my husband who died in the ravine, and you might say she didn’t take it very well. Your real name doesn’t really matter in our circles, so she’s always thought of me as Nanna. And after it dawned on me who she was, I wasn’t exactly eager to open her eyes to the truth either.”

  “Gosh. And you . . .”

  “I’ve forgiven her, Sandra. And she knows that. She refuses to accept it. She can’t forgive herself.”

  Sandra sighed. It felt as though Kerstin had more important things to do than answer questions that Sandra wanted to ask to pass the time.

  “What was it you wanted to talk about?” said Kerstin.

  “It occurred to me that I never got an explanation for that picture message you sent earlier this evening,” Sandra explained.

  There was silence on the other end of the line for a moment.

  “I’m not sure I’m with you,” said Kerstin uncertainly.

  “I thought as much,” said Sandra. “That you didn’t mean to send it. It was a picture of something pretty hard to make out—might have been a car or something, seen through a crack.”

  “Ah, now I’m with you,” said Kerstin. “I sent that this afternoon—around four o’clock. But I lost coverage out there after you and I spoke on the phone. The message must have got stuck in cyberspace somehow and only been sent once I returned to civilisation.”

  “No writing and terrible picture quality,” Sandra laughed. “What exactly were you trying to say?”

  “I wouldn’t say it was a cry for help,” Kerstin said. “But it was meant to be a clue as to what had happened. If we didn’t come back.”

  “What are you telling me, Kerstin? Did someone turn up at the hunting cabin who scared you so much that you weren’t sure you were going to leave there?”

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Sandra could hear Kerstin’s breathing as she walked, her footsteps on the asphalt.

  “Hello?” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “So you don’t know?” said Kerstin.

  “That’s becoming increasingly apparent. Tell me now.”

  So Kestin did as she was asked.

  “I had found the bags and chucked them out onto the grass when a car showed up,” she explained. “I caught sight of it at the last moment, and I was totally convinced that I had been spotted and that the driver was on their way over to where I was hiding in the privy. I thought I’d reached the end of the line, and I realised I could take a photo through the crack in the door and send it to you.”

  “But nothing happened?” Sandra said, encouraging her to go on.

  “Something happened,” said Kerstin. “But the visit had nothing to do with the money, which was obviously what I was worrying about.”

  “So what was the purpose of the visit?” Sandra asked.

  “To undo the bolt on the door to the root cellar,” Kerstin replied.

  “That’s all?” Sandra said in confusion. “They came to undo a bolt?”

  “Exactly.”

  “But why?” Sandra demanded.

  She had a strong feeling that she was being told something very important right now, but she couldn’t for the life of her understand what it was all about.

  “Because it had to seem as if the boy being held captive in the cellar had wandered in there by himself,” Kerstin said.

  Sandra couldn’t understand what she was hearing—she was unable to file the words into the right compartment of her brain.

  “The boy?” she said, dumbfounded.

  “Erik,” Kerstin clarified.

  Sandra felt her pulse quicken and her cheeks flush. What was going on?

  “Are you saying that Erik was being held captive at the hunting cabin? And that a car showed up to release him?”

  “I’m saying that the car showed up to fabricate the suggestion that Erik had made his own way into the root cellar and then been unable to get out.”

  Thoughts whirled around Sandra’s head. Erik—what on earth did he have to do with the treasure hunt at the cabin?

  “Was . . . Was he locked in?” Sandra stammered.

  “He was locked in without any food or drink,” Kerstin confirmed. “The kidnapper had probably been counting on him having died after such a long time, but the heavy rain meant he was able to drink rainwater.”

  “And of all people it was you who rescued him?”

  It was incomprehensible. Sandra couldn’t understand how it all fit together.

  “It was Jeanette and me who found him,” Kerstin clarified. “And if you think about it, it’s not entirely illogical. Hallin didn’t know anything about the money, but he knew that Peter Norling’s hunting cabin was empty, and probably knew about the cellar too.”

  Sandra let Kerstin’s words sink in. The questions she wanted answers to were countless, her gratitude to Kerstin knew no bounds, and yet she had talked to her earlier that evening without the subject being raised. And without Sandra saying a single word of thanks.

  “I’m absolutely speechless, Kerstin. I had no idea . . . Thank you. What can I say?”

  “We just did what anyone else would have done,” Kerstin said dismissively.

  “Tell me,” said Sandra. “I want to hear every detail.”

  So Kerstin told her. She accounted in depth for every moment after she spotted the car on the drive leading up to the cabin. When she was finished, there were still questions that were unanswered.

  “Your blurry photo is actually evidence against Erik’s kidnapper?” Sandra said. “Do the police know about it?”

  “The way I look goes against me,” Kerstin admitted. “They didn’t take anything we said seriously, and I think it would have suited them best if it had been us who had held Erik captive. I showed them the photo, but they just waved me away.”

  “And who is in the photo?” Sandra asked.

  “Hallin, of course,” Kerstin said with conviction. “But since it was bucketing down and we were both hiding, neither of us got a good look at him. With regard to the car, I’m pretty sure, even if cars aren’t my specialty. I would say it was a blue Audi. But with the right tools, a pro must be able to improve the photo, right?”

  “I’ve put a colleague to work on it,” Sandra said.

  “You need to send the police in the right direction too. There must be tire tracks at the cabin, and maybe footprints as well. There might be traces of the perpetrator in the cellar too. I mentioned all this to the police, but in their eyes I seem to lack cred
ibility.”

  Kerstin laughed as she said it. A little sadly, perhaps, but she laughed. Regardless of what she herself called it, she and Jeanette had saved Erik’s life, and the police had dismissed them as if they knew nothing.

  “Awful,” said Sandra.

  “Pardon?”

  “The police response to you and Jeanette is awful,” said Sandra.

  “I didn’t catch that,” said Kerstin. “It sounds like you’re slurring your words. Is your coverage bad?”

  Sandra checked the bars at the top of her mobile display—four of them. Was she really slurring her words?

  “I’ve got perfect coverage,” Sandra said.

  Well, perhaps the words weren’t tumbling out of her mouth with the same directness they usually did. And Kerstin hadn’t said anything either. What was happening?

  “Get onto the police as soon as you can, first thing in the morning,” said Kerstin. “That should give them time to intervene before Hallin leaves the country. He must feel the trap closing on him. And make sure you get the rest of that serial published as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do that,” said Sandra. She could hear now that she didn’t sound at all well. “Am I still slurring?”

  “Sounds like you are to me,” Kerstin confirmed. “Call the doctor.”

  “Could you come here?” Sandra asked.

  “I can’t hear what you’re saying, and I have to go now,” Kerstin said. “I’m at Jeanette’s flat.”

  “Come here!” Sandra commanded.

  It wasn’t intended as an order, more a way of ensuring she got her message across in as few, easily decipherable words as possible.

  “You’re in a hospital, Sandra. Press the alarm button. I’ll check on Jeanette, and I’m going to stay there for the night. Okay?”

  “Okay,” Sandra mumbled, well aware that what was coming out of her mouth bore little similarity to what she was trying to say.

  She wished Kerstin luck, but doubted her words were clear. She ended the call and tried without success to push her mobile back into her pocket. Instead, she laid it beside her on the bed and reached for the alarm button that was dangling on a string from the triangular handle above the bed. That didn’t work either—it was as if her body wouldn’t obey her as she sat there gesticulating in the air. She shut one eye in the vain hope that it would clarify her focus, but the opposite happened. All her senses were degenerating completely, and she could feel that if she tried to get out of bed to summon help, she would collapse onto the floor.

  As a security measure, she shut the laptop and pushed it under the duvet at the foot of her bed. She was afraid she might otherwise end up pushing it onto the floor, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen. The next task was to attempt to take the few steps to the wall behind the bed where there was another alarm button. She could hold on to the nightstand—the problem was that it was on wheels, so it might roll away if she supported herself on it. She would have to try and walk without support, or possibly slip to the floor and crawl there.

  She didn’t get any further than that in her planning before the door opened and a long shadow was cast over the floor. She squinted and tried to fix her gaze on the visitor’s face. He shut the door behind him and looked around—probably to ensure that they were alone in the room. Then he picked up a visitor’s chair that was leaning against the wall and unfolded it. He stepped forward to where Sandra was sitting on the bed, positioned the chair in front of her and sat down. Only now did she manage to get her eyes to focus on the visitor’s face, and the realisation of who it was hardly helped set her at ease.

  The disaster had come to pass. She was completely defenceless—drugged, probably poisoned. That had to be what had happened. Her senses had suddenly weakened, and several key bodily functions had collapsed at the same time, although her brain was still capable of thinking clearly. And the man who appeared at the very moment she was attempting to contact the outside world in a final desperate measure seeking rescue from her hopeless situation was none other than Jan Hallin.

  70

  Kerstin

  SHE ENDED UP standing there with the phone in her hand. What was happening to Sandra? Had she been having a stroke while they were talking? Kerstin sincerely hoped that wasn’t the case, but in the unlikely event that it was, then it could hardly happen in a better place than Visby General Hospital. She tried to persuade herself of that.

  Provided, that was, someone was informed of the unfolding situation. As she had already told Sandra, all she had to do was summon the doctor. The alarm button was never further away than any old wrinkly with poor mobility could reach.

  Nevertheless, she felt unsettled. This was Sandra. Sandra, the woman in the middle of exposing a rapist, hit-and-run driver, murderer, and kidnapper to the vast majority of the public on the island of Gotland. Sandra, the woman whose son had been the subject of attempted murder and had been a hair’s breadth from death. Was it that far-fetched to imagine that the two of them were still in the danger zone, that Sandra had been incapacitated with drugs, or even given an overdose? Considering the boy was still alive, and the serial wasn’t so far gone that it couldn’t be stopped without any definitive answers being provided to the many questions the eager readers had . . .

  No, not really. But Sandra was still in a hospital and was in good enough condition to raise the alarm with the staff. While Kerstin was far away and could hardly do anything for Sandra that the doctors and nurses couldn’t do themselves.

  On the other hand, Jeanette had no button to press if the situation felt untenable. Jeanette only had one lifeline, and that was Kerstin, who had volunteered against both her friend’s will and her own better judgment. And Kerstin had misgivings. This unyielding side to Jeanette was one she had seen before—this indifference towards others. That was why she made the decision to set aside her concerns for Sandra’s welfare for the time being and instead concentrate on Jeanette.

  For some reason, she tried the door before ringing the bell. It was unlocked, and that was very alarming.

  71

  Jan

  EARLIER IN THE EVENING when his mobile had pinged and a news flash had informed him that the missing boy had been found, Jan had made a decision. When he considered what his life would be like, the looming scandal and the subsequent prison sentence, he decided he needed to leave this sinking ship. He would take the cheap overnight ferry to the mainland, stay beneath the radar as best he could, and eventually make his way to a country without an extradition treaty with Sweden and start over there. That was the plan, and Gunilla, who had read selected excerpts of the serial on Jan’s advice, agreed with him fully.

  The serial was a form of revenge—Jan understood that much. It wasn’t a very fair approach, since it circumvented the justice system and described what had happened from the supposed victim’s perspective before then condemning and smearing the reputation of the supposed perpetrator without any trial. A desperate, but also understandable, action for someone who considered herself to be a victim of a crime, one for which she had little chance of securing legal redress so long after the fact.

  But if what was left of the serial wasn’t published, then the whole thing would be cast in an entirely different light. There would be no trial, no prison sentence, and no accusations of murder or kidnapping. The Hallin name wouldn’t be dragged through the mud, and Jan wouldn’t have to flee.

  That was the straw to which he was clutching when, just after midnight, with the biggest suitcase he had been able to find in the basement, he stepped into the hospital lobby and headed towards the lifts.

  The fact that Sandra felt that what she had been subjected to was straightforward rape was pretty clear, and Jan would have to compromise—admit that he was a rapist. It didn’t sound good; in fact it had a bad sound to it, when in reality it was just a single encounter that had gone off the rails. Jan didn’t consider himself a rapist, but he agreed that he had raped. Once. To lend credibility to his denials.

 
; The author also seemed to think that the poor sod in the ravine had been the victim of a crime. Jan didn’t agree. Two cars had encountered each other on a road covered in black ice, and one of them had crashed into a ravine. The idea that it was solely Jan’s fault was impossible to prove now, and it wouldn’t have been possible to prove it at the time either. But Jan hadn’t been sober, Jan had left the scene, and Jan had failed to call emergency services. Those constituted his crimes—not that he had caused the death of another person. His guilt was down to the distorted legal system—for the accident itself he bore no guilt.

  Sandra was reeling off unfair and misleading accusations against Jan, and he couldn’t allow that. This was the reason why he shortly thereafter stepped into the room where he had found out she and the boy were. He put the suitcase down outside the door, which he closed behind him. Then he sat down on a visitor’s chair that he positioned provocatively close to her curled-up body on the bed.

  72

  Sandra

  “I’LL BE BRIEF,” said Hallin. “I don’t want you to publish any more of that serial.”

  It came as no surprise that Jan Hallin didn’t want his crimes to be described in a form that got people seriously engaged, got them to empathise with the victim’s suffering and condemn the actions of the perpetrator. Sandra dared not and could not answer—she lay there trembling on the bed waiting for his next statement.

  “You’re probably well aware of that,” he said. “But I still want to make it clear that I’m being publicly hung out to dry just because it suits you. Rapists and hit-and-run drivers aren’t normally identified in the press, so I would say you’re abusing your authority.”

  Hallin certainly had a point there, but it was about more serious crimes than that, crimes that would remain unsolved if Sandra didn’t prove that they were all connected in this way. Something the police would never have pulled off on their own. What was more, she hadn’t given Hallin away, since there was no crucial detail relating to him personally. Funnily enough, he seemed to be reading her thoughts.