Behind Blue Eyes

by C S Duffy

  The killer could have panicked, misjudged the injection so it left a mark, didn’t spot the spec of blood in the dark. And if it hadn’t been for whatever forced them to rush, wouldn’t Gustav Lindström’s death have seemed like another senseless tragedy? The odds may be low that a young, fit guy would have a sudden heart attack, but it wasn’t impossible. Given his size it was hardly out the question he had at least dabbled in steroids at some point, that plus extreme exercise could have put an undue strain on his heart. If it wasn’t for the careless puncture wound, it might have been impossible to tell.

  Gustav and Sanna’s long relationship meant that they must know dozens, hundreds of people in common. It was far from out the question that someone who knew them both harboured some sort of grudge against them both that turned rancid and into murder. But something about that didn’t sit right.

  Sanna’s murder wasn’t the first time the killer had struck, I thought. Despite the saying, getting away with murder is far from easy. Even serial killers, those white whales of criminals, rarely succeed on their first attempt. The stress of taking another life, even for the coldest of psychopaths, causes mistakes, mess, forgotten loose ends.

  Sanna’s murder was almost flawless. The upturned kayak appearing days later; her body lost for so long that almost all possible evidence was eradicated. The little beach where I found her was rarely used, tucked away at the back of the cottage. If it hadn’t been for me storming off in a strop and getting lost, the skeleton could have lain tangled in those reeds for months, years, forever more.

  It was, I thought cynically, very nearly the perfect crime.

  I pulled out my phone and drummed my fingers on the screen for a second. There’s little more irritating than wanting to look something up when you don’t even know the words to Google. After a moment, I pulled out my notebook, made a list of the terms in English I wanted to search for, painstakingly translated each one, and started searching.

  I don’t know how much time passed as I sat on the bench frantically scribbling notes, but by the time I looked up again, a pale dawn was breaking overhead, and the air was filled with the scent of fresh flowers being unpacked at the stall across the square. I stretched my neck from side to side wincing as my shoulder muscles protested, and wondered if the fresh coffee I could smell brewing somewhere nearby was a mirage.

  Sven Olafsson, 49. Died of an asthma attack in Tantolunden Park

  Annette Björkstedt, 38. Fell down the stairs opposite Fotografiska, catastrophic head injury.

  Cattis Bergman, 23. Complications from an epileptic seizure at home on Skånegatan.

  Sigge Åstrand, 34. Heart attack at Kvarnen.

  Björne Svensson, 29. Overdose at home on Åsögatan.

  Fve deaths — seven, counting Sanna Johansson and Gustav Lindström — that had all occurred over the past ten years, all on this island. Except for Sanna, but she lived here. That was a lot of random tragedies in one small area. People rarely die of asthma attacks these days, or just forget to take life saving medication, I thought. Not this often.

  There didn’t appear to be any particular connection between the victims. Both genders, a range of ages, professions, lifestyles, as far as I could see. But that was another Hollywood myth. On screen, serial killers fetishise their victims, preying on attractive brunettes to exact revenge on their mother or skinny blondes to relive their first love. In life, they’re more likely to kill who they can, when they can.

  It was one of the reasons they manage to get away with it for so long.

  28

  You thought you’d got away with it. You thought no one had seen you, but I had. I saw that tiny smile of triumph flash across your face as you finally slipped to the back of the room then out the door, and it made me curious, so I followed.

  That’s the tragic irony of the whole thing. I only followed you because I was curious. I don’t know what to say, it honestly was no more than that. If I’d been looking in the other direction when you reached the door, if I’d never noticed you moving in the first place, if something had distracted me before I got to the door, how different everything would have been.

  It says so much that no one called over, shouted me to join them as I crossed the room. Unlike you, I’m rarely invisible. But that night I was. I just got up and left and no one stopped me. No one even noticed I was gone.

  Doesn’t that tell you it was fate?

  I don’t mean that to insult you, by the way. I don’t mean to undermine the importance of what happened between us. In fact, if anything, the fact that it was all down to chance, to the random happenstance of you catching my eye as I yawned, makes it all the more momentous to me. It was meant to happen. Written in the stars. Destiny. Whatever you want to call it.

  We were always going to end up in the darkness out there that night. You were always going to be the one.

  You once talked about impact. We were discussing the meaning of life, debating whether achievement, making one’s mark on the world, was the indication of a life truly lived. You got very defensive. You argued passionately that a life of contentment, of family love and hobbies and small acts of kindness and so on, was just as worthy. We were all quite surprised to see the mouse roar.

  But wren’t your parents well-known? Politicians, something like that? I imagine that’s where your defensiveness came from. Already you knew you would never live up to them. You were preparing your own defense, pretending that insignificance didn’t matter. You were desperate to believe that you would still count.

  Well you did count, in the end. In the end, you had more impact than you could ever have known.

  You made me.

  I didn’t go out the same door as you. I’m not that stupid. I’d guessed, by the time I’d laced up my snow boots, where you were headed, so I took my time, knowing I could catch up easily enough.

  I didn’t predict you would be on skis. You must have been prepared, must have hidden them somewhere in the little yard behind the door you went out of. The skis were stored at the other end of the cabin.

  You had planned your escape.

  A little flame of respect flickered to life in me when I realised that. You were more interesting than I had suspected. Worthy, even.

  I think that was the moment that sealed your fate.

  Which is crazy when you think about it. A pair of cross country skis, old and battered and scratched, signed your warrant. Ridiculous. It’s when I remember things like that, that I wonder if I am crazy.

  I mean, I am. I must be. Look at what I’ve done. Look at what I did to you.

  That’s not normal behaviour, normal impulses, I know that. I’m not in any denial over the truth of myself. I realise it must seem that way — how can I live a normal life knowing what I am, what I’ve done? I wonder it myself. More often than you’d think.

  The morning after is the hardest. I wake up. I shower and make coffee. Get dressed, listen to the morning news, pour a second coffee into my reusable travel mug, maybe even text with a friend with one hand as I lock the door behind me. All the while, adrenaline fizzes and stings as it drains from my body, and it makes me feel detatched. Uncoupled from the world somehow.

  You know how, in a dream, you’re never fully present? You believe in the world of the dream, you’re in it for the moment, but there’s a part of you held back, observing what’s happening. On some level, you are conscious of the fact that you are dreaming.

  That’s how I feel on the mornings after. I go through the motions of life, and all the while I’m watching myself from a distance. Marvelling at how normal I seem, how no one would ever guess. Shaking my head in wonder as I give way to another cyclist, greet my colleagues, wake up my computer and yawn. Think about lunch. Decide I’ve had enough coffee already. I know it sounds big headed, but I’m quite astonished by myself on those mornings.

  I know it’s terrible, but I feel a little proud. I can’t help but suspect that not everyone would be able to pull it off to the extent I do. A weaker s
pecimen would be shaky, distracted, obviously out of sorts. It would be written all over their face. People would notice.

  Of course, people never notice, do they? They never suspect.

  ‘We had no idea. He always seemed like a lovely person. Friendly, you know. Maybe a little quiet, sometimes, now we think about it. But the nicest neighbour you could ask for. We could never have predicted what he was capable of.’

  29

  The restaurant where Mia had organised a dinner to celebrate something or other was a tiny little place surrounded by a large outdoor terrace on a square in the city centre. The bar staff looked as though they had just stepped out of a Calvin Klein ad. They were shaking cocktails with more flourish than was strictly necessary, and everything was bathed in the pink glow of overhead heaters. It was the sort of swanky affair that made me want to kick off my shoes and do a can-can while belting out My Old Man.

  If there’s such a thing as being an inverted food snob, I’m it. One glance at the English version of the menu had revealed it to be all a créme of this and jus of that, so I was already grouchy and eyeing up the McDonalds across the square. My bouche does not want amusement, it wants fed. Give me a post-club bacon sarnie any day, thank you very much. Preferably from a manky little hole in the wall where the water marks on the cutlery reassure you they’ve been at least washed, after a fashion and no matter what time of day or night it is, you’ll be served by a furious person in a filthy apron.

  There was an enterprising kebab van, once upon a time, that would pull up outside — I want to say Fabric, but I can’t remember for certain anymore — and dole out hundreds upon hundreds of the greasiest, most minging kebabs you could fathom. Fashionistas who normally wouldn’t touch a morsel that wasn’t vegan and gluten-free and had had all the toxins and calories sucked out by a Peruvian mountain goat or something queued for miles as a grimy dawn broke over London.

  I was the only person I knew who never got food poisoning from it. It was my thing. I was infamous for it. There goes Ellie. She can eat those kebabs without spending the following twelve hours curled around a toilet bowl howling for a death that’s swift and merciful. It’s really her. Ask for a picture if you want, she’s very approachable.

  Johan had wandered off as soon as we’d arrived, of course. Things had been a touch tense between us the past few days. I hadn’t told him what had happened with Gustav and the police. I know I should have, and I would, obviously, as soon as I found the right time.

  It was just that, when I’d finally got home that morning, he’d been waiting, worried out of his mind. My mind was racing, grappling with the possibility of a string of murders, and it had sort of slipped my mind that I’d been out all night and hadn’t let him know. He was so wound up, pacing around the tiny living area, claustrophobia rolling off him in waves as though the flat couldn’t contain his worry. I thought of all the times he and his mum must have waited all night for his dad to roll in and I felt horrific. The police had offered to ring him. I should have let them.

  But it was too late by then, so I told him that I’d ended up crashing at Maddie and Lena’s, and that I could have sworn I’d texted him but must have failed to properly tap Send. I fell all over myself apologising, swearing blind it would never happen again and that I felt terrible and I loved him and please, please could he forgive me. Eventually he cracked and took me in his arms I felt this massive lump in my throat as the actual truth of my night came crashing over me.

  I knew that if I let the tiniest tear escape I’d fall apart, so I pulled back and pretended I needed the loo. When I came out he’d made me breakfast. He kissed the top of my head and dashed out for work, looking exhausted and drained. I tucked into the most gorgeous pancakes, feeling like the worst person ever to walk the earth.

  I’d been wound up like a spring ever since. Every time I heard someone in the hallway outside his flat I’d tensed, bracing myself for the police to bang on the door. A siren had zipped up the road the night before and I’d jumped a mile in bed, sitting up bolt outright and waking Johan. He assumed I’d had a nightmare and was so sweet trying to comfort me it nearly made me cry again.

  It would be fine, I reminded myself, again. If the police wanted to talk to me, then I would explain everything to Johan. Maybe I’d be able to skirt round the fact it would be the second interview. Maybe not. Either way, if they didn’t, there was no need to worry him.

  In the meantime, I was pleased he was getting a chance to relax and hang out with his friends, and I could take care of myself. Deciding to take Maddie’s lead and just bulldoze my way into conversations, I introduced myself to a group of guys hanging by the bar. They all politely shook my hand, then continued to chat in Swedish while I stood there with an inane grin pasted on my face. Strike one.

  I then turned to some random woman and complimented her on her dress, even though, truth be told, it was a plain black shift so what really was there to say about it? She smiled and thanked me, then turned to greet someone else and I more or less got a mouthful of her hair. Strike two.

  I know the traditional approach is three strikes, but at that point I didn’t have the heart and I didn’t want to stand there on my own like a wally, so I went to the loo and hid for a bit.

  When I decided to brave the masses again, everyone had taken their seats for dinner. And there were no seats left near Johan. He was deep in conversation with some guy as I approached the table, all settled in with his napkin on his lap and his wine glass already filled. He didn’t even look up. Liv was next to him — of course — and Krister was opposite, laughing at something Liv had said.

  I couldn’t see Mia. She’d be busy, flittering about playing hostess and making sure everything was going to plan. It crossed my mind to find her and pointedly ask her where I should sit, then realised it would be a bit like going to the teacher to complain no one would play with me. I pictured Mia leading me back to the table by the hand, sternly telling everyone to be nice to Ellie or she would have a word with their mums.

  The table was long and narrow, with thirty odd people seated along it, which did little to dislodge the feeling that it was all a bit school dinners. I made my way down to the far end, firmly telling myself I was imagining that it was only more dimly lit down in the hinterlands. I couldn’t be exiled from the cool kids’ section because we were adults and there was no such thing.

  As I took my seat, a freckly woman with a sunburned nose flashed me a bright grin and held out her hand.

  ‘Hej! Jag heter Corinna. Vem är du?’

  Well this was a turn up for the books. She looked at me expectantly. Heter, I thought frantically. Name. She’s asking my name, or telling me hers. Eventually I gave up with an apologetic grin.

  ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t speak Swedish. I’m Ellie.’

  ‘Oh you’re British, how exciting. I am Corinna, and this is Magnus, Kalle and Sven.’

  The three guys to the left of us were the same I’d introduced myself to at the bar. They all nodded briefly in my direction, clearly having zero recollection of me from not fifteen minutes earlier.

  It turned out that Corinna had lived in New York for a few years in her early twenties. ‘The first few guys I dated, they couldn’t stop talking about how amazing I was, how they had been looking forward to the date all day, how excited they were to get to know me, so of course I was terrified they were all in love with me,’ she grinned as she refilled my wine glass. ‘Just before I left Sweden, one of my friends got engaged, and at the party to celebrate she drunkenly confessed that until he proposed she had no idea whether or not he was in to her. To me that’s normal,’ she added. ‘So these American guys who were so full of compliments — I was like shit, I’m going to have to start breaking some hearts here. And then none of them called.’

  I laughed. ‘I think English guys are a bit more like Swedish that way, at least.’

  ‘So what made you move to Sweden? Was it for a man?’

  I don’t know what made me hesitate.
Maybe it was the sound of Liv’s voice. Maybe it was the little glimpses I kept getting of Johan laughing with his friends, a million miles away from me.

  ‘I’m a journalist,’ I said finally. It wasn’t a lie. ‘I’m — I’m actually working on a story, about a possible serial killer operating in Stockholm.’ It wasn’t entirely a lie.

  Corinna’s eyes widened and she leaned in. ‘Really? How thrilling. And dangerous, or?’

  I shrugged. ‘Not unless they know I’m on to them.’

  ‘You said possible serial killer — are you not certain?’

  ‘I’m certain,’ I said, realising at that moment that it was true. ‘But I can’t prove it yet.’

  ‘And do the police know?’

  ‘I don’t think so, not yet.’

  ‘It’s just so interesting. I’m sorry, do you think I’m strange? It’s just that I love true crime, you know, all those podcasts and things. I am a historian, and a lot of my job involves figuring out puzzles. What is this person referring to in that letter and what does it tell us about what else they say? Maybe that is why I like puzzles for fun, also.’

  ‘Wow, that is so cool.’

  ‘It is,’ she smiled. ‘I love my job.’

  ‘What period do you specialise in?’

  ‘Quite recent really, the Cold War. I am fascinated by how much we are affected by wars we claim we are not part of.’ Silent waiters refilled both of our wine glasses. Corinna nodded her thanks and took a sip of hers. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Johan and Liv laughing, but I firmly kept my focus on Corinna. ‘In my thesis,’ she continued, her eyes sparking with passion, ‘I argue that Sweden could not truly be considered neutral because of how much we co operated with the Americans. ’

  ‘I’ve heard something about that — have you talked to Krister about his family’s summer cottage? He was telling me how the Americans might have used it for a base.’