LOURDES DAZAGILLMAN
Translated by Amanda Fletcher
Swedish original title: Verkan
Copyright © 2017 Lourdes DazaGillman
All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN-978-91-983044-5-9
Layout: L. DazaGillman
Photography © Ivan Daza
First published in English 2017
For more information about the author visit:
Lourdes-dazagillman.com
Facebook: Author Lourdes DazaGillman
Dear reader!
My ambition is to stimulate your thoughts and feelings, not just invite you to enjoy a reading experience. For most of my adult life I have been interested in human survival issues, and my writing has been hugely influenced by concerns relating to women’s vulnerability in society. My books reflect this fact. They are the result of research that I began in the early 1970’s while living in London. It was then that I put my thoughts into words for the first time in an academic thesis about women’s’ life experiences and the injustices they face around the world.
Due to a variety of circumstances I ended up in Sweden – a country where, according to the law, men and women are considered equal. However, it didn’t take me long to realize that, even here, female vulnerability still exists.
A lot of water would flow under the bridge before this story was transformed from an academic paper into a novel. I felt compelled to draw attention to the domestic violence that exists all around us, every day. I had no choice but to rise to the challenge and attempt to write a captivating trilogy on this serious subject.
Although self-publishing is not a new phenomenon, it involves a lot more than just writing a book. Nothing is served on a silver platter, it takes hard work and dedication every step of the process. The technical and practical skills I have accumulated along the way are immeasurable.
In particular I would just like to say how pleased I am that you are holding a copy of IMPACT in your hand. If you like the book, please spread the word. Tell your friends and colleagues during the coffee break at work or on social media, and help me gather as much interest as possible. I would also appreciate it if you could write a little note on my Facebook page after you have read it.
I sincerely hope you will like the book!
Please report any errors to me at:
[email protected]
Prologue
HE LAY ON THE BED. He couldn’t remember how he had got there. He was terrified. In his desperate attempts to escape all he had managed to do was exacerbate his injuries and now blood was seeping from the wounds on his wrists and ankles. His hands were bound together by a tightly knotted leather belt and there was a strip of silver adhesive tape over his mouth, making it impossible for him to scream. Sweat poured down his face. He continued to struggle. He had to escape while there was still time.
The room was cold and the silence unsettling. However, he wasn’t alone. His captor, covered from head to toe in black, was sitting on a chair and staring callously at him.
A clock ticked endlessly and each second that passed felt like an eternity.
A sigh.
A movement.
His captor rummaged inside a rucksack, stood up and walked over to the bed, squinting maliciously at him.
They removed their blond wig.
“Do you remember me?” they asked cuttingly. “You never would have guessed… would you?”
He shook his head contemptuously.
A cold smirk passed across his captor’s lips as they stuffed the wig under the jumper to free their hands.
The man refused to give up. He kept on struggling and his eyes almost burst out of their sockets. He tried to scream but the only sound he could muster was a muffled grunt.
All of a sudden, there was a crash of thunder and a streak of lightening illuminated the sky. A blustery wind whistled outside. The man and his captor glanced at the window.
He sighed in despair.
His captor looked back at him and smiled coldly. “You’ll never escape!” They emptied the contents of a small bottle into a cotton wool pad.
“Brrr,” gasped his captor, pretending to shiver with fear. They grabbed the man’s sexual organ and wiped it with the saturated cotton ball.
The man winced with pain. His movements became more and more frenetic and the veins in his throat began to swell. Panic filled his eyes.
The black-clothed person stared at him pitilessly. “Sooner or later every action has consequences.”
Using a pair of tweezers his captor picked up a small piece of paper and shoved it into the head of the man’s penis.
The man’s muscles seized up in agony.
“Come, come, we’re done… you’re nice and clean now,” they sneered.
The man grimaced. His eyes filled with tears and he made convulsive movements with his head to try and dislodge the tape from his mouth.
“Dear me, you’re a difficult one,” teased his captor, reaching over and picking up a cushion, then pressing it down hard over the man’s face.
He fought desperately, rocking his body back and forth, but they wouldn’t let go, pressing the cushion down harder and harder.
It was over.
They looked down sadly at the lifeless body. It was a strange feeling. There was an uneasy sensation in the pit of their stomach and their heart was pounding, but they felt no remorse.
They took a deep breath and looked around. Everything would have to be returned to its original state and no traces left behind. Their composure belied the turmoil they felt inside. With mechanical efficiency they puffed up the cushion a couple of times then returned it to its original position and straightened out the bedclothes.
The clock on the bedside table said quarter past four in the morning. They picked up the rucksack, walked into the bathroom and climbed into the tub, then removed their clothes and stuffed the items into a plastic bag. They dug out a white overall, a pair of chinos and some blue shoe protectors from the rucksack as well as a large white shawl, which they used to cover their head and face. Everything was planned down to the smallest detail and must be implemented in strict order like a sacred ritual. They stuffed the plastic bag with the clothes they had been wearing – a rumpled skirt and blouse as well as a wig – into the rucksack together with their shoes and closed the zip.
So far so good. They smiled with satisfaction. Job completed, right on track.
They scrubbed the tub and surrounding walls thoroughly to rinse away all traces and checked the plughole for any traces that could incriminate them. Although there was nothing visible, to be on the safe side, they rinsed it with water again.
After glancing at the clock they hurriedly returned to the bedroom.
He hadn’t moved.
For a brief moment they felt anxious.
There was no time for this emotional nonsense. After scanning the room they walked out of the property with slow, deliberate steps.
The storms and torrential downpours had been inscribed on the landscape. The gravel path outside the house was still wet. Inhaling the clean, fresh air gave them a renewed sense of freedom as they walked along the edge of the path among the plants and trees to avoid leaving obvious footprints. They opened a gate that led out into the deserted street, pausing for a few seconds and glancing around to make sure nobody was there before closing the gate and continuing on
hastily until they reached the tarmac.
An owl hooted. Their heart thumped and beads of sweat glistened on their forehead. Calm down, calm down, everything’s fine… everything’s fine, they repeated to themselves like a mantra. A little further down the road they removed the shoe protectors and latex gloves they had been wearing up to now.
Everything had gone according to plan. They had already staked out the area and worked out how the local traffic functioned. Although there was a bus stop right outside the house they decided against that option. Anybody out on their own this early in the morning would arouse the attention of the bus driver and ruin everything.
They continued their journey on foot. There was a suffocating weight pressing down on their chest.
Two hours later they finally arrived at Ingarö Centrum.
They found a sheltered corner, away from the other early risers.
Time to change their appearance. They removed the shawl, put on a black sweater and rolled up their trouser legs just below the knee then took off their canvas shoes and slipped on a pair of pumps.
Suitably disguised, they made their way to the nearest bus stop heading in the direction of Slussen.
CHAPTER 1
The man from Värmdö
IT WAS FIVE O’CLOCK in the morning on a late summer day and a middle-aged man was out walking his two Labradors. He and his family had just returned from a long holiday in Thailand to rainstorms, powerful winds and dark clouds, boding a prolonged period of dismal weather. The dogs wagged their tails eagerly, oblivious to the rain and relishing their return to familiar territory. Their master made a half-hearted attempt to calm them down while he tightened the cord on his jacket hood. He looked up and down the road but before he could decide which way to go the dogs broke loose from his grip. He relented and let them run free. Barking furiously, the Labradors charged towards a house located about two hundred metres away.
“What the hell? Kaiser, Winter, come here!” he screamed. The dogs ignored their master’s commands and bounded ahead in excitement. As soon as they reached the cottage they began to scrape frantically against the front door with their paws.
“Stop!” he screamed as he chased after them. The first thing that he noticed was the smell, which hit him with full force a few metres from the house. He placed his hand over his mouth and nose to block out the repulsive odour. The dogs retreated, whimpering. Something was definitely wrong. The chances were it was nothing serious but he felt compelled to investigate further. He scratched his chin and mulled over the situation. He contemplated calling the police. However, although a visit from the police would probably be the best course of action, maybe he should first contact the owners of the house. Yet he had no idea how to get hold of them. All he knew was that they had separated and the house had been empty for some time.
He hesitated and backed away from the house.
However, a few minutes later, he decided to take a closer look. He walked around the building and peered through the back door window into the kitchen, then continued around the house to what he assumed was the bedroom window. He stretched up as high as he could but could barely reach the windowsill. As luck would have it there was a wooden pallet nearby, and it looked about the right height. It was broken in places and unsteady but, lacking in other options, he decided to give it a try. He leaned the pallet against the wall under the window and gingerly heaved himself up then cupped his hands against the glass to get a better view.
All of a sudden he recoiled in horror and tumbled backwards off the pallet onto the ground, piercing his leg on a sharp piece of broken branch.
“Bloody Hell!” he screamed. He ignored the blood spouting from the wound and clambered back onto the platform. He hadn’t imagined it. “No! No! No!” he howled.
There was a naked man lying on the bed, lifeless and inert.
He fumbled nervously in his pocket for his mobile and dialled 112.
“There’s a man!” he stuttered. “There’s a dead man in the house!”
“Where are you calling from?” replied a woman calmly.
The man gradually recovered his composure and did his best to answer the operator’s questions, repeating the information a number of times. She informed him that the police were on their way and advised him to keep his phone on and wait there until help arrived.
CHAPTER 2
Back to reality
SANNA WAS JOLTED AWAKE by the persistent ringing of her alarm clock, which she had set to half past six. Her face twisted into an ugly grimace as she slammed down the button. She turned over and drew the covers back over her head. It was the start of the week, the first day back at work after a much needed, extended leave of absence.
Almost four months had passed since Sanna Johansson had finished working on the infamous Svenson case – a complicated murder investigation, which had drawn to a close under shocking circumstances. A denouement that had given her pause for thought. She needed to reconsider her options, re-evaluate her life and give herself time to figure out her future.
Despite her relatively youthful thirty-five years Sanna was an experienced and esteemed detective. She was recognized for her particular skill at recreating the sequence of events in murder enquiries and had a reputation for being tough, committed and uncompromising. However, beneath her confident exterior lurked a damaged soul, a childhood characterized by violence and abuse
For the first two months of her leave, Sanna had taken it very easy. Naturally, memories of her younger sister kept invading her thoughts. Malin had chosen to leave this world while Sanna was consumed by the ongoing Svenson investigation. Her sudden death was devastating, it was as if a chasm had opened up beneath her feet, yet she had been forced to steel herself and carry on working as if nothing had happened.
It was not until her enforced sabbatical that Sanna finally found the time to mourn. She had never imagined life without her – Malin was her everything, and now she was gone.
The only activities that could provide Sanna with the sense of equilibrium she craved were weight training and running, both of which she did regularly. Without these diversions she would probably have sunk into a deep depression as she battled against the nightmares that had persecuted her as a child and were still haunting her.
She was thirteen years old when her mother had committed suicide, following years of violence and abuse. Sanna could still see the expression on her three-year old sister’s face as she clasped their mother’s hand whose body lay indurate in the bath of crimson water.
Sanna and her siblings suffered long-term repercussions as a result of their dysfunctional childhood. Her elder brother, Marcus, was hooked on tranquilizers. But it was Malin who had fared the worst. She had slipped into a state of apathy, which from a medical standpoint was incurable. Since the day she had watched her mother die, Malin had never uttered a coherent sentence. After six months at a treatment centre she had been moved to the psychiatric ward at Uppsala University Hospital, where she stayed until her death six months ago. She was twenty-five years old.
Sanna closed her eyes again. She had no desire to get up. With a loud sigh, she reluctantly tossed aside the duvet and slid out of bed. She staggered to the bathroom, clambered into the bath and turned on the shower, forgetting to let the hot water run first. As the ice-cold water cascaded over her body she swore under her breath and gritted her teeth. Gradually the water warmed up and she delighted in the sensation of the warm water against her skin.
Fifteen minutes later she climbed out of the tub, grabbed the white bath towel that was hanging on a hook nearby and wrapped it around her body. The memory of her recent holiday in the sun was etched on her skin. She dried off in front of the mirror and admired her fit, suntanned physique.
The long sabbatical had been starting to grate on her nerves, her mood undulating like a roller coaster. She couldn’t continue like this. She needed to make a radical change in her life – and soon.
Sanna had toyed with the idea of changing her
job but Kalle’s frequent phone calls encouraging her to return to work as soon as possible had been unsettling. It was Kalle who had originally advised her to take a trip abroad and move to a new apartment, stressing the need to make radical changes in her life. Moreover, he had also persisted in telling her not to put her professionalism at risk.
Of course, it wasn’t just Kalle and his wise words that had convinced her. She decided to sell her old apartment, but since she still had a penchant for Södermalm she ended up buying another apartment on Götgatan, just a couple of blocks from her old one.
Directly after the move and before settling into her new home she booked a flight to the Black Sea in Turkey, where she had a number of close friends with whom she had maintained regular contact via Facebook.
She smiled, slipped on her dressing gown and went to the kitchen to prepare a nourishing breakfast. She was starving.
Sanna studied the contents of her fridge. She took out an egg and some ham, cheese and tomatoes but when she realised it was getting late and there was no time to boil the egg she reluctantly put everything away again and focused on preparing herself a chai-latte instead. While waiting for the kettle to boil she made herself a large sandwich, which she munched as the tea was brewing, and then poured the cinnamon and clove smelling drink into a thermos.
Forty-five minutes later she was ready to leave for work. Back to reality.
IT WAS EIGHT THIRTY when Detective Chief Inspector Henrik Blom hung up the phone. He let out a deep sigh and made a note in his agenda. It had been a hectic start to autumn and he had been particularly irritated by the fact that, due to Sanna Johansson’s absence, he had been called in to help out on several occasions. Typically, crooks were always more active when police officers were on holiday.
He picked up his coffee cup but realised it was already empty. It was his third so far. He shook his head resignedly.
Blom was a morning person. He liked to arrive at work well before anyone else and revel in the sheer pleasure of drinking a delicious cup of freshly brewed coffee alone and undisturbed. He had bought a new espresso machine so that everybody could satisfy their caffeine cravings with real coffee instead of the substandard brew from the vending machine.
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