In the mornings Hanna's bedroom floor was sticky with spilt tea and honey. Empty record sleeves lay all over the place, interspersed with books from which they had been reading aloud to each other: poetry anthologies written by young adults, containing great pronouncements about love at the time of life when it is stronger than it will ever be again.
She no longer remembered what it was that had split them up. Oh yes, grammar school - they had chosen different schools. Hanna had started commuting to a school that was particularly strong in craft. She had dropped out the following year, but by then it was already too late. The contact was broken. That was the end of those nights at Landsvagsgatan. It isn't only love that is stronger and more fragile when we are young. Friendship is the same.
It was difficult to grasp that it had only been a couple of years. She had thought that Hanna knew her better than anyone else, certainly better than her parents, better than her childhood friends, who were denied friendship with this more grown-up Seja, the Seja who slept with boys and had to have an abortion the summer after she finished year 11.
It was as if their friendship culminated that very night. She had collapsed on Hanna's bed after being released from hospital on the strict understanding that she would go straight home to her parents. It was as if they had never been closer. Hanna's mother, talkative after too much red wine, circled suspiciously around Seja, asking over and over again if she shouldn't perhaps ring her mother after all. In the end Hanna had screamed at her to stay out of it.
It was also after that night that their friendship diluted. More and more, they spent time with other friends. Suddenly their contact was limited to bumping into each other at parties organised by other people.
Now Hanna was laughing in embarrassment on the other end of the line.
'It must be at least six years ago. Or more. What are you up to these days?'
'What about you?' countered Seja, as she heard a child's voice in the background. 'Are you a mum?'
'Yes.' The pride in Hanna's voice was unmistakable. 'His name's Markus and he's four.'
'Heavens. I had no idea you'd had a baby.'
'No, but that's hardly surprising. I don't think we've spoken for…'
'Six years, as you said. Or more. I…' She hesitated. 'I read about your mum. I'm really sorry.'
There was silence on the other end of the line, and for a moment Seja thought she had jumped in too quickly. She heard Hanna take a deep breath.
'Thank you. It happened just after we last saw each other. It's terrible that you can feel so fucking angry with someone because they didn't want to live any more, but it felt like a betrayal… no, not a betrayal. It was like a fucking punch in the face. There you go, because you thought I'd always be there for you, just because I happen to be your mother… I suppose she never felt all that great, really. She cut her wrists in the bath, you know, like we wrote in our adolescent poems. That's what she did.'
'I saw it in the paper, but not how… I mean, I didn't know she…'
'I know. One of "Gothenburg's cultural figures", yeah right. That was diplomatic, I thought. For the last ten years she wasn't even a former anything, given that she had never actually been anything in the first place. Apart from a nasty old alcoholic with an inferiority complex which she hid beneath delusions of grandeur. God, aren't I terrible? You can hear how angry I still am. But you remember what she was like.'
Seja didn't say anything. She had always felt uncomfortable around Hanna's mother, and not in the usual way when a friend's parent is giving you the third degree. She had never worked out what the problem was.
Hanna seemed to understand.
'I mean, I thought she was a pain at the time, but what teenager doesn't think her mother is a pain? It was only later that I realised she was actually sick in the head. An old woman on a permanent ego trip who would rather rob her child of its mother than pull herself together and get an ordinary job, like everybody else. Oh no, she had to be misunderstood, a maladjusted failed actress. Better to die than to work on the checkout at the local supermarket.'
A silence followed Hanna's harsh laugh.
'Sorry. I feel just about as crazy as her right now. You ring me up after all these years and I come out with all that… It's just that all the memories came flooding back when I heard your voice. Getting pissed when we were teenagers, and our first… first everything.'
'I suppose that was when we did everything for the first time,' Seja agreed, regretting the fact that she hadn't got in touch with Hanna before now, hadn't been more persistent.
She told her.
'I've thought about getting in touch lots of times too, but you know… the last few times we saw each other I wasn't feeling so good…' Hanna hesitated. 'It really started after I dropped out of school. I had anorexia for a while, and it all got a bit much. All the boys, all the crap…'
Seja nodded cautiously, even though they were on the phone. She thought she understood, having experienced herself how life had suddenly spun faster and faster in the punk circle of which they were on the periphery, ridiculous teenagers in leather jackets covered in rivets, padlocks around their necks. After that first, fumbling sexual experience, Seja had believed this was the key to love and approval, despite the fact that over and over again it only led to humiliation and a broken heart.
She remembered the two of them sitting side by side at Hanna's dressing table, examining their appearance in the mirror.
'We certainly are two filthy fucking tarts,' Hanna had said, and Seja had nodded seriously before they both burst out laughing, and Hanna threw a wet towel at Seja's face.
Seja had held on to her reputation better than Hanna, because she had met a boy outside their circle of friends and had stayed with him for six months towards the end of year u, while Hanna had carried on bed-hopping. The fact that Hanna's language was coarse with frequent references to sex, effectively hiding her insecurity, didn't improve the situation. Nor did her appearance: she was usually squeezed into tight tops and jeans that didn't look half as provocative on Seja's skinny flat- chested body. The combination of these and Hanna's well-developed curves was just too much for those around them, who were quick to judge. Hanna became known as the local bike.
The first time Seja heard the nickname Herpes Hanna was at a table by the window at the Northern Station. She hadn't gone so far as to agree with the claim; everyone knew that Hanna was her friend. But she had taken pleasure in it. As time went by the name became well established, and Seja would take every opportunity to protest: Hey, she doesn't sleep around any more, she's actually grown up… But even in retrospect she was aware that her own self-confidence was built on the fact that she had been compared, to her advantage, with someone she used to think played in a higher league: Hanna, with her big tits and her interesting voice and the parties that people actually came to.
No doubt all teenage girls have a capacity for taking pleasure in the misfortune of others and for constantly comparing themselves with their peers, but this didn't make Seja feel any less guilty as Hanna talked about how difficult things had been in the years after they lost contact.
'I moved to Stromstad and finished my education there - a friend of Mum's took pity on me. It did me good to get away from everything and start afresh. Like a clean page, a place where nobody knows anything about you. It can be like a drug, that feeling. You want to do it all over again, just up sticks and start again somewhere else.'
Seja thought about her cottage. 'I wanted to invite you to my place,' she said. 'Bring Markus and come over. But I won't lie to you: one of the reasons I rang was because I'd like your help with something.'
'Help? What on earth could I help you with?' said Hanna in surprise.
'I need your help to dig into the past.'
Hanna laughed. 'Bloody hell, Seja. But I'm very good at digging into the past.'
'And it will be brilliant to see you,' Seja added quickly. 'I'm in the middle of a love affair that's not going very well, and I've g
ot several bottles of wine here. You'd be doing me a really big favour if you came over and helped me drink them.'
This time Hanna's laughter was lighter.
'When? Now?'
'Now would be good. I'll pick you up at the bus stop.'
'Junkie.'
'She probably was, but I think she pulled herself together towards the end, before she… disappeared.'
'Disappeared?' Hanna looked at Seja, deliberately opening her eyes wide in marked contrast to the drooping eyelids of a moment ago, a consequence of the quantity of wine they had consumed.
They had carried the TV and video up to the loft so that Markus could fall asleep watching the films his mother had cleverly brought with her. Downstairs Norah Jones was whispering from the speakers, and the remains of a Thai chicken curry stood on the draining board. An almost empty wine box was balanced on the edge of the worktop.
Seja pushed open the kitchen window to let in the midnight air as Hanna lit a cigarette.
She recoiled as the high flame singed her eyelashes. 'Shit! Just like the old days!'
'Anyway… she did disappear, but never mind that. I just need to know who she was.'
'Look, I'd really like to help you, Seja, but I don't remember her. There were so many people who drifted in and out of the gang. Lots of young girls and lots of friends of friends, people you didn't really know. People you just recognised, you know… but she had black hair, you said?'
'Yes, at least later on. I think she had red hair at first, pinkish red. I often saw her at the cafe - we talked about it that last time we met. She used to write in the visitors' books. Her alias was… Shit, I can't remember it.'
Hanna smiled at the memory of the visitors' books. 'My alias was Hannami.'
Seja became animated. 'I wonder what happened to the books.'
'Later on, you mean?'
'Yes, when the cafe closed down.'
'Let's hope they were burned. Bearing in mind all the embarrassing crap we wrote in them. I remember writing about my suicidal thoughts once; I just didn't think about the fact that my alias gave me away. The next time I turned up there were three complete strangers sitting there, three girls, waiting to convince me that life was worth living.'
She splashed some wine on her trousers. Seja got up to fetch some salt, but Hanna waved it aside.
'Leave it. I can hardly do up the button on these old jeans. It's time to accept they're too small and chuck them away.'
'I've a feeling she was friends with Kare… I used to see them together. Not that they were a couple or anything. I haven't seen Kare for ages either.'
Hanna seemed to be thinking. The column of ash from her cigarette landed on her knee as the penny dropped.
'Hang on. I think I know who you mean. A little girl - short, I mean. She always used to wear a white leather jacket, do you remember that?' 'That's it! A white leather jacket with Alice Under on the back.'
Now it was Seja's turn to spill her wine. The liquid was soaked up by the pale green tablecloth, making batik swirls around the saucers containing the flickering candles. Muted sounds came from the loft.
Hanna stood up on wobbly legs and went out into the hallway.
Seja stared at the stain for a moment before tipping salt over it, turning it into a pink sludgy mess.
The stairs creaked and Hanna padded back into the kitchen.
'She hung out with Magnus for a while. You know, Magnus with the plaited beard. He used to play the fiddle. I spent a whole evening talking to them at Solsidan. Not that I remember what she was called or what we talked about.'
She sat down heavily and placed a hand over Seja's.
'Now tell me what this is all about!'
Seja looked at Hanna's hand. The nails were long and painted dark purple. Beneath her own short unpainted nails she could see a line of horse shit.
She hoped her expression conveyed her feelings.
'I promise I will, Hanna. In time. But right now I just want to know her name and… what happened to her.'
'So you think something happened to her?'
'I heard a rumour that something happened to her, then I heard she was dead. I just need to find out, otherwise I won't get any peace, and the only thing I have to go on are my mixed-up memories and you.'
'And the visitors' books from the cafe, of course. The alias,' Hanna added.
'Yes, but I hadn't actually thought about those until now.'
Hanna looked at her suspiciously. 'Seja. What has all this got to do with you? Are you sure I don't need to worry about you?'
Seja put her hands together.
'You don't need to worry. At least not much. But right now I'm going to make myself a bed on the sofa, and you can squeeze into my bed with your son.'
Hanna didn't seem to have the energy to protest. She nodded gratefully at Seja. 'I'm absolutely worn out. And pissed.' She turned back just as she was about to climb up to the loft. 'You said it yourself.'
'What?'
'The visitors' books. I know a guy who knows one of the people who used to run the station cafe. He has a restaurant on one of the streets off Kungsgatan.'
After Hanna had gone to bed Seja took a last walk over to the stable. The old door creaked.Must remember to oil the hinges. She didn't bother putting on the light; she stood in the darkness listening to the restful sound of Lukas snuffling around in his oats. Her exhaustion disappeared and was replaced by a strange almost electric energy.
She went back inside, switched on the computer and wrote for the rest of the night in a kind of fever.
* * *
Chapter 42
It had fallen to Beckman to go over to the Klara hostel at seven thirty that evening. She had just been on the point of calling it a day, having already phoned Goran and the kids twice to say she was going to be home late, when the supervisor at the hostel for homeless women had called just after seven and passed on the information that Susanne Jensen had booked in ten minutes earlier for an overnight stay. As usual when it came to interviewing children or vulnerable women, the inspector wasted no time in delegating the job to Karin Beckman. She liked Tell, but he was so predictable.
She accepted the job in silence, knowing perfectly well that this would enable Goran to debit her account with yet another night spent working late, which he would expect to cash in for a night at the pub with the lads.
She was getting over her cold but still felt exhausted to the very depths of her soul. If it hadn't been a matter of pride she would have asked Tell to send another member of the team, somebody who hadn't spent virtually all of Christmas away from their children. But she'd been in this game long enough to know that that would be like volunteering to eat the crap the conservative old guard happily slung as soon as the opportunity arose. It was difficult to credit, but there were still coppers who believed that the profession of a policeman demanded greater commitment than a normal responsible mother with small children could reasonably demonstrate. It drove her mad. Then again, there were some days when she was tempted to agree with them.
When she called home for the third time she got the answering machine. Usually she would hang up and call back if she knew they were home, but this time she didn't bother; she wanted to avoid Goran's voice, at best teasing and at worst disappointed, when she told him that she wouldn't be home in time to say goodnight to the children this evening either. She left a short message with three kisses, and set off.
She was just navigating around Brunnsparken, through the conglomeration of trams, cyclists and people who stepped straight out into the road without looking, when Karlberg rang to pass on another message from the hostel. Susanne Jensen was no longer there. The supervisor didn't know what this meant. Either she had gone out to buy something and would be back soon, or she had got wind of the fact that the police were looking for her.
Beckman decided to carry on anyway. The court building was looming up ahead of her, and the hostel was supposed to be just behind it. If she had missed Jensen, at least sh
e would be able to talk to the staff.
At this time of day there was plenty of activity in the long narrow hallway. Two women arrived at the same time as Beckman and heaved their shoes, jackets and handbags into lockers with practised ease. The keys were on an elastic band, like the ones you get at swimming baths. A signing-in book lay open on a desk, and beside it stood a young woman with her hair in thin bunches. She greeted the overnight guests briefly. Several seemed to be regulars as she called them by name.
Beckman tried not to regard those signing in as tragic, but told herself the same thing she usually did when she came into contact with vulnerable outsiders: they were just ordinary girls and boys who had been unlucky in life and were at rock bottom, on their way back up. Nothing was for ever, after all.
It could just as easily have been me. Right now she didn't have the strength to follow the thought through - for example, what would happen if Goran threw her out during their next excoriating row; the house actually belonged to him. But it isn't me.
An older woman with dark hair drawn back into a knot seemed familiar as she pulled off a bright green scarf. At first Beckman couldn't place her. Then she remembered a television debate on the new prostitution laws. The woman had introduced herself as a spokeswoman for prostitutes, homeless and abused women. She had furiously maintained that the new law did street girls a disservice by making their work something shameful and driving them underground. The old arguments for and against had been trotted out, and Beckman's abiding memory of the debate was surprise that this impressive woman should belong to what were usually regarded as the dregs of society.
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