Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  “No, she’s married and has two children. Well, the son is her husband’s, from a previous marriage.”

  “So they’re the only cousins that Fanny has? How old are they?”

  “Lena lives in Stockholm. I think she’s thirty-two, and Stefan is forty. He lives here on Gotland, in Gerum. I was hoping that Fanny might have gone to stay with my sister.”

  Majvor started sobbing again. Knutas patted her arm.

  “Now, now,” he comforted her. “We’re going to do everything we can to find her. I’m sure she’ll turn up soon. Just you wait and see.”

  The message on his answering machine was a long one. Emma reported in a cracked, monotone voice that Olle now knew about everything. For the time being she was staying with her friend Viveka. She asked him not to try to contact her, and she promised to call when she could. Johan immediately tracked down Viveka’s phone number, only to be told by Emma’s friend that he needed to respect her wish to be left alone.

  It was a form of psychological terror, and he had a hard time coping with it. He played a game of floorball but couldn’t stop thinking about Emma. He went to a movie but left the theater without knowing what the film was about.

  On Tuesday evening she called.

  “Why won’t you talk to me?” he asked.

  “My whole life has fallen apart. Isn’t that a good enough reason?” she said angrily.

  “But I want to help you. I realize that this must be terribly hard for you. And I get so worried if we don’t have any contact.”

  “Right now I can’t be responsible for whether you’re worried or not. I have enough to think about.”

  “How did he find out?”

  “Your text message. You sent it while I was in the shower, and he checked my cell phone.”

  “I’m sorry, Emma. I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have texted you on a Sunday. That was stupid.”

  “The worst thing is that I still haven’t had a chance to talk to the children. He won’t answer the phone, and he’s turned off the answering machine. I’ve gone over there, but nobody was home. And he took my keys, so I can’t even get into the house.” Her voice broke.

  “Take it easy,” he consoled her. “I assume he just has to let off some steam. He’s had a shock. Isn’t there anyone who could talk to him? What about your parents?”

  “My parents! Not a chance. Do you know what he did? He called all of our friends and family and told them that I’d found someone else. He even called my grandmother in Lycksele! My parents are really upset with me. I’ve tried to talk to them, but they’re siding with Olle. They can’t understand how I could treat him so badly. And what about the children-why didn’t I think about Sara and Filip? Everybody is against me. I don’t know how I’m going to deal with this.”

  “Can’t you come here? So you can get away from things?”

  “No, I can’t.”

  “Should I come over there?” he asked. “I could take some time off.”

  “What good would that do? Right now the most important thing is for me to have contact with my children. Do you have any idea what it’s like not to be able to talk to your own children? I told you that I needed two months to think things through, but you refused to respect my wishes. You just couldn’t let me have some time in peace and quiet. You kept calling and pressuring me, even though I told you not to. And now look what’s happened! And it’s all thanks to you, for God’s sake!”

  “So this is all my fault? What about you? Don’t you think that you share some of the blame? I didn’t force you into this, did I? You wanted to meet, too.”

  “All you can think about is yourself because you don’t have to take anyone else into consideration. But I do. So leave me alone,” she said, and slammed down the phone.

  He noted that this was the second time she had done that recently.

  That afternoon the real job got started of mapping out Fanny Jansson’s activities during the past few days before she disappeared. The search was carried out on a wide front. The police interviewed everyone who worked at the stable, as well as the few relatives that she had. They visited her school to talk to her classmates and teachers. Their image of Fanny became clearer.

  She appeared to be a solitary girl who would turn fifteen on Christmas Eve. Her classmates didn’t think she was interested in being friends with any of them. When they started school together, some of them had tried to get her to join in various activities, but she always declined, and finally they gave up. She always seemed to be in a hurry to get home after school, until she started going to the stable, and then she was in a hurry to go there. No one really had much to say about her. They thought she was probably nice enough, but she never took the initiative to make contact with any of them, and that’s why she had ended up alone. She only had herself to blame. She didn’t seem to care, and that was also a bit irksome. Nothing seemed to bother her.

  The teachers described her as quiet but smart-although lately something had changed. She seemed distracted for no obvious reason, and she had become even more withdrawn. At the same time, it wasn’t easy to figure out kids her age. There were so many emotions at play; new patterns emerged, they started talking back, made friends and then dropped them; the boys started using snuff, the girls began wearing makeup and padding their bras, and the hormones practically gushed out of the kids. Irritability and aggression were common, and it wasn’t always easy to keep up with all the mood swings or how a particular student was developing.

  Her relatives didn’t have much to say, either. They seldom saw Fanny. Her mother drank and had an unpredictable temperament, which prevented any sort of normal socializing. Of course they realized that it must be a difficult situation for Fanny, but that didn’t mean that they wanted to get involved. They had enough problems of their own, they said dismissively.

  Adult responsibility, thought Knutas. There is something called normal, decent adult responsibility. Isn’t there any sort of collective feeling among people anymore? Nobody is prepared to deal with a child who goes astray, not even within their own family.

  The neighbors all had the same impression of Fanny: a solitary, modest girl who seemed to carry a heavy responsibility at home. It was commonly known that her mother had a drinking problem.

  The last person to see Fanny before she disappeared was a man at the stable. His name was Jan Olsson. According to him, she arrived at the stable around four, as usual, and worked with the horses. She was given permission to take one of them out for a ride. She was gone for about an hour and was elated when she returned. She didn’t get to go out riding very often, so she was thrilled whenever she had the opportunity. Both she and the horse were sweaty, and Jan Olsson said that he suspected she had galloped harder than she really should have. But he didn’t say anything because he felt sorry for the girl and thought she deserved to have a little fun.

  When he was taking a cigarette break outside on the stable hill, he saw her pedaling off in the dark, heading toward home. After that there was no trace of the girl.

  Knutas decided to go out to the racetrack to meet in person both the trainer who owned the stable and Jan Olsson. By now it was past seven o’clock, and when Knutas called the stable, everyone had left. He tried their home numbers, but no one answered. He would have to wait until first thing in the morning.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 28

  The trotting track was located about half a mile from the center of town. When Knutas and Jacobsson drove up the stable hill, they came within a hair’s breadth of colliding with a sulky. The huge gelding snorted and swerved to the side. The driver’s admonishing words calmed the horse. Knutas got out of the car and inhaled the smell of horse and manure. He looked toward the racetrack, which was partially hidden in the cold and damp haze. The grandstands were barely visible through the mist.

  On both sides of the stable hill stood rows of stables. A solitary horse was jogging around in an enclosure. A steel contraption of some kind was keeping the horse on the path and regul
ating its pace.

  “It’s called a horsewalker,” said Jacobsson when she saw Knutas’s look of puzzlement. “Horses that aren’t going to be taken out riding can still get exercise. They may have an injury or be suffering from a cold or something else that means they shouldn’t be ridden as hard as usual. Ingenious, isn’t it?”

  She led the way into the stable.

  The horses had just been given their lunch feed, and the only sound was a pleasant munching along with an occasional stomping. Everything seemed very orderly. The floor was scrubbed clean, and the green-painted stalls were properly closed with locks. Halters hung on hooks outside each door. Shelves were filled with neat rows of supplies: bottles of liniment and baby oil, scissors, rolls of tape, hoof scrapers. Shin guards were stacked in baskets, along with rolls of binding tape, brushes, and other grooming tools. A barrel of sawdust stood in one corner. A black kitten lay on top of a feed box, sound asleep. In one window a radio was playing music at low volume.

  They had made an appointment to meet with Sven Ekholm, who was both the trainer and the owner of the stable, but he was nowhere in sight. A stable girl appeared and took them over to a closed door that led to a coffee room.

  Ekholm was sitting with his legs propped up on a round coffee table, talking on the phone. He motioned for them to sit down. Daylight was doing its best to penetrate through the dusty windowpanes. Spots of dried coffee marred the red plastic tablecloth. The table was covered with papers, stacks of racing newspapers, vitamin bottles, mugs, glasses, filthy riding shoes, rubber boots, and some threering binders. The ceiling was coated with spiderwebs. In one corner there was a kitchenette with a couple of hot plates, a dirty microwave, and a dusty coffeemaker. The walls were covered with finish-line photos of various horses, and a pile of dried roses lay on top of a cabinet. It wasn’t hard to see what took priority in the world of these people.

  Ekholm took his feet off the table and finished his phone conversation.

  “Hello, and welcome. Would you like some coffee?”

  They both said yes. Ekholm was a handsome man in his forties. He was muscular and moved with grace. His dark hair was tousled. He was wearing black pants and a gray turtleneck sweater. With some difficulty he managed to find clean cups, and after a moment they each had a cup of coffee; a plastic box of gingersnaps sat in front of them on the table.

  “Can you tell us about Fanny Jansson?” Jacobsson began. “We understand that she spends a great deal of her free time here at the stable.”

  Sven Ekholm leaned back in his chair.

  “She’s a smart girl who works hard. Not very talkative, but she has a good way with the horses.”

  “How often is she here?” asked Knutas.

  “How often is she here at the stable, you mean?” asked the trainer and then went on without waiting for a reply. “Probably four or five times a week, I would guess.”

  “When was she last here?”

  “Yes, when was she last here?” Ekholm repeated. “I think the last time I saw her was a week ago, maybe on Thursday or Friday.”

  “How did she seem?”

  “How did she seem?” Ekholm rubbed his chin. “I was busy driving, so I just said a quick hello. It might be better if you talked to the others in the stable-they spend more time with her than I do.”

  “Is Fanny paid for her work here?”

  “Is she paid? No, that’s how it is with stable girls, you know. They come here because they think it’s fun to be around horses. To groom them and take care of them. That’s how girls are at that age.”

  Sven Ekholm took a quick sip of coffee.

  “How long has Fanny been coming to the stable?”

  “How long has she been coming here? Hmm, maybe a year or so.”

  “Does she have a particularly good relationship with any of the employees?” asked Knutas, who was starting to get annoyed by the man’s tendency to repeat every question.

  “Any of the employees that she has a particularly good relationship with? Well, yes, that would be Janne. They seem to get along well. Otherwise she’s quite shy, as I said.”

  “And how often are you here?” asked Jacobsson.

  “Hm, what should I say? Twenty-five hours a day,” he said with a grin. “Well, practically every day. I’ve been trying to take at least one day off every other weekend. I do have a wife and kids, too-I can’t just live at the stable.”

  “How well do you know Fanny?”

  “Not very well. She doesn’t exactly welcome contact. I always have so much to do that I can’t just sit around chatting with all the young girls who come here.”

  Why didn’t Ekholm repeat the questions when Jacobsson asked them? Knutas found it enormously annoying.

  “Where do you live?” Jacobsson went on.

  “Right nearby. We’ve taken over my father’s farm. Well, my father still lives there, in the guesthouse.”

  “Does your wife work at the stable, too?”

  “Yes, she does. We have six full-time employees, and she’s one of them.”

  “How is the work divided up?”

  “We all help each other, training the horses and taking care of them, and lending a hand around the stable. It’s a full-time job all year-round, even when the racing season is over.”

  “We’d like to talk to everyone. Can you arrange that?”

  “Sure, no problem. Right now it’s just me and Jan, I’m afraid. But later in the day, or tomorrow.”

  Knutas realized that he would have to ask one more question, just to see if the trainer had decided to stop repeating them.

  “How many others work at the stable? Girls who work for free after school, and so on?”

  “Girls who work for free after school, and so on? Well, we have quite a few of them. We used to have more, but it doesn’t seem to be as popular as it once was. Or else maybe they have too much homework lately,” said the trainer, giving Knutas a smile.

  As they left the coffee room, Jacobsson noticed that her colleague’s expression was as dark as a thundercloud.

  The interview with the stable hand, Jan Olsson, went better.

  The man was slightly older than the trainer, maybe forty-five, Knutas guessed. He was darker than most Swedes. Brown eyes that were almost black, distinct eyebrows that grew together, and a stubble that looked to be several days old. Wiry and muscular from years of working with horses. Not an ounce of fat on his body-that was evident from the shirt and dirty pants that he had on. He was not wearing a wedding ring. Knutas wondered if he lived with anyone but decided to wait to ask that question. Instead, he asked him to tell them once again what happened when Fanny left the stable. Olsson gave the same account as had been recorded in the previous report.

  “Try to recall any details you can,” said Knutas. “Anything that might seem insignificant could actually be important.”

  Jan Olsson ran his hand over the stubble on his face. He made a very frank and sympathetic impression.

  “No, I really can’t think of anything. She takes care of the horses and doesn’t usually talk much. When she came back from her ride, she was happier than I’ve seen her in a long time. Her eyes were actually shining. After grooming Calypso and taking care of the harness, she said good-bye and left on her bike.”

  “What do you think might have happened to her?”

  “I don’t think she committed suicide, at any rate. She was much too happy and upbeat when she left here. I have a hard time imagining her going off to kill herself.”

  “How well do you know her?”

  “Quite well, I think. She seems to like being here, but I understand that she doesn’t have an easy home life. She’s always in a hurry to rush home because she has to take the dog out. As I understand it, her mother is rather difficult, but I’ve never met her.”

  “Has Fanny ever talked about any friends or anyone she hung out with?”

  “She doesn’t seem to have any friends, since she spends all her time over here. Those of us who work in the
stable are much older. Although she sometimes talks to Tom, who works in the next stable.”

  “Is that right?”

  “I’ve seen them talking to each other on the stable hill once in a while. They seem to get along. Fanny isn’t exactly the most open person, so I notice when she talks to anyone.”

  “Are they the same age?”

  “God, no. He must be thirty, at least. He’s American but I think he’s lived in Sweden for a long time. You can tell because of the way he speaks Swedish.”

  “What’s his last name?”

  “Kingsley.”

  “And how long has he worked here?”

  “At least a year, maybe more.”

  Tom Kingsley was busy wrapping the hind leg of a horse when they entered the adjoining stable. Knutas and Jacobsson kept back a safe distance.

  “We’ve heard that you know Fanny Jansson, the girl who has disappeared. Is that right?” Knutas began.

  “Well, I can’t say that I really know her. I’ve talked to her once in a while.”

  He didn’t look up, just went on with his work.

  “We need to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Sure, I just need to finish this. I’m working on the last leg right now.”

  In spite of a distinctly American accent, his Swedish was fluent. When he was done, he stood up with a grimace and stretched out his back.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “How well do you know Fanny Jansson?”

  “Not very well. We talk occasionally.”

  “How did you happen to meet each other?”

  “Good Lord, we both work here. Of course we would see each other around the stables. We’re always running into each other.”

  “What do you talk about?”

  “Mostly about the horses, of course. But other things, too. How she’s doing in school and about her home, and things like that.”

  “How do you think she’s doing?”

  “Not great, actually.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “She complains about her mother, says that things are tough at home.”