End of Summer

by Anders de la Motte

  She taps in the code, fast forwards and listens to the last sentence.

  ‘You need to stop.’ Leon’s voice doesn’t even sound angry, just resigned. ‘Please, Veronica. You need to stop now.’

  Chapter 10

  Summer 1983

  M

  ånsson had put it off for as long as he could, trying to find other things to do, important things. But the truth was that he couldn’t postpone the conversation any longer.

  By then they had already searched every field, meadow, barn, shed, marl pit, ditch and culvert within a five-kilometre radius of Backagården, many of them more than once. His officers had spoken to all the neighbours and anyone else in the district who might possibly have any involvement. Now Månsson realised that he was going to have to go and tell Ebbe and Magdalena what everyone already knew. That the police had failed to find the slightest trace of their young son, apart from the shoe in the field of maize.

  He got up from the chair at his desk and tilted the blinds. The diffident reporter from the local paper had been joined by others in the past few days. Summer meant a shortage of stories, and people were fed up of reading about submarines in Swedish territorial waters. As luck would have it, if that wasn’t a terrible thing to say, a large forest fire was raging up in Småland, which had given him a few days’ grace. He didn’t usually have a problem with journalists, and had done his best to answer their questions, at least to start with when the search was still going on. But recently the evening tabloids had been full of rumours that the investigation was about to take a new turn. They had been contacting the Nilsson family’s neighbours and relatives at all hours of the day and night, and people were even turning up unannounced at Backagården with cameras and long lenses, which had forced him to station a patrol car in the drive. His overtime budget was already shot to shreds, and this twenty-four-hour protection soon swallowed up the little that remained. As if that wasn’t enough, the reporters had started hounding him as well, and Malin had eventually unplugged the phone in the house. That had helped for a while, but that morning two reporters had been waiting for him outside the staff entrance, and refused to go away until he promised to hold a press conference. And before that happened, he needed to talk to the Nilssons, to warn them about what was coming.

  He walked towards the exit and glanced cautiously through the window in the door, checking that the coast was clear before he went outside. He jogged the short distance to his blue Volvo.

  A wave of heat hit him when he opened the car door. He slid quickly into the driver’s seat without giving it time to cool, started the engine and reversed so fast that the tyres squeaked on the soft tarmac. The plastic steering wheel was burning his hands, but he didn’t wind the windows down until he had built up a bit of speed.

  He turned the radio on and switched between Radio Malmöhus and Radio Kristianstad, both of which were playing Carola Häggkvist, before finally settling on P1. They were broadcasting live from the forest fire in Småland.

  ‘We’re doing what we can,’ the exhausted fire chief was saying in an interview. ‘But sometimes that just isn’t enough.’

  *

  Månsson stopped in the drive leading to Backagården to talk to the officers stationed in the patrol car. He realised too late that he should have brought them something, a flask of coffee, some Danish pastries or a couple of cold cans of Coca Cola. Something to alleviate the heat and boredom, to show that he looked after his staff. Instead he kept the conversation brief so they would think he was far too busy to let himself be distracted by that sort of thing.

  In the yard, the door to the cart shed was open. Ebbe Nilsson’s car was parked inside, and next to it he could see Billy’s brother and sister. He knew their names now. Vera Nilsson, fourteen years old, and her brother Mattias, two years older. Vera was in the parallel class to his eldest boy.

  When Månsson got out of his car the girl walked slowly towards him. She was shading her eyes with her hand, but lowered it when she saw who it was. Vera looked a lot like her mother, Månsson noted. Tall and thin, with strawberry-blonde hair and fair, freckled skin. There was something about her nose and mouth that looked simultaneously vulnerable and resolute, and there was an intense look in her eyes that was hard to interpret.

  ‘Hello, Vera. Are your parents home?’

  The girl nodded and gestured towards the main house.

  ‘Have you found something?’ Her voice was high, still a child’s.

  Månsson shook his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to think of something to say. Something that would sound both hopeful and comforting.

  ‘Not yet,’ he eventually said. It was better than nothing. ‘But we’re doing what we can,’ he added, and realised he sounded almost exactly like the fire chief he had heard on the radio.

  The girl looked at him without saying anything.

  ‘How’s your mum? Is she feeling any better?’ he tried.

  Vera shrugged her shoulders and looked over towards the cart shed. Her brother was still in there, crouching down next to his moped with his back to Månsson, looking a little too busy to be strictly plausible.

  Månsson leaned a little closer to the girl, smiled and lowered his voice.

  ‘His moped’s been souped up, hasn’t it?’

  Vera’s eyes opened wide and she suddenly looked almost frightened. Månsson quickly held one hand up, he hadn’t meant to alarm her.

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t say anything. Everyone needs a few little secrets, don’t they?’ He winked at her. ‘Would you like to know mine?’

  She looked at him for a few moments. Then she relaxed, gave him a crooked smile and nodded.

  ‘I usually pinch those little packets of sugar you get in restaurants. I’ve got loads in a drawer back at the station. It’s not as if I actually need them, but I can’t seem to help myself.’

  Vera’s smile grew wider and turned into a giggle. Månsson smiled back, like they were two friends sharing confidences.

  ‘Mattias wanted a motorbike when he turned sixteen. He saved up the money, but Mum wouldn’t let him. So he’s souping up his moped instead.’

  ‘Well, just tell him to be careful.’ Månsson suddenly thought of something. ‘The night Billy went missing, you and Mattias got home at the same time. You said you cycled home . . . ?’ He raised his eyebrows slightly.

  ‘He pulled me,’ Vera said without hesitation. ‘Mattias rode alongside me on his moped and I held on to his arm. I usually let go in the drive and let him get home first so Mum and Dad don’t see. I know you’re not supposed to do that – you won’t say anything, will you?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Månsson smiled again. There was something unusual about Vera Nilsson. She acted nonchalant and indifferent, but he was pretty certain that not much got past her.

  ‘What happened when you got home? You left the bike and moped in there . . .’ He pointed towards the cart shed.

  Vera nodded. ‘Dad came rushing out with a big torch, saying he and Mum couldn’t find Billy. He asked us to check in all the outbuildings. We sometimes play hide-and-seek with Billy.’

  ‘So you looked in all his usual hiding places?’

  She nodded again. ‘The cart shed, the cowshed and the barn. We were very thorough, took our time, just like Dad said. Mattias unlocked the old milking parlour, even though there was no way Billy could have been in there.’ She stopped and almost seemed to shudder. As if the thought of the milking parlour had unsettled her.

  ‘But you didn’t find anything,’ Månsson concluded.

  ‘No.’

  ‘What happened after that?’

  ‘That was when the first police car arrived.’

  ‘Do you know what time that was?’

  Vera shook her head. ‘Not exactly. Mattias and I got home at half past nine on the dot, like we’d promised, so it would have been a while after that.’

  ‘I see.’

  Månsson already knew all this. The first patrol that arrived
at Backagården at quarter past ten had conducted exemplary interviews with Ebbe Nilsson, then the children. But he had to be careful not to rush things if he was to find out what he really wanted to know.

  ‘When you were on your way home, you and your brother . . .’ Månsson hesitated, then decided to go on. ‘Did you see anyone?’

  ‘A car, you mean?’

  ‘Car, cyclist, moped. Someone out walking their dog, maybe?’

  She thought. ‘A couple of cars. One was the Lindgrens’ blue Saab, I’m sure about that.’ She frowned. ‘The other one might have been red. I don’t really remember, I was busy trying to . . . well, you know.’ She smiled again, and held her hand out as if she was holding on to her brother’s shoulder.

  Månsson returned the smile. ‘And you don’t remember anything else?’

  ‘No.’ She looked at him in that rather probing way. She suddenly seemed to figure out what his questions were getting at. ‘Why are you asking?’

  Månsson was about to reply when he caught sight of Ebbe Nilsson coming down the steps from the house, striding quickly towards him. He wondered if the man had heard what they were talking about.

  ‘Vera, can you and Mattias go inside and start dinner?’

  The girl nodded, and gave Månsson one last anxious glance before she slipped away to her brother.

  Månsson shook Ebbe Nilsson’s hand and waited to be invited up to the house. But Nilsson just stood there in front of him. He looked even more tired than he had done the night Billy disappeared. His bloodshot eyes seemed to have sunk further into his skull. His face was both pale and suntanned at the same time. His checked shirt hung from his drooping shoulders and the knees of his trousers were dark with dirt, as if he had been kneeling and praying to the Lord for help. Månsson knew that the Nilsson family, like so many others in the area, went to church on Sundays. He had managed to get Malin and the boys there just once, in yet another attempt to become part of the community. But only the once. Malin was usually fairly amenable, but she preferred to spend the day of rest in her dressing-gown with a large cup of tea, as she took pains to explain to him. So the Månsson family only went to church at Christmas and Easter. He wasn’t really that bothered. He wasn’t exactly religious. The deeds of men occupied him considerably more than the unfathomable ways of the Lord.

  But Månsson could easily picture Ebbe Nilsson on his knees, his hands clasped together, looking up to the heavens and praying for his little boy. He’d probably have done the same in Ebbe’s shoes.

  Månsson cleared his throat and tried to focus on why he was there. He had prepared what he was going to say, practising it several times on the drive over.

  ‘Well . . .’ he began. ‘I’m thinking of holding a press conference tomorrow. Or rather, the regional police chief thinks that would be best. Damn reporters . . .’

  He gestured with one hand and grimaced slightly, but didn’t receive the support he had been expecting.

  ‘In which case . . .’ He swallowed. ‘I’m thinking of saying that we’re calling off the search for the time being. That we’re investigating other possibilities.’

  ‘What possibilities?’ Nilsson’s voice was gentler than he had anticipated. Even so, there was still a sting of sharpness there.

  Månsson glanced to his side, and discovered that the girl and her older brother were standing in the open doorway watching him. He wondered if they could hear the conversation.

  ‘Maybe we could talk about it inside?’ Månsson held his hand out towards the house. ‘Magdalena should probably be part of this.’

  Ebbe Nilsson slowly shook his head. ‘She’s resting. The doctor was here again this morning.’

  ‘I understand,’ Månsson said. That explained why Nilsson hadn’t asked him in. He had heard that Magdalena Nilsson had shut herself away in her bedroom. That she couldn’t even get out of bed without help. Evidently that wasn’t just a rumour.

  He swallowed again and composed himself. He looked once again at the two children before he said the words that he really didn’t want to have to say. ‘Over the past few days we’ve started working on the hypothesis that something else may have happened. That Billy didn’t get lost, but that someone might have taken him. Someone who wanted to hurt him or you.’

  Chapter 11

  I

  sak arrives punctually this time. But only just, so he’s missed the coffee, sandwiches and small talk. He didn’t show up for the Monday meeting, and Veronica has spent the whole week waiting impatiently for him. Crossing off the days while she tried to concentrate on her other therapy groups. Evidently with mixed results, judging by the look on Ruud’s face.

  The regular Friday attendees are already gathered in the circle, with the exception of Lars. Ruud has called to tell him that he’s not welcome back for a month. He didn’t take it very well, claimed the whole thing was her fault, in terms Ruud was unwilling to repeat.

  Isak sits down on the same chair as last time and nods amiably to her. His eyes are bluer than she remembers. He smiles, and she finds herself smiling back.

  ‘Welcome,’ she says, and notices that her breathing has grown shallower.

  ‘Thanks.’

  He goes on looking at her as he leans forward. He opens his mouth to say something, but before he can speak Ruud appears out of nowhere and pulls up a chair beside her.

  ‘I thought I’d sit in today. You don’t mind, do you.’ A statement rather than a question.

  ‘Of course not.’ She turns back towards Isak, but he’s straightened up and is looking away. Damn! She tries to hide her disappointment before Ruud notices it.

  The conversation flows well. The participants share their grief and she interjects with the usual questions when they need a bit of help. Her pen moves over the pad, but just like earlier in the week it isn’t as effective anymore. Instead of soaking up the sorrow and pain, it mostly just darts about, the usual kick doesn’t happen.

  She can feel her frustration growing, and realises that she wants the other participants to finish so she can move on to Isak. Ruud’s presence means she has to stick to the procedures, keep herself under control and let everyone have their say. Leif, a businessman in his fifties who lost his entire family in a car accident, is taking far too long. He cries and sobs his way through far too many minutes, and Veronica has to make a real effort not to sound impatient when she prompts him.

  When it’s Isak’s turn at last there are only a few ticks of the clock left. She quickly turns to a fresh page in her pad, aware that her hand is trembling.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Isak,’ he begins. Like last time, he doesn’t say his surname. ‘When I was young I lost my best friend. He disappeared and I never found out what really happened. I’ve thought about him a lot over the years. Sometimes I still have dreams about him.’

  He seems to have finished, because he looks around for the usual nods of acknowledgement.

  ‘How do you feel after those dreams?’ she says. She tries to keep her voice neutral even though her heart is beating hard against the ice in her chest.

  He looks up and shrugs.

  ‘It varies.’

  ‘Can you give an example?’ The question is ambiguous. It might well refer to his feelings, but she hopes Isak misunderstands her and gives her details which she hasn’t actually asked for.

  ‘Sometimes I dream that we’re playing hide-and-seek in his garden.’

  He smiles to himself, looks down and slightly off to the side, as if the grey carpet is a projection screen for his memory.

  ‘The garden’s really big, or at least it is the way I remember it. Overgrown, almost like a forest. I close my eyes and count to a hundred. I can hear which way he’s running, the bushes rustle as he moves through them.’ Isak pauses and looks up.

  ‘Then what?’ she says. Her throat is dry, her pulse throbbing in her neck. She feels Ruud looking at her. She’s crossed the line, but she can’t stop now.

  ‘When I finish counting and star
t to look, I can’t find him, even though I try all our usual hiding places. The hollow elm tree, the treehouse his older brother and sister built in one of the old fruit trees, even the hayloft. Then I give up and call out. I stand there calling his name, over and over again.’

  Isak takes a deep breath. There’s a heavy silence, everyone is looking at him. Her pen has long since stopped moving, and for a moment her heart seems to have done the same. Isak slowly opens his mouth, as if he’s about to call out, just like in the dream.

  The minute hand on the clock lets out a loud click, indicating that the session is over. But she doesn’t notice. Isak’s eyes seek hers. His lips move, and seem to form a soundless word. Two silent syllables that she recognises all too well. Which break the shell over the abyss.

  Bi-lly!

  She sits perfectly still, frozen to the spot. Unable to speak or move. After a few seconds Ruud comes to her aid.

  ‘OK, thanks for sharing, Isak. That’s all we’ve got time for today.’

  The chairs scrape around her, the participants get to their feet, but the paralysis doesn’t let go until Ruud puts one hand on her shoulder and asks how she’s feeling. She doesn’t answer, just stands up and stumbles towards the door.

  ‘Veronica,’ Ruud calls. But she ignores him. She has to catch up with Isak, she has to find out more.

  The afternoon sun out on the steps blinds her, making her raise her hand to shield her eyes.

  Something goes past outside. A motorbike roars, grainy and dazzling, before disappearing down the street.

  Chapter 12

  Summer 1983

  T

  hings had got off to a good start. Britt, the receptionist, had booked the little primary school hall, which was sometimes used as a Friday night cinema, for the press conference. Fourteen reporters and photographers had responded, but an hour before the start a live broadcast van suddenly pulled up in the small yard in front of the school. Antennae were erected and cables laid all over the place, and the school caretaker was bombarded with questions about voltage boxes and three-phase power supplies. And somehow the agitated atmosphere had spread through the village. People started queuing outside the hall half an hour before the press conference was due to start.