‘E-mail those articles directly to me.’
Annika hung up and closed her eyes. The events of the day whirled before her: the bus, the hearse, the trashed room, Pia Lakkinen’s insincere show of sympathy, Thomas’s features disfigured by rage.
She finished her pieces, e-mailed them, undressed, turned out the lights and crawled under the covers. There, in the dark, she watched the headlights of passing cars sweep across the walls and heard them roll along Route 55 – leaving Flen, venturing out into the world. Sleep eluded her. The images continued to dance in front of her eyes, but fatigue made them slow down. At last only one image remained. She picked up her cellphone, dialled his number, listened to the answering machine and waited for the tone.
‘Hi there,’ she whispered into the void. ‘I love you. You’re the best.’
SATURDAY, 23 JUNE:
MIDSUMMER DAY
The woods by the hostel resembled a roaring wall of fire. He struggled to breathe air as thick as porridge, passing Salströms Backe and heading down to the general store. The heat made the lush greenery sizzle and turn purple and the strict lines of the landscape had been obliterated, becoming coarse and twisted. The rocks scorched his feet. He hurriedly made his way towards the coolness of the sea, knowing that water would be his salvation, that the danger would disappear once he reached the shore. Gällnö would be saved, the houses would reappear, coolness and calm would return. But when he reached the beach, the sea was boiling. The sea water smelled of sulphur and soot, it bubbled like hot lava and closed in on his feet …
Thomas woke with a jerk. The sun was shining on his face, blinding him when he opened his eyes. His hair was dripping with sweat. He was lying fully clothed on the couch in his parents’ living room, his body aching and stiff. The weight of his feet as they dangled over the armrest told him that he hadn’t even removed his rubber boots. The nightmare lingered like a foul veil, a swallow conjured up a taste of fire and soot in his mouth.
Bloody hell, he thought.
He sat up and was afraid that his head would explode.
Never again, not so much as a beer.
The sound of children’s voices entered the room, riding in on the wind by way of an open window and making him want to cry.
He was a lousy father.
Images zipped past; short and noisy sequences. He sang, bellowed and fell down, vaguely sensing the disapproval of the people around him, how they had turned away.
‘So you’re awake now,’ his mother said, standing over by the kitchen door. ‘Good. Then you can change your daughter’s nappy. It’s dirty.’
Thomas looked up at his mother. The curtness of her tone was reflected in her features. Her mouth was pale and pinched as she deposited Ellen on his lap. The stench from her dirty nappy hit him and he almost threw up.
‘Sure,’ he said, breathing through his mouth. But his mother had already gone.
The little girl whimpered – she wanted to stand up in his lap. He tried to get up, but lost his balance and had to try again. He weaved over to the bathroom with one arm around the child while supporting himself against the wall with the other, and kicked off his boots. Then he spread out a towel on the tiled floor and gently placed the girl on the hard surface. She met his gaze and laughed.
‘Daddy,’ she said. ‘Da-dad-daddy.’
She patted him on the nose. Thomas smiled and undid the strips of tape that kept the nappy in place, the foul smell making him cringe. Just as he was trying to remove the dirty nappy the little girl tried to flip over on her tummy, smearing poop on the towel.
‘Please don’t move, Ellen.’
He held on to one of her legs to keep her from standing up in the gooey mess. Ellen howled and beads of sweat began to form on his forehead.
‘Please, sweetheart, let Daddy––’
Ellen twisted her other knee so that it landed right smack in the middle of the poop. Thomas closed his eyes and sighed. Now he would have to bathe her.
Determinedly he got up, picked up the little girl around her waist, tossed the dirty nappy in the waste-paper basket under the sink, went over to the bathtub and turned on the shower.
Nothing but cold water. He opened the bathroom window and saw his mother there, sitting with Kalle out in the yard.
‘Mother,’ he called out, making himself heard above the sound of gushing water. ‘There’s no hot water.’
‘I guess it’s all gone,’ she called back over her shoulder. ‘Eleonor’s taken a shower.’
Thomas blinked a few times, standing by the side of the tub, holding his squirming daughter, frozen. Eleonor? Here?
Without thinking he held out the baby and as the icy blast of water hit her behind she started screaming and squirming wildly to get away, nearly making him drop her. Sweat dripped into his eyes.
When he had finished washing and drying his daughter, she shot him a look of utter distrust. She didn’t want him to hold her and she toddled away, heading for the porch. He sat down on the floor in the hall, put his head in his hands and felt dehydration burning in his veins.
‘Thomas!’ his mother shouted from the garden.
A second later he heard something tumbling down the porch steps with a thud, something soft and tiny. His entire body froze, he stopped breathing. His mother screamed:
‘Dear Lord! Ellen, are you all right?’
Thomas’s mind registered a heart-rending wail and he rushed out the door to see his daughter lying prone on the grass at the foot of the stairs. Disregarding her bad hip, his mother waddled quickly over to her granddaughter, a hostile expression on her face as she spoke to her son:
‘What’s going on, Thomas? Aren’t you keeping an eye on the baby?’
He jumped down the steps in a single bound, reaching Ellen before his mother did, scooping the trembling baby up in his arms. She had banged her forehead and the blood was trickling into her eyes. She was crying so hard that she couldn’t breathe.
‘I’m sorry,’ he whispered, tears of shame filling his eyes. ‘Daddy’s so sorry, honey. Are you all right?’
Feeling ashamed and inept, Thomas kissed Ellen and rocked her. His mother went to get a bottle of antiseptic from the bathroom. Over the baby’s shoulder he could see Kalle sitting at a table in the garden set with lemonade and buns. The boy, upset and confused, locked eyes with him momentarily, then dropped his bun on the grass and decided to get down from the sofa. As he climbed over the armrest, he kicked over his glass of lemonade and his grandmother’s cup of coffee.
‘Do you think she’ll need stitches?’ his mother asked him and held out a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic.
He took the pad and gently wiped the wound. Ellen tried to turn her head away.
‘No,’ he said gruffly. ‘It’s just a scrape, it’s not deep.’
Slowly, the crying subsided, turning into shudders that shook Ellen’s tiny form.
‘Daddy, I hurt myself too,’ Kalle informed him as he stretched out a hand, sticky with lemonade and sugar.
‘Oh my, I guess I’ll have to kiss that boo-boo too,’ he said. ‘All right if I finish up with your baby sister first?’
The boy nodded and latched on to one of his legs, clutching a fistful of cloth.
‘Hello, Thomas,’ a voice behind him said.
His heart stopped. Wanting to die, he closed his eyes and quietly took a deep breath.
‘Hello, Eleonor,’ he said and turned around.
The first thing he noticed was her hair. She had cut it. It was short and spiky and she’d had it streaked. She was taller than he remembered, softer-looking.
Jesus, he thought, she sure looks great.
The woman he had been married to for thirteen years stretched out her hand and smiled.
‘Good to see you,’ she said.
Thomas moved the little girl to his left hip and clasped Eleonor’s hand. It was warm and dry.
‘Good to see you, too,’ he said.
‘So here are the little miracles,’ she said witho
ut a trace of bitterness in her voice. She smiled at the children.
‘Kalle and Ellen,’ he said.
She smiled at him. The sun made her hair shimmer, her eyes were warm and brown.
‘I know,’ she said.
A man came out of his parents’ house and went over to stand behind Eleonor. She put her hand on his arm.
‘This is Martin,’ she said.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ the man said extending a tanned hand and clasping Thomas’s paler one in a firm handshake.
Thomas smiled so much that his jaws hurt. Martin? Who the hell was he?
‘You had already conked out by the time Eleonor and Martin arrived last night,’ his mother said with a tinge of tartness. Then she patted their arms before she walked past them and went indoors. ‘I expect you’d like some coffee.’
Thomas excused himself. He took refuge in the bathroom with his daughter in tow, set her down on the floor and started looking for Band-Aids in the medicine cabinet. He stopped short when he caught sight in the mirror of his own face. It was blotchy and flushed, his eyes were bleary and bloodshot, his hair was sticky-looking and he needed a shave. The roof of his mouth was burning, so he filled a toothbrush glass with ice-cold water and downed it greedily.
‘Daddy,’ the little girl at his feet said as she patted his leg and looked up and smiled, showing eight teeth.
Thomas peeled the plastic backing off a Band-Aid, bent down brushed a lock of hair off Ellen’s face and put the sticking plaster in place.
‘Ellen,’ he whispered, ‘Daddy’s darling Ellen.’
He pulled her close, felt her warmth and breathed in the sweetness of her.
‘Daddy,’ she said and put her arms around his neck.
‘Gunnar Antonsson?’
The Technical Operations Manager quickly rose to his feet. He hadn’t heard the woman open the door.
‘I’m Karin Lindberg,’ she said, extending her hand. ‘I’m the DA, and I’ll be conducting the preliminary inquiry. All right if I sit down?’
The man composed himself, nodded, pointed at the bed and straightened the chair he occupied. The DA tugged at her skirt, sat down with her legs crossed and her hands resting in her lap.
What an elegant woman, Gunnar thought to himself.
‘I understand that it’s extremely important that the duration of the impoundment of your trailer is as short as possible,’ she said.
He nodded again, not bothering to correct her about the type of vehicle.
‘Could you please explain why this is so important to you?’
Gunnar Antonsson swallowed audibly, feeling his Adam’s apple bob as he searched for the right words. It wasn’t just the money, it had to do with love – and with life too, somehow.
Tonight the concert in Dalhalla would open. He should have been seated in the stands of the natural amphitheatre, enjoying the power of the music while the money rolled in.
The thought made his chest constrict with rage.
‘Times are tough,’ he said curtly. ‘For the business. We’re booked until the end of next week and that’s it. We’ve got to do these gigs, or …’
The sentence trailed off and his gaze wandered to the window.
He was going to miss Michelle. She had shown sincere interest in the bus and had listened to his speeches on technical matters. She’d made an effort to understand, and had wanted to explore new uses for the equipment. It had bothered some of the other members of the team that she paid so much attention to him, a technician.
‘I’ve talked to the forensics team and the others involved with the investigation,’ the DA said. ‘And even though we intend to perform a thorough and systematic search of the bus it will be possible to release it at the beginning of next week. After all, the area in question is fairly limited. Unfortunately, we will have to seize the tapes of the show and run through them as well. They might contain information that could have some bearing on the case.’
Gunnar Antonsson cleared his throat.
‘Help solve the murder, you mean?’
The DA smiled. Her lipstick was glossy.
‘You never know. Maybe something got caught on camera.’
The TOM shook his head slowly.
‘No,’ he said. ‘That’s not possible. We dismantled the entire set right after we wrapped. Everything was packed and stowed, I supervised the process myself. After 10:45 p.m. there was no equipment left connected that could receive any kind of information.’
‘How can you be so sure of that?’
Irritation made Gunnar Antonsson sweaty and uncomfortable.
‘Every last camera, mike, transmitter pack and body-mike was packed into zinc cases and stowed in the storage space. There wasn’t a single piece of electronic equipment left at the castle or in the bus that could record anything.’
The woman studied him intently, making him feel apprehensive. Her silence made him talk. The words tumbled out much too fast.
‘I’ve packed this bus one hundred and thirty times, and I’ve never missed a single item. I was supposed to hit the road at eight sharp yesterday morning. The only thing left to do was close up the side with the hydraulic lift.’
He paused again, then got up and went over to the window to study the large vehicle.
Imagine the potential that this new technology held for sound and image broadcasting, whether you were talking about brilliant productions or horrible flops. The digital age, where images and sound were stored on hard drives instead of old-fashioned tapes, made it possible both to perform magic and to screw up royally. Anyone could fix a broken tape, while a profiler breakdown could ruin an entire series, all due to a bug in the program made in faraway Japan. Gunnar liked to hedge his bets and play it ultra-safe. No one took any notice – his efforts weren’t worth a bean until they were stuck there with their spoiled betas and computers that had crashed. Then his colleagues most certainly did get involved, tearing their hair and griping loudly, mostly about the equipment, before giving Gunnar an earful. But Michelle never did that. She would ask: ‘So, how did I do?’ And he would run through things with her, explaining the details as they went along.
The DA got up too and came up to him, standing close to his back. She was a handsome woman, and tall as well.
‘Lieutenant Q would like to talk to you again,’ she said, ‘and that will be it for the time being.’
Gunnar turned around. He could smell her perfume.
‘What?’ he said.
‘You can go home,’ she said.
‘But what about my bus?’ he said. ‘I don’t have a car.’
The woman’s smile became a bit forced.
‘Perhaps you can get a ride with someone, or call a cab.’
After the DA had gone Gunnar Antonsson stared at the door, trying to figure out what this interview added up to.
Number one: he would get his bus back next week. That meant there was still a chance they could do the gig in Denmark.
Number two: he was permitted to leave. That must mean that he wasn’t a suspect.
Gunnar was greatly relieved by both of these conclusions.
After a stop at Flen’s flamboyantly oversized railway station Annika took over the car that Berit had been driving. The station had been designed to create a suitable setting for the guests of Prince Wilhelm when they journeyed to Stenhammar Castle. There was no need for both Annika and Berit to stand around at Yxtaholm all day, waiting for the witnesses to show. Just like the body itself, parts of the story had been transferred to Stockholm: the autopsy, the John Essex angle, the ‘grieving entertainment community’ angle, and all sorts of other angles. Since Annika was familiar with the scene of the crime, it made sense to split up the story coverage. She took Flen and Berit took the train back to the newsroom.
‘Things will have settled down a bit today,’ Berit consoled her before getting out of the car.
Berit was right. The roadblock by the drive was gone, there were no guards in sight and Annika could drive al
l the way up to the parking lot. The castle, the surrounding buildings and the park were still taped off, but journalists moved freely around the Stables, the greenhouse and the buildings on the mainland. Bertil Strand was already there, along with the competition’s reporter and photographer and the people from the national broadcasting Service Three teams. Annika could deal with that. Confronting the witnesses would be unpleasant, and a crowd would only make things worse.
The air was crisp and clean, cleared after the rage of yesterday’s thunderstorm, cool without being chilly. The sun made the white castle gleam in its setting of birch trees, inaccessible behind the billowing police-line tape. Annika stopped by the car and leaned against the boot, feeling the cold metal through her slacks. She could stay put here all day and still not miss a trick. Anyone who left the castle would have to cross the bridge over the canal and their cars were all right here next to her.
Lake Långsjön shimmered, its surface surging languidly in the breeze. The leaves, still translucent at this point, rustled and whispered. Satiated sheep with matted wool wandered aimlessly around the area below the parking lot.
Annika closed her eyes, took a few controlled breaths and felt her pulse rate go down. An insect buzzed past her face and her nostrils were filled with the smell of wet soil.
I’ve got to remember to get that rowboat back to the Ansgar Centre, she thought.
The first person to leave the South Wing was a neatly dressed and somewhat perplexed-looking middle-aged man. He stopped short when he reached the blue and white police-line tape as if it was meant to block his path, not keep the journalists on the other side at bay.
Annika remained where she was, waiting, and watched the sunlight play over the scene in front of her. She saw the competition’s reporter, pad in hand, ask the man something. He put up a hand to ward the media pack off and kept his gaze fixed on the ground. The national TV team followed him with their camera at a distance, making no effort to approach the man.
After a minute or so, the competition’s reporter backed away and the man continued along the drive. He was in his fifties, a bit stocky, and he was wearing a well-ironed plaid shirt. Annika brushed the dust off the seat of her slacks and, on the opposite side of the wall, followed the man. When he passed the drive he stopped and looked around helplessly. Annika approached him.
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