by Karin Nordin
‘Isn’t Liam up waiting for you?’ Kjeld hid his sneer by taking out a beer from the refrigerator.
Bengt flinched. ‘No, he’s working a double shift today.’
‘And Tove?’
‘Spending the night at her friend’s house.’
‘So, she’s doing all right then?’
‘We talked about it the next day. She hasn’t brought it up since. I’m still going to take her to the therapist, just to be certain. But whatever she saw doesn’t seem to bother her. I think she was just upset about how uncomfortable the rest of us were.’ Bengt slowly made his way into the kitchen. He seemed suddenly cautious about keeping a formal amount of physical distance between them, putting himself just out of reach of friendliness. It was awkward. Forced. And Kjeld wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to respond to it.
Kjeld popped the cap off the beer bottle by hooking it against the edge of the counter. ‘Kids are stronger than adults. Or at least stronger than we give them credit for.’
Bengt frowned. ‘I guess.’
Kjeld took a swig from the bottle. ‘What are you doing here, Bengt?’
Bengt crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Do you have wine?’
‘Red, I think.’
‘That’s fine.’
Kjeld dug through the back of a cupboard for a bottle of merlot that someone had given to him after Nils’s arrest. It was a cheap brand with a screw cap instead of a cork and Kjeld poured it into a coffee mug.
Bengt gave him a look when he handed it to him.
‘Haven’t unpacked the good stemware yet.’
‘You wouldn’t know good stemware if it bit you on the arse.’
‘True.’ Kjeld brushed past him and slumped onto the couch.
Bengt followed after and sat down beside him. Close, but not too close. Certainly not as close as Kjeld might have wanted, but closer than he expected.
‘Liam and I had a fight.’
Kjeld raised a brow. ‘About what?’
‘You know what.’
Bengt’s gaze drifted to the bruise on Kjeld’s eye and Kjeld turned his face sideways to hide it.
‘He didn’t agree with your decision to paint the living room that horrific shade of chartreuse? Is that it?’
‘Cut the shit, Kjeld.’
‘Okay, okay. I’m sorry the two of you got into a fight over me.’
‘Are you?’
‘No.’
Bengt groaned.
Kjeld turned to face him. ‘But I do want to apologise for the way I’ve been behaving recently.’
Bengt took a sip of the wine, tried and failed to hold back a wince at the taste, and then set the mug on the coffee table. ‘Look, if this is about the incident with Tove—’
‘It’s not.’ Kjeld turned to face Bengt. ‘I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said. Some of the things a lot of people have said, actually. And you’re right. I’m not doing well.’
Bengt eyed him carefully but didn’t say anything. Kjeld wondered what he was thinking. What was going on behind those sharp blue eyes? Kjeld searched his face for something. Disapproval, disbelief. But all he saw was the look of someone who was waiting. Waiting for the truth.
Kjeld tapped his finger on the neck of the bottle. He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what he wanted to say, but had to drop his gaze to do so. ‘I miss you.’
‘Kjeld …’
‘Please, hear me out.’
Kjeld set the bottle on the coffee table beside the mug of cheap wine. Then he looked at Bengt directly, forcing himself to hold the other man’s gaze. ‘I really fucked up with us and with Tove. I know that. I’ve known it for a very long time. But I was so angry with myself—’
‘And with me,’ Bengt interrupted.
Kjeld sighed. ‘Yes, but I knew it wasn’t your fault. I pushed you away. I didn’t know how to deal with your illness and a child. And I don’t mean to say that as an excuse. There is no excuse. But I know I made the wrong choices and I regret them. More than I can express.’
Bengt pinched his brows together.
‘I’ve never told you how important you were to me. How much being with you meant to me. I should have told you those things a long time ago. Maybe if I had been more open and honest then we might have been able to make it work.’
Thinking about those early years with Bengt filled Kjeld with stinging self-loathing. He hated that it had taken him so long to recognise that he’d had a good thing with Bengt. Something that he might not ever have with anyone else.
Bengt leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. ‘You can’t think like that, Kjeld. You don’t know what would have happened. And it doesn’t matter. I know you blame yourself, but I made mistakes, too. I pressured you into becoming a father when you weren’t ready. That was wrong. And I should have ended it with you before getting involved with someone else.’
Bengt hung his head, hiding his face from view. ‘But what’s done is done. And, to be honest, we weren’t really a good match for each other anyway.’
That final comment stung Kjeld in a way he wasn’t prepared for and he turned away from Bengt, snatching up the beer bottle for another long swig before leaning back into the lumpy couch cushions.
Bengt, perhaps realising after the fact how harsh his comment might have sounded, picked up the mug and drank the entire contents in one go. Then he moved sideways onto the couch, facing Kjeld. ‘But we did have some good times.’
‘We did.’
‘And I still care about you.’
‘It’s not the same.’
‘What do you want me to say, Kjeld?’
Kjeld shot a hard look at Bengt. ‘You know what I want you to say.’
Bengt hesitated, his voice lowered to just above a whisper. ‘You know I can’t.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’
Kjeld set the bottle hard on the coffee table and stood up.
A flash of uncertain panic washed over Bengt’s expression. Then he stood as well, catching Kjeld’s hand before he had the chance to walk out of the room.
Kjeld almost pulled away on reflex. In truth he had no expectations of Bengt. And the fact that Bengt was there shouldn’t have given him any, although it did give him a fragile hope. He just wanted to be honest with someone. Someone he’d once known well. But now when he looked at Bengt he didn’t have any clue what the man was thinking. There was a time when he might have been able to guess. A time when he could read into the subtleties of Bengt’s sober expression, the falter in his voice, the tenseness in his grip. But that had been long ago. And Esme was right. Kjeld couldn’t be certain of his ability to see anything clearly anymore.
Bengt tightened his hold on Kjeld’s hand. ‘I can’t say it. That doesn’t mean I don’t feel it.’
Kjeld placed his free hand on the side of Bengt’s face, thumb tracing along the edge of his jaw. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I think you know.’
There was a weariness in Bengt’s gaze that Kjeld recognised. It was the same tired look he used to get after they’d both apologised to each other after a vicious argument. This time, however, Kjeld thought he saw something else in that fatigue. A quiet pleading, perhaps. Or a wordless request for Kjeld to decide for them both. And as much as Kjeld wanted to think that this was Bengt’s way of inviting him back into his life, he couldn’t help but wonder if it wasn’t also Bengt sparing himself from being the responsible party.
But while Kjeld had no trouble being irresponsible, his ability to close himself off from his feelings had become less reliable. And as much as he wanted things to be as they had been, he knew he couldn’t handle another heartbreak.
Kjeld dropped his hand from Bengt’s face. ‘Are we really going to do this again?’
But Bengt surprised him by gently touching the burgeoning bruise along the ridge of his brow. ‘What happened to your eye?’
Kjeld’s expression was rigid, but weakly resolute. ‘I think you know.
’
Bengt nodded, the weariness in his gaze quickly replaced by a kind of unspoken awareness. As though Kjeld had just confirmed something he’d already suspected. He tightened his hold on Kjeld’s hand. ‘What else do you have to drink?’
Chapter 58
Esme collapsed on her bed and stared up at the ceiling. An anxious buzz trilled through her body. She could feel it start in her chest and travel down the length of her arms, ending with her middle finger tapping nervously on the duvet. She inhaled deeply, held her breath to a count of ten, and exhaled. When that didn’t ease her unrest, she repeated the breath work until the trill subsided into a heavy limpness in her arms.
She’d fucked up.
She’d fucked up bad.
She tugged off her socks and tossed them in the corner of her bedroom where a pile of unwashed clothing was beginning to crawl up the wall. She was too tired to change into her sleep shirt, so she just lay there, looking up at the bland eggshell-coloured ceiling. Her thoughts were filled with self-doubt. It was as though every step she’d taken since the chief put her in charge of the investigation had been wrong. Worse than wrong. Disastrous. And no matter how hard she tried she couldn’t get the image of Sixten on the ground, eyes pleading, stomach spurting blood with every rapid breath, out of her mind. Then there was the smell. That sharp odour of blood – a metallic pungency so acrid she could practically taste it.
What if he died because of her inaction? What if he lived but was permanently comatose, confined to a machine for the rest of his life? Or what if he lived, but could no longer return to duty? Her heart pounded in her chest with each passing thought. She could feel her pulse thumping through the artery on the side of her neck.
She needed a distraction.
Esme reached into the pocket of her slacks and removed her phone. She opened her Tinder app and scrolled through the potential hook-ups, but all of the nearby options were looking for dinner and a date first. Esme sighed. That wouldn’t do her any good at two in the morning. A text message popped up from Miriam and she swiped it away without reading it. She couldn’t deal with any more of her concern or advice. Miriam meant well, of course, but they’d clearly diverged on the friend path years ago. And Esme was too tired to explain her feelings again. She couldn’t deal with having them be misinterpreted again. Nor did she want to hear any more digs about how she needed to grow up.
It was nobody’s business what she chose to prioritise or how she lived her life. Least of all someone with a perfect family, a perfect husband, and a perfect house. But Miriam’s earlier comments, well intended or otherwise, persisted in rolling around in Esme’s mind, tearing down her self-confidence and filling her with unnecessary doubt. Later there would be a misplaced sense of shame, as well. One that had followed Esme since childhood.
She dropped her phone on the mattress and placed a hand on her stomach. She thought of Kjeld, wondering what he was doing. Had she been too hard on him at the hospital? Sure, she’d been distracted by Sixten, in shock from the botched operation. But she’d never before allowed her own stress and anxiety to get between her and the work. Or between her and Kjeld. He may have looked the tougher of the two, but deep down she knew he was hurting. She wanted to help him, but he was so insufferable. He refused to let her in, even when she sensed he wanted to. That hurt Esme. She knew not to take it personally, but she did. And she didn’t know why. Kjeld just had that effect on her. He was so blind to the people around him. The people who truly cared for him. It made her want to scream.
She wondered if she should call him. Or maybe she should drive over to his flat and see if he wanted to talk. He was probably still awake.
No, that would be too intrusive. Besides, it wouldn’t do any good. Pushing Kjeld to open up was like trying to get blood from a stone. And maybe that wasn’t what she really wanted anyway. Maybe what she really wanted was someone to listen to her talk.
Her phone buzzed again and she groaned. She picked it up expecting it to be another unsolicited life tip but was surprised to see it was a message from Axel. Was he still at work? At this hour? She opened the message. Attached was the new report from ballistics on the gun used in the Hedebrant murder. She felt her pulse quicken in excitement. Maybe this would finally be the break they needed to figure out one of these cases. She opened the report and scanned through it impatiently. The gun in the evidence locker didn’t match either the bullet used to kill Tobias Hedebrant or Andrea Nicolescu. Nor was it the gun that was registered to Emil Hermansson. Someone had replaced it with a similar make and model.
Shit. What did that mean? Was it possible that Kjeld was right? Did they have someone else in the police who was conspiring against them? Someone who was helping the murderer?
They had to find another way of tracking this killer.
But how?
Her phone pinged. Axel sent another text. Forensics found DNA on the knife and two good fingerprints. Going to run them through the database. Will keep you posted.
A rush of anticipation surged through her. Finally. A potential break in the case. Suddenly she felt wide awake. Like someone had just injected her with a dose of adrenaline. She opened up her Tinder app again, widening her search parameters. A bright-eyed, gym-obsessed face who was “looking for a good time with no complications” smiled back at her. Less than two miles away. Esme swiped right.
Chapter 59
Lördag | Saturday
The digital clock on his nightstand flashed into a new hour and the crooning voice of Michael Stipe losing his religion tore through the room. Kjeld smacked the snooze button with the palm of his hand and rolled over to find the space beside him empty. His thoughts were dishevelled, slowly crawling out of a dreamless slumber. The room was dark aside from a sliver of light peeking through the blackout curtains. He pressed his face against the other pillow, indented from the night before, and inhaled Bengt’s scent. For a fleeting second, he expected to hear Bengt in the kitchen, putting together one of his overly complex breakfasts while Tove told him all about her fantastical dreams or plans for the day. But there was nothing. The apartment was quiet. He was alone.
There was a note on the duvet, folded in half with the letter “K” scrawled in artistic lettering on the front. Kjeld reached for the lamp switch on his nightstand and dragged himself up to a sitting position, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light before opening the note.
Sorry I had to dash. I have to pick up Tove from her friend’s house and collect a few pieces from the studio for an exhibition later this afternoon. Tried to wake you, but you were out. We should talk later.
B
A half-smile tugged at the corner of Kjeld’s lips as he set the note on the nightstand. He knew it was foolish to get his hopes up. The problems between him and Bengt couldn’t be settled with one unexpected night together. And for all Kjeld knew the talk Bengt wanted to have was a confession that this unplanned relapse of feelings on their part was a mistake. But that didn’t stop a tiny glimmer of hope from brightening the dark corners of his mind.
The radio kicked on again and this time he hit the stop button. It was a few minutes after seven in the morning. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept so soundly and an unexpected thought crossed his mind.
Maybe it was time to change.
Kjeld had always used his career as a way of identifying himself. When he thought of the kind of person he was, it was difficult for him to separate Kjeld the individual from Kjeld the detective. But maybe it was time to make that distinction. Maybe that was how he would repair the problems between him and Bengt. Maybe the life he’d built for himself as a police detective had finally reached its pinnacle. Maybe it was time to put the murder squad behind him.
Kjeld crawled out of bed, slipped into a pair of sweatpants, and made his way into the living room. His phone was still sitting on the coffee table, untouched since Bengt’s arrival. He picked it up to find multiple missed calls and messages from Esme. He skimmed through the texts. Despite t
he incident with Sixten, Rhodin had kept her on as lead of the investigation. That was good. If anyone was capable of putting together the missing pieces of the puzzle then it was Esme.
Her last message was a link to a new article on The Chatterbox accompanied by an exasperated emoji. Kjeld clicked on the link and quickly read through Henny’s new outrageous piece of fiction. Only this time there wasn’t much about it that was untrue. Even the headline was spot on.
Police Duped by Second Serial Killer in Span of a Year
The rest of the article followed Henny’s usual pattern of pointing out the failures of the Gothenburg City Police to successfully trap the mysterious killer. She even went so far as to refer to one of the lead detectives as being personally responsible for botching up the operation and resulting in the near-death of a colleague, although she incorrectly referred to Sixten as an officer-in-training rather than a detective constable. To Henny’s credit, however, she didn’t mention Esme’s name and Kjeld wondered if she hadn’t done so deliberately in order to maintain some semblance of professional dignity.
The rest of the article was a lot of hearsay and unsubstantiated theories about who the killer might be and why he was tracking down these particular individuals. But that didn’t bother Kjeld as much as the images she’d plastered between the article. Actual footage of Daniel Santelmann’s kitchen, including close-ups of the bloodstained knife, as well as a reused photograph of Kjeld standing in the rain at the scene of the first murder.
Worst of all, however, was the photo of Sixten in his hospital bed, which Kjeld knew she couldn’t have taken herself. Because of the likelihood that Sixten had seen the killer, he had a twenty-four-hour guard on his room. No one could get in or out without the officer on duty noticing. Henny must have had someone leaking information to her on the inside. The thought of which set Kjeld’s blood to boiling.
He was about to set his phone back down and head for the shower when a live video popped up at the top of Henny’s page. He turned up his volume and listened as she spoke about the injustices of the police invading the sanctuaries of private citizens. But it wasn’t the words she was speaking that caught Kjeld’s attention. It was the location she was speaking from.