Unseen ak-1

by Mari Jungstedt

  “Thank you,” murmured the three officers in unison, and the tense mood was pushed aside for a moment by the clattering of china as the coffee was served.

  “You need to leave us alone now,” said the father harshly. “And close the door after you.”

  “All right,” said his son, and left the room.

  “So, what about this whole episode with Helena Hillerstrom?” asked Knutas again after the door closed.

  “It’s true. We had a relationship.”

  “How did it start?”

  “She was one of my students, and we got on well during class. She was so cheerful and…”

  “And?”

  “Well, she made it more fun to teach.”

  “How did the relationship start?”

  “It happened at a school dance in the fall. Helena was in her second year. This was in 1982.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “I was one of the teachers who was there as a chaperone.”

  “What happened between you and Helena?”

  “That night when we were cleaning up after the dance was over, she stayed behind to help. She loved to talk, you know…” Hagman’s voice faded out, and his expression softened.

  “What happened?”

  “She needed a ride home after the party, and we lived in the same part of town, so I offered to drive her home. After that I don’t really know how it happened. She kissed me. She was young and attractive, and I’m just a man, after all.”

  “And after that?”

  “We started meeting in secret. I was married, you know, and had children.”

  “How often did you meet?”

  “Quite often.”

  “How often?”

  “Well, it was probably two or three times a week.”

  “What about your wife? Did she notice anything?”

  “No. We usually met in the daytime, in the afternoon. And my children were big enough to look after themselves.”

  “How was your marriage?”

  “Not good. It was completely dead. That’s why I didn’t feel guilty. Not because of my wife, at any rate,” said Hagman.

  “What was Helena like as a person?” asked Kihlgard.

  “She was… I don’t know what I should say.” He hesitated. “She was wonderful. She made me feel alive again.”

  “How long did the relationship last?”

  “It ended at the beginning of summer vacation.”

  Hagman looked down at his hands. Karin Jacobsson had noticed that he kept twiddling his thumbs, almost nonstop. She remembered that he had done the same thing the last time she was here, after his wife’s death. Imagine that there are people who still do that, she thought.

  “Late in the spring, in May, I think, the class went on a trip to Stockholm. Several other teachers went along.”

  “What happened?”

  “After dinner one evening, Helena and I weren’t very careful. She went back to my room with me. Apparently someone saw us and reported it to one of the other teachers. The teacher told me what she had heard. There was nothing I could do but confess. She said it wouldn’t go any farther if I promised never to see Helena again. So I promised.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “We got back from the trip, and I broke up with Helena. But she didn’t understand. It wasn’t long before we started seeing each other again. I couldn’t help myself. Late one night one of my colleagues came upon us in the locker room. That was the week after summer vacation had started for all the students. We teachers had to work one more week.”

  “How did the school administration react?”

  “The principal didn’t make a big ruckus about it. He arranged for me to take a job at a different school. There was a lot of talk, and they really let me have it. In most people’s eyes I was a real loser. My wife found out, of course. I wanted a divorce, but she refused. We decided to move away. My new job was in Oja, so we bought this farm. It was a good place, quite close, and we could escape from all the gossip. I couldn’t keep on seeing Helena. When her parents found out about it, they went crazy. They wrote me a letter threatening to kill me if I ever came near their daughter again.”

  “How did Helena react?”

  Hagman sat in silence for a long time. He frantically twiddled his thumbs. At last the silence became very uncomfortable, and Knutas was just about to ask the question again when the answer came.

  “I never heard from her again. She was so young. I suppose she just went on with her life.”

  “Didn’t you try to contact her?”

  Hagman raised his head and looked Knutas straight in the eyes when he replied. “No. Never.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “It was that night. In the locker room.”

  “And you chose not to leave your wife?”

  “That’s right. She wanted to forget all about it and move on. I don’t know why. She never loved me. She didn’t love the children, either,” said Hagman, glancing toward the closed door, as if he wanted to be sure that his son couldn’t hear.

  “Did your children ever find out what had happened?”

  “No, they didn’t notice a thing. Jens wasn’t even living at home. He had moved in with my sister and brother-in-law in Stockholm right after middle school. He wanted to go to high school over there. Since then, he has always lived in Stockholm. He just comes here to visit. My daughter, Elin, lives in Halmstad. She met her boyfriend after high school and then moved there.”

  Again there was silence. Knutas noticed a ladybug crawling up one of the table legs. They’re everywhere, he thought.

  Kihlgard broke the silence. “Have you had any relationships with students other than Helena?” he ventured.

  The change was immediate. Hagman’s knuckles turned white as he gripped the arms of his chair. He gave Kihlgard a furious glare. “What the hell do you think you’re saying?” He spat out the words as if they were missiles.

  Kihlgard glowered back at him. “I want to know if there were any other students you slept with.”

  “No. There weren’t. All I wanted was Helena.” Hagman took in a deep breath through his nose.

  “Are you sure about that? If you had a relationship with any other student, it’s bound to come out eventually. Things would go a lot faster if you admit it to me right here and now.”

  “Didn’t you hear what I said? There was only Helena. And there has never been anyone since then, either. That’s enough now. I have nothing more to say.”

  Hagman’s face had turned pale under his tan. He got up from his chair.

  Knutas realized that they might as well leave. The man was so upset that they weren’t going to get anything more out of him anyway. Not this time. The school bell rang just as he was about to start on the next math problem. He had been concentrating so hard on the problems in his book that he forgot all about the time. Math was the only subject that could swallow him up completely-and change the world for a moment so that he forgot both time and space. It made him feel almost happy. His classmates all around him were standing up. Chairs scraped, books were gathered up, desk lids were slamming shut. Everyone started talking at once. He caught a few scattered remarks. How could the same bell signal heaven one time and hell the next? There were times when he loved it. The bell could signify liberation, a warm embrace that rescued him in his hour of need and helped him to escape to his temporary refuge in the classroom. Other times he hated it more than anything else in the world. He would feel nervous and scared. He would start to shake and sweat. It filled him with a fear of what was to come. Right now his thoughts were flitting around in his head like caged birds as he slowly gathered up his books. He looked down at the desk lid. How would things go this time at recess? Would he be able to escape? Should he stay back as long as possible? Then maybe they would get tired of waiting for him. Or should he race off as fast as he could and try to dash out so that he could reach his hiding place? Uncertainty gnawed at him as he
mechanically gathered up his books. When he reached the classroom door, the pain in his stomach started up in earnest. It was practically suffocating him. He went out the door with a feeling of doom inside his body. The hallway was filled with children. Rows of hooks and bags and boots and jackets and hats and backpacks and dark blue and red gym bags. Everything that represented the school, everything he hated. He had to pee. He’d better run to the bathroom. First he had to find his gym bag. His eyes studied the shiny clothes hooks. His was in the long row on the red tile wall. None of the hated demons seemed to be around. When he reached his bag, he grabbed it from the hook, spun on his heel, and dashed into the bathroom, which turned out to be empty. He sighed with relief when he was inside. He would sit here on the toilet until the bell rang again and recess was over. Of course, that would mean that he would arrive several minutes late for gym class. The teacher, Mr Sturesson, would yell at him, but it was worth it.

  WEDNESDAY, JUNE 20

  Johan lay in bed in his hotel room, staring up at the ceiling. He had just had a long talk with his mother. The conversation had largely consisted of her crying and saying how hard everything was, while he did his best to comfort her. In addition to the grief and emptiness after his father’s death, his mother had begun to notice other consequences of a purely practical nature. If a fuse blew or the drain was stopped up, she was at a loss to know what to do. Her finances were getting worse, and she couldn’t even afford the things to which she had become accustomed; she had to budget carefully to make everything work out. The consoling visits all her relatives and friends had made in the first weeks after her husband’s death had become less frequent over time and then virtually stopped altogether. Friends who still had a spouse didn’t invite her over as often as they had in the past. Actually, almost never. Johan felt sorry for her but didn’t know how he could fix her life. It was frustrating. He just wanted her to be happy.

  He still hadn’t had time to deal with his own grief over his father’s death. In the period right afterwards he was fully occupied with all the practical details. The funeral, the probate, and all the documents that had to be completed. His mother had been apathetic, and since he was the eldest in the family, his siblings had turned to him for solace, each in their own way. He had been kept busy taking care of everyone else, and then things had gotten hectic at work, and he hadn’t taken the time that he probably should have to deal with his own grief.

  He had truly loved his father. They could talk about anything. He needed him now, when he was feeling so confused, to talk about Emma. Self-reproach was wearing him down. Who was he, after all? Was he such a loser that he couldn’t find anyone who was free? Available? What right did he have to come barging into Emma’s life? He had no right. There was a man who lived with Emma, who shared her daily life, a man about his own age who took good care of his family. What had he done except seduce that man’s wife and the mother of his children? He might even have mortally wounded him, or at least caused serious injuries, bound to leave permanent scars.

  He got up and lit a cigarette as he paced back and forth in the room. What if Emma was actually happy with her family? What if she and her husband were just going through a down period? That wouldn’t be surprising after everything that had happened.

  He opened the minibar and took out a beer. His thoughts kept on churning, inexorably.

  What if she really wasn’t happy in her marriage? What if she was going around in a marriage that was dead? Stone cold dead. What if she had never been happy with her husband? Maybe the children were suffering because their parents were always fighting. Sullen faces and difficult moods. Angry voices. Arguments about petty things. A tense atmosphere at the dinner table. What did he know about how things were between them? Emma hadn’t said a word. Good Lord, they didn’t really even know each other. They had only met a few times. Why was she filling his thoughts so much? He was scaring himself.

  A sense of disquiet was twisting and turning inside of him. He needed air. He pulled on his running shoes and went out.

  On the street, people in their summer clothes were strolling around and eating ice cream as if they didn’t have a care in the world. He walked down toward the harbor, past the boats. There were more and more of them every day. He sat down on the edge of the dock and looked out across the sea, which was glittering in the sun. He drew the fresh air deep into his lungs. How good it made him feel, being close to the sea.

  What real meaning did his own life have? He worked hard, but his days were pretty much all the same. He turned in one news story after another. A new drug story here, a new murder there, robberies and assault and battery. Year in and year out. He lived in his little apartment, hung out with his friends, partied on the weekends.

  For the first time he had met a woman who had truly shaken him up. Got under his skin. Made him stop and think. The seagulls were screeching as a ferry arrived from the mainland. More vacation-happy people on their way to wonderful Gotland. Why didn’t he just move over here? He could get a job at one of the newspapers, Gotlands Allehanda or Gotlands Tidningar. He had always wanted to write but never got the chance. Over here he could report on other things, get close to the people.

  Just think of all the things Gotlanders didn’t have to put up with that Stockholmers had to live with every day. The traffic, the lines, the stress, the subways. Everything had to move fast, really fast. Even last time, when he got back home after his first trip to the island, he had clearly noticed the difference. The very instant he stepped off the ferry in Nynashamn, he started walking faster. He felt annoyed in the shops if things took too long. Stress went hand in hand with living in a big city. People didn’t look at each other in the same way as on Gotland. Here they had time for small talk and eye contact. Life was slower and gentler. More pensive. Besides, he had always liked Gotland, with its marvelous nature and the sea that was close by no matter where you were. And Emma was here. He could move here for her sake. Would she want that? He didn’t know. He would have to wait and see. The important thing was for them to see each other more.

  THURSDAY, JUNE 21

  The whirring of the potter’s wheel was the only sound to be heard. Gunilla Olsson was straddling the simple wooden chair, hard at work, with one foot on the pedal that controlled the speed of the wheel. High speed at first as she started on a new lump of clay, then slower.

  The evening sun shone through the windows that ran along one whole wall. It was the day before Midsummer Eve and the lightest day of the year. Outside, the geese still hadn’t figured out that it was time to go to sleep. They were waddling around, eating the grass and cackling in chorus.

  She plopped another lump of Gotland clay onto the wheel, wet her hands by dunking them in the bucket next to her, and let her fingers rest lightly but firmly on the clay as the wheel spun round and round.

  The studio was filled with shelves holding ceramic objects: pots, pitchers, plates, bowls, and vases. The wooden walls were spattered with traces of dried clay. A mirror hung on one wall. It was dusty and spotted, offering almost no reflection at all.

  Gunilla began humming a song as she sat there. She straightened her back a bit and tossed her braids over her shoulder. She would make two more pots. Then that should be enough.

  The commission that she was trying to finish had taken weeks of intensive labor. It would bring in a nice sum of money that should last her through most of the winter. She had decided to grant herself a few days off during the Midsummer holiday. She was going to enjoy the time in peace and quiet with Cecilia, one of her artist colleagues who also lived alone. They had known each other only a few months. They met at an art exhibit in Ljugarn over Easter and quickly became good friends. Now they were going to spend Midsummer Eve at Cecilia’s cabin in Katthammarsvik.

  It had been years since Gunilla had celebrated a Swedish Midsummer. This past winter she had returned to Sweden and settled in Nar after a decade abroad. When she was in art school she had met Bernhard, a wild, freethinking art st
udent from Holland. She quit her studies and followed him to the Hawaiian island of Maui to start a new life in sunshine and freedom. There they had lived in a commune and worked on their art. Life was perfect. Then she got pregnant, and everything changed. Bernhard left her for an eighteen-year-old French girl who thought of him as a god.

  Gunilla had come back home to have an abortion. She was depressed and had no friends, so she put all her energy into her work. Things had gone well. She had had several exhibits and sold a lot of pieces, and now things were rolling. Lately she had also acquired several new friends. Cecilia was one of them.

  She was aroused from her reverie when the trumpeting of the geese got louder outside. Now she could hear them shrieking indignantly. Shit, she thought, not wanting to interrupt her work just as she was shaping the upper part of the pot. What was wrong with them?

  She stood up halfway and peered out the window. The geese were crowding together out in the yard. Her gaze swept from one side of the yard to the other. She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. She sat back down, resolving to finish the last two pots. She might be a dreamer, but she had always been very disciplined.

  The geese were quiet now, and once again the rhythmic whirring of the wheel was the only sound.

  She had her eyes fixed on the lump of clay in the middle of the wheel. The shape of the pot was almost done.

  Suddenly she froze. Something was moving outside the window. Or someone. Like a shadow slipping past. Or was she imagining things? She wasn’t sure. She stopped working and listened, waiting without knowing for what.

  Slowly she turned around on her chair. Her eyes surveyed the room. She looked toward the entrance. The door to the yard was slightly ajar. She saw a goose strut past. That made her feel calmer. Maybe it was just a goose.

  She stepped on the pedal again, and the wheel began turning.

  The floor creaked. Now she knew that someone was there. Her eyes caught sight of the mirror on the wall. Was that where she had seen something? Again she stopped her work and listened closely. All her senses were on alert. She eased her foot off the pedal. Automatically she wiped her hands on her apron. Another creak. Someone was in the room but wasn’t saying anything. The room was breathing danger. The thought of the two murdered women darted like a swallow through her mind. She sat totally still. Didn’t dare move.