Unseen ak-1

by Mari Jungstedt

  That wasn’t what happened. Summer vacation arrived, and they all scattered. Anni moved back to Stockholm, and Emma never saw her again. Only Emma and Helena ended up in the same class in middle school. For them, the harassment didn’t mean a thing. After that summer, all four of the girls had presumably forgotten all about it.

  He apparently had not.

  Her hands were shaking as she turned the pages in the yearbook. A couple of pages farther on. Class 6C. She scanned the faces. There he was. The fifth picture from the left.

  His round face was pale and solemn, with the hint of a double chin. Short, cropped hair. It was him. He was the common denominator.

  A great wave of nausea welled up inside her. She hardly had time to react before she threw up violently on the floor.

  Just then the phone rang. The ringing echoed stubbornly through the house.

  Instead of answering, she went into the bathroom to clean herself up. She felt so dizzy that she was weak in the knees. He had killed them, one after another. Now she was the only one left.

  The phone rang again. She stumbled down the stairs.

  It was Johan.

  “Hi. It’s me. I got done early. I’m leaving now.”

  Emma couldn’t get a word out.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  She sank down onto the floor with the receiver pressed to her cheek. She whispered the words.

  “I figured out the connection between the victims. All of them were in the same class in sixth grade. In my class… We were in a girl gang that harassed a boy in one of the other classes. He must be the murderer. One time we stuffed his underpants in his mouth. Just like he did to the others. He killed them all except for me. Do you understand? I’m next in line. What if he’s here? I might be overreacting, but there was a car driving behind me on the last part of the road out to the house. Then it just turned around. There was a man driving it.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “An old Saab. I think it was red, and-”

  That was as far as she got. The line went dead.

  The shower had just started spraying cold water over his shampooed hair when his cell phone rang. Knutas had taken a break and gone home to eat. He was taking a cold shower to try to clear his mind. Now he heard his wife answering his phone.

  It took only twenty seconds before she was pounding on the bathroom door.

  “Anders, Anders, come out here! You have to take this. It’s urgent!”

  He turned off the shower, tore open the door, and reached for the phone. His wife grabbed a towel and helped dry him off while he listened. There was an agitated voice on the other end.

  “This is Johan Berg from Regional News. Send cars and people over to Faro. Right now! Emma Winarve is over there all alone at her parents’ house, and she thinks the murderer is after her. That he might be there right now. She figured out the connection. All the victims were in the same sixth-grade class. They were in a gang that tormented a boy in another class. He’s killed all of them except her.”

  “What the hell are you saying?”

  “Emma is positive that it’s the boy they tormented. He’s the killer. They once stuffed his underpants in his mouth.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t have time to tell me. We got cut off. But she thinks he’s out there right now. A car was following her all the way up to the house. Then it disappeared. It was an old Saab. It was red. You have to go out there right now. I’m on my way myself.”

  “Where on Faro?”

  Johan read off the directions that Emma had given him. “You drive past Ekeviken and the sign for Skar. Then you come to an abandoned ice cream stand. Turn left onto the forest road leading out to the sea. Drive until the road ends. That’s where the house is.”

  “Wait for us,” said Knutas calmly. “Don’t go out there ahead of us.”

  “Like hell I will. Get out there, and do it fast.” Johan hung up.

  Knutas punched in the number for the duty officer.

  “Send three cars to Faro. Now! The killer we’ve been looking for is probably out there. Notify the local police in Farosund and tell them to go up to Norsta Auren and take along weapons and bulletproof vests. The suspect is believed to be driving an older-model red Saab. Tell them to leave immediately. I’ll have further instructions later. Block off the ferry, at least on the Faro side, until we get there. No one leaves the island. Understood? I’ll call Jacobsson. You get hold of Wittberg and Norrby. Tell them to contact me. I want them over on Faro, too. And someone needs to get hold of Olle Winarve. Tell him to call me.”

  Knutas hung up and then punched in the number for Jacobsson’s cell phone.

  “Anders here. Where are you?”

  “Shopping at Hemkop.”

  “Leave your groceries and go out and wait on Norra Hansegatan. On the same side as police headquarters. I’ll pick you up.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’ll tell you later.”

  Knutas pulled on his underwear and pants. His wife didn’t ask any questions. She just held out his bulletproof vest and his service pistol. He didn’t need to say anything, and he was grateful for that.

  A minute later he was sitting in his car with the blue light on, the siren wailing, and shampoo in his hair. Carefully he washed his hands. Rubbing them over and over with the soap. He wanted to feel totally clean when it was time. He had taken a long, hot shower, washed his hair, and shaved. Really squandered the hot water that his parents were always so stingy about. Then he took out a shirt, pants, and tie and dressed with care. His mother had given him the tie for Christmas. It was perfect for the occasion. He was alone in the house. His father was out fishing with a neighbor. His mother had gone out shopping, but she would be back soon. He heard the gravel crunching as the car turned into the yard. He was totally calm. He had prepared carefully. Everything he needed was in the box. Neat and tidy. He looked in the mirror, pleased with what he saw. A man in his prime who is finally taking control of his own life, he thought before he closed the bathroom door and went downstairs to meet his mother. She had her arms full of bags. “Why didn’t you come out to the car and help me?” she said reproachfully. “Didn’t you hear me drive up? You must have known I’d have a lot to carry.” She didn’t even look at him as she spoke. She didn’t notice all the trouble he’d taken to look nice. She just took off her shoes, hung up her ugly old coat on the hook in the hallway, and started carrying in the bags. Her usual reproachful martyr voice, full of self-pity. He just stood there, staring at her in silence. He always disappointed her. It had been that way ever since he could remember. Her expectations never matched up with reality. She always demanded something more from him. A little extra. He had never felt that his mother was completely satisfied with anything he did. On the other hand, she had always favored his sister. His little sister. Everything always went so well for her. She never quarreled, never caused any trouble. She got good grades in school, had lots of friends, and never whined or complained. All these years he had longed for a warm hug and unconditional love. A mother who placed no demands on him, who was simply there. That was something he had never had. Instead, she had shut him out and constantly looked for faults. He had made great efforts, he had tried, but things never really worked out. She had no idea that he was harassed and tormented. He had shut it all inside and felt ashamed, and he bore all of it alone. He had never felt that he could confide in anyone. His mother blamed him for her own shortcomings. It was because of him that she hadn’t been able to fulfill her dream of becoming a nurse. He had to suffer because his mother was unhappy with her own life. Because she couldn’t get a good job. Because she didn’t love her husband. She had shriveled up into a bitter, dried-up woman, full of self-pity. Had she ever taken responsibility for anything? For her own life? For her children? For him? Hatred welled up inside him, blocking out all thoughts as she muttered and unpacked the groceries. What a wretched person she was. Now h
e couldn’t wait any longer. He took three long strides toward her and grabbed her from behind. “What are you doing?” she cried as he held her as if in a vise. He pulled out a piece of rope that he had in his pocket and tied her hands behind her back. Then he dragged her out into the hall, used his elbow to press down the door handle, and lugged her across the yard and into the barn. She was kicking and screaming. She bit his hand so hard that he started to bleed. He didn’t notice the pain. He didn’t say a word. Now he was in control. He held on to her as he picked up the thick rope that he had prepared that morning. It was already tied into a noose and firmly attached to one of the beams in the roof. He gripped her wrists hard and forced her to spread out her fingers and touch the chair before he hauled her up onto it. He climbed onto a ladder next to the chair and made her touch the beam and the rope with the noose, knots and all. When that was done, she just stood there, staring at him with a look of astonishment on her face, the noose around her neck. She had fallen silent, and her lower lip was quivering. How ugly she is, he observed coldly, and then checked the noose one last time. Then he positioned himself right in front of her and looked at her. His eyes were filled with contempt. He felt a peace inside that he had never felt before. A total sense of calm that filled him like warm milk. Without hesitating, he kicked away the chair.

  The line was dead. Why had they been cut off? True, the phone service had gone down before in bad weather. Or had the wire been cut? That thought terrified Emma. She had to get hold of her cell phone. It was out in the kitchen. She dashed out there and punched in Johan’s number without getting through. The reception was poor out here, of course. Damn it. What if the killer was nearby? He couldn’t have come inside the house; she would have heard him. It would take Johan more than an hour to get here. Maybe an hour and a half.

  She remembered that she had opened a window in the bedroom, and she ran upstairs to close it. When she leaned out to grab hold of the window latch, she saw him. He was standing on the other side of the wall, just outside the yard. She knew it was him even though she didn’t recognize him. He looked up at her. She had time to notice that he was wearing dark clothing before she swiftly drew back behind the curtains.

  She wouldn’t have a chance against him. Quickly she went out of the bedroom to look around for something she could use as a weapon.

  Johan must have called the police, she thought. I just need to fend him off until they get here. But how the hell was she going to do that?

  He was undoubtedly on his way in, now that he had seen her. The greatest chance of finding some kind of weapon would be in the kitchen. At least there were knives. She had just made up her mind to venture downstairs when she heard the front door open.

  It occurred to her that she had forgotten to lock it. How could she not have locked the door? She cursed herself.

  Her eyes fell on her sister’s baseball bat that stood leaning against the wall in a corner of the guest room. Julia had brought it home with her after spending a year as an exchange student in the United States. It had never been used before, but right now it might come in handy.

  Tingstade, Larbro, and then full speed ahead for Farosund. Knutas glanced again at the clock on the instrument panel. The minutes were ticking away at the speed of a rocket. He had spoken to the two local police officers from Farosund, who were much too slow for his liking. They were now up by the four-way stop at Sudersand and had just turned off for Ekeviken and Skar. The fact that the rain was coming down like a wall in front of the car and obscuring his view didn’t make the driving any easier. It was six fifteen in the evening, and as luck would have it, there were very few cars on the road. Jacobsson was sitting next to him with her cell phone pressed to her ear, busy filling Kihlgard in on the latest developments.

  They had tried many times to get in touch with Emma on the cell phone. A recorded voice kept stubbornly repeating that it was not possible to reach the desired number at the present time. Please try later. The phone at the house was dead as a doornail.

  Knutas drove fast, his eyes fixed on the main road that led to Farosund. They had to reach Emma Winarve in time. He floored the accelerator and stared hard through the rain curtain on the windshield, taking the curves as fast as he could.

  Jacobsson ended her phone conversation.

  “Kihlgard is on his way with several others from the team. They’re right behind us. This is horrible,” she said, looking at him.

  “How many are on their way to the house?”

  “The two local officers, who should be there soon, and then the two of us and three other cars. About ten in all. Everyone has a bulletproof vest except me.”

  “You’ll have to stay outside and keep watch,” said Knutas. “If only he doesn’t get there before us. But we need more manpower. We might have to set up a roadblock. Call and ask for more backup. Tell them to bring the dogs, too. And then there’s that crazy TV journalist, who’s on his way out there. I tried to stop him, but now he’s not answering his phone, either. If only he doesn’t make a mess of the whole thing.”

  The Bunge Museum appeared on the right-hand side, and right after that they reached Farosund.

  At the ferry dock they found the area cordoned off by police tape and guarded by several part-time firemen at the request of the local police. Knutas gratefully greeted them. Immediately afterward the ferry, which had been waiting for them, was on its way across the sound.

  The thunder and rain were gone. Emma was standing behind the door to the guest room. She couldn’t think of any other place to hide. She could hear the faint sound of music coming from the radio downstairs. She wished she could just slip inside the wall and disappear. Her muscles were tensed, and she was concentrating on trying to hold her breath. The faces of her children flitted past her mind’s eye. She wanted to cry but controlled herself.

  Suddenly she heard the familiar creaking of the stairs. Cautiously she peeked out at the hall through the slit in the door. Her heart was pounding so hard that she thought it must be audible. She saw his hand. It was gripping a shaft of wood. An axe. A trembling sob escaped her. She bit her own hand to make herself keep still. The man went into her parents’ bedroom. In a flash she made up her mind. Out into the hall and two big leaps down the stairs before he was after her. She stumbled and fell headlong onto the living room floor. He grabbed her ankle when she tried to stand up. With a howl she turned over and managed to land a direct hit on his hand with the baseball bat. He screamed and released his grip long enough for her to get to her feet.

  Sobbing, she stumbled out to the hall and headed for the front door. She grabbed the door handle, but the door was locked, and she couldn’t get it open before he was on her. He grabbed her by the hair and dragged her backward into the kitchen.

  “You fucking slut,” he snarled. “You bitch, you fucking bitch. Now I’m going to make you beg. You disgusting whore.”

  He shoved her into a sitting position, keeping one hand in a tight grip on her throat.

  “Now it’s your turn, you little slut. Now it’s your turn, goddamn it.”

  His face, only a few inches away from hers, was dark with rage. His breath smelled of mint, which reminded her of something. Her paternal grandfather. He smelled the same way. Throat lozenges. Big, white, and transparent, the kind that you could suck on forever. They came in a brown paper bag. Grandfather was always offering them to everyone.

  Just as he raised the axe in the air and took aim, he loosened his grip on her throat slightly. Somehow she summoned up great strength. With a bellow she used both hands to tear his hand away from her throat and at the same time slammed him down to the floor. She landed on top of him and bit his cheek so hard that she could taste blood in her mouth. This time she managed to get the door open and flee outside.

  She ran toward the stone wall and threw herself over it. Now she was down on the beach. She cursed the light and kept going. The sand was hard packed, which made it easy to run. And she was used to running. She had gone out jogging here
hundreds of times before. When she had gone some distance, she couldn’t help looking back to see how close he was. To her surprise she discovered that he wasn’t there at all. She stopped and looked around in bewilderment. Not a soul as far as the eye could see.

  He must have been more hurt than I thought, she told herself. Relieved, she kept on running toward the lighthouse. There were usually people around there. If only she could reach it, she would be safe. It wasn’t yet in sight. First she had to round the point of the shore, and that was still a good distance away. She was now running at a more even pace. It was almost ghostly on the beach. Completely deserted. All she heard was the panting of her own breath and the gentle thudding of her own feet.

  On the last stretch of shoreline the sand was replaced by stones. She almost fell but kept her balance. When she reached the other end of the beach, she was completely exhausted. Sweat was running down her back. No one seemed to be there, but soon she’d be up on the road, and then safety wouldn’t be far away.

  On the path to the lighthouse she allowed herself to take a little breather. The small cluster of houses near the lighthouse looked deserted. She continued running toward the parking lot and discovered a car parked at the edge of the woods.

  When she got closer, she saw that it was a red Saab.

  All her running had been in vain.

  She managed to think that he must have gotten in the car and driven to the lighthouse, and then the blow struck her on the back of the head.

  Two police officers were standing outside the house when Johan finally reached it. Emma was nowhere in sight. He parked his car outside the wall and went into the yard.

  “My name is Johan Berg. I’m a journalist,” he said, and showed them his press card. “I’m a friend of Emma Winarve. Where is she?”