Spring Tide

by Börjlind, Cilla

  The man on the bed turned the TV off and picked up the towel from the floor. He was called Nils Wendt. Nothing of what was said in the report was new for him. It had only reinforced his conviction. He would concern himself with Bertil Magnuson a little longer.

  One for all.

  * * *

  Jelle had been in the caravan before, several times, short visits for various reasons. Mainly to keep Vera company when she was feeling bad. But he had never spent the night there. This time he would do so. That, at any rate, was his intention when he got there. There were three sleeping places in the caravan. Two of them were on either side of the table, one went across the end side. That was too short for Jelle, the other two were too narrow for two people beside each other.

  But not on top.

  Jelle knew what would come. He had thought about it all the way there. He would make love with One-eyed Vera. An idea that had started as an idea already back at Medborgarplatsen. Gradually it had grown into something else, he noticed. Grown to desire.

  Or randiness.

  Vera had walked by his side. Sat by his side on the underground. Stood close to him on the sixty-six-metre-long escalator at Västra Skogen. Held him under his arm on the way through the Ingenting forest and not said a word the whole time. He assumed that she was thinking the same thing.

  She was.

  And it did something to her body. It changed temperature and became warm, from within. She knew that she had a good body, still strong, ample, with breasts that had never been suckled and which filled really large cups when she occasionally felt like wearing a bra. That wasn’t very often. She wasn’t worried about her body. That would see her through. It always had done when it had been needed, which was a very long time ago now. So she longed, and was nervous.

  She wanted it to be good.

  ‘There’s a bit of the hard stuff in the cupboard there.’

  Vera pointed at one of the veneer cupboards behind Jelle. He turned round and opened the hatch. A little bottle of Explorer vodka, half full, or half empty, depending on how you looked at it.

  ‘Do you want some?’

  Jelle looked at Vera. She had lit a little copper lamp on the wall. It provided just as little light as was needed.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Jelle closed the hatch and looked at Vera.

  ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vera took off her clothes on the upper part of her body, first, and Jelle sat still, opposite. He looked at her exposed breasts. It was the first time he had seen them, naked, and he felt how his organ stiffened under the table. He hadn’t touched a woman’s breasts for more than six years. Not even in his thoughts. He had never had any sexual fantasies. Now he was sitting opposite a pair of very large breasts which cast a shadow in the low light on the wall. He started to pull off his shirt.

  ‘It is very cramped here.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Vera took her dress off, pushed her knickers down over her thighs and leaned back a little. Now she was completely naked. Jelle had stood up and pulled down what had to be pulled down. He saw that his organ stood at an angle that he had almost forgotten. Vera saw that too, and slightly spread her legs. Jelle leant forward a little, stretched out a hand and ran it along one of Vera’s thighs. They both looked at each other.

  ‘Do you want the light off?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  He had nothing to hide. He knew that Vera knew what this was about, who they were, there was nothing uncomfortable about it. If she wanted the lamp on, then he did too. The woman in the light in front of him was the person she was and now he was going to make love to her. When he reached up to her pudenda he felt how wet it was. He rubbed a couple of fingers along her velvety labia and Vera clutched Jelle’s organ with her right hand. Then she closed her eyes.

  She had all the time in the world.

  The young men crouched in the dark some distance away. They knew they were hidden. The weak light from the caravan’s oval window hardly reached outside, but it was enough for them to be able to see.

  In.

  One-eyed Vera lay down on the narrow bunk. She had a cushion under her head. She put one foot on the floor to support her leg and give Jelle enough room to lean over her body. He had no difficulty in getting his shaft in, but he did it carefully, slowly, and heard a short low panting from Vera. Now they were here.

  They were making love.

  Their bodies rocked up and down with small rhythmic jerks.

  The bunk restricted their movements, in a stimulating manner. Jelle had to restrain himself, Vera could keep up.

  In the dark outside, a discreet little yellow light marked a mobile camera.

  Vera felt when Jelle came, and she felt how she too got there at almost the same second. When he remained inside her, the last tremor went through her body. Then she faded away.

  Jelle kept his member inside her, a long time, until it just slipped out by itself. He had banged himself hard against the side wall. He carefully got up and sat on the edge of the bunk. He saw how Vera had fallen asleep, her even breathing, even in a way he didn’t recognise. He had seen Vera sleep before, or pass out, he had sat with her many a night.

  Here.

  In the caravan.

  Without staying over.

  Nights when she had struggled not to explode. So as not to give in to the manic worms that crawled around in her brain and wanted to get out. He had held her for hours sometimes, spoken quietly about light and darkness, about himself, about anything at all that could keep her afloat. It had often helped. She often passed out in the end with her head on his chest, with uncomfortably uneven breaths.

  Now she was breathing very evenly.

  Jelle leaned over her face and carefully stroked her small white scars. He knew about the bunch of keys. He had heard that story several times. And each time he had felt that same helpless fury within himself.

  To do that to a child!

  He pulled a blanket up over Vera’s naked body, got up and sat on the other bunk. Somewhat distracted, he pulled on his clothes and sank down stretched out.

  He lay there a long while.

  Then he got up.

  He avoided looking at Vera.

  He carefully shut the caravan door. He didn’t want to wake her, didn’t want to explain what he couldn’t explain. Why he went on his way. He just went. With his back to the caravan, right through the forest.

  Right through Ingenting forest.

  * * *

  Bertil Magnuson had finally pulled himself together close to the Djurgård Bridge and realised that he must act. How, he hadn’t decided. The first thing he did was to turn off his mobile phone. He had considered changing his number, straight away, but realised the risks. Then Wendt might ring his home telephone, in the house, and then Linn might answer. That would not be good.

  That would be a catastrophe.

  So he settled for turning off his mobile, sticking his head in the sand and hoping it would stop at that.

  That one phone call.

  Before he went home he paid a quick visit to the head office on Sveavägen. The staff there had bought flowers and champagne. The entire company was involved in his award. Nobody had mentioned the demonstrations at the ceremony. He didn’t expect anything else. They were one hundred per cent loyal. If anybody wasn’t, then there was soon a replacement.

  In his office he had commented by telephone on a TV report about MWM. A crap report. After that comment he had asked his secretary to write a press release which emphasized MWM’s appreciation of the award, and how it spurred the company to continue its efforts for Swedish mining abroad. Not least in Africa.

  The bull by the horns.

  Now he was approaching his house in Stocksund. It was late and he hoped that Linn hadn’t gone and invited Tom, Dick and Harry to celebrate. He couldn’t face that.

  She hadn’t.

  Linn had put together a little simple dinner-for-two out on the terrace. She knew
her husband. They ate their food in relative silence, until Linn put down her knife and fork.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  She looked straight out across the water when she asked.

  ‘Fine. You mean about…’

  ‘No, I mean in general.’

  ‘What makes you ask?’

  ‘Because you’re not here.’

  She knew her husband very well. Bertil had floated off as soon as he got his wine glass in his hand. He didn’t usually do that. He had the ability to keep things where they belonged, and here at home he belonged to her. This is where they were private, intimate. In touch with each other.

  And now they were not.

  ‘Is it about those demonstrators?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bertil lied, the truth was totally off limits.

  ‘This isn’t the first time, why are you so bothered now?’

  ‘It seems to be getting worse.’

  Linn had noticed that too. She had also seen the report on TV earlier that evening, about MWM, and it had been decidedly spiteful, with an obviously unbalanced bias.

  She thought.

  ‘Is it something you want to talk about? Something we…’

  ‘No. Not now, I’m too tired. Did the King like your dress?’

  And that was that.

  Then it became private anyway, and intimate. So intimate that, as Linn used to think, it detonated in their double bed. Short, but ‘adequate’. And with an unusual intense degree of commitment on Bertil’s part. As if he allowed himself to react in bed, Linn thought. That was fine for her, as long as it was only about business problems and not anything else.

  When Linn had fallen asleep, Bertil slipped out of bed.

  Wrapped in his elegant grey dressing gown he walked silently out onto the terrace, without turning on any lights, pulled out his mobile and lit a little cigarillo. He had stopped smoking many years ago. Today he had suddenly bought a packet on his way home. Without really thinking about it. With slightly unsteady hands he turned his mobile on, waited, and saw that he had received four messages. The first two were congratulations from people who thought it was important to keep Bertil Magnuson on side. The third was silent. Perhaps somebody had changed their mind and decided it wasn’t so important to keep him on side. And then came the fourth message. An excerpt from a taped conversation.

  ‘I know that you’re prepared to go a long way, Bertil, but murder?’

  ‘Nobody can link us to it.’

  ‘But we know.’

  ‘We don’t know anything… if we don’t want to. Why are you so agitated?’

  ‘Because an innocent person had been murdered!’

  ‘That’s your interpretation.’

  ‘And what is yours?’

  ‘I solved a problem.’

  And a couple more sentences. From the same conversation. With the same people. Who talked about a problem that had been solved. Many, many years ago.

  And suddenly created a new one today.

  A problem that Bertil didn’t know how to handle. When a problem turned up, he usually made a phone call and then the problem was dealt with. He had phoned many a potentate around the world and many a problem had been dealt with. This time he didn’t have anybody to phone. He was the one who had been phoned.

  He hated the situation.

  And he hated Nils Wendt.

  When he turned round he saw Linn standing in the bedroom window, looking at him.

  Quick as a flash, he hid the cigarillo behind his back.

  * * *

  A sound woke Vera. A sound she didn’t recognise, which pierced her sleep and caused her to sit up on her elbow. The bunk next to her was empty. Had the sound come from Jelle? Was he outside peeing or something? Vera got up and wrapped the blanket around her warm naked body. Jelle must have put the blanket there, she thought, after they had made love. Because that is what they had done. Made love. That was how Vera experienced it, and it warmed her wounded soul. It had felt so right, what could have been so wrong. A little smile came to her lips, she wouldn’t dream about the bunch of keys tonight, she knew that, and opened the door.

  The blow struck her right in her face.

  Vera was knocked backwards and fell down against the bunk. Blood gushed out of her mouth and nose. One of the youths was inside the caravan before she could get up, and he hit her again. But Vera was no weakling. She dived to one side and then got to her feet waving her arms wildly, and started to fight. The cramped interior of the caravan made the fight chaotic. The youth hit out and Vera hit out and when the other youth came in with his mobile’s camera switched on he realised that he had to help.

  To knock the old crone down.

  So it became two against Vera, and that was one too many. And since she put up such resistance she got a lot of blows in return. It took almost ten minutes before a powerful blow with the Calor gas cylinder across her nose floored her. After another two minutes she had been kicked unconscious. When she finally lay there without moving on the floor, with a naked and bloody body, one of the youths started filming again.

  Several kilometres away a man sat alone on the floor of a decrepit wooden shack and wrestled with his wretchedness. Sneaking off like a rat. He knew what Vera would feel like when she woke up and how she would look at him when they met, and he wouldn’t have a good explanation. He wouldn’t have any explanation at all.

  Perhaps it would be for the best if they didn’t meet.

  Jelle thought.

  7

  A few solitary leaves from last year fluttered down to the ground in the gentle wind, you could just catch a glimpse of the bay through the trees, and somewhere down there was an opening, a dog-walking area, where the council wanted to put an exercise track.

  Just as soon as they got rid of that shabby caravan.

  Arvo Pärt came hobbling through the forest, above the bay, he found it rather hard to walk. His muscles were aching after that football match the other evening. But two goals easily outweighed a bit of physical pain, that wasn’t why he was on his way to Vera’s. It was for another pain. He had suddenly met a man down by the Trekanten Lake, sometime during the night, they had downed a few cans of good beer and suddenly the guy had become furious.

  ‘You’re not bloody Arvo Pärt!’

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘Arvo Pärt composes music and is famous and why the hell do you say you’re called Arvo Pärt? Are you crazy?’

  Arvo Pärt, who a long time ago, and rather thoroughly, had repressed the fact that he was called Silon Karp, had at first been extremely angry, then he’d been thumped in the face and finally he’d started crying. Why couldn’t he be Arvo Pärt? That’s who he was!

  Now he was hobbling towards One-eyed Vera’s caravan. He knew that he would find consolation there. Vera knew how you put people back together after they’d been treated roughly.

  Above all, she knew that he was Arvo Pärt.

  ‘Vera!’

  Pärt had knocked twice. Now he called out. You didn’t open Vera’s door just like that, then she’d be angry.

  But this particular morning she could hardly be angry. She couldn’t be anything. Pärt realised that immediately when he eventually dared to open the door and saw a naked body lying on the floor in a dried-up pool of blood with a stream of ants all around.

  He didn’t recognise her face.

  Her false teeth lay by the threshold.

  * * *

  Olivia woke up with a start, alert, and she noticed that her throat was much better. Mama’s medicine, she thought. Perhaps that would be something for Maria to do? Alternative medicine? Honey and a bit of hocus-pocus. Instead of being obsessed with the holiday house. And then she was reminded of Eva Carlsén, the woman that Maria had seen on TV and who had written a book about the escort trade.

  Carlsén was in the Eniro address directory.

  Olivia had suggested they meet, rather than doing it by phone. She didn’t like talking on the pho
ne, she was somebody who liked to have a quick word. Besides, she wanted to make some notes. So they met on Skeppsholmen. Carlsén had a meeting out there which would finish at about eleven, and at half past they were sitting on one of the park benches down by the water and looking out to where the Vasa had sunk.

  ‘But you came across Jackie Berglund there, then?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Carlsén had told a bit about her work on the escort trade. How she had begun with a friend of hers who had suddenly mentioned that she had been a call girl for a few years when she was young, and this had got Carlsén interested. She had soon discovered that the trade was still flourishing to this day. Mainly online. But there was some hidden activity too, more exclusive, and that was where Jackie Berglund came into the picture. She ran one of these hidden escort firms that never features in adverts or even on the Net.

  ‘What’s the firm called?’

  ‘Red Velvet.’

  ‘Did she run it herself?’

  ‘Yes, and still does as far as I know. She’s a rather enterprising businesswoman.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘She has worked her way up. Started as a call girl herself, worked with Milton a while, got in touch with a lot of girls and set up on her own.’

  ‘Criminal?’

  ‘Grey area… escort activities are not in themselves criminal, but if they include sexual services then it would be seen as running a brothel.’

  ‘And it was hers?’

  ‘Presumably, but I never managed to get any proof of that.’

  ‘You tried?’

  ‘Yes, but I got the feeling that she had some very high-up people who protected her.’

  ‘Like?’

  ‘That I don’t know. I brought along some of my material, I don’t know if there is anything you might want…’

  ‘Very much!’