Slowly We Die

by Emelie Schepp

  “Pretty girls,” he said, looking at his palms. “Pretty girls drive me.”

  “You like girls? Not women?” Mia sighed. She felt like they weren’t getting anywhere.

  She would have preferred that she and Henrik just walk out of the room. It didn’t feel worth their while to continue talking to this clown.

  “I didn’t know you were so up on things,” Henriksson said. “The combination isn’t bad, is it?”

  He spit in one palm, observing the gob as he continued: “One experienced and one...less experienced. It makes the game much more interesting.”

  “What game?” Mia asked.

  “What game!” he said and began laughing. “Let’s say this, my friends. I prefer two to one.”

  “It’d be best if you speak in more obvious terms,” Henrik said.

  “Can I be any more obvious? I thought that you’d at least be familiar with these things, but does the word ‘threesome’ mean anything to you?”

  “No, can you tell us?” Henrik said wearily.

  “Seriously?”

  “You like to tie people up, cut them a little, whip them?” Mia said. “Is that what you like, Ted?”

  She was quiet for a moment and looked thoughtfully at him.

  “That was why you tied Shirin Norberg up, but what was it that happened next? Did you get scared and run away when you were done, is that what happened?”

  “What?”

  “It’s okay,” Mia said. “We’re listening, you can tell us.”

  “There’s nothing to tell! I haven’t done anything.”

  The room fell silent.

  “You say that,” Mia said, “but I don’t believe you.”

  “It doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me. That’s not reason enough to keep me here, is it?”

  CHAPTER

  FIFTEEN

  “JUST GIVE ME the most important points,” Gunnar Öhrn said, stressed.

  He had asked for a quick briefing in his office and, in addition to Henrik, had also called in Mia.

  The air was thick. The windows and the blinds were closed, so that it was almost dark in the room.

  “Ted Henriksson seems to have been at work when both Shirin and Katarina were murdered. We’re still investigating, of course, to be sure that it checks out,” Henrik said.

  “Good,” Gunnar said.

  “I also have people checking out that Audi that was seen in Borg.”

  “Unfortunately, Ted doesn’t own an Audi,” Mia said. “No, damn it, it couldn’t be that easy.”

  “He could have borrowed, rented or stolen one, of course, so we’ll go down that route, too,” Henrik said. “When it comes to the footprint in the yard, Anneli isn’t done with the analysis yet, but she knows that it’s a footprint from a pair of gym shoes, size nine and a half, so in all likelihood too small for Ted.”

  “And what do our friends at the National Forensic Lab say?” Gunnar asked.

  “They promised to prioritize the body, but I can’t say if that means they’ll have the time to look at it today.”

  “That was a shit briefing,” Gunnar said.

  “That’s where we are right now, unfortunately,” Henrik said. “So there’s not much that connects Ted to either of the crime scenes.”

  “And then we have the ring,” Mia said. “The one we found at Katarina’s, but Ted didn’t seem to recognize it...we’ll have to see what the forensics say.”

  “Two spectacular murders and no suspects besides Ted Henriksson. We’re in a really weak position, in other words,” Gunnar said, looking instantly tired.

  He pulled his hand over his face, then told them what they’d gotten about Danilo Peña so far.

  “Fourteen tips, of which four are from the regular informers who always call in whether they’ve seen something or not.”

  “But there are some people who’ve seen him?” Henrik said.

  “Yes,” Gunnar said, “or who think they’ve seen him. A pizzeria owner claimed that Peña had come into his pizzeria on Kungsgatan, ordered a house special, drank a Coke, went into the bathroom and then climbed out the window. The only problem was that there wasn’t a window in the bathroom.”

  “Why lie about such a thing?” Mia asked.

  “I don’t know,” Gunnar said. “To get noticed, maybe. If the newspapers think it’s a good story and write about it, the pizzeria gets a lot of publicity.”

  “You mean this is about free advertising?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But is there anyone out there who’s actually seen him?” Henrik said.

  “No, I don’t think so. Some kids saw him running along the train tracks toward the bridge, you know, where Ingelstagatan goes over the tracks, and then he disappeared. Tips like that could be true.”

  “So in other words, the BOLO hasn’t given us anything?” Mia asked.

  “It’s still early,” Henrik said.

  Gunnar nodded, but his facial expression gave anything but positive signals. They knew that the earliest responses were the most important. The news would soon be lost in the flood. People forget so easily.

  * * *

  The stairwell smelled of oregano, basil and garlic. When Jana Berzelius opened the door, she heard clinking glass and music coming from the television.

  She pulled off her running shoes and went into the kitchen. There she froze and just stared.

  Danilo stood at the kitchen counter. In one hand, he was holding a knife and in the other, a hunk of bread.

  “What happened to your hair?” she managed.

  “Scissors,” he said. “Scissors happened.”

  He was wearing the new pants and sweater. His hair was cut, yet it resembled a hairstyle. A dark lock hung down onto his forehead. His chin was freshly shaven.

  “You obviously found a razor blade, too,” she said.

  He grinned at her.

  “I’ve just made soup,” he said.

  “Don’t let me stop you. I’m going to shower.”

  “Here, help me instead.”

  He threw the bread at her, hard. She reacted instantaneously, raising her hand to catch it without taking her eyes off him.

  “I don’t—”

  “—cook,” he said. “I figured as much. Here.”

  The knife blade sliced through the air. She caught it with her other hand, gripping it securely, which Danilo noticed.

  “We should act normal, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t say anything as she walked slowly to the cutting board. She cut the bread in thin slices, keeping an eye on Danilo the whole time as he made small talk.

  His manner irritated her. The situation wasn’t normal. Didn’t he understand that her actions over the coming days would be decisive for both of their lives? If she wasn’t able to plant the shirt in the shelter, he wouldn’t be able to escape, and she’d never be rid of him.

  But he didn’t seem to care about that at all; rather, he seemed more worried about the simmering soup. He took the saucepan off the burner and took out two bowls. He removed the lid from the pan and stirred the soup with a ladle. He filled the bowls halfway and set them on the table, which was already set with two wineglasses and an open bottle of wine.

  “Sit down,” he said, muting the television.

  “What’s the point of all of this?” she said, feeling how the sweat on her back had turned cold.

  “I want to eat. Sit down!”

  She hesitated at first, but then sat down across from him.

  “What the hell is it now?” he said. “You aren’t going to eat?”

  “Do I dare?”

  “Considering you had four packages of this soup in the refrigerator, I assume that you like it.”

  She picked up the spoon and lowered it slowly down into the
soup.

  “I haven’t poisoned the food, if you’re thinking I did.”

  “I never know with you.”

  “We can switch bowls if you want.”

  “No, thanks,” she said, tasting the soup.

  Just then, the doorbell rang. Danilo froze in the middle of a movement and looked at her.

  “Are you expecting someone?” he asked tensely.

  “No,” she said, feeling her heart begin to pound.

  * * *

  Anneli Lindgren opened a folder and inspected the photographs from the crime scenes, closedly examining those of the victims—Shirin Norberg’s severed hands and Katarina Vinston’s pale face. She shuddered with disgust but continued scrolling through the photos. She didn’t like being unsure. She wanted to have control, wanted to understand. That was why she liked her work, and that was why she could sit for hours examining textile fibers, DNA analyses and other technical traces.

  In one of the photographs, the footprint from the flower bed in Borg was visible. She had examined it previously, but she zoomed in close to the print now. She twisted and turned her head, squinted, and zoomed in again.

  She saw the pattern from the sole. It matched what she thought, a cross-trainer or running shoe, size nine and a half.

  Suddenly, her cell phone rang. It was Gunnar.

  She smiled as she answered. “Anneli speaking.”

  “Why didn’t you call me about the footprint?”

  Her smile evaporated. “I told Henrik, and he said he was going to tell you.”

  “I know you did. But next time, call me first. Is that understood?”

  “But, Gunnar...what does it matter? What did Henrik tell you about the footprint?”

  He was a completely different person from three months ago. From a year ago. From ten years ago. Gone was the easygoing soul, the warm and thoughtful man, replaced by a strict and serious person speaking to her on the other end of the line. Over the years they had had their disagreements, separations even. But this hardening against her felt permanent.

  She squirmed in her seat, upset by the sound of authority in his tone of voice. In what he said, there was a subtext: you are sloppy and aren’t doing your job.

  Clearly, he couldn’t forgive her cheating on him. But it had only happened once, she thought. Once in twenty years! It had been uncomfortable at times to have her live-in partner as her boss, but it was damn unpleasant to have her boss as her ex. Her ex! She sighed that she had to call him that.

  “Henrik told me it was a cross-trainer or running shoe, size nine. Did you tell him something more?”

  “Yes,” she said, “I told him that I figured out the brand.”

  “What brand is it?”

  “I can see the swoosh.”

  “What?”

  “The Nike logo.”

  “Yes, I know what it is. Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Good,” he said and hung up.

  She put her phone down, feeling sad. Studies showed that emotions could be measured, analyzed and compared. But it was harder to understand them. And when it came to the love between her and Gunnar, it was impossible to understand.

  * * *

  Jana Berzelius cast a quick glance behind her to ensure that Danilo was staying out of sight before she opened the front door.

  On the other side of it stood Per, smiling at her. The green athletic jacket was zipped up to his chin, and the color accentuated his differently colored eyes.

  When he took a step forward, she gestured for him to stay where he was.

  “What is it?” he asked, stroking his hand under his chin.

  “What are you doing here?”

  He laughed. “We didn’t get to have lunch at Fiskmagasinet, so I thought...”

  “But you can’t be here. Not now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have to go!”

  He laughed again, but more nervously this time.

  The laugh echoed in the stairwell before dying out and being replaced by a dull silence.

  Calmly, she stepped outside and let the door close behind her. Most of all she wanted to disappear into the apartment again and avoid dealing with the unavoidable.

  “I really want you to go,” she said, giving him a quick look.

  “You aren’t exactly one to encourage friendship, are you?” he said.

  “No, and I want ours to end,” she said tersely.

  “Did I do something wrong?”

  “No, I just want to be on my own and left alone.”

  He looked at her, now with an expression of both disappointment and confusion. His chest heaved under his jacket.

  “I’ve understood that you want to be left alone,” he said, “that you don’t want anyone to be involved in your personal life, and I’ve really tried not to.”

  “Why did you come here, then?”

  “Well, I regret that now.”

  She looked at him, searching for his eyes.

  “Don’t be mad,” she said.

  “I’m not,” he said with irritation. “I’m disappointed in myself because I put so much time into nothing.”

  At the same time, Danilo moved inside the apartment. She heard it. Per should also have heard it. And then again. The wood floor creaked, and she pressed herself against the door.

  “I thought you were alone,” he said.

  “I’m always alone,” she said curtly.

  “But...”

  “Go,” she said. “Now.”

  “I just don’t understand...”

  “What is it you don’t understand? Go!”

  “Jana...”

  “You and I have nothing more to say to each other, Per. Our so-called friendship is over. End of story.”

  Their eyes met.

  “Our so-called friendship...” he repeated quietly.

  Then he didn’t say anything else.

  No more words were necessary; there was only one path for each of them to go.

  She saw him nod in disappointment, take a few steps back and turn around.

  Suddenly she was struck with the desire to put out her hand and pull him back.

  But she didn’t.

  She went inside and closed the door behind her.

  * * *

  The highway rushed by outside the window. Philip Engström sat in the idling ambulance with his gaze fixed on an indefinable point beyond a field. It was Saturday evening, and they were busy.

  Certain weekends almost every call was for a young person who’d been seriously injured in a pointless traffic accident. Like two weeks ago—a kid drove off highway 210 south of the city and broke through a deer fence near Söderköping’s golf club. His car ended up deep in the forest, and he was stuck inside. It took twenty hours for him to free himself and reach the highway, where he was able to flag down a car.

  Eighteen years old. A high school student.

  “You missed a button,” Sandra said.

  Philip looked down at his soft, worn work shirt and was silent. He was thinking about Katarina again.

  How long had she been there in the house, tied up? The bedroom was surprisingly large. A double bed with a purple spread was on the left, and a number of closets with mirrored doors lined the wall on the right. The different flooring stood witness to two rooms that had been merged into one. One wall featured three windows in a row, all with the blinds closed...

  Had she called for help? Had she been conscious when he was looking for her, had she heard him knocking at the door?

  The thought made him dizzy; no matter how much he thought about her, how much he longed to see her, she would never come back.

  “What are you thinking about?” Sandra asked.

  “Rainbows and kittens.”


  “You’re thinking about Katarina, aren’t you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “It’s like pulling teeth to get you to talk.”

  “I’m just wondering how she died,” he said.

  “I told you that,” she said.

  “Told me what?” he said, looking at her.

  “On the phone,” she said, meeting his gaze for a brief moment.

  “What?” he asked.

  “That her tongue was cut out. She drowned, in her own blood.”

  “What?!”

  “I’m not lying.”

  He heard the engine become quiet, almost strangely muffled. At first, Philip thought that his ears had plugged up, but it was his thoughts taking over. With a shudder he repeated the words in his head: Tongue. Cut out. Whether or not she’d heard him knocking didn’t matter. She wouldn’t have been able to yell.

  “How do you know that?” he said.

  “Richard Nilsson. It’s lucky he was the one to go on that call, that it was someone experienced.”

  Philip turned his head, looking at the field along the road.

  “Can I ask...” Sandra said. “Did you and Katarina have something going on?”

  He looked at her, confused.

  “She was a friend,” he said, sounding offended.

  “Not the sort of friend you sleep with?”

  “What the hell? Why does everyone think that?”

  Sandra passed a Winnebago.

  “So that wasn’t how it was, then?” she said.

  “No,” he said. “It wasn’t. Katarina was a friend. The sort who listens.”

  “I’m happy to listen if you...”

  “Thanks, but there’s nothing I want to talk about right now.”

  “It’s not good to keep everything inside,” she said, swerving back into the right lane.

  “Then you talk,” he said, “if you think it’s so damn important.”

  “I do think it’s important. There are actually people who feel alone who need...”

  “But I’m not one of them. Nor are you. So I really don’t understand why you go on and on about it all the time,” he said, turning his gaze out toward the field again. “No one here is alone,” he mumbled.

  * * *

  Jana Berzelius stood still for a moment, holding her hand on the handle of the front door as if she didn’t want to let it go.