She kept her promise. Ten minutes later, they were back inside and Maja was sleeping peacefully under the rain hood of the stroller.
‘Have you got a baby monitor?’ Dan asked.
Erica shook her head. ‘No, I’ll have to look in on her from time to time.’
‘You should have said something. I could have tried to dig up our old one.’
‘I hope you’ll be coming over more often now,’ said Erica, ‘so you can bring it next time.’
‘All right. I’m sorry for taking so long to come over and say hi,’ he said. ‘But I know how the first few months are, so I—’
‘You don’t have to apologize,’ said Erica. ‘You’re completely right. I haven’t felt ready to have visitors until now.’
They sat down on the sofa. Erica had set out coffee and buns that were warm from the oven. Dan helped himself.
‘Mmm,’ he said. ‘Did you bake these?’ He couldn’t help a hint of amazement from creeping into his voice.
Erica gave him a dirty look. ‘If I were capable of such a thing, you wouldn’t sound so surprised. But no, it wasn’t me. My mother-in-law baked them when she was here,’ she had to admit.
‘I figured. These aren’t burnt enough to be yours,’ Dan teased her.
Erica couldn’t come up with a witty retort. He was right. She had never been much of a baker.
After a pleasant chat as they caught up on each other’s lives, Erica stood up.
‘I just have to go check on Maja.’
She cautiously cracked open the front door and looked down into the stroller. That’s funny, Maja must have slid down under the covers. She detached the rain hood as quietly as she could and pulled back the blanket. Panic struck her full force. Maja wasn’t there!
Martin’s spine creaked as he sat down, and he stretched his arms above his head to straighten out his vertebrae. All that lugging of cartons and moving of furniture had made him feel like an old man. He was now realizing that a few hours at the gym occasionally might be a good idea, but it was too late to make up for lost time now. Anyway, Pia always said she liked his body, so he saw no reason to make any changes. But his back did hurt like hell.
The new place had turned out fine, he had to admit. Pia was the one who decided where to put everything, and the result was much better than anything he’d ever been able to come up with in his bachelor flats. He just wished he could have kept a few more of his own things. Only his stereo and TV and a ‘Billy’ bookshelf from IKEA had passed muster. The rest of his possessions had been sent off to the dump without mercy. He was saddest to part with the old leather sofa he’d had in his living room. He agreed that it had probably seen better days, but the memories … ah, what memories.
On second thought, that might be precisely the reason that Pia had been so firm about tossing it in favor of a ‘Tomelilla’ model from IKEA. He’d actually been allowed to keep an old pine kitchen table, but Pia had quickly bought a tablecloth to cover every centimeter of its surface.
Well, those were only tiny bits of sand in the machinery. So far there hadn’t been anything negative about living together. He loved coming home to Pia every evening, cuddling up with her on the sofa and watching something worthless on TV with Pia’s head in his lap. And he loved slipping into the new double bed and falling asleep together. Everything was just as wonderful as he’d dreamed it would be. He knew that he probably ought to be sad that the wild partying of his bachelor days was over, but he didn’t miss it any more than he missed a huge hangover. And Pia, well, she was simply perfect.
Martin wiped the foolish newly-in-love smile off his face and dialed the Florin family’s number. He hoped it wouldn’t be that terrible harpy who answered. Charlotte’s mother reminded him of a caricature of a mother-in-law.
He was in luck. Charlotte herself picked up the line. He felt a pang of sympathy when he heard how listless her voice sounded.
‘Yes, hello, this is Martin Molin from Tanumshede police station.’
‘What’s this about?’ Charlotte asked cautiously.
Martin was well aware that a call from the police aroused both misgivings and hopes, so he hastened to say, ‘Well, I just wanted to check on something with you. We got a tip that somebody threatened Sara the day before she …’ he stammered, ‘died.’
‘Threatened her?’ said Charlotte, sounding puzzled. ‘Who said that? Sara didn’t tell us anything about it.’
‘Her playmate, Frida.’
‘But why didn’t Frida say anything about it before now?’
‘Sara made her promise not to say anything. Frida said it was a secret.’
‘But who would threaten her?’ Only now did Charlotte perk up enough to ask the relevant question.
‘Frida didn’t know who he was. But she described the man as older with gray hair and black clothes. And we believe he may have called Sara “the Devil’s spawn.” Does any of this ring a bell?’
‘It certainly does,’ said Charlotte through clenched teeth. ‘It most certainly does.’
The pain had intensified over the past few days. It felt like an animal was tearing hungrily at his stomach.
Stig turned carefully onto his side. No position was really comfortable. No matter how he lay, it hurt somewhere. But it hurt most of all in his heart. These days he was thinking about Sara more often. About their long, serious talks about everything under the sun: school, friends, her precocious meditations on everything that went on around her. He didn’t believe the others had ever taken the time to see that side of her. They had focused only on her awkward, loud, and troublesome traits. And Sara had reacted to their image of her by becoming even more difficult, making even more noise, and smashing things. A vicious cycle of frustration that none of them knew how to handle.
But in the hours she spent with him, they had both found peace. He missed her so much, it hurt. He had seen so much of Lilian in her. Lilian’s strength and decisiveness. Her brusque manner that concealed such enormous concern and love.
As if she could read his mind, Lilian came into the room. Stig had been so deeply immersed in his reverie that he hadn’t even heard her footsteps on the stairs.
‘Here’s a little lunch for you. I was out buying some fresh rolls,’ she chirped, and he felt his stomach turn over at the mere sight of what was on the tray.
‘I’m not that hungry right now,’ he attempted, but at the same time he knew how fruitless any protests would be.
‘You have to eat something if you want to get better,’ said Lilian in her stern nurse’s voice. ‘Here, I’ll help you.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed and took a bowl of kefir from the tray. She carefully raised a spoon and moved it to his lips. He reluctantly opened his mouth and let her feed him. The feeling of kefir running down his throat nauseated him, but he let her have her way. She meant well, and basically he knew she was right. If he didn’t eat, he’d never be healthy.
‘How do you feel now?’ Lilian asked as she took one of the rolls with butter and cheese and held it to his mouth so he could take a bite.
He swallowed and replied with a forced smile, ‘I think it’s a little better, actually. I slept quite well last night.’
‘That’s nice to hear,’ said Lilian, patting his hand. ‘There’s no sense playing with your health, and you have to promise that you’ll tell me if it gets worse. Lennart was just like you, stubborn as hell, and he refused to let anyone examine him until it was too late. Sometimes I wonder if he’d still be alive if I’d insisted more …’ She gazed wistfully into the distance, still holding the spoon poised in mid-air.
Stig stroked her other hand and said gently, ‘You have nothing to reproach yourself for, Lilian. I know you did everything you could for Lennart when he was sick, because that’s the sort of person you are. You are not to blame for his death. And I’m feeling better, believe me. I’ve gotten better on my own before. If I just have a chance to rest up, I’m sure it will pass. It’s probably just “burnout,” like they tal
k so much about these days. Don’t worry about me. You have so many other worse things to worry about.’
Lilian sighed and nodded. ‘Yes, you’re probably right. It’s a lot for me to bear right now.’
‘Yes, you poor thing. I wish I were feeling healthy so I could offer you more support in your grief. I’m also grieving terribly about Sara. I can’t even imagine how you must feel. And how is Charlotte doing? It’s been a couple of days since she’s come upstairs to see me.’
‘Charlotte?’ repeated Lilian, and Stig was surprised to see a look of annoyance, though he figured he’d imagined it. Charlotte was everything to Lilian: she was always saying how she lived for her daughter and her family.
‘Well, Charlotte is feeling better than at first, anyway. Even though I think she should have kept taking those sedatives. I don’t understand why people have to try to muddle through on their own, when there are such good drugs they could take. And Niclas was certainly willing to write her a prescription, but he refused to write any for me. Did you ever hear anything so stupid? I’m grieving too, and I’m just as upset as Charlotte. Sara was my granddaughter, wasn’t she?’
The petulance in Lilian’s voice had begun to grate, but before Stig could react she switched back into the loving, caring wife that his illness had really made him appreciate. He could hardly expect her to be her usual self, he reminded himself, after all that had happened. The stress and the sorrow were affecting her too.
‘Now that you’ve eaten something, you need to rest,’ said Lilian as she got up.
Stig stopped her with a little wave. ‘Have you heard any more about why the police took Kaj in for questioning? Does it have anything to do with Sara?’
‘No, we haven’t heard anything yet. We’ll probably be the last to know,’ Lilian snorted. ‘But I hope they throw the book at him.’
She turned on her heel and headed out the door, but not before he saw the smile on her face.
26
New York 1946
Life in America hadn’t turned out the way she’d expected. Bitter lines of disappointment were etched round her mouth and eyes, but Agnes was nevertheless still a beautiful woman at the age of forty-two.
The first years had been wonderful. Her father’s money had ensured her a comfortable lifestyle, enhanced by the contributions she received from her male admirers. She had lacked for nothing. She hosted endless, joyous parties in her elegant apartment in New York, and beautiful people had had no trouble finding their way to her home. She’d received numerous offers of marriage, but she always held off, hunting for someone even richer, more stylish, more sophisticated. In the meantime she had not denied herself any form of amusement. It was as though she had to compensate for the lost years and live twice as fast and hard as everyone else. There had been a feverish eagerness in the way she loved, partied, and spent money on clothes, jewelry, and furnishings for her apartment. Those happy years felt so distant now.
When the Kreuger crash came in 1932, her father lost everything. A few foolish investments, and the fortune he had amassed was gone. When the telegram arrived, she had felt such consuming rage at his idiotic behavior that she tore the piece of paper to bits and stamped on them. How dare he lose everything that one day was supposed to be hers? Everything that would have been her security, her life.
She sent a long telegram back in which she told him in exhaustive detail what she thought of him and how he had destroyed her life.
When a week later a telegram arrived with the news that he had put a pistol to his temple, Agnes had crumpled it up and tossed it in the wastebasket. She was neither surprised nor upset. As far as she was concerned, he deserved nothing less.
The years that followed had been hard. Not as hard as those with Anders, but a struggle for survival all the same. Now the only way she could live was at the benevolence of men. When she no longer had any financial resources of her own at her disposal, her wealthy, urbane suitors were gradually replaced by beaux of less social status. Offers of marriage ceased altogether. Instead the propositions were of an entirely different nature, but as long as the men paid she didn’t object. It also seemed that something inside of her had been damaged by the twins’ difficult birth, so she was unable to get pregnant, but that increased her value among her occasional partners. None of them wanted to be bound to her by a child, and she herself would have rather jumped off a building than go through that atrocious experience again.
Agnes had been forced to give up the beautiful apartment; the new one was much smaller, darker, and far from the center of town. She no longer hosted parties in her home, and she’d had to pawn or sell most of her possessions.
When the Second World War came, everything that had been bad got even worse. And for the first time since she’d boarded the boat in Göteborg, Agnes longed for home. Her homesickness gradually grew to resolve, and when the war finally ended she decided to go back to Sweden. In New York she had nothing of value, but in Fjällbacka there was something that she could still call her own. After the big fire, her father had bought the lot where the house she’d lived in had stood, and he had a new house built on the same site. Perhaps in the hope that one day she would return home. The house was in her name, so it was still there, even though everything else he had owned was gone. It had been rented out for all these years, and the income had been placed in an account in the event she ever came back. Several times over the years she had tried to gain access to the money, but she was always told by the administrator that her father had stipulated that she would get the money only if she moved back to her homeland. At the time she had cursed what she viewed as an injustice, but now she reluctantly had to admit that perhaps it hadn’t been so stupid after all. Agnes calculated that she would be able to survive on that money for at least a year, and during that time she had to set her mind on finding someone who could support her.
In order for that plan to succeed, though, she had to sustain the story she had created about her life in America. She sold everything she owned and spent every öre on a dress of elegant quality and a set of fine luggage. The bags were empty—she hadn’t had enough money to fill them with anything—but no one would notice that when she came ashore. What they would see was a successful woman, the widow of a wealthy man with business dealings of an indefinite nature. ‘Something in finance,’ she intended to say, with a blasé shrug of her shoulders. She was sure it would work. People back in Sweden were so naïve and so easily impressed by people who had been to the promised land. No one would think it was odd that she came home in the midst of her triumph. No one would suspect a thing.
The wharf was full of people. Agnes was shoved here and there as she carried a suitcase in each hand. The money hadn’t been enough for a first-class or even a second-class ticket, so she would stick out like a peacock among the grey masses in third class. In other words, she didn’t have to fool anyone on the boat with her fake finery. As long as she disembarked in Göteborg, nobody would know how she had made the voyage.
She felt something soft nuzzling her hand. Agnes looked down to see a little girl in a white frilly dress looking at her with tears running down her cheeks. The crowd swelled around her, surging back and forth, and no one paid any attention to the little girl who must have lost her parents.
‘Where’s your mommy?’ said Agnes in the language she now mastered almost perfectly.
The girl cried even harder, and Agnes vaguely recalled that when the twins were this size they hadn’t started to talk yet. In fact this little one seemed to have just learned to walk and looked as though she might fall beneath the tramping feet all around her.
Agnes took the girl by the hand and looked around. No one seemed to be looking for her. Nothing but rough work clothes wherever she looked, and judging by her clothing the girl definitely seemed to belong to a different social class. Agnes was about to call for help when she had an idea. It was bold, incredibly bold, but brilliant. Wouldn’t her story about the rich husband who died and widowed her
for the second time take on additional veracity if she also had a small child with her? And even though she remembered how much trouble the boys had been, it would probably be entirely different with a little girl. She was sweet as sugar, this girl. Agnes could dress her in pretty clothes, and tie ribbons in that lovely hair. She was a regular little darling. The thought was appealing to Agnes more and more, and she swiftly made up her mind. She took both suitcases in one hand and the girl by the other and strode towards the ship. No one reacted when she embarked, and she stifled a desire to look back over her shoulder. The trick was to look as though the child naturally belonged to her, and, shocked, the girl had even stopped crying. Agnes took that as a sign that she was doing the right thing. Her parents were surely not nice to her, since she went with a stranger so easily. Given a little time, Agnes would be able to give the girl everything she wished for, and she knew that she would be an excellent mother. The boys had just been too difficult. This little girl was different. She could feel it. Everything was going to be different.
Niclas came home as soon as she rang. Because she hadn’t wanted to say what it was about, he dashed in the front door with his heart in his throat. On the stairs he saw Lilian coming down with a tray, and she looked surprised.
‘Why are you home?’
‘Charlotte called me. You don’t know what it’s about?’
‘No, she never tells me anything,’ Lilian snapped. Then she gave him an ingratiating smile. ‘I was just out buying fresh buns, they’re in a bag in the kitchen.’
He ignored her and took the stairs down to the cellar flat in two strides. It wouldn’t surprise him if Lilian was standing with her ear to the door right now, trying to hear what they were saying.
‘Charlotte?’
‘I’m in here, changing Albin.’
He went to the bathroom and saw her standing at the changing table with her back to him. Even from her posture he could see that she was angry, and he wondered what she’d found out now.
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