Gieger

by Gustaf Skördeman

  Stellan Broman the rapist.

  The schadenfreude that Lotta and Malin’s beloved and admired father had turned out to be a monster and traitor had come back to get her. All three of them shared the same origins.

  She knew there was nothing she could do about that, but she couldn’t help feeling guilt. Why?

  Was that why so many sexual predators got away? All those businessmen, politicians, movie moguls, TV celebrities, directors and artists – the ones who’d attacked so many over the years and got away with it. Was it because all those girls had blamed themselves?

  Because they had known that no one would listen to the weaker party?

  Jane had been scared of being deported to communist Poland. Being returned there would almost certainly have meant prison for her, and her daughter would have been taken away from her. By staying with the man who’d raped her, she could keep her child. She just had to conjure up a story about another father.

  But how had Janina Nowak managed to carry this with her for all these years? She’d simply stayed quiet and taken it whenever Sara had erupted with rage about the move. Without saying a word.

  Sara felt grateful for the darkness in the room. It helped her to hide. Right now, she didn’t want to be visible; she almost didn’t want to be found. She didn’t know where to go – she didn’t have the strength to carry the burden of her new knowledge. Now she completely understood how self-absorbed she’d been for all those years. How ungrateful she’d been. And she’d had the effrontery to be upset with her mother for being a little edgy over the years. Of course, Sara hadn’t known, but she hadn’t asked herself whether there was a reason behind her mother’s gruffness, either. Dear God, it was a miracle she hadn’t had a breakdown and disappeared beneath the surface. Sara guessed that the only reason Jane hadn’t let herself crumble, the only reason she’d stayed on her feet and kept working for all those years, was to protect her daughter.

  If Sara thought that she’d made an effort for her children, then it was nothing compared with what her own mother had done for her.

  And she’d never said anything. Not when Sara had joined Lotta and Malin in their mockery, nor when Sara had directed her ire at her because their lives weren’t like those of the Bromans, nor when Sara had hated her for moving them away from Bromma.

  Not a word about how ungrateful her daughter had been, what she herself had gone through or what she’d saved Sara from.

  She never told her that Stellan had almost succeeded in forcing himself upon her.

  His own daughter.

  He must have known that she was. Sara supposed he just hadn’t cared.

  Not then, when he had been about to lure her into the garden shed.

  Until then, he had perhaps looked upon her with a certain tenderness. But one day she was no longer a child in his eyes. Perhaps he’d never regarded her as his child. Perhaps she had just been an annoying reminder of his encroachment.

  It occurred to Sara that she was actually evidence. It was possible to determine paternity, and given her mother’s young age and vulnerable position at the time of conception, it had been a crime. Jane had said he had stopped when she fell pregnant. So she must have been abused by him for some time.

  All these primitive beasts who merely regarded young women as items for consumption . . . Self-appointed alpha males, completely driven by their sexual desires. Hidden behind a thin veneer of civilisation and success. For a few minutes’ pleasure, they destroyed a young person’s life. Considered it their right. A complete lack of empathy.

  Had Sara inherited any of that?

  Her uncompromising approach, her strong desire to win, her conviction that she was in the right. Did that come from Stellan?

  She realised that she was doing it again. Searching for fault in herself.

  There was only one person to blame here, and that was Stellan.

  How could a person care so little about others – about his nearest and dearest? Who was Sara now? Everything she’d believed about her own life had been wrong.

  She cried, for the first time in several years.

  She sat in the darkness and let the tears flow.

  It was a sorrow she hadn’t known about, that had lain buried deep within her, a long, long way down, and it was now slowly emerging.

  Her mobile vibrated.

  In her distraught state, she thought something must have happened to the kids. Then she remembered they were at home and were probably asleep. Then she worried about Martin. He was out entertaining, and there were so many testosterone-fuelled arseholes out there who wanted a fight.

  Sara picked up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s going to beat me to death!’

  The voice was no more than a whisper, but it was shrill, almost desperate. It sounded as if the person was struggling to produce any sound at all. Sara checked the display.

  Jennifer.

  OK.

  Suddenly Stellan didn’t matter. He was gone from her head.

  ‘Who?’ said Sara. ‘Who’s hitting you? Is he still there?’

  Sara assumed it was her pimp, but she didn’t know who that was. She would need a name, and for the woman to testify against him. It didn’t usually happen.

  But it wasn’t the pimp.

  ‘The guy you arrested,’ said Jennifer.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The guy in the car park,’ she sobbed, before whimpering with pain.

  Sara tried not to think about what he had done to her.

  ‘Where are you? Is he there?’

  ‘I’m at home. He’s left. I think.’

  ‘I’m coming. Where do you live?’

  ‘No! He’s still here!’

  The anxiety in Jennifer’s voice was unlike anything Sara had heard before. Pure mortal terror.

  She ran to her weapons cabinet and pulled out her pistol. The one she’d not yet had the opportunity to return. The one she wasn’t really allowed to use. But she didn’t care about that now.

  ‘Where do you live?’ Sara yelled into the mobile.

  ‘No, no . . .!’ Jennifer cried out.

  Then the call was cut off.

  Sara tried to call her back, but no one answered.

  Where the hell did Jennifer live?

  Hadn’t they been there and caught buyers on several occasions?

  Tanto.

  She attached the holster to her waistband and ran outside.

  52

  Sara screeched to a halt in front of the gigantic semi-circular high-rise building. A concrete ghetto in the middle of the city. She leaped out of the car and ran to the door, tapped in the police entry code and hurried inside.

  She stopped at the list of residents on the wall.

  What the hell did it say on Jennifer’s door?

  Von Otter.

  There – thirteenth floor.

  Sara wondered whether the von Otters knew what was going on in the flat they had rented out.

  Once she was in the lift, it struck her how stupid she’d been to simply set off without calling in reinforcements. She pulled out her mobile, but just as she’d brought up her speed dial list, the lift reached the thirteenth floor. When she stepped out, she saw that the door to Jennifer’s flat was open. And there was one hell of a mess inside.

  She stowed the mobile again as she ran into the flat.

  ‘Jennifer?’

  No answer.

  Then she realised Holmberg might still be there, and drew her gun.

  ‘Jennifer?’

  So far as Sara could remember, Jennifer had two bedrooms. One where she hosted clients, with more vulgar decor – black silk sheets and a door straight into the hallway. And one where she actually slept – almost hidden on the far side of the living room.

  The first bedroom – the one for punters – was empty.

  Sara glanced into the kitchen as well as she passed.

  No one there.

  In the living room, there was furniture tipped onto its side, smas
hed vases, framed pictures torn off the walls and fresh blood on the floor. The trail led into the private bedroom – as if a heavily bleeding person had dragged themselves that way. Or had been dragged.

  ‘Jennifer!’ Sara called out again, approaching the bedroom door with a bad gut feeling.

  When she passed the bathroom door, a baseball bat suddenly crashed down on her hand. The pain shot up from her wrist through her arm and into her shoulder. The pistol flew out of her hand.

  Sara twisted and met Holmberg’s gaze.

  Staring, watery eyes. Creamy brown tan acquired in a tanning salon.

  He was furious. Inhuman. Bestial.

  Like a rabid dog. Impossible to reach.

  At that moment, he struck again, missed her head but got her shoulder.

  It was pure luck that he didn’t have room in the cramped hallway to take proper aim.

  But the blow still had an impact. She cried out, lost her balance and collapsed. She panicked. She definitely didn’t want to be lying on the floor.

  ‘Fucking cunt!’ Holmberg screamed. ‘Do you know what you’ve done?’

  He raised his arm to strike her again, but apparently he had something to say first.

  ‘They’ve gone! My wife’s left me! And the kids won’t talk to me! I said I wanted the letter to my PO box!’

  Sara could see that it said ‘Simon Holmberg’ on the baseball bat. It was written in childish handwriting. She tried to get to her feet, but he kicked her over again. All she could think to herself was that Holmberg had brought his own son’s baseball bat. And now he was going to beat her to death with it.

  When she curled up into the foetal position, he struck her on the ribs. He must have broken one of them, because the pain slicing through her body was unendurable.

  She fumbled for her holster, found that it was empty and remembered that he’d knocked the pistol out of her hand.

  Why the hell hadn’t she called for backup?

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Sara, trying to shield her head with her hands.

  ‘No, you’re a whore!’ Holmberg shouted, taking aim with the bat again.

  Pure reflex made Sara withdraw her hands to protect them. And then Holmberg hit her on the head.

  But she didn’t have time to register that before everything went black.

  53

  ‘Are you awake?’

  Sara returned to consciousness slowly. Very slowly.

  It was like gliding up to the surface from the bottom of the sea.

  She opened her eyes. Or had someone opened them for her? She could see, at any rate, but she was still numbed by the pressure down in the depths. She was struggling to adjust.

  A man in a white coat was looking at her. He had a shock of thick, dark hair, steel-rimmed spectacles and a friendly smile.

  ‘Mmm,’ Sara replied, shifting her gaze from the doctor to the hospital room.

  Everything was fuzzy. Each time she’d been to hospital – in her own time, when she’d given birth, and for work, when she’d accompanied girls who’d encountered prostitute-beating monsters – she’d struggled to get a grip on the atmosphere. The simultaneous feelings of suffering and alleviation were both painful and comforting.

  But if there was a doctor standing in front of her – Doctor Mehra, according to the name badge – that meant she’d survived and received expert help, which was something to be grateful for.

  Had someone found her?

  Had Holmberg reined himself in?

  ‘Jennifer?’ said Sara in a hoarse voice.

  ‘Who?’ said Mehra.

  ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘The girl you saved?’

  Saved. Did that mean she’d made it?

  ‘She’s not called Jennifer – her name’s Leila Karim,’ Mehra added. ‘She’s in surgery right now. No trauma to her head, like in your case – she’s mostly got injuries to her lower abdomen. But they’re pretty serious.’

  ‘Jesus Christ . . .’

  ‘Yes. You might say that.’ Mehra paused. ‘He’s also on the operating table.’

  Sara’s brain felt like she was wading through treacle.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Holmberg,’ said Mehra. ‘She shot him with your gun. Probably saved both your lives.’

  Sara nodded slowly.

  ‘How bad?’

  ‘Holmberg? She got him right in the head. I can’t imagine he’s going to end up anything other than a vegetable. Going to cost society a fortune for years to come.’

  ‘Bastard.’

  Mehra smiled.

  ‘Now that you’re awake, perhaps you’re ready to receive visitors?’ he said.

  Visitors? For a second in her groggy state, Sara thought it was Stellan Broman who’d come. But then she quickly brushed away that unpleasant thought.

  ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Mehra nodded and left the room.

  Half a minute later, the door opened again and Martin rushed in.

  ‘Sweetheart! Tell me how you feel! You could have died.’

  He pulled a chair up to the side of the bed, sat down and took her hand. He fumbled a little, and she noticed that his gaze was almost overly emotional. He’d been out entertaining, and was probably much drunker than he wanted to give away. Emotions were made stronger by booze, but Sara was still touched when he patted her on the cheek and stroked her hair and even shed a tear. He had really been scared. Perhaps there was still some of that original first love between them.

  Sara lay still. Her head was splitting, even though she knew she must be brimming with painkillers. Jesus. Head injuries weren’t child’s play.

  ‘You can’t do things like this,’ said Martin.

  But it wasn’t the danger she’d put herself in that was occupying Sara’s thoughts. Perhaps it was the blows to the head; maybe it was the morphine or whatever they’d stuffed into her. But there was only one thing on her mind.

  ‘I burned their clothes,’ she said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘All of Lotta’s and Malin’s old designer clothes from high school. I carried them down from the attic and burned them in the garden.’

  Suddenly it felt like a horrible onslaught. Those clothes would have made her happy back then, and now they were just gone. She felt like a murderer.

  ‘I wonder if Lotta will report me,’ said Sara.

  Martin stared at her.

  ‘Lotta? I hardly think she cares about designer clothes.’

  ‘That was all she cared about.’

  ‘When she started high school, sure. But not during sixth form. Then all that mattered was Palestinian scarves.’

  ‘Lotta?’

  ‘Yes. Communist-Lotta.’

  ‘“Communist”? Lotta?’

  ‘Christ, yes. Did you miss that? She completely changed during sixth form. Demonstrations and boycotts and flyers and all that jazz. She was bloody lonely in sixth form, I can tell you that.’

  ‘But hang on . . . You’re telling me that the fashion snob Lotta Broman became a communist?’

  ‘Yes. She completely changed, overnight. Then she changed again a couple of years later – but for a while she was a fanatic. Didn’t you know?’

  Sara felt even groggier, if that was possible. It was insane. But it was true that she’d not really kept up with life at the Bromans’ after the move.

  ‘But I don’t think she ever let go of it,’ said Martin. ‘I remember when the Wall came down. She kept droning on about it being the fault of imperialism. Peace haters. And when Germany was unified, she was crazy about the fact that the people who worked for the Stasi were going to be prosecuted, but not the people who worked for the West German Stasi – whatever they were called.’

  ‘The BND.’

  ‘She said something about how she couldn’t understand that everything good about East Germany was just going to disappear. What a waste it was.’

  ‘Lotta?’

  ‘Yes, it was really weird. She was completely transformed. Sudd
enly, it was all about how the USA had ordered a hit on Palme. She didn’t give a shit about that when it happened, but when the Wall fell, everything was the fault of the USA and capitalism, right away.’

  Lotta. A fanatic.

  A DDR supporter.

  It all fell into place.

  Lotta who had worked in the garden, side by side with Stellan and Böhme.

  Böhme, who had taught Geiger. Schooled him. Indoctrinated him.

  All of Stellan’s films with the young girls in the garden shed.

  He hadn’t been educated by the spy, Ober. He’d been kept out of the way with the help of those young girls.

  The same girls that he had raped first and broken down, and then used as bait to tempt Swedish politicians and other holders of power into a fall.

  Girls from Lotta’s school and the neighbourhood.

  Who controlled the social scene at school?

  Lotta.

  All those hours that Ober had spent schooling Geiger – it hadn’t been Stellan that Böhme had been teaching. It had been Lotta. Suddenly it was clear to her: why had Sara wanted to start playing the violin? Because her idol Lotta did.

  Lotta the violinist.

  Geiger.

  54

  Only Malin had eyes for anything else. Her Barbie dolls. It was a bit late to be playing with them at fourteen, but her parents left her to it.

  The rest of the family were sitting in front of the TV watching events unfold in silence.

  The Berlin Wall fell. It was hacked to pieces by exultant East Germans who were assisted by jubilant West Berliners.

  People helped pull each other up and began dancing on the wall that had until then represented mortal danger if they even approached it.

  Grim-faced East German border guards merely stood by and watched. The reporter acted as interpreter for the entire world’s astonishment that this was allowed to happen.

  That the guards weren’t dispersing the crowds. Shooting at them.

  In Hungary, the border obstacles had been removed during the summer, although in China the popular uprising in Tiananmen Square had been brutally crushed – with tanks and dead freedom fighters as the outcome.

  The anti-imperial protective ramparts were falling without anyone attempting to defend them.

  Lotta was shaken by the betrayal. The Wall was to protect the DDR and its people. Her friends, the ones she’d met so many times on trips with her family. She’d made friends with them, played music with them, played sport with them, talked politics with them.