‘This way,’ Frank said, leading them up the wide staircase.
Anders’s bed was still unmade, as if he were coming back. They had asked the housekeeper to leave the room intact but everything, apart from the bed, was perfectly in order anyway. Anders’s books were lined up in alphabetical order in the custom-made bookcase, all clothes were put away, and his desk was clear.
‘He doesn’t have many belongings,’ the police officer stated. ‘No gadgets other than a laptop and a phone?’
‘We’ve never spoilt our children,’ Birgitta said, her voice barely audible. Her eyes were fixated on the door, as if she couldn’t bear to look at anything else in there.
‘Money is not something we spend recklessly,’ Frank clarified. ‘We’ve had to work our way up.’
‘I gather that,’ the police officer said. ‘You’ve moved quite frequently, living all over Chicago.’
‘That’s correct,’ Frank said.
He remembered the many moves, each house a step up from the last one. It had created jealousy within their circle but Birgitta had rightly said, ‘We don’t apologise for our achievements.’
As soon as the police officer was satisfied, they made their way back downstairs. In the living room, the lake was still visible through the open curtains, a sight that no longer offered a sense of peace. Birgitta brought them water from a drinks cabinet while the officer made himself comfortable in a cognac leather armchair.
‘Was Anders depressed?’ he asked. ‘Is there a chance that this was intentional?’
‘Definitely not,’ Frank said.
‘No,’ Birgitta agreed, placing the bottles on the table before sitting down next to her husband.
‘Because…?’
‘It’s true that he had problems fitting in when he was younger,’ Frank said. ‘But he was… I can’t explain it… happy. Absolutely not depressed.’
‘All right. Let’s talk about the yellow canoe. Did you use it often?’
Frank had purchased the canoe when they moved into the house. It was now resting peacefully in the shrubs above the beach line, next to the wooden staircase leading up to the house.
‘Occasionally,’ Frank said. ‘Although lately, it’s been too cold.’
‘We used it for exercise purposes,’ Birgitta added quietly. ‘We’re an active family.’
‘Well, it must have either been used or pushed into the water,’ the officer said. ‘We found it washed up on a neighbour’s beach.’ He paused as if to make sure he had their full attention. ‘This is what doesn’t add up for me.’
He shifted in his seat, the leather creaking, and both Frank and Birgitta watched him closely. What didn’t add up?
‘If Anders took it out and decided to go for a swim,’ the officer continued, ‘he can’t have gone too far since his body was found a few private beaches down. It’s possible that he got stuck in a rip current, of course, and tried to swim to shore without succeeding but, again, the current can’t have pulled him any great distance. That’s why it’s possible that either he was already dead when he entered the lake, or there was some other reason why he was unable to get himself out of the water.’
Both scenarios sounded equally horrific. Frank and Birgitta held onto each other’s hands, giving each other comfort.
‘Had he fallen out with anyone?’ the officer asked.
Frank shook his head. ‘I don’t think so.’
The officer looked at Birgitta. ‘What do you think?’ He leaned back in the chair and unscrewed the cap on the Voss water bottle, while Birgitta appeared to be thinking of a response.
‘I think that Anders was well liked,’ she said. ‘But I think he could be impulsive and going for a swim late at night would be the sort of thing he would do.’
‘Thank you. I appreciate your honesty.’ The officer nodded and put the water down, picking up his notes. ‘Let’s talk about his siblings. According to Anders’s phone records, the last person he ever spoke to was his sister. Were they close?’
Birgitta fiddled with her diamond rings, twisting them round and round.
‘I need to use the restroom,’ she said, her voice strained.
‘Of course.’
She made her way down the hallway and Frank listened as the bathroom door opened, closed and locked.
‘I’m sorry,’ the officer said when they were alone. ‘This is obviously hard on her.’
On us, Frank wanted to say. This is hard on ‘us’.
To not only be deprived of the space to grieve or arrange a funeral, but to also have to deal with these uncomfortable theories about their son’s death. Emotionally, it was taking its toll. People were friendly enough, offering their condolences and the occasional casserole together with standard phrases such as, ‘Please accept our deepest sympathy’ and, ‘We’re sorry for your loss.’ The words felt empty, no matter how well intended they were.
‘There will be an autopsy,’ the officer explained.
‘And…’ Frank wasn’t sure why he felt the need to tell him this. ‘Do you expect it to show that he drowned?’
Would that mean we can move on?
‘We can’t rule anything out until we know more.’
‘Assuming he did drown,’ Frank said, trying his best to sound composed, ‘will there still be a full-blown investigation?’
He wasn’t sure he could bear the intrusion.
‘Not likely,’ the officer said. ‘We just need to establish a few facts. The currents can be lethal of course, so it might have been an unfortunate accident.’
He was clearly trying to put Frank at ease, although in that moment Frank wondered if the police would spend this much time on a drowning teenager if they’d had a simpler address. Or did they have a powerful neighbour pushing this to make sure the area remained safe? The thought made him feel sick.
‘What does your gut tell you?’ the officer asked.
‘My gut?’ Frank thought about it for a second. ‘It tells me that Anders was a decent swimmer, that he easily made friends but that he also liked to spend time alone. I honestly don’t know what could have happened.’ He paused. ‘He was clever, Officer, and headstrong although sometimes, like Birgitta said, he could be impulsive. He would do things without thinking of the consequences.’
‘Like the incident at his school a few years back.’
Frank looked up. They knew about that?
‘He was defending his sister,’ he said.
‘But he learnt his lesson,’ Birgitta said, reappearing with a new coat of lipstick, her eyes red but dry. ‘He didn’t fight at school after that.’
Frank felt relieved to see her. This was easier to get through side by side.
‘Please can you take me through Anders’s relationship with his brother and sister?’ the officer asked. ‘Especially his sister.’
Frank cleared his throat. It was easier to start with his sons’ relationship.
‘Anders wasn’t particularly chummy with his brother,’ he said, feeling like a bad parent for not keeping his brood glued together. ‘They competed with each other. Despite the eight-year age gap, they seemed to turn everything into a contest. It was a different story with his sister. Anders really cared about her, but she also frustrated him. It was never easy to do anything with Sofia. She was… a special child. But you could say that they were close on and off, at least until she got married.’
‘What happened?’
‘Anders didn’t like her husband and they fell out. It wasn’t dramatic. They simply drifted apart after that.’
Frank had to admit he had never liked the guy either. He had married her and at times it felt as if he owned her.
Birgitta pulled at her skirt. ‘Will you be talking to them too?’ she asked.
‘We’ve already made contact with your daughter, but we’re currently struggling to get hold of your oldest son.’
‘He’s an elusive type,’ Frank said, not managing to hide the disappointment in his voice.
‘If you hear from
him, tell him to call us,’ the officer said.
He stood up and handed them a card.
*
It was a relief to watch the officer leave and, once they were alone, Birgitta turned to Frank and said, ‘They’ve already made contact with Sofia. What if she’s off her medication?’
‘My thoughts exactly,’ he said, feeling drained.
They stood in the hallway, embracing. Frank felt as if the world was closing in on them. He had never experienced such sadness.
‘She was here,’ Birgitta said, taking a step back to face him. ‘Sofia. The last day that Anders can be seen on the security footage. She was here.’
He froze. What did she mean? Their daughter never came by the house. Their insistence on her taking medication had forced her out. But there had been no choice after Frank had read her disturbing diary.
‘The cameras,’ Birgitta explained. ‘But don’t worry. Before I give it to the police, I will remove the footage with Sofia in it.’
‘You will do what?’ He couldn’t believe what she was saying.
‘We can’t hand her over, Frank,’ she said.
Her voice was cool and calm.
‘Wait a minute,’ he said, only now realising what she was insinuating. ‘What did you actually see, Birgitta?’
‘Not much since the system has occasionally been down, remember? You were supposed to call the security company.’
Of course, if in doubt, why not blame him?
‘I saw Sofia enter the house,’ she told him, ‘and there was a clip of her and Anders arguing.’
His mind was racing. Sofia and Anders had been fighting? Why?
‘I want to see it,’ he said.
Under the stairs, they kept a small office related to the house. They both sat down in front of a screen where Birgitta made the footage appear. There she was, his mess of a daughter, arriving through the gates where she parked her disgraceful car. Then nothing for a while until a silent exchange between brother and sister that did indeed look fiery.
‘This doesn’t prove anything,’ Frank said as he stood up.
‘I know, but you have to admit it looks suspicious.’ Birgitta clutched at his hand and looked up at him, anguish in her eyes. ‘I don’t trust her, Frank.’
‘I know,’ he said, because he knew all too well. His daughter’s volatility made him uneasy. ‘I’m going to my study. I need to think.’
‘I’ll remove this footage in the meantime,’ Birgitta said.
‘Good,’ he said. What other option did they have?
He needed to call Sofia. She had been a great concern for many years and the fact that she was possibly the last person to have seen Anders was distressing. What did she know? What had she done?
He picked up the phone and dialled her number, but, predictably, she didn’t answer. If she didn’t feel like answering, she wouldn’t. Instead, he would have to see her. Without telling Birgitta, he grabbed his car keys in the kitchen and navigated the black BMW out of the gate, away from civilisation and into his daughter’s world.
Chapter 6
Kristin
May 2017
Moving was never going to be easy but Kristin has picked up various coping mechanisms along the way.
1. Control my environment.
2. Share my life with someone.
3. Have routines.
4. Count to five.
It’s not about the number itself but by the time she’s reached five she has regulated her breathing and that resets her thought pattern.
5. Pick my arms.
This is the ultimate fall-back position. Squeezing the hair sacs on her arms pacifies her. A former therapist once likened this particular method to a heroin habit and suggested she sit on her hands every time the urge to pick came over her. As if a drug addict could be reformed that way? Kristin’s come to realise that therapy is like pick and mix sweets: you choose the advice you believe is right for you. Overall, therapy has been good though, and she should find a local therapist as soon as possible.
*
Right now her life seems completely ordinary. She’s sitting next to Niklas on a yellow bus that’s about to take them out of the city, to Niklas’s parents’ house. A couple of families are sitting up front; bouncing bottoms and delighted shrieks mix with reprimanding voices.
‘Do you want children?’ Niklas asks.
She stirs on the warm polyester seat, worried she’s going to disappoint him by not wanting to procreate.
‘No,’ she says, leaning her head against Niklas’s shoulder.
Her one and only pregnancy ended with a flow of blood and that was a relief.
‘I guess children cost a fortune anyway,’ he says.
‘School and healthcare is free here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but there’s the cost of nappies, car seats, pushchairs…’
As he elaborates on the expenses involved, she zooms out and watches the town through the window instead. She feels content, excited even, about the new environment, the strangers walking around outside. It’s wonderful to be completely anonymous, to observe rather than to be observed.
A medieval fortress from the 1300s stands erected to their right, a reminder of Helsingborg’s rich history. That’s hundreds of years before many cities in the US were even founded. She feels at home here. To their left is the art museum, Dunkers, where they went on an early date. They viewed an exhibition by Dana Sederowsky, an exploration into humankind. Niklas has more depth than meets the eye.
Kristin relaxes as the traffic whizzes past, allowing herself to get caught up in the monotonous sound of cars, staring limply out of the window; until something makes her flinch. Her back straightens, her eyes staring at something familiar: a blue US baseball cap with a signature red C bobbing in the crowd, opening a stream of memories. She tries to see the face beneath it but misses it as the bus turns a corner. She twists her head as far as it can go but it’s too late. He’s gone.
‘What is it, Kristin? You’re shaking.’
Niklas pats her arm and she realises that she’s holding her breath. She opens her mouth, exhales.
‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘I just thought I saw someone.’
‘Who?’
She stalls. ‘You know how it is… You think you recognise someone you know, from home.’
‘Is it possible that someone’s come to visit you?’
‘No!’ she says. No one knows I’m here. ‘It doesn’t matter. I made a mistake, that’s all.’
She moves closer to him, sinks into his armpit and he lets it go. Her heart thumps hard; it feels as if her eardrums are going to burst. How did that cap make it here? Has she not done a good enough job covering her tracks? Count to five. Swedish people also watch baseball. They must do. Or a tourist could have picked up a cap while visiting the US? Plus, Americans must live here too. There are a million reasons why someone would wear that cap. She forces her eyes to follow the road, to change the direction of her thoughts.
Soon, the flat green Skåne countryside replaces the buzz of the city and her eyes travel to the multicoloured wild flowers decorating the ditches, the peacefully grazing cows. The cap is far away. Everything is fine.
*
They step off the bus in a small town outside Höganäs, the fresh air invoking a sense of peaceful normalcy. Most houses here have perfectly cut hedges, coordinated plants and tall flagpoles with billowing blue and yellow flags; but not Greta and Ingvar’s. Their place looks neglected by comparison, one-metre-tall cow parsley covering their property, the central focus an endearing but out-of-use well.
His parents are lovely though and Niklas must have had an idyllic upbringing here. They rarely talk about their childhoods. Niklas claims his wasn’t particularly remarkable and she shares only select pieces of her own. Sometimes, when she feels an expectation to expand, she fabricates a family sitting around a Christmas tree, drinking hot chocolate and watching a million flashing fairy lights in the garden. That’s how Niklas pictures an
American Christmas and she doesn’t want to ruin the illusion.
‘Hello!’
Greta’s oily fingers grab Kristin and pull her close.
‘You’re skin and bones, tösen,’ she complains.
‘Hi,’ Kristin says, taking deep, slow breaths.
Ingvar shakes hands with dirty nails, making a not-so-funny joke, his loud burly laughter exploding in Kristin’s ears. She puts her shoes next to Ingvar’s worn ones, and Niklas gently leads her into the kitchen.
‘Are you not feeling well?’ Greta asks.
‘It’s one of my dizzy spells,’ Kristin says as usual.
‘Sit down and we’ll soon put food on the table.’
There’s a suffocating smell of cooking oil, and too many pieces of furniture and ornaments make the kitchen feel small and confined. Greta collects anything and everything and socks and trousers are piled up, waiting to be mended on the old Singer sewing machine in the corner. Next to the stove, Niklas is rubbing shoulders with his mother, a small flake of dandruff landing in the pot. Kristin tenses but she will get through this.
‘Thank you for the flowers,’ Greta says warmly.
The bouquet they brought is perched on the windowsill, which is already heavy with figurines and plants. At least Niklas has a nice home now, Kristin thinks, missing their minimalist apartment with its tall windows and stucco ceilings.
Boiled potatoes, cod and sauce are placed on the table and Kristin forces down the food. Although she avoids the side salad that either has pesticides or Greta’s fingers on it.
‘Have you found yourself a job yet?’ Ingvar asks.
‘No,’ she says. ‘But I have looked into volunteering.’
‘Does that pay—?’ Ingvar starts but Greta quickly interrupts.
‘Volunteering sounds wonderful, dear,’ she says. ‘How are your parents? I guess it’s expensive to call?’
Kristin has to swallow before she can answer.
‘I don’t call very often,’ she admits.
‘Perhaps they will visit one day?’
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