She reached the gate.
There was no one there. Probably a shadow, she thought, and walked up to the front door. She opened it with Sandra’s key and stepped into the house. Suddenly the door slammed shut behind her with a loud bang.
It was pitch dark in the hallway.
In the whole house.
And totally silent.
A dead man had been hanging here not so long ago. Right in front of her. Hanging by a rope from the ceiling. Olivia suppressed these thoughts and started feeling for the light switch. Then her police training kicked in. She quickly pulled out the mittens and put them on. A few seconds later, she realised what a sensitive instrument the human hand really is. Feeling around for a switch in the pitch dark wearing thick mittens is no easy feat. Finally she found it. The hallway light showed her the way into the living room, where she found another light switch. The room lit up. Olivia looked around. An ordinary living room with a sofa, a television, bookshelves, a floor lamp, an armchair, some paintings on the wall. She went to have a look at some photographs on a bookshelf. In quite a large photo she saw a younger Sandra and a younger Bengt Sahlmann with a dark-blonde woman of Bengt’s age. Therese, Sandra’s mother. Olivia vaguely recognised her.
A family.
And now there was only Sandra. Olivia felt her stomach tighten. She carried on into the adjoining room and turned on the ceiling light. Along one wall was a large square desk with various electrical devices, a modem, a printer, a router and a tangle of wires.
But no laptop.
And no checked laptop bag made of cork.
She had a good look around. On the shelves, chairs, and again on the desk. It wasn’t there. Perhaps it was in another room? Although Sandra had been very clear: ‘It’s in the office.’ But she could have been wrong. Her father could have moved it.
Olivia turned off the light and went back into the living room. A shiver ran down her spine. She looked back up at the ceiling, at the lamp hook that Sahlmann had probably used to hang himself, since Sandra had seen him immediately as she came into the hallway. She realised that she was breathing quietly. Why was she doing that? There hadn’t been a murder in here. Just an unhappy man who’d ended his life with a rope. The only unsettling thing that might be found here was his soul. But Olivia was the last person in the world to engage with such hocus-pocus, so she headed towards the kitchen.
The ceiling lamp was casting a dim light across the room. Olivia had another look around. No laptop. Just a kitchen like any other. White cabinets, magnets on the dishwasher, a fruit bowl, a worktop with various little bottles, a table in the middle with a green plastic tablecloth, a half-drunk glass of water next to the cooker. Just a mundane, everyday place until only a few hours ago.
Now it was something else entirely.
Olivia felt that stinging sensation in her stomach again, how life could suddenly be thrown into disarray, from the safety of daily life to shock and sorrow. She looked at the kitchen worktop. A packet of taco shells, a jar of taco sauce, a can of sweetcorn and a bag of corn chips lay on the side. She remembered Sandra talking about her favourite food, and saying that her father was going to buy it to celebrate whatever it was they were going to celebrate. She opened the fridge. There was an unopened packet of mince on the top shelf.
All the ingredients for her favourite meal.
And then he’d gone and taken his own life.
Olivia turned the light off in the kitchen and went back out into the living room. Something was bothering her. She didn’t really know what, but something wasn’t right. She sat down on the sofa and looked down at her mittens. The silence in the room enveloped her. What had happened in here? Slowly she turned her head and looked towards the hallway where Sandra had come in, up at the ceiling where her father had been hanging, down at the floor where the remains of a stain showed where the police had cleared up, and then at the dark corridor that led into the bedrooms.
Should I go and have a look there as well?
She rubbed her mittens together and made a decision. It wasn’t far from the sofa to the corridor. A couple of metres in, she stopped. She had heard a noise. A scraping noise.
Was it the branches brushing against the bedroom windows?
She took another step forward and stood still outside the half-open door. The scraping noise had stopped. It was deadly silent. She reached for the door. Just when she was about to push it open, a sharp sound cut through the house. A phone. A shrill signal that made her rush back out into the corridor. With a few quick steps she was back in the living room. The phone was on the shelf opposite the sofa. It rang again. She approached the shelf. When it rang a third time, she picked up the handset and almost dropped it on the floor because of her mittens.
But she answered.
‘Yes?’
‘Hi, it’s Alex Popovic. I’d like to speak to Bengt. Is that Sandra?’
‘No.’
‘Is Bengt there?’
‘No. Are you a friend of the family?’
‘…who am I speaking to?’
‘Olivia Rivera. Bengt Sahlmann has committed suicide. If you’d like more information, you should contact the police.’
Olivia put the phone down and went towards the front door.
She’d done what Sandra had asked her to do.
Almost.
There was no sign of any computer.
* * *
The ash at the end of his cigarillo was just a centimetre from his yellowed fingertips. Soon it would fall down in front of his bare feet. Nevertheless he’d hardly smoked it: he’d lit the cigarillo, taken one big puff and then been swallowed up by the music, and Scheherazade. And that’s where he remained. He’d positioned the speakers so that the sound intertwined just where he was sitting, naked, eyes closed, in the middle of the large room. The light from a couple of alabaster lamps shone onto the beautiful floorboards, the shadow of his lean body crept up as a silent figure on the wall. The large, bare north-facing wall that he loved so. The opposite wall was covered from floor to ceiling with books with dark spines, thick, quiet books that he’d never read and never planned to read. They’d been there when he moved in. He turned his naked body slightly, as though there was a bar of music he couldn’t reach. There wasn’t. All the tones and sounds had gathered in there, in his head. In the same place as that woman. The woman who bled and screamed and died, over and over again, right in front of his helpless eyes, until his closed eyes lost sight of her and just the music remained. The loud, beautiful music had done it again. Purified him. Cleansed him. Eliminated all the horror from his brain.
This time.
He lowered his head slightly and opened his eyes. A new sound had forced its way in, a sound he didn’t want to hear. He stepped to the side and turned off the music. His mobile was on the amplifier. He saw who was calling and answered, the familiar voice reaching into his consciousness.
‘Bengt Sahlmann has hanged himself.’
The ash fell onto the floor.
* * *
Sandra’s eyes closed straight away. Maria tucked her in and saw that she was already asleep before the blanket was pulled over her. She looked at the young girl for a few minutes before switching off the bedside lamp. She subconsciously avoided drawing parallels between Sandra and Olivia – she didn’t want to face those thoughts tonight.
‘There was no laptop there.’
Olivia threw the jacket over a chair in the kitchen and slumped down at the table. Maria filled up her teacup.
‘Sandra has fallen asleep.’
‘Good. I basically looked all over the house and it wasn’t there.’
‘Well, you can’t do any more.’
‘I can check if it’s at Bengt’s work.’
‘Yes. But her aunt can do that too.’
‘She asked me to do it.’
Maria nodded. She realised that the parallels she had wanted to avoid had taken root in Olivia. She had already made room for Sandra.
‘What did Ben
gt do?’ Olivia asked.
‘He worked for Customs and Excise. Are you staying the night?’
‘Yes.’
What did she think? That she was going to go back to Söder in the middle of the night and let Sandra wake up here on her own? Not that she mistrusted Maria’s kindness or her ability to serve Sandra an excellent and nutritious breakfast. But it was Olivia who’d made a connection with Sandra.
At least from her perspective.
‘You can sleep in the spare room, the sheets are clean. I think I’m going to go to bed now,’ Maria said.
‘You do that. I’ll clear this up.’
Maria got up and hesitated for a second, wondering whether she should bend down and give Olivia a kiss on the cheek. Olivia Rivera. She decided to stroke her daughter’s cheek instead.
‘Te amo.’
‘Sleep well.’
Maria headed towards the kitchen door. Halfway there she turned around and looked at Olivia.
‘You can empathise with her situation, can’t you?’
Olivia didn’t answer.
‘Goodnight.’
Maria disappeared. Olivia watched her go. She was right. Olivia had empathised with Sandra’s situation ever since she’d seen the thin girl sitting in the ambulance in shock, having just lost her father. And having lost her mother in the tsunami just a few years earlier. Both her parents had died in dramatic circumstances. Like Olivia’s own. She had no difficulty at all imagining being in Sandra’s shoes.
On the contrary.
Even though her own shocks had come one after the other, in a completely different way. But the girl asleep upstairs in her old room would wake up to an orphaned existence and be forced to shape her life alone.
Now you’re being unfair to Arne and Maria, Olivia thought. You did actually grow up with two parents, one of whom is still alive. You were not left empty handed when the shocking news was delivered. Your real parents were not ripped out of your life. You didn’t even know they existed.
Olivia could feel herself flagging, both physically and mentally. The long flight was catching up with her – the tiredness, the tension, and then the tragedy she’d been caught up in. Just when she thought she would sleep a thousand hours and then step back out into the world.
Strong. Ready.
Things were seemingly not going to be that simple.
She pulled her rucksack towards her and opened it. She had wrapped Bosques’ beautiful cigar box in a couple of unwashed T-shirts. She gently picked it up and put it on the kitchen table. She stared at the door and listened.
Silence.
She didn’t want to show it to Maria. Especially not what was inside. It was a very private heirloom that she didn’t intend to share with anyone. She opened the lid and smelled that familiar scent of old cigars again. Carefully she picked up the photograph of Adelita. Under it lay a black lock of hair, tied together with a thin transparent piece of string. Who had kept it? Nils Wendt? When had he got it? When Adelita had travelled to Sweden just before she was murdered there? She placed the lock of hair next to the photograph. At the bottom of the box were a few handwritten letters. She had already looked at them on the plane and realised that her Spanish wasn’t good enough to understand what was written in them. One day she’d get someone to translate them. Not Maria, but Abbas perhaps? He was good at Spanish. Abbas had crossed her mind a couple of times during her long trip. She liked him, a lot, without really knowing him.
Bosques had liked Abbas too. ‘He’s a man,’ Bosques had said. And Olivia hadn’t thought that sounded silly. She understood exactly what Bosques meant. I’ll call Abbas tomorrow, Olivia thought and looked inside the box again. There was only one thing left in it. A gold brooch. Olivia picked it up and realised it could be opened. She hadn’t seen that on the plane. Carefully she snapped open the top to reveal a small photo graph inside. Of a dark-skinned man. Who was it? His appearance was neither reminiscent of Adelita’s nor her own. He looked a bit like Bosques but she didn’t think any more about that.
She snapped the brooch shut and put it back in the box.
And thought about Sandra again.
The orphaned teenager sleeping in her old room.
Chapter 4
The light grey jumper elegantly fitted Abbas’s slim, supple body. He was freshly showered and dressed in brown chinos. His feet moved slowly down the stairs. Frozen in time, he thought. Some of the gently curved stone steps were adorned with beautiful fossils of million-year-old squid. Orthoceratidae. They fascinated him. He carried on going down, a little faster. He was on his way to check the letterbox in the hall. There was an expectant spring in his step: with any luck there would be a thin book with Sufi poetry in there. Ronny Redlös, who ran a shop selling old books, had posted it yesterday, so it should be here today.
Should.
But given the poor reliability of the postal service, it might well take another day. That would be annoying. He had been desperately longing for some spiritual catharsis before his night-shift at the casino. So he hurried on down the stairs.
‘Abbas!’
Abbas stopped. He knew who that voice belonged to. When he turned around, he saw Agnes Ekholm standing at her half-open front door. Her silvery grey wig wasn’t on properly and her tattered dressing gown was wrongly buttoned.
‘Are you going to get the post?’
‘Yes. Should I get yours too?’
‘If you don’t mind.’
Abbas went back up to take the little key from Agnes.
‘I’ll wait here,’ she said.
Abbas nodded and carried on down. He reflected that older people with frail bones and a shaky sense of balance were now forced to go up and down the hard stone staircase to get their post. Often several times a day, because no one knew when the post actually came. All so that postmen no longer needed to put it through their individual doors. It was one of the reasons he disliked the letterboxes being down by the entrance. Another was that certain people, if so inclined, probably had all the time in the world to steal various bits of personal information and bank details.
The postal service had laid it all out for them.
Abbas opened Agnes’s box first: a thin letter from the Church of Sweden and a postcard that should have gone to her neighbour. His own was rather more well filled. A few letters, an ugly pamphlet from an insurance company and a thick newspaper. His subscription.
But no book.
At least the newspaper had come, he thought, and quickly climbed up the stairs to Agnes’ floor. She looked at him expectantly.
‘There wasn’t much today unfortunately,’ he said.
Agnes took the letter from the Church of Sweden and tried to hide her disappointment.
‘Maybe there’ll be more tomorrow?’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘Here!’
Agnes passed him a small piece of carrot cake wrapped in a white paper napkin.
‘I didn’t make it today, but…’
Abbas took the piece of cake. It was a ritual. Every time he went to get the post for Agnes, she gave him a piece of her carrot cake. The second time he’d tasted it he realised that it was probably the same cake as last time, a week later. The third time he’d left it in a dog bowl in the stairway one floor up.
‘Thank you,’ he said.
‘I do hope you’ll enjoy it.’
Abbas nodded again and carried on up the stairs. The cake ended up in the same bowl as the others had. He reached his own front door and opened it while glancing at his letters. Two bills and a pay slip from Casino Cosmopol. He pulled the door closed, put the post on the small table in the hallway and opened up the newspaper he’d collected.
The one he subscribed to.
Before the front page was completely unfolded, he had already taken a few steps into the living room. He stood still. For the first few seconds he read the headlines and scanned the large black and white photograph. He then spent the next few minutes reading the article. For fifteen
minutes, he held the newspaper in the same position in front of him, standing on the same spot on the floor, the only difference being that his hands were now trembling and his eyes had stopped reading. He was just holding an object made from paper.
Totally detached.
Suddenly he managed to free himself. He carefully folded up the newspaper and put it on the sleek glass table in front of the sofa, making sure it was in line with the edge of the table. Then he took two steps towards the window and pulled out the thin black pole that he used to adjust his wooden blinds. His gaze wandered through the window and towards the Matteus Church on the other side of the road, staring at it without actually seeing it. Then he closed the blinds and stood still, just staring out in front of him.
The hoover?
Where have I put it?
He walked away from the window and went to get the hoover. It was where it always was. He plugged it into the socket and started hoovering. First methodically, all over the living room floor, under the sofa and the glass table, and then back over the floor again. Eventually he got stuck in one spot. He hoovered the same bit over and over again, back and forth, until cramp set in.
First in his chest, then in his stomach.
He put the hoover down and went into the kitchen. He just about managed to think, ‘Maybe I should paint the walls?’ before he threw up into the sink, repeatedly, until it was just green bile that came up. By the end he was just retching. He hung his head down over the sink, his hands let go of the worktop, he slowly slid down onto the floor and onto the kitchen rug. He curled up into a foetal position. His eyelids slid shut.
The last thing he saw was the strange, whirring machine in the middle of the living room.
Chapter 5
Stilton had gained weight. It was largely muscle. Most of his body had withered away during the years he’d lived on streets, his collarbones serving as a bony hanger for a sack of skin. He’d put a stop to that. Slowly but surely, he had restored his worn body, exercising, taking care of himself, and all the saggy skin had filled out again. Now he was almost back to his former self.
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