Guiltless

by Sten, Viveca

  When Kristina’s fever still raged at nine o’clock in the evening on the fourth day, Gottfrid could stand it no longer. He pulled on his coat and left the house. The ground was covered in wet, heavy snow, and white flakes melted in his hair. There was a bitter wind blowing from the north, and it immediately wormed its way inside his collar.

  Down past the school lay the Mission House, built by the free church congregation ten years earlier. The island still lacked a dedicated church; the villagers’ repeated requests for a chapel at least had fallen on deaf ears. However, the free church ran a Sunday school and preached on a regular basis. There were only about twenty official church members among the three hundred islanders, but far more attended their gatherings. The sewing bees were particularly popular, as was the Sunday school.

  Gottfrid was not a religious man, but tonight he was drawn to the white building like a moth to a flame. Without a thought in his head, he made for the door. When he was still some distance away he could hear voices, and the glow of the light shining out through the windows made him feel a little better.

  At the top of the steps, he hesitated. Maybe there was nothing here for him. God had decided to take his little girl’s life. But the hum of voices behind the door was inviting, and in his exhaustion, Gottfrid was prepared to try anything.

  He pushed down the handle and stepped into the warmth. He was met by the sight of a group of women, busy with their needlework. Their smiles were friendly but inquiring. Gottfrid recognized most of them.

  A man with a bald pate circled by a gray crown of hair came toward him, and Gottfrid tried to keep his voice from shaking as he explained.

  “Is there anyone here who can help me? My little girl is coughing so hard it’s destroying her lungs. I don’t know what to do.”

  As he uttered the words, he realized how true they were. He really didn’t know what to do, but he was prepared to give all his earthly possessions to anyone who could heal Kristina.

  The man went over to an elderly woman sitting in the far corner of the room. Her gray hair was caught up in a bun, and her cheeks were surprisingly smooth for her seventy or so years. She was wearing a black blouse and an ankle-length skirt.

  They exchanged a few words, then the woman got to her feet and picked up her coat.

  “Sister Anna-Greta will come take a look at your daughter. If there’s anyone who can help, it’s her.”

  Together they went to Anna-Greta’s house, and Gottfrid waited outside while she fetched a bag. A pale December moon had appeared in the sky, and the wind had let up a little. The damp, raw sea air came in gusts. From a low building outside one of the neighboring houses Gottfrid could hear a goat bleating. There were still a few of the beasts known as “poor man’s cows” left on the island.

  Back home, Vendela had nodded off in the chair next to Kristina’s bed. She gave a start and nodded to the visitor; she obviously recognized Anna-Greta. Clumsily she got to her feet, making room for the other woman.

  Kristina lay motionless, her eyes closed. Gottfrid stiffened; surely it wasn’t too late, now that he had found someone who might be able to help? But then came a faint hacking breath, then another. She was still alive. Gottfrid let out a sigh of relief.

  “Pneumonia,” Anna-Greta pronounced, not sounding remotely surprised. “So little and so ill. Poor child.”

  “She’s been like this for days,” Vendela mumbled behind her.

  Anna-Greta bent over and examined Kristina. Her fingers traveled slowly across the girl’s body, and she examined her ears and throat with an air of assurance. The thin chest was barely moving, and the lungs rattled with every breath. Kristina’s skin was virtually transparent, and her pallor emphasized the blue veins at her temples.

  She looked like an elfin creature.

  “Pneumonia,” Anna-Greta repeated. “It affects a lot of children this time of year, but we can get it under control.”

  She stroked Kristina’s cheek and adjusted the covers, then reached into her bag and took out a little sachet tied up with black thread. She turned to Vendela, who was waiting anxiously.

  “Could you boil some water? We’re going to make tea.”

  She tipped a few dried brown flakes into her hand and held them out to Gottfrid.

  “These are lingon leaves, and one or two other little things that will help to heal the child. It’s not too late; with God’s help, she will recover.”

  Gottfrid spent the night on his knees at his daughter’s side. At regular intervals he gave her sips of the brown concoction Anna-Greta had prepared. It was a slow process, but eventually he managed to get her to drink the whole mug.

  Gently he mopped her forehead, murmuring words of reassurance. He squeezed the limp hand, the bluish tinge of the nails stark against the porcelain skin.

  As he kept vigil, he babbled all the prayers he had ever learned. Anna-Greta had also prayed for Kristina’s recovery before she left them, pleading with God not to take the girl but to show His mercy.

  The confidence in her voice didn’t escape Gottfrid, nor did the strength emanating from her prayers.

  The chilly winter’s night turned to morning, and Kristina’s fever broke. Her body was no longer racked with coughs, and she fell into a deep sleep. When Gottfrid heard her breathing evenly once more, he wept—something he hadn’t done since he was a boy.

  And he thanked God. He rested his head against the side of the bed, and in the silence that was broken only by his daughter’s breathing, Gottfrid was filled with the peace of God.

  He understood that he must spend the rest of his life serving the Lord, in order to thank Him for this miracle. There was an enormous debt to be paid, and Gottfrid would make that payment with pleasure, and with all the strength he could muster.

  As the darkness slowly gave way to the light, Gottfrid realized that the Almighty had saved Kristina in order to show him the right path.

  CHAPTER 18

  Tuesday, February 27, 2007

  It was impossible to sleep. Nora had lain awake for hours; she couldn’t stop picturing Henrik with the other woman.

  Images of his body, the body she knew so well, passed through her mind. She saw him making love with that nurse, slowly, savoring every moment, just as he had made love with her during those first few years when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

  Did he make the same sounds? Did he let out the same sigh of satisfaction in her ear as they approached the end? She imagined them curling up together afterward, whispering about their future, planning exciting trips. The kind of thing Henrik would never do again with Nora.

  Bitter tears forced their way out, in spite of the fact that she despised herself for being so weak. Her face was already swollen and puffy; the boys were bound to notice. And still the visions of Henrik and his nurse wouldn’t go away. The thought that he had slept with his mistress and then come home to her bed made her feel physically ill.

  The first thing she had done when they arrived at the house on Sandhamn was to change the sheets. She had put on a fresh, new set that Henrik had never slept in. And never would. She stuffed the old ones in the garbage.

  She still felt mortified, though. How stupid and gullible was she, not to have suspected a thing?

  He must have been laughing at her. He probably thought it served her right, that she had only herself to blame for the failure of their marriage.

  Their sex life that fall hadn’t been much to write home about; the strain between them hadn’t disappeared when they entered the bedroom. However, they had made love a handful of times, and it had been pretty good. At least that was what she had wanted to believe, telling herself that they could find their way back to how things had been. They were a family, after all.

  Every time the idea of splitting up had crossed her mind, she had recoiled, thought everything would sort itself out. Eventually. Somehow.

  Now she wished she hadn’t been such a coward. Such a pathetic coward. She should have left Henrik back in the sum
mer, as soon as he raised his hand and slapped her across the face. She should never have let him touch her after that.

  It had been naïve of her to believe that everything would be fine if she just kept quiet, let time do its work. It was like some cheap romantic novel, where the noble heroine bears her trials and tribulations with dignity, and is rewarded with happiness and everlasting love. But that only happened in books. In real life all that remained was an overwhelming sense of betrayal.

  Once again she turned over in bed, trying to find a comfortable position. Her eyes were burning with exhaustion, but sleep refused to come.

  Her thoughts turned to the morning’s events. All she had wanted was a few days of peace and quiet; now she was sitting here with two terrified kids while a major police operation swung into action.

  Why did it have to be this week? Didn’t she have enough to deal with right now? Immediately she was stricken with guilt as she remembered Lisa Rosén’s poor parents. It was selfish of her to think that way; her children were alive.

  Nora sat up and switched on the lamp. This was hopeless. She reached for her book, a prizewinning mystery with hints of the supernatural, set on the island of Öland. She loved this particular author, but tonight it was no use; after a while she realized she’d read the same page three times and still didn’t have a clue what it was about.

  Perhaps a glass of wine would help her relax? Her body was like a taut spring, and her shoulders and neck ached. Then again, she had already drunk almost a whole bottle this evening; she really shouldn’t have any more.

  Henrik had called from his cell phone again, but she hadn’t answered. The very idea of speaking to him was repugnant. Instead she’d flopped down in front of the TV. The late news ran a story about the discovery on Sandhamn, and with both boys in bed, she’d been able to watch.

  The reporter didn’t really have any fresh information, but Nora knew Henrik would hit the roof. God, she hoped he wouldn’t use it as an excuse to come here. She put down her book and decided to fix herself a mug of warm milk with honey—Grandpa’s old trick to get overtired children off to sleep. Not quite as appealing as a glass of red wine, but possibly the healthier option.

  She gave a little smile as she thought about her maternal grandfather. Artur Ekman had been the archetypal resident of the archipelago. He had passed away when Nora was twenty-five, leaving her this house. Her grandmother had spent most of Nora’s childhood in a nursing home; she had been a diabetic, just like Nora, and developed early-onset dementia.

  Artur was born on Sandhamn, in this very house. His father, Nora’s great-grandfather, had been a pilot, as had the father of Signe Brand, her honorary grandmother. Artur had spent many years on the island and only moved away when he started working for a shipping company in Stockholm.

  Nora pulled on her robe and stuck her feet in a pair of well-worn slippers. There wasn’t a sound. She almost wished she had taken the boys back to town; she suddenly felt vulnerable and alone. She reminded herself that she had locked the front door when they’d gotten home, left the light on in the kitchen, and checked twice to make sure the veranda door was locked, too.

  She pulled her robe tighter and tried to shake off the sense of unease. This was the first time she had felt anxious about being the only adult in the house; she normally felt perfectly safe, no matter how late in the season it was.

  But nothing was normal right now.

  When she got down to the kitchen, she was glad she’d left the light on. It was chilly, and she turned the heat up a little. She automatically glanced out the window, and stopped dead. A few hundred yards away she saw a figure, just on the periphery of the glow from the lone streetlamp.

  The person was standing perfectly still; it looked like he or she was staring at a house down the road, in the direction of the school.

  Nora knew exactly who lived there: Marianne and Anders Rosén. The parents of the murdered girl. Their place was dark; not even the porch lights were on.

  She shuddered. It was almost half past midnight, far too late for an evening stroll. Why was this person gazing at the Rosén family’s windows?

  Instinctively she took a step back to avoid being seen. She flicked off the ceiling light, and all at once it was just as dark inside the kitchen as out. She waited for a few moments without moving.

  The solitary figure remained where it was.

  Nora’s teeth began to chatter; she didn’t know whether from cold or fear. The person turned and walked away. Was it a man or a woman? With their hood pulled up, it was impossible to tell.

  Teeth still chattering, Nora ran back upstairs and pulled the covers over her head. She curled up and closed her eyes. There was something creepy about the person lurking outside.

  What did he or she want with the Rosén family?

  CHAPTER 19

  When Thomas called the next morning, Oscar-Henrik Sachsen had informed him that he was right in the middle of his examination; if they came over in a few hours, he would know more.

  Now they were standing in front of a metal table on which the girl’s arm had been placed. It looked even worse than before, if that was possible. It had thawed out; the damaged skin had shrunk, and the stench was nauseating. Around the stump where the forearm had been separated from the rest of the body, the skin had formed sausage-like rolls. The protruding piece of bone was grayish in color, the end slightly splintered.

  Sachsen poked at the decaying limb with metal tweezers. “We’re looking at a forearm from a female, probably twenty to twenty-five years old.”

  “When will we know definitively if it’s Lina Rosén’s?” Thomas asked.

  Sachsen managed a weary smile.

  “We’ve sent off tissue samples for DNA analysis; we’ll have to wait and see. The watch and the plastic bag are with forensics.”

  “But what do you think?” Thomas persisted.

  “You know just as well as I do that it could be a while before they get back to us. Be patient; they’ll do their best.”

  “So what can you tell us?”

  The pathologist pointed with the arm of his glasses. “I would say a knife has been used.” He bounced lightly on his heels, legs apart.

  “What kind of knife?”

  “Maybe a hunting knife—not too big.” Sachsen used the tweezers to turn the stump a fraction. “You see this edge here?”

  Thomas and Margit nodded.

  “That’s typical of a knife cut. A saw or an axe would leave completely different marks.”

  “A knife,” Margit said. “What does that mean?”

  “Lots of people in the archipelago carry knives,” Thomas said. “Especially the ones who live there year-round, and hunt or fish. There’s always something that needs to be cut free.”

  “Furthermore, the arm was removed from the body after death,” Sachsen continued. “The blood flow had stopped before it was severed.”

  “So how much time would have passed?”

  “Not a great deal—no more than a few hours, I’d say. Rigor mortis wasn’t far advanced.”

  Thomas contemplated the stump without being able to see anything in particular that supported Sachsen’s assertion, but the pathologist was the expert.

  They now knew that Lina Rosén was probably dead. The possibility that the arm came from a different young woman was very small, especially since Marianne and Anders had recognized the watch. Within a week the DNA tests would show whether the new samples matched the strands of hair taken from Lina’s hairbrush in November.

  “Are you absolutely sure she was dead when the arm was severed?” Thomas asked.

  Sachsen nodded, and Thomas found himself relieved, in spite of the fact that they’d have to tell the Roséns their daughter was dead. He knew from experience how corrosive uncertainty could be; at least this would bring certainty.

  “I assume you can’t tell us anything about the cause of death?” he said.

  “Not without additional body parts, no. She could have been suffocat
ed, strangled, shot in the head—it’s impossible to say. And of course the perpetrator could have used other tools to dismember the rest of the body. You haven’t found anything else?”

  Thomas shook his head. The search had started at first light, but nothing had been discovered so far.

  “We’ve got people out there with detection dogs, but the prospects are pretty poor in this weather. The body parts could be anywhere beneath the snow; worst-case scenario, it could be months before the thaw sets in and lets us conduct a full-scale search.”

  “The dogs are amazing, but the snow seals in the scent,” Margit explained.

  “How long do you think the arm might have been out there?” Thomas asked.

  “The cold makes it hard to be precise, but at least a couple of months; I’ll get back to you when I’ve had more time.”

  “And what do we know about killers who dismember their victims?” Margit asked.

  “They’re very rare,” Sachsen replied. “I’ve only come across one or two cases in the years I’ve been here.”

  Thomas bent over the table and studied the surface of the cut as he allowed Sachsen’s comment to sink in. The pathologist was right; this kind of brutality was extremely uncommon in Sweden.

  “It must have taken a fair amount of strength to do something like this,” he said.

  “Probably,” Sachsen agreed.

  “So can we assume we’re dealing with a man?” Margit gave him an inquiring look. “Would a woman have the physical capacity to cut through bone and muscle in this way?”

  “I don’t think so, but I couldn’t swear to that; I’m sure there are women who are capable.” He glanced at Margit’s slim but sinewy arms. “Personally I’d look for a man. It takes serious strength to dismember a body.”

  “Would you say this was someone who knows what he’s doing?” Margit pressed.

  “That’s an interesting question.” Sachsen stroked his chin. “I mean, there isn’t much to go on, but the cut isn’t too impressive.”

  “Impressive?”

  “Professional,” Sachsen clarified. “This is largely speculation, of course, but I’d say we were looking at a hunter rather than a surgeon. That would be my guess.”