Guiltless
Page 11
After a while she got up and went into the kitchen to pour herself another glass of wine. She really shouldn’t drink more, but with a bit of luck, one last glass would help her fall asleep at a reasonable hour. She couldn’t cope with another sleepless night, thoughts going around and around in her head.
Last night she had lain awake until two thirty, her mind filled with endless monologues, coruscating verbal attacks on Henrik, in which she spilled out all the accumulated sorrow and bitterness of the past few years. In her imagination she screamed at him in a way she had never allowed herself to do during their marriage. It didn’t make her feel any better.
When she was woken in the morning by Simon’s soft breath against her cheek, her eyes felt gritty and her body ached.
She had taken the boys to the indoor pool at the Sailors Hotel in the afternoon, along with Fabian and his family. Nora hadn’t mentioned the impending divorce; she had merely muttered that Henrik was on call and had to stay at the hospital. It was too painful to explain.
The trip had been a great success; the kids played in the pool for hours. They had a great time, and Nora consoled herself with the thought that they seemed to have gotten over the harrowing events of the previous day. Children forget quickly, she told herself. Thank goodness.
Now she wondered how quickly they would forget what it was like to have parents who were together. Simon was only eight; would he remember how things had been when his mom and dad still loved each other, when the four of them had fun as a family unit?
Adam hadn’t said much about the incident in the forest. Nora had done her best to follow Annie’s advice: not to overdramatize, to act normal, to be there if one of the boys wanted to talk.
Act normal.
Nora suppressed a hysterical laugh. Her entire being felt like an open wound. How could she pretend nothing was wrong when each everyday action was a torment? She would have preferred to sleep through the next few months until it stopped hurting so much. Ignore everything and everyone, and simply crawl under the covers.
And yet she was surprised at the strength she found within herself. Somehow she was functioning so well that Adam and Simon couldn’t even tell anything was wrong. Maybe that was the essence of maternal instinct: to protect one’s young at all costs.
She wondered if Henrik felt the same way; she doubted it.
She’d successfully held back tears and made a nice dinner: chili con carne, with chocolate ice cream and caramel sauce for dessert. Simon’s eyelids had started drooping around nine, and only half an hour later, Adam had taken himself up to bed.
Once again Nora blessed their ability to sleep and to shake off unpleasant experiences. Sleep was an amazing healer.
She glanced at the kitchen clock on the wall. It had been there as long as she could remember. It had belonged to her grandmother, and was made of white porcelain, decorated with blue flowers painted with delicate strokes. The hands showed a quarter to twelve. According to the outdoor thermometer, the temperature was far below freezing. It hadn’t been this cold in the archipelago in a long time.
Without switching on the light, Nora slipped into the pantry to fetch more wine. As she passed the south-facing window, she stopped dead. Over by the lamppost, in the same spot as the night before, someone stood staring at the Rosén house.
She squinted out at the wintry landscape but couldn’t make out any details.
The stranger was wearing a thick, hooded jacket, and just like before, it was impossible to tell if it was a man or a woman. In spite of the low temperature, he or she wasn’t moving a muscle, like an apparition keeping vigil over something. Their hands were buried deep in their pockets.
Should she go out to see what was going on, or should she call Thomas? Yesterday’s fear was gone. In fact, she was a little embarrassed that she’d allowed herself to be frightened. She was a grown woman; she shouldn’t be scared of lurking shadows. Besides, she had no desire to lie awake worrying for the rest of the night; better to go and find out who was out there, and what the hell they were doing watching the dead girl’s home.
Nora marched into the hallway and pulled on her boots, jacket, hat, and gloves. Her heart was pounding as she opened the front door, but she ignored the little voice whispering that she was crazy. It would only take a minute to solve the mystery.
With a final glance at the stairs leading to the bedrooms where the boys lay sleeping, Nora stepped outside, locked the door behind her, and went out the gate. The air was so sharp it stung her nostrils. She tried to breathe through her mouth, but that didn’t help much. The cold brought tears to her eyes, and she started shivering almost right away.
The usually familiar, friendly village felt deserted; the roofs were covered with densely packed snow, and the Falu-red houses looked black in the night.
Nora couldn’t help wishing for a light in a neighbor’s window. The streetlamps were less than effective; as soon as she moved beyond the scant circle of light, the darkness closed around her.
She took a few steps, then hesitated. Was she nuts, going out alone like this? Maybe she should have brought some kind of weapon, a hammer or a wrench at least? She paused by the fence, then dismissed the idea. It was too cold to go back and get something. Resolutely she set off toward the spot where she had seen the lone figure.
“What are you doing out and about at this time of night?”
Nora let out a gasp and spun around, arms raised to defend herself.
“It’s OK, it’s only me—I didn’t mean to scare you!”
Pelle Forsberg was a short distance behind her, a dismayed expression on his face. He was dressed much more warmly than Nora, in a thick blue jacket and a black wool hat.
“Sorry if I scared you,” he repeated. “I really didn’t mean to. I just wanted to check that you were all right—it’s pretty late to be out on your own on such a cold night.”
Nora smiled in embarrassment as she tried to come up with something to say that wouldn’t sound too weird. She could hardly tell him the truth—that she was playing detective.
“I’m fine, you just surprised me. I came out to get a little fresh air.” She tried to sound as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “I could ask you the same question: Isn’t it a bit late for an evening stroll?”
Pelle Forsberg hesitated for a second.
“You’re right; I’m on my way home. I was at the Granlunds—they live in the red house by Fläskberget.”
Nora knew the family well; their youngest daughter was the same age as Simon.
“Anyway,” Pelle went on, flapping his arms to keep warm, “I’d better keep moving—unless of course you’d like to invite me in for coffee, in spite of the late hour?”
“I don’t think so; I’m heading to bed. Like you said, it’s late.”
“Sure. Good night then,” he said, raising a hand in farewell.
“Good night.”
Nora turned and quickly walked home. She could hardly go toward the Rosén house with Pelle watching her. All at once the whole undertaking seemed ridiculous; what on earth had she been thinking?
She was back indoors in no time. She went straight into the kitchen without taking off her boots and looked out of the window.
The lone figure was gone. There was no one under the streetlamp by the Rosén family’s house.
Sandhamn 1924
One day they lingered just a little too long in Dr. Widerström’s garden. The apples on the lower branches were all gone, and they had to climb higher and higher to reach the fruit.
Eventually Arvid was right at the top of one of the trees. Triumphantly he tossed the last treasures down to Thorwald; they had three each, and ate them right away because twilight had already started to fall. However, Thorwald decided to save one; he was often hungry in the evenings, and it was good to be able to sneak away and eat an apple before bed.
They ran all the way from Sandfälten. As they approached the house, Thorwald could see his father through the window, an
d it looked like he wasn’t alone. Thorwald felt a stab of anxiety; who were these strangers waiting in the kitchen?
Slowly he opened the door. The conversation stopped as he walked in. There were two men, their expressions deadly serious. He recognized both of them. One was an elder in the church; his name was Gustav Klingberg, he was over seventy years old and his grandchild was at school with Thorwald.
The other man, Karl Johansson, was younger. He too was a member of the church. He had heavy, dark eyebrows; right now he was frowning, and they formed one single line.
Gustav Klingberg met Thorwald’s gaze sternly, arms folded across his chest.
The two men looked like black crows, Thorwald thought. Two crows about to start pecking away at him. They knew what he had done—he realized that in an instant. Someone had seen him and Arvid in the garden. They had been careful at first, but as time went on, they grew more daring. Over the past couple of weeks they had hardly even bothered to look around before entering. Taking the delicious apples had been so easy, and by that point Thorwald had convinced himself that the fruit needed to be eaten up.
That wasn’t the case, of course.
No doubt Dr. Widerström had promised the harvest to someone else on the island. Someone who was extremely surprised to find the apples already picked. Perhaps the rightful owner had been lying in wait to see who was stealing from him.
The bitter taste of gall rose in Thorwald’s throat. The flesh of the stolen fruit lay in his belly like a lump of lead; he wished he could vomit it up, make it all go away.
His father hadn’t said a word, but the boy knew he was furious. His jaws were working, his fists clenched. The silent movement of his lips terrified Thorwald.
Why had he allowed himself to be persuaded to go along to Dr. Widerström’s garden? Tears were pricking behind his eyes, but he knew from experience that crying would only make things worse. Gottfrid detested any failure of manliness. He certainly wouldn’t tolerate sniveling in front of visitors.
“Thorwald,” Vendela exclaimed as she emerged from the bedroom. “What have you done this time?”
“Let us deal with this,” Gottfrid said.
Vendela stopped and looked around, unsure what to do. Thorwald wanted to beg her to stay, but he didn’t dare. Instead he fixed his eyes on her face, hoping to make her understand through sheer willpower that she mustn’t abandon him.
“Get out,” Gottfrid said, and Vendela turned away, throwing one final glance at her son.
Thorwald stood with his feet wide apart, afraid his legs wouldn’t hold him any other way. Then he felt something warm trickling down his leg. He looked at the floor, where a pool of liquid was forming. His cheeks burned with shame.
Gottfrid stared at him with disgust.
“We will leave you, brother,” Gustav Klingberg said. “It’s probably best if you and your son are alone at this time.”
He tipped his black hat and headed for the door. Karl Johansson followed without a word.
Thorwald’s terror increased. If he was left alone with his father, anything could happen. He stood perfectly still as the pool at his feet stained the floorboards.
“Come here. Sit on the chair.”
Thorwald obeyed. He sat down on the wooden chair. It wobbled slightly, and the creaking was the only sound in the room. His wet pants stuck to the inside of his thighs. The fabric was already cold, and the disgusting smell of urine and wet wool almost made him retch.
His father moved to stand behind him.
“So my son is a common thief,” Gottfrid said quietly in one ear.
Thorwald remained motionless.
“I think it’s best if we warn everyone on the island so that they realize they should keep away when they see you. Until you know better.”
Thorwald’s breathing was rapid and shallow. In his peripheral vision he saw Gottfrid walk over to the sink and ladle water into a bowl. Then he opened a drawer and took out the leather case containing his razor. Slowly he removed it from the case and held it at eye level, running his thumb along the blade.
It gleamed in the faint light.
It was only a few apples, Father, Thorwald wanted to whisper, only a few apples, but he couldn’t get a word out.
The tears began to flow; he couldn’t stop them. He tasted salt on his lips but didn’t dare raise his hand to wipe them away.
Gottfrid turned around, and Thorwald saw the rage in his eyes.
“You must sit perfectly still, Thorwald, because if you don’t, things could go very badly. And neither you nor I want that.”
His father checked the blade once more. He glanced over at the grinding iron used to sharpen knives, but changed his mind.
“It will have to do,” he muttered to himself.
Holding the knife in his right hand, he went and stood behind Thorwald again. A few seconds passed; nothing happened. Thorwald held his breath; he closed his eyes and pictured Vendela cutting the throat of a chicken for dinner.
He opened his eyes and looked wildly around the room, searching for an escape route. Help me, Mother, he thought.
“Thou shalt not steal,” Gottfrid said, so quietly that Thorwald could barely hear him. “That is the seventh commandment. Thou shalt not steal.”
Suddenly Thorwald felt his father seize his hair.
“My son will never steal anything again,” he whispered.
A clump of blond hair fell to the floor. Then another, and another. His father kept dipping the razor in the water, but that didn’t stop its sharp edge from slicing into the skin of Thorwald’s increasingly bare scalp.
The pile of hair on the floor was stained red. Still Thorwald didn’t dare move; instead he tried to focus on the flame of the kerosene lamp. If he stared at the flame hard enough, perhaps he could blot out the pain.
By the time his father finished, Thorwald’s head was pounding, and his scalp was covered in wounds.
“If you ever, ever defy me again . . .”
Gottfrid didn’t finish the sentence. There was no need.
Thorwald kept his head down and tried to avoid looking at the hair. The shame was almost as bad as the pain. How could he go to school the next day? He would never be able to show his face in the village again.
CHAPTER 24
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The first ferry to Sandhamn left Stavsnäs at seven o’clock in the morning.
Margit had only been home a few hours. The previous day she had traveled to and from Sandhamn to inform the Rosén family that their daughter was dead. She had offered to go, and Thomas, who was aware he hadn’t handled Marianne’s reaction in the forest particularly well, had gratefully accepted.
Accompanied by the local priest, Margit had tried to break the terrible news as gently as possible. Anders had maintained a certain composure, bordering on resignation, but Marianne had first showered them with abusive language, then collapsed sobbing in an armchair. It had been a difficult visit, and Margit was subdued as she boarded the boat in the biting cold.
The sea was gray and choppy in the stiff wind. Shivering, they went inside and headed for the cafeteria, guided by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee.
“Who the hell travels out to the archipelago at this hour?” Margit wondered as they stood in line.
“Lots of people commute to Sandhamn for work,” Thomas replied.
“But why?” Margit asked when she had ordered two coffees and two cinnamon buns from the girl behind the counter. The teenager’s hair was dyed a harsh black with a white streak down the center, and she had an eyebrow ring. Margit thanked the Lord that her own daughters didn’t have any piercings, then she thought of Marianne and Anders Rosén and reminded herself that there are far worse things than a silver ring through a facial feature.
“Plenty of jobs on the island these days. The Sailors Hotel is open year-round, and the inn only closes for a few weeks in the winter. And don’t forget the national police contact center.”
Margit nodded.
Margit shook her head.
“Interesting. I had no idea that people commuted to Sandhamn. I thought it was hard enough for the permanent residents to find work.”
She sipped her coffee and changed the subject.
“We’ll be there in twenty minutes. Shall we start with the Hammarstens?”
“I think so. I’m wondering if the daughter has anything more to tell us.”
The route from the harbor to Trouville went past the tennis courts, through the pine forest, and all the way to the shore on the far side of the island. It was a long walk, and Thomas and Margit plodded through the snow.
When Louise Hammarsten opened the door, it was obvious that she hadn’t been up for long. She made tea, and they sat down in the living room. Outside the picture windows it was just possible to catch a glimpse of Trouville beach through the trees. Thomas could easily imagine evening barbecues on the extensive wooden deck. It must be a fantastic place to spend the summer.
“Is anyone else home?” Margit asked.
“Mom went down to the village to be with Marianne. She didn’t think she should be alone right now.”
Thomas and Margit exchanged a glance.
“Isn’t her husband home?” Thomas asked, picturing Anders Rosén: a fifty-year-old man with a boyish appearance who had aged rapidly during the fall.
“I think he was going into the city today. Marianne didn’t want to go. Not while you’re still here.”
Thomas understood. The search for human remains was ongoing, and Marianne didn’t want to give up hope of something else being found, in spite of the fact that her daughter was presumed dead.
Louise sat with her back to the window, one foot tapping nervously on the floor. She was wearing thick socks.