by Sten, Viveca
She’s going to break the hair right off if she carries on like that, Thomas thought.
CHAPTER 26
“Mom, Mom, wake up, Mom.”
A little hand shook her tentatively. Nora had been sound asleep, and struggled to orient herself as she slowly opened her eyes. Simon’s face was inches from hers.
“Are we having breakfast soon? I’m hungry.”
Nora glanced at the alarm clock: almost eleven. She’d slept for nine hours. Her body felt stiff and heavy.
“Moooom, I’m starving.”
Nora pulled him close.
“OK, honey. Just let me wake up, and I’ll make us something. Come snuggle with me for a few minutes.”
She pulled back the covers, and Simon cuddled up to her. His hair still smelled of the shampoo from the previous night’s shower, a soft, clean smell that she inhaled gratefully.
She remembered last night’s failed attempt to play private eye, and buried her face in Simon’s shoulder.
“Are you awake now?” he said impatiently, giving her a gentle nudge. “I want breakfast. Toast and marmalade. And hot chocolate!”
Nora sighed.
“Coming right up, honey.”
The snow was falling harder as Thomas and Margit walked back to the village. The snowplow had been through, but their shoes left tracks in the fresh cover. The wind whistled softly in the pines lining the road.
Margit broke the silence.
“What are you thinking? You haven’t said a word since we left the Hammarsten house.”
Thomas stopped.
“I’m thinking about those rituals we discussed, wondering whether the kids were doing something that went wrong.”
“‘Went wrong’ like turned into murder?” Margit rubbed her hands together, trying to get warm. “Teenagers today get into all kinds of stuff, but Louise said that Lina wasn’t involved in anything like that.”
“No, but she also said they hadn’t been seeing as much of each other before Lina went missing. Maybe Lina didn’t tell Louise what she was up to.”
“We haven’t really found much to point us in that direction.”
“You’re absolutely right. It was just a thought.” Thomas set off again. “Where next?”
“Marianne Rosén, if she’s calmed down enough for us to talk to her. We need to ask if she knows anything about this Jakob. And your rituals.” Margit gave Thomas a meaningful look. “We can have a chat with Hanna Hammarsten at the same time.”
They walked farther, noting the animal tracks in the snow covering the tennis courts.
“I’m wondering if we should have a word with Sebastian’s parents,” Margit said as they reached the Sailors Restaurant.
“Really? It’s almost two years since Sebastian died.”
“It might be a waste of time, but we’re here anyway, and there aren’t too many families who had kids the same age as Lina.”
“Of course.”
Thomas realized his reluctance as personal, not professional. Even though the inquiry had cleared him, it might be difficult for the parents if he suddenly turned up on their doorstep.
He still remembered seeing the Östermans at Sebastian’s funeral. Thomas had gone to show respect. He’d sat all the way at the back of the packed chapel; he had recognized many of the islanders. The priest had spoken of the transience of life and what was waiting on the other side, even for a young life extinguished too soon.
But Thomas hadn’t joined the little procession that slowly made its way to the graveyard behind Fläskberget. Instead he’d hung back outside the chapel. It had been a beautiful late-summer’s day, and he’d been struck by the irony of the loveliness all around him. The sun sparkled on the sea. The scent of Sandhamn’s abundant roses drifted on the breeze. Far away in the distance, he could hear the laughter of a small child.
When the mourners had disappeared from view, Thomas sank down onto the steps outside the green chapel door. He buried his face in his hands and allowed the tears to come. He didn’t really know whether he was weeping for his own daughter or for the recently deceased teenager; all he knew was that the surge of grief was too powerful to fight.
After a little while he pulled himself together and put on his sunglasses to hide his red-rimmed eyes. He went down to the harbor, got in his launch, and went home to Harö.
The memory was still painful.
“We’ll split up,” he said. “I’ll take Marianne Rosén; you go and see the Östermans.”
“Sounds good. Where do they live?”
“Right next door to the Mission House. I’ll show you.”
Thomas’s cell phone rang; he answered and spoke for a minute or two before slipping the phone in his back pocket.
“That was Nora. She heard we were on the island, and she’s invited us for coffee.”
“Works for me,” Margit said. “I can always handle an extra cup of coffee.”
In that way she was a perfect cop, Thomas thought. Margit never turned down coffee, which was almost always offered, no matter how bad the news they had come to deliver might be. Personally he preferred tea, though he usually accepted coffee to be polite. He could never summon up the enthusiasm his colleague showed at the prospect of a dripping Melitta filter.
“In that case I’ll see you when we’re done.”
“OK.”
Sandhamn 1925
Sometimes Thorwald fantasized about what it would be like to grow up in a different family. He imagined a father placing an arm around his shoulders on the way to church. A mother who laughed with other women in the garden.
Vendela went around with her head down, eyes fixed on the ground. She hardly ever socialized with the other wives in the village, in spite of the fact that she’d lived on the island for over ten years. She had no friends, and they rarely had a visitor in their home.
His mother was never unpleasant, but she didn’t talk to anyone else unless it was absolutely necessary. It was as if she feared Gottfrid’s disapproval. As if she avoided forming any bonds in case they had to be severed.
Because she wasn’t born on Sandhamn, she had no relatives on the island either. Her parents still lived on Möja, but they were so old and sick that they could no longer manage to travel. Thorwald had barely seen his grandparents over the past few years. He knew he had cousins on Möja, but he couldn’t remember their names or what they looked like.
He was sitting at the table trying to do his homework, but his mind wandered. Vendela was busy sorting a huge pile of laundry in the middle of the floor; the broad tiles had grown paler from years of scouring. Kristin Persdotter, one of the village laundresses, would be passing by soon to collect the month’s supply.
A substantial hole had been made in the ice just off Fläskberget, and Kristin could be seen in the afternoons, down on her knees, scrubbing the clothes. Then they were hung to dry, which often took several days in the damp, raw air.
When the ice melted, Kristin used a large wooden boat called Green Box. She would fill it to the brim with dirty laundry and row out into the bay; then the scrubbing and rinsing would begin again. Her hands were always red and her knuckles swollen from the cold water.
Thorwald longed for the end of winter, when the snow on the steps melted, patches of grass began to appear, and pale-green shoots emerged from his mother’s pelargoniums in the window.
“Thorwald, keep an eye on your sister while I take the laundry out to Kristin,” Vendela said.
Kristina was perched on top of the firewood box reading an old book of Thorwald’s. Her fair hair was pulled back in an elastic band at the back of her neck, but a few strands had escaped, curling around her ears. She loved reading, and happily immersed herself in his schoolbooks. He had realized long ago that she was a much better reader than he was. Kristina had taught herself the alphabet and could recite it like a bubbling stream. Gottfrid often smiled when she insisted on demonstrating her skills with childish eagerness.
But Thorwald, how he struggled. The
letters danced before his eyes, and he sweated with sheer effort as he plodded through the pages, letter by letter, word by word. Yet, no matter how hard he worked, when he got to the classroom, he was incapable of regurgitating what he had learned. The words stuck in his throat. Sometimes he stayed awake all night, going over his homework for the following day, but still it all went wrong.
The classroom would fill with giggles as his schoolmates sighed and made faces.
“What an idiot,” someone whispered.
“He reads like a two-year-old,” someone else said.
Thorwald gritted his teeth and tried again, pretending not to notice their laughter, in spite of the pain deep inside.
Their teacher, Miss Edith, often gazed at him with a troubled expression as he stumbled through a sentence. She was a strict but not unpleasant woman who had arrived on the island a few years earlier. She used the cane much less than the previous teacher, Magister Norrby, and the children liked her. However, she refused to tolerate any nonsense.
One day she called Thorwald in during recess. She was standing by the black iron stove, with her dachshund beside her enjoying the warmth. She looked concerned rather than cross as she explained that she would like to speak to Thorwald’s parents about his difficulties. He might need to repeat a year, particularly if he was to go on to high school, as his father wished.
Thorwald was horrified. He begged and pleaded with her not to contact his mother and father.
Miss Edith was taken aback.
“But Thorwald, I only want to help you. I can see how hard you’re working, but you’re not really getting anywhere.”
Thorwald clenched his fists in his pockets. He didn’t dare contemplate what would happen if his father was called to the school. He must stop Miss Edith from speaking to his parents.
“Father is ill,” he said, his eyes fixed on the floor. “He mustn’t be upset. The doctor said.”
The lie just slipped out, but it served its purpose.
“Oh, I didn’t know that,” Miss Edith said, putting down her pen. “He looked fine the last time I saw him down in the harbor, but if that’s the case, maybe we shouldn’t make the situation any worse right now.”
Thorwald nodded eagerly. He’d broken yet another commandment, but it was better to lie than to incur his father’s wrath.
“I’ll work harder,” he promised.
“Thorwald?”
Kristina’s voice made him jump.
“What does this mean?” She held out the open book. “If the cock drinks drips from the roof on St. Matthew’s Day, the ox shall drink from open water on Lady Day.”
She read with perfect ease; the words flowed without the slightest difficulty.
Thorwald was consumed with envy. Why was it so easy for her and so hard for him?
“Thorwald? What does it mean?”
“What do you think it means? If the thaw starts in February, then the ice will break up by the end of March,” he said, sounding crosser than he had intended.
Kristina’s bottom lip quivered. She had been expecting praise for her prowess.
“You read that really well,” he said, softening his tone.
Kristina’s face lit up. “Shall I read some more?”
Thorwald shook his head. “I have to do my work so I’ll get good marks.”
His stomach turned over as he uttered the words. He knew that his father hadn’t had the chance to continue his studies because he’d had to work to support the family. Gottfrid expected his son to go on to the higher education he himself had missed out on, but Thorwald’s grades were far too low.
“You stupid boy!” Gottfrid had exclaimed when he saw the grades Thorwald brought home at Christmas. “Do I have to hammer some sense into that thick head of yours?”
Thorwald had no idea how he could possibly improve his grades enough to win a place at school on the mainland, even if he repeated a year. His skill lay in his hands, not his head. The things that came so easily to Kristina were impossible for him, no matter how hard he tried.
I’m an numbskull, he thought as he bent over his book once more. A useless numbskull.
CHAPTER 27
Louise stared blankly at the screen. She was still sitting on the sofa in the living room, with her knees tucked underneath her. As soon as the cops had left she had logged on to chat, but the keys remained untouched. She hesitated. Should she share the questions the police had asked her?
She chewed her right thumbnail. Should she have kept quiet about Jakob? The knot of anxiety was growing in her belly. If he found out what she’d said, he’d go completely crazy. She’d seen it several times. But when he wasn’t like that, Louise got why Lina had fallen for him. He was super good-looking, and one of the coolest guys on the island. He was also a fantastic sailor, and all the girls were after him.
Secretly, Louise had been a little jealous when Lina hooked up with Jakob, even though he treated her so badly—especially when he was drunk. Louise didn’t know anyone else who was so radically changed by alcohol. Most of her friends got loud and silly, but that was all. If they drank too much, they eventually fell asleep, or went to throw up. But Jakob got aggressive; he could lose it over nothing.
The thumbnail was bitten all the way down, the cuticle bleeding slightly.
Please don’t let Jakob find out I was the one who blabbed to the cops.
When Margit knocked on the Östermans’ door, it opened almost immediately, and she was confronted by an overweight, middle-aged woman wearing a pair of loose-fitting pants and a green sweater. The gray hair was scraped back off her face. She looked inquiringly at Margit, who quickly introduced herself and asked if she could come in.
“Sure,” Ingrid Österman said quietly. She led the way to a cramped living room off the hallway. A pine sofa with striped brown cushions sat against one wall.
“Coffee?” she said, her face half turned away.
Margit was pleased; making coffee was a ritual that usually had a calming effect on most of the people she visited in the line of duty.
“Please, if it’s not too much trouble.”
Ingrid was already on her way to the kitchen. The sound of pouring told Margit that there was already a pot on. She sat down on the striped sofa. The walls were adorned with framed reproductions and the odd watercolor with an archipelago motif. An old-fashioned sideboard in polished mahogany clashed with the rest of the furniture. There was a large photograph of a teenage boy on top. It looked like a school photo; Margit recognized the typical blue background. The broad smile and the anticipation in those young eyes made her sigh. Sebastian had been just seventeen when he died.
Such a waste.
She couldn’t help thinking about her own girls. At the moment there was an ongoing debate within the family about what time they had to be home, and the rules on behavior. As a cop she had seen far too many kids in a truly lamentable state. She’d driven home drugged-up youngsters barely old enough for high school. She knew exactly what happened on the streets of Stockholm and its suburbs, and she had formulated her guidelines accordingly.
She couldn’t imagine how someone managed to carry on when they’d lost a child. How did they survive? Marianne Rosén must also be asking herself those questions right now, Margit thought.
Ingrid returned with a tray. She glanced shyly at Margit as she sat down and passed her a cup of coffee and a little milk pitcher.
“I wanted to ask you a few questions in connection with Lina Rosén,” Margit began. “I hope that’s OK; it won’t take long.”
Ingrid nodded.
“I believe your son knew her.” Margit glanced at the photograph.
Another nod.
“Did they hang out together?”
“They both had summer jobs at the bakery. Sebastian helped out in the kitchen, and Lina worked in the shop with the other girls.”
“Did Sebastian ever say anything in particular about Lina?”
Ingrid countered with a question of her own. “Like
what?”
“I don’t know. We’re just trying to find out more about her,” Margit said pleasantly. She raised the cup to her lips; the coffee was pretty weak. “Do you have any idea what might have happened to Lina?”
“No, I’m afraid not.”
It was proving difficult to get anything out of Ingrid Österman. Perhaps Thomas had been right, and there was no point digging up old memories. Still, it was worth another try.
“I’m wondering if your son spent a lot of time online? Had he joined any chat groups?”
Ingrid seemed embarrassed. “He wasn’t really into that kind of thing.”
“That’s good!” Margit exclaimed. “These days kids seem to be glued to their computers all the time.”
Her daughters pored over their laptops all day long, chatting with an endless stream of friends Margit hadn’t met and whose names she didn’t even know. Every time she came anywhere near the girls, they immediately flipped down the screen.
“He didn’t have his own computer—we couldn’t afford it.”
Margit could have bitten her tongue. Shit, she thought.
“I understand.”
She took another sip of coffee, trying to think of something to say that would make up for her insensitivity.
“Is your husband home?” she managed eventually.
“No.”
“Does he work?”
“Not anymore. Not since the Maritime Administration layoffs a few years ago.”
“Had he worked there for long?”
“All his life. But they had to make cuts, like everyplace else.” Ingrid smiled bitterly. “So they just let him go, at the age of fifty-seven, after spending his whole working life in the service of the state. There’s all this talk of rural regeneration, but when it comes down to it . . .”
She lowered her gaze.
“How did he take it?”
“Not well. Things have been difficult for us.”
Ingrid turned away as if she were ashamed. Her facial muscles twitched, and for a moment Margit thought she might start crying, but she pulled herself together and brushed a few crumbs off the cloth. Margit sympathized; first the husband lost his job, then their son died. Life definitely wasn’t fair.