by Sten, Viveca
“The cause of death could be an overdose,” Nilsson said, gesturing toward the bottles. “Possibly self-administered. I’ve only found one set of prints, and there’s a suicide note.”
“Someone could have worn gloves and placed the card there,” Thomas pointed out.
“Right. We can’t rule that out.”
Thomas looked around the room. It was shabby, just like the rest of the house. He noticed a circular mark on the wall on the other side of the bed; presumably Bengt Österman had rested his head there for many years, and the grease had left a permanent stain. A pile of clothes had been tossed on a chair in one corner, and the half-open closet door revealed a mound of dirty laundry.
“Find anything else?”
Nilsson shook his head. “No injuries to the body as far as I can see, but these are strong drugs. If she took them all, then there was no going back. There’s enough here to kill a horse.”
“She’s been depressed.” Margit sighed, thinking of their recent conversation.
“What do you make of the suicide note?” Thomas pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the card.
“Sorry, I can’t do this anymore,” he read. “What does that mean?”
Margit shrugged. “I have no idea. An apology for taking all those pills? Or maybe it has to do with her son, Sebastian—is she saying she couldn’t get over his death?”
Thomas gave a start when she mentioned the boy’s name.
“You said she was suffering from depression?” he said.
“Yeah, she told me she’d been on sick leave for long stretches after Sebastian died.”
“That could explain it.”
“Maybe.”
“OK, let’s go and talk to the husband.”
Thomas turned and left the room.
CHAPTER 42
Bengt Österman was still on the sofa. He seemed unmoved by what was going on in his home, and when Thomas looked into his eyes, he understood why. The guy was still trashed. His eyes were glassy and unfocused. It was a wonder he’d managed to contact the police. It could be hours before he sobered up.
Thomas pulled up a chair and sat down opposite him, while Margit took the armchair beside him.
“Was it you who found her?” Thomas began.
Bengt nodded.
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“She was just lying there.”
“When did you find her?”
“When I went into the bedroom.”
“And what time was this?”
Bengt’s eyes darted from side to side.
“I don’t really know.”
A light went on in Thomas’s head.
“Where did you sleep last night?”
Bengt shuffled uncomfortably.
“On the sofa.”
And probably not for the first time, Thomas thought. He could imagine Ingrid wearily giving up and leaving her drunken husband in the living room when she went to bed, a miserable pattern that gradually became a habit.
“I think I passed out a little after midnight.”
“So you didn’t find her until the morning?”
“No.”
His voice was quiet, betraying shame and embarrassment.
“She usually puts a blanket over me when I nod off on the sofa, but I woke up this morning because I was cold. I decided to go get into bed, but she was just lying there. I could see right away that something was wrong.”
“You mean you realized she was dead?” Margit said.
He nodded as the grief broke through the alcoholic fog. His eyes filled with tears, and he wiped his nose with his sleeve.
“She couldn’t cope after Sebastian died. Neither of us could . . . ,” he mumbled. His face closed down as he got up and went into the kitchen. Thomas heard him remove the cork from a bottle and take several gulps. There was no point in trying to stop him.
Bengt came back and slumped down on the sofa once more. Gray stubble covered his weather-beaten cheeks. His shirt was too small, straining over his belly.
“Do you have any idea why your wife might have wanted to take her own life?” Margit asked.
Bengt Österman didn’t speak; he simply pointed to the photograph of his son on top of the bureau. It was hard to believe that the smiling, tanned teenager was the offspring of the pathetic figure before them.
“Sebastian?” Margit asked.
“What do you think?”
“Had she ever mentioned suicide?”
“No.”
“But she was on a lot of medication?”
“For her nerves. She got the pills from the clinic—they don’t give you any hassle there. They prescribed everything she asked for and more. It’s just all the other stuff society can’t afford these days!”
“Did she seem different in any way last night?”
He shook his head.
“No, she was the same as always. We had dinner at the restaurant, then we came home.”
“Did anything happen yesterday? Did you have a fight?” Thomas asked.
Bengt let out a deep sigh.
“I wasn’t very nice to her in the restaurant. I said some things. But it wasn’t the first time.” This was followed by a bitter laugh.
“Do you know if she saw anyone else yesterday who might have upset her?”
“Who the hell would she see out here? It’s the same people all the time, down in the village, neighbors poking their fucking noses in. Everyone knows everything about everyone around here.”
Another trip to the kitchen. The sound of a bottle being slammed down. Bengt returned without even acknowledging that he’d left. Thomas tried to curb his impatience. Trying to get something helpful out of this guy was beginning to seem like a waste of time. The more he drank, the harder it was to talk to him.
“I think we’d better come back when you’ve had time to gather your thoughts,” he said, glancing at Margit.
“Do you have anyone who could come over for a while so you don’t have to be alone?” she asked.
“I’ll be fine.” The response was instant and decisive.
Thomas doubted that Bengt could manage on his own for long; his wife had probably been his last link to a normal life.
First his son, now his wife. Without Ingrid it was only a matter of time before he drank himself to death. This kind of thing happened in the archipelago, where inactivity and long, desolate winter nights could become unbearable. For some poor souls, booze was the only thing that kept loneliness at bay.
Suddenly Thomas couldn’t stay a moment longer in this claustrophobic room. He stood up and nodded to Margit.
“If you can finish up here, I’ll have a quick word with the neighbors. See you outside in ten minutes?”
The fresh air was a relief. Thomas stood on the top step filling his lungs. The garden was a mess, with piles of rubbish all over the place. Several rusty boat engines lay in one corner next to a broken hammock. Both the garden and the house were testament to a complete lack of care and attention.
Thomas noticed a shed at the far end of the garden. He went over and tried the red door; it wasn’t locked. He stepped inside and saw that the place was used for storage, and as a carpentry workshop. There was a carpenter’s workbench and an old-fashioned chopping block; a chest freezer sat against the opposite wall. Tools were scattered haphazardly. Thomas closed the door and walked away.
He knew he should feel sorry for Bengt Österman, but it was tough. The guy was a drunkard, and couldn’t have been much of a support for poor Ingrid. In some ways it was hardly surprising if she couldn’t cope any longer, just as Bengt had said.
He caught a movement in his peripheral vision and saw an elderly woman emerge from the house next door. A patterned door curtain fluttered behind her.
“What’s going on?” she called out. “I saw the paramedics.”
“I’m afraid Ingrid Österman has passed away,” Thomas said.
“Oh my goodness!” The woman’s hand flew to her mout
h. “That’s terrible—what happened?”
She didn’t attempt to hide her curiosity, but she did seem genuinely upset.
Thomas responded with a question: “How well do you know the Östermans?”
The woman thought for a few seconds. She wasn’t wearing a jacket, and she shivered in the cold. She wrapped her arms around herself.
“Bengt and I have known each other all our lives.”
“You were born on the island?”
She nodded. “A few years after the war, just like Bengt. I got to know Ingrid later, when they got married, but she kept herself to herself, especially the last few years. After Sebastian. His death hit her very hard, poor soul.”
“She was suffering from depression, as I understand it.”
“That’s right—I’ve hardly seen her for a year. She stayed home most of the time, and with a husband like that it’s hardly surprising.”
She pursed her lips, and the sympathetic expression changed to distaste.
“What do you mean?” Thomas probed.
“He drinks, haven’t you noticed?” She sniffed loudly. “Believe me, poor Ingrid got no support from that lout. I imagine he’ll drink himself to death now that she’s not there to stop him.”
Thomas sighed; he had reached the same conclusion himself. Everything pointed to suicide: a depressed, bereaved woman had taken an intentional overdose. There didn’t seem to be any reason to suspect that a crime had been committed, though they’d have to wait for the autopsy to be sure.
Thomas thanked the neighbor for her help and walked away. It was almost three thirty, and he decided to give Nora a call. The last time, when he and Margit went over for coffee, she’d seemed off—sad, nervous. He figured he’d go check on her before leaving the island.
He reached her right away.
“Come for dinner!” Nora pleaded. “And you should stay overnight. There’s a spare bed in the boys’ room, and we can even lend you a toothbrush. Adam and Simon would be thrilled.”
It was clear that she wanted company, but Thomas hesitated. He really should head back to the mainland and get more work done. On the other hand, his friend needed him; he could catch the early-morning ferry.
“Sure, I’d love to. I just have a few things to sort out, then I’ll be over.”
“You’re an angel. Do you like tacos?”
“Absolutely—haven’t had them for ages.”
The grocery store was only open for two hours a day in the winter, and Nora got there with just minutes to spare. She needed more ground beef; Thomas ate as much as she and the boys put together.
She picked up a red basket and hurried over to the meat counter. Westerbergs Livs was the hub of the island. It also served as both a liquor store and a pharmacy, and customers could even get cash when necessary. You could buy everything from standard foodstuffs to compost and geraniums. In the summer there was a permanent line at the checkout, but this time of year, the place was quiet.
Nora quickly gathered what she needed. She added a bottle of soda for the boys, plus some dark chocolate to go with coffee after dinner, then made her way to the register. The owner herself was sitting there, the fourth generation of her family to trade in the archipelago.
“Hi there,” Nora heard someone say. She looked up and saw Johanna Granlund along with her daughter, who sometimes played with Simon. Nora and Johanna were the same age, and had known each other for many years.
“Hi,” Nora said, returning Johanna’s smile. “How are things?”
“Fine, thanks, but you know what it’s like when you first arrive—there’s always something you forgot!” She held up her basket.
“You just came over?”
“Today, yes. I’ve been working all week, so the kids had to go to the sitter’s.” Johanna shrugged. “It’s not ideal, but it couldn’t be helped. We’re going skiing at Easter, so I couldn’t take this week off, too.”
Something stirred in Nora’s memory. Hadn’t Pelle Forsberg said he had dinner with the Granlunds on Tuesday? Strange—had he lied to her?
“So you weren’t here earlier this week?”
Johanna shook her head. “No—like I said, I came over with the kids today.” She looked inquiringly at Nora. “Why do you ask?”
“It’s nothing, I was just wondering,” Nora said quickly.
Johanna checked her watch. “I need to get back to my starving family. It’s good to be here, even if it’s just for the weekend. See you around.”
Sandhamn 1928
Thorwald was laid up for almost a week.
Vendela had sobbed when she found him on the floor; she had half dragged, half carried him to bed. She cleaned his wounds, applied a soothing salve to his back, and bandaged him up as best she could. The treatment was almost as painful as Gottfrid’s beating.
Even Kristina had been horrified, and tried to make up for what she’d done. She had tiptoed in during the evening with a bunch of flowers in a glass and placed them on the bedside table before creeping away, overcome with guilt.
There was no sign of Gottfrid, and Thorwald had plenty of time to think as he lay there.
He had to get away from his father.
Sooner or later he’d set off Gottfrid’s rage yet again; he hardly dared imagine how much worse things would be next time. His father was becoming increasingly unpredictable, and his mother clearly couldn’t protect him.
No one could.
As his body slowly healed, Thorwald tried to come up with a solution.
Seven years remained until he turned twenty-one and came of age. Seven long years during which he belonged to his father and was more or less a slave.
He wouldn’t survive that long. He had to leave Sandhamn and everything he knew.
He had to leave Karolina.
The thought was much more painful than his wounds. He couldn’t abandon Karolina; she was the only source of joy in his life. He had no idea how he could bring himself to walk away from her.
He desperately tried to think of another way out, but he kept coming back to the same conclusion. He had to leave the island, and give up Karolina forever.
It took a while before he worked out what to do, understood the sacrifice he would have to make.
He had to get her to hate him. He had to hurt her so badly that she’d never want to see him again. If the love in her eyes was replaced with fury, he would be able to cut the ties. Otherwise he would never be able to bring himself to go away from Sandhamn.
By the time Thorwald was back on his feet, the midsummer weekend was long past. In spite of the fact that he wanted nothing more than to see Karolina, he spent his time with Arvid or one of their other friends. He walked away whenever she came near, and gave monosyllabic answers to her questions.
He gritted his teeth and hardened his heart against the hurt in her eyes; he turned away as if he hadn’t noticed. He made nasty comments about annoying, persistent girls, and everyone laughed.
She heard him. He knew she heard him.
Inside, he was crying. He kept the little wooden cat in his pocket, sometimes caressing it with his fingertips to remind himself of what he had to do.
After a while Karolina realized that he had lost interest in her. The light in her eyes died, and her wonderful smile disappeared. She started to avoid both him and her girlfriends. Sometimes he would see her sitting in the garden with Missan on her lap. Hour after hour, all alone.
She was so unhappy, and he knew it was his fault. Everything was his fault.
“Karolina,” he would whisper into the darkness at night. “Forgive me, I love you so much.”
CHAPTER 43
Thomas had borrowed a room in the police contact center, which was housed in a yellow building in the middle of the village. He had gone online and planned to spend an hour or so reading through the day’s reports and records of interviews before it was time to go and see Nora. He was also waiting for the details of Sandhamn residents who had a hunting license, which should come through p
retty soon.
Members of the public had been calling in all week. Unfortunately most of their information had been gleaned from the press or the Internet—nothing useful.
His cell phone rang. In a fit of nostalgia for his teenage years he had downloaded a Deep Purple track as his ringtone, and the sound of “Smoke on the Water” echoed through the room.
Margit didn’t bother introducing herself or even saying hello.
“The National Forensics Lab called; they finished the DNA analysis.”
“Is it Lina?”
“Yes, it’s confirmed.”
That was fast, Thomas thought. They must have prioritized the case because of the girl’s age and the circumstances.
As soon as he hung up with Margit, his phone rang again.
“Hi, it’s me.”
No name—there was no need.
“Hi.” He couldn’t help smiling.
“Thanks for your text.”
“Oh, you got it?”
“Mmm. It was great to see you, too.”
He couldn’t decide whether Pernilla was serious, or whether she was teasing him.
“You didn’t mind me saying that?” He had to ask.
A quiet laugh. “Is that what you think?”
Thomas became aware of his own reflection in a glass frame on the wall opposite. He was wearing a foolish grin.
“Not really, no.”
“Maybe we could meet up again?”
He wanted nothing more, the sooner the better, but he had promised Nora he’d come for dinner. Besides, the last ferry had already left.
“How about tomorrow?” he said.
“I don’t have any plans; I could make us dinner at home.”
At home?
He realized he did still think of their old apartment as home. His current place in Gustavsberg was just somewhere to sleep.
He would love to have dinner at home.
“Why not?” he said, being careful not to sound too excited.
“I can make a stir-fry—you used to like that. And how about toast skagen to start?”
“Maybe even sticky chocolate cake for dessert?” he joked.
“If you’re lucky.”
The foolish grin was still there. She knew exactly what he liked. He hadn’t cooked real food for a very long time; he usually threw something frozen in the microwave.