by Sten, Viveca
But the voices were coming from the upper deck. They passed above his head, then faded away.
Thorwald edged a few yards farther along until he saw a door standing ajar. He slipped through the narrow opening and spotted a white ladder leading to a quarterdeck. He scurried down and found himself in the hold, where sacks and barrels were piled up. A perfect place to hide until they arrived in Stockholm.
In a corner he spotted a pile of jute sacks stamped with black writing. He crawled in behind them, and dragged a barrel across for extra cover. The place stank of mold, but he didn’t care.
His eyelids were growing heavy. He was exhausted from a combination of tension and lack of sleep. He had lain awake all night, going over his plan again and again. He could hardly believe he had gotten this far.
Thoughts of Karolina came into his mind, but he pushed them aside.
The next moment, he was asleep.
Thorwald was woken by a bucket of cold water being emptied over his head. Instinctively he raised an arm to protect himself, then he heard a man’s voice.
The ship was moving, and he could hear the engine’s throb. He blinked in the light of the kerosene lamp that was being swung in front of his eyes and managed to make out a deckhand standing over him, next to a man in his fifties dressed in a dark-blue uniform with gold epaulettes.
“So, what have we here? A stowaway, unless I’m very much mistaken,” the first mate said.
The deckhand leaned closer so that the light was shining directly on Thorwald’s face.
“I found him behind the sacks,” he said. “He must have sneaked on board in Sandhamn.”
“What’s your name, boy?” the first mate said.
For a moment Thorwald considered keeping quiet, refusing to answer so that they wouldn’t be able to send him back. Then he realized that would be pointless; they could find out who he was in seconds. Everyone on the island knew him.
Reluctantly he mumbled his name.
“And how old are you?”
“Fourteen.”
“Have you run away from home?”
Thorwald’s throat constricted; he nodded.
“Do your parents live on Sandhamn?”
“Yes,” he said quietly.
The first mate frowned and looked at his watch.
“We’ll have to turn around; we have no choice. Good thing we didn’t get any farther.”
The deckhand hauled Thorwald to his feet.
“The captain won’t be very pleased, nor will the passengers,” the first mate went on. “Lock him in the aft cabin for now.”
Thorwald was terrified. He didn’t dare to think about what would happen when Gottfrid found out. He dropped to his knees in front of the two men.
“Please don’t send me back, sir,” he begged. “I’ll do anything, just please don’t send me home.”
The first mate gazed at him with an almost kindly expression; he looked as if he felt sorry for Thorwald.
“I know there must be a good reason why you left your family, young man, but there’s nothing I can do. We have to take you back to Sandhamn. You’re underage, and therefore your father’s legal property.”
He turned and began to climb the ladder. The deckhand grabbed Thorwald’s arm and pushed him toward a door a few yards away. He opened it and shoved Thorwald roughly into the empty cabin.
“Stay there and behave yourself!”
CHAPTER 46
Saturday, March 3, 2007
By the time Thomas came downstairs, it was almost eight thirty in the morning. A quick glance into the living room revealed two small figures in front of the TV, still in their pajamas. They were totally absorbed in watching Japanese anime.
There was a wonderful smell coming from the kitchen: a plate of freshly baked scones. Butter, cheese, and marmalade had also been set out.
Nora smiled as he ducked to avoid the low beam over the doorway; he had banged his head on it countless times, as did anyone over six feet tall. The kitchen was the oldest part of the house, and had completely different proportions and angles from the rest. So far Thomas hadn’t managed to get through a summer without at least one bump.
There was no sign of yesterday’s tears. Nora’s freshly washed hair was still damp, and she looked rested.
“I hope you slept well,” she said. “Tea?”
“Please.”
Thomas had had an excellent night’s sleep. He almost always did in the archipelago, he thought. It was so peaceful out here; no cars honking outside the window, almost no noise at all. And he’d been extremely tired.
He sat down, helped himself to a scone, and slathered on a generous amount of butter and marmalade. He suddenly realized how hungry he was. The first scone disappeared in seconds, and he reached for another.
Nora poured tea into a pale-blue mug, then sat down opposite him. She ran her finger around the rim of her own mug.
“Listen, thanks for yesterday,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry I fell apart like that.” She looked down at the table, clearly embarrassed. Her hair fell forward, hiding her face.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“I feel much better today, actually. I promise to stop crying my eyes out from now on.” She glanced up with an apologetic smile. “I’ve cried all over you much too often in recent years. You must be seriously sick of it!”
Thomas shook his head. Nora had had some tough times, and they’d been friends for a long time. He was happy to provide a shoulder to cry on when necessary.
But tears didn’t solve anything—he knew that from bitter experience. He wanted to see the fighter in her; she needed to get mad and stand up for herself.
“Just as long as you don’t give up. You can’t let Henrik and his mother walk all over you.”
“I know.” Her expression was serious and determined. “I promise I’ll pull myself together.”
“Good. Delicious scones, by the way. How early did you have to get up to make them?”
“Oh, they’re just from a mix. What are your plans for today?”
“I’m going back on the first ferry; I need to get to the station as soon as possible.”
“Do you think Ingrid Österman was murdered, too?”
Thomas shook his head. “All signs point to her taking her own life. The bedside table was full of pills. Enough to kill a horse, according to the forensic tech.”
Nora sighed. “Poor Ingrid. And poor Bengt. I actually saw them at the restaurant the day before yesterday. They were fighting—or to be more accurate, he was being vile to her. I wonder if that was the straw that broke the camel’s back?”
“He mentioned something about that.”
“He yelled at her, told her to stop whining. She seemed really unhappy. It’s terrible to think that she went home and took an overdose that night.”
“Margit spoke to her the other day; she said Ingrid had been suffering from severe depression.”
Outside the window the snow had begun to fall once more, big, fat flakes blowing against the glass in flurries. An old birch tree in the neighbor’s garden swayed in the wind, and the magpie’s nest on one of the branches ended up at a worrying angle.
Thomas took yet another scone. With one hand he swept up the crumbs scattered across the table, making it wobble alarmingly.
“Might be time to buy a new kitchen table,” he said.
Nora smiled. “One of the legs is a bit loose; Henrik tightened the screws last summer, but they must need it again. I’ll do it later.”
Thomas finished the last of his scone and got to his feet.
“If you find me a screwdriver I’ll do it now.”
He had just finished the job when his phone rang. He recognized the number and the voice: it was Sachsen from the forensic lab in Solna. The pathologist got straight to the point.
“I’ve made a discovery. I don’t know if it’s important, but I wanted to give you a heads-up.”
“What is it?”
“Well, I’ve carried
out a number of tests since we last spoke, and it seems as if Lina Rosén’s arm has been frozen more than once.”
“I don’t understand.”
“The cryogenic state was interrupted,” Sachsen explained. “If my observations are correct, the arm was deep frozen, then returned to room temperature—literally thawed out—then frozen again.”
“OK . . .”
“It’s kind of like taking chicken thighs out of the freezer, thawing them out, then putting back what you don’t use,” Sachsen added.
“Do you have any idea what this might mean?” Thomas asked, shaking off the unfortunate comparison.
“No, that’s your job. I guess you could check with the Met Office, get a detailed breakdown of the fall and rise of the outdoor temperature over the past few months. That might help you work out when the arm was actually buried.” Sachsen cleared his throat. “I don’t suppose any further remains have come to light yet?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Bummer.”
Thomas recalled his conversation with Staffan Nilsson, standing by the hole in the forest where the arm had been found.
If they could establish when the first deep frost had occurred, it might give them an idea of when the body part, or parts, had been buried. Which in turn should enable them to narrow down the time of death.
Thomas wondered in passing whether Jakob Sandgren had been on Sandhamn in late November or December; he would ask when they spoke to him later. A terrible question was still going around in his head: Had Lina Rosén been killed on the night she disappeared, or had she remained alive for some time? Could they have found her alive if they hadn’t given up so easily?
“The cold weather arrived late,” he said slowly. “Since then, the temperature has stayed below freezing, I think. Or did we have a thaw for a few days? I can’t remember—we need to check. Before Christmas we only had the odd cold night; would that be enough for the arm to freeze, then thaw again?”
“Hard to say, given that it was buried. How quickly does the frost penetrate the ground? I’m guessing it could still be above freezing down there, even if the air temperature is below. Then again, it also depends how deep the arm was buried.”
“Not very deep,” Thomas said. “That’s why the predators were able to get at it.”
Sachsen sighed. “Well, I’m no weather expert; you need to speak to a meteorologist or geologist if you want to be sure. Anyway, that’s what I wanted to tell you; let me know if you find any more remains.”
“Will do.”
“By the way, I’m going to take a look at that woman—Ingrid Österman—this afternoon, even though it’s the weekend, so you won’t have to wait too long.”
Nora had cleared away the breakfast dishes while Thomas was on the phone.
“The forensic pathologist,” he said.
“So I gathered. I hope it was OK for me to listen in.”
Thomas waved his hand. “It’s fine, but you know how it is—just keep whatever you heard to yourself.”
Sandhamn 1928
As they approached the steamboat jetty, Gottfrid was waiting. The sight of that tall figure in a black coat made Thorwald’s stomach turn over.
He looked around in a last desperate attempt to find a way out. If the deckhand hadn’t been holding his arm so firmly, he would have thrown himself into the sea. But it seemed the sailor had read his mind; he tightened his grip and pushed Thorwald along in front of him.
Another deckhand dropped the gangway, and Thorwald watched as the first mate went ashore and walked over to Gottfrid. They exchanged a few words, then the first mate gestured in Thorwald’s direction. He stumbled down the gangway, and Gottfrid’s hand grasped the back of his neck.
“It was probably just a boyish prank,” the first mate said. “I expect he wanted to see the world. It’s a good thing we found him before we reached Stavsnäs.”
Gottfrid gave a curt nod. “Thank you for sending me a wire.”
The first mate went back on board. Three short blasts of the horn, and the ship slowly slipped away from the jetty.
Gottfrid led the way, heading toward the boathouses, with Thorwald half running to keep up with him. It was late, and the drizzle had turned into heavy rain. It found its way inside Thorwald’s clothes, and soon he was soaking wet and frozen.
By the time they reached the marina, it was dark. The jetties were deserted; there wasn’t a soul in sight. He can do whatever he wants to me, Thorwald thought hopelessly. But it didn’t matter anymore; nothing mattered anymore. He had given up Karolina for nothing. He had failed in his attempt to escape, and now there was no way out.
He looked his father up and down. They were almost the same height, but Gottfrid was a grown man, while Thorwald still had the body of a child. He wouldn’t be able to put up any real resistance, no matter how hard he tried.
Besides, the thought of standing up to his father was impossible. He had feared the man his whole life; he would never find the courage to openly defy him.
They passed the boathouse where Kristina had crept up on him the day before Midsummer’s Eve. He had just finished the little wooden cat then, and he’d been so happy, so full of anticipation.
Then Kristina had ruined everything.
Gottfrid kept on going. He led Thorwald to the churchyard, opened the gate, and stopped behind a small white building just inside the fence.
He faced Thorwald, his voice low and cold as ice.
“Haven’t I provided you with food and a roof over your head all your life? You have been able to go to school and study. You haven’t had to get up in the middle of the night and go to sea in order to put food on the table for your family.”
Thorwald closed his eyes. He just wanted to get the punishment over and done with. There was no hope left; it was better to take the blows and endure the pain. He had no idea what he would do afterward.
He had lost Karolina and let Vendela down.
Gottfrid’s pupils were huge and black. He blinked and stared at Thorwald as if he were something totally alien.
You are not my son, those eyes said. You are ungrateful, you are a failure, and I want nothing more to do with you. You have only yourself to blame.
Thorwald stood as straight as he could. He didn’t understand why they were in the churchyard, but he was ready for Gottfrid to remove his belt and set to work.
Gottfrid reached into his pocket and took out a bible. He held it out, so close to Thorwald’s face that it almost touched him. Then he lowered the book with a deep sigh, and opened it.
“I have prayed to the Lord for guidance, and he has answered me.” He looked down at the tiny text, then up at Thorwald once more. “You crept away like a thief in the night.”
The world contracted.
Thorwald was aware of nothing but his father’s heavy breathing and the waves crashing against the distant shore. The black sky merged into the pine forest.
He remembered the apples he had stolen from Dr. Widerström’s garden all those years ago. His father had whispered in his ear: “If you ever defy me again . . .”
Gottfrid bent down and opened a hatch in a bank of earth that Thorwald hadn’t noticed until now. It seemed to lead to a rectangular storage space, and smelled like an old earth cellar. Before Thorwald knew what was happening, Gottfrid gave him a hard shove and he was down on his knees in the narrow space.
The hatch slammed down, and Thorwald clearly heard the sound of the hasp being fastened. A few moments later, the churchyard gate squeaked.
He started screaming.
“Don’t leave me here, Father! I’m sorry, Father, please forgive me!”
He screamed until he had no voice left, tears and snot streaming down his face.
Then he fell back, utterly exhausted. It was pitch dark, and he groped around to try and get an idea of how big his prison was. His fingers met nothing but damp earth. The ground beneath him was cold and hard, and he was already shivering in his wet clothes.
&nbs
p; The cellar couldn’t be more than six feet or so in length, and it was impossible to stand upright. Thorwald curled up and wrapped his arms around his legs. He couldn’t make anything out in the blackness. He still had his money pouch tucked inside his jacket; at least his father hadn’t found it. But his knapsack was gone.
His stomach growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten anything—or drunk anything—for a long time. His lips were dry; he moistened them repeatedly with his tongue, but it didn’t really help. He knew from experience that the hunger would pass after a while; thirst was harder to bear.
He listened but couldn’t hear a sound from outside. He was all alone. Panic seized him once more, and he hammered on the hatch with both hands. It didn’t move at all, and the only result was that his knuckles began to ache. His voice was no more than a croak, but he tried calling out anyway.
How long did his father intend to keep him locked up?
Everything started to flicker before his eyes, and he squeezed them tight shut to make it stop. His breathing grew faster and faster, and then he didn’t remember any more.
When Thorwald woke up, light was seeping in through the narrow gaps in the hatch. It took a few seconds before he remembered where he was: still locked in the earth cellar in the churchyard. A new day had dawned, so he must have slept for a few hours.
His father had never left him this long before. Sometimes he’d been punished by being shut in the boathouse, but usually just for a few hours. He’d never spent a whole night in there.
He hoped his father would come back soon. He was desperately hungry and thirsty; his stomach had contracted into an aching ball. Once again he looked around in the faint light. He had been right in his estimation of the cellar’s size, and he was surrounded by packed earth and sand.
Tears blinded him; he clenched his fists in an attempt to control himself, but immediately opened them again. His knuckles were sore from banging on the hatch last night, and now both hands were throbbing.
He let his head drop onto his knees.