Manfred falls silent.
“And the head,” I say. “How did it end up like that, right side up? Could that be by chance?”
“The coroner and technicians say it’s probable that the killer placed it that way.”
“So fucking sick.”
Manfred nods and holds my gaze with his small brown eyes. Then he lowers his voice, as if he doesn’t want anyone else in the room to hear what he says, for whatever reason. The only people left in here are the technicians.
“Listen, this is eerily similar to…”
“But that was ten years ago.”
“Still.”
I nod. I can’t deny that there are similarities to a murder we investigated on Södermalm ten years ago, one we failed to solve, despite being one of the most extensive investigations in Swedish criminal history.
“As I said, that was ten years ago. There’s no reason to believe that…”
Manfred waves his hand dismissively.
“No. I know. You’re probably right.”
“And this Orre fella, the guy that lives here, what do we know about him?”
“Not much yet, beyond what you can read in the papers. But Sanchez is working on it. She promised to come back with something by tonight.”
“And what do the papers say?”
“Well, the usual gossip. They call him a slave driver. The union hates him and has filed several lawsuits against the company. Apparently, he’s a well-known womanizer, too. Tons of ladies.”
“No wife? Children?”
“No, he lives alone.”
I look around the hall, letting my eyes glide across the large kitchen. “Do you really need a mansion if you live alone?”
Manfred shrugs.
“ ‘Need’ is a relative term. The neighbor, the lady they took to the hospital, said there have been different women living here every now and then, but she’s lost count of how many.”
We walk out again, take off our shoe covers and gloves. About thirty feet away, near the side entrance, there appears to be a burnt-down shed, half covered by snow.
Manfred lights a cigarette, coughs, and turns toward me.
“I forgot to mention that. There was a fire in his garage three weeks ago. His insurance company is investigating the matter.”
I look at the charred remains of beams sticking up out of the snow and it reminds me of the pines at the Woodland Cemetery. The same silent, dark figures silhouetted against the snow, evoking the same disquieting sense of death and impermanence.
—
During the car ride into the city, I think of Janet again. There’s something about the most heinous crimes, the worst horrors, that always makes me think about her. I guess because Janet set me off balance, like a crime like this does. Or, maybe on some primitive, subconscious level I sometimes wish she were dead, like the woman in the white house. Obviously, I don’t really want to kill her—she is Albin’s mother, after all—but the feeling is there.
My life was infinitely simpler before we met.
Janet worked in a café near the central police station on Kungsholmen. We always said hello to each other when I went in. Sometimes, if there weren’t many customers, she’d sit with me for a bit, treat me to a coffee, and we’d chat. She had short, blond, punk hair and a gap between her front teeth that was sometimes charming, sometimes not. I’m not sure, but it was something to keep your eyes focused on, a fixed point like the drawing of a fly in a urinal. Plus she had amazing tits. Sure, I’d had women before. Quite a few actually, but no serious relationships. They came and went without making much of an impression on me. I doubt I made much of an impression on their lives either.
But Janet was different. She was stubborn, damned stubborn. I think we’d gone out to dinner maybe three or four times, ended up in bed together about the same, when she started nagging about moving in together. Of course, I said no. I didn’t want to live with her. Janet’s nonstop babbling had already started to get on my nerves. I found myself wishing more and more often that she would shut up. But sometimes when she was sleeping, naked in my narrow bed, I found her indescribably beautiful. Stillness and silence suited her so much better than nagging. I wished she could always be like that. But it was an absurd wish. You can’t ask your girlfriend to be quiet and naked.
At least not all the time.
In the beginning most of her nagging was about small things, like taking trips together. She would come home with a bag full of travel brochures and devote an entire evening to judging which destinations were the best. Mallorca or Ibiza. Canary Islands or Gambia. Rhodes or Cyprus. It might be about where the weather was best, the food was most delicious, or where you could buy the most exciting junk.
In the end, of course, we did take a trip, and it wasn’t that bad. There wasn’t much to do in that little village on the east coast of Mallorca, and Janet spent most of the week in her bikini reading Clan of the Cave Bear, which meant she was quiet at least. And almost naked.
And then there was the sex.
The sex was incredible, I can’t deny it. All that wine and sangria in the heat might have helped. She was like an animal, uninhibited and vulnerable at the same time. Sometimes I caught myself thinking there was something almost masculine about her behavior in bed. With that demanding, impatient desire that wanted to be satisfied immediately and in a surprisingly selfish way. She took what she wanted, and at that time it was me, my body. And maybe it happened that, in the heat of the moment, I did seriously consider a life with her. Maybe I said so too. I don’t remember.
There’s so much you don’t remember.
But we were hardly home again before she started talking about buying an apartment together. I explained to her as clearly as I could that I wasn’t ready to move in with her, but it was as if she didn’t want to hear what I said. As usual, she had set her sights on a goal, an apartment and a family, and shouldn’t I feel the same, since after all I was thirty-three?
She tattooed my name on her lower back as well, “Peter” on a banner carried by two doves. It made me uneasy, though I didn’t really know why. I guess because a tattoo is forever and just the thought of spending eternity with Janet gave me the willies.
This all coincided with my new job as a detective, so naturally I was busy at work. I took every single case very seriously back then, actually thought I was helping to create a better world. I even believed it was possible to imagine what that world might look like.
A better world?
Now, fifteen years later, I know that nothing changes. I’ve realized that time isn’t linear, but circular. It might sound pretentious, but it’s really quite banal. Time is a circle, like a ring of sausage. It’s not something to spend too much time contemplating. It is the way it is. New murders and new police officers with a romantic idea of the profession throwing themselves into their jobs. New perps who, as soon as they are imprisoned, are replaced by even newer criminals.
It never ends.
Eternity is a ring of sausage. And Janet wanted to share it with me.
I tend to think I was firmer at the beginning of our relationship. Back then I’d actually stand up to her crazy ideas. But over time she broke down my resistance, or maybe I changed my defense strategy. Became more evasive. Replied that we “might move in together next year” when she brought it up. Then found fault with all the apartments she dragged me to: too far down in the building, too high up in the building (it’s a fire hazard!), too far away from the city, too centrally located (so loud!), or whatever I could come up with.
She always looked crushed as we walked home from those viewings. Staring down at the sidewalk without saying a word, her long blond bangs draped like a curtain in front of her eyes. Holding her purse tightly in front of her chest, like a shield. Lips pressed together into a thin, bloodless dash.
Janet knew all the tricks. Knew that the guilt she provoked in me would make me even weaker and more manageable. Sometimes I wondered where she’d learned all that, ho
w someone so young could be so skilled at manipulation.
Maybe it was my experiences from the relationship with Janet that made me so fascinated with Manfred when we started working together a few years later. Although on the surface he gave an almost comical impression—partly due to the tension between his appearance and his unpolished language—he also possessed an inner strength that I admired immediately. After just a few days he took me aside and explained that he was getting a divorce, and it was probably best that I was informed since it might affect his work.
Manfred was married to Sara at the time, and they had three teenagers together. I remember I asked what Sara thought about that, and Manfred responded, “It doesn’t matter, because I’ve made up my mind.” Something about that statement got me thinking. He had made the decision on his own, and he was going to get that divorce no matter what Sara thought.
I couldn’t quite put it together.
At the same time, it worried me. There was a risk that Manfred, who was so clear-sighted and strong, might see right through me. See my weakness, my ambivalence, and my unwillingness to commit myself. Qualities I’d learned were so ugly that you were better off hiding them. Qualities that smelled bad when they surfaced, like garbage floating on a river.
A few years later I actually told Manfred about the wedding thing. At first he looked perplexed, as if he couldn’t really understand what I said; then he started laughing. He laughed and laughed until tears ran down his round, ruddy cheeks and his double chins bobbed. He laughed until he almost had to lie down on the floor.
There’s a lot you can say about Manfred, but he certainly does see the brighter side of life.
—
It’s dark by the time I arrive at the police station on Kungsholmen. It seems to have gotten colder, too, because instead of sleet, large, downy flakes are falling over Polhemsgatan. If the police station hadn’t been so damned ugly, the scene might have been a beautiful one, but instead the gigantic buildings dominate, a reminder of the postindustrial brutalist architectural style that was so in vogue in the sixties. The screens of light silhouetted on the facade reveal my colleagues hard at work inside; the fight against crime never calls it a night. Not even on a Sunday evening just before Christmas. And especially not when a young woman has been brutally murdered.
On the stairway to the third floor, I run into Sanchez. “You look tired,” she says.
She’s wearing a cream-colored silk blouse and black dress pants that make her look just like the desk-cop she is. She has her dark hair in a ponytail, and I can see the tattoo on her neck. It appears to be a snake winding its way up from her back toward her left ear, as if trying to nip at her earlobe.
“You don’t look so good yourself,” I answer.
She smiles with deceptive smoothness, and I know immediately that I will have to pay for that comment later.
“I put together some information on Jesper Orre. I gave the material to Manfred.”
“Thanks,” I say, and continue up the stairs.
—
Manfred is drinking tea in front of his computer and waves me over when I come in. On his desk are photos of Afsaneh, his young wife, and their soon-to-be one-year-old daughter, Nadja.
“Did you eat?” he asks.
“Not hungry. Thanks.”
“No. That visit wasn’t too good on the appetite.”
I think of the head in the middle of a puddle of blood. People do strange things to each other, sometimes for no reason and sometimes because of feuds that last for generations. I remember a TV program I saw a few months ago, which tried to answer the question: Is man a peaceful or a murderous animal? I thought the question itself was strange. There is no doubt humans are the planet’s most dangerous animal; we constantly hunt and kill not only other species, but our own. The membrane of civilization is as thin and cosmetic as the garish nail polish Janet loves to wear.
“Get anything on Jesper Orre?”
Manfred nods and runs his thick finger over the text in front of him. “Jesper Andreas Orre. Forty-five years old. Born and raised in Bromma.”
Manfred pauses and reaches for his reading glasses, while I reflect on this. Forty-five years old, four years younger than me, and possibly guilty of a brutal murder. Or maybe he’s also a victim, too soon to tell, though it’s statistically likely he’s involved in the crime. The simplest explanation is also usually the right one in the end.
Manfred clears his throat. Continues:
“Has been CEO of the clothing chain Clothes&More for two years. He’s…what we’d call controversial. Not well liked, considered a hard-ass. Apparently fired people for being at home with sick kids, that sort of thing. According to the union anyway. They’ve filed several civil lawsuits against the company. He made 4,378,000 kronor in taxable income last year. No criminal record, never married. Often mentioned in the media, mostly by tabloids, and mostly about his love life. Sanchez spoke to his parents and his secretary, and nobody has heard from him in the last few hours. But he went to work like usual on Friday and apparently seemed completely ‘normal.’ ”
Manfred makes air quotes when he says the word “normal” and meets my eyes over the top of his glasses.
“In a relationship?”
“According to the parents, no. And the secretary indicated that he’d become very reticent about his private life since the media started writing about him. We got contact information for some of his friends, too. Sanchez is getting in touch with them.”
“And what about that fire?”
“Right. The fire.” Manfred flips through the stack of papers again. “Jesper Orre was in the process of building a garage, but three weeks ago it burnt down, along with two cars he owned. Quite expensive cars apparently. A…let me see now…an MG and a Porsche. The insurance company is investigating whether the fire was arson. Sanchez is going to talk to them too.”
I look out the window. The snow is falling more heavily, obscuring the view. Manfred sees my expression.
“Soon,” he says, “I have to go home. Nadja has an ear infection.”
“Again?”
“You know how it is at that age.”
I nod, thinking that I actually don’t know. It has been a long time since Albin was little, and when he was I almost never saw him. Ear infections, stomach flu—all that passed me by.
“Peter,” Manfred says. “It wouldn’t hurt to dig around a little in that old investigation again. The method is a little too similar to just ignore it. I could talk to the people involved. Maybe dig up that witch-lady too. What was her name again? Hanne?”
I turn toward Manfred, slowly. Careful not to reveal the kind of effect that name has on me. How the memories rush out, spreading through every cell in my body.
Hanne.
“No,” I say, perhaps a little too shrilly, I’m not sure. I no longer have control over my voice. “No, we definitely don’t need to contact her.”
EMMA
TWO MONTHS EARLIER
“Damn, that’s a huge rock.”
Olga’s skinny fingers snatch the ring and hold it up against the light, as if she’s trying to make sure it’s real.
“Very nice,” she says, and hands it back to me. “What did it cost?”
“It was a gift. I couldn’t ask that.”
“Why not?”
“You just can’t.”
There’s silence for a moment.
“So tell us,” Mahnoor says. “Who’s the prince?”
“I can’t…”
“Oh come on.” Mahnoor giggles. “You’re engaged now. How secret can it be?”
A thick black braid hangs over her shoulder. Around her eyes she’s painted a dark ring of eyeliner.
“It’s complicated,” I begin.
“My aunt married her cousin. They didn’t tell nobody for ten years,” Olga offers helpfully. “They have two children. That is complicated. For real.”
“I promise. It’s not someone I’m related to. There’s no inces
t going on. It’s just…complicated.”
“Like on Facebook? ‘It’s complicated.’ ” Olga laughs slyly.
“Maybe.”
Silence falls in the tiny kitchenette, and the refrigerator turns on with a sigh. I can understand my colleagues’ curiosity. I would have reacted the same way. But this is different. This is an exceptional situation. It would be wrong and irresponsible of me to tell anyone, especially Olga and Mahnoor. It could cause trouble for Jesper, and ultimately myself.
Besides, I promised.
Olga sweeps the crumbs on the table into a pile, draws patterns in it with her long, white acrylic nails.
“I don’t understand why all the secrecy,” she whines. “It would be one thing if he was married, but obviously he’s not, because you’re engaged to him!”
Mahnoor raises a hand.
“She doesn’t want to tell. Just respect that.”
I mime a thanks to Mahnoor, who smiles back and moves her braid onto her back.
Olga squeezes her thin lips and rolls her eyes.
“Whatever.”
Silence again. Mahnoor clears her throat.
“How was your mother’s funeral, Emma? Did it go well?”
Mahnoor. Always so kind and considerate. A soft voice and a slow, tentative way of speaking. Words like small, soft caresses. I push the ring into place. Breathe.
“It went well. Not a lot of people, just the closest.”
In fact, there were only five people in the small chapel. A few lonely wreaths lay on the simple wooden casket. The organist played some hymns, even though I knew my mother hated everything about hymns and prayers. In death, as in life, you have to bow to tradition, that’s what I think.
“How are you feeling now? Are you okay?” Mahnoor looks worried.
“I’m okay.”
Fact is, I don’t really know what I feel, but whatever it is, it’s too hard to explain. The situation is surreal. I can’t get it through my head that my mother is dead, that it really was her large, fat body wedged into that coffin. That someone had dressed her, combed her wiry, bottle-blond hair, and laid her in there. That the lid had been closed and nailed shut, or whatever it is they do.
The Ice Beneath Her Page 2