“I’ve called, texted. Everything. He’s not answering.”
“You tried visiting him at home?”
I remember the visit to Kapellgränd: the man with the ponytail, the snap and hiss as he defiantly opened his beer can, the furniture I didn’t recognize.
Olga has finished flipping through the magazine. She’s looking at me with genuine concern.
“I went to his house one night…”
“And?”
“Someone else was living there. His furniture was gone.”
She doesn’t say anything more, instead again turning her attention toward the stack of magazines.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for something. Why did you lend him money, anyway?”
“Because…I don’t know. I happened to have money at home, and he needed it to pay his contractors.”
“You had a hundred thousand at home?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry, but that is crazy. He steal anything else from you?”
“No,” I reply, but think immediately about the Ragnar Sandberg painting. Jesper was the only one who knew I had it. Besides my mother, of course, but she’s dead.
“Here,” Olga mutters, flipping through a magazine that seems to consist of more celebrity pictures than text. “Here it is.”
She turns the pages more slowly. Examining each spread.
Then she stops. Her hand rests on an article: “Do You Live with a Psychopath?”
“Fuck. Your man is definitely a psychopath,” she mumbles, and slides her thin index finger along the text as if it were Braille.
“What does it say?”
She clears her throat a little, drums her long nails on the magazine.
“ ‘A psychopath is initially charming, but quickly becomes manipulative and egocentric. Lacking in empathy, he shows no regard for your feelings or needs. He cheats and deceives without hesitation. He steals and lies without feeling remorse or guilt.’ ”
I wonder. To me Jesper is warm, loving, and empathetic. But if he actually dumped me, if he’s the one who stole the painting, if he has no plans to pay back my money…then maybe Olga’s right.
“Does it say what to do?”
Olga nods and moves her mouth silently as she reads the last paragraph.
“ ‘You should get as far away from him as you can, because he won’t change.’ Psychopaths don’t change. It says that here.”
She leans toward me, resting a hand on my arm, saying nothing, just looking at me with concern in her large, pale eyes. I feel my tears coming. But still, there’s something else, stronger than my despair—the urge to know.
“I don’t understand,” I mumble. “He has so much money. And he’s…famous. Why would he risk everything in order to cheat me out of a hundred thousand?”
“Maybe it’s not the money,” Olga says hesitantly.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he wants to humiliate you. Piss on you. You know?”
—
I stand in front of the mirror at home in the bathroom. My long, reddish-brown hair hangs in wet strips across my shoulders. My breasts, those loathsome udders, are bigger than ever and very tender.
Slowly I bend forward, wipe away a little of the fog, and examine my reflection. My freckles are particularly noticeable like this, without makeup, under the cold fluorescent lights.
I wrap a green towel tightly around my body and go out into the hall. On the floor under the front door lie three more letters.
One is from my bank, one is from creditors, and one has no return address on the outside of the envelope. I take the letters into the kitchen and put them in the bread bin without opening them. It’s almost impossible to close now; that’s how full it is.
Of course, I realize that this situation is unsustainable; someday the bills will have to be paid. But I don’t know what to do about it. I have no money in the bank, no stocks or mutual funds to sell. None of my friends have money to lend me.
And I no longer have any family.
Jesper is my family, I think. It sounds strange, but he’s the person who’s closest to me.
I remember our last evening. We fought like crazy. It was the usual: How long does it have to be this way? I wanted to go out among people, go to the movies, a restaurant. He was stressed and irritated, had a shitty day at work, apparently. We were walking in the rain, and I remember clearly that I was thinking, Now, now I’ve had enough.
—
A fine drizzle fell over Stockholm, transforming Götgatan into a shiny black mirror, upon which the reflections from the streetlights and storefronts glittered like jewels. I had an umbrella, but didn’t share it with him. Jesper didn’t seem to care. He walked beside me gesturing, and speaking in an indignant voice.
“…hardly my fault. Right? I told you more than a month ago you have to find another job. Have you? No. Why should that be so fucking hard? Why should it always be me taking care of everything?”
We turned on Högbergsgatan. I could see from his body language, from his whole being, that he was upset. Neither of us said anything until we were standing outside the front door to his building on Kapellgränd.
“I want a date,” I said, and put my hand on the cold brass handle of the door. “This is like being together with someone who’s married. I want a date. I want to know when you’ll acknowledge me.”
Jesper took out his keys, fumbled with the front door. “What do you mean ‘acknowledge’ you? You’re not a fucking African country that needs to be acknowledged by the UN. And there’s nobody else, you know that. All this is about is how long we should wait to tell people about our relationship.”
The hall was dark, but neither of us cared enough to turn on the light. I kicked off my boots. Threw my jacket in a corner on the floor.
“And when were you planning on doing that, then? You just evade everything. You lie and evade.”
“Are you completely fucking crazy? I have never lied to you. Never.”
Now he was screaming. He threw his jacket against the wall. It landed on the small sideboard, knocked over the vase that I knew his mother had made sometime in the seventies. It fell to the floor with a crash.
“Yes, you lie to me, and you take advantage of me.”
“ ‘Take advantage’ of you? How?”
His voice suddenly sounded cold and condescending.
“Everything is always on your terms. You think you can come and take what you want from me, when you want. My body, my feelings. You think you own them.”
Now he stood completely still. His eyes were turned toward the window. The light from a neon sign on the building opposite painted blue and pink streaks through his dark hair. I could see tiny drops of rain on his forehead.
“Don’t I, though?” he said quietly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. His response caught me off guard. I couldn’t reply at first.
“What do you mean?” I said finally, in a voice that was so weak I could hardly hear myself.
He turned to me, and his face suddenly looked as empty as a ghost’s. As if he were just a shell. An uninhabited shell, without emotion. “I mean you are mine, Emma.”
He walked toward me until we were standing right in front of each other in the dark room. From a distance, I could hear sirens approaching. Otherwise, everything was silent. He pulled me close, but there was something strange in his embrace: a stiff, stilted closeness with no real warmth. He’s marking his ownership, I thought. This isn’t about love, this is about something else. Power, maybe.
“Sorry,” he murmured in my ear. “Of course, you’re right. We can’t go on like this.” I felt him release his grip and root around in his pocket.
“I love you, Emma. No matter what happens, never forget that. Can you promise me that?”
I suddenly felt uncomfortable.
“What do you mean? What could happen?”
He ignored my question. “I want you to have this.”
/> He held out his hand, and I could see something glittering in his palm. Slowly I reached out and closed my hand tentatively around the small, cold metal object.
It was a ring.
—
I hold it up to the light now. A thin ring of white gold with one impressive stone—a big, brilliant diamond. It sparkles and glitters in the light as if nothing has happened.
The nausea overtakes me again. I sit down on the bed. The room seems strangely empty without the painting on the wall above. Everything seems to be spinning; proportions appear distorted. The window transforms slowly into a high, narrow streak. The ceiling tilts dangerously.
Sigge seems to sense that I don’t feel well, because suddenly he’s there, stroking his small, soft body against my legs. I bury my head in my hands, but my breasts hurt so much when I lean forward that I immediately have to sit up again.
And suddenly I understand.
It’s like climbing to the top of a very high mountain in the middle of a deep forest after walking for days in the dark under the trees. Suddenly, the light is bright, the view is clear. The realization hits me like a kick in the stomach, and I find it hard to even breathe.
With fear pulsing inside me, I take out my cellphone, browse my calendar, and start counting days. I count once, twice. Then I count again. Still, I can’t take it in; it’s too bizarre.
But there’s no other explanation.
I’m pregnant.
HANNE
Manfred, the fat, ruddy police officer, starts the meeting. He gets up, ambles over to the whiteboard, and pushes his old-fashioned horn-rimmed glasses farther up his nose with his index finger. Around the table sit the head of the preliminary investigation—a young, blond prosecutor named Björn Hansson—and the head of the Homicide Division, Greger Sävstam. Sanchez is here too, as is Peter, who is sitting behind me. I’m grateful he’s sitting there today, rather than across from me. I don’t know if I would have been able to look at him.
In my little notebook, I carefully write down the names of everyone present, their titles, and what they look like. Just an extra safety precaution. Names are particularly difficult for me to remember.
I’ve agreed to participate in the investigation, provided that the workload doesn’t become too heavy. Maybe it’s naïve to think I can manage the work despite my illness, but I keep telling myself it will be fine. I’m not that confused, actually. Not yet. It’s mostly my short-term memory that’s malfunctioning, and some words that have a tendency to just disappear (like the names of the prime minister and the king, which the doctor asked during my last visit).
I like to imagine memory as a web, and my web has holes in it here and there. Small, ugly holes that will grow and multiply over time. As if someone used a cigarette to burn holes into my web at random. So far, I can compensate for them, hide them from the people around me. But eventually the disease will eat up the web, until only thin threads hold together whatever pieces remain.
Sometimes I wonder what I’ll be left with then. I mean, a person consists of their accumulated experiences, thoughts, and memories. If those are gone—who am I? Someone else? Something else?
Manfred Olsson clears his throat and leans against the wall.
“I thought I’d start by going through the new facts that have emerged in the case. We’ve now interviewed nine of Jesper’s colleagues, five of his friends, his mother and father, and two former girlfriends. None of them have heard from Jesper Orre since Friday. Nobody knew where he was headed for his days off, or where he might be right now. The picture that is emerging is of an extremely ambitious and driven man with few interests outside of work, aside from sports and women. In the media, there’s been talk about Orre’s criminal connections, but we haven’t found any evidence to back that up, though he does have a peripheral acquaintance who was convicted on a minor drug charge. Then we talked to the neighbors. No one saw anything remarkable on the evening in question. None of the tips we’ve received since Orre’s disappearance went public have led to anything.
“We’ve also gone through his emails and text messages without finding anything remarkable, but that doesn’t necessarily mean anything; he could have a private cellphone we don’t know about. We’re investigating that possibility now. He’s been flagged since yesterday, so he couldn’t have left the country. All border controls have been informed. And if he tries to withdraw any money, we’ll notice it immediately. Unfortunately, that’s all we’ve got on Jesper Orre right now. Oh—we spoke to the National Forensic Lab, and they said the machete found in Orre’s hall is a panga, a tool used in East Africa, which has a broader blade and a more angular tip than a typical machete.”
Manfred hangs a picture of the machete on the whiteboard, points to the weapon’s handle, and says:
“The handle is carved from ebony. A rather unusual object, they said—probably quite old, too. You can find similar specimens at special auctions. There were no fingerprints on the handle, which indicates that the perpetrator wiped them off after the murder. However, Jesper Orre’s print has been found on the blade.”
Sanchez lets out a low whistle. “We’ve got him,” she says.
“Not really. We can only prove that he’s touched the machete, nothing else. The National Lab and the forensic technicians are working on comparing the blows to our victim with those Miguel Calderón received ten years ago, and they’ve promised us a report tomorrow or the day after at the latest. The blood found in the hall came from the victim. The urine, however, came from a man. The National Lab hasn’t managed to obtain a full DNA profile yet, but they’re working on it. As you know, it’s more difficult to obtain DNA from urine than from blood and tissue.”
“So the urine came from a man. What does that mean?” asks Sanchez.
“That a man pissed in the hall,” Manfred responds.
Stifled giggles can be heard in the room. “Yes, I get that, but why?”
“We’ll have to figure that out,” Manfred says.
“Was urine found at the crime scene in the Calderón case?” I ask.
Manfred shakes his head and continues:
“No. I also talked to the technicians who combed through the rest of Orre’s house. Nothing remarkable was found, except for a basket of used women’s underwear hidden in a cupboard in the laundry room in the basement. Considering the interview Peter and I had with Anja Staaf, which I mentioned earlier, we can conclude that Orre collects used lingerie. He gets off on it, I guess.”
Scattered laughter. It dies quickly when the Homicide Division chief, Greger Sävstam, looks sternly around the table.
“They found something else, too,” Manfred continues. “A pair of bloody, used panties that were tucked under Orre’s bed upstairs.”
“That time of the month?” Sanchez suggests.
Manfred shakes his head. “The bloodstains are old, and based on their location, the technicians think someone used panties to stanch the bleeding of a wound. For example, by wrapping them around an arm or a hand. Whether this has any relevance to our investigation we don’t know yet.”
Manfred flips through his leather-bound pad and continues:
“Oh, and one more thing. Peter talked to the insurance company that’s investigating the fire in Orre’s garage. They told me that in all likelihood, it was arson. Traces of gasoline were found in their chemical analysis of the ashes. The local police are also involved, and we’ve been in contact with them. So far there are no suspects. The insurance company hinted that they would put their money on Orre.”
“How is his financial situation?” Greger Sävstam asks in a broad southern accent.
“It’s good,” Peter answers from behind me.
I don’t turn around, and again it occurs to me that it might not have been so wise to come here after all. But I tell myself I’m strong enough to get through a few meetings with the man who destroyed my life ten years ago. It would be letting him win if I refrained from doing what I’m passionate about for fear of confr
onting my past. And it’s important to prioritize my future, because there’s so little left of it.
“He has an annual income of over four million,” Peter continues. “In addition, he owns shares whose value is about three million. And he has no debts, that we can find.”
Greger Sävstam fidgets in his seat. “How can a man like Jesper Orre just go up in smoke?”
Manfred clears his throat again. “The entire force is looking for him.”
“I have a really bad feeling about this,” Greger Sävstam says, then stands up and shoves his hands into the pockets of his wrinkled suit pants. “We don’t have shit. An old machete with an ebony handle and a pair of bloody underpants isn’t going to solve this case. It’s been three days, journalists are calling nonstop, and we don’t even know who the victim is, or where Jesper Orre is. I don’t plan on looking like a fool when I meet with the commissioner just because you folks haven’t managed to get any further than that.”
“Tomorrow we’re meeting with Clothes&More’s internal auditor,” Manfred says. “Apparently they’d launched some sort of investigation into Orre. Rumor has it that he let the company pay for his birthday party. Maybe that will lead somewhere.”
Greger Sävstam looks stern and tired. He rolls his eyes as if he finds Manfred’s response annoying.
“Even if he were embezzling company money, that won’t help us with the murder investigation. Can we do anything else? Something more radical? Go to the media and ask for help?”
“It’s already public that Jesper Orre is missing and a woman was found dead in his home,” Manfred begins.
Greger Sävstam waves his hand in irritation.
“Yes, I know. That’s not what I meant. Could we publish a picture of the victim? So at least we’re able to identify her?”
“She’s been badly damaged…We don’t usually—” Manfred says.
“I don’t give a shit about what we usually do. We have to take this case to the next level now. We can’t just sit here twiddling our thumbs, navel-gazing, asking ourselves why he liked to sniff old underwear.”
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