The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  As I go back to the kitchen, I try to remember whether or not I forgot to lock up when I went to work, but the morning is a blank, and I can’t recall a single image from it. Just hours ago, I think, and yet so far away.

  I lean out the kitchen window, as far as I dare, and shout Sigge’s name. The rain whips against my neck. Five floors below, the courtyard is just a dark rectangle. The trees and bushes dance in the wind, but there’s no Sigge in sight. I quickly pull on my coat, open the front door, half-run down the stairs and out into the courtyard.

  The smell of decomposing leaves and wet soil is overwhelming. I walk over the cobblestones to a spot that I guess is right beneath my kitchen window, turn my face upward, and squint into the rain. Far above, I glimpse the open window. It’s at least a thirty-foot drop, maybe more.

  Could a cat survive that?

  The cobblestones are empty. I squat down. Close to the wall, where the stone is almost dry, there’s a dark stain. I touch it gently, and then look at my fingers.

  It’s blood.

  I find faint traces of blood going in the direction of the wall facing the street. Follow them while still crouching to see where they lead, but the rain has washed them away.

  Between the wall and the building is a narrow opening, big enough for a cat to sneak out onto Valhallavägen. I lean forward and peer out into the rain, but see nothing except indifferent cars passing by in the dark.

  PETER

  These last few days have been damn difficult. In part it’s because the investigation has stalled, and in part because Hanne’s presence at the meetings makes me nervous. She just sits there without saying anything, which is the idea, of course; she’s studying the case. But it bothers me. And there’s something accusatory in her eyes.

  Sometimes I get the indefinable feeling that she expects me to take some kind of initiative. Talk to her. Maybe explain why I did what I did. Or is that just my bad conscience playing tricks on me?

  I guess that’s how life is. It itches and stings like a boil on your ass, and the only way to put an end to your misery is to put an end to it.

  But I’m not quite there yet.

  The car stops and Morrissey goes silent. “Umm, Lindgren. Are you asleep?”

  I turn to Manfred, smile apologetically, and jump out of the car he’s just parked in the garage at the NK department store.

  “Just wanted to make sure I hadn’t lost you.”

  “Sure, I’m good.”

  We go down the stairs of the parking garage and out onto Hamngatan.

  Christmas shopping is in full swing, and the sidewalk is packed with people. Water drips from every roof and windowsill; almost all the snow is gone, just small, dirty mounds here and there pressed up against building facades. The sky is blue and the air feels damp, clean, and crisp, like newly hung wash. Sunshine streams down between the tall buildings, playing on the road in front of us as we cross the street. I squint in the bright light, and search for the entrance to the Clothes&More headquarters.

  Agnieszka Lindén meets us at the reception. She’s in her forties and wears a very proper dark blue suit. Her blond, slightly thin hair is worn in a neat bob, and her cheeks are plump and rosy. She looks healthy, and reminds me vaguely of one of my old gym teachers in high school—Sirkka, who used to advocate for an ice-cold shower on an empty stomach every morning (after a run, also to be undertaken before breakfast).

  “Welcome,” she says, and shakes our hands, looks at me briefly, then gestures toward the corridor, where the walls are filled with gigantic fashion posters.

  “The spring collection,” she mumbles, and shows us into a small room whose windows face Regeringsgatan.

  We sit down in the black visitors’ chairs across from her desk and take out our notebooks. Agnieszka’s desk is completely empty, her pens placed neatly in a small gray plastic desk organizer. She clasps her hands and smiles.

  “So, how can I help you? This is concerning Jesper, I would suppose? The journalists are apparently calling nonstop.”

  Manfred nods.

  “We’re investigating the murder that took place at Jesper Orre’s home. And we were told by some of your colleagues that you were investigating him. Could you tell us more about that?”

  “Of course. In June Jesper arranged a party. It was a combination of a birthday party and an official dinner for selected upper management and retailers. Half of the cost was paid by the company and half by Jesper. In September, we received an anonymous complaint from a person claiming that Jesper had abused his position and allowed the company to pay for his private birthday party. I work as an internal auditor here, and my job includes investigating these kinds of events and reporting them to the board, so I looked into it.

  “And what did you conclude?” I ask.

  “You can have a copy of my memo if you like. My conclusion was, briefly, that it was reasonable for the company to pay for some of the costs because so many of the guests had a direct or indirect link to the business.”

  “So he did nothing wrong?” Manfred asks.

  Agnieszka Lindén smiles guardedly and runs her hand across her clean desk.

  “Yes and no. It would have been better if he’d run it by our finance department before the party. In addition, he authorized the bill himself, which is, of course, unacceptable and goes against regulation.”

  “So what did the board think about it?” Manfred asks.

  “I don’t know. I’m not privy to their meetings. But I heard they were annoyed. Jesper has been at the center of a lot of controversy over the past year; I’m sure you’ve seen the papers. And now this…I would think he’s hanging loose here, but don’t pass that on.”

  Manfred nods and says:

  “You mention that there have been controversies. Have there been other problems besides the party?”

  Agnieszka stretches and sighs.

  “Yes. Well, you’ll probably find out about it anyway. One of our project managers in the marketing department accused Jesper of some kind of sexual harassment. I don’t really know the particulars, but I heard rumors.”

  “Could we get her name?” I ask.

  “Of course. Her name is Denise Sjöholm, and she’s on sick leave. I can give you her contact information.”

  By the time we exit onto Regeringsgatan, the sun has disappeared behind clouds and the sky has darkened.

  “Damn,” Manfred says. “I really thought that would give us more of a lead.”

  “Well, we’ll talk to that Denise woman. I wonder why none of Orre’s other colleagues said anything about her.”

  Manfred shrugs and holds the door to the parking garage open for me as I squeeze past his large body.

  “Maybe they didn’t dare. Orre is their boss, after all,” I answer my own question.

  Manfred hums in response.

  We sit in silence in the car for a while. Traffic is heavy on our way back to the police station, and I note that Manfred looks at me a bit strangely as we creep forward on the Klarabergs viaduct. There’s worry in his eyes, and it bothers me. “Is everything okay?” he asks finally.

  “Sure,” I respond.

  He doesn’t say anything more. Instead, he turns on the music again. Another thing I appreciate about Manfred: He doesn’t feel the need to dig so damned hard into your emotions (other than when it’s job-related, of course). Not like women, who always ask what you’re thinking and are never content with a straightforward answer like “Nothing really.” Even Sanchez is like that, even though she’s a cop. Always asking how I feel, though I’ve told her a thousand times that I feel fine.

  I wonder if it’s genetic.

  After we get to the police station, I sit in the small conference room reading through the Calderón case again. Page after page of interrogations, excerpts from technical reports, analyses of blood spatter, fibers, shoe prints, and pictures from the crime scene.

  Outside, it’s starting to get dark, and I hear the wind pick up. Small, hard snowflakes whip against the
window.

  We still haven’t found any connection between our victims. Even though it seems like an invisible thread runs through time and space from Calderón to the unidentified woman in Orre’s home. When I lay the picture of Calderón’s head next to the picture of the woman’s head, you can’t ignore the resemblance. Is it really possible that two different perps committed such identical crimes? What is the likelihood, really?

  There’s a knock on the door, and when I look up Hanne is standing there. “Oh, sorry,” she says, and turns around.

  It’s pure impulse, maybe because she looks like a sad puppy, but I ask her to come in. She does as I say, closing the door gently behind her and sinking into one of the chairs opposite me.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  I look down at the papers scattered across half of the conference table. At the pictures of violent death, at reports that say so much and explain so little.

  “Reading the case.”

  “Ah.”

  She looks a little confused. Runs her hand through her hair as if she wants to make sure it’s neat. (It’s not. Her thick gray-brown hair spreads out in every direction, reminding me of a plant with sharp needles that thrives on the barren rocks of the Stockholm archipelago.)

  “I’ve been thinking,” she begins.

  “Yes?”

  “That maybe we should talk. If we’re going to work together.”

  “Okay. About what?”

  She meets my gaze, and those beautiful gray eyes of hers, which I know so well, are suddenly filled with sorrow. And I know I’m about to do it again: hurt her, even though I don’t want to.

  “Listen. I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course we can talk.”

  She relaxes, exhales, and rests her dainty hands in her lap.

  “You’re a real bastard, Peter. Do you know that?”

  I nod. “That’s never my intention. I never meant to hurt you, Hanne. Believe me. You are the last person on earth I would want to hurt.”

  “And yet you did. And you continue to do so by pretending like nothing happened. Do you understand?”

  I look down at the table. Try in vain to bring some order to the thoughts and words swirling around inside my skull. Searching in vain for a way to explain it to her. But words have never come easily to me. It’s as if there’s some disconnect between my head and my mouth; the words end up in disarray, come out in a completely different way than I imagined.

  “It’s so hard to…explain. That’s all I can say. I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

  I immediately feel ashamed. What a stupid thing to say. What a fucking embarrassing explanation to a woman who was left on the doorstep of a new life. But Hanne doesn’t seem to react; instead, she stares through the window at the dusk that’s falling over the city and the thick mix of snow and rain running down the windowpane.

  I have the urge to touch her face, to run my hand through her thick, unruly hair. The thought is so tempting, I almost have to restrain myself. Force myself to keep still on that uncomfortable chair.

  “Do you regret it sometimes?” she asks in a voice that is so quiet, I can barely hear what she says.

  “Every day,” I answer without thinking, and realize immediately that it’s true.

  —

  After Hanne has left, I remain there alone in the room. Wondering how this started, when the first time was that I betrayed someone. But I already know the answer.

  Annika. My sister. That summer out on the island of Rönnskär.

  The summer had begun like every other summer, but ended with a disaster that changed my family’s lives forever.

  I was headed down the steps toward the dock at our summerhouse outside Dalarö. I think I was searching for small treasures on the rocks. I was holding a “Left Party” button that I’d found by the house. Maybe I was hoping that one of the neighbor kids would be down by the water so we could play Baader-Meinhof on the dock.

  The waves were beating against the rocks; the sea breeze blew the hair from my face and made the skin on my arms turn to gooseflesh. I remember I noticed the slight smell of cigarette smoke, and for a moment I was surprised: Dad was back by the house. And then I saw her: my sister, Annika, three years my elder, sitting on the cliff to the right of the dock in a bikini.

  She was smoking.

  She had one leg lazily stretched out in front of her and the other one drawn up so that the arm that held the cigarette rested on it. Her reddish-tan skin shone and her blond hair was gathered in a bun on top of her head. Her pointed breasts were covered by a tiny triangle bikini.

  At that very moment she turned her face toward me, caught my eye, and let out a little sound. No words; more like a small whine.

  I stood completely still. This was explosive, of course: Annika was secretly smoking on the rocks. It was sensational information, and like all information, it was valuable. It could be exchanged for benefits or confidences, disclosed in retaliation, or perhaps hinted at in small pieces at sensitive times.

  I remember I could see it in her eyes, despite the distance: the horror. “You wouldn’t.”

  Her voice was quiet. Outwardly controlled, but I sensed the panic underneath. Such privilege: to have the upper hand over her. It didn’t happen often.

  She stood up, wrapped a towel around her shoulders. I was closer now, could see her goose bumps and her nipples standing out in her minimal bikini top.

  “You wouldn’t,” she repeated. “This is our secret. Okay? And a secret is a responsibility. Can you take responsibility?”

  But all I could do was smile. And the more I smiled, the stronger I felt. It was as if the situation filled me with a heady recklessness, a narcotic sense of power. And though it hadn’t been my plan, I began to jog back up the stairs leading from the dock to the house. Slowly at first, but then faster and faster.

  Annika was behind me, still with the cigarette in her mouth. I could hear her steps on the rickety wooden staircase.

  “You stupid little brat, come back here!”

  But I ran. And if there was one thing I could do, it was run fast. My legs beat like drumsticks over the rocks and steps. Over heather and pine needles that perforated the thin, delicate skin between my toes.

  Annika ran after me, breathless. Helpless.

  I wasn’t really going to tell, but for some reason Mom was standing on the porch when I got up there. Resting her broad hips against the railing and staring out over the ocean with an inscrutable expression. She pushed a dark, slightly greasy strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

  “Annika was smoking on the cliffs!” I sputtered. Mom looked at me blankly in disbelief.

  “What did you say?”

  “Annika was smoking. On the cliffs.”

  Then she was all over me. Her sinewy arms groped for my head, trying to silence me. Forcing my face down onto the dry pink heather, the needles that covered the ground.

  “You shut your mouth. Brat.”

  She was strong for a girl. Holding on to me hard, so hard that it was impossible to move. So close that I could smell the scent of her sweat.

  “Annika was…smoking…”

  “Stop that immediately.”

  Mom’s voice was shrill. In two seconds she was beside us. She grabbed Annika roughly by the arm and forced her up, away from me. Then she drew a deep breath and gave Annika a slap across the cheek.

  Mom’s reaction shocked me. That she, who was always so kind and empathetic, could get angry enough to actually hit one of us was incomprehensible.

  Annika stood stock-still, her face down and her hand on her cheek, on the spot Mom had just slapped.

  “Don’t you dare!” Mom’s voice was a hiss when she met Annika’s gaze. “You know how bad I feel when…you behave that way.”

  “You’re ruining my life.”

  Annika’s voice was thin and brittle, and I could see a red spot on her cheek. “Don’t be so dramatic,” my mother said, an
d snorted.

  Annika started to cry. She sobbed until her body shook and the towel fell from her shoulders down onto the ground.

  “Shut up! Shut up, all of you!” she screamed. “It’s your fault. Everything is your fault. You’re all crazy. I hate you.”

  And suddenly Dad was standing there, the sun at his back, his hair glowing like a halo around him.

  “Annika, you come here. Do you hear what I’m saying?” His voice was deceptively calm, as it always was when he was truly angry.

  And Mom clutched her chest as she always did when she was upset.

  Annika trembled, then let out a single short roar, stood up, turned around, and ran back toward the dock.

  Dad shrugged.

  “She’ll calm down,” he sighed, and returned to the radio. I followed Dad up onto the terrace while watching for Annika down near the dock. Then I saw her. Walking all the way out and bending over and…What? Was she taking off her bikini? Why?

  Annika threw her bikini onto the rotting dock and without turning around dived into the water.

  It was a beautiful dive. The kind that leaves no ripple on the surface. Though of course I wouldn’t see them from the house.

  Then she surfaced again, a long way from the dock now. She was swimming purposefully out. Away from the dock. Away from Rönnskär. And suddenly, it’s impossible to say exactly when, it crept up on me: the suffocating feeling that something was wrong. Maybe it was because she swam beyond the boat, maybe it was her determination or the power of her strokes. Maybe it was because the air suddenly felt cooler.

  “Dad!”

  But Dad raised his hand to me and turned up the volume on the radio.

  “Dad!”

  He looked up at me with a tired expression and wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow with his big hand.

  “What?”

  I didn’t answer, just pointed to Annika, who was swimming straight out into the bay and channel.

  Dad stood up slowly and shaded his eyes against the sun.

  “What the hell.”

  In seconds, he’d tossed the radio onto the wooden terrace and rushed down the stairs. The flimsy wooden structure sagged under his weight.