The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  He leaned back a little so he could meet my eyes. His features almost flowed together with the bark of the ancient oak in the dim evening light. “That’s what I mean, Emma. Does it matter?”

  HANNE

  Two things happened this morning that knocked me completely off balance. First, I woke up in a cold sweat and with my heart racing, which usually only happens if I drank too much wine at one of Owe and my dinner parties. And when I woke up I didn’t know where I was. It was as if Gunilla’s guest room had suddenly become unrecognizable to me. The white walls, the colorful pillows, the neglected geraniums slouching over in the window—everything looked foreign. And for a moment it felt as if I were in a free fall. The fear literally made me dizzy. I understood clearly that my memory had failed me.

  It took maybe a minute or two before I remembered where I was. But during that minute the fear made me sob, and Gunilla came running in from the kitchen to comfort me.

  I didn’t tell her why I was crying. Didn’t want to scare her. And maybe it wasn’t the disease making itself felt, just stress. She didn’t ask, either. She probably thought I was sad about leaving Owe.

  The second thing that happened was that Owe was standing outside Gunilla’s front door when I went to take Frida for a walk. As soon as I stepped outside, he jumped from behind a parked car and started shouting about how I needed to go home with him, that I couldn’t take care of myself, and that if I didn’t come with him he’d make sure I was taken into custody in accordance with the law for compulsory psychiatric care. (It was just nonsense, of course; I googled it at length as soon as I got home.)

  Again Gunilla came to my aid. She was on her way to work, and exited while we stood there arguing. She raised her eyebrows with studied surprise, in that way only she can, and stood wide-legged with her arms crossed, facing Owe.

  It was almost comical. Gunilla was two heads shorter than Owe, despite her high-heeled boots, but still radiated a commanding presence and had a calm that visibly annoyed him.

  “Owe, what are you doing here?” she asked in her slow drawl.

  “I’m here to take Hanne home. She doesn’t understand what’s in her best interest.”

  “She doesn’t?”

  Gunilla met my eyes and continued:

  “Do you understand what’s in your own best interest, Hanne?”

  I was so upset that I couldn’t speak, so I just nodded.

  “Well, then,” Gunilla continued. “Then I think it’s best that you go home now, Owe.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  Gunilla sighed loudly. “Well, I guess I’ll have to call the police, then.”

  “Stay out of this,” Owe growled. “This is family business.”

  “What the hell, Owe. Give up. She doesn’t want to live with you. She’s so fucking tired of you she wants to smash something whenever I mention your name. Leave her alone. Give her some time. Maybe then she’ll come back.”

  “As I said,” Owe repeated. “This is a family matter.”

  Gunilla took her cellphone out of her purse and looked at both of us with an exhausted expression.

  “I’m calling the police now.”

  Owe took two steps toward me, grabbed Frida’s leash, and whipped around.

  “Fucking bitches,” he muttered. “You won’t neglect Frida, at least—I’ll see to that. She’s coming with me.”

  Then he disappeared down the street with Frida in tow, Frida casting anxious glances back at me all the way down the hill.

  And that was that.

  More tears. Gunilla awkwardly tried to comfort me for the second time that morning. “Hanne. You’ll figure this out,” she said. “Just be glad you don’t have children; then it would have been truly complicated.”

  And then, of course, I thought about the children who’d never come, and that just made me cry more.

  But I couldn’t tell that to Gunilla. Instead, I went back up to her apartment, showered, and put on makeup with care. My face was red and swollen, and the skin seemed to sag more than usual under my chin, on my arms, and in all the other places where age had taken its toll. I noted objectively that it was repulsive—that my body had actually become ugly. Female ripeness (or whatever you want to call it; I’m not so fond of the term “ripe” because it reminds me of decaying fruit) is not attractive. It’s just terribly unattractive, and you’d better hide it under makeup and as many layers of clothing as possible.

  So. There I was, fifty-nine years old, with early-onset dementia, newly separated, and on top of all that I was flabby and had bingo wings. The realization started to sink in, and I wondered if I’d really done the right thing packing up my things and leaving the relative security of our apartment. At the same time, I knew with a crushing certainty that a life with Owe was not an option. Because even though the future I’d just chosen was unpredictable and intimidating, it felt impossible to return to him.

  It would have been easy to just lie down on the sofa and pull the covers over my head, but I didn’t. Mostly to spite Owe. I was determined to prove that I could make it on my own, without his care. Once again, I reminded myself of all the reasons I couldn’t stand him:

  Self-righteous. Egocentric. Narcissistic. Dominant. Smells bad.

  Then I went to work.

  —

  The first person I see when I enter the bright premises of the police station is Peter. He’s sitting in front of his computer. His long body is bent into an uncomfortable posture, and he seems to be staring at something on the screen. When he sees me he jumps up, runs over, and grabs my arm as if we’re best friends, as if our little conversation the night before somehow spirited away the fact that he’s the man who ruined my life.

  His hand is warm and dry. And it feels strangely good to have it there—on my forearm.

  Like the most natural thing in the world.

  “Come,” he says. “I’m about to talk to one of Jesper Orre’s employees. The one who accused him of sexual harassment. Come with me!”

  “Okay,” I say, because I have nothing else I have to do.

  —

  Denise Sjöholm is twenty-eight years old and has an MBA. I find myself thinking that she looks too young to buy booze without being carded. But that’s just a sign of my own age—yet another example of how even my frames of reference have slowly shifted over the years without my noticing it. I have to remind myself that Owe and I had already been married for several years when I was her age.

  So hardly a child, then.

  She looks a little lost in the interrogation room, exposed somehow. She’s wearing a bulky sweater, ripped jeans, and no makeup. Her big brown eyes are filled with fear, which isn’t really that strange. I imagine it must have meant a lot of trouble for her when she accused her highest superior of sexual harassment.

  Peter also seems to have noticed her fear, because he explains that she’s not accused of anything and that we just want to interview her in connection with the murder that took place at Orre’s home and his subsequent disappearance.

  She nods silently and fiddles with a loose thread hanging from her jeans.

  “How long have you worked at Clothes&More?” Peter asks.

  “One year.”

  “And what’s your job description?”

  “I was…am…a project manager in the marketing department. I’m in charge of various advertising campaigns. For example, I’m responsible for the Christmas campaign running on TV right now. Until I went on sick leave, that is.”

  Her gaze wanders back and forth between Peter and me, like a troubled bird who doesn’t dare land anywhere.

  “And when did you get to know Jesper Orre?”

  “Pretty much as soon as I started. There aren’t that many of us in corporate headquarters. And he always stopped by the marketing department to look in on what we were up to. I remember that I thought he was great. Relaxed, you know. Though there was a lot of talk about how nasty he could be. About how he was firing people left and right.”
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br />   “And then what happened?”

  Denise looks down at the floor, and her thin brown hair falls in front of her face.

  “He asked me if I wanted to go to a party with him. That was in the spring.”

  “Okay. What kind of party?”

  “Well. He didn’t say more about the party, but we decided that he’d pick me up at Stureplan on Saturday night. And he did. But then he drove me to his house instead. And there were no other people there. Just him and me. Anyway…we ate dinner; he’d bought some lobster and champagne. I was very impressed that he wanted to have dinner with me, alone. I mean, Jesper Orre could get a date with whoever he wants…”

  Her voice dies out, and she shakes her head slowly.

  “I was so freaking naïve,” she continues. “As soon as we finished eating he wanted to sleep with me. Of course.”

  “And what did you do then?”

  Denise seems a bit confused, as if she doesn’t quite understand the question.

  “We had sex. And then we continued hooking up every now and then. I realized quite quickly that he didn’t want a real relationship with me. So after about two months, I broke up with him, or whatever you want to call it. We were never really together.”

  “How did he react?”

  “He was furious. Said he’d decide when it was over. And that I’d regret it if I didn’t understand that.”

  Denise pulls on the thread from her jeans so hard that it snaps with a small pop. “And what did you do then?”

  She shakes her head and laughs quietly.

  “I should have known I couldn’t win against him. I should have played along, but instead I got angry, told him to go to hell, that I decided who I slept with and when. He left without saying anything. And then, at work, he started being mean to me. Asking me impossible questions at meetings. Dissing all my suggestions. Making sure I didn’t get any exciting projects. Punishing me, I guess. But it was after I went to HR and complained that the real circus began. I was questioned by HR with him present. As you can imagine, it wasn’t fun to sit there and talk about our…relationship while he listened. In the end, I felt so terrible I took sick leave.”

  “When was this?”

  “I’ve been on sick leave for…” Denise counts on her fingers. “Eight weeks. No, nine tomorrow.”

  Peter nods and makes a note in his notebook, then says, “I know this may sound a bit strange, but was he rough in bed?”

  Denise looks embarrassed, crosses her arms in front of her chest. “No. Not particularly.”

  “Did he ever steal any lingerie from you?”

  “Steal lingerie?”

  “Yes, did he ever take your underwear?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Have you heard anything from him since you went on sick leave?”

  She shakes her head. “Not a word.”

  “Do you know if he did this to any of the other women at your office?”

  “No. But it wouldn’t surprise me. He’s a sick fucker.”

  “Do you know if he was seeing any other women during this time?”

  “No. But like I said, he’s a sick fucker.”

  As we walk Denise out, I can’t stop myself. I put a hand on her arm and look into her eyes.

  “You do understand that you didn’t do anything wrong,” I say. “He took advantage of you because he could, because his position allowed him to.”

  She looks at me for a long time, then shrugs. “Maybe. But I still regret going to HR. He would have grown tired of me eventually.” She hurries out with her head lowered.

  “What a fucking asshole,” I say to Peter as she disappears into the fog.

  Peter shrugs slightly, looks at me, and I can’t help but think:

  Like you, Peter. A real asshole, like you.

  It almost seems as if he senses what I’m thinking, because he suddenly seems self-conscious. He looks away and starts walking toward the elevators, mumbling, “Last time I checked, that wasn’t illegal.”

  —

  As I walk back to Gunilla’s apartment three hours later, it’s already getting dark. A cold wind tears at my clothes, and the temperature has dropped. The wet road has acquired a hard, slippery layer of ice, and I have to walk slowly so as not to slip.

  I already miss Frida, but I don’t know how I can get her back. I can’t file a police report. Frida is Owe’s dog too, and you can’t steal something that you already own. Right?

  Owe was never particularly fond of Frida. Mostly he thought she barked too much and smelled bad (as if he didn’t). He didn’t take Frida to protect her from me; he took her to hurt me. Just like Jesper punished that poor girl because she didn’t want to be his sex slave.

  Power, I think. It’s always about power.

  Every time I pass a newsstand, I stop and read the headlines. The drawing of the woman who was murdered in Orre’s home is on the front page of every newspaper in the city with this bold headline underneath: “Who Did the Fashion King Murder?”

  If we don’t find out who she is now, I don’t know if we ever will.

  When I get to Slussen it starts snowing again. Small, hard flakes whip against my face and sting. My cellphone rings, and I instinctively turn my back to the wind, take the phone out to answer it.

  It’s Peter.

  “Hanne,” he says. “I just talked to the National Lab. The machete used at Orre’s house is the same one used in the Calderón murder. They’ve found marks on the vertebrae of both victims that can be linked to the machete. The marks match the machete’s blade exactly. You know what this means, right?”

  EMMA

  ONE MONTH EARLIER

  “But why kill your cat? I don’t get it.”

  Olga frowns and twists her heavy, rhinestone-studded bracelets. I look out over the empty boutique and reflect for a moment. Music flows from the speakers. Mahnoor is nowhere in sight. She’s probably busy with one of her crucial new administrative tasks.

  “If it’s like you said before, and he’s a psychopath, maybe he wants to harm me in some way. Maybe he gets pleasure from ruining my life.”

  Olga looks doubtful. As expected, she finds it easier to believe Jesper is looking for money or sex than that he’s a real sadist. And on some level, I agree with her; I have a hard time myself believing he’d get anything out of ruining my life. But I can’t see any other explanation for his behavior.

  “But a cat—what do cats have to do with anything?”

  “Sigge is important to me. If he hurts Sigge, then he hurts me too, right?”

  “If that’s so,” Olga begins, and hands me a new roll of receipt paper to replace the old, “then he’s really fucked-up.”

  “That’s what I’m saying.”

  “Did you look him up? Maybe he’s done this before? Maybe he’s been to prison or a mental hospital.”

  The idea seems almost ridiculous, and the images immediately pop into my head. Jesper Orre, CEO of the company where we both work, wearing a straitjacket, locked up in an institution. Or dressed in striped overalls, like a cartoon character, standing behind thick iron bars.

  “Maybe he killed somebody,” Olga whispers, as if she’s afraid somebody might hear her in the empty room.

  I meet her eyes without saying anything. She looks regretful.

  “Sorry, sweetie. Of course he didn’t kill anybody. All I’m saying is sometimes you don’t know people, even when you think you do.”

  “That’s probably true,” I say, thinking that she has no idea how right she is.

  “What are you going to do? Report him to the police?”

  I turn around, close the cash register, and pull out a bit of the receipt tape. “I want to talk to him first.”

  “You gonna try to find him?”

  I nod and look out over the store. A couple of teenage boys are loitering around in a corner by the jeans table; they give me a long look, and I get the feeling they might try to shoplift. It’s usually obvious, at least when it’s kids who haven�
��t yet learned to control their faces and who almost invariably steal in groups, as if shoplifting were a team sport.

  “I know what you do,” Olga says, and suddenly looks enthusiastic and a little sly at the same time. “You get revenge. Take back the power. I’m good at it. I keep the upper hand. Not to play my horn, but it’s true.”

  “ ‘Toot,’ you mean.”

  “What?” Olga looks confused.

  “You say, ‘toot your own horn.’ ”

  “Who cares—we practice spelling later. Pull yourself together, and get yours back from that asshole. Find out where he is and go to him and demand answers. Don’t let him get away. Show him who’s in charge!”

  The boys by the jeans counter have started moving toward the exit. One of them is carrying a suspiciously large gym bag. Olga sees them too, but doesn’t seem to feel like doing anything about it.

  “So, you think I should get revenge?”

  She nods. At that very moment a man comes through the door and heads toward the checkout counter. He looks purposeful, as if he knows exactly what he wants. That tends to be the case with older men. They rarely stroll around the store browsing. Instead, they go directly to us and ask for socks or shirts or underwear. Then they buy five packs of each, pay, and leave the store immediately.

  “Welcome! How can I help you?” Olga asks in accordance with regulations and smiles mechanically as she spins her rhinestone bracelets one more turn.

  “I’m looking for Emma Bohman,” says the man without answering her smile.

  When I tell him I’m Emma Bohman, he takes me aside and says, “Can we sit here?”

  His face is expressionless. He has very short, reddish-blond hair and round cheeks, even though his body is slender, almost skinny. He lifts up his bag, an old leather briefcase with grease stains on it, and takes out a stack of papers.

  He presents himself as Sven Ohlsson, head of human resources for the Eastern Region, and the moment he says his name, I know what this is about.

  “You’ve been with us for three years, Emma.”

  I nod, suddenly unsure if it’s a question or if he’s stating facts, reading aloud from his stack of paper. Then he picks up a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. Takes out a small blue handkerchief and polishes his glasses thoroughly, in silence.