The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  “Do you want some coffee?” I ask. Mostly because I don’t know what else to say.

  “Thank you, yes,” he says without lifting his eyes from his glasses.

  The sound of the clock ticking in the corner suddenly seems deafening, and the smell of coffee overwhelming, impossible to defend myself against. I set a cup in front of him, sink into the chair opposite, overcome by my powerlessness.

  I never thought a moment like this would come my way; this is something that happens to other people, not me. I’ve always been good, followed the rules. Except for lately, when letters from collection agencies started piling up and rows of absences started to fill the attendance sheet on the wall.

  “We are facing some serious economic challenges,” he says, and puts on his glasses. For the first time, he meets my eyes. His eyes are a pale gray and completely emotionless. He’s a polite bureaucrat with a deadly mission, sent by the men at the corporate office. Slowly, he puts his cleaning cloth into his briefcase and continues:

  “There’s a lack of work. We’re going to be forced to close two stores in the coming months.”

  I still don’t know what to say. I just nod. He falls silent. Suddenly looks tired. Maybe he actually is tired. Maybe he’s actually a nice person in real life.

  “Lack of work?” I say as if wanting to help him along.

  He meets my eyes again. Still not revealing the slightest emotion.

  “Lack of work, yes. Thank you. You’ve done a fine job here, Emma, according to Björne Franzén, but unfortunately management has decided to reduce staff costs in order to secure our long-term survival.”

  “I understand.”

  “This isn’t personal, Emma. This is simply about dealing with new economic realities.”

  I want him to stop using my name. I don’t know him, don’t want to be “Emma” to him. “Sure,” I say.

  “It’s just economics.”

  “I understand. So it has nothing to do with…” I gesture toward the absence report that hangs on the wall. The angry red demerits shine like nasty pimples on pale skin.

  He smiles for the first time during our meeting. It’s a pale, almost sad smile.

  “Everyone has the right to be sick,” he says. “Or to stay home with sick children. That’s not grounds for termination. Those are just malicious rumors. You know how the media writes about us.”

  He slurps the coffee, and I find myself wishing he’d burn himself. But it’s a wish that won’t come true. The coffee from the machine only gets lukewarm, at best. It’s been that way for a year now, since Björne kicked the machine one time when he lost his temper.

  Then the man sets down the stack of paper on the table, pushes it slowly toward me with one finger.

  “We have to talk a little bit about practical matters now, Emma.”

  —

  “Who was that?” Mahnoor asks as he’s leaving, gazing after the funny man with the short red hair and horn-rimmed glasses who looks like a grown-up version of Tintin on the run from the comic book world.

  “He was from HR. Where is Olga, anyway?”

  I have no desire to talk about the conversation I just had, about the pile of paper that summarizes the terms of my dismissal: that my job terminates immediately, that I get two months’ severance, and that my access card must be sent back to the corporate office in a prestamped envelope.

  “Olga?” Mahnoor says absently.

  “Yes, where is she?”

  “No idea.” She shrugs. “She’s probably googling makeup or underwear, the little misogynist.”

  “What?”

  Mahnoor waves away my question. “Nothing.”

  “Last time I saw her she was actually reading a book,” I say, and remember Olga at the table in the kitchenette with a paperback in hand shortly after the man from HR left.

  Mahnoor raises her well-shaped eyebrows.

  “Probably just some shit she found at the supermarket.” Mahnoor’s ill-concealed contempt makes me uneasy.

  “Maybe it was a perfectly normal, good book,” I suggest.

  “Are you kidding? I don’t think she’d recognize a good book if it sat down spread-eagle on her face.”

  Mahnoor is picking around among the hairpins and necklaces displayed next to the cash register. She fixes some that are hanging awry, and then asks in a neutral tone:

  “So, what did he want, the guy from corporate?”

  I hesitate for a moment. “Nothing special. He just wondered how it was going for us now that Björne is sick.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I told him the truth. That we get by just fine without him.”

  —

  I’m sitting in Olga’s car. The rain patters against the roof, and the cramped car is damp. Periodically I have to wipe the front window in order to see out.

  It’s just after six, and I’ve been parked here for a little over an hour. If I’m unlucky, he won’t be in the office today. Maybe he’s on a business trip or at a meeting somewhere.

  I take a sip of lemon-flavored mineral water that tastes like detergent and think about the red-haired man from the corporate office. About his unfashionable glasses and shabby briefcase. I would never have guessed he was employed by a fashion company.

  Was this also Jesper’s work? Yet another piece of the puzzle in his diabolical plan? If so, it was genius, because he actually managed to deprive me of something else that was important to me: my job. I didn’t think about it before, when I was feeling sorry for myself earlier; I thought he’d already taken everything I cared about from me. Maybe there’s more he can take, something else I haven’t thought of, that I take for granted. My home? My health?

  My life?

  The thought makes me shudder.

  I think about the apartment on Kapellgränd. About the rag rug in the hall and the red wooden chairs, arranged neatly along the hall like Spanish riders. In my mind, I see Jesper lying naked on that colorful long-pile rug. The yellow flowers of the carpet surround him so it almost looks like he’s lying in a field of sunflowers. His body is relaxed, his face soft, like a child’s. His mouth is slightly open and his chest falls and rises. I’m sitting in a car in the rain, but at the same time I’m standing in the apartment on Kapellgränd looking at Jesper. Trying to understand why this man, this boy, this human being who lies there looking so innocent would want to harm me.

  A man hurries across the street just a few yards ahead of the car. I bend forward, wipe the moisture away from the windshield to see better. It’s not Jesper. The man’s too short, and blond. With quick steps he disappears into the darkness.

  If I were able to see myself now, like I just saw Jesper, what would I see? Would I see a madwoman sneaking up on her lover in the darkness outside his office? Am I going crazy?

  Is that his final goal, to deprive me of my sanity? The ultimate violation: to drive a person to madness.

  The nausea comes again, and I take a sip of the disgusting mineral water.

  If this is a play, carefully directed by him, then does he know I’m here? Has he already thought out his next step? Will I find the truth if I follow him, or just what he wants to show me?

  The questions never end; every answer leads to a new one. It’s like looking into a mirror reflected in a mirror. Reflected in another mirror. I get dizzy just trying to figure out what’s happening and why. And I haven’t even started thinking about how to solve my most immediate problems: the baby, the bills, the job I lost, whisked away by the red-haired man from the corporate office.

  Maybe Olga’s right. Maybe I should get revenge?

  Maybe that’s exactly what he wants?

  A sense of unreality overcomes me. It’s like I’m in a movie, like I only think I’m in control of my own behavior, but actually somebody else is directing it. I feel like I’m in a free fall, with no control over my life. I look at the ring shining on my finger. Think: This is real, proof that I’m not actually crazy.

  Then I see him.

>   He’s hunched over in the rain, his coat flapping behind him like a broken sail, just like the last time I stood here in the dark. His steps are vigorous and determined. I have the impulse to jump out of the car, run over and ask him what the hell he’s up to, but something stops me. I want to know what he’s hiding, see where he lives.

  I want to know more before I reveal myself as completely vulnerable to him.

  A few minutes later, a big black SUV turns out of the parking garage. I start the car and follow him, careful not to get too close. At every other red light, the engine stalls; I’m not used to driving stick. I swear, and start the car again, terrified to lose him now that I’ve finally found him.

  At Roslagstull the traffic increases considerably. I pull up directly behind Jesper in the sea of cars on their way home in the dark. He takes E18 north and exits at Djursholm. When he slows down I do the same, letting the distance between us increase. There are no other cars in sight. We pass by large villas with lit-up, parklike lawns. We pass by a small downtown area. A grocery store, a bookstore, a small square with a few leafless trees. Again that feeling: I’m in a movie, passing through desolate scenery on my way to some sort of resolution. But what kind of film is it? A drama, a thriller? A tragedy?

  We arrive at the water, black and shiny like a piece of silk spread out in front of me in the night. Jesper turns to the right, and I follow. My curiosity is awakened, and the feeling of being close to some sort of resolution gets stronger. We drive along the water for a while. Here the villas are even bigger, almost castlelike, and I wonder if ordinary people really live here or if the houses are used only by companies, or maybe embassies.

  I don’t notice when he slows down, and almost rear-end his black car. He turns up a small street to the right, and I wait a few seconds before I follow. The short road is lined with evergreen hedges: boxwood, yews, and white cedar. There are piles of wet leaves on the narrow sidewalk. The houses here are smaller, look like more ordinary houses. I turn off my headlights, creep along slowly behind him. He turns again, and I follow. Our little game is almost starting to amuse me. I’ve never tailed anybody before.

  He stops in front of a white modern house. Warm light streams out of the windows, painting the lawn and the wet autumn leaves outside golden. I turn off the engine. Wait. Watch him as he takes out his black briefcase, walks up to the wrought-iron gate, and raises his hand to open it. But then he stops himself, takes a step back, and walks a few yards toward me on the sidewalk.

  At first I’m worried he’s going to discover me, but then I see where he’s going.

  Beside the fence lie piles of wet wood. A green tarp covers one of the piles. Jesper sidesteps it and goes over to a newly constructed building, maybe a garage, to the right of the gate.

  It hasn’t been painted yet, and where the door should be there’s plastic flapping in the wind. He drops down on his haunches, inspecting something on the siding. Then he stands up, turns around, and walks back to the house.

  It occurs to me immediately—am I looking at my lost money? Did I pay for the building in front of me? Was my entire savings turned into a garage for his big black car?

  Then he is standing outside the front door. When he rings the doorbell instead of opening it himself, I suddenly feel uncertain. Does he live here or is he visiting? Then he takes out a key, puts it in the lock; and at the same time, someone opens it. A woman stands in the doorway. She’s dark-haired and tall and beautiful. I can see that clearly, even though I’m a good distance away. She has that confident charisma that only beautiful women have, as if her posture communicates her worth.

  The woman bends forward, and Jesper kisses her. It’s no quick kiss on the cheek, reserved for friends and family, but a long and intimate kiss.

  Then I see no more. The house fades away; the rain stops drumming against the car roof. Everything goes mercifully black and silent.

  —

  I’m running through the darkness. Someone is screaming. It’s a long, heart-wrenching roar, and after several seconds, I realize the person screaming is me. Branches whip into my face. Ice-cold water runs down my neck. Out of nowhere a garden chair pops up in front of me. I take a step aside, but still knock into it, and it falls over with a bang. I increase my speed, feel like a hunted animal. Can’t remember why I’m out here in the dark, just know I’m running for my life. Away from something terrible, something that threatens my whole existence.

  My boots sink into the mud and I slip, but regain my balance, keep running forward with my hands stretched out in front of me like I’m blind.

  A fence emerges from the darkness. It’s not particularly high, just three or four feet. Without thinking I climb it, throw myself over the edge. But I get stuck on something; the fence has caught hold of my jacket. I fall headlong and hit my side hard. The pain is unimaginable. I can’t breathe, can’t think, and everything goes black.

  —

  Something touches my cheek. I open my eyes. Trying to think. Remember.

  It’s dark. I’m lying on the ground of someone’s lawn. Just a few feet in front of me is a sandbox. Buckets and spades and small yellow trucks are scattered in the sand and on the grass, like mushrooms in a forest.

  How long have I been here? I sit up, but stop halfway. My whole stomach clenches in a painful cramp. I bend forward, curl up in a ball, but the pain in my stomach won’t stop. It’s just after nine, so I must have been here for an hour.

  I’m shaking with cold as I rise up on my haunches. Grope with my hands over my face, brushing mud and branches from my cheeks. Trying to understand.

  Slowly, but inexorably, the memories come back to me. I’m in Djursholm, somewhere near Jesper Orre’s house—the house he seems to share with a beautiful, dark-haired woman. I’ve been deceived more completely than I ever could have imagined. I’ve been doubly betrayed and violated. Robbed of both money and love. By the person I loved.

  Jesper has someone else, as he probably did when we were dating. That was obviously why he wanted to keep our relationship secret. That was why it was so important to meet only in the small apartment on Kapellgränd or at my home.

  But I still don’t understand. If all he wanted was a little adventure, some sex, why propose to me?

  Why take Sigge, the money, and the painting? And why was I fired? There’s something else chafing at me. I remember Olga’s words: Your man is definitely a psychopath.

  Does he want to humiliate me? Destroy me? Was this also part of the plan, that I would see how happy he was with this other girlfriend?

  I find an opening in the fence and push through. Good thing, too, because I’m not sure I could climb over it again. The pain in my stomach forces me to crouch, walk hunched over through the next yard. In the darkness in front of me, I see the overturned garden chair, and know I’m heading in the right direction.

  Just before I reach the street, I walk past a yellow house. Through the window, I see a couple and two children sitting on a beautiful sofa in front of a flat-screen TV. They’re eating popcorn. They look happy. Happy and successful.

  Everything I’m not.

  The door to the car is unlocked, the keys still in the ignition. I sink down in the driver’s seat and close the door. The sight of my muddy, swollen face scares me. I look crazy. Dangerous. I dry off my face with a scarf, but it only smears the mud more.

  I drive slowly back to the city. Avoid any sudden braking or acceleration for fear of exacerbating the pain in my stomach. I park the car and walk toward my front door in the rain, praying to God that I won’t run into any of my neighbors; I don’t have the energy to explain why I look like this. But I meet no one. The musty smell of my building is still there. The staircase is dark and quiet. The house could just as well be uninhabited, a haunted house.

  The elevator stops with a whine on the fifth floor, and I get out. I unlock my door and step into the warmth. Fumble with the buttons of my coat, wriggle it off, let it fall to the floor. I look around for Sigge before I rem
ember he’s gone. I step out of my boots and trudge into the bathroom. My jeans are wet and muddy, but something else catches my eye as I take them off. A large stain in the crotch. I bend forward to get a better look, but I already know what’s happened.

  It’s blood.

  I’ve lost the baby.

  PETER

  The investigation is headed in another direction, has shifted focus from one day to the next, as investigations do sometimes. The news that the National Lab has linked the machete to both murders—the unnamed victim at Jesper Orre’s home and Miguel Calderón—hit the police station like a bomb. The activity is as frenetic as before, but some of the resignation has lifted and been replaced by expectation. The large evidence wall in the conference room, papered with pictures from Orre’s house, maps, and photos of Orre’s colleagues and acquaintances, has now been joined by another evidence wall with similar images from the old case.

  Sanchez apparently spent half the night reading through the Calderón case and is already searching for points of contact between Calderón and Orre. I suspect that may be difficult; on the surface their lives seem to be completely unrelated.

  Calderón was twenty-five years old when he was found dead in his sublet on Södermalm in September ten years ago. He had multiple odd jobs. He worked as a cook, a home-care giver, a newspaper distributor, and a substitute hospital orderly. In his free time he studied karate and played bass in a jazz band. He had no girlfriend, and his sister hinted that she thought he was probably gay. Five years before he was murdered, he was convicted of assault and theft, but according to the preliminary investigation, there was nothing to suggest he had any criminal connections at the time of his death. There is also no evidence that he socialized at the same places as Orre: Sandhamn, Verbier, Marbella, or the nightclubs around Stureplan.

  The fact that Orre is still missing increasingly suggests he murdered the unidentified woman—and thus also ended Calderón’s life. But a few stolen thongs and ruthlessness in business hardly suffice as proof. We need to find a connection between all of them—and if there is one, we’ll find it. Even if we have to sift through every miserable inch of their lives.