The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  “Come and eat now, Emma,” Mom called from the kitchen.

  I took my jar and blue butterfly with me. Dad was already sitting at the dining table with a glass of wine and a beer beside it. Mom stood by the stove, wearing an apron and stirring a big red pot. She looked just like a real mother, one on TV. It made me nervous—this feigned domesticity always ended badly.

  “Sit down,” Mom mumbled, and pointed to a chair.

  I sat down, relieved that she sounded angry and irritated. Maybe everything was normal after all? I placed the jar gently beside me on the table so I could look at it while I ate. It had been just over a day since it hatched, and the large blue butterfly did nothing but sit on a stick and occasionally gently move its perfect deep blue wings.

  “Have you decided what to do with it yet?” Dad asked.

  I shook my head. Both Mom and Dad said I had to let it go, so it could return to nature and live freely. I understood their reasoning, but as soon as I thought of never seeing that small black body or those tissue-paper wings again, something knotted up inside me. It was like asking a toddler to give up her favorite doll. And that was the problem in a nutshell—I was no longer a little kid. I was supposed to rise above wanting to own the butterfly and do the right thing, because the other option was to kill it, or wait until it died. Then we could pin it to the wall with a needle, and I could keep it as long as I wanted. But the thought of sticking a long needle through its small body felt so barbaric it made me sick.

  “I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

  Dad emptied his beer glass with a single gulp.

  “You better decide soon. It won’t last long in there.”

  I leaned forward and peered into the jar. My breath fogged up the glass, making it impossible to see much. The butterfly turned into a diffuse blue cloud, afloat in the jar.

  “Do you have to have it on the table?” Mom said in the sharp, surly tone of voice she used when she was getting angry. At the same time, she put the chicken stew down with a bang so hard the hot liquid slopped out over the edges.

  “What does it matter?” Dad snorted, and emptied his wineglass, too. Mom opened a second bottle of wine. Even the plop from the cork sounded disgruntled and bitter.

  “It’s an insect.”

  “It’s in a jar,” Dad said.

  “I don’t want insects on my dinner table.”

  “Come on, let it be,” Dad said.

  Mom grabbed some bowls and knives and put them in the sink. They rattled and clinked. Outside, a blue twilight descended over Stockholm. Through the half-open window warm evening air flowed into the room. It smelled of damp earth and dog poop.

  “Please, Emma. Take the jar into your room,” Mom said.

  I looked at Dad, trying to figure out if I should obey or not.

  “Leave the jar on the table,” he said in an ominously muffled voice, and I got the feeling that he was speaking directly to Mom, even though he was looking at me.

  Mom sat down at the table. Her mouth was a thin line, and she was rubbing one temple. Her skin wrinkled as if it were made of thin cardboard under her fingers. Dad ate without saying a word. I held my breath and counted. If I inhaled a lot of air, I could hold my breath until fifty. Dragan could hold his breath for two and a half minutes, and Marie, in special ed, could hold her breath until she fainted, though Elin said it was because she had cerebral palsy.

  “What are you doing?” Mom asked, put down her fork, and looked disapprovingly at me.

  “Nothing. I just…”

  “Stop it now. It looks like you have some kind of…tic.”

  I didn’t know what a tic was, and I didn’t dare ask, either. Mom turned toward Dad, her cheeks flushed, and I could see that her left hand, the one in her lap, was in a fist, as if she were holding something small and valuable.

  “Did you pay the rent today?”

  Dad stirred the chicken stew with a fork and didn’t answer.

  “You promised,” Mom whispered. “I don’t know why I trusted you. You’re just as out of it and confused as…as…the kid.”

  I looked down at my plate, where a few lonely pieces of chicken swam in a clear broth. If I wanted to, I could make Mom really upset now. The only thing I needed to do was to remind her she could pay the bills herself, even though she couldn’t read that well. But of course I didn’t say anything.

  “Don’t drag Emma into this,” Dad mumbled.

  “You are exactly alike. Equally hopeless,” she clarified.

  “You know what? You’re acting like a real cunt.” Dad sounded both triumphant and relieved, as if he were delivering a long-awaited truth.

  “Cunt,” he said again, stressing every consonant.

  “You better watch yourself!” Mom screamed. “I don’t have to take this shit. You know that. There are plenty of men who’d be happy to have me. There are plenty of candidates—”

  “Candidates? In your dreams. Who wants a drunken bitch with tits down to her knees who does nothing but nag?”

  “That’s enough, goddammit. If you don’t like it, I’ll leave. And I mean it.”

  “You say that every time.”

  “Emma, go to your room,” Mom said.

  I stood up and hurried out of the kitchen.

  “And take that fucking insect with you,” she added.

  I turned around just as Mom threw the jar across the room. It flew in a high arc over my head, and even though I tried to catch it, there was no chance. It smashed against the kitchen wall.

  I sank down on my knees.

  Shards of glass were scattered across the floor. The nest of old, dry branches lay next to the wall, and beside it was the butterfly. One wing was in two pieces, and its body looked strangely flat. I stretched out a finger and touched it gently.

  The blue butterfly was dead.

  —

  It’s raining as I walk home. The trees on the Karlavägen allée stretch their naked branches upward, as if trying to reach the sky. A thick layer of wet leaves covers the ground. Is Sigge somewhere out here? I wonder. He’s not in the courtyard, that’s for sure. I’ve searched for him there several times, and there’s no trace of a cat. I couldn’t find him on Valhallavägen, either. Did he disappear into the rain-soaked maze of streets and alleys that make up Stockholm? Is he lying somewhere, injured and unable to find his way home? Did somebody take him in?

  I don’t think so.

  I think Jesper killed him. I stop for a moment, close my eyes, turn my face up to the rain, trying to see it in front of me: Jesper closing his big hands around Sigge’s neck. Throwing him out the window.

  But I can’t.

  I can’t conjure up such an image. The only thing I see is Jesper sleeping peacefully on a colorful rug. The field of sunflowers. His chest moving up and down in time as he breathes. His mouth half open.

  I continue walking home. Karlaplan lies deserted in the darkness in front of me. The leaves have filled up the bottom of the empty fountain. A part of me wants to lie on the edge, rest my cheek on those wet leaves. But something stops me. Something bold, efficient, and relentless has come alive inside me. Maybe because I took the ring to the pawnshop, thus buying myself some time. Maybe because the pain in my stomach has disappeared.

  Or maybe I’ve just had enough.

  As I pass by the entrance to the subway, I hear something behind me—a small thud, as if someone dropped a book or a bag of flour onto the ground. I turn around, but can’t make out anything under the dark shadows of the trees. For some reason, I don’t get scared, just angry. I’m convinced he’s standing in the dark, waiting for me. And it just pisses me off.

  “Hello?” I shout, but there’s no response. The only thing I hear is the sound of endless rain and a car disappearing in the distance. A window stands open in one of the buildings on the short side street, and music and voices stream out into the darkness.

  I turn around, walk toward the shadows. The light from a streetlamp almost blinds me, and I look down, staring a
t the rain-soaked asphalt.

  “Come out, you chickenshit. I know you’re there.”

  Then. A shadow detaches itself from the darkness and glides down the side street in the direction of Valhallavägen. The sound of somebody running echoes between the walls of the apartment buildings and dies away.

  My legs suddenly feel feeble and numb. I look down at my high-heeled boots, realize I have little chance of catching up to the shadow, which has already disappeared. “Fucking coward. I’ll get you!” I bellow.

  Just as I decide to give up, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn around. An old lady in a raincoat is looking at me anxiously. Her two dachshunds are also staring at me with their unfathomable dog faces.

  “Have you been robbed, my dear?”

  “No, it was just…”

  “Should I call the police?”

  Her eyes are big as saucers, and I sense that this is the most exciting thing to happen to her in a long time, maybe in years. One of the dachshunds growls softly.

  “No,” I say. “It’s nothing serious. I can take care of it myself.”

  PETER

  All the way down Brännkyrkagatan, I feel ashamed. Why on earth did I shake her hand, like we barely knew each other? But there’s just something about Hanne that makes me feel so damn insecure. I wonder if she knows it and, if so, if she uses it to her advantage, like Janet did.

  You can’t trust women.

  They’re not more intelligent than men, but they put more energy into figuring us out. And so we men find ourselves at a constant, self-inflicted disadvantage.

  The car is illegally parked on Hornsgatan, and when I put the key in the lock, I feel a sudden uncertainty. Maybe I should go back and apologize. But what would I be apologizing for? For taking her by the hand when I wanted to do something else entirely? For never showing up on that evening ten years ago, or for never contacting her over the many years that have passed since?

  That’s a lot to apologize for all at once.

  I sit in the car, start the engine, and think for a while. I take out my phone and punch in Manfred’s number before I can change my mind.

  It rings seven times before he responds.

  “Jesus Christ, Lindgren. It’s almost midnight. I hope this is important.”

  “Good evening to you too, sir.”

  Manfred isn’t that mad, not really. But you never know about the fathers of young children. They defend their sleep with the same intensity other men protect their balls. But what do I know, I’ve never changed a diaper in my life.

  “Do you have the coroner’s report there?”

  “Which one?”

  “The autopsy of the woman in Orre’s house.”

  He sighs loudly. “Yeah. In my computer. Wait a minute.”

  He comes back a few minutes later. In the background I hear a baby crying, a piercing cry that rises and falls rhythmically, like a broken fire alarm. “Sorry if I woke you,” I say.

  “You should have thought of that before you called,” he mumbles. “What do you want to know?”

  “Did the victim have any marks or damage in or around the eyes? On the eyelids, for example?”

  There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I look out over Hornsgatan. Some night wanderers disappear into the wind down toward Södermalmstorg square. At Mariatorget square a man struggles against the wind with a dog in tow. A lone car glides by in the direction of Hornstull.

  “The eyes, you said? Yes, actually. Thank your lucky stars that Fatima Ali did the autopsy, and not that sloppy asshole from Borås. She found…two small puncture wounds on the inside of each of the upper eyelids and a small wound eighteen millimeters below the right eye. The wounds were between one and two millimeters in diameter and did not penetrate the skin. Superficial, in other words. She declined to speculate on what caused them. Why? What’s this about, anyway?”

  —

  It takes a while for Hanne to open the door. She’s dressed in sweatpants and a faded T-shirt and has a toothbrush in one hand. Her eyes are quizzical and perhaps a little scared, which isn’t strange. You should be suspicious of strange men that come knocking on your door in the middle of the night.

  And even more suspicious if they’re not strangers.

  “You were right,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer, just slowly takes a step backward. Letting me into the warm apartment.

  —

  I wake up at seven. The only sounds are Hanne breathing evenly in the darkness and the heater humming next to the bed. I move myself closer to her as gently as I can until my body is touching her skin and her warmth belongs to me. I put my hand on her skinny hip and breathe in her scent: cinnamon and sweat. It’s a moment that’s so perfect, so pure. Like spring water or clear, cool, autumn air on a cliff by the sea after a rainstorm. A gleaming moment to save forever, right beside all the bullshit that’s crowded into the meandering paths of my memory. And because I know myself, I’m desperately afraid to spoil it. Soil it in the same way I always soil and destroy what’s beautiful and clean.

  Love and beauty are transient.

  The shit is eternal.

  But sometimes these small, clear moments of happiness appear, and the only thing you can do when that happens is nothing.

  So I lie completely still under the warm blanket, breathing as quietly as I can. Touch the soft skin of her groin near her curly pubic hair.

  Back when she was mine for real, when I had both her body and her trust, I was never this gentle. I guess that’s also one of life’s lessons—you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. A cliché, I know, but true. Longing is an excellent way to measure the value of what you’ve lost—a currency as reliable as any other.

  At half past seven I creep out of bed, get dressed, write a note, and put it on the kitchen table. Explain that I have to be at the police station by eight and tell her we’ll meet later. I consider for a while whether or not I should sign it “xo” or maybe write “Thank you for yesterday,” but without really knowing why, I decide not to do it.

  Sanchez and Manfred are already at work. They’re both sitting in front of the evidence wall, each holding a cup of coffee. Manfred looks tired, and I wonder if he got any sleep after we talked. After a minute we’re joined by Bergdahl, the investigator helping us sort through the public tips. He has a stack of paper in one hand and a pack of cigarettes in the other.

  Manfred rises laboriously from his chair and puffs.

  “Maybe it’s best if you start,” he says, and gestures to me. “You discovered something last night, right?”

  I nod and tell them about the matches, the small wounds around the victim’s eyes, and Hanne’s theory that the killer wanted to force the victim to see, not the other way around.

  “Interesting,” Sanchez says, and actually looks like she means it. Her usual irony is gone.

  “I told you the witch knew her shit,” Manfred mumbles.

  “If I understand her correctly, that means that the motive is some kind of revenge?” Sanchez asks.

  “That’s how I understood it,” I say. “But it’s probably best if she explains how she’s thinking.”

  “Do you know when she’s coming in?” Sanchez asks.

  I shrug. “No clue.”

  “All right,” says Bergdahl, who’s in his fifties and seems to be ashamed of his baldness; he insists on wearing either a cap or a hat even indoors—today it’s a black, baggy, knitted beanie. He continues: “I thought I’d go through some of the tips we’ve received since that sketch was plastered across every paper and TV station. We’ve nearly a hundred calls; the majority, about eighty, we’ve been able to dismiss by tracking down and contacting the person named in the tip. That leaves us eighteen people. We’ve divided those eighteen into two groups—interesting and less interesting, especially in terms of their physical resemblance to the victim. We’ll continue to examine them over the next few days.”

  There is the sound of steps coming down the hall, and th
en Hanne walks in, takes off her coat, and sits down on a chair next to Sanchez without meeting my eyes. I can’t help but stare at her. Her finely cut face, the hair hanging damp over her shoulder, as if she came here straight from the shower, and the pilled, way too big sweater. It makes my stomach clench.

  “So how many interesting candidates do we have?” asks Sanchez.

  “Three,” Bergdahl says, and puts three blurred images on the evidence wall, then points to the first. “Wilhelmina Andrén, twenty-two years old, Stockholm resident. Ran away from Department 140 at Danderyd Hospital two weeks ago and hasn’t been heard from since. She suffers from schizophrenia and is under compulsory psychiatric care. But according to her relatives, she’s never been violent. She has delusions. Apparently believes she can communicate with birds. She’s disappeared before, and has most often been found in a park, where she hangs out with her friends.”

  “Birds?” Manfred asks.

  “Exactly. The problem with her is that she’s a little on the short side to be our victim, but we’ll continue investigating her. Then we have Angelica Wennerlind, a twenty-six-year-old preschool teacher from Bromma. She was headed out on vacation with her five-year-old daughter on the day of the murder and hasn’t been heard from since. Her parents say she rented a cottage somewhere, but they don’t know where. It could be that she has no cell coverage wherever she is and she just hasn’t checked in. But she’s quite similar in appearance to the victim. Unfortunately, the body is in too bad condition for the parents to be able to identify her, so we’ll have to wait for the dental records.”

  “And the third?” Sanchez asks.

  Bergdahl readjusts his silly hat and points to the last image.

  “Emma Bohman, twenty-five. Until a few weeks ago she was employed as a salesperson by Clothes&More, the company Jesper Orre is CEO of. Though a couple of thousand other people are too, so that doesn’t necessarily mean anything. She lives alone on Värtavägen in central Stockholm. Her mother and father are dead. An aunt reported her missing three days ago and got in touch with us again when she saw the sketch in the headlines. The aunt has been trying to contact her for a week, with no luck, but says she doesn’t really resemble the woman in the picture. For example, she has much longer hair. But she might have cut her hair, so we’ll continue investigating her, too. We’ve ordered dental records for all three women, and will hopefully have them by later today. Based on that, the forensic odontologist should be able to determine fairly quickly if any of them are identical to our victim.”