“So you’ve seen this?”
“Absolutely,” she says, frowning. “Hard to avoid. Is it true that she was decapitated?”
I nod.
“Jesus. There are some sick people out there. Yes. I’ve seen the picture, and I don’t think that they look much alike. If I remember correctly, Emma Bohman had longer hair. But who knows, maybe she cut it?”
—
After we escort Helena Berg out, we sit back down at the table. Sanchez is excited in that way she gets whenever an investigation takes a major leap forward. She drums her fingers on the table and asks:
“So, what do you think?”
Manfred clears his throat and takes off his glasses.
“The logical conclusion is, of course, that Jesper Orre had a relationship with Emma Bohman that he didn’t want to admit to, right? It’s conceivable that she visited him in his home, maybe to confront him, and that he killed her and fled.”
Hanne leans forward and meets Manfred’s gaze. “But what about the other guy?”
“What other guy?”
Hanne suddenly looks confused, and her cheeks turn red.
“The guy who was killed…ten years ago. Surely that’s how it was? I don’t remember…What was his name again? The Chinese guy.”
“Chinese?” Sanchez asks.
“Yes, you know. The one…the other one without a head.”
“Do you mean Calderón?” Sanchez says.
Hanne exhales, but is clearly embarrassed. Tugs at her hair with one hand and blinks quickly, as if near tears.
“Exactly. Calderón.”
“He wasn’t Chinese. He was Chilean.”
“Sorry, I misspoke. But why would Jesper Orre murder and decapitate him?”
“We don’t know,” Manfred says. “Not yet. But if we root around long enough in Orre’s past, there has to be a connection somewhere.”
I turn toward Sanchez and decide to take advantage of all her puppylike energy. I recognize it well from my early years as a police officer, though I haven’t felt it myself in years. “Emma Bohman’s parents are both dead,” I say. “But her aunt reported her missing. Can you get ahold of her and see if she knows anything about Emma’s relationship with Orre? And talk to her colleagues at Clothes&More, too. We don’t know how close she was to her aunt.”
Sanchez nods and departs, with Manfred in tow. Leaving me alone with Hanne. “Shall we take a walk?” I say.
—
We walk through the snow along the square, toward the water. The wind sneaks in under my thin jacket, and the newly fallen snow creeps up along my ankles, a cold reminder of the winter boots I still haven’t bought. Hanne walks beside me, a silent shadow in shapeless coat and heavy boots. At the water, we take the left toward City Hall. The snow whirls over the bay, covering the water with a white haze, blurring the outlines of the buildings on Södermalm.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Hanne turns her head toward me, looks at me with an inscrutable gaze. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
There’s something reserved in her voice, as if she’s eager to highlight her distance from me.
“I was thinking about what…happened yesterday.”
She stops, turns her back to the wind, and pulls up her hood. Looks at me with a sad expression. Snowflakes melt on her cheek, and I want to stretch out my hand, wipe them away, but I know I’m not allowed. She hasn’t given me permission to do such a thing.
“What happened yesterday…” she begins. “It was nice. I liked it. But I have to be completely honest with you, Peter. There can never be anything between us again. Not really. Maybe we can see each other again if you want, but we can never be together. Do you understand?”
For some reason, her words make me feel desperately disappointed. Even though I can’t really say why. I mean, what did I expect? That we’d be a couple again after one night together? That what I did ten years ago could be forgiven and forgotten?
“May I ask why?”
She turns and starts walking toward the pier. Stops and looks out over the water. I follow and stand beside her. Big black birds circle above us. Maybe some kind of jackdaws or crows.
“Do you think they’re freezing?” she asks.
“I bet they’re cold as hell,” I say.
“I’m sick,” she says, and turns to me. “For real. And I can’t make that your problem. It wouldn’t be right.”
When she says she’s sick, I think of my mother. How she sat on the terrace smoking in one of the old garden chairs with a thick sweater on, despite the heat, and a silk scarf wrapped tightly around her head.
Something inside of me softens at the memory of that thin woman who was my mother, or what remained of her anyway. And the scents return: soap, cigarette smoke, and the other. The smell of the disease: disinfectant and open wounds. A smell I know well. Hospital corridors, dirty sheets, boiled potatoes, and sweaty cheese sandwiches wrapped in plastic.
The smell of institutions.
“Do you have cancer?” I ask.
I don’t know why, it just slips out of me.
Hanne laughs. “No,” she says. “Why would you think I have cancer?”
“I don’t know. A lot of people…get it.”
She doesn’t comment on my strange statement. Instead she looks quizzically at me with a smile in the corner of her mouth.
I think about Janet again. A few years ago, she was convinced she had a tumor in her breast. Called me crying and begging me to take care of Albin if she died. I wasn’t even worried. The thought of the mother of my child fighting a life-threatening disease left me completely unmoved.
I wonder what that says about me.
“So what is it?” I ask.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Hanne says, and turns around. Disappears into the snowstorm toward the police station with steps so deliberate that I don’t dare follow her.
—
Just as I’m about to return there myself, the phone rings. It’s Janet. Her voice is even more forced than usual, and I can tell immediately that something has happened.
“You have to talk to Albin,” she says on an inhalation.
I walk toward a covered entrance to get out of the wind. “About what?”
“About…He’s started skipping school. And he’s hanging out with that awful gang in Skogås. You know, the ones I told you about.”
I step into the entranceway, where I’m protected from snow, and warm one hand against my neck. My fingers feel like icicles.
“Okay. He’s hanging out in Skogås. And why should I talk to him about it?”
I hear how I sound and regret it immediately. It’s not my intention to put her down, but it’s always like this. Janet calls me as soon as there’s a problem with Albin. Even though we decided long before he was born that she’d raise him by herself. Since she had him against my wishes.
“Because you’re a police officer. You know things. About drugs and that kind of stuff. And you know what happens to boys who flip out. And because…you’re his father,” she adds quickly and almost silently, as if she’d uttered a forbidden word.
I look out into the snow. Trying to figure out how to make her understand without being rude. Wondering what argument might stop her nagging.
“I’m sure he’s fine,” I say, perhaps a little too feebly.
“It is not fine,” she shouts. “It’s always like this. You won’t take any responsibility for Albin. You never help me. Even when I beg you to. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is for me to ask you for something like this? Do you know how long I hesitated before I picked up the phone and dialed your fucking number? Do you understand?”
I squirm. I decide this is probably not the right time to remind her of our agreement, which we entered into more than fifteen years ago.
“Okay,” I say, and warm my other hand on my neck.
“Good. When?”
“What do you mean, ‘when’? Not today, anyway. I’m in the middle of a murder
investigation.”
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow…no. I don’t have time tomorrow. Maybe next week.”
“You know what, Peter? This is so fucking typical. I don’t even know why I called you. You can take your fucking job and go to hell, because Albin and I never want to see you again. You hear me? Go to hell!”
—
I stand there for a long time, watching the snow fall. Looking at those black birds flying above me. Thinking about my mother and sister resting in the Woodland Cemetery, wondering if they’re cold lying six feet under the ground. I think about how fucking unfair it is to lose Hanne when I’ve finally gotten her back. Then I remind myself: I haven’t gotten her back. But somehow it still feels that way.
Then I remember all that I’ve lost, even those who are still alive, like Albin and Janet. Everyone I’ve pushed away, lied to, or run from. And when I consider that for a moment, I realize I deserve this. This is probably a fair punishment—Hanne will never be mine.
EMMA
TWO WEEKS EARLIER
It’s absurd. I’ve never even shoplifted a candy bar, and here I am being accused of stealing an expensive piece of jewelry. I’m sitting in one of my green armchairs with my feet up on the table. And suddenly I realize how much I miss Sigge. True, he was just a cat, but he was my companion, and somehow his presence transformed this apartment into a home. Without him, it feels so empty and bare and cold. Maybe I should buy a new cat, but that doesn’t feel right either, somehow. It feels like I should mourn Sigge a little while before bringing home a new pet.
My physics textbooks are lying untouched, gathering dust. I’ve lost several weeks of studying because of Jesper. And he was the one who was so anxious for me to get my high school diploma. And to go to college, too, if I wanted to. I close my eyes. Lean back.
Try to remember.
—
“But why did you drop out of high school?”
“Jesus, do we really have to talk about that now?”
Jesper pulled out of me, rolled sideways, and lay down beside me in bed. Then he bunched up a pillow as support for his head. His expression was amused, almost annoyed. Once the weight of his body had disappeared, it became easier to breathe. I inhaled deeply and met his eyes.
“You don’t like to talk about that, huh?”
“Honestly, I have no problem talking about it. But it’s not very romantic, is it?”
“But I want to know. I love you, and I want to understand why you did what you did.”
“Do we have to know everything about each other?”
“Of course not.”
For a moment he looked so serious, it almost scared me. As if he’d suddenly turned his gaze inward, toward some dark secret brooding inside. Then the moment was gone, and he looked like usual. I sighed, aware that I couldn’t get myself out of this situation without some kind of explanation.
“Why did you drop out?” he asked again, stressing every syllable.
“I didn’t drop out. I never started. When Dad died…” I paused.
“Yes?”
He leaned over me, cupped his left hand gently around my breast, and kissed me. I could feel the humid warmth radiating from his body.
“Basically, my life got too messy. First Dad died, then that thing happened with Woody, my shop teacher, in the spring of ninth grade. And I just wasn’t able to keep going to school after that. So I left that summer, took a six-month break. Then I started working.”
He released my breast suddenly, as if he’d burnt himself on it. “So all of this was that damn Woody’s fault?”
“I don’t know. I guess it was both of our faults.”
He laughed drily. “Oh, please. You were just a kid, and he was a grown man. What he did to you was sick and disgusting and…repulsive. Fucking pedophile.”
“But I went along with it.”
Jesper sat up, suddenly looking angry, and wrapped the blanket around his hips. “You don’t mean that, after all these years, you still blame yourself for what happened?”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry. I just get so fucking upset when I think about how he used you. You were a minor, under his care, and he violated you.”
“Come on. It wasn’t exactly an assault.”
“Call it what you will. It was wrong, and he should have understood that.”
“What do you call this, then?”
He froze. “I’m not sure I follow you.”
“Well, I’m your inferior too, right? You’re the CEO of the company I work for. But you have no problem fucking me.”
“That’s hardly the same thing. We’re two adults who love each other. Neither one of us is using the other. This might be…I don’t know. It might be unprofessional of me.”
He sounded convincing, but I sensed that I’d hit a nerve. He edged a few inches away. Groped for the pack of cigarettes lying on the bedside table.
“Be honest now, Jesper. Do you think this is a completely normal relationship between two equals?”
He didn’t answer.
—
I’m lying in bed, fully dressed, staring up at the ceiling. In one corner a spiderweb flutters in the draft coming through the window. A long crack runs diagonally across the ceiling, from one corner of the room to the other. Someday this apartment has to be renovated, I realize, but how am I going to pay for that now?
Jesper’s fault.
All of this is Jesper’s fault. I feel weak again. The excitement and energy that came from burning down Jesper’s garage is gone. It feels as if I’m falling into a deep black hole again. And outside, the rain keeps falling over Stockholm. Even the sky is crying.
I’m suddenly gripped by a strong desire to confront Jesper. Corner him and force him to tell me why he’s doing this to me. If I do, if I’m strong enough to meet him as an equal, maybe I can regain control of my life again, and reclaim my dignity.
It has to work, I think. It worked with Woody.
The principal’s office consisted of two rooms: a small waiting room with two worn, plush armchairs in it and another room behind a frosted-glass door. I sat in one chair in the waiting room, and Mom sat in the other. There was a birch-veneered coffee table in front of us, piled with newspapers. I browsed through them: Today’s School, Pedagogical Journal. Nothing interesting. On the other side of the frosted glass I could see some movement, but it was impossible to make out who was in there.
Mom fiddled with her new cornflower-blue purse and let out a hissing sound, which I knew meant she was annoyed.
“I don’t understand why they won’t say what this is about. I have a job to do and can’t just sit here all day if this isn’t very important; I told the principal as much on the phone. This better be very urgent, because I have my job and my husband’s funeral to think about. And besides that—”
“Mom. Please stop. They might hear you.”
She shot me an icy stare. “You better hope you haven’t been up to anything. Have you?”
“How should I know? I don’t know why we’re here either.”
I looked at the clock on the wall. The thin black second hand looked like a spider moving across the clock face. When it reached twelve, the minute hand made a little shaky leap forward.
“Have you been shoplifting?”
“Come on. Of course not.”
“Have you been skipping school?”
“Stop it! I haven’t been skipping.”
“Then can you explain to me why I’m sitting here instead of at work?”
Mom was always pointing out to anyone who would listen that she had a job. She’d been unemployed for several years after developing back problems, so the job meant a lot to her.
She glanced at the clock on the wall, which showed ten past eleven. “I have thirty minutes. No more.”
She folded her fat hands in her lap. Then she was silent. I didn’t know what to say. On the other side of the frosted glass I heard the
sound of chairs scraping against the floor.
“Emma,” Mom said.
“Yes?”
“You haven’t been smoking hashish, have you?”
At that very moment the frosted door opened, and Britt Henriksson, the school principal, stuck her sunburnt head out. Her thin, brightly colored summer dress hung like a sack on her skinny body.
“So good you could come. Welcome!”
She took a step back and opened the door. Mom stepped forward, said hello, and I followed hesitantly behind her. Principal Britt’s smile was strained as she took me by the hand.
In a swivel chair opposite the desk sat Sigmund, also known as Dr. Freud, the school psychologist. His close-cropped dark hair, bushy beard, and generous proportions made him look more like Pippi’s father than he did the stern German psychologist. Next to Sigmund sat Elin. Her cheeks were red, and she was staring down at the floor.
“Thank you, Elin. You can go now. We’ll let you know if there’s anything else,” said Principal Britt.
Elin stood up and, without taking her eyes off the linoleum floor, left the room.
“It’s so stuffy in here,” Britt said. “Sigmund, could you please open the window?”
The principal was right. The air in the room was thick and smelled like sweaty old socks. Sigmund heaved himself up from the chair with some effort, waddled over to the window, and opened it. Letting summer into the small room.
“That’s better,” Britt chirped. “Would you like some lemonade?”
I nodded, but Mom raised her hand. “None for me, thanks. I’m in a hurry to get back to work.”
Britt nodded, poured the juice into a white plastic cup, and handed it to me. It was the same as the mugs in the school cafeteria, I noticed. For some reason that surprised me. I’d imagined that the teachers and principal used real dishes, that everything was nicer and more grown-up in the staff room and the principal’s office.
Britt readjusted her sacklike dress and sat down carefully on the edge of her chair, as if she were afraid it would break otherwise.
“Emma. Maybe you already know why you’re here today?”
I shook my head.
Britt cleared her throat and looked down. Obviously, she was embarrassed by the situation. Sigmund said nothing, just stroked his beard and looked longingly out the window.
The Ice Beneath Her Page 26