by Viveca Sten
“See you around,” Jonas said, setting off in the opposite direction.
They were approaching Sandhamn, and Nora got out her wallet to buy their ferry tickets before they disembarked. When she had paid and was on her way back to her seat, she saw her tenant sitting at one of the small tables by the window on the port side.
He had opened up his laptop and was concentrating hard on what looked like one of Adam’s games. Roman soldiers flickered on the screen in bright colors, attacking one another as he moved the mouse back and forth. He seemed oblivious to the outside world and didn’t even glance up as she walked by.
Jonas Sköld obviously liked to play strategy games. Henrik would never have considered such a thing. Nora couldn’t help smiling.
CHAPTER 11
Älta was one of Stockholm’s smaller suburbs, redeveloped in the 1960s and close to nature. It was in the southern part of Nacka district, and it took less than fifteen minutes for Thomas to drive out there.
He parked on the street and looked up at the façade of the apartment complex where Jan-Erik Fredell lived, according to the electoral register. The building was eight stories high, and there was no entry code.
The door to the apartment was opened by a woman in her fifties. She had short, straight hair and was wearing a gray cardigan, buttoned all the way up to the top.
“Yes?” she said.
Thomas introduced himself and asked if he could come in. She took a couple of steps back and he walked into the roomy hallway.
“Janne, you have a visitor—police!” she called out, then introduced herself as Lena Fredell. She led the way into a sunny living room with a fine parquet floor. Thomas noticed that the floor plan throughout was completely flat, with no elevated thresholds, and the reason became clear when he saw the gaunt figure sitting on the sofa watching TV, with a wheeled walker beside him. The glassed-in balcony provided a view over the forest, where yellow leaves were beginning to appear among the green.
Jan-Erik Fredell held out a shaky hand to Thomas, who tried to hide his surprise—but without success.
“I have MS, multiple sclerosis,” Fredell explained. The effort involved in speaking was unmistakable. “Forgive me if I don’t get up.”
He reached for a remote with extra large buttons and switched off the TV.
“It started ten years ago, and here I am,” he said quietly. “What can I do for you?”
Thomas sat down in the armchair beside him.
“I’m investigating a death, a young man by the name of Marcus Nielsen. Do you happen to know him?”
Jan-Erik Fredell started coughing violently, and his wife hurried in. She patted his back and held up a glass containing a blue straw she’d brought in from the kitchen. After a moment, he took a sip. When the attack was over, Lena turned to Thomas. Her tone was more than a little reproachful.
“My husband is not well, as you can see. He can’t cope with any kind of upset. What happened?”
There was no reason not to be honest.
“I asked about a student named Marcus Nielsen. He was found dead in his apartment on Sunday.”
Lena looked horrified.
“The young man who came to see us last week? The psychology student?”
Thomas nodded. “He came to see you—what day was that?”
“Let me think . . . it was probably last Wednesday.”
“Can you tell me a little more about his visit?”
Lena glanced at her husband. “You talked to him more than I did.”
Jan-Erik slowly straightened up, as if he were getting ready to talk, and Lena went back to the kitchen.
“He called and asked if he could come over,” Jan-Erik began, his voice hoarse. “Something to do with an assignment he was working on, and he had a lot of questions.”
“About what?”
“He wanted to know about my time in the army.”
Thomas was taken aback; that wasn’t what he had been expecting at all.
“Why was that?”
“He said he was writing about the military in the 1970s.”
Thomas thought for a moment. Back then, more or less every male was called up for compulsory military service for about a year or so, except those who were excused on medical grounds.
“He asked about what it was like, what we had to do, and how we felt,” Jan-Erik went on. “He had a form with him, and he filled it in as we talked.”
“Why did he contact you in particular?”
“I guess it was pure chance; he found a yearbook with my name in it.”
A fresh attack of coughing interrupted the conversation, and Thomas waited for Jan-Erik to catch his breath.
“So what did you tell him?” he asked eventually.
“We talked about a few things, but it was a long time ago—over thirty years—and my memory isn’t what it used to be.”
“Where did you serve?”
“I was a Coastal Ranger.”
A Coastal Ranger. Thomas pictured young men in their green uniforms, with berets and buzz cuts. Fighters who lived for the military and went through the very worst ordeals in order to prove their superiority.
“So you were on the island of Korsö?”
A nostalgic smile. “Yes. Do you know the island?”
“I was with the maritime police for many years, and there’s an overnight billet there. Plus, I have a summer cottage on Harö, which isn’t far away.”
It was clear that Jan-Erik was beginning to tire, and Thomas broke off. The shaking was much worse now, and the older man’s head was drooping as if it was too heavy for his neck to bear. His skin was wrinkled, gathered in folds at the base of his throat. He reminded Thomas of a turkey with its beak sagging.
Thomas checked his watch; Jan-Erik couldn’t cope for much longer.
“Did any of Marcus’s questions strike you as unusual?”
A shake of the head, then a weary smile.
“I don’t know. I’m so tired these days. He was a very pleasant young man. I’m sorry to hear that he’s dead.”
“One last question: Can you tell me anything about this assignment he was working on?”
“It was about group dynamics. He called it something in English, but I don’t remember what it was.”
I ought to contact his supervisor at the university, Thomas thought. Find out exactly what he was writing about.
Jan-Erik cleared his throat, then started coughing again. Thomas reached for the glass.
“Would you like some water?”
“Please.”
Thomas held the glass as Jan-Erik drank. In spite of the straw, a few drops trickled down his chin.
Thomas was filled with sympathy. It couldn’t be easy, being sick and dependent on others at an age when you should still be full of strength and energy. It was terrible when the most basic elements of everyday life, like getting up, having a drink of water, or going to the toilet suddenly became an immense undertaking rather than a simple task.
Lena Fredell reappeared, as if she had been listening outside the door. Thomas wondered how often she waited in the shadows, ready to step in and help when necessary. The loving look she gave her husband bore witness to her endless patience.
She leaned forward and wiped Jan-Erik’s chin. Thomas noticed a faded scar on her forehead as she came closer—probably the result of chicken pox when she was a child.
He got to his feet and thanked them both. Lena accompanied him to the door.
“Can I ask how Marcus died?” she asked as Thomas was about to leave.
He hesitated, but it was a fair question.
“He took his own life. He hanged himself in his apartment.”
Lena looked horrified.
“That’s terrible! I would never have suspected such a thing when he was here. His poor family!”
Her words rang in Thomas’s ears as he left the building.
CHAPTER 12
There was a rattling sound as Thomas turned his key. The dead bolt wasn’t lo
cked, so he knew Pernilla was already home. Anxiety gnawed away at his gut. She had sounded so hesitant, so tense, that he had come straight home after visiting Jan-Erik Fredell. Robert Cronwall could wait.
Several times he had almost called her during the afternoon, but then she had said it was nothing special, and he knew how busy she often was at the advertising agency. Sometimes a quick text was the only way they could get ahold of each other during the workday.
Come to think of it, Pernilla hadn’t been herself lately. She had been unusually quiet in the evenings, and she had started going to bed early. They were both interested in cooking, but he had been the one to suggest trying different recipes; she had seemed distracted.
Maybe the wounds from the divorce hadn’t healed after all?
After Emily’s death, Thomas had been devastated, unable to break free of the conviction that someone must bear the responsibility for the loss of his daughter. Pernilla was the closest—if it wasn’t her fault, then whose was it?
He knew he had a debt to repay; he had behaved unforgivably when their lives came crashing down.
“Hi,” he called tentatively. “I’m home.”
He could see Pernilla’s shoes in the hallway, but there wasn’t a sound from anywhere in the apartment. Her purse and keys were on the chest of drawers.
“Hello?” he tried again, louder this time.
“In here,” came the faint response.
Thomas dropped his jacket on a chair and hurried to the bedroom. Pernilla was lying on her side, and he could see she’d been crying. Her eyes were puffy, and she was clutching a handkerchief. Her strawberry-blond hair was tousled, and the freckles the summer sun had brought out emphasized the pallor of her skin.
Tears lingered on her eyelashes.
“What’s happened?”
Thomas sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled her close. She smelled of soap and apple shampoo, and he buried his nose in her hair.
They stayed like that for a while, until he gently pushed her away so that he could see her face.
She tried to smile, but it was more of a quiver of the lips.
The cold feeling in his chest continued to spread.
Pernilla had been with him every step of the way since that terrible day on the ice. Was it all too much for her? He had only himself to blame; he was well aware of that. He ran his finger down her cheek; her skin was soft and warm.
All at once he realized that the expression in her eyes was not one of pain and sorrow. It was something completely different. She was happy and scared and shocked. And disbelieving, more than anything.
Her lips moved, but when she uttered the words, he couldn’t believe them either.
She had to repeat them over and over again, and it wasn’t until she started laughing and crying at the same time that he understood they were really true.
“I’m pregnant, Thomas. We’re having another baby.”
DIARY: NOVEMBER 1976
My arms are still shaking, everything hurts. We had to get up in the middle of the night and go and stand in the corridor with our arms outstretched. The order was to hold out different items of clothing, one at a time.
We weren’t allowed to lower our arms, however tired we got. Our muscles screamed with the strain, but we weren’t allowed to change position, not one fraction of an inch.
“One sock at a time, hold it out with your arm straight, soldier!” the sergeant yelled.
We stood there for an eternity, not daring to open our mouths to protest.
“You are being trained to become good soldiers. You will learn to cope with the demands of war,” he bellowed in the semidarkness.
If there was the slightest murmur, we were ordered to adopt the rangers’ rest position. It’s agonizing. Back to the wall, knees bent at a ninety-degree angle. Your thigh muscles are shrieking with pain after just a few minutes. Sigurd and Andersson went down first; they crashed to the floor and lay there writhing.
The sergeant stared at them without saying a word, but I could see the contempt in his eyes, particularly when he contemplated Andersson’s shaking body.
“Please don’t let me faint,” I muttered to myself as I forced my trembling thighs to remain in the same position. Please God, don’t let me faint in front of the sergeant.
Before we were allowed to go back to bed at long last, we had to sing the national anthem.
Over and over again. Louder and louder. We sang like lunatics, at the tops of our voices. It was after three by the time we got to bed, and I was dizzy with exhaustion.
The last few nights, I have slept on the floor; it saves a few seconds in the morning if I don’t have to make the bed.
Kaufman and Martinger sleep in their pants and boots so they can make it to roll call on time. It’s against the rules, but they take the risk. The punishment for being late is even worse.
They woke us at dawn and told us to jog to the shower room. The water was already flowing at full volume.
When the whistle blew, two of us had to run into the ice-cold water; at the next signal, those two ran to the back of the line, soaping their bodies as the others moved forward until it was time to run through the freezing stream once more.
The bitter morning air poured in through the open window.
We volunteered to come here.
I have no intention of being the first one to be sent home.
CHAPTER 13
Saturday (The First Week)
Nora opened her eyes, and for a moment she couldn’t quite figure out where she was. Then she realized she was in her new bedroom.
She had chosen the north room, upstairs overlooking the sea. Aunt Signe had occupied the east bedroom, which was now Adam’s. A smaller west-facing room, which in the past had been mainly used for storage, had been kitted out for Simon.
Nora had been drawn to the light up here, even though it was the coldest spot in the whole house. When the wind blew from the north, the walls creaked, and the chilly air found its way in, no matter how much she built up the fire in the beautiful old tiled stove.
But the view was stunning. She loved waking up in the Brand villa and gazing out across the water. There was a faded dark-blue roller blind, but she never pulled it all the way down. She didn’t want to miss that fantastic view every morning.
Through the leaded windows with their convex panes, she could see far beyond Harö, with the tower on the island of Korsö just visible to the east. The islands and skerries extended into the distance, until they were no more than dark shadows against the pale, still waters.
To be on the safe side, Nora had bought the warmest duvet she could find and had installed an extra radiator under the window. It was all a bit much in the heat of summer, but she knew winter was on its way.
She and the boys hadn’t changed too much of the house. The bedrooms had been redecorated in colors the boys had chosen, and the kitchen had been freshened up a little without losing its old-fashioned charm. She had treated herself to a dishwasher, and a coat of white paint on the paneled walls had done wonders.
She hadn’t touched the generously proportioned dining room, with its elegant upholstered chairs. The Mora clock was still ticking away in the corner, and the glassed-in veranda, where Aunt Signe used to sit with her beloved dog, Kajsa, looked exactly the same as it always had. Even her aunt’s old checkered blanket was still there.
Nora could afford to take her time; it really didn’t matter if everything wasn’t done right away. Moving into the new apartment in Saltsjöbaden had been stressful enough; she couldn’t face another new project just yet.
She rolled over onto her side so that she could look out the window.
It’s almost a religious experience, she thought, experiencing the day as it is about to begin. The sun was shining; it was going to be a beautiful day, a reminder that autumn hadn’t yet completely taken over.
There wasn’t a sound from the boys’ rooms, but then it was only seven thirty. Adam and Wille could easily sleep
until midday if she didn’t wake them, but Simon was an early bird. If she was lucky, he would come padding in for a cuddle. But he was growing up, too; soon he would wriggle free when she tried to hug him.
Who would she cuddle then?
Nora pressed her lips together and shook her head. She had only herself to blame if she didn’t make the most of this glorious Saturday. She threw back the covers; time to get up.
Nora grabbed her sailing jacket, ran down the stairs, then out the door and through the gate. She glanced at the sea and saw a pearl necklace of white boats heading for Sandhamn.
The good weather seemed to have motivated a lot of people to go for one last sail before the summer came to an end. A slender old Mälar 30 was gliding through the Sound, the wind filling her sails, the polished mahogany hull gleaming in the sunshine.
A short distance away, one of her neighbors was standing on his jetty cleaning nets. Olle Granlund was almost seventy; he had grown up on the island. Nora had known him all her life. She gave him a wave.
If the fish weren’t biting or you hadn’t had time to lay your own nets, you could always knock on Olle’s door and beg for a couple of whitefish or, if you were lucky, some delicious perch fillets.
Olle was also happy to help out with the practicalities, something Nora greatly appreciated now that Henrik wasn’t around. She knew she ought to work on her skills with a hammer and nails, not to mention recalcitrant radiators and boilers, but that was on her list of things to tackle at some point in the future.
Deep down she was ashamed of the fact that she had always taken the easy way out and let Henrik deal with that kind of thing, but that was yet another sign of the hopelessly old-fashioned division of labor that had characterized their marriage.
She walked past the old Mission House with its green bay window and continued toward the southern part of the island.
It was peaceful in the pine forest; the only sound was the soughing of the tall trees. Heather and low-growing blueberry bushes had spread in all directions, and there were still blueberries to be seen, plumped up with water. Nora stopped and picked a few, even though they had long ago lost their flavor. July was the right time to eat them, not September; they didn’t taste great. But there were also plenty of lingonberries; Nora thought about bringing the boys out here in the afternoon. Even her computer-crazy son could be tempted by a bowl of bright-red lingonberries with creamy milk.