by Viveca Sten
Then he turned and raised himself on one elbow, looking down at her with his eyes half-closed. Their faces were inches apart, and he lowered his head and kissed her.
Afterward, he had held her tight, and she had dozed in his arms for a long time.
DIARY: NOVEMBER 1976
“Today you’re going to learn to freeze.”
The sergeant uttered the words with a smile, as if he had said something very amusing. It was five o’clock in the morning, and we had been woken early, with no warning. It was still dark outside as we silently dressed and grabbed our packs.
I have begun to get used to these sudden awakenings, to being dragged from my bed at all hours. The unexpected has become part of my expectations.
We were ordered to line up on the hill; the temperature was below freezing, and a fine layer of snow covered the ground.
“Now you’re going to learn to freeze,” the sergeant repeated.
I looked around, but no one seemed to understand what he meant. However, the unmistakable glee in his voice didn’t bode well.
The sergeant led the way, and we marched along behind him. There was very little light in the forest, and visibility was poor. I had to be very careful where I put my feet in order to avoid tripping. Eventually we reached an area to the west of the barracks. It looked like a field that might once have been used for agriculture; it had been plowed at some point, and the muddy furrows were full of water with a thin film of ice on top. The dark earth was edged with rime frost.
The sergeant held up his hand, and we stopped. We obeyed without a sound. As usual, we stood to attention and waited for the next order.
“Take off your packs and coats!” he barked.
I glanced uncertainly at the others, but when everyone started to comply, I did the same.
“Fold up your coats and put them on top of your packs!”
“Yes, Sergeant!” we answered with one voice.
“Take off your caps, scarves, and gloves.”
“Yes, Sergeant!”
He gives the orders and we obey—it’s that simple.
The cold was immediate. It bit into our cheeks and spread through our bodies in minutes. Our attention was focused on the sergeant, but he made us wait, almost as if he were enjoying the unspoken question: What next?
As the seconds ticked by in the dim morning light, he kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. He was in no hurry.
“Lie down on your backs!” he said at long last.
We did as we were told.
The ground was ice-cold, and my left leg ended up in the water. In no time at all, I was so cold that I was shivering.
I turned my head so that I could see the others out of the corner of my eye. They were all lying there motionless, gazing up at the sky. No one complained, but those closest to me were shivering, too, and their lips were blue.
Andersson was to my left, shaking violently.
Time passed: fifteen minutes, half an hour. I tried to empty my mind; that made it easier to bear. Time lost all meaning and I lay there half-awake, half in a trance.
At some point, the sergeant would decide that we had had enough; until then, all we could do was try to stick it out.
After an eternity, maybe an hour, maybe more, I heard a strange noise from the side where Andersson lay. It took a little while before I figured out what it was.
His teeth were chattering so hard it sounded like gunshots across the open field. The sergeant heard it, too. He came over and stared down at Andersson.
“Permission to stand up, Sergeant.” Andersson somehow managed to force out the words.
“Permission denied.”
It was brave to ask the question. I would never have had the nerve. I lay there silently admiring Andersson. He doesn’t say much, but he has a strong sense of what’s right and wrong.
Eventually we were allowed to stand up. Except for Andersson—he had to stay down for another fifteen minutes.
As I scrambled to my feet, I stole a glance at him, but he didn’t meet my eyes. Instead he gazed up at the gray, overcast sky, his expression grim.
When he was permitted to get up, his legs refused to cooperate. We had to help him back to the barracks. Martinger, who is the strongest of us all, carried him on his back for the final stretch.
We were looking forward to a hot shower, but no such luck. The hot water had been turned off for “repairs.” We had to cover Andersson with thick blankets to try to raise his body temperature.
We certainly did learn to freeze today.
CHAPTER 23
Tuesday (The Second Week)
The tower block in Brandbergen was like a monument to the building frenzy of the 1960s, when Stockholm had to be expanded by adding suburbs to house those who’d come to the city from rural areas and from other countries in order to find work.
The walls on both sides of the door were covered in graffiti, and the window in a door that probably led to the basement was cracked.
“Do you think it’s safe to leave the car here?” Margit muttered, tilting her head in the direction of a bicycle with broken spokes, next to something that might have been an attempt at a flower bed. There was garbage everywhere—candy wrappers, empty beer cans, torn plastic bags. The only greenery was the odd clump of grass, interspersed with dandelions. Any flowers that had been planted had given up long ago.
“The question is whether it’s better or worse to show that we’re police,” Thomas said. A short distance away, a group of boys was standing around smoking. They all wore hoodies, and they should have been in a classroom at this time of day. He wondered if they were waiting for Margit and him to leave so that they could strip the car, or if they just had nothing better to do.
“Maybe one of us should stay here?” Margit suggested.
Thomas locked the car. “It’ll be fine. Let’s go.”
The unmarked police vehicle was equipped with a powerful alarm; if anyone touched it, he and Margit should be able to hear the racket and get back before too much damage was done. If it had been his Volvo, he might have made a different decision.
He slipped the keys in his pocket and headed for the main door. A board inside informed them that Bo Kaufman lived on the fourth floor; there were thirteen floors in total.
The elevator was working, although it, too, had graffiti scrawled all over its walls. Thomas wondered how the families who lived at the top of the building coped when the elevator broke down.
They reached the fourth floor, walked down the hall, and rang Kaufman’s doorbell. According to Karin’s notes, he lived alone. There were no details about his former profession or any permanent employment; apparently he was able to survive on state handouts.
When no one answered, Thomas rang again, keeping his finger on the bell for longer this time.
Eventually they heard shuffling footsteps, then the door opened a crack.
“Yes?”
“Bo Kaufman? Police—we’d like to speak to you.”
Thomas was aware of a slight movement as Kaufman tried to close the door. He grabbed the frame with one hand and stared straight into a pair of bloodshot eyes. Kaufman let go of the handle and stepped back. The door opened to reveal a man in a grubby white T-shirt straining over his gut.
“What the fuck, I ain’t done nothing,” he muttered.
“Nobody says you have,” Margit said firmly, “but we need to talk to you. Can we come in?”
They stepped inside the sparsely furnished apartment and followed Kaufman into the tiny kitchen. He sat down on one of the two chairs by the table. Over by the wall, there was an old refrigerator that seemed to be held together with gaffer tape, and the battered sink was piled high with dirty dishes.
Judging by the number of glasses and full ashtrays on the draining board, Bo Kaufman had done his fair share of partying recently.
The shaking hands, the open pores, and the empty bottles all pointed to serious long-term alcohol abuse. He probably makes ends meet by taking the odd job whe
never his benefits run out, Thomas thought. Cash only, of course. He had seen similar cases before.
Margit removed a pile of junk mail from the other chair, but left one leaflet for protection before she sat down opposite Kaufman. Thomas looked around and found a stool pushed under the worktop.
“Have you had visitors recently?” Margit asked.
Kaufman ran a hand over his hair, which was slightly too long at the back. His face looked puffy, and Thomas wondered if he was sober. Probably not. In his state, the alcohol rarely left the body completely. Before the level of booze in his bloodstream dropped too much, he probably made sure he topped it off again.
“I had a couple of pals over last night.”
“Do you live alone?”
“Mmm.” A shrug. “I had a girl for a while, but she took off.”
“Any kids?”
“A boy, but I don’t see him too often.”
Thomas took out the photograph of Marcus Nielsen and placed it on the table.
“Do you know this guy?”
A cursory glance. “No.”
“Take a closer look,” Margit insisted. “Are you sure you’ve never met him?”
Kaufman picked up the photo with a trembling hand, the dirty nails standing out against the white border.
“Never seen him before.”
“Are you absolutely certain?”
“That’s what I said!”
“His name is Marcus Nielsen, and he was a student of psychology at Stockholm University,” Thomas explained. “Unfortunately he’s dead, and we found your name in his cell phone.”
An uncertain expression came over Kaufman’s face.
“Why?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out,” Thomas said patiently.
“You’ve no idea why Marcus would have had your name?” Margit asked.
“Nope.”
Kaufman rummaged in the pocket of his filthy jeans and produced a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He lit up and took a deep drag.
Margit leaned forward. Thomas could see that she had had enough.
“What were you doing the weekend before last, and this past Saturday?”
“What?”
“What were you doing last Saturday, and the weekend before that?”
“I don’t know—I guess I was with my pals.”
Kaufman seemed taken aback; he looked at Thomas for some kind of explanation, or possibly sympathy, but Thomas was finding it hard to summon up any compassion, partly due to Kaufman’s lack of interest in answering their questions. The guy didn’t give a shit about the rest of the world, as long as he could get a drink.
“Is there anyone who can confirm that?” Margit folded her arms and waited for a response, never taking her eyes off him.
Anger flared in Kaufman’s eyes.
“What the fuck? What are you accusing me of? Like I said, I ain’t done nothing!”
“We just want you to tell us where you were last Saturday and the weekend before. That’s all.”
Margit was still staring at him.
Kaufman sucked on his cigarette. When he had exhaled a cloud of smoke, his face brightened.
“Tobbe was here all day Saturday, you can talk to him.” His tone became conciliatory. “I don’t remember exactly what I was doing the previous weekend. You can’t accuse me of something just because I have a bad memory. I told you, I’ve never seen that guy before.”
Thomas tried a new angle.
“Do you know a man by the name of Robert Cronwall?”
Another deep drag, then Kaufman shook his head without saying a word.
“What about this man—do you recognize him?”
Thomas placed a picture of Jan-Erik Fredell on the table next to the photograph of Marcus Nielsen. There could easily have been fifty years between the two men, although, in fact, it was roughly half that.
“I’ve never seen him either, I swear. Does he live around here?”
“His name was Jan-Erik Fredell,” Margit said. “Ring any bells?”
Kaufman began coughing violently. He got to his feet and bent over the sink, still coughing.
Margit stood up and tried thumping him on the back, but he waved her away. When the attack was over, he filled a glass with water and drank it straight down. Then he lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“Are you OK?” Margit said.
“Chronic chest problems,” he mumbled hoarsely, wiping tears from his eyes.
“So should you really be smoking?”
“That’s what the doctor said, too. He told me I have to stop drinking and smoking.” Kaufman grinned. “Fucking know-it-all. If I give up booze and cigarettes, I might as well lay down and die right now.”
He exhaled slowly. The nicotine seemed to be having a calming effect; he sat down and picked up the picture of Fredell again, this time with genuine interest in his eyes.
“His name was Jan-Erik Fredell,” Thomas said. “He died on Saturday, at the age of fifty.”
Something seemed to spark in Kaufman’s addled brain. He blinked and dropped the photograph as if it were red hot.
“What did you say his name was?”
“Fredell. Jan-Erik Fredell.”
“That’s Jan-Erik Fredell?”
“Yes.”
“Janne Fredell . . . He looks like an old man, for fuck’s sake!”
You don’t look so good yourself, Thomas thought. “He was suffering from multiple sclerosis,” he said out loud. “He could hardly get around anymore.”
“And he’s dead?”
“Murdered,” Margit said. “Last Saturday.”
“Jeez.”
“Someone drowned him in his own bathtub.”
A sudden intake of breath as Margit’s words sank in.
“Are you sure?” he croaked.
“Absolutely. We’re trying to find out why—can you help us?”
Kaufman used his cigarette to light a fresh one before stubbing it out on a saucer.
“Jeez,” he said again. He got up, went over to the counter, and started shaking the beer bottles that were lined up. After several attempts, he found one with a few drops left; he raised it to his lips and emptied it, then stood there, cigarette in hand, rocking back and forth on his heels.
“Fredell . . . murdered. Why, for fuck’s sake?”
Thomas was getting tired of repeating everything over and over again.
“We don’t know, but we’re wondering if you have any information that could help move our investigation forward. How well did you know him?”
Bo Kaufman leaned back to rest his head on a shabby cupboard door and closed his eyes. The roar of a motorbike starting up outside shattered the silence.
Thomas thought about their car, but so far the alarm hadn’t gone off.
After a few seconds, Kaufman opened his eyes; they were filled with sadness.
“We did our national service together.”
“And where was that?”
“We were Coastal Rangers—artillery.” There was a touch of nostalgia in his voice.
Another Coastal Ranger. Thomas’s attention was now fully focused on Kaufman.
“When was this?”
“In the seventies. First in Vaxholm, then on Korsö just off Sandhamn. Wait a minute.”
Kaufman disappeared into the living room, leaving Thomas and Margit alone in the stuffy kitchen. They could hear drawers being opened and closed. Margit wrinkled her nose.
“Jesus, it stinks in here; I can hardly breathe.”
She was about to open the window when Kaufman returned, clutching an old photograph album with a red cover.
“Look.”
He pointed to a photo of himself in full uniform with the familiar green beret on his head. In the background, Thomas could just see something that he thought he recognized as Vaxholm Fortress.
“That’s me—Cadet Kaufman at your service.”
He gave a clumsy salute, and now Thomas did feel a surge of compassion for th
e young man in the picture who had gotten lost somewhere along the way. He must have dreamed of a different life once upon a time; what had gone wrong?
Kaufman sat down and turned the pages until he reached a photograph somewhere near the middle of the album. It showed a group of bare-chested soldiers on a sandy shore. The sun was shining, and several kayaks were drawn up beside them. It looked as if it had been taken in the afternoon; the shadows were long. Pine trees and wooden barracks could be seen behind the men, who were all smiling broadly at the camera.
They look as if they haven’t got a care in the world, Thomas thought.
“That’s me.”
Kaufman pointed to a young man in the center. He was handsome and muscular, with an impressive tan—the very epitome of good health. The contrast with the shambling wreck sitting opposite was terrifying. It was almost impossible to believe he was the same person.
How could someone change so much?
“Is Jan-Erik Fredell in the picture, too?” Margit asked.
“Yes.” Kaufman pointed to another smiling figure. “There.”
They could have been brothers. The same cropped hair, the same suntan, the same ripped upper body. Fredell was squinting at the camera, one hand on his hip.
He, too, looked utterly carefree.
He, too, had changed beyond recognition.
“So is this your national service troop?” Margit asked. “Did you serve together?”
“Yes, we were in the same group, the first platoon.”
Thomas tried to remember the structure of the Coastal Rangers. He thought the soldiers were divided into smaller groups, small enough to operate efficiently and to allow the men to bond and communicate effectively. Four or five groups formed a platoon, and they stayed together throughout their training.
He had done his own military service onboard a minesweeper in the Baltic. The navy had been an obvious choice after all the time he had spent at the family’s summer cottage in the archipelago. However, he had never been tempted by the Coastal Rangers, even though their base was just a stone’s throw from Harö. There was something unpleasant about a specially chosen team whose members thought they were superior to everyone else. That kind of elitism was completely alien to him.