by Viveca Sten
Grönstedt inhaled sharply; the sound grated in Thomas’s ear.
“That changes the situation. We’ll prioritize the case.”
“Could you do me a favor?” Thomas asked.
“Sure.”
“Could you check to see if there are any finger marks, any traces of bruising, or anything else that could suggest the use of force?”
Grönstedt immediately understood what Thomas was getting at.
“You mean someone might have held him under the water?”
“Exactly.”
“No problem.” A brief pause. “So you don’t think his death was an accident, in other words.”
“You could say that. We had a very similar case in Stockholm a few days ago.”
Thomas told him what Sachsen had found during the autopsy on Fredell.
“OK, thanks for that; I’ll e-mail you a copy of the report as soon as we’re done.”
Thomas cleared his throat, and Grönstedt took the hint.
“Was there anything else?”
“Yes . . . Could you check for any traces of detergent on the body or in the lungs?”
“You mean like the detergent you’d use to clean the floor?”
“Exactly.”
Lena Fredell looked around the bedroom. She had been cleaning for days, with a feverish intensity that drove her from room to room, and now there wasn’t a speck of dust left anywhere. Every surface had been wiped down, every floor had been vacuumed or swept and mopped. She had defrosted the freezer and cleaned out the refrigerator.
Tiredness overwhelmed her; she sank down on a chair and let the tears come. She still hadn’t slept at home since they had found Janne, and she had no intention of ever doing so again.
As soon as she had cleared away all traces of the strangers who had invaded her life with their loud voices and insensitive questions, she would hand the keys over to a realtor.
She could only think about what had happened for short periods; if she allowed her mind to dwell on it, she began to feel a heavy weight on her chest and she had difficulty breathing. What kind of person would attack a sick man who could barely move? They had been visited by a monster; that was the only possible explanation.
He had been inside their home; he’d walked around, forced Janne into the bathtub, then held him under the water until he drowned.
Lena shuddered. She could hardly bring herself to go into the bathroom. She kept seeing her terrified husband’s face, the fear he must have felt when he couldn’t get any air into his lungs as the water closed in above him.
Over the past few years, she had gradually come to terms with the knowledge that Janne was going to die. As his health deteriorated, the idea that she was going to be alone had solidified, until one day she understood that she had accepted it. It had become a part of their lives, as ordinary as waking up in the morning and going to sleep at night. He was going to die, and she would be widowed far too soon. Nothing could change that, however much she raged or wept.
That knowledge had taught her to make the most of the time they had together. Instead of getting upset about the challenges of his decline, she had appreciated the opportunity to make his life easier. She had experienced a new sense of happiness, even though the reality of their life together was a million miles from what they had planned.
Twenty-four years ago, she had made a solemn vow before the priest—in sickness and in health—and to her surprise, she discovered that there was joy to be found in adversity, too. The gratitude in her husband’s eyes when she intuitively knew what he needed, without his having to say a word. The love expressed in a caress from a trembling hand.
It became her mission to make sure he could still find pleasure in life despite his failing body, and she was filled with an energy she hadn’t known she possessed.
But she could never have imagined that he would leave her like this.
The funeral was due to take place next Friday at Nacka Church. She had gone through the details with the priest, chosen the hymns and the flowers. Afterward there would be refreshments in the community center. She couldn’t bring herself to invite people back to the apartment. Not after what had happened.
Many of Janne’s old friends had been in touch—friends who had disappeared during his illness but now wanted to say a last good-bye.
About time.
Where had they been during those hard years as he got sicker and sicker? She ought to tell them to go to hell, but she couldn’t summon up the strength to make a proud gesture. As soon as all the practicalities were resolved, she was going to move. Annelie was a student in Gothenburg and liked the city. Lena had decided to settle there, close to her daughter.
She hauled herself to her feet with the help of the bedpost and opened the door of the closet. There were no more rooms to clean, but there was still plenty to sort out. She had to go through Janne’s clothes; most of them would probably have to be thrown out, but some could be given away.
It took her an hour to finish the first closet. When she was done, she was left with two black plastic bags, one for the trash and one for the Red Cross. She opened the second closet, which also contained their photo albums and old papers.
She took out one of the albums; a smiling four-year-old with curly hair and rosy cheeks met her gaze, and Lena’s eyes filled with tears once more.
Annelie had always been as bright as a button, a real daddy’s girl. She had wound Janne around her little finger with no effort whatsoever.
Lena had asked the police to call Annelie and tell her what had happened; she just couldn’t do it.
There were only the two of them left now.
She climbed up on a stool to reach the top shelf and noticed a space between the neatly labeled boxes. One was missing; where could it be?
Then she remembered. Janne had had it out when Marcus Nielsen came to visit. Had he allowed the young student to take it away with him? He was normally so meticulous when it came to documents and paperwork.
Why would he do such a thing?
CHAPTER 34
The wind had picked up by the time Nora boarded the ferry to Sandhamn. It was just after six, and dusk was falling. The sky was a little cloudy, but the forecast had promised fine weather. She was hoping for at least one good day over the weekend. Soon the autumn darkness would set in, with many months to wait for the light-filled evenings of the summer.
Nora shuddered. She liked being on the island in the fall, while at the same time she always felt melancholy when the summer came to an end, and she knew that cold and snow weren’t far away.
She adjusted the sports bag hanging over her shoulder and nodded to the crewmember who was standing at the top of the gangplank, ready to haul in the ropes. As usual, she made her way to the stairs leading to the upper deck; like Simon, she enjoyed sitting by the cafeteria with its view of the rocks and skerries.
She looked around for a seat; there were usually plenty at this time of year, when hordes of tourists were no longer invading the boats. During the high season, it was hard to even find room to breathe on board, let alone choose where you wanted to sit.
Suddenly she spotted a familiar profile at a corner table, and her stomach flipped.
Jonas Sköld glanced up, and a big smile spread across his face.
“Hi—are you going over to Sandhamn for the weekend?”
Nora nodded. “Looks that way.”
He stood up and moved his things.
“There’s room here.”
She sat down opposite him.
“Are you on your own?” Jonas asked. “No young men keeping you company this time?”
She shook her head. “Adam and Simon are with their father.” With an enormous amount of effort, she managed to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“So we both have a child-free weekend,” Jonas said.
Nora tried to remember his daughter’s name; he hadn’t said much about her over dinner. They had been too busy talking about other things.
“So what does she think of Sandhamn?”
“She’s hardly been over this year; as I said before, we had to change our plans because of my work schedule. I’m hoping she’ll spend a few weeks with me next summer.”
“The island is perfect for kids,” Nora exclaimed. “There’s so much to do—tennis, surfboarding, and plenty of other activities.”
Jonas started to laugh. “Are you working for the tourist board? You’re really selling the place!”
Nora couldn’t help feeling embarrassed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a commercial.” She ran a hand through her hair. “It’s just that I’ve been there every summer since I was born, so I can’t help sing its praises.”
It was getting warm; Nora took off her jacket and hung it on the back of her chair, then unzipped her fleece top a couple of inches. “Anyway, I get the message—I won’t keep on about it.”
“No problem—I like Sandhamn, too.” Jonas stood up. “Can I get you a drink?”
“A beer would be great.”
She watched him as he headed for the counter. He was wearing a dark-blue wool sweater and jeans. Once again, she was struck by how good he looked. He wasn’t conventionally handsome like Henrik, who had an almost Grecian profile. Jonas’s features were somehow softer, more open. Henrik had dark hair and brown eyes, but Jonas’s hair was more medium brown, as were his eyes.
She decided Jonas had lovely eyes. Shame he was so young . . .
He returned with two bottles of beer in one hand and two glasses in the other. He put them on the table and poured the foaming golden-brown liquid. It smelled wonderful.
“Cheers,” Jonas said. “Thank God it’s Friday.”
Nora took a sip of the cold beer and felt her muscles begin to relax. She reached up and removed the clip holding her hair in place, allowing it to fall loose around her shoulders.
“Are you staying through Sunday?” Jonas asked.
“Yes. We swap after each weekend, so Adam and Simon won’t be back until Monday afternoon. How about you?”
“I’m only staying until Sunday morning; I’m flying to Bangkok in the evening.”
“Sounds amazing—you really do live a life of luxury.”
“Not really.” He put down his glass. “The new EU regulations mean we can work eleven hours straight. When we arrive at whatever destination we go straight to the hotel, then it’s the same again on the return trip.”
Nora must have looked surprised, because Jonas raised an eyebrow.
“There are advantages, of course. Sometimes we have free time between shifts when we can relax by the pool or do some shopping; you should see all the orders we get from friends and family. Some of the flight attendants take the opportunity to make a little extra on the side.”
“Compared with writing credit agreements, it doesn’t sound too bad.”
Nora pictured her office at the bank, the piles of documents, the blue law book on her desk, the bookshelves packed with legal tomes and files.
A top hotel in Thailand seemed like a pretty appealing alternative.
The engines throbbed away in the background, and outside the wide windows, Nora could just make out the skerries as colorless silhouettes in the gathering dusk. The loudspeaker crackled behind them: “As we have no passengers disembarking on Idholmen this evening, we will be going straight to Sandhamn. Next stop Sandhamn.”
Nora contemplated her tenant from beneath her lowered eyelids. It was easy to enjoy his company. He had taken off his sweater to reveal a short-sleeved shirt. He looked toned; no doubt he took care of his body.
What was she thinking? How embarrassing . . .
Jonas had draped one arm over the back of the booth and was holding his glass in the other hand. There was a hint of dark stubble on his cheeks, like a faint shadow. Nora had to stop herself from reaching out and touching him. Instead she closed her eyes and leaned back. The silence was relaxing. It was Friday, and she was on her way out into the archipelago. For the first time in what seemed like an eternity, a childless weekend didn’t feel like an endless countdown of the hours until the boys were back with her.
She opened her eyes to find that Jonas was watching her.
DIARY: FEBRUARY 1977
I’m worried about Andersson. The sergeant loves sending someone home. He’s like a predator stalking his prey, and he seems to have decided that Andersson is the one he wants to break.
And I think Andersson can feel it. His face twitches, and he mumbles and twists and turns in his sleep.
It ought to be a relief for him to leave and never have to see the sergeant again, but every time I try to bring it up, he changes the subject.
Kihlberg does his best to cover for Andersson. He has been designated our group leader, and he takes care of us, just like Martinger.
The other day, we had to remake our beds eight times. In the evening, we were all cursing the sergeant.
Andersson more loudly than anyone else.
A little too loudly.
The sergeant had been standing in the corridor, and he heard every word. He came into the room grinning from ear to ear, delighted by the opportunity that had just presented itself.
Shit, I thought. What’s he going to do now?
He ignored the rest of us and went straight over to Andersson.
“Chinese bow!” he roared. “Forehead on the floor!”
That is the worst punishment of all. The color drained from Andersson’s face, then he bent down. He placed his hands on his back and adopted the position, so that his body resembled an upside-down V with only his forehead and toes touching the hard floor.
I saw the sweat break out on his face right away.
The Chinese bow is agony. After fifteen seconds, it feels as if your skull is in a vice; after thirty seconds, it is sheer torture.
Few men can manage more than a minute.
Andersson didn’t last very long. He collapsed, writhing around with his eyes closed.
The sergeant looked at him in disgust.
“Fetch a spade!” he bellowed. He ordered the boy to dig a latrine with a depth of at least three feet. “Right now, Andersson!”
Andersson somehow dragged himself to his feet.
The temperature outside was minus thirteen, and it was snowing heavily. The snow filled the trench as fast as Andersson dug. He struggled for over an hour, but the ground was frozen solid. The only way to get through was to hack away, inch by inch.
He couldn’t do it, of course.
I watched him through the window, a lone figure that looked like a shadow through the whirling snow. We should have been out there, but the sergeant had chosen to pick on him.
Eventually Andersson gave up and came in. There was a thin layer of ice and snow on his cap. He went over to the sergeant, who was sitting at a table playing cards with two fellow officers.
He stood to attention, shivering.
“Permission to stop digging, Sergeant,” he said.
His lips were blue, and he was shaking so much he could hardly get the words out.
The sergeant raised his head, a quizzical expression on his face. He took a drag of his cigarette, then slowly stubbed it out. With his blond hair and his high forehead, he reminded me of an officer in an old war movie.
“Is the trench three feet deep?” he drawled.
Andersson shook his head. His hands were trembling, and the tips of his ears were white.
The sergeant laughed, but his eyes were cold, narrow slits in a face without a trace of compassion.
At that moment, I hated him.
“Pain is a higher form of pleasure, Andersson.”
He returned to his game, selecting a card and tossing it onto the table.
“Come on, that’s enough,” said one of the other officers. His name w
as Lieutenant Kolsum, and he had a good reputation. He gestured toward Andersson.
“The kid’s like a block of ice—let him come in and get warm.”
The sergeant hesitated, then shrugged and took a card from the pile in front of him.
“Fill in the trench,” he said without even glancing at Andersson.
CHAPTER 35
Saturday (The Second Week)
The hand unscrewing the bottle was far from steady.
Bo Kaufman swore. Why did it have to be so hard to open the goddamn bottle? He wiped his sweaty palm on the leg of his pants and tried again. A firm twist, and it was open. He took a long swig.
He had been drinking nonstop ever since the police had left the apartment. He knew he was in bad shape, worse than he’d been for a long time. He found it difficult to concentrate, and his whole body felt shaky.
It had been quite a while since he had eaten properly, but there was nothing in the refrigerator. He had run out of cigarettes, and this was his last bottle of booze. He would have to go down to the mall before the state-run liquor store closed for the weekend; otherwise, he would have to buy on the black market, which was the last thing he wanted to do. It was too expensive, and you could never be sure what kind of crap you were getting.
He went into the tiny bathroom for a piss. He tried to avoid looking at his reflection but unfortunately caught a glimpse as he stood over the toilet fumbling with his pants.
Jeez.
Why the fuck had the cops come snooping around?
When he was done, he splashed a little water on his face and under his arms. Then he brushed his teeth for the first time in days and went to find a clean T-shirt. He had to make a bit of an effort if he was going to buy booze; if he looked like shit, they might refuse to serve him. It had happened to him before.
When he walked into the bedroom, his legs gave way, and he sank down on the unmade bed.
He had tried to keep the memories at bay for over thirty years. It had cost him his wife, a decent life, a relationship with his son.
He was still terrified.
When the cops had started asking questions, he hadn’t dared say anything. He had pretended that he didn’t know what they were talking about, as if he didn’t remember.