by Viveca Sten
Nora blinked. “You’re kidding me.”
She looked up at the tall tower once more. The thought of climbing down from the top was terrifying. There was nothing to hold on to, nothing to break your fall except the unforgiving rock below.
“But you could kill yourself,” she said.
“True.” Olle laughed. “But if you’re going to turn boys into men . . .”
“That’s crazy. Surely recruits aren’t placed in mortal danger? At least not in the Swedish military.”
“You can’t begin to imagine what the Coastal Rangers were made to do. There were worse things than this—much worse.”
Nora shuddered. “Like what?” she said again.
Olle Granlund turned away, as if he regretted having said anything. He set off down the slope without another word.
The shadow of the tower suddenly felt threatening.
DIARY: MARCH 1977
A group of visiting journalists was shown around today. We stood in a huddle as they passed by, and I heard them asking about what went on.
Were the rumors true, did some of the officers have sadistic tendencies?
“There’s a lot of talk about the training regime,” said a guy wearing tinted aviator shades and a beige polo shirt. He seemed excited, as if he was expecting a revelation.
Captain Westerberg shook his head. He was at least six inches taller than the skinny reporter. He leaned forward and explained that one or two officers could be a little “overconscientious” occasionally, nothing more. Then he smiled disarmingly, underlining the absurdity of the suggestion. Strangely enough, the reporter dropped the subject, and they moved on.
They ought to meet the sergeant, I thought. Then they’d see what goes on.
The other day, I read about his father in the evening paper. There he was with some other representatives of the top brass, in full admiral’s uniform, adorned with gold braid and sporting his medals. Apparently there had been some kind of state visit from foreign naval vessels, and he had been invited to dinner at the palace following the ceremony.
I couldn’t help wondering if the sergeant had read the article about his father. Were they alike, father and son? Were they both bastards?
The other officers can be vile sometimes, too, but none of them goes as far as the sergeant when it comes to punishments. Sometimes I wonder if he’s in his right mind.
But everyone lets him carry on, no one intervenes.
I’m sure it’s because his father knows our company commander. They all socialize together, all those big shots, and they watch each other’s backs.
CHAPTER 39
Margit answered almost right away when Thomas called her from his office.
“The pathologist from Västerås has been in touch. Erneskog was murdered.”
“First Fredell, then Erneskog.”
“And maybe Marcus Nielsen.”
“I guess you’re right.” Margit suddenly sounded weary, as if the implications of what she had just said were sinking in.
“It looks like we’re dealing with a serial killer,” Thomas said.
“Yes. And the question is not only who, but why.”
There was a brief silence.
“We need those names from the military,” Thomas said. “As soon as possible.”
“I’ll try to hurry Elsa Harning along.”
“Good—there could be more . . .”
Thomas didn’t need to go on; Margit knew exactly what he meant.
“Kaufman?” she said.
Thomas glanced at his watch. He had told Pernilla he was on his way home, but he had a bad feeling about Bo Kaufman.
“I’ll call him; if he doesn’t answer, I’ll go over there.”
“On your own?”
“I promise I’ll be careful.”
Olle Granlund led Nora eastward past the tower. The pine trees were sparser here, and only the odd bush or tangle of juniper grew in the crevices. Nora picked her way cautiously over piles of rubble and sharp rocks.
After a while, they reached a concrete bunker with a flat roof, built into the steep hillside. Small square openings faced the sea.
“This is called an eagle’s nest,” Olle explained. There were platforms under the holes for machine guns and ammunition.”
Nora studied the strange structure; it had become part of nature, and yet it hadn’t. It was a weird mixture of ancient gray stone and modern construction material.
“How many of these are there on the island?”
“Quite a few, but most are more effectively camouflaged, or have been demolished.” He pointed. “The entrance to a firing site for antiaircraft guns used to be over there.”
Olle turned away and spat a plug of chewing tobacco into the undergrowth. A swarm of blackflies rose up like a cloud of dust and dispersed in all directions.
“The Subway Hill is down that way,” he went on.
“That’s a funny name.”
“The command center was in there. It was built in the eighties, and the entrance was a tunnel made of corrugated iron that looked like a subway.”
Nora gazed around. There was something melancholy about this place that had been left to its fate after so many years of intensive use.
“It must have cost a fortune to build all this,” she said. “It’s hard to understand why it was abandoned.”
“There are installations all over the place deep inside the hill: emergency rooms, corridors, engine rooms, ammunition stores. Gas-proof doors, of course, in case the enemy used poison gas.”
Gas. The word gave Nora the creeps.
“Is it possible to go inside?” she asked.
Olle shook his head.
“Everything that’s left has been filled in, but this bunker is in good condition. Come and have a look.”
Nora moved closer. Almost seventy years had passed; weeds were growing in the cracks in the concrete, and the cement was slowly crumbling away. She went down a couple of steps and found herself on a level with the lookout point.
She noticed something in a corner; she bent down and picked up a torn-off yellow label. The words on it looked as if they had been typed on an old-fashioned typewriter a very long time ago.
TAG, to be attached to the equipment belonging to injured (sick, dead), it said in faded letters.
A body tag.
There wasn’t much traffic; Thomas took the freeway and stuck to the speed limit. With one hand on the wheel, he tried Bo Kaufman’s number. There was no answer this time either; he had called just before he left the station. He let it ring, and eventually a robotic voice informed him that the person he was calling was not available at the moment but that he was welcome to try again later.
“Answer the goddamn phone,” he muttered. His anxiety was growing by the minute.
He was about to try one more time when he heard a loud bang, not unlike a gunshot, somewhere up ahead of the car. It was totally unexpected, and he dropped his cell phone. Suddenly he saw a truck heading toward him around the bend, the driver frantically sounding his horn. It was swaying alarmingly, and it was on Thomas’s side of the road. The heavy load was lurching uncontrollably, leaning at an angle that suggested it was dangerously close to tipping over.
Thomas saw a chalk-white, terrified face behind the wheel and acted instinctively. He slammed on the brakes while at the same time trying to swerve out of the way of the load.
He had to get away; nothing else mattered.
His Volvo was tiny in comparison with the huge truck looming above. If it went over, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He fought to stay in control of the car, hoping that the brakes wouldn’t lock; if that happened, he would crash into the truck. Head-on.
The road was damp. Was that good or bad? He couldn’t remember.
The distance from the truck was diminishing fast.
Thomas gritted his teeth.
CHAPTER 40
They had walked in a semicircle and were now approaching the quayside once more. On the way back, Olle had shown Nora a n
umber of sealed-up entrances and openings, many of which she wouldn’t have noticed. They were cunningly concealed and blended perfectly with their surroundings.
A few hundred yards from the quay, they came to a hill where the entrance to a bunker was surrounded by a network of barbed wire. Weeds and grass had become intertwined with the metal over the years, making it almost impossible to see the door.
“I spent many a night in there,” Olle said. “It brings back a lot of memories, wandering around like this.”
His words reminded Nora of Thomas’s question about old rumors. Tentatively she asked, “Have you ever heard about anything strange going on out here?”
“What do you mean ‘strange’?”
Nora shrugged.
“Oh, you know, stories, gossip, that kind of thing. I’m sure there were plenty of tales about what the recruits had to go through.”
An icy gust of wind blew against her cheek.
“I’m not sure . . . Yes, there were plenty of stories, but . . .” A shadow seemed to pass across his face. “Nothing I’d care to pass on.”
He took a few steps, then stopped.
“You have to understand that the men who came here were training to become members of an elite force. Their ability to deal with stress had to be tested to the limit. It was a matter of bringing out a controlled aggression, creating soldiers who would never, ever allow themselves to be prevented from achieving their goal.”
The words came out of Nora’s mouth before she could stop them.
“It sounds like pure fascism to me.”
Olle blinked. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”
They heard rustling in the undergrowth and the sound of an old motorboat in the distance. Nora closed her eyes and tried to imagine the island as it must have been when hundreds of soldiers were billeted here. Young boys with buzz cuts, so well drilled that they immediately obeyed orders without question. Ruthless and without boundaries, if she understood the implications of what her neighbor had said.
She pictured her sons with their smooth cheeks and slim bodies. Could they be pushed to breaking point in an environment like this?
Nora went over and touched the barbed wire. A feeling of claustrophobia overwhelmed her. She couldn’t imagine what it must be like to sit in a tiny, damp room inside the bunker, surrounded by guns and silent, grim-faced soldiers.
All with a single goal: to stop the enemy at all costs.
How did you move on when you had undergone such harsh training? Surely it must mark a man for the rest of his life—what kind of person would he become?
CHAPTER 41
The truck was no more than three feet away when Thomas managed to swerve. The Volvo plowed on for several yards before stopping. The back of the truck clipped the hood of the car, pushing it sideways and forward so that it ended up with the front end halfway down into the ditch.
The impact threw Thomas to one side, but his seat belt held him in place. At least the car didn’t flip; it shuddered one last time, then everything went quiet. Strangely enough, the airbag hadn’t gone off.
After some time, Thomas noticed he was still clutching the wheel with both hands. His pulse was racing, and sweat was pouring down his back. He forced himself to breathe slowly and evenly. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw his own chalk-white face. The truck had stopped about twenty yards behind him, with the load partially across the roadway.
He gradually realized that the truck driver was standing by the car. He made a huge effort and managed to let go of the wheel and open the window. The acrid smell of burned rubber came pouring in.
“Are you OK?”
The truck driver spoke with a Finnish accent. He looked terrified and was sweating profusely. Thomas nodded.
“I think so. What happened?”
“Something punctured my tires.” He pointed to the back of the truck, and Thomas could see that two tires were completely flat. “There was a bang, and I lost control. Then you appeared. Jesus.”
Thomas became aware that the seat belt was cutting into his chest. He slowly released it and opened the door. He felt very shaky, and he put down his feet very carefully. He was overcome by dizziness and had to hang on to the car roof.
“I’m going to need a tow truck,” the driver said, looking worried as he fiddled with his cell phone. “My boss won’t be too pleased; I was already running late. I’m supposed to be going to Södertälje.”
Thomas tried to think. He took out his ID; opening his wallet seemed kind of complicated.
“I’m a police officer.”
The driver looked even more worried, and beads of sweat started dripping from his nose and onto his shirt.
“I haven’t been drinking,” he almost whimpered. “It was an accident, you can see that for yourself. The tires just exploded. It wasn’t my fault.”
Thomas slowly put his wallet back in his pocket with a trembling hand.
“You’ll probably be Breathalyzed anyway.”
“I swear I haven’t touched a drop.”
“Good,” Thomas said wearily.
He looked around; he was going to have to stay until the police and a tow truck arrived. The area would have to be cordoned off as soon as possible to stop anyone from crashing into the truck. He could probably reverse his car onto the road, but it was going to take a while to sort all this out. He needed to call Pernilla and let her know.
Gradually his brain began to function once more.
Kaufman.
He reached into the car for his cell phone and tried the number again.
Still no reply.
CHAPTER 42
It was past three o’clock by the time Nora and Olle got back to Sandhamn. Nora thanked her neighbor for the trip, then went home.
Going ashore on the island of Korsö had been an interesting experience, but it had left an unpleasant taste in her mouth. She found it difficult to come to terms with Olle’s tales of what the soldiers had been put through.
She stretched out on the old wicker sofa on the veranda. The sun was shining, and before she knew it, she had dropped off. The sound of the telephone woke her.
“Hi, Nora, it’s Pernilla.”
“Hi!” Nora was a little dazed, but she was always happy to hear from Pernilla. Thomas had been a different person since she’d come back. The old Thomas, her best friend since childhood, had returned after those terrible years.
Nora had always been very fond of Pernilla. Unlike Henrik, she had never had a problem with the long-standing friendship between Thomas and Nora, which dated back to the time when they found themselves in the same confirmation class.
“Are you coming over for dinner tonight?” Nora asked.
“I’m afraid not. Thomas called a while ago; he’s still at work. We’re not going to make it over to the island today.”
Another lonely evening. Nora was reluctant to admit even to herself how much she had been looking forward to having some company.
“What a shame,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice neutral and to hide her disappointment.
“I know, but Thomas is working incredibly long hours right now. Will you be OK?”
“Of course. I can go over to the restaurant, or I might just have something in front of the TV.”
She could hear how pathetic that sounded.
“Now I feel guilty,” Pernilla said.
Nora made an effort to sound more cheerful. “Really, it’s fine. Anyway, I’ll see you both on Tuesday for Simon’s birthday, won’t I? I mentioned it to Thomas a while ago.”
“Yes, absolutely, we’ll be there to celebrate Simon’s birthday.” Nora could have sworn that Pernilla didn’t have a clue they’d been invited over; she suspected Thomas had forgotten to pass on the message.
“What would he like as a present—anything in particular?”
Nora pictured her son on the floor, surrounded by LEGOs.
“Anything to do with LEGOs—he can sit for hours making different things.”
“Perfect.”
Through the window, Nora could see two Japanese tourists photographing her house. It happened from time to time; people would stop and admire the beautiful building.
Pernilla said tentatively, “Will Henrik be there on Tuesday?”
“I’m afraid so. I mean, I can’t exactly ban him from his own son’s birthday party.”
“And Marie?” Pernilla sounded as if she hardly dared ask.
“Absolutely not. It’s nothing to do with her. He’s not her son.”
Nora realized she couldn’t even mention Marie without sounding truculent.
“We’ll be having a princess cake, of course,” she went on, once again forcing herself to sound cheerful. “It’s Simon’s favorite.”
Pernilla gratefully seized on the change of subject. “Great—Thomas loves princess cake, too. See you Tuesday.”
There was a click as Pernilla hung up. Nora sat there holding her phone; what was she going to do this evening? She didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. It was too easy to sit around feeling sorry for herself, going over everything that had happened between her and Henrik.
If they had at least divorced because they had both agreed that they were no longer in love, it would have been easier. It wouldn’t hurt so much. But no, they had split up because she had found out he was being unfaithful; she had felt doubly betrayed.
On top of all that, the object of his love had moved into their house. Nora hated the thought that his new woman was eating breakfast exactly where she used to sit with her first cup of coffee of the day, and falling asleep in the same double bed Nora and Henrik used to share.
If Simon woke up in the middle of the night and went padding into the bedroom to seek comfort, another woman would be lying next to his daddy.
That hurt most of all.
In a moment of clarity, Nora knew this wasn’t about turning back the clock. She didn’t want to be married to Henrik any longer, and, after all, she was the one who had insisted on the divorce.
But it would all have been so much easier if he hadn’t brought Marie into their home right away. How could he move on so quickly? After fourteen years of marriage and two children, surely he ought to be mourning the fact that it had ended like this? They hadn’t fulfilled their greatest obligation: to raise their boys in a happy and loving family.