by Viveca Sten
The ticking of the kitchen clock penetrated her brain. At least thirty seconds must have passed. What was she supposed to say?
Jonas got there first.
“Maybe you’re wondering why I haven’t been in touch?”
Should she tell the truth? Tell him she’d wondered at least once an hour since they parted? She had come up with a thousand explanations, then scolded herself a thousand times for caring so much.
She couldn’t understand why the short time they had spent together was so important to her. They didn’t know each other particularly well; they had just had dinner a couple of times and shared a long walk on the island.
And spent one wonderful night together.
There were so many reasons why they shouldn’t see each other again. Jonas was far too young for her. He was her tenant. She was still raw from the divorce, and it was too early to embark on a new relationship. She had almost managed to convince herself over the past few days.
But she couldn’t stop thinking about him.
“Yes,” she heard herself say in that same stiff voice.
“Would you believe me if I told you I’d left my cell phone in Stockholm?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
She had practically snapped at him; what the hell was she doing? Still . . . surely there must’ve been other telephones in Thailand, if he was really interested.
“Have you any idea how difficult it is to get ahold of your home phone number from Bangkok? It’s not even possible to call information from overseas.”
“Why didn’t you call the bank?”
Oh God, why had she said that? He was trying, and she was throwing it right back in his face. What was wrong with her?
“I didn’t think of that.”
“OK.”
“Believe me, Nora, I really have been trying to reach you. Eventually I had the bright idea of asking my sister to call information for me.”
“You called your sister?”
Nora couldn’t help smiling in the semidarkness. He’d been trying to get in touch with her, while she’d been imagining all kinds of nonsense. She wondered what explanation he’d given his sister, and her smile grew wider.
Jonas lowered his voice; his tone was gentler now, more intimate.
“I just wanted to say thank-you for the other night.”
She pictured him in the bedroom on Sandhamn, their shadows in the moonlight, his cheek resting on the pillow as he slept. She remembered lying there curled up against his back, the feeling as she ran her fingertips over his warm skin.
Suddenly everything was perfectly clear and simple.
“It was wonderful,” Jonas went on. “I’d really like to see you again . . . if that’s what you want, of course. I’ll be back in Stockholm on Friday—are you free then?”
“I’d love to see you.” She hesitated, then mustered her courage. “But on one condition: you have to tell me how old you are.”
Jonas laughed quietly. “Do you really want to know?”
CHAPTER 80
It didn’t take Thomas long to register Robert Cronwall’s familiar features. His heart sank; they were too late.
Margit quickly slipped her gun back in its holster and knelt down beside the lifeless body lying on the ice-cold floor. Cronwall’s skin had a deathly pallor, and his hands were secured behind his back with a pair of metal handcuffs. Chafing around the wrists indicated that he had tried to free himself without success. His veined feet were bound together with a length of what looked like washing line, and a thin layer of white scum, partially dried, surrounded his lips.
“Jesus,” Margit said.
Thomas felt sick. “Any sign of life?”
“He’s stone cold.” Margit placed her fingers just below the ear. “No pulse. He’s dead.” She felt the motionless limbs. “He hasn’t been dead for very long; rigor mortis hasn’t yet set in.”
A white plastic bottle had rolled over to one of the drains, and Thomas moved closer to see what it was. The label came as no surprise: detergent. He picked up the bottle: empty.
“There’s a strong smell around his mouth,” Margit said. “Do you think she forced the detergent down his throat until he choked?”
“Probably. That would fit the pattern.”
“Jesus, drowned in detergent. What a way to kill someone.”
“She’s sick.”
Thomas shined his flashlight over the body and examined it carefully. The right arm bore signs of needle marks, a small blue circle with a tiny puncture mark in the center, just above the elbow.
Annika Melin had drugged Cronwall, just as Thomas had thought. Somehow she had overpowered him, maybe by threatening him at gunpoint, then she had sedated him so that he was incapable of resisting.
However, it must still have required a huge effort to get Cronwall to the place where her brother had died all those years ago.
A will of steel . . . or a deranged mind.
Margit stood up and took out her police radio.
“I’ll call it in, tell them we’ve found Cronwall. We need reinforcements to search for Annika Melin.”
Suddenly the ceiling light flickered and went out, leaving them in darkness. Thomas immediately straightened up and stepped back toward the wall, keeping the beam of the flashlight fixed in front of him. With his other hand, he reached for his gun.
“She’s here,” Margit whispered.
With all his senses on full alert, Thomas listened for a sound that would reveal Annika’s whereabouts. There was a faint scraping noise in the distance, then a bang, like a door being slammed at the back of the building.
“Stay here and try to get through to the station,” Thomas whispered. “I’ll go after her. Keep your gun at the ready. She’s dangerous—don’t forget that for one second.”
Before Margit had time to object, he opened the door and slipped outside.
CHAPTER 81
The wind tore at Thomas; he felt as if someone were slapping him across the face. The storm was still howling in the treetops, and it was hard to stay upright. The few streetlamps looked like a row of abandoned scarecrows.
He followed the track and ran past ghostly, empty barracks. Sheet lightning lit up the sky, and the black roofs flashed in the glare. It happened so fast that the fleeting sight immediately became a memory; by the time the brain had registered it, it was already gone.
There were thousands of places to hide on the former base; how could he possibly find Annika Melin here?
He headed for the old store, where the soldiers used to buy snuff and cigarettes in the days when there were hundreds of conscripts carrying out their military service on the island. He continued up the hill toward the tower. A long-abandoned maypole stood there like an eerie skeleton, and he hurried past a white building that reminded him of a barn.
Now he had reached the top of the hill, next to Korsö Tower. Rainwater poured down its curved façade. The track ran out here, but there was no sign of anyone running as desperately as he had been.
He was beginning to feel the lactic acid; his legs were numb, and he stood perfectly still, trying to catch his breath. An intense pain shot through the toes that were no longer there. Should he carry on looking for her?
At that moment, a heavy branch snapped in the wind; it came flying down and almost caught him on the back of the neck. He jumped aside at the last moment, and it crashed to the ground just inches away. A pine twig whipped him across the face by the corner of his mouth, and suddenly the taste of blood was on his tongue.
His courage failed; he ought to go back to Margit and wait for reinforcements. It wasn’t long since he had been at death’s door; he mustn’t put himself in that kind of danger again. However, when he turned around, he saw a forest path leading to more open terrain. He shuffled past a cairn and emerged on a flat rock, which afforded him a much better view.
The sky was illuminated by another flash of lightning, and ahead of him he glimpsed a shadow moving among the stunted pine trees.
Annika Melin.
She slipped on the moss and almost lost her balance, then continued heading east. The distance between them was manageable.
Thomas stopped thinking and took off after her. He scrambled across the remains of concrete ramparts that had been blown up, the sharp stones rattling and scraping with every step. All at once, his injured foot slipped, and the stones gave way. He slithered down the slope and slammed into the rock. His face was smeared with mud and earth, and he had grazed his cheek. His head was spinning as he dragged himself to his feet, and he had to blink several times before he could see.
When he tried to clamber back up, he was bombarded with flying twigs and small branches.
Another flash, and he saw the silhouette of Annika Melin, considerably farther away. She was heading for one of the remaining fortifications on an outcrop, with a steep rock face behind it.
Limping, Thomas resumed the pursuit. His body was aching, and he was unsteady. As always when he was tired, he had forgotten the new way of walking he had had to learn.
“You have to turn back,” he muttered to himself. “It’s crazy to try and do this alone. You can’t do it.”
He thought about his new family, the little life still sleeping inside the protection of Pernilla’s body. They must come first, whatever happened. Then he saw Annika again, only fifty yards ahead of him. She was standing perfectly still by the crumbling bunker with the roaring sea in front of her. The waves crashed against the shore, and cascades of spume surged across the rocks.
In the next flash of lightning, Thomas saw that Annika Melin was weeping. Her face was distorted, and the wind tore at her sodden hair, which was flapping up and down on her back like the useless wings of a fledgling trying to escape the nest. He could see her clearly, but there was a deep ravine between them, and there was no way he could get across; he would have to go around in order to reach her.
He began to pick his way over the crevices; when he glanced up, he saw that she had moved forward and was standing right at the edge of the outcrop. The force of the wind made her wobble, but she didn’t move. She didn’t seem to be crying any longer; her features had smoothed out, and her despair appeared to have lessened.
Thomas was going as fast as he could. He tried to call out to her; he wanted to tell her to wait for him. “You don’t have to die, not you as well, enough people have died,” he wanted to yell, but he was so out of breath that there was no power in his voice. His words were drowned out by the noise of the waves as they hurled themselves at the rock face, hissing and spitting. He tried to force his legs to move more quickly, just a few more steps; there was still time. It wasn’t too late.
Annika held out both arms, as if she were trying to embrace something. Or as if she were preparing to break her fall . . .
Thomas was overcome with panic; he had to stop her.
He hurled himself forward, hoping to grab her legs. His fingers tried to reach the fabric of her pants; he strained his muscles to the utmost, and his fingertips brushed against something wet. But it slipped away, and he was left clutching at thin air as Annika fell headfirst onto the rocks below.
A dull thud reached Thomas’s ears—or was he mistaken, confused by the roaring of the sea and the howling wind? He lay there trying to catch his breath.
Time passed. He had no idea how long he had been there, with his cheek resting on wet leaves. Slowly he became aware of the cold. His body was numb; he ought to get up and see what had happened to Annika, but he just couldn’t do it.
The drop was at least thirty feet; she must’ve been dead.
A sob shook his body, and he closed his eyes, trying to fight back the tears.
After a little while, he groped for a sharp stone. He clenched his fist until it cut into his palm. The pain brought him back to life, enabled him to pull himself together and open his eyes.
He rolled over and got to his knees. It took some time for his eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness.
He had to go and check if she was still alive.
DIARY: AUGUST 1977
I don’t know if I dare write down what happened. I’m just as guilty as the others. I don’t know if I have the strength to do it.
I can never tell anyone about this.
Three days have passed since the sergeant woke us in the middle of the night. It was late, well after midnight, and the following day we were heading back to Rindö where we would be demobilized.
He must have come into the room while we were sleeping. We had all gone to bed early, exhausted after the long final exercise. We were spent.
He was standing there with his legs apart next to the bottom bunk where Andersson . . . Pär . . . was sleeping. I was on the top bunk.
I suddenly woke up and saw him. He made an impatient gesture in my direction—not a word, it meant. It was an order, not a request. Automatically I leaped out of bed and stood to attention.
Kaufman and Erneskog were still asleep.
Pär was lying on his stomach, as defenseless as a small child who knows that his parents are watching over him. His right arm was drawn up, his head resting on his hand. His back was bare; he wasn’t wearing a pajama top. He looked younger than his twenty years; he was just a boy.
His cheeks were bright red; he was sick and worn out, and he had more or less collapsed as soon as we got back.
The sergeant stood there with a cruel smile playing across his lips. The smell of booze on his breath was unmistakable. He must have been drinking all evening; I had never seen him this drunk before. What was he going to do?
He clenched his fist and punched Pär in the side of the head.
Pär’s body jerked, and he opened his eyes. Without saying anything, he took in the figure before him. I will never forget the look on his face at that moment. The fear, the wordless plea.
And then the shame as he remembered what had happened earlier in the day. He cowered as if he deserved to be punished.
The taste of fear filled my mouth, a stale, metallic taste like nothing else. My saliva dried up; I tried to lick my lips, but there was no moisture when I touched them with my tongue.
The sergeant was about to cross the line.
I knew I ought to do something to stop him, but I didn’t have the courage. I was so scared I almost wet myself; I tensed my gluteal muscles in an effort to make my bladder behave.
Both Kaufman and Erneskog were awake now, but the sergeant simply silenced them with a gesture. Then he grabbed Pär by the arm and dragged him out of the room, toward the showers.
I stayed where I was for a moment, not knowing what to do, then I followed them down the empty corridor. What the hell was going on?
Pär was lying on the wet floor, naked and shivering, the blue veins clearly visible beneath the white skin. He made no effort to defend himself. He had simply let himself be taken there like a sacrificial lamb, waiting for retribution.
The sergeant turned to me, grinning broadly. I looked away; I didn’t want to see the madness in his eyes. I glanced at Kaufman and Erneskog, who had joined me in the doorway. They didn’t move either.
By the dim light of a single bulb, we stared at the sergeant as he poured detergent into a bucket and filled it up with water. If only Kihlberg were here, or Martinger, I thought with a lump in my throat. They would have known what to do.
But we were the only ones awake in the entire building. The others were upstairs.
Close, but much too far away.
Kihlberg and Martinger were the strongest in the group. They would have been able to stop the sergeant. They would have stepped in before it was too late.
I looked at Kaufman and Erneskog in despair, praying that one of them would act. Why didn’t they open their mouths and let out a roar of protest, anything to bring the sergeant to his senses?
But they were just as cowardly as me.
Earlier in the day, I had thought to myself that we were prepared to die for one another. Now I knew how wrong I had been. Only the r
ights of the strong counted here. Nothing else. In the true spirit of the Rangers.
I was overcome with self-loathing and closed my eyes. A blast of cold air swept in through the window.
The sergeant crouched down so that his mouth was right next to Pär’s ear. He grabbed his head and pushed it into the bucket.
“I’m going to wash out your filthy mouth so that you learn never to throw up on an officer again.”
Did Sergeant Robert Cronwall intend to kill Pär Andersson that night?
I don’t know, but we are all to blame for his death.
We didn’t lift a finger to help our comrade, and we kept quiet when the truth was swept under the rug.
We are pathetic cowards who do not deserve to wear the beret of the Coastal Rangers.
CHAPTER 82
Thomas made his way to the edge of the outcrop and saw Annika Melin on the rocks below. Her body was lying at an unnatural angle, like a rag doll that someone had tossed in a corner. One arm was bent behind her back, and her head appeared to be in a deep crevice.
She wasn’t moving.
“Annika!” he shouted. “Annika, can you hear me?”
The rain was easing off, but he hardly noticed as he listened hard for any sound from the motionless figure.
“Annika!” he tried again, forming a funnel around his mouth with his hands.
The only response was the howling of the wind.
Could he get to her? He shuffled back from the edge and went over to a clump of dwarf pine trees growing by the side of the slope. He grabbed a branch and pulled it hard. It didn’t break, and he tentatively began to inch downward. Suddenly his foot slipped; if the branch hadn’t held, he would have fallen all the way to the bottom.
He hauled himself back to the top and sank to his knees.
There was no way he could climb alone in the darkness. If he was going to reach Annika, he would have to return to the tower and walk down the slope on the south side, which would take him to the shore. That was the only safe option.
He crawled to the edge and looked down one last time. Annika still wasn’t moving.