At the far end of the large room was a hall and the outside door. She padded off in that direction and caught sight of her boots and coat, neatly hanging on a hanger, but when she passed the kitchen, she stopped. On the glossy black granite bar counter, which divided the kitchen from the rest of the great room, were a number of beer bottles, the same brand as the ones she had put into her handbag. Better safe than sorry, she thought. She wanted to avoid arousing suspicions at any cost, and possibly the fact that the two bottles from the bedroom had disappeared would do just that. She took two bottles from the counter and from her handbag fished out her key ring, on which was a bottle opener. The problem was simply how to open the bottles without being heard. She grabbed a terry-cloth hand towel hanging on the cabinet handle under the sink, and held it over when she opened the first of the bottles. It fizzed, and she imagined the sound could be heard throughout the house.
Suddenly laughter was heard from the lower level. It almost scared her out of her wits, but she seized the opportunity and quickly opened the other bottle, too. Then she poured out the contents in the sink. There was no way for her to rinse away the beer smell without being heard. She quickly headed back to the bedroom and passed the stairway with a shudder. She could swear she heard someone moving down there. She entered the bedroom and went straight to the nightstand. She placed the bottles where they should have been, from force of habit pulling on the lower edge of her shirt and putting her hair behind her ears. And there he stood in the doorway. Peder Fryhk.
Smiling, with the same friendly eyes as last evening, just as well-coifed, in a white terry-cloth bathrobe and with slippers on his feet. She felt her heart galloping, but now it was only a matter of collecting herself and playing this scene to its end.
“Are you awake?” he said in a voice showing both consideration and surprise.
He held his arms out toward her, but she was not capable of taking a step in his direction. This was not necessary, though, for he immediately came up to her and gave her a gentle, careful hug, as if she were fragile. Which she was, just not around the shoulders. A shudder passed through her, but she managed to conceal it with a movement. To her own surprise she responded to his embrace and she took a deep breath while she collected herself. He took her head in his hands and pushed her carefully away so that he could look her in the eyes.
“I didn't think you’d wake up before lunch,” he said with a smile that caused all the laugh-lines to pull together. “You were a bit on the tipsy side last night.”
“I know,” said Petra. “I... I shouldn't have had that last glass. I hadn't eaten much either. I usually don't... Forgive me.”
“No, no, no, it was nothing. You were incredibly charming.”
He gave her a light kiss on the cheek. She felt like vomiting, but heard herself saying, “Thanks for last night. It was really nice.”
The pain in her private parts was throbbing in time with her pulse. He drew her to him again and said, almost whispering, “Thank you. It was marvelous. You were marvelous.”
That would have to be enough for now. She had to get out of here. Quickly. She placed her hands on his, which were resting on her hips, and lifted them away with a gentle movement.
“I have to go now,” she said in her most soothing voice, looking him right in the eyes.
“Are you sure you don't want to stay a little while longer?” he asked with a wink.
“No, I can't. I'm sorry. You have no idea what a headache I have.”
Petra managed to produce a little laugh and shook her head in an attempt to appear self-ironic.
“You can have a couple of aspirin if you want. I have some in the bathroom.”
He made an attempt to go and get them for her, but she stopped him.
“No, thanks, it's fine. I usually try to avoid medicine. You reap what you sow, I always say.”
She bit her tongue. That was probably the dumbest thing she had ever said. But he laughed and put his arm around her while he escorted her out of the bedroom and through the beautiful main room.
“Do you want me to call a taxi for you?” he asked.
“I think I could use the walk,” Petra replied.
He helped her put her coat on. She had to sit on a stool as she pulled on her boots so as not to lose her balance. He helped her up and Petra realized that she would have to suffer through another embrace before she could leave.
“Do you want to see me again?” he asked during the farewell hug.
Why don't things like this ever happen for real? thought Petra.
“In that case, I'll be in touch,” she said, leaving him with a smile.
At five-thirty Saturday morning Petra Westman was outside a house at Lusthusbacken 6 in Ålsten, where she had gone by taxi from the south suburbs.
The trip there had been preceded by certain steps, the rhyme or reason of which she was still unable to judge in her clouded condition. She was following her instincts. When she left Peder Fryhk in his beautiful mid-century house, she first made a note of the street number. It was enough to look at his mailbox, where she also saw how his surname was spelled. At the closest intersection she found the name of the street and made a note in her cell: “Peder Fryhk, Båtviksvägen 12.” Farther down the street she encountered an older woman with a bull terrier who showed her the way to the nearest subway station. She added “Mälarhöjden” to her cell phone notes.
Then she called the commander on duty at the Hammarby police department. She knew him and for that reason he finally yielded and gave her the phone number for the after-hours physician.
“But Westman, when did you start in traffic?” he asked with some surprise.
“I just need to get in touch with the doctor. Don't be so curious,” she replied, with a feigned gleam in her eye that she hoped would be conveyed over the phone.
“I'm the one who calls the doctor here,” he tried, but Petra convinced him that it would be fine this other way, too.
He was content with that and so she got the name and number of a certain Dr. Astrid Egnell, whose address she found through directory assistance, and now she was there.
Petra decided to phone first before knocking on the doctor's door, in case she was still asleep. As expected, the doctor herself answered.
“This is Police Assistant Petra Westman at the Hammarby police department,” she began, trying to speak as clearly as possible, although it was still easier to slur. “I understand you’re on call.”
“Yes, that is right.”
“I need help with a drug test.”
“I'll be there in half an hour,” Egnell replied.
“I thought I could spare you the trouble,” said Petra. “I'm standing out here on the street and wonder if we could do the test at your house instead.”
“I do not let drunk drivers into my home,” the doctor answered curtly.
“I know this is probably contrary to regulations, but the fact is, I'm the one who needs to be tested,” Petra attempted.
She saw a curtain on the upper level being pulled to one side and waved in embarrassment up at the doctor. There was silence in the receiver.
“I suspect I've been drugged and it’s very important to me to find out what’s going on,” Petra explained. “I can show you my ID and I'm not violent, so you don't need to worry.”
There was still silence in the receiver. Petra searched for her wallet in her handbag among the beer bottles, managed to wriggle out her police ID and held it up in the direction of the window. It was of course impossible for the after-hours physician to see what she was waving, but hopefully the card would function as a sort of white flag.
“Are you under the influence, officer?” she asked.
“I believe so,” answered Petra. “That's why I'm here.”
With a promise not to make noise and wake the sleeping family, Petra was let into Astrid Engell's kitchen where she dutifully sat on a chair.
“What is this all about?” inquired the doctor, who was only dressed i
n a bathrobe.
“I would rather not go into details, but I would like to find out how much alcohol I have in my blood and if I have any other drugs in my system.”
“And how should I register this, did you think about that?”
Astrid Egnell actually seemed very nice, despite her stern tone, but Petra had no problem understanding her skepticism about the whole thing.
“I would prefer it if you didn't enter it at all, instead we might settle this up, just you and me. I'm prepared to pay for it, if you'll just do the tests.”
“But I'm not the one who analyzes the samples,” said Astrid Egnell, in a somewhat friendlier tone now. “They have to be sent to SKL and it may take several weeks before we get the test results.”
Petra had not thought about these complications, but suddenly she had an idea, which she kept to herself.
“I'll take care of it,” she said calmly. “You're a doctor, you do the tests. I'll take the samples and arrange the rest myself. You'll be rid of me as soon as the samples are taken.”
Astrid Egnell studied her with a surprised expression.
“Does it hurt anywhere?” she asked unexpectedly.
“Yes, my head.”
“Do you have memory lapses? Difficulty walking?”
Petra nodded in agreement.
“For more than one reason perhaps,” said the doctor, opening her bag on the kitchen table without looking her in the eyes.
Petra did not reply.
“Clench your fist,” said the doctor, snapping a rubber band around her upper arm.
“For more than one reason perhaps,” said Petra, giggling.
The doctor looked at her with amusement and stuck the needle into the crook of her arm.
“I know, I'm not sober,” said Petra.
She felt how the tension began to subside now, but she could not relax. She had a long day ahead of her and she had put aside any thought of going home to bed.
“You have to give a urine sample too. Try to be quiet.”
She handed her a jar and showed her to a bathroom by the front door. Petra did as directed and gave the jar to the doctor, who put it in a plastic bag that she then tied together. After that, she put the tube of blood and jar of urine in a plastic grocery bag, along with some papers that would guide the laboratory. Petra tried to pay, but Astrid Egnell refused to take her money.
“Next train to Linköping goes at 8:00. I suggest you go home and shower before you leave, because you don't look sober. Take care of yourself,” she said, closing the front door.
At 10:40 a.m., about twenty minutes late, Petra Westman got off the train at the central station in Linköping. Her only luggage was a grocery bag containing two beer bottles, a sample tube of blood, a jar of urine, two condoms and her own used toothbrush. On the platform she was met by a certain Håkan Carlberg, whom she had met twice before: the first time at a cousin's wedding and the second time at another cousin's wedding. Both times they had been seated next to each other at dinner—the second time apparently because the seating arrangement turned out so well the first time. Håkan Carlberg was a rather well-built local in his forties, with dark-blonde, close-cropped hair. He had a cheerful, pleasant manner with a gleam in his eye, at least when he was at a party, and Petra hoped he would not be too different on an everyday basis.
It was not because of these qualities, however, that Petra called and woke him up at seven-thirty Saturday morning and asked to see him. Håkan Carlberg worked as a technician at SKL, the national crime laboratory, and was in possession of certain expertise and equipment that Petra was in need of this gloomy November morning.
Today he was unshaven and dressed for the weekend in a pair of washed-out jeans and a bright-blue long-sleeve T-shirt under a navy-blue down vest. Petra was uncertain of the most appropriate way for them to greet each other, so she extended her hand so as not to appear forward. He ignored that and gave her a big hug, which made her feel even more idiotic, but did give her hope for their immediate future together.
“Shall we get a bite to eat?” Håkan suggested. “I haven't had any breakfast.”
“Me, neither,” Petra admitted, and they headed for the station building and the restaurant there.
“Now I'm getting a bit curious as to what this is all about,” said Håkan, when they had sat down at a table by a window facing the street.
Petra had a liver-sausage sandwich and a Ramlösa in front of her and Håkan the same thing, supplemented by a cup of coffee. Petra insisted on paying for breakfast and was allowed to, despite certain objections.
“I have a few odds and ends with me I’d like you to take a look at,” said Petra. “Off the record, so to speak, but according to all the rules of the art.”
“Goodness. Is this private detective work?”
“I wouldn't say that.”
“Is your boyfriend having an affair?” Håkan said jokingly.
“If only it were that simple,” sighed Petra. “No, it's nothing inappropriate. Not like that, anyway.”
“What kind of odds and ends then?”
“For one thing, there are a couple of beer bottles I would like you to check for fingerprints.”
“I'll be glad to do that for you. But do you have to go all the way to Linköping to get help with that? I would think you have your own lab for such things.”
“Yes, I know,” sighed Petra. “But there's more.”
“Shoot.”
“I have blood and urine that I would like to have tested for alcohol and drugs. And I have semen that I would like to have DNA tested.”
Petra looked at Håkan Carlberg with an embarrassed smile. She knew this was a lot to ask.
“You must be joking,” he said seriously. “‘Off the record’? Do you know what it costs to do DNA analysis?”
“I know,” said Petra, who had no idea, although she was well aware that it was expensive.
“What would the point of a DNA analysis be if we don't have anything to compare it to? Is it a pretty diagram to hand up on the wall you're after, or what?”
“I know who the DNA belongs to. When we arrest him we'll have this to compare to.”
“Well, why don’t we run the DNA analysis at that time instead? When we have a case? I suppose you're going to arrest the owner of this sperm sample?”
“Sooner or later. I'll see to that.”
“So why don't we already have an ongoing investigation? You have to explain what you're up to, otherwise I'm losing interest in the whole matter.”
Petra sighed heavily and ate for a few minutes in silence. Her headache made itself known again, and she drank half a bottle of mineral water in one gulp. Håkan ate, too, and his gaze wandered thoughtfully between Petra and what was going on outside the window, which was basically nothing.
“Come on now, Petra,” he said at last. “Tell me about it. Even if I decide not to help you, I’m not going to tell this to anyone. I swear to that. Except possibly Helena. And maybe Anna.”
Her cousins. Petra looked up at him in terror. He met her eyes with a loud laugh.
“I'll keep my mouth shut,” he said, suddenly serious again. “I think I understand what’s happened.”
He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers.
“Were you raped?” he asked carefully.
Petra felt that she was suddenly extremely close to tears, but she straightened up and had a little mineral water to shake it off. Just like with the on-call doctor this morning, there was some relief in being met with understanding.
“I don’t know,” Petra said frankly. “But I think that must be what happened.”
And then the whole story bubbled out of her. Håkan Carlberg listened attentively, interrupting her occasionally to ask a question or get a clarification.
“How do you feel now?” he asked when she was through with her story. “Purely physically, I mean. Mentally you seem to be in top form, occupied with private investigations and other exciting stuff.”
&n
bsp; His joking tone dissolved the heavy atmosphere at the table and Petra smiled for the first time in many hours.
“I have an excruciating headache, pain in my belly and ass, and poor control of my extremities. But I feel a lot less clumsy now. This morning I was seeing fuzzy, too, but that’s passed.”
Once everything had been explained, it was much easier to talk about. The whole event was reduced to a narrative, something that had taken place, but now could be looked at clinically. She hoped it would stay that way.
“And why don’t you report the whole story to the police?” Håkan wanted to know.
“I am the police, damn it.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Would you want your associates to do an investigation of you? Analyze your sperm and...take blood samples and fingerprints?”
Petra could hear how dumb that sounded, and Håkan looked amused as he listened to her perhaps not-so-well-thought-out comparison.
“Well, that part about fingerprints does sound really terrible,” he laughed. “But I understand what you mean. Examined by the police doctor in a gynecology chair, while your buddies in the department are sitting alongside with pen and pad. Being perceived as a victim instead of hunting the perpetrator. That doesn’t sound like a very comfortable situation. You don’t think you have any injuries?”
“I’m sure I do,” said Petra, “but nothing that won’t heal on its own. I’m grateful in any event that he used a condom. Think if I got pregnant on top of everything else. Or worse.”
“Don’t you think he’ll be worried you might send him to jail? Being a police officer and all.”
“He doesn’t know I’m a police officer. I told him I work at an insurance company.”
“But wasn’t your police badge in your wallet?”
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