The Viper

by Hakan Ostlundh

  “No, I’m not saying that. But she worked like a fucking slave to protect the rest of us from Father. You, me, but most of all Mother. So that he wouldn’t beat her to death. Don’t you see? She went mad from it. She died. He killed her.”

  She hadn’t intended for it to sound so brutal. She hadn’t wanted to shove it down his throat. She had wanted him to see it for himself, but his obstinate refusal forced her. She had to somehow punch a hole through that shield he was hiding behind. She succeeded. And he hit back. It landed low down on her cheek and across the jaw. It was just a slap, but he had wound up for it all the way from his shoulder. She stared at him speechlessly, her eyes welling up with tears. It was more paralysis than pain she was feeling, as if it was not just the right side of her face, but her entire body that had lost all sensation.

  “Sorry, sorry, Elin, sorry, I don’t know, I just … I just wasn’t thinking. Sorry, Elin…”

  Somewhere far away she heard the jabbering stream of excuses. So predictable, so clumsy; stale and pathetic. Then it ran over. She didn’t cry, it was the tears that overflowed when the lower eyelid couldn’t hold any more lacrimal fluid. A physiological phenomenon that couldn’t be stopped. She didn’t cry.

  “Imagine that, you’ve become so good at defending him, that you’ve become just like him.”

  His face scrunched up as if he was the one who was suffering, as if it was she who had hit him.

  38.

  Stefania holding a workbook from school. Her voice, rapid fire, cheerful. Dreaming about something that was coming up, a trip, a future. She imagined herself in the future, painted a picture of how it was going to be. Sometimes she sat on the edge of the bed, read a story to her younger siblings. The workbook comes back, a sheet of English vocabulary, a bare leg, a ribbed nightgown with a little ribbon at the front on the neckband. Her moving quickly through the rooms on long, powerful legs.

  Ricky’s own memories of her were mostly glimpses of that kind. When the end came, he was fourteen, that of course he remembered. The day she sat in the car next to Mother and then never came home again. Father had left for Japan, and the pale, whitish-yellow apples fell from the trees. Stefania was looking down at her lap, her face hidden by her long hair. He looked after her, but she never met his gaze. He remembered that, of course. But by then she was already far away. Even if she sometimes spoke of the future, spoke in that rapid-fire chatter, with a wide smile, it still wasn’t like it had been before. Stefania was sick, Mother had explained and after that, the sickness was all you ever heard about. Any attempt to tell stories, to dream, was filtered through the illness. Even her movements and expressions were colored by her illness. She was sick above and beyond everything else, only after that was she Stefania.

  The other times, with the healthy voice and the quick movements through the house, there were only brief glimpses of that left. She was so tall, he thought, but it may just have seemed that way because he was so small. Long, thin bare legs, he thought for some reason. Pale, bare legs, pale even in summer. But maybe that was a false picture, maybe he just didn’t have any summer memories. Yes he did, on the way out to the island, with Mother in the cockpit of the Adventure. Stefania sunbathed her way through sailing trip after sailing trip. She must have been tanned, and yet he couldn’t see that in front of him.

  But with her workbook, or the vocabulary sheet, how she called out to Father as she skipped through the living room, so that he could see. She held out her workbook with a straight arm, at once demanding and pleading. Then those long, pale legs crawled up into his lap. And Father laid his arms around her and the book, or the vocabulary sheet, and considered the problem. The deep voice that guided her toward the solution. And how she sparkled and glowed, more alive than you could ever imagine was possible. Those broad lips smiling, that gaze that pierced right through you, and those words that whirled around in your head—plans, advice, things that were going to happen. Or was it because she later became different, that his real sister seemed to be so much more, as if she lived in her own world where you could bend the laws of nature?

  He had two images of Stefania: a warm, living dream image, and a gray, silent, ghost image. But neither the one nor the other had anything to do with what Elin was talking about. If you combed through enough psychology theories, you could probably convince yourself that she was somehow flirting with Father and that he somehow was letting himself be flirted with. Or else maybe you didn’t even need to comb through all that many, that was probably Exhibit A. Stefania had been the best, then she had become ill. The world wasn’t fair.

  He had heard her throw up in the basement, one single time he had seen it. He had seen her stick her hand into the vomit and taste it. It had almost made him throw up himself, but it was only now that he understood why she had tasted her own vomit. It was to make her vomit again.

  39.

  It started to rain lightly as Fredrik passed Väte, but when he parked outside the police station it had already stopped and the clouds had begun to disperse. The asphalt was barely damp.

  The first thing he did when he came into his office was pick up the receiver to call Eva about the mower blade, but he hesitated with his finger poised above the first number.

  Was it really that bad? Had it gone from awkward to completely fucking impossible?

  He solved the dilemma by sending a text message and at the same time asking her about Kristina Traneus’s diaries. He got an answer almost immediately.

  Blade was on the mower. Looked myself. Saw nothing loose, but can double-check. Easy to miss what you’re not looking for. Don’t know who has diaries. Better ask around.

  /e

  He stared at the signature “/e”. What was that supposed to mean?

  After a bit of running around between offices and a few phone calls he concluded that it must have been Lennart who took the dairies home with him. He considered taking the car to go over and pick them up—Lennart didn’t live more than fifteen minutes from the police station—but decided to call instead.

  It took seven rings before Lennart picked up. Fredrik pictured Lennart struggling up from the floor, where he had been lying on account of his back. Fredrik’s father had spent a few summers like that, after having recklessly lifted some oversized rock in the yard of their summer cabin.

  “How are you doing?” asked Fredrik and pulled at the receiver cord that had tangled itself up to half its length.

  “Thanks, it’s going in the right direction,” said Lennart and coughed.

  He sounded hoarse.

  “It’s just a drag having to stay at home all day. You can hear for yourself, voice gets all gummed up. No one to talk to.”

  “You ought to borrow one of those language courses on CD at the library in Roma,” said Fredrik and sat down so he wouldn’t have to struggle with the cord. He grabbed a pen, wrote “phone cord” on a Post-it pad and knew that he wouldn’t do anything about it. Not in the middle of a murder investigation.

  “Maybe Japanese, what do you think?” answered Lennart. “Ella and I are going to Japan in February, two weeks. Tokyo, Kyoto, and Hiroshima.”

  Fredrik felt vaguely envious. It was the over-fifties with kids who’d left home, who had the time and money to travel around the world. If it wasn’t Japan, it was China, Mexico, or Kenya. He hadn’t made it past the Canaries since Simon was born. And not much further before that, either. On the other hand, who the hell wanted to be over fifty.

  “You could see if you can track down Traneus while you’re there,” he said.

  Lennart just laughed.

  Fredrik explained his reason for calling and Lennart was quick to take out the diaries. It seemed as if he had them within arm’s reach of the telephone.

  “July 1994, you said?”

  “That’s right.”

  The line went silent for a moment while Lennart flipped through the book.

  “Here we go.”

  “Can you see whether it says anything there about ‘an adventure
’ or ‘the adventure’ on the sixth of July or after?”

  “Let’s see,” said Lennart and hummed to himself as he scanned the text. “Nope, I can’t see anything adventurous here. But if you give me fifteen minutes I can call you back?”

  “So what does it say then? On the sixth of July?” asked Fredrik without answering the question.

  “Want me to read it to you?” asked Lennart.

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay. Sixth of July. ‘Packed for Elin and Rickard. Had to go buy mosquito repellant and UHT milk. Arvid and Rickard were sitting with the sea charts as usual.’ That’s it.”

  “How about the seventh of July?” asked Fredrik.

  “Seventh of July. ‘Today we sailed out to the island. We put out early from Klintehamn. Good winds. We sailed the whole way. Arvid said that the gods were with us. I think so, too. An amazing day, clear blue sky, nice and balmy. We had a following wind the whole way from Hoburgen.’”

  Lennart stopped.

  “Want me to continue? It keeps on in the same style…”

  “No, that’s enough.”

  A boat. He should have been able to work that one out.

  “Was that any help?” said Lennart.

  “Maybe. We’ll have to check it out.”

  * * *

  IT HAD RAINED during the night. The air was cool and the dirt road between the fields and the pastures was dark gray and a little muddy. Johannes Klarberg had broken off a branch from a bush along the way and was walking with it in his hand. He whipped the ground with it with every fourth step or so. Little clouds of dust rose up when the branch ripped a hole in the damp road surface all the way through to the dry part underneath.

  He had been sent out to look for two runaway pigs. He had been forced to do it. He was ashamed of his father’s notion of happy pigs. The kids at school had gotten tired of shouting “happy pig” at him after just one week, but he still felt ashamed. And then they kept running away all the time; well, maybe not all the time, but this was the second time this month anyway.

  He had tried to claim that this couldn’t be considered a household chore that he could be expected to help out with. This was actually his father’s job. But his father had waved him off saying that the day he really fulfilled his share of the chore list that was taped to the inside of the cleaning cupboard, he wouldn’t have to run after any more pigs.

  What the hell was he talking about? He had never asked for that list to be put up. It had just appeared there one day two years ago when they had been to visit his mother’s cousin in Västerås, and his mother had been so impressed by all his second cousins running around like brainwashed boy scouts, clearing the table and doing the dishes and vacuum cleaning.

  He whipped the ground extra hard with his stick, which spattered mud onto his black hoodie.

  “Fuck!”

  He brushed away the mud with his hand, but it left a gray spot that didn’t come out.

  Johannes knew just where to look. They were always in the same spot, some fifty to over a hundred yards in among the birch trees and oaks in the field next to the enclosure they had escaped from. He walked past the sign with the ridiculous message about happy pigs, tried not to see it when he looked out for cars before crossing the road and entering the field.

  The dry branches and partially damp leaves rustled and cracked under his feet. It smelled of earth. He peered between the trees and stepped right into a fresh pile of pig shit. This was just so typical. He walked on, his sneakers becoming shiny with the dampness from the leaves and grass.

  He spotted one of them. Brown spots against pink haunches, partially hidden behind the thick trunk of a beech tree. It was never difficult to get them to come along, not the fully grown ones, they didn’t seem interested in fighting for their freedom. The same could not be said for the little pigs. You couldn’t handle them on your own. They were totally crazy and fast as hell. But they had already been sent to slaughter.

  The pigs had grubbed up a big hole in the ground, tossed up little piles of black dirt. The sow took a few steps to the side with her hindquarters when she suddenly became aware of his presence, gave him an indifferent glance. She had something in her mouth, covered in dirt and muck, limp, looked like a dead crow or some other little animal, maybe a squirrel.

  He stopped. Stared at the sow and the thing it was holding in its tusks. That was no animal. What he had taken for a dead bird was something else altogether.

  40.

  The smell of tobacco was strong. Göran Eide could almost see the light-gray wisps of smoke above his desk. How could something that only existed inside your head tickle the senses so realistically? He felt tempted to wave his hand to see if he could affect the imaginary tobacco haze that defied the smoking ban.

  Unfortunately, fantasizing about smoking didn’t stay his craving for tobacco. If anything it increased it.

  It had been twelve days since Kristina and Anders Traneus had been found murdered, two weeks since they had been killed. And still no trace of Arvid Traneus’s whereabouts. Göran was sure of three things: that Arvid Traneus had killed his wife and her lover, that he was no longer in the country, but probably in Japan or possibly in some island nation with very lax banking and taxation laws, and that they would catch him. Not within the next few days, or weeks, most likely not even this year, but sooner or later, in a year or two, he would expose himself and could be arrested by the local police in whatever country he was currently in.

  Arvid Traneus had had twelve days to get in touch, which he ought to have done if he wasn’t guilty of the murders. The information couldn’t possibly have escaped him. Every imaginable media had reported extensively on the double murder. And Arvid Traneus had last been seen on Gotland two days before his wife and cousin had been killed.

  The phone rang. Göran picked up the receiver. It was the duty officer.

  “We’ve got someone here who claims to have found human body parts.”

  “Where?” asked Göran.

  “Somewhere between Etelhem and Hejde, out in the forest, or in some field,” said the duty officer.

  “So what is it, some old bones?”

  The duty officer cleared his throat.

  “According to the person filing the report, it looked like it was a man’s penis,” he said.

  Göran’s spirits sank a little. He wasn’t in the mood for any pranks. He glanced at the calendar on the desk to make sure that he wasn’t supposed to be celebrating some anniversary as chief inspector or as a police officer, or that there was some other reason he ought to be prepared to be the butt of his colleagues’ jokes. He couldn’t think of anything.

  “I see,” he said, “is there anyone other than the person filing the report who’s seen this body part?”

  “No,” said the duty officer, “but I sent out a patrol. They ought to be there any minute.”

  “And the person who called it in, who is it?”

  “It’s a young kid, but he seemed credible, and very upset. He was out looking for a couple of runaway pigs when he found it. The pigs had dug up the ground and one of them apparently had this appendage in its mouth.”

  Göran was now in an even worse mood and feeling even more desperate for a smoke.

  “Call back when it’s been confirmed,” he said and hung up.

  * * *

  OFFICER MATS LARSSON looked at Johannes Klarberg with a steady gaze as he listened to the boy’s account. His considerably older partner, Leif Knutsson, stood next to him with his arms crossed and listened, too.

  The boy claimed that he’d found a human penis in among the trees at the side of the winding forest road. The problem was that there was no longer any penis—appendage, male sex organ, or whatever you chose to call it—left to see, because when he saw it, it had been dangling between the tusks of a pig. If the boy’s story was correct, then it must have been dug out of the ground. When the boy had tried to get the pig to let go of the alleged organ, the pig had instead gobbled it up.


  “Are you absolutely sure of what you saw?”

  Johannes Klarberg nodded eagerly.

  “As sure as can be. I can swear to it. I was this close,” he said and illustrated by stretching out his arm to its full length and angling up his hand.

  He looked like he was sixteen or seventeen years old, tall and thin and had dark, almost black hair that hung down in front of one eye.

  “This isn’t something you’re making up is it? You do realize that submitting false information to the police can have serious consequences?” said Knutsson and managed to sound reassuring and a little threatening at the same time.

  Johannes Klarberg didn’t seem to understand what Knutsson meant.

  “No, what would I do that for?” he gasped.

  As for the two pigs, the boy had managed to get them across to the part of the pasture that currently wasn’t being used. Knutsson and the boy could see them from the spot where they were standing. It didn’t seem likely that Johannes Klarberg was lying, Mats Larsson thought. It was one thing to call 911 with a made-up story, but for him to stand there and lie to the faces of two police officers, that was hard to imagine. The boy didn’t seem stupid, which of course didn’t rule out the possibility that he may have been mistaken.

  Knutsson sighed and took out his mobile. He called up the station and explained the situation to the duty officer, who in turn said that he would call back in a few minutes.

  They stood there silently watching the pigs while they waited. They were a light grayish-pink against the green pasture and they weren’t moving.

  “If you think the kid’s telling the truth, then those pigs will have to be put down,” said the duty officer when he called back.

  “Both of them?” said Knutsson.

  “Yes, we can’t rule out that there are or have been more body parts buried in the ground and that the pigs have found them and eaten them.”

  “So, what do we do?” said Knutsson, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows.