“Look after yourself,” he said a little too late when she was already on her way out the door.
* * *
SARA OSKARSSON KNOCKED three times on the door of Emrik Jansson’s little house. The front porch was in the shade and her back felt cold. She turned to Fredrik.
“Don’t count on this giving us anything.”
“We’ll have to see,” said Fredrik.
It was silent on the other side of the door. Sara, who had seen how slowly he moved, waited without knocking again. At long last, the door finally opened.
“Sara Oskarsson, Visby Police Department,” she introduced herself. “I was here a few weeks ago.”
The dark blue eyes above the bushy beard looked at her for a brief moment before he nodded slowly twice.
“Yeah, I recognize you,” said Emrik Jansson, “but not you,” he added looking at Fredrik.
“Fredrik Broman,” he said and held out his hand and felt his fingers get squeezed by a dry cold hand.
“We’ve got a few more questions,” Sara explained.
“You’d better come inside,” said Emrik. “I’ve got food on the stove.”
“It’ll only take a moment,” she said.
“Oh, sure, that’s all it takes to burn the food, too.”
He gestured in toward the house, turned his back on them, and walked slowly into the kitchen. They followed after him and Fredrik pulled the door closed behind him. Sara was careful not to accidentally brush against any of the yellow-stained interior. She had warned Fredrik, but had gotten the feeling that he hadn’t taken her seriously.
They entered the kitchen. There was a big cast-iron frying pan spattering and sizzling away on the stove. Not altogether surprisingly, the kitchen was even more encrusted with grime than the sections of the apartment that Sara had been able to see from the hall the last time she was there. The table and benches may have been wiped off, but seemed to have a layer of grease, dirt, and tobacco residue that no amount of cleaning had any real effect on. At least not Emrik’s cleaning.
“It’s wild rabbit,” said Emrik Jansson and turned the two legs over in the frying pan with the help of a spatula and a wooden spoon. “The cat brings one in every so often. I usually take the legs and then he can make do with the rest.”
Sara felt a look from Fredrik, but avoided meeting it. Here’s one guy anyway, who eats what the cat dragged in, she thought, and couldn’t help but stare at the rabbit legs that were frying in plenty of fat.
“When I was here last time you said that you had seen Arvid Traneus riding in the family car, a silver gray SUV.”
“Driving, to be precise,” said Emrik Jansson and looked up from his cooking.
“That’s right, driving,” said Sara. “It was in the evening, Monday, the second of October.”
“Yes.”
“And that was the last time you saw him?”
“Yup. Last time anyone saw him, I understand,” said Emrik Jansson.
Teachers, thought Sara, they have an unfailing ability to make one feel like an idiot.
“And are you absolutely sure about that. You didn’t see him after Monday evening?”
“No.”
Emrik pressed one of the legs down into the frying pan with the wooden spoon.
“I think it’s just about ready. They nibble on thyme and other herbs when they’re hopping around out there, the occasional juniper berry maybe, so they come preseasoned. Salt is the only thing that’s missing,” he said glancing over his shoulder at Sara.
“Do you remember anything more from that week? Did you see Kristina Traneus or any other member of the family?”
“Kristina I saw midweek sometime, not sure what day it was. Before that I saw the car a few times, but I never saw who was sitting in it.”
“You don’t know which day?”
“Must’ve been on Tuesday.”
“During the day?”
“Yes, it was. Sometime in the afternoon.”
“So theoretically, Arvid Traneus could have been sitting in the car when you saw it on Tuesday?” asked Sara while Emrik Jansson served up his fried wild rabbit leg on a brown plate decorated with mustard-colored stripes.
“Theoretically anyone could’ve been sitting in the car,” he answered.
You just keep it up, thought Sara.
“But all roads lead to Rome, know what I mean,” he continued.
“I know the expression, but I’m not sure what it has to do with this case,” said Sara and was about to put her hand on the kitchen counter to the right of her, but caught herself at the last second.
“There are several roads leading to that farm and there’s only one of them that passes by my hunting grounds,” said Emrik Jansson and grinned.
“Okay, now I’m with you,” said Sara, “but if we just stick to what you saw? There’s nothing else that you remember from those days; the second, third, fourth of October?”
“No,” he said firmly.
He turned his back to Sara, lifted the frying pan with both hands and carried it over to the sink. There he stopped, and stared down into the frying pan that he rested against the edge of the counter, let go of it with one hand and stroked his beard.
“I think I saw the son, Rickard, drive past.”
This time she met Fredrik’s gaze that was urging her to keep going. Emrik let go of the frying pan, which clattered into the sink.
“You think you saw him?” she said.
“I mean, I did see him, but exactly when that would’ve been…”
He fell silent and turned toward Sara.
“You didn’t mention this before,” she pointed out.
“Rickard drives past here all the time. It’s not something you think twice about.”
Sara started to sense a slight feeling of irritation gnawing away inside her. She could have started to feel tired, but instead she was feeling annoyed.
“Was it after the second of October?”
The nicotine stained tuft of beard beneath his lip bobbed up and down as Emrik smacked thoughtfully a few times.
“I’ve seen him shoot past here so often. I don’t know…”
“Do you know Rickard?” she asked.
“Know him? No, no I wasn’t around long enough to have him in my class. I left before he made it into junior high. But then you get to hear a thing or two. I’m surprised that he ended up trying to go down the finance path. It really wasn’t his thing,” he said.
“So what was his ‘thing’ would you say?” asked Sara.
“He was good at school, as far as I know, it’s not that, but he probably had more of a natural inclination toward the humanities.”
Emrik Jansson ran his tongue across his lower lip.
“That is if you’re going to believe what you hear,” he added with a sheepish smile.
He took a few steps toward Sara and Fredrik and pointed at the table.
“Is it all right if I sit down?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” said Sara, ashamed that she hadn’t thought of that before.
He had moved around with such domesticated ease in front of the stove that she had completely forgotten his unsteady legs. Fredrik pulled out a chair for him that he sank down onto with a quiet sigh.
“I’ve seen it before. Children who follow in their parents’ footsteps. It can undermine their self-confidence. It’s not a question of talent. Not primarily anyway. It’s something else.”
Emrik fingered his packet of rolling tobacco that lay on the kitchen table, but left it where it was unopened.
“It undermines their self-confidence,” he repeated.
Sara nodded and made a final attempt:
“But it was around the second of October that you saw Rickard drive past on his way to the farm?”
“I can’t say that for sure since I saw him all the time. He was always over there fixing things and doing stuff. But exactly when…”
“You were very sure when it was you saw Arvid Traneus in the car, th
at it was on the Monday,” said Fredrik.
Emrik looked up at Fredrik. It felt strange that they were both standing, while Emrik was sitting, thought Sara, but she wasn’t going to sacrifice herself for appearances.
“Sure, but that was different,” Emrik answered in a tone of voice that suggested that that ought to be obvious. “Traneus had came home that day, after being away in Japan for a few years.”
Emrik suddenly stopped short and turned back toward Sara purposefully.
“No, it was after Arvid had come back. That’s right. Yes, I can see it in front of me. First Arvid in the car in the evening, then Rickard. And it wasn’t the same day.”
“Which day was it then?” she asked.
Emrik Jansson sat there in silence for a moment staring down at the table, then he shook his head.
“No, I can’t say. Tuesday, Wednesday? Thursday? Can’t have been any later than that.”
“But it was after Arvid had come home? You’re absolutely sure about that?”
Emrik nodded.
* * *
THE CAR WAS heading north, back toward Visby. The treetops were swaying uneasily along the coast road.
“Regardless of whether he remembers correctly or not, it’s the second thing he said that’s almost more important,” said Fredrik who was behind the wheel.
“He said a whole lot,” said Sara and opened the car window a little.
Cool air poured in over her face. Fredrik looked at her. It looked as if she was sweating.
“Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she answered.
Fredrik fixed his gaze on the road again and picked up where he left off.
“I mean the fact that Rickard was over there several times a week. That strengthens my theory that he knew. He stayed away and stopped calling since there was no one left there to call. He was involved somehow, unless he’s actually the one who killed his father.”
“And now he’s run off?” said Sara and ran the tips of her fingers across her forehead.
“Yes.”
“But, the fact that he stopped calling and didn’t go over there could also have to do with the fact that his father had just come home. He went over there to help out his mother, then his father came. Pretty natural. And then maybe their relationship wasn’t the best, either.”
“I’ve thought about that,” said Fredrik, “but we haven’t actually found anything to suggest that. At least not to the extent that would explain why he wouldn’t get in touch for a whole week.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Sara and then fell silent.
“What?” said Fredrik and looked at her.
Didn’t she seem just a little pale?
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Oh, yeah,” she assured him, coughed gently a few times, and then continued. “Rickard was the only son out of three children. Maybe he felt a lot of pressure to live up to something that he wasn’t suited for—Emrik hinted at something like that—and he’s spoken himself about his failed studies. That can make things tense between a father and son, make you reluctant to get in touch, even if the relationship isn’t exactly bad.”
The landscape opened up to the dark-blue sea in the west. They fell silent and looked out over the jagged waves. It looked like the wind was starting to pick up. The smell of seaweed penetrated through the cracked-open window. Sara wrinkled her nose.
“Ugh,” she whined and shut the window.
“You know, I’ve been thinking about those diaries,” said Fredrik. “Kristina Traneus’s diaries. You got a few of them to read, too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you look at them?”
“Sure, I read them,” she said.
“Did you find any clues as to where we might be able to find him?”
“Rickard? No. I would have thought of that. I mean, at the time of course we were looking for his father, but still.”
“There was something in one of the books, one of the ones that Lennart had, about a sailing trip. They had a boat called the Adventure that the whole family used to go sailing in together. It seemed to be a recurring event, something they did every summer with the kids.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Sara and stared out through the window.
“That’s the only place I’ve found any reference to, apart from the house, that seems to have had any significance, or emotional attachment for them. They never had a summerhouse, never kept coming back to some particular travel destination. The sailing trips on the Adventure were the only thing.”
“So, what are you saying,” said Sara, “that you want us to look for a sailboat?”
“No, there’s no point in that. It doesn’t even belong to the family anymore. But the notes in the diary said something about an island … I have to take another look at exactly what she wrote, but I think it might be worth checking out. Do you mind if we swing past Lennart’s place? I think he still has the books,” said Fredrik.
“Me? Are you crazy?” said Sara.
“Come on,” said Fredrik, “he could do with a bit of cheering up.”
“I understand if you don’t want to go on your own, but…”
Sara suddenly got a strange look in her eye.
“Could you pull over?” she asked.
“What?”
“Can you stop the car?”
“Stop? Where? You mean here?” asked Fredrik and pointed out at the deserted landscape dotted with summer cabins that they were just passing.
“Just stop, anywhere!” she shouted in a shrill tone that made Fredrik jam on the brakes.
Sara had already taken off her safety belt, threw open the door, and was out of the car the moment it came to a halt. She took a few unsteady steps out across the shoulder, bent forward, and threw up in the ditch. A single, retching cascade, and then it was over.
She sank down onto her haunches and took a few deep breaths, steadied herself with one hand against the ground.
The whole thing had gone very fast and only now did it occur to Fredrik to get out. He rounded the car and hurried over to her. She waved at him to stay where he was.
“Can I do anything?” he asked.
Sara shook her head cautiously and wiped away the tears that had squeezed out of the corner of her eyes. Fredrik felt helpless, but managed to find a piece of paper that she could use to wipe her mouth. After a while he held his hand out to her. She took it and slowly rose to her feet.
“Want me to drive you home?” he asked when they were back in the car.
She shook her head again.
“I’m okay. Let’s go see Lennart,” she said.
“You’re sure?”
“Yeah. It would be great if you could just stop somewhere so I can buy a bottle of water.”
“Sure,” he said and started the car.
He looked at her again as he pulled back out onto the road.
“I think it was the lunch,” she said. “That’s the last time I’m eating in the station cafeteria.”
“You ought to call and complain.”
“M-hm, definitely,” Sara mumbled and looked out the window.
54.
Elin sat in one of the red armchairs in the stern lounge and watched Visby and Gotland slowly recede into the distance. The captain’s welcome-aboard announcement droned from the ceiling’s hidden loudspeakers. The voice fluctuated strangely between sincere enthusiasm and casual nonchalance. The winds were modest but increasing, and the crossing could be a little choppy if the wind continued in its current direction.
It could go ahead and blow, as far as Elin was concerned. She didn’t easily get seasick. None of them ever had any trouble with seasickness. Not her, not Ricky, and not Stefania. Mother had been a little more sensitive. Especially if it was blowing the first day they were out, before she’d gotten used to it.
The distance between the ferry and the island grew ever larger.
She needed a sea between herself and him.
That was
how she had always thought about it whenever she saw Gotland get swallowed up by the horizon, and the world, for a moment, consisted of nothing but water. She needed a sea. Two continents wasn’t enough, she needed that sea, too. Used to need it.
He had returned from Tokyo. Ten years after he’d left for the first time he’d come back and was murdered in his own house.
Ten years after Stefania’s death.
What did it mean for her that he didn’t exist anymore? That he was dead, out of her life? It was too complicated for her to think about. The fact that Mother was also gone made it even more impossible.
If he had been the only one to die, then everything could have been different. They would have been able to breathe. For a moment they would have been able to take long, deep breaths. Mother would’ve been able to breathe, speak, move, look wherever she wanted. You couldn’t think like that, wish for your own father’s death. Sure you could, it was the most natural thing in the world, nothing to be ashamed of.
It wasn’t complicated. It was only natural.
She fumbled for the lever that tipped the chair back, pulled it and pushed back against the chair. The glass with ice-cold, sour red wine vibrated on the tray table in front of her. There weren’t many people in the stern lounge. A few rows to the left of her, a woman was trying to get a little baby to go to sleep that had a gray bonnet tied underneath its chin.
Father had flown back when the doctors had said that Stefania probably wouldn’t make it. Mother had called and called and called. In the end, he had caught a plane. Stefania had fallen asleep for the last time when he was somewhere above Siberia, over six miles up in the air. He had stayed for three days, taken care of everything, spoken to the undertakers, set a date for the funeral, done everything that had to be done. Then he had left again, hadn’t been able to stay any longer, but would be back for the funeral. It couldn’t be done any other way.
The funeral had taken place three weeks later. A cold, clear day in November with just a few yellow leaves dangling from the sprawling tree branches. An empty day, completely empty and awful. Levide church felt wrong and unfamiliar, standing as it did wedged in among a few houses on the wrong side of the road. Elin remembered that she had thought that it was the wrong place for Stefania, that the entire funeral was one big betrayal.
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