by Anna Jansson
“Well.” Jessika inhaled and looked anxious. “I know someone who liked Sandra. But I’m not sure. Maybe I’m wrong; I’m just guessing.”
“It may be of value anyway. Who do you think it was?”
“Reine Hammar was a little weak for her. She got looks from him sometimes that … well, you know what I mean. And he could think of thousands of reasons why he needed to go into her office. Then he dyed his hair black because she said she liked dark men.” Jessika laughed, and the laughter changed into a new crying attack. “He’s the clinical director here and he’s married to the big boss. Good Lord, it won’t come out that I said that, will it? He was at home with Sandra once when I called her. I heard his voice and recognized it. But I don’t think she was particularly interested in him, it was someone else. She didn’t want me to know who. And Reine is who he is … he had an affair with a girl who used to clean here and then there was one of the girls in the restaurant … and then Mimmi in the kitchen said that she saw him out at the bar with a blonde woman. They took a taxi together, presumably to her place. But I don’t know whether that’s true, that’s just what Mimmi said.” Jessica sniffed, dried her eyes and around her nose and sat up straighter.
“I actually asked Sandra whether there was anything between her and Reine, but she flatly denied it. ‘Confess, you coward,’ I said but she just laughed.” Suddenly Jessika opened her eyes wide and stared right through Maria as if she had seen a ghost. “So Reine doesn’t know about it. He’s at the sanitarium and doesn’t know that Sandra is dead. So terrible. Who’s going to tell him? Me? I couldn’t. I don’t think I’d get a word out. Poor Reine.” She looked thoughtful. ”But no, there was someone else. A journalist. She talked one time about a journalist she met at a party and I had the impression it was something serious.”
“Do you know what kind of a party it was?”
“A birthday party for someone turning forty. His sister, she worked at the infectious disease clinic. His name is Torbjörn, I think.”
“Are you sure of that? That his name is Torbjörn?” asked Hartman.
“Well, maybe it was Tobias. Although it was a while ago, I don’t think anything came of it. Then she Internet dated—she may have met someone that way.”
“Do you know if she knew anyone named Hans Moberg, ‘Moby’?”
“Don’t know. But I got a feeling someone was coming to see her, last night. I asked if she wanted me to be there. You know, the first date you should be careful and not meet alone and that. But she said that I absolutely couldn’t. She was really strange, angry really, even though I hadn’t done anything. She almost screamed at me, ‘I want to be alone.’ I got a little worried and actually thought about showing up anyway, but then after my day shift I was called in to work the evening shift in the surgery department. After that I just didn’t have the energy. I called several times, but she didn’t answer. God, I hadn’t thought about that … if I’d been there maybe she would be alive now!”
“I was thinking about Sandra’s apartment, it must have been expensive for her.” Hartman followed two young nurses with his eyes and cleared his throat when he felt Maria’s eyes on him. “I mean, I’m guessing your salary is no higher than the nurses who are employed by the county council?”
“No, we have roughly the same salary. I actually asked Sandra how she could afford it and then she smiled in a sly way and said that she had an ace up her sleeve and that in time she might even get a three-room apartment or her own house.”
“So she was counting on coming into a lot of money soon. Did she say how that would happen?”
“No,” Jessika shook her head and bit her lower lip as she thought. “No, she didn’t say.”
“How often did Sandra have migraines?” Maria asked.
“What do you mean, migraines? Sandra never had headaches. She was in good shape and never sick, and actually Viktoria’s favorite in that respect. Viktoria would point her out as an example of how you should take care of yourself to keep up with a demanding job.” The last part Jessika said with a grimace.
“One last question: What kind of work was Sandra doing most recently?”
“She was in the surgery department, too, but she wanted to move to the vaccination clinic. She asked Viktoria about that several times.”
Chapter 24
Hans Moberg was just passing Tingstäde on Highway 148 when he heard the wanted-person bulletin on the radio. Name, car registration number, and a fairly unflattering description of his appearance and high-pitched voice followed by a sea report.
He realized his hands were shaking on the steering wheel before he really understood what he had just heard. How could they know who he was? And that he’d been there, with Sandra Hägg? Had someone seen him and recognized him? Not likely in the disguise he was wearing. Damn it all, they must have gone into the computer and then contacted Telia. Hell and damnation! The computer had been on in Sandra’s apartment and he had played with the keyboard.
It was impossible to breathe in the car, the air was stagnant, and his ears were buzzing, roaring like a waterfall
The road was dancing before his eyes—he couldn’t tell which side of the road he was on. A blurry green embankment and gray fields were twirling in his field of vision. He had to collect himself. Settle his wild heart. Slow down, assess the situation, and make reasonable decisions. The fuel gauge was approaching empty. He had to fill up in Lärbro, try to hide the camper in a safe place and then change cars. No, he couldn’t rent a car; he’d have to show identification. He’d swipe a car from someone away on vacation. In town there were cars on virtually every driveway during the day. But where could he stow the camper? The landscape was so flat. Wasn’t there a little forest road where no one ever went? No, then it wouldn’t be a road anymore but overgrown forest. His stomach cramped. The nausea came without warning and Hans Moberg had to stop the car and throw up by the side of the road.
His whole body was shaking now and the images of the dead woman could no longer be kept out. The dark hair against the white sheet and the mouth he had wanted to kiss, even though all life had escaped and been replaced by a damp chill. Life had never granted him such a beautiful woman, but in death he could possess her a little while. The slender shoulders. The curve right at the collarbone that he simply had to caress. The touchingly small breasts he had been able to cup with one hand. He lay down beside her and imagined that they were together and had just gone to bed, just like they always did after turning off the TV. If he had only been sober the worlds would not have mixed together. Then he could have stopped in time. She went to bed first and was waiting for him. Set a table for two.
The ideal woman, the dream woman he had been seeking in all these women. Just like she had always been waiting for him. Always would wait for him. Everything else was a game. With new disguises and new meeting places, but she was the one who was waiting. Always her. If he had only refrained from drinking the wine with Sandra Hägg, he would have discovered the danger in time. Then the worlds would not have mixed in layers on each other, becoming an unbearable reality that was then devoured in the black emptiness from which he could not remember a thing. Not remembering what happened was the hardest of all. It produced an intolerable anxiety that could only be deadened by getting drunk again.
It was then, his fist full of the grass he was using to rub his worn athletic shoes clean from vomit, that he happened to think about Cecilia with the horse face. They had met at Gutekällaren earlier that summer. Emailed awhile before they met, and the encounter had been enjoyable for both of them. They talked about meeting again, but the second time is seldom as good as the first time. There’s something second-hand about it. Once the conquest is complete, the curiosity fades. Cecilia was just like other women, a disappointment in a number of ways. Thin, she had written. Thin was a gross understatement. He could have cut himself on her pelvis and her cheekbones stuck out like sturdy bits on either side.
But the fact that she lived in the vicinity—now when he needed he
r—was an extenuating circumstance. A reunion was not a bad idea. Besides, she had a big barn and a double garage on the lot. That was extremely convenient.
Hans Moberg paid cash for the gas. Sure, the car’s license plate number was noted until the gas was paid for, but then the slip of paper was thrown away. The woman at the register at the Lärbro gas station did not appear to have heard the wanted-person bulletin on the radio. She hardly looked at him, but kept a watchful eye on two urchins who were sneaking around between cars waving water pistols. She was probably afraid that someone would back over them while they were hiding from each other.
The woman at the register was not bad looking at all. Another time, maybe. After buying beer, cigarettes, and a bouquet of flowers at a convenience store, Hans Moberg continued on 149 toward Kappelshamn. As he approached Cecilia’s place he stopped at the side of the road a little while. Perhaps it was best to call Horseface first and check that she did not have any visitors. No one answered and it suddenly occurred to him that perhaps she had gone on vacation. She had probably talked about doing that. He would have to read her latest email a little more carefully. Hans Moberg backed the camper into some bushes by an old outdoor dance pavilion, waiting for darkness.
He heated a can of pea soup on the stove and ate it right from the can, then took a dip in the cold, shallow water on the other side of the road before he put the coffee kettle on and checked the email inbox. He had deliberately saved his messages from Cuddly Skåne Girl. There was a warmth in her writing that he wanted to experience again. And there it was … the email that Sandra Hägg had sent. He could have sworn he’d deleted it. Why the hell had he gone there when he was drunk? So stupid and now the police were after him. If he had only been in his right mind he wouldn’t have smashed up her furniture. How could his brain come up with such a sick idea? Panic, of course. He should have just left. He should have … Why, why, why didn’t he just go home and go to bed after the failed date with the woman from Skåne? It was all so damn unpleasant.
Under cover of darkness Hans Moberg drove the car and camper into Cecilia Granberg’s barn. He felt more collected now. Perhaps he would be able to manage if he lay low awhile. With this bird flu the police would have no time to look for him. If it got really serious, they would be fully occupied with protecting food shipments, stores, and pharmacies from break-ins, and a criminal or two would probably die too. Then he could make his way to the mainland and later … well, who knows if the world would even be here tomorrow. Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof, as his mother always said.
It was obvious a single woman with no interest in cars owned the property. The barn was empty except for a loom, a stone mangle, and a heap of birch wood. It was better than he had dared hope for. He was in one hell of a pinch. But it wasn’t the end of the world. According to the emails he’d saved, Cecilia had gone to Greece on vacation for two weeks.
Moby carefully loosened the putty on a window on the south side of the house, pulled out the glass, and climbed in. She could not have been more welcoming if she were home. The pantry was full of canned goods. In the cellar there were fifty bottles of Gotland ale and in the freezer a splendid supply of homemade dishes in single-portion packages: mutton with dill sauce, beef stew, stuffed cabbage rolls, lamb cutlets, dumplings, and ground lamb. Life was not always terrible; sometimes things did work out.
The only thing he could not find were the keys to Cecilia’s car. The thought that she had taken them with her was a little worrisome. He mumbled a quiet incantation to himself while he dug around in her handbags that were hanging in the bedroom. Shoes and purses should match, he had read in a ladies magazine on the Internet, but there was a plague of shoes and bags in this house. How could she find two matching shoes in this pile? It would be like looking for a needle in a haystack.
Where could she have put the keys? He did not dare turn on the light in case some neighbor knew that she was away and came over to see what was going on. Outdoor clothes were hanging in the hall below the stairs. He groped through the pockets and suddenly something rattled. He felt along the row of buttons. In the pocket of a long light coat was the bunch of keys he had been hoping for. Car key, house key, and two or three other keys, who knows what they were for. It was almost midnight when Hans Moberg sat down to read the latest news on the Internet.
The Prime Minister’s appeal to the World Health Organization for assistance and help with medications was the evening’s big headline. Another two people had died from bird flu, one of them a little boy. Zebastian was his name. The parents were pictured. Outside the school in Klinte a scuffle had arisen between police and parents who wanted to take their children home. There was a picture of the disease control officer standing erect and full of authority on the steps above the agitated mob. In the foreground a man with rocks in both hands. The police were a black mass in the background and looked like the real prisoners behind the barricade tape.
There was also a brief report in the online edition about a thirty-three-year-old woman who was found dead in her apartment in Visby. No nationwide alert for an overweight, thin-haired man in his mid-forties. He checked the local news to be on the safe side and the wanted-person bulletin was included there. A shudder of discomfort passed through his body. The headline was large and seemed to creep inside him and nail his eyes to the screen, accusing him of the murder of Sandra Hägg. Now they were on his trail. He had been granted a brief respite. If he could just get a good night’s sleep and then think without being disturbed, he would find a solution.
Hans Moberg took a gulp of the Gotland ale and grimaced. Cecilia had bragged that she came in third in a competition for her Gotland ale. Jeez Louise. What the ales that didn’t win a prize tasted like, he didn’t even want to think about.
Life was hell. It all felt so unspeakably lonely and sad. He really needed someone to talk with. Cuddly Girl from Skåne was online. She had changed her email address, he noticed. She was a professional Net charmer, just as he’d thought from the very start. A friendly embrace was what he needed. It didn’t matter that she had laughed at him. There was a tenderness he liked a lot. Her way of writing: My dear and sweetest friend. He threw out a hook and she bit immediately.
“Just wanted to talk a little, it feels so lonely without you.”
“You say that to all the ladies.”
“Not at all. There are many women I still haven’t had time to say that to. I miss you in particular. I think about you all the time. This morning I put the dirty laundry in the refrigerator and poured the dishwasher detergent in the coffee filter and just sat and dreamed away the whole morning and fantasized about what I would do with you if you were here. I think I’m falling head over heels in love. Say something nice to me; I need it. I miss you. Answer, otherwise I’ll die!”
“It can’t be that bad. Where are you?”
“Staying with a friend, he’s asleep right now, so I’m trying to be quiet.”
“With a friend. Where? Are you still on Gotland?”
“Yes, damn it. I’m in Kappelshamn. Can’t you come here, it’s lonely and boring.”
“So you haven’t heard the latest news? I have the TV on now. I can’t believe it.”
“No, what about it?” He felt the rushing in his ears and his face turning bright red. Answer then; just say it. You know they’re after me, don’t you?
“All hell has broken loose. Traffic to and from Gotland is closed. The epidemic is no longer under control. Twenty-four new cases, apparently they were infected by a woman on Jungmansgatan in Visby. And these people were around any number of other people the past few days—and those people were with other people! The parents have broken into the camp in Klintehamn and picked up their children. Everything is chaos. Almedalen Week is going to be cancelled and the politicians are flying back to the mainland early tomorrow. When the rats leave the ship, you know.”
“Can we meet?” It was a long shot. He did not have any great hope of it coming true, but sometimes lu
ck surprises you.
“At midnight in the industrial harbor in Kappelshamn.”
“At midnight.”
Afterward he felt almost happy, and a bit less downhearted despite everything. Cuddly Skåne Girl understood discretion. It could be a pleasant break in the solitude—that was starting to get on his nerves.
Chapter 25
Jonathan Eriksson removed his mask and collapsed onto the desk. He was finally alone and could let out his suppressed emotions. He cried like he hadn’t done since he was a child and had been bullied into pulling his pants down in front of the big boys at school. The feeling of impotence was just as strong now as then and he wished himself far away from his body and the torment of life. The thought of escaping from everything, simply disappearing into nothingness, no longer felt frightening, but more like a preferable option. A death wish. It surprised him that the thought felt so appealing. He simply let it come without evaluating it. What was there to live for? Malte, of course. But otherwise … nothing at all.
Meeting Zebastian’s father to tell him that the boy was dead and seeing the reflection in his eyes—the mistrust, the anger, and the anguished sorrow—made his own grief break loose with full force. But at that moment it was not about himself but Zebastian’s relatives. And this was only the beginning. Just an hour ago he had been in a meeting with the other doctors and the members of the emergency management board who were not on vacation. The chairman of Social Services took part by phone and together they had made the unprecedented decision to close the borders of Gotland with the help of the police and military. The Coast Guard would be given added resources. The ports in Visby, Slite, Kappelshamn, Klintehamn, and Ronehamn were already under surveillance and Visby Airport was closed. That decision had been made in the national pandemic group. The government was informed.
“And what powers do the police and military have to prevent people from defying the prohibition?” Jonathan had asked Åsa.