The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  She threw up her hands and half rose from her chair. Kihlgård didn’t take his eyes off her face. But still he said nothing. The seconds ticked by.

  ‘Okay, I was fucking furious with him. He was unfaithful to me, but I’m sure you already know that, don’t you?’ She turned to look at Jacobsson and Wittberg, who were huddled in the corner. ‘I was totally furious with him! Our youngest child is only nine years old, for God’s sake! But he didn’t care about that. He just followed his prick wherever it took him, without a thought for me or the children. His family! Then he liked to come home and sit down at the dinner table to play the darling father. And what’s the last thing that he does? The very last thing? He goes and gets himself murdered. And what does he leave behind? A sex orgy in our home, and preparations for a romantic interlude at the office, while the children and I are away at a family gathering. That’s what he leaves behind for me. That’s the last memory I’ll have of him.’

  Erna Linton sank back in her chair. Tears were running down her cheeks. Kihlgård reached out and patted her hand.

  ‘There, there.’

  ‘He was unfaithful,’ she sobbed. ‘All the time. There were always new women.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I’ve known for a long time. I’d have had to be blind and deaf not to know. He would stay over at the office, he smelled of perfume, he had an unreasonable number of late business dinners or parties he had to attend. New models he had to take care of. My God. I was in the fashion business myself for ten years, so I know how things work.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Come on, now. You can’t be that naive. It’s all very competitive. You have to make an impression and meet the right people, cultivate the best contacts, get powerful men on your side, make them like you and value you so that you’ll get the choice assignments. They’re the ones who can boost your career. And a model is always hungry. It can drive even the smartest and most grounded person insane. If you want to be a model, you have to be prepared to be constantly hungry for at least ten years, or however long your career lasts. To satisfy the ideal of the world’s biggest fashion designers, you have to have the hip measurements of a twelve-year-old. How do you think all those models accomplish that? Not by eating full meals every day. Hunger is blind and deaf and drives a person to do the most hair-raising things. Why do you think my husband, who was almost fifty, was able to sleep with models who were only eighteen or nineteen? Do you think it was because of his fabulous personality? Hardly!’

  At this point, Erna paused and loudly blew her nose on a tissue she took from her handbag. The salvo she’d fired, which had ricocheted off the cold walls, had now faded, leaving behind a bitter emptiness.

  The emotional outburst had surprised the police officers. They were literally speechless. Silence settled over the room, and the air felt heavy. No one could think of anything to say.

  The walls waited. Jacobsson and Wittberg waited. The table and chairs waited. Even the Christmas star in the window held its breath. When Erna Linton finally spoke again, her tone of voice had changed completely.

  ‘It’s true,’ she said calmly and matter-of-factly. ‘I could have strangled him with my bare hands when I saw that wine bucket with the bottle of champagne. But I didn’t. I didn’t kill my husband.’

  THE FASHION EDITOR Fanny Nord studied the proofs for the next issue of the prestigious women’s magazine, which had been pinned up on the wall. Mini versions of page after page had been added as the layout was finished. Now she had the entire March issue, which was the big spring fashion issue, in front of her, and she was able to get a complete overview. From page one to page three hundred and sixty. With a critical eye she scrutinized the pages. She was primarily interested in the fashion reporting. They had four major fashion spreads, but was that enough? If only their biggest competitor didn’t have more. The nightmare scenario would be if they put six fashion spreads in their spring issue, which would make hers look terribly skimpy in comparison. The mere thought made her shiver. On the other hand, she decided that the mix they’d chosen looked good. It was a real juggling act, trying to appeal to older readers, including the editor-in-chief, while also being sensitive to the latest trends and staying on the cutting edge. It was a task filled with contradictions, and not always easy to handle.

  The magazine couldn’t feel too young, and the models couldn’t be too thin. Yet she always tried to get the coolest and hottest names.

  She and her colleagues had found the inspiration for the fashion spreads in this issue at the Hermès and Yves Saint Laurent shows in Paris during the late summer and early autumn. She was especially pleased with the spread she was personally responsible for, which had been inspired by the new French designer whose name was on everyone’s lips: Christophe Decarnin, for the fashion house of Balmain. Twelve pages in the magazine with a chic rock ’n’ roll theme: short black leather dresses, rivets, shoulder pads, the models’ hair pulled tightly back in sleek styles. Punky and decadent. Cheeky. If only it doesn’t seem too harsh, she thought uneasily. It might be too much for our older readers. Forget it, she thought in the next second. If we’re going to be Sweden’s biggest fashion magazine, we can’t satisfy everyone. And the younger readers are important, too.

  She went back to studying the proofs, then frowned with displeasure. Why had they put such an ugly, full-page advert right there, in the middle of the spread? It ruined the impact. But the worse the economy, the more important the adverts. She sighed and turned away. In spite of her reservations about certain details, she was generally pleased with the issue. Especially because they’d managed to get Jenny Levin for the more subdued fashion spread for which her colleague was responsible. The perfect counterpoint to the Balmain spread. And since Jenny was considered one of Sweden’s top models, it was a real coup to have her in a big spread again, even though she’d been in the Christmas issue. She was truly exceptional.

  On her way back to her desk, Fanny Nord went past her in-tray and grabbed a bundle of letters. She sat down at her desk in the big, cluttered room she shared with the other fashion editors and a number of assistants. Clothes hung on hangers everywhere. On the floor stood scores of boxes filled with clothing, while papers, books and magazines were scattered about. Their work was so frenzied and intense they never had time to clear things away. Fanny began opening envelopes, while keeping an eye on her computer and the emails that had come in during the morning. One letter she’d received in the post caught her interest. Initially, she saw only that it contained a card, or rather a folded piece of heavy paper, with a message inside, formed from words cut out of a magazine.

  Her first thought was that it was yet another invitation to a fashion show. No doubt from an unusually creative new designer who wanted to attract attention with this sort of invitation. Hoping it would stand out. Then she read the text. There were only four words: ‘You are all killers.’ Surprised, she read the short sentence again.

  She turned over the envelope. Was it really addressed to her? Yes, there was her name. She glanced at her co-workers, sitting around the room, all of them absorbed in their own projects. She called to her colleague Viktor, motioning for him to come over.

  ‘Look what I got in the post.’

  Fanny handed him the card. He read the message in silence, then frowned. He pulled up a chair and sat down next to her.

  ‘What the hell is this?’ he said, keeping his voice low.

  He didn’t want to upset the assistants unnecessarily. Then they both leaned close and stared at the cryptic message. Fanny felt a shiver race down her spine. Considering recent horrible events, she couldn’t help feeling alarmed as she reread the four accusatory words. She thought about the big issue they were now in the process of putting together, and she felt her blood run cold when she remembered the contents of the Christmas issue. At the last moment they’d included the fashion spread from Furillen as a supplement. Another photographer had edited Markus Sandberg’s amazing shots
of Jenny Levin. And, as a tribute to Markus, they had included an article about him and his career at the end of the fashion spread. Was that why she had been sent this message? And what did the sender mean by saying they were killers? Fanny Nord didn’t understand. It was all very unpleasant.

  ‘We need to talk to Signe,’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ Viktor agreed. ‘This is fucking serious.’

  Editor-in-chief Signe Rudin had a private office next door. She paused to clean her glasses before she read the message.

  ‘I don’t think we should make a big deal out of this,’ she finally murmured.

  ‘What do you mean?’ objected Fanny indignantly. ‘This is damned scary. He could be coming after us now – or me, since it’s my name on the envelope.’ She sank on to the visitor’s chair in front of the editor’s desk. ‘I don’t understand. Why is he sending this message to me?’

  ‘It does seem odd,’ Signe Rudin admitted. ‘If he was out to get the fashion world in general, or the magazine in particular, he should have sent the letter to me.’

  ‘Good Lord. What have I done? Why is he threatening me? I don’t get it!’

  The editor-in-chief studied the ordinary white envelope. The address was handwritten, in black ballpoint. A cramped, sprawling script. And, of course, the name of the sender was missing. Then she looked at the card that had been inside. A plain folded card that could be bought in any stationery shop. Four whole words had been cut out and pasted down – not individual letters, as she had seen in films and on TV shows.

  Signe Rudin took off her tinted reading glasses, pushed back a lock of hair, and looked at Fanny.

  ‘Let’s not blow this out of proportion. As you know, it’s not unusual for us to receive threatening letters. This could be referring to just about anything. We have no idea what’s behind it. And the message is not specifically directed at you. No one has issued threats against you personally.’

  ‘No, but I still think it’s nasty. And very unnerving. I won’t dare even go out on the street any more.’

  ‘Let’s not be too hasty about all this.’

  ‘But we should call the police. Don’t you agree? Considering what’s happened.’

  ‘I’ll speak to the publishing director first and see what he thinks. Then we’ll decide what to do next.’

  Signe Rudin closed up the card and put it back in the envelope.

  Fanny felt both dismissed and powerless. As if this threat against her was not going to be taken seriously. But when the editor-in-chief spoke in that firm tone of voice, nothing would change her mind.

  Her legs trembling, Fanny went back to her desk. She sat there, staring into space. Maybe it was just as Signe had said – maybe the note was merely another in a series of crazy letters sent to the magazine. She tried to convince herself of that.

  But the uneasy feeling refused to go away.

  AGNES AWAKES TO the sound of a traditional Swedish Christmas song blaring from the radio downstairs in the kitchen. She has been given permission to spend the holiday at home on Gotland. Her pappa came to fetch her from the ward – luckily, without Katarina – and pushed her in a wheelchair. The staff don’t want her to walk anywhere when she is away from the clinic because her heart is so weak.

  They flew to Visby, and Agnes started to cry as the plane made its approach for landing because she could see the Gotland coast below. That was when she realized how much she had missed home.

  She has been granted five days’ leave. And, best of all, she and her father will be on their own. Just the two of them. She had assumed that Katarina would insist on spending the holiday with them, since she’d come along every time Rikard had visited the hospital. But when they last spoke Agnes’s father had told her that they’d be alone, just like last year.

  She looks up at the sloping ceiling, enjoying being in her own comfortable bed at home in Visby. She burrows her face in the pillow that feels so soft against her cheek. She’s had this old pillowcase and duvet cover for so many years. It makes her feel safe and cosy and reminds her of another time. Back when she had a mother and a father and an older brother. When she was healthy and had friends. When she went to school, like everybody else. She can’t get all of that back, but she can snuggle under the old duvet cover and pretend for a while. Daydream back to that time and let the memories wash over her.

  Usually, when her mother and Martin pop up in her thoughts she tries to push them away as quickly as possible. Make them disappear. She doesn’t want to remember, can’t bear to see their faces or hear their voices. But here, at home in her bed, she allows herself to think about them. And, in a sense, it feels so liberating. She pulls the covers over her head, breathing in the familiar scent of home. She summons up pictures of her mother. Crawls into a make-believe world, her own safe cocoon, allowing herself to be wrapped in the warmth of the duvet and the cover that her mother bought for her at Ikea when they went to Stockholm long ago. It’s still here, but her mother is not. The very idea is absurd. How can a simple duvet cover outlive a person? But she refuses to think about that now. She wants to sink into her daydreams, go back in time a few years. Pretend that everything is the way it used to be when she was twelve. Soon she’ll get out of bed and have breakfast with her family; then she’ll leave for school. Her best friend, Cecilia, always used to stop by to collect her, waiting in the doorway for her to put on her coat. Then they would walk to school together. Now, it all seems like a dream.

  She studies the pattern on the wallpaper and feels more cheerful than she has in a long time. Pappa has said that they’ll take their time over breakfast and then go for a walk, like they always used to do when Mamma and Martin were alive. Agnes and her father had both burst out laughing when he said the part about ‘taking their time’ over breakfast. With Agnes, every meal lasts a long time, since she can’t be hurried. And going for a walk means that he will push her in the wheelchair as best he can along the snowy streets. But it doesn’t matter. They will be together, Agnes and her father.

  She runs her finger along the ceiling beam above her head where the wallpaper is coming loose. When Agnes was younger her mother had scolded her for poking holes in the paper. Now she pictures her mother’s face, still so vivid in her memory.

  She remembers very little of the period right after the accident. Or how they managed to get through the days. Outwardly, Pappa had seemed able to cope with the daily tasks, but at night she would hear him sobbing in the bedroom he used to share with his wife. Every morning he would get up early and leave for work, as usual. Relatives and friends tried to persuade him to take some time off, but he stubbornly refused. He clung to his regular routines, which gave some semblance of order to the chaos. He didn’t want to talk to a psychologist; he thought he could handle things on his own. Agnes worried about her father being so alone. She stayed home from school until after the funeral. She couldn’t bear to see the look in everyone’s eyes or answer all their questions.

  The funeral was a horrible, anxiety-filled experience that she would prefer to forget. In the cemetery, when the two coffins were lowered together into the ground, side by side, she realized for the first time that Mamma and Martin were really gone for ever. They were never coming back. And it was suddenly all too much for her, as everyone stood there, all clad in black and with big white snowflakes falling around as they watched the coffins disappear into the dark earth. It felt as if strong hands had seized hold of her throat and were trying to strangle her. Everything went black and she collapsed on to the damp, cold ground.

  Fortunately, during the weeks following the funeral, Agnes received a great deal of help from her friends, especially Cecilia. She would sit with Agnes for hours and let her talk about her mother and Martin. Cecilia never grew tired of listening or offering support. She helped Agnes as best she could. That was before Cecilia gave up on her. Agnes aches when she thinks about that now. She has no friends left any more.

  She had found it touching that her father showed such con
cern for her. She knew that he must have been suffering terribly, yet he was careful not to burden her with his grief. Only on a few occasions had he wept openly after the funeral. For instance, when they finally began cleaning out Martin’s room and packing his belongings in cardboard boxes.

  Up until then, Pappa hadn’t been able to throw anything out. He had washed Martin’s clothes, which he’d found in the laundry basket, then neatly folded them and placed them back in the chest of drawers and wardrobe. But he left out one garment, a blue sweatshirt, which he would hold close, breathing in the scent, if he thought no one was watching. Agnes had also saved one of Martin’s T-shirts. She kept it in a dresser drawer. Now and then she would bury her face in the fabric. As long as Martin’s scent lingered, part of him was still alive. A small fragment she could cling to for as long as it lasted. She had cried all night when she discovered that the smell had gone.

  On that Sunday when they’d decided to pack up Martin’s belongings, they were sitting in his room upstairs as the rain pattered on the rooftop. They put one thing after another into boxes. They worked slowly and carefully, both of them wanting to see and touch each item. It was excruciating. Martin was everywhere in that room. The bed he’d slept in, the desk where he’d done his homework, the TV on the wall. He’d been so proud of that TV, which he’d bought with the money he’d earned working at the ICA supermarket in the evenings and at weekends. Agnes remembered seeing all the notes he’d made in his schoolbooks and on his calendar. The writing was still there, but Martin was not. He was never coming back.

  Cautiously, Agnes gets out of bed. With the thick down duvet draped over her shoulders, she pulls on another pair of tracksuit bottoms over the ones she slept in. Then she puts on two thin cotton shirts, a fleece jumper, her warm slippers and, finally, her mother’s old knitted tunic that she used to wear out in the country. Agnes goes into the bathroom.