The Dangerous Game

by Mari Jungstedt

  Something rises up inside Agnes, surges into her throat. The scream echoes off the walls in the ward as the two well-dressed young women exchange frightened looks and then scramble to gather up their things, while Per and the other nurse rush forward and seize hold of Agnes. Someone stuffs the pictures back in the box and puts it away. The two visitors jump up from the sofa and flee to the hallway, murmuring words of alarm. There, they fumble with the door and finally leave the ward. Only then does Agnes stop screaming.

  After the visit, Per sits on the edge of her bed and holds her hand. He brings dinner to the room and stays with her until she falls asleep.

  SIGNE RUDIN HAD begun going through all the assignments Fanny Nord had handled during the past year to see if she could find some reason for the threat, but she hadn’t had time to complete the task.

  On the morning of New Year’s Eve she got up early and left home after drinking a quick cup of coffee and eating a piece of toast. She left a note for her husband, who was still asleep, asking him to buy some champagne and a bouquet of flowers for their hosts later that evening, since they’d been invited out for dinner that day. Signe was a very determined woman, and she liked to finish whatever she started.

  She still hadn’t found anything significant. Yet her review of all the files had proved eye-opening in another respect. Fanny had worked incredibly hard during the past year. Signe needed to find some way to reward her and show her appreciation. Maybe a weekend trip for her and her boyfriend to a romantic country hotel, or maybe a day at a spa. She was worth it.

  Signe decided to go even further back in time. She glanced at her watch. She and her husband wouldn’t have to leave Stockholm until after lunch in order to head for the archipelago to visit their friends.

  When she came to October of the previous year, she found a modelling job which the magazine had uncharacteristically scrapped, even though all the work had been done. This rarely happened, since the profit margin was so small and a photo shoot was expensive. Not because of the models’ fees, since they were often poorly paid. The editors frequently exploited the fact that a fashion spread in this particular magazine could raise the models’ profile, and it could prove valuable on their professional résumés. So the models willingly worked twelve hours for a measly few thousand kronor. The real expense was in all the preparatory work, all the time spent in setting up the site, getting the clothes, and looking for the right model. The photographer demanded a sizeable hourly fee and often had to be hired locally. A typical one-day photo shoot cost the magazine at least forty thousand kronor, so it was highly unusual simply to chuck the work aside. But, in this instance, that was what had happened, and that made it memorable. Now Signe recalled why.

  The girl that the agency sent was too fat. They had expected a model to wear the usual size eight, but she’d been closer to a ten. Signe clearly recalled how Fanny had complained when she came back from the assignment. None of the clothes had looked good, so the photographer had been forced to take partial shots when they actually needed a lot of full-length shots. Fanny had worked like a dog to get the clothes to fit, unbuttoning the trousers, leaving the shirts untucked even though they weren’t meant to be worn that way. She had been forced to toss out half of the collection and use some replacement garments, simply because the clothes were too small. The shoot had also taken far too long. The model was aware of the problem, of course. She’d felt awkward and uncomfortable, which further hindered their work. Finally, she started to cry, and Signe could hear Fanny’s voice when she reported on the whole fiasco:

  ‘I tried to comfort her. I told her that it was the agency’s fault, not hers. They have to realize that they can’t send over a model who is too big. Nothing fits well, and it’s impossible for the photographer to get any good shots. Nobody can do their job. And it’s no fun for the model either. I gave the agency a piece of my mind afterwards, and it turned out, as I thought, that they’d underestimated her waist and hip measurements when speaking to us earlier. And the girl had also gained weight since she’d been photographed for the agency file. Good God. We really tried our best to make it work, but I’m afraid we’re not going to be able to use any of those photos.’

  It turned out that the pictures just weren’t up to standard; no matter how much the photographer retouched and edited them, they weren’t very good. So, finally, the magazine was forced not to publish them.

  Signe Rudin couldn’t remember who the photographer was. She checked the notes to see who had been working that day. When she saw the name, her mouth went dry. Markus Sandberg. Signe paused a moment before reading further. The model worked for the agency Fashion for Life, which was run by Robert Ek. Her name was Agnes Karlström. What had happened to her? She tapped in the phone number for the agency and, as luck would have it, one of the staff members who did the bookings was in the office. Signe asked her for information about Agnes. The woman, who was a new employee, didn’t know the name, but she offered to look the model up on the computer.

  Signe waited tensely.

  ‘Agnes Karlström worked here for only about six months, and never full time,’ said the woman on the phone several minutes later. ‘She was so young that she was still in school. But during a period of a few months I see that she had a lot of photo shoots, and things seemed to be going well for her. Then the jobs dropped off drastically. Someone’s added a note here. Wait just a moment.’

  For several seconds there was only silence. Then the woman was back.

  ‘In fact, she was let go. It seems she was suffering from anorexia.’

  ON THE LAST day of the year Jenny woke up early in the flat on Kungsholmen. She went into the kitchen to make coffee. One of the bedrooms was occupied by a Finnish model she knew but, thank goodness, she was still asleep. Jenny had no desire to chat.

  Malin had invited her to come with her and a friend to a big party in Södermalm. Jenny had already received invitations to various trendy gatherings, but she knew that a lot of models and other people in the fashion world would be attending. She just couldn’t handle that sort of thing at the moment. Especially after visiting Agnes Karlström at the anorexia clinic the day before.

  She thought about the repulsive sight of that bony, hollow-eyed girl who looked like a twelve-year-old. Jenny had only seen her in fashion photos, so she hadn’t expected such a drastic difference in her appearance, even though she knew that Agnes was anorexic. Jenny had never met a skinnier person in her life. It was terrifying when she thought how Agnes had looked only a year earlier. How in the world could something like that happen?

  Then she’d been dumb enough to think that she could do something positive for Agnes by visiting her and showing that she cared, that the agency cared. Maybe she’d imagined that the pictures might have a positive effect, that Agnes would be encouraged to start eating again if she was reminded of how she could look, and of all the possibilities that would be open to her in life.

  Malin had persuaded Jenny to come along, even though she didn’t actually know Agnes. She was convinced that Agnes would appreciate knowing that people still remembered her, that her old friends on Gotland were thinking about her. And she also thought that Agnes would be happy to see that the agency cared, and that Jenny had taken the trouble to visit. How wrong they both were.

  Agnes hadn’t seemed to understand the purpose of their visit at all. She had screamed like a madwoman. Her eyes were completely wild; maybe she really was mad – mentally ill in some way. A person didn’t end up in that sort of place without there being a reason for it.

  Jenny shook off her uneasiness and paused in front of the mirror. That made her feel better. She really was attractive; now, she understood what it was that everyone admired about her. She looked lively and alert, even though she had just got out of bed. The sun was cresting the horizon, and she could make out a few pale rays of light. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen the sun, so she decided to go jogging. She had a good pair of shoes for running in winter.
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  I should make use of the light, she thought. And there’s no way I’m going to let all this shit bring me down. I’m only going to allow good things to happen today, and I plan to be happy. At least until I fall into bed tonight, after a party that’s hopefully lots of fun.

  Feeling invigorated by these thoughts, she gulped down a cup of coffee then put on long underwear and her lined jogging coveralls. A cap, gloves, spiked trainers, and she was ready to go. It was only eight thirty in the morning, and the cold, fresh air gusted towards her as she stepped out of the door. She started running towards the city hall and then continued along Norr Mälarstrand. She smiled at the sun, and her steps felt as light as air. At Rålambshov Park she turned off and ran under Väster Bridge and out on to the promontory near Smedsuddsbadet. The sandy beach was covered with snow.

  Unbelievable that people actually went swimming here in the summer, she thought. In the middle of the city. She followed the rocky path along Fredhäll and then ran back through the park and along Norr Mälarstrand. When she reached the front door of her building, she paused to catch her breath. Standing near the bank of the canal, she spent some time stretching her muscles.

  On the wharf, which stuck out some way into the water, there was a bench. A couple sat there, arms around each other and their backs to her. They seemed to be in love, sitting there so close to each other. Jenny felt a pang of jealousy. She longed to experience that again, to be part of a couple. To be hugged and loved. She was looking forward to the party this evening, hoping that it would stop her thinking about such things at least for a little while. She raised one leg, grabbed the heel with both hands and stretched the muscles in her thigh, staring at the couple on the bench. It was an effort to keep her balance. She noticed they were sitting very still.

  When she switched legs, something happened. The man suddenly turned to face her and waved. He picked up the woman’s arm and waved that, too.

  That was when she realized the woman was not a real person. It was a doll. A photo had been taped over the face. Jenny looked at the picture. When she understood what it was, she lost her balance.

  She was staring at herself.

  IT WAS SNOWING heavily in Visby on the last day of the year, covering the streets and the buildings in a thick white blanket. Knutas and Lina were going to welcome in the New Year with good friends in Ljugarn. Their children were old enough now to have made their own plans. But the whole family started the day by having a late breakfast together in their house on Bokströmsgatan.

  Knutas had baked scones in honour of the day, and he and Lina had made a big bowl of caffè latte for each of them. For Christmas, the children had given them the espresso machine they’d both been wanting.

  ‘What’s this? A bowl of pudding?’ asked Petra when she shuffled into the kitchen in her dressing gown, her hair dishevelled.

  Lina laughed.

  ‘No, dear. It’s caffè latte. I just overdid it a little when I tried to froth the milk.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Petra sat down and took a sip of the hot drink. ‘That’s good. And you’ve outdone yourself, Pappa.’ She cast a grateful glance at Knutas as she reached for one of the fragrant, piping-hot scones.

  Nils joined them, and soon they were all sitting at the kitchen table in the glow of the candles. Knutas looked around the table at his family, feeling warm inside. How carefree everything seemed here at home right now.

  ‘So what are your plans for the day?’ he asked his children. ‘You’re going to hang out with some friends, is that right, Nisse?’

  ‘Yeah. Oliver is having a party. His parents went to the Canary Islands.’

  ‘How many are coming?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Good luck,’ muttered Petra, rolling her eyes.

  ‘What?’ countered Nils, ready for a fight.

  ‘A party in their gigantic house, which is only a stone’s throw from the city wall? And his parents are out of town? What do you think is going to happen? Word’s going to spread like wildfire. Is his sister home? What’s her name again? Sandra? She’s such a geek. Not that I’m trying to be negative, but that party is not going to end well.’

  ‘Come home and sleep in your own bed, at any rate,’ said Knutas. ‘It’s so close.’

  ‘Okay,’ muttered Nils.

  ‘What are you doing for dinner?’ asked Lina.

  ‘Nils and I were thinking of eating here at home,’ said Petra. ‘Then I’m going over to visit Elin and Nora.’

  ‘Pappa and I are leaving around five. What are you going to eat?’

  ‘Could we do our own shopping? I feel like making my recipe for pasta with beef and truffles in cream sauce.’

  ‘That sounds delicious,’ said Knutas. ‘And what are you going to drink?’

  ‘You don’t want to know, Pappa dear,’ Petra teased him, pinching his cheek.

  ‘Well, you can’t—’

  ‘We know that. Don’t worry. We’ll drink nothing but soda – the whole evening.’

  She hurried to change the subject.

  ‘But first I’m going over to the club. They’re having a New Year’s gathering at four o’clock for everyone who does orienteering. We’re going to ring in the New Year a little early. It’s also a welcome-back party for a former leader, a man I really like. Rikard Karlström. Do you remember him? He’s not really new, since he’s been involved with the club for years, but he stopped participating when his wife and son died in a car accident a couple of years ago. It happened outside Stenkumla. Remember?’

  ‘Oh, right. That was awful,’ said Knutas, who recalled the accident all too well. ‘They both died instantly.’

  ‘And that’s not the only thing,’ Petra went on. ‘He has a daughter named Agnes. She’s a year younger than us,’ she said, looking at her twin brother. ‘You know that girl Cecilia Johansson, who’s on the floorball team? Well, she used to be really good friends with Agnes, but then they lost touch because Agnes had anorexia. She was supposed to be in secondary school, but she had to drop out. Cecilia told me that she collapsed at home and was taken by ambulance to hospital. She only weighed ninety-five pounds.’

  Knutas was just about to reach for the butter.

  ‘Did you say anorexia?’

  ‘Uh-huh. And it’s so terrible, because she got it after she was discovered by a modelling agency. Agnes won a contest at the Burmeister. It was arranged by that agency, Fashion for Life. The one you’re investigating right now. And she was forced to lose weight to be thin enough to be a model, but things got out of hand.’

  ‘What a sad story,’ said Lina. ‘How’s she doing now? Do you know?’

  ‘I heard that she’s still in the anorexia clinic in Stockholm. But she must be doing better, as Rikard is coming back to the club.’

  Knutas froze. He sat there motionless, the butter knife in his hand.

  KNUTAS HAD PHONED Jacobsson and Wittberg, and they were now all seated in his office at police headquarters, which was otherwise deserted. Not many people worked on New Year’s Eve. He quickly told them what Petra had said about the unfortunate Rikard Karlström and his anorexic daughter who had worked as a model for the agency Fashion for Life.

  ‘You’ve got to be kidding,’ exclaimed Wittberg. ‘Where is the daughter now?’

  ‘I haven’t looked into that yet,’ said Knutas. ‘I wanted to talk to both of you first.’

  Jacobsson glanced at her watch. It was one thirty in the afternoon.

  ‘I’ll ring the agency. We can only hope that someone is still working after lunch today.’

  ‘I’ll try to get hold of Rikard Karlström,’ said Wittberg. ‘I think I might’ve met him once. He’s a carpenter, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘In the meantime, I’ll talk to Kihlgård. Come back here when you’ve finished.’

  An hour later, they again met in Knutas’s office.

  ‘Karlström isn’t answering his phone, but I did get hold of someone else at the orienteering club,’ Wittberg began. ‘She confirmed that
he’ll be coming to Svaidestugan around four o’clock today. If we don’t get in touch with him before then, I’ll just drive over there. The woman also said that Agnes was admitted to an anorexia clinic in Stockholm, but she didn’t know which one.’

  ‘Good,’ said Knutas. ‘Drive over to his house first. Maybe he just doesn’t want to answer the phone. But don’t go alone. You never know.’

  Wittberg nodded.

  ‘I talked to the agency,’ said Jacobsson. ‘Agnes worked there for only a few months before she was dropped because she was anorexic.’

  ‘Do they know where she is now?’

  ‘Afraid not. But I did find out something interesting.’

  ‘What?’ said Wittberg and Knutas in unison.

  ‘Earlier today, the woman I spoke to had received another phone call regarding Agnes Karlström.’

  Knutas stared at his colleague in surprise.

  ‘And it was from none other than the editor-in-chief of that big fashion magazine. Signe Rudin.’

  ‘What did she want?’

  ‘The same thing we do. She wanted to know where Agnes Karlström is now.’

  JOHAN AND EMMA were back on Gotland to celebrate New Year’s with their friends Tina and Fredrik Levin in Gammelgarn. They were also going to spend the night there. And without any children, for a change. The younger kids were staying with their maternal grandparents on the island of Fårö. They were too little to care about New Year’s. Sara and Filip were spending the holiday with their father.

  ‘How beautiful it is out here,’ sighed Emma as they approached Gannarve Farm. ‘The Östergarn countryside is so marvellous.’

  ‘It really is,’ Johan agreed. ‘Maybe we should move here.’

  For a long time they’d been talking about buying a new house that would be completely their own. Johan liked the house in Roma well enough, but he still felt as though he could sense the presence of Emma’s ex-husband, Olle, in the walls. There was no getting around the fact that the house had been theirs for a long time. They had bought it when they still shared dreams about their married life; their two children had spent their early years there. It had been Emma and Olle’s house for many years before Johan appeared on the scene.