The Lies We Tell

by Kristina Ohlsson

  My own name shone out as if it was written in burning letters. I had defended the suspect. And Diana Simonsson had been the plaintiff, or the victim, to put it more plainly.

  All of a sudden I remembered her as clearly as if it was yesterday. She’d been completely hysterical when the verdict was announced. Later that day she turned up at my office and gave me a bollocking, screaming that I was the devil’s lackey, that she’d never forgive me for what I’d done. I told her that if she didn’t leave my office at once, I’d call the police. I also said I understood that she was disappointed, but that she couldn’t take that disappointment out on me. It was the court that convicted or cleared people. And everyone had the right to a defence. Even people suspected of sex-crimes. She left my office in a state of near meltdown. I waited until I heard the door close behind her. Then I called the police and filed a report against her. Something for which I was now very grateful.

  ‘Are you kidding?’ I said. ‘The police’s star witness, who swears she saw a Porsche 911 run down and kill Jenny Woods, is a woman who hates me because I managed to get the man she accused of raping her cleared at his trial?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Madeleine said. ‘I was wondering why you weren’t being held in custody. I think we know why now.’

  I didn’t believe that.

  ‘What are the chances that she of all people would be standing there at that particular moment?’

  ‘Big enough, apparently,’ Madeleine said.

  ‘No way,’ I said, pushing the file away from me. ‘The same sick mind that planned Bobby and Jenny’s deaths made sure there was a so-called witness to one of the murders.’

  ‘You don’t think she was there?’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘Someone told her to make a false statement?’

  ‘Yes. Why else would she make do with only identifying the car? She ought to have recognised me as well.’

  ‘A false witness. Martin, how often does that actually happen in real life?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. What matters is that it’s happening this time.’

  Madeleine drank some more beer. The noise-level in the bar was steadily increasing. Someone started playing darts. Sharp projectiles pierced a board on the wall. A smell of sweaty armpits drifted past, making me screw up my face.

  ‘Why did they need a witness?’ she said. ‘Wasn’t there any forensic evidence?’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘Nothing to tie me and my car to the crime scenes. Well, there was something. The Porsche had – still has – a dent on the bonnet that I can’t explain. But I don’t know what that proves.’

  ‘So you think whoever was driving stopped the car and got out to examine his victims?’ Madeleine said. ‘And called in a witness to strengthen the evidence?’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s more likely that the witness was part of the plan all along. If there was some credible way of linking my car to the first victim, there wouldn’t be any problem tying it to the second one.’

  More darts hit the board. Madeleine looked at the man as he took aim and threw them.

  ‘Who else has access to your car apart from Lucy?’ she said.

  I opened my mouth, then closed it again.

  ‘Lucy?’ I said. ‘Sorry, you think Lucy is mixed up in this?’

  My heart stood still even at the thought of it.

  ‘Anyway,’ I said, ‘I wouldn’t say that she “has access” to my car. No one does, except me. Lucy hasn’t got her own key to the Porsche, and never will have.’

  Madeleine wouldn’t look me in the eye.

  ‘It must have been someone who could get hold of your car, Martin. No one had better access than you. And Lucy, simply because she’s so close to you. She could have got the keys from you easily enough that evening at the hospital.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘You’re talking as if it’s definite that it was my Porsche that was used that night. But, as I’ve already said, there’s no evidence to support that. Nothing.’

  ‘That depends how you look at it,’ Madeleine said. ‘You’re dismissing the witness. I’m less convinced. I checked the database of vehicle registrations. Guess how many Porsches of that model there are in Greater Stockholm? Three. The police have spoke to the other owners and written off both them and their cars. I’ve seen parts of the preliminary investigation. I took the opportunity to get hold of excerpts while I was sorting the other stuff out. There was no sign of a break-in on your garage door. Same thing with the car. You know as well as I do that you can’t break into or hotwire a car without there being some sort of evidence afterwards. And if it was your car, Martin, you’re going to have to accept that the crimes were committed by someone close to you.’

  I went on protesting.

  ‘If it was even a Porsche that ran down and killed Bobby and Jenny. God knows how much that witness was paid to come up with her story.’

  I could see the doubt in Madeleine’s face. How could I describe the extent of the madness with which I’d been confronted in recent weeks, which had left me believing that the impossible was actually possible? Normally I’d have agreed with Madeleine and said that obviously it was a Porsche that had hit Jenny and Bobby. And no, you certainly couldn’t get into a locked Porsche and start it without leaving some sort of evidence. But this was so far beyond normal that it was impossible to explain to the uninitiated. Nothing was the way it seemed.

  ‘I can’t thank you enough for your help,’ I said.

  My conscience was making my blood run slowly. There was a name that I’d been trying my utmost not to think about since we left Police Headquarters. Fredrik Ohlander. The journalist who had died. Was that my fault as well? Quite possibly.

  ‘I hope I won’t regret it,’ Madeleine said.

  She might as well have slapped me in the face. If anything happened to Madeleine, if she met the same fate as Fredrik, I’d be destroyed.

  ‘Me too,’ I said. ‘Me too.’

  And I realised, when our eyes finally met, that we meant very different things.

  ‘Madeleine, I didn’t do the things they’re saying. I didn’t hit those people.’

  I couldn’t believe I was having to say that. It was hardly surprising she was accusing Lucy of everything that had happened. The alternative was evidently accusing me.

  Madeleine swallowed hard.

  ‘You were the one who taught me that the truth is rarely anything but the most obvious solution,’ she said quietly.

  ‘I know. But that basic rule doesn’t apply this time. I swear, you have to believe me.’

  She nodded her head slowly.

  ‘I’m trying,’ she said. ‘I’m trying.’

  12

  Restlessness is often the cause of poor judgement. That applied to me too. I didn’t want to go back to the office after Madeleine and I parted. It was too late; I’d soon be going home anyway. But I realised I didn’t want to be there either.

  ‘Take care,’ Madeleine said as she gave me a hug.

  And then she was gone.

  I wanted to call after her, say I might need her help again. But I knew that wouldn’t be fair. It was clearly dangerous for other people to be anywhere near me. Madeleine was one of the few people I respected and liked. I didn’t want to drag her into this mess if I could help it.

  So what was I going to do if I wasn’t going to go home or back to the office? Belle and Lucy were waiting for me. Following my new custom, I fished my mobile from my pocket and sent Lucy a text.

  ‘Going to be late. Need to sort something. M.’

  Then I dug out another phone number: Veronica’s, the woman I’d met at the Press Club. Our encounters felt so distant now, as if they belonged to a different century. We’d met only twice. Since then I hadn’t had time to see her, seeing as all hell had broken loose. What was rather more surprising was the fact that Veronica hadn’t contacted me either. I’d guessed she was the sort of woman who had problems with relationships in which sex didn’t mean love. But her not
phoning seemed to indicate otherwise.

  Since Lucy and I got on that plane to Texas I hadn’t spared other women so much as a thought. But that had changed now. Impatience was running through my body like an itch. I’ve always found fresh energy from having sex. With as many women as possible. That’s why I prefer to define myself as single, and it’s why I don’t want to have a partner or get married. Whenever the stress or boredom get too much, I need the opportunity to relieve the pressure.

  Veronica was a good option. We’d already met and I knew she was good at sex. It wouldn’t require any tedious preliminary work to get her into bed. The only thing holding me back was the memory of how we had met. I’d first encountered her when I was out having a drink with Didrik Stihl. My intention had been to pump him for information, but that hadn’t gone particularly well. Whereas, in contrast, my pick-up techniques worked rather well. Veronica had been stuck with a boring date and was more than happy to let herself be led astray.

  I stifled a sigh and put the phone to my ear. It started to ring. The fact that I had bumped into Veronica while I was having my last friendly meeting with Didrik was irrelevant. She was a completely separate chapter from an entirely different book. And I was horny and restless. I needed sex (with someone other than Lucy), and I needed it right away.

  A voice answered after just two rings. A very mechanical voice, belonging to one of the phone companies’ automated systems.

  ‘This number is not in use,’ the voice said. ‘Please check that you have dialled correctly.’

  I stared dumbly at my phone. There was no question that I had misdialled – the number was already in my list of contacts. Puzzled, I called again. And got the same message.

  Under normal circumstances I would merely have shrugged and moved on to the next name on the list, because I’m rarely if ever short of someone to fuck. But just then the circumstances were very far from normal. I had stopped believing in fate and coincidence. Maybe there was a perfectly natural reason why Veronica had changed her number. Natural and harmless. Unless the truth was rather different. Natural, but potentially life-threatening.

  I’d become paranoid, I had to admit. But I couldn’t afford any more mistakes or misjudgements. I needed to know who I could trust and who I should write off. So I hailed a taxi and went round to Veronica’s. At least there was nothing wrong with my memory. I’d been to her flat on Södermalm twice. I very rarely take women back to mine. If Belle were to wake up in the middle of the night she mustn’t find me in the bedroom with a – to her – unknown, naked woman. Or on the kitchen table. Or standing up against the wall.

  One of my mobiles buzzed. I’d soon have to get myself a handbag. My trousers were stuffed full of mobiles to a degree that could only be described as unattractive.

  To my surprise I found a text message from Elias. He’d spoken to Bobby’s girlfriend. She was prepared to meet me.

  ‘Can she come to your office tomorrow?’ he wrote.

  I confirmed that that would be fine, and thanked him for his help. He didn’t reply.

  The taxi pulled up outside Veronica’s door. It struck me that I didn’t know her surname. Berntsson? Bertilsson? No matter, I knew I had to ring the third bell from the top on the entry-phone. I pressed it again and again. No answer.

  My heart-rate speeded up and I took several deep breaths to stay calm. There was no reason to panic. Obviously Veronica was at work. But my anxiety refused to accept rational arguments. It was squirming through me like a worm. Did I even know what her job was? Was there anywhere else I could get hold of her?

  Just to put my mind at rest. Just to help me calm down.

  I didn’t give a damn about whether or not I got to have sex. Lucy was still the best I knew; I didn’t need to look for someone else to practise relaxation techniques.

  I tried ringing one of Veronica’s neighbours. No answer. I tried again and heard an elderly woman’s voice through the speaker.

  ‘Yes?’

  I never need to lie in order to sound important or authoritative. Telling people what my job is always does the trick. There was no reason to do anything different this time. But I did try to say as little as possible about myself.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said. ‘My name is Martin, I’m a lawyer. I’m trying to get hold of your neighbour, Veronica. It’s urgent.’

  Silence.

  ‘Veronica?’ the woman said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There’s no Veronica here.’

  Shit. Pissing fucking shit.

  I hesitated, but only for a moment.

  ‘Could I possibly come in?’ I said.

  ‘By all means,’ the voice said. ‘Come up and ring the bell. The name on the door is Svensson.’

  There was a buzz and the door opened.

  There was a lift, but I chose to take the stairs. It was Lucy who got me started on that. You should never miss any opportunity to exercise your buttocks and thighs. Sure enough, one of the doors on the third floor was marked Svensson, whereas the door Veronica and I had gone through was unmarked. Had that been the case when I was last there? I couldn’t remember.

  I hardly had time to ring the bell before the door marked Svensson opened. An elderly woman welcomed me in with a twinkling smile. I liked her instinctively. She was old – she had to be over eighty – but extremely spry. It’s important to make a distinction between people’s physical and mental age. There are thirty-year-olds who behave as if they were seventy, and ninety-year-olds who never seem a day over forty-five.

  ‘Harriet,’ the woman said, shaking my hand.

  ‘Martin,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to impose like this. Like I said, I’m trying to contact Veronica next door.’

  I pointed towards the door to the neighbouring flat.

  Harriet stepped out onto the landing and followed my finger with a look of surprise.

  ‘There’s no one called Veronica living there,’ she said.

  ‘There was a few weeks ago,’ I said.

  She shook her head firmly.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘That’s not right.’

  I did my best not to lose my grip. Panicking wouldn’t help.

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Okay. Let me put it like this: a few weeks ago I paid a visit to that flat. I was there in the company of a woman who called herself Veronica. Tall and blonde, very attractive. She had keys to the flat and there was nothing to suggest that she hadn’t been there before. Does she sound like anyone you’ve seen coming and going?’

  I tried to remember what the flat had looked like. Small, just two rooms, bedroom and living room. White walls, fully tiled bathroom. Kitchen cabinets from Ikea. Neutral, timeless furniture. Green plants and soft sheets. Pictures on the walls, but not many photographs. I ransacked my memory. The more I thought about it, the more certain I became: I hadn’t seen a single photograph. The only things in the flat that could be described as personal were a few items of clothing tossed on the sofa and bed. I should have opened the fridge. To see if it was empty.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve seen the woman you’re talking about. She seemed very nice. But I only saw her here a couple of times. Like all the others who use that flat.’

  ‘All the others?’ I said dumbly.

  Harriet nodded.

  ‘This building is owned by a housing cooperative, and I’m on the committee,’ she said. ‘All the flats belong to members of the cooperative. Apart from that one, which is used as shared accommodation for guests. So your young lady must know someone who lives here in the building, who let her borrow it while she was visiting. We don’t have a member called Veronica.’

  I nodded as my pulse quickened. It would be such a relief to find that everything had a logical explanation. I had lied to Veronica, telling her my house was suffering from damp and that we’d have to meet at hers. The fact that she may have lied to me in turn didn’t necessarily have to mean anything funny. Maybe she hadn’t even been lying: the flat could well have been her home o
n the days when she and I met. She was under no obligation to tell me where she really lived.

  ‘Perhaps you should go round knocking on my neighbours’ doors,’ Harriet said with a wry smile. ‘To find out which one of them she knows.’

  Naturally I didn’t do that. But I did go up and down the stairs, looking at the names on all the doors. I didn’t recognise any of them. When I eventually left the building I still had the distinct feeling that I had been tricked.

  13

  The flat smelled of garlic when I got home. Belle came rushing out and threw her arms round me. The plaster on her arm hit my neck hard. The spring in her little legs would probably carry her all the way to gymnastics gold at the Olympics if I could only get my act together to sign her up for classes.

  ‘Daddy, we did sculpture today. Come and look!’

  She let go of my neck and promptly fell on the floor. She leapt to her feet again and pulled at my hand.

  Before the kidnapping she never called me anything but Martin. Now she only said Daddy. A tiny part of me thought that was wrong. For the same reason it had always been wrong: she already had a daddy. A dead one, admittedly, but one who was still more authentic than I was.

  Lucy was standing in the kitchen peeling prawns. Her face lit up when she saw me, then darkened again when she saw my worried expression.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ll talk about it later,’ I said.

  It wasn’t altogether obvious that I was going to tell Lucy what had happened. But, on the other hand, there was no one else I could share my anxieties with.

  Belle’s creations were lined up on the kitchen table. Three little brown clay figures that looked a bit like Gollum.

  ‘They’re great,’ I said.

  To start with, all the crap Belle dragged home from preschool with her used to drive me mad, but over the years I’ve learned to appreciate it. All the drawings, stone trolls and bits of plastic tat were at least proof that she was doing something each day. I liked that.

  My shirt was sticking to my back. The air was humid and oppressive. Grey clouds were gathering in the sky.