Killer's Island

by Anna Jansson

  “You can count on me full time.”

  “Full time doesn’t mean 24 hours a day, Per.” Hartman felt relieved and worried at the same time. “As long as you know where the boundaries are. We don’t want to lose you again.”

  “I’ll take care of my shit, you take care of yours.” His irritation came crashing down like a bolt of lightning. Just because you’ve been ill doesn’t mean people can treat you like a child, or think they have an inalienable right to stick their noses in and tell you how to live your life.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE DOG FOOD HAD RUN OUT. Mirabel stared at Harry Molin with her big brown eyes and whined insistently. Gordon kept quiet, but he stared at him. As quietly as he could and without turning on the ceiling light, Harry sneaked into the cellar to take a piece of frozen meat out of the freezer. This would be his dinner; he’d share it with the dogs. He put a blanket over the microwave oven to stop the light seeping out. The “pling” when the meat had thawed seemed ear-shattering in the silence.

  The police had come ringing his doorbell. They suspected him. He’d sat on the floor so he couldn’t be seen from the window, and did his best to shut up the dogs. Unsuccessfully, as it turned out. Mirabel had growled. Now they must know he was somewhere in the vicinity, that he’d be back. He couldn’t leave his animals just like that. They had to be taken for walks. Mirabel had been pacing anxiously between where he was sitting on the kitchen floor and the front door. Even Gordon was starting to get impatient for a pee. It was almost dark now outside. If he waited another hour. Time inched forward like a snail. Most police worked normal office hours. The risk of them coming late at night was negligible, if one thought about it logically.

  Today Harry had missed his appointment at the health center for the first time ever. Doctor Ahlström was probably very happy about it. He was probably getting tired of all the running about, just like all the other doctors. They didn’t understand the gravity of the situation. For several nights in a row Harry had been having heart palpitations. His pulse increased gradually as he checked it, until, at one point, he came close to taking a taxi to the emergency room. Instead he moved to the computer, surfing fairly aimlessly through various pages on health and healthcare. He found something that the doctor might be well advised to read. Those pills Anders Ahlström took for his cigarette cravings were liable to make you crazy, according to a report from Japan. One Japanese man had gone sleepwalking and ended up under a train, another had gone out in the nude and sawed down a tree in a park. Harry would inform the doctor of this; he would surely be grateful – very grateful – and understand that Harry was in fact a good person, a considerate human being and not the self-centered egoist the doctor took him for.

  Similarly, he had helped Linn find the optimum sleeping pills, with the least possible side effects. And Linus, the boy he’d run into in the waiting room at the health center – the one who was assaulted later with that woman constable… and killed – he’d also given him some good advice. Or rather his mother. If one had constant throat infections one might have to have one’s tonsils removed. But of course there were some health products one could try first. He was a nice boy. Doctor Ahlström thought so, too. They even used to do a bit of shadow boxing, and once or twice Ahlström even gave the boy a bear-hug, which almost made them look like father and son. Once when Linus was walking down the corridor in the health center, his legs wide apart like a cowboy with his hands on his pretend holsters and doctor Ahlström came out of his room with a pile of papers in his arms, Linus cried out: “Draw!” And then the doctor dropped all his papers and drew his pretend guns, quick as a flash and without a trace of hesitation. That kind of presence of mind creates a lot of respect. Afterwards they helped each other pick up the medical documents and prescriptions. Some of the patients probably thought the doctor was behaving irresponsibly, but Harry couldn’t stop an inadvertent smile. Now the boy was dead. How unbelievably cruel life could be.

  Harry put his dogs on their leashes and went out into the night. For some unknown reason the streetlights weren’t working. It had been like that for a few weeks now. There hadn’t been any lights since the night he’d found Linn all groggy and drunk outside her house after a night of binging. The odd thing about it was she didn’t smell like booze. Now when he thought about it he realized he might have been mistaken. Maybe she had drugged herself with something else? There’s so much available these days. Those three men she was with had just left her like that, in a vulnerable state. The age of chivalry was over, today’s youth had no notion of how to behave like gentlemen. Of course, he could understand that she had a lot of unwanted attention while her husband was away on a trip. All three men had cleared out as soon as he arrived on the scene. They hadn’t even helped her inside.

  It said in the newspaper that Linn Bogren’s body was found in the Pavilion on Tempelkullen in the Botanical Gardens. Harry usually read the news online first thing in the morning, and then he checked every hour to see if anything else had happened. Claes had already been questioned, then left the police station. The police had not caught any suspect. It was very alarming. The murderer was still on the loose and in a way Harry had protected him (or them) by cleaning away every possible lead in Linn’s house. Out of fear. What would happen if the police thought it was him who’d done it? How could one ever exonerate oneself from the guilt and shame? They would take him to the police station. People would see him and recognize him. The newspapers would probably be there and even if he covered his head with his jacket they’d probably have time to get a photo, which would then be slapped across the front page of every newspaper in the country. There will always be those who remember a face and a name, without necessarily getting their facts right. Even if all charges are dropped it doesn’t necessarily make things better. One’s name and photo will always be associated with the terrible thing that’s happened. Linn was dead and he tried to tell himself it wouldn’t help even if he did speak to the police.

  The dogs couldn’t get outside quick enough. They tugged at their leads as if their lives depended on it. They pulled him down toward the Ordnance Tower and out through Fiskarporten. The moon glittered on the black water. The wind was gusting hard, throwing cascades of white foam over the pebbles and concrete edging. The sound of the waves drowned out every other sound. The dogs stayed close at his side now. Gordon growled deep in his throat. Someone was standing at the edge of the wall, watching him. The shadow of the figure melted into the darkness alongside the city wall. Had it not been for the dogs’ reactions he’d have thought his imagination was playing a trick on him. And even though he couldn’t see the man’s face there was something familiar about his posture. He couldn’t quite remember where he’d seen him. It was like it happens sometimes when we dream, when the familiar is mixed with symbols we can’t quite understand. Maybe the most frightening thing of all is when things that are well known to us change their form and become unpredictable. Harry felt his anxiety crawling under his skin, and he tightened his grip on the dogs’ leads. If he’d been alone he’d have spun around and run for his life. He didn’t quite know why, but something felt very unpleasant. Possibly it was because he was close to the place where Linn’s body had been found. Because he had the dogs, he still had the nerve to go up the hill toward the wall. The shadow had disappeared. Harry looked round, turned and twisted in every conceivable direction. But there was no one on the road. If it had not all been a figment of his imagination – if there actually were someone standing there watching him by the wall – by now he had disappeared into the Botanical Gardens, into the leafy shade under the trees. Harry had no intention of going in there. He chose to go home via Studentallén inside the city wall and then up Fiskargränd. As long as he had the dogs with him, he wasn’t so afraid. If someone met him in the narrow lane and attacked him, his dogs would never let him down.

  “That’s the big difference between dogs and human beings,” he said to Gordon. “A dog never lets you down. Women do, thoug
h.” Harry had long since given up the thought of living with someone he could trust. It was just humiliating to hope and believe and then be disappointed and turn into a figure of general hilarity. Lately he’d sometimes been tempted by the idea of trying some Internet dating. He’d even exchanged a few words with one or two Internet ladies, but the ones online were just as fraudulent as real-life women. Just when you started believing that it was “us” – when you’d attained a sort of togetherness and confidence that seemed to preclude the others, you had a creeping suspicion that she wrote in just the same way to everyone else; that she hadn’t stopped dating others, or might even be married. Was this the reason why Linn was murdered? Did she meet someone on the Internet? He’d seen the blue light of the computer through her French blinds at night. She’d been up to something in there. Of course it was up to the police to find out, but he wouldn’t be surprised. Someone she’d enticed and toyed with, then deceived. Something to keep her occupied while that husband of hers was at sea. A game she’d thought she could easily step out of. Had she given him her real name, or some hint about where she lived, or had they perhaps met in secret?

  Harry stood stationary in front of her house. A curious feeling welled up inside him, turning into tears. It was almost as if he were punishing her, in his thoughts, while at the same time taking the blame himself, the blame for what she had done. He didn’t want her disgraced – didn’t want them to find something shameful to hold up to public scrutiny. It mustn’t happen. She’d been such a good-hearted little thing, warm and generous. Quite honestly he’d been quite taken with her. Her big, cheerful head of hair bouncing as she walked along. Her generous figure, which she wasn’t ashamed of, and her red, well-formed mouth. She’d never been stingy about the time she gave other people, either; like so many others are, unless they see some personal benefit in talking to someone. She was always friendly to everyone. While this may have been an attribute of her profession, it was quite an achievement to keep it up even when she wasn’t working.

  Reluctantly, the dogs allowed themselves to be ushered inside. He unclipped their leashes and in that moment remembered that he’d forgotten to pick up the mail. He hadn’t dared leave the house all day. He opened the front door. Gordon growled. When he tried to squeeze past and get outside, Harry grabbed the dog by its collar and lifted him back into the hall. The dog barked. Mirabel pricked up her ears and joined in. Harry felt tired and irritated.

  “Shush! Shush, I said. Lie down. Do as I say. Down!”

  Gordon glared at him. His black eyes gleamed in the darkness of the hall. Harry closed the door. The dogs carried on barking. They never usually carried on like this. Most likely they were reacting to each other.

  Only once Harry was standing by his mailbox and had taken out the pile of letters with one hand while holding the lid open with the other did he notice the man in the garden. He was wearing an ankle-length, hooded cape and standing under the knotted branches of the pear tree. It was so absurd and strange that at first Harry was not frightened, only filled with amazement. He watched as the man slowly made his way forward with an awkward gait. He was expecting an explanation. Most likely he was drunk.

  “You’ve probably taken a wrong turn,” said Harry when the stranger still didn’t say anything. Maybe this one was getting into the swing of the Medieval Week Masquerade a little early? “This is a private garden,” he said, adding: “I live here.”

  Still the man did not answer. The deep hood kept his face hidden. Only the eyes could be made out in there, in the darkness. Suddenly the situation felt threatening.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” said Harry, mentally trying to gauge the distance to the front door. Would he be able to reach it in time and let out the dogs – that is, if the man wanted trouble? It was doubtful. His body suddenly felt stiff and powerless. Probably one had to assume this fellow was here for some trivial reason, in which case Harry would make himself look rather foolish if he suddenly whizzed toward to the door like a startled rat. “Can I do anything for you? Are you looking for someone?” The man fixed him with his eyes and stood as if transfixed. Gordon barked inside the house. A row of white teeth glittered from within the darkness of the hood. Harry had time to see the reflection of moonlight in his dark eyes. There was a solid weapon in his hands, a club or an iron bar. Panic woke Harry out of his paralysis. He measured the distance to the door again and decided to make for the street. His voice seemed to turn into an inhuman croak. The dogs wailed and screamed inside the door. The cobbles of the street flashed under his feet. He stumbled, then felt a heavy hand on his shoulder and wiry fingers enclosing his throat. He fought back with all the strength he had. Tried to twist toward the man so he could hit or kick him, and maybe catch a glimpse of his face. Air. His throat hurt. He must get some air. Harry tugged and pulled at the other’s hands, but his kick missed its aim and he collapsed with his face hitting the cobbles squarely. There was a crunching sound, but he didn’t hear it, because the roaring sound in his head was louder than anything that was or had ever been, and nothing else would ever come except for that roaring, and when it grew silent there would never be anything else.…

  CHAPTER 23

  THERE WERE MORE PEOPLE than usual on the Gotland ferry. The jostling on the stairs was irritating and Arvidsson was among the last to drive off the ship after a choppy crossing. If he hadn’t managed to get lost on the way back he would have had time to catch the earlier ferry. Now it was past midnight and his body ached with tiredness. It had never been like this before. Before he was shot he’d been able to stay up into the small hours without needing to sleep in the next day. Now he knew very clearly where the boundaries lay. Reluctantly he was often forced to conserve his energy. It was predictable. Tomorrow he would not be getting out of bed before lunchtime, however much he needed to. He hated not being the master of his own body, no longer being in full control. All he could do was accept the situation and make the most of it.

  Rebecka had called again while he was waiting in the line for the ferry. She’d been trying to reach him all evening, but his phone had been turned off. She was desperately sad. He did his best to console her, even though her complaints turned his stomach; tried to calm her down and wind things up, but there was no stopping her.

  “Can’t you come over tomorrow after work and have supper with me and the children?” She’d sounded so pathetic that he ended up giving way to her, even though he wasn’t sure he’d be up to it. Her voice was soft and charming. “I really would love you to come. You don’t have to do anything except be with them. They miss you so much.”

  He promised he would. As he sat there in his loneliness in the line, his memories rose up in him. How he’d met Rebecka for the first time at Örebro Central Station. It felt like a lifetime ago. She’d been a vision as beautiful as the girl on the raisin packages, with long undulating hair and big dark-blue eyes. He’d been absolutely infatuated with her. But the secrecy, at first so enticing, hid a deep crevice which he could never even have guessed at. She’d been married and was living under protected identity, on the run from a man who wanted to harm her. Before he’d realized the scale of the problem she was carrying his child under her heart. From that moment they were linked together forever. One can never undo one’s children. They had another child and at that precise moment, when it looked as if they could live like a normal family, he ran into Maria Wern again. Maria, whom he had loved so utterly ever since she first appeared as an intern, working alongside him with energy and enthusiasm. She’d been unhappily married at the time but refused to walk out on it. For the children’s sake. He’d understood her. When they met again that summer on Gotland, she had just separated from her husband, in spite of all her earlier good intentions about salvaging the marriage. It was a tremendous reunion. They were drawn to each other with a force that could not be resisted, after so many years of longing. Torn between his love for Maria and his bad conscience, he had nonetheless been willing to finish it all so he could
live with Maria. When he spoke to Rebecka about it, it turned out she had also been seeing someone else. It had been going on for six months behind his back. And that was the awful truth of it. They spoke a lot about it at the time. Rebecka explained that she’d never had the nerve to stake everything on one horse; had never been able to love just one man. Her instinct was always to spread the risk so she did not run the risk of falling to pieces if things went wrong. That had been her explanation and he’d been unable to do anything but pity her. And now Rebecka’s new lover had made himself scarce and Rebecka, self-assured and proud Rebecka, had turned into a deserted child. A snuffling, snotty-nosed child, he thought to himself, and wanted to push the thought of her away. The only thing he wanted in his life right now was to go home and sleep. His eyes were smarting with tiredness and filling up with tears; he had to rub them even to see the road. He passed Wisby Strand and parked the car by the Ordnance Tower. The waves were slapping hard against the concrete spit. For an instant he thought he could hear a woman’s voice beyond the booming sound, screaming. He walked up to the edge and looked out over the black water. It’s so easy to imagine things. The myth of the bride that drowned and exacted her revenge on her lover was deeply fixed in human consciousness, and in many ways it was true. Innumerable people through time had been sucked into the undertow and drowned. Their voices are magnified in storms, and in the fury of the waves they seem to be protesting about the unfair brevity of their lives.

  Per stood there looking out at the reflected moonlight on the water, constantly breaking up in new mirrors. It was beautiful and dramatic. At the same time it was so desolate. He did not want to go home to the loneliness. Right now he longed for a warm embrace filled with unconditional love. It was almost as if he stood face-to-face with death. And as if Death had asked him: Are you having any pleasure in your life? Time is running through your fingers and you dither, you stumble along irresolutely without loving, without feeling anything but self-pity. Maybe I should exchange you for one of the unfortunate ones, those who were robbed of their lives while they still had the will to love. Per shook off the unpleasant thought. At that precise moment Rebecka called again.