Her breathing was now rapid and jagged, and tears streamed down her face. Fury blazed in her eyes.
‘Sam …’ She could hardly get the words out. ‘Because he let me think I was a murderer, Sam …’
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Her voice was filled with so much anger that it felt as if the walls might explode in the small room at the police station.
‘Sam could have escaped all of this! His anger … His guilt … It isn’t his fault. You realize that, don’t you? He’s not to blame for any of this! He’s not an evil boy. He’s not wicked. Before this, he never tried to harm anyone. All his life he had to bear so much of my guilt that he just couldn’t stand it any more.’
She let out a howl of grief as the tears spilled from her eyes. When her scream faded, she wiped her face on the sleeve of her shirt and stared wildly at Patrik.
‘All of this … It was all a lie. Sam never … If James hadn’t lied for all these years, Sam would never have …’
She clenched and unclenched her fists. Then she picked up the ball of paper and flung it against the wall. She pounded her fists on the table.
‘All those kids yesterday! All those dead children! None of this would have happened if … And Nea … That was an accident. He didn’t mean to hurt her! He would never …’
She fell silent and looked at the wall with a resigned expression. Then she went on, her voice now calm and infinitely sad.
‘He must have been hurting so much to do something like that. He must have fallen apart because of all the burdens we placed on him. But no one is going to understand. No one will see my sweet boy. They will see a monster. They will paint him as a terrible person, a wicked boy who took the lives of their children. How can I make them see my sweet boy? The warm, loving boy who was destroyed by all our lies? How can I make them hate me and hate James, but not Sam? It wasn’t his fault! He was the victim of our fear, our guilt, our self-centred obsessions. We let our own pain eat up everything we had and everything he had. How can I make them understand that none of this was his fault?’
Helen fell forward, holding on to the edge of the table. Patrik hesitated. His role as a police officer did not allow him to succumb to sympathy. So many lives had been destroyed. But the parent in him saw another parent’s paralysing grief and guilt, and he could not deny that part of himself. He stood up and went around the table. He set a chair next to Helen’s and took her in his arms. Gently he rocked her as her tears soaked his shirt. There was no perpetrator in this story. No winner. Only victims and tragedies. And a mother’s sorrow.
She didn’t get home until dawn. The fire engines. The hospital. The ambulances. The journalists. It was all a fog. Marie remembered the police questioning her, but she could hardly recall what she’d said. Only that she’d had no clue, didn’t understand.
She hadn’t been allowed to see Jessie. She didn’t even know where her body had been taken. Or how much of it remained. How much damage the fire had done. And the bullets of the police.
Marie met her own eyes in the mirror. Out of sheer habit, her hands moved. A terry cloth band to hold back her hair. Three dabs of cleansing lotion on a cotton ball. Circular movements to rub in the lotion. The bottle of facial astringent. A new cotton ball. The cool, fresh feeling on her skin as she wiped off the sticky cleansing cream. Another cotton ball. She wiped off her eye make-up, careful to remove the mascara without breaking any lashes. Finally her face was bare. Clean. Ready to be rejuvenated, renewed. She reached for the flat, round silver jar. Night cream from La Prairie. Insanely expensive but hopefully as good for her skin as the price indicated. She picked up the little spatula and dipped in the jar. She smeared the cream on her fingertips and began rubbing it on her face. First her cheeks. The area around her mouth and nose. Then her forehead. Then another little silver jar. Eye cream. She mustn’t rub too hard or it would damage the delicate skin around her eyes. A tiny dollop cautiously pressed into her skin.
So. Finished. A sleeping pill and then she could sleep while her skin cells were rejuvenated at the same time as memories were erased.
She couldn’t start thinking about anything else. If she thought about anything other than the silver jars and her skin, which she needed to keep young and elastic so the new film investors would be willing to put their money on her, then the dam would burst. Her outward appearance had always been her salvation, the spotlights and glamour had prevented her from remembering all the filth and pain. Allowed her to have only one dimension, which provided a refuge from the memories of what she had lost and the memories of what she had never had.
Her daughter had existed in a parallel reality, floating around in a world she had allowed herself to visit only sporadically. Had there been moments when she’d felt love for Jessie? Her daughter would probably have said no. She knew that. She had always been aware of Jessie’s longing for a single moment of tenderness from her. And there had been times when she’d wanted to give in. Like the first time she placed the infant to her breast. Jessie had been sticky and warm, but she’d had such a searching look on her face when she met her mother’s eyes. And when Jessie took her first steps, with such a happy expression at mastering something that human beings had been mastering for millions of years. The pride Marie felt had almost knocked her cold, and she’d had to turn away and leave so as not to give in to it. Then her daughter’s first day of school. The little girl with her blond ponytail, wearing a backpack, had scampered off, filled with anticipation about everything she was going to learn about the world, about life. Out on the pavement, holding the hand of her nanny, Juanita, Jessie had turned around to wave at Marie, who stood in the doorway of the beautiful house they had rented in The Hills. And Marie had almost relented. She had almost rushed out the door and picked up the little girl in her arms to hold her close and bury her nose in the blond hair that always smelled of lavender from the expensive children’s shampoo. But she had resisted. The price would have been too great.
Everyone in Marie’s life had competed to teach her the lesson that it would cost too much to care. Most of all Helen. She had loved Helen. And Helen had loved her. Yet she had betrayed Marie. She had chosen someone else. Chosen something else. She had thrown all love and all hope in Marie’s face. That wouldn’t happen again. No one would ever hurt her again.
Jessie had also chosen to leave her. She had chosen to walk right into the fire. In the end, Jessie had also betrayed her. And left her here all alone.
Marie noticed the smell of smoke in her nostrils. She picked up another cotton ball, soaked it with astringent, and carefully cleaned her nostrils. It stung and prickled, making her want to sneeze. Tears filled her eyes, but the smell refused to leave. She looked up, trying to make her eyes stop running. She took a tissue from the box of Kleenex and frantically rubbed her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the tears.
She didn’t have to be on the film set for a few days. No one needed her right now. She was all alone, just as she’d always known she would be. But she couldn’t let it break her. She had to be strong. The show must go on.
‘Yesterday was a black day in the history of this town,’ said Patrik.
Several of his colleagues nodded. Most were simply staring down at the table in the conference room, which felt so confining.
‘What’s the latest report from the hospital?’ asked Gösta.
His face was grey and furrowed. None of them had slept a wink. The heartbreaking work of notifying the families had taken all night, and they’d been pestered throughout by increasingly aggressive journalists, hell-bent on finding out as much as possible about what had happened.
This was something people had been talking about for a long time. It was what they had feared. That the school shootings in the United States might spread to Sweden, that someone, sooner or later, would decide to take the lives of fellow students. Sam and Jessie hadn’t done it at a school, but the pattern was the same, and the targets had been their classmates.
‘Another girl died an h
our ago. So we now have nine dead and fifteen wounded.’
‘My God,’ said Gösta, shaking his head.
Patrik couldn’t compute those numbers. His brain refused. It was impossible to think that so many young people had died, or had been wounded and would be scarred for life.
‘Ten dead, if we count James,’ said Martin.
‘What is Helen saying?’ asked Gösta. ‘And Marie? Did they notice anything? Were Sam and Jessie acting strangely? Did they give any clues?’
Patrik shook his head.
‘They say they had no idea. But we found Sam’s notebook at home, with a detailed plan of what they intended to do, including sketches of the community centre. He seems to have been planning this for quite a while, and then he somehow persuaded Jessie to join him.’
‘Had she displayed violent tendencies before?’ asked Paula.
‘Not according to Marie. She says her daughter has always been a loner, that she might have been bullied at the schools she attended. I get the impression she never paid much attention to her daughter.’
‘Nea’s death must have been what triggered Sam,’ said Martin. ‘Imagine – being fifteen and having to carry that guilt. A boy with a domineering father and weak mother as parents. Add in the stigma of living in the shadow of Helen’s shame, and … well, it couldn’t have been easy for him.’
‘For God’s sake don’t feel sorry for him!’ said Mellberg. ‘Lots of kids have had a far worse home life, but they don’t go out and massacre their classmates.’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ said Martin in a subdued voice.
‘What does Helen say?’ asked Gösta.
‘She’s in despair. Shattered. Her son and her husband are both dead. She’s going to be charged with obstruction of justice and harbouring a criminal because of what she did after Nea died.’
Paula held up a newspaper.
‘Adnan is being hailed as a hero in all the papers,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘The refugee who gave his life to save Swedish kids.’
‘The bloody fool,’ said Mellberg, but he couldn’t hide the admiration in his voice.
Patrik nodded. What Adnan and Khalil had done was both terribly stupid and terribly brave. They had rescued thirty teenagers. Thirty kids who would undoubtedly be dead otherwise.
He had personally been struggling all night with the images that would be for ever etched into his memory. The fire and the gunshots had forced them to make a quick decision to enter the building. Patrik and Paula had been first through the front door after the fire fighters had smashed it open. There was no time for hesitation. They saw Sam and Jessie standing back to back in the middle of the burning room, shooting at kids who ran screaming for the back doors that Adnan and Khalil had managed to open. Patrik exchanged a quick glance with Paula, and she nodded. They raised their service weapons and fired. Sam and Jessie both fell instantly to the floor.
The rest was like a fog. Ambulances had shuttled back and forth all night. All the hospitals in the county had helped, and private individuals had shown up to transport the wounded.
More and more people had gathered outside the community centre. They lit candles and wept, hugging each other as they asked thousands of questions that might never be answered. Tanumshede had taken its place alongside the names of other towns in the history books – those communities that would for ever be linked to some great tragedy and would for ever summon images of death and evil. But no one was thinking about that now. Right now they were grieving for their sons and daughters, their siblings and friends, their neighbours and acquaintances. They could no longer convince themselves that just because they lived in a small town, they would be spared all the evil they read about in the papers. From now on, they would lock their doors and go to bed at night with an uneasy feeling, an anxiety about what might happen.
‘Are you okay?’ asked Annika, looking at Patrik and Paula.
Patrik looked at Paula, and they both shrugged. What could they say?
‘There was no other option,’ said Paula heavily. ‘We did what we had to do.’
Patrik merely nodded without speaking. He knew she was right. There was no doubt about that. The only way for them to save the hostages was to shoot Sam and Jessie. He knew it was the right decision, and no one would ever criticize them for what they’d done. But having to shoot a child … Both he and Paula would have to live with that for the rest of their lives. Because no matter what Sam and Jessie had done, they were two lost teenagers who had driven each other to do something that was so horrifying it was nearly impossible to comprehend. Patrik might never understand what had led them to do it. He might never understand how they were able to justify their actions to themselves.
Patrik cleared his throat.
‘When the techs searched Sam’s room this morning, they found a USB stick showing intimate photos of James with a man who has now been identified as KG Persson. Helen’s father.’
‘Could that have been the deciding factor for Sam?’ asked Martin. ‘Seeing his mother kissing another woman, and finding those pictures of his father?’
Paula shook her head.
‘I don’t know,’ said Patrik. ‘We’ll probably never know the whole story. And there’s another issue we need to discuss.’
He pointed at Mellberg.
‘At the wedding dinner, Bertil told me that a tip had been received from a man who gave three teenagers a ride in his car. He dropped them off near the refugee centre about the time Nea’s knickers were left inside Karim’s house. The witness says one of the kids was Bill’s son, Nils, along with a girl and a boy. All three were killed yesterday. I don’t see any point in making this information public. Anyone have a problem with that?’
He looked around the room. Everyone shook their heads.
‘As for the fire at the refugee centre, we’ll continue with our investigation, but I think it’s going to be difficult to find out who did it. Refugee centres all over Sweden are burning, and no one gets caught. But let’s keep our eyes and ears open.’
Everyone nodded. Silence settled over the room. Patrik realized they should do a debriefing and go over everything that had happened, but fatigue was beginning to set in, and the heat in the room was making them even drowsier. They were sad, shocked, exhausted, and shattered. The phone in the reception area had been ringing nonstop for hours. Not only Sweden, but the whole world was focused on Tanumshede and the tragedy that had unfolded. And Patrik knew that everyone sitting in this small room at the Tanumshede police station felt that something had permanently changed. No one would ever be the same again.
Karim was afraid people would think that he was ungrateful, that he didn’t appreciate all they had done for him. But it wasn’t true. Karim had never thought that any Swede would open their home as they had for him and his children, that they would help him get his own place, that they would hug his kids and speak to him as an equal. He was happy he’d been able to experience this other side of Sweden.
But he couldn’t stay here. They couldn’t stay here. Sweden had taken too much from him. Amina was with the stars in the sky and the warm rays of the sun, and he missed her every minute, every second. He carefully placed the photographs of her in his suitcase, wrapping them in soft clothing. Most of the suitcase was filled with the children’s clothes. He didn’t have the strength to carry more than one bag, so he was packing only the essentials. He didn’t need much. They needed everything. They deserved everything.
It was impossible to take along all the toys they had received from Rita, Bertil, and Leo. He knew the children would be sad, but there simply wasn’t room. Once again they would have to leave behind things they loved. That was the price they had to pay for freedom.
He looked at his children. Samia was sleeping with a rabbit in her arms, a grey and white toy rabbit that Leo had given her. She refused to sleep without it. She would be allowed to take the rabbit along, but only that one. And Hassan was clutching a little bag of coloured marbles in his han
d. The marbles gleamed through the black netting of the bag. Hassan could stare at them for hours. They would be coming along too. But there was no room for anything else.
Karim had heard about Adnan and Khalil. Everyone had phoned everyone else to talk about them with both horror and pride. The Swedes were calling them heroes. How ironic. Karim recalled how disappointed Adnan had been when he recounted how the Swedes looked at him as if he were from another planet. He was the one at the refugee centre who had most wanted to fit in. Wanted to be accepted. And now the Swedes were hailing him as a hero, but what was the point of that? Adnan would never know.
Karim looked around the flat. It was nice and bright. Spacious. It could have been a good home for him and the children. If only his grief for Amina hadn’t hurt so badly. If only he’d still had hope that this country would be able to offer him a future. But Sweden had caused him to suffer only sorrow and rejection. He had felt hatred and distrust directed at him, and he knew he would never feel secure here. He and the children would have to keep looking for a place where they could stay. Where they would feel safe and have faith in a future. Somewhere he would be able to picture Amina’s smile without feeling grief stabbing his chest.
With an effort he picked up a pen in his injured hand. The bandages had been removed at the hospital, but his hands still hurt, and for a long time to come, maybe for ever, they would be stiff and scarred. He got out a piece of paper and then paused. He didn’t know what to write. He was not ungrateful. He wasn’t. He was frightened. And empty.
Finally he wrote down only a single word. One of the first Swedish words he had learned. ‘Tack.’ Thank you. Then he got up to wake the children. They had a long journey ahead of them.
Chapter Forty-One
Almost a week had passed since the tragedy at the community centre. The grieving process had slowly entered a new phase, and daily life had started to take over. As it always did. At least for those on the periphery and not at the epicentre of what had happened. For those who had lost someone dear, there was still a long road to go before they approached anything resembling daily life.
The Girl in the Woods (Patrik Hedstrom and Erica Falck, Book 10) Page 66