After She's Gone

by Camilla Grebe

  I tell her that—how beautiful it is—and she agrees.

  Azra is beautiful, too, and very similar to her sister. Same narrow face, high cheekbones, and dark eyes. Just younger. Young and happy, with no knowledge of the future, standing in the sun in front of a small stone house, wearing a flowery blouse.

  The image is unusually sharp and the details are quite clear: her plain earrings, the sun playing in the strands of her dark hair, her slightly crooked front tooth, and the beautiful necklace she wears—a gold medallion with a green border. It looks familiar in some way, as if I’ve seen it before, but I can’t place where.

  Esma flips through a few pages.

  “It’s hard to understand,” she says, showing a picture of Nermina as a baby.

  She wrinkles her forehead a little and continues:

  “How can people do such things? And I don’t just mean what happened to Nermina. I mean the war. How neighbor turned against neighbor, robbing and killing. Eight thousand men and boys were killed in the massacre of Srebrenica. They were separated from their families, detained, and executed like cattle. And the world just watched. Eight thousand! What is wrong with humanity? And it never ends. Evil feeds on evil. There’s a Bosnian proverb: Ko seje vjetar, žanje oluju. It means: Those who sow the wind, harvest the storm.”

  “Those who sow the wind, harvest the storm,” Andreas echoes. “It’s almost biblical.”

  Esma shrugs. “Perhaps it is.”

  I look down at the picture of Nermina again.

  Chubby baby cheeks, pink rompers, and a pacifier with a flower on it.

  And suddenly I remember why Azra’s necklace looked so familiar. My stomach knots up, and my mouth goes dry.

  “Can you show me that picture of Azra again?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Esma says, and flips back a few pages.

  I lean forward and study Azra’s necklace closely.

  “Beautiful necklace,” I say.

  “The medallion was our mother’s. Azra always wore it. You could open it up. She kept a picture of Nermina inside.”

  “Was she wearing the necklace when she disappeared?”

  “She never took it off.”

  “Can we borrow this picture?” I ask. “We’ll be very careful with it, and you’ll get it back.”

  She raises her eyebrows a little.

  “Yes, that’s fine,” she says slowly, loosens the old photo and hands it to me.

  “We have to go now,” I say, pulling Andreas by the arm a little.

  He seems to take the hint.

  We say our goodbyes to Esma, promising to return as soon as we know more.

  As soon as Esma closes the door Andreas turns to me and whispers:

  “What is it?”

  “The medallion,” I whisper. “Azra’s medallion. Hanne was wearing it when Manfred and I met with her.”

  Jake

  Dad’s sleeping, even though it’s not even six yet.

  I sneak by him as quietly as I can, past the living room and into the laundry room. I’m carrying a plastic bag full of dirty laundry.

  Before, when Mom was alive, we had a wicker hamper with blue stripes on it. A bag of dried lavender hung from the edge. But the hamper broke during a party of Melinda’s, and Dad never bought a new one.

  It doesn’t matter—a plastic bag works just as well. Though I miss the smell of lavender. Saga’s mother has soap that smells like that, and every time I use it I think of our old hamper and Mom.

  I turn on the light. The floor is covered in dirty clothes.

  I kick a few dirty shirts aside to get to the washing machine. Then I stuff it full with my clothes, pour the detergent into the small compartment, and turn on the machine.

  The washing machine starts to gurgle, and takes a small leap.

  I remember what Saga said earlier today. How Nathalie heard the Ghost Child at the cairn twice, that it talked to her, whispered for her to come closer.

  Ghosts aren’t real, are they? And even if they were, they wouldn’t be able to kill two people.

  Right?

  And that woman who was murdered, who was barefoot in the middle of winter? Who was she, and what was she doing at the cairn?

  Just as I’m about to turn off the light, I notice one of Dad’s checkered shirts crumpled up near the wall. I don’t really know why, but I bend down and reach for it. It’s not logical—the floor is full of clothes, so why this shirt—but something feels off about it in some vague way. Partly, I don’t understand how the shirt ended up there, and also I see long threads hanging from it, like it’s ripped.

  I’ve seen that brown checkered shirt a thousand times—it’s one of Dad’s favorites. One sleeve is torn off, hanging by just a thread. And there’s a big brown stain. It feels stiff when I poke it.

  I wonder what happened, and why Dad put the shirt there instead of throwing it away. But above all, I wonder what to do with it. In the end, I put it back where it was and go up to my room.

  Maybe I should talk to Melinda about Dad when she gets home. I haven’t told her about the rifle under the couch: Somehow that would feel like a betrayal. As for this shirt—there must be some simple explanation. But still.

  The stain looked like dried blood.

  I imagine that Dad must have caught his arm on something, cut himself, and torn his shirt. When I close my eyes I can see his blood on his freckled skin.

  Tears burn behind my eyelids, and it’s hard to breathe.

  Ever since Mom died, I’ve been afraid something bad would happen to Dad—that he’d drive off the road, that the creek would flood and drown him, that he’d be infected by some flesh-eating bacteria.

  I take out Hanne’s diary, feel the weight of it in my hands, and breathe in the smell of old, damp paper.

  The pages stick together, and I have to pull them apart carefully so they won’t rip.

  If Hanne were here now I could ask her what to do about Dad. I’m sure she’d know.

  I start to read, but end up in the middle of a long and boring summary of a meeting with someone called the prosecutor. Just as I’m about to put away the book my eyes catch a sentence farther down the page: “…just visited the Birgersson family.”

  The Birgersson Family—that’s us. Me, Dad, and Melinda.

  Was Hanne here?

  I keep reading.

  ORMBERG, NOVEMBER 29

  P and I just visited the Birgersson family.

  The road to the house was terrible, got progressively more narrow. Large, deep potholes covered the roadway. I thought we were going to get stuck.

  P said we needed a “damn tank” to get out there.

  We still had no idea what to expect.

  Far into the forest, next to the creek, stood a house that reminded me of Villa Villekulla. It must be from the turn of the last century, and it had been built onto in every possible direction. Strange additions that grew like cancerous tumors out of that poor house. A giant deck encircled it. Piles of wood lay under tarps in several places on the lawn.

  I concluded that someone must still be building onto the house.

  The yard was full of trash & discarded odds and ends: bikes, tires, grills, and broken tools. But the deck was neat, and seemingly new: The wood was green from waterproofing.

  There was a garage, too. Black trash bags were stacked along one wall.

  P went over and looked inside: They were full of empty beer cans.

  Stefan Birgersson opened the door.

  He stank of stale sweat & old alcohol. Probably hadn’t showered in a week. He was wearing an old tracksuit and had only one sock on.

  He showed us into the kitchen. Explained he was alone (the children were in school). He apologized: hadn’t had time to clean. We told him it didn’t matter.

  I tri
ed not to be affected by my surroundings, but still I was shocked.

  Such misery!

  But it wasn’t poverty, it was neglect. There was no shortage of gadgets (a huge fridge, an espresso machine, a SodaStream, a bread machine, etc.). Old food and garbage lay everywhere: in the sink, on the floor. Empty beer cans lined the walls.

  Stefan is 48. His wife, Suzanne, died a year ago (leukemia).

  Stefan spoke for a long time about his wife and children. Got tears in the eyes. Blew his nose. Apologized again for the mess. Whispered: I don’t know what I’d do without my kids.

  I thought: It should be the exact OPPOSITE. The kids shouldn’t be able to get by without you. But I didn’t say anything, because he looked so miserable.

  P asked if he had any help. Stefan replied that both his and Suzanne’s parents were dead. But, he said: I’ve got unemployment benefits. We won’t starve. And I do odd jobs for the summer visitors now and then.

  Stefan talked for a long time about his children: Jake & Melinda. Said they were good kids. Thoughtful and smart. Took care of him when he couldn’t. But he was worried about Jake, called him “frail.”

  P started the interrogation. Asked if Stefan & Suzanne had lived here in the nineties (yes), and if they remembered the Ormberg Girl (of course; it was all people talked about for months). Did he remember that the TrikåKungen buildings were used as refugee housing during that period (absolutely; everyone hated it, they didn’t want “trouble”).

  P told him about Nermina Malkoc. Explained it was probably her body found in the cairn in 2009. He asked if Stefan recognized the name, or had ever been to the refugee camp.

  Stefan had never heard of her. Nor had he been to the refugee camp, not in the nineties and not now, he said. Said he did his best to keep himself & his children “away from there” now that the refugees from Syria had arrived.

  I asked why, and he replied that they didn’t want any “trouble.”

  There it was again: that word “trouble.” (As IF the refugee camp, and NOT unemployment, depopulation, and the inverted demographic pyramid, weren’t Ormberg’s real problems.)

  I wanted to understand, so I asked again: What KIND of trouble?

  Stefan didn’t answer the question. Instead, he went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, opened it, and sank down on his chair.

  (I felt almost nauseated by his smell, but still liked him in some way. Maybe it was the softness in his voice when he talked about his children. Maybe the fear in his eyes when he called the son “frail.”)

  P asked again if he was absolutely sure he’d never visited the refugee camp in the early nineties.

  Stefan fell right into the trap. Said he’d NEVER been there.

  P took out some old documents Andreas had found, which proved that Stefan did carpentry work at the facility a total of five times in 1993. Stefan was clearly embarrassed, but apologized by saying he must have forgotten.

  After that we didn’t get any further. Stefan’s daughter Melinda came home: a pudgy teenage girl wearing too much makeup and clothes that made her look cheap.

  Stefan didn’t say goodbye as we left. Instead, he opened another beer.

  Even though I felt a great deal of sympathy for him, I have to agree with Peter, who found his behavior suspect. Why lie about working at the refugee camp?

  There’s something off about it. Stefan Birgersson is hiding something.

  The book slips out of my hands. My chest collapses; it feels like I’m caught in a vice, breathing through a straw.

  It can’t be true.

  It’s not allowed to be true.

  Could they seriously believe Dad had something to do with the murder?

  Malin

  It’s almost nine in the evening when Andreas and I park the car in front of Berit Sund’s red cottage. The windows are lit, and smoke curls up slowly from the chimney before scattering into the viciously cold air.

  We’ve talked all the way from Gnesta: about Esma, the war in Bosnia, and Nermina. And we tried to figure out how her mother’s medallion could have ended up with Hanne—if it even is the medallion.

  When I saw the picture at Esma’s, I was so sure, but now I no longer know.

  Snow crunches beneath our boots as we walk the short distance to Berit’s front door.

  Andreas knocks, and we wait, but nothing happens. Then the dog barks.

  “I think Berit’s hard of hearing,” I say. “You may have to—”

  Andreas nods and before I finish the sentence he makes a fist and pounds hard on the front door. After a few seconds, steps approach, and Berit opens up. She has curlers in her hair and a kerchief wrapped around to hold them in place. The dog’s stopped barking, but sticks his nose out the door and sniffs the air.

  “Malin?” she says, looking confused. Then she looks at Andreas. She blinks a few times and opens her mouth as if intending to say something.

  “I apologize for coming so late,” I say. “This is my colleague Andreas, from Örebro. We need to talk to Hanne a bit.”

  “Have you found him?” Her voice is a whisper.

  “No, this is concerning another matter.”

  Berit shrugs slightly.

  “Well then, you’d best come in.”

  She limps down the hall.

  “We’re drinking tea,” Berit says with her back to us.

  We take off our coats and shoes. The faded geraniums on the windowsill look even more miserable than I remember. Yellow, semidry leaves litter their pots.

  The kitchen is pleasantly warm. The woodstove crackles and a kerosene lamp is lit on the table. A straw Christmas Star hangs in the window facing west. Hanne sits with a cup of tea in her hand. She has a shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She stands up expectantly when we enter.

  “Hello,” I say.

  Hanne looks at me curiously. As she stretches her hand to greet me, I realize she still doesn’t remember me. I should have been prepared for that, but for some reason, I thought she would now, since she was getting better.

  “Hello, Hanne. My name is Malin. I’m a colleague of Manfred’s.”

  Hanne’s face breaks into a gentle smile.

  “Oh. How is Manfred?”

  “He’s good.”

  Hanne wrinkles her eyebrows and looks troubled.

  “Peter?” she whispers.

  I put my hand on hers.

  “We haven’t found Peter. That’s not why we’re here. We just need to talk to you about something.”

  Berit clears away her teacup and turns toward us.

  “I’m going out with Joppe. Could you put another log on the fire soon?”

  I nod and look at Berit in her curlers. The wounds on her left forearm are an angry red today. They look infected.

  “That doesn’t look good,” I say.

  Berit puts her hand on the sores.

  “It’ll be fine,” she says, turning around and heading out into the hall.

  The dog limps after her.

  Andreas and I sit down at the table opposite Hanne.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  Hanne shrugs. “Good. My scratches have almost healed. Though I still don’t remember what happened in the woods, so if that’s why you came here I can’t help you.”

  “We want to talk to you about something else. Your necklace.”

  “My necklace?”

  Hanne looks confused, lets her shawl slip down on her shoulders and moves a hand to her neck. Something glitters between her fingers.

  “Could we have a look at it?” Andreas asks.

  “Yes, of course.”

  She takes off the chain and hands me the necklace.

  The medallion feels warm and heavy in my hand. I examine it closely. An enameled green border runs around the edge, and there are stones set in
the middle. They glitter in the warm light of the kerosene lamp.

  “This must be it,” Andreas says.

  I don’t say anything, just nod, because he’s right. The medallion looks exactly like the one Azra Malkoc was wearing in the picture from Esma’s album.

  “What?” Hanne says, her eyes darting back and forth between me and Andreas.

  I turn toward her.

  “You and Peter were working on an investigation here in Ormberg. Do you remember?”

  Hanne lowers her eyes.

  “Yes. No. There’s just so much I don’t remember. It’s all so blurry.”

  “A little girl was murdered here in the early nineties. This piece of jewelry belonged to her mother,” Andreas says. “Her name is Azra Malkoc.”

  Hanne looks horrified.

  “I had no idea.”

  “Do you remember how you got this necklace?”

  Hanne shakes her head.

  “No. I’m so sorry!”

  For a second, I think she might start crying, but then she takes a deep breath and seems to relax a little.

  Andreas roots around in his pocket and takes out his notebook. Opens it and plucks out the photo of Azra that we borrowed from Esma.

  “Do you recognize her?” he asks.

  Hanne takes the photograph and lays it on the table in front of her. Then reaches for the reading glasses sitting next to the tea, puts them on, and stares for a long time at the picture of the young woman in the flowery blouse, squinting against the sun.

  “No. I don’t recognize her. But I see she’s wearing the necklace.”

  “Hanne,” I say. “Can we borrow the necklace?”

  “It’s not even mine,” she states quietly. “Of course you should take it.”

  I pick up her hand. It is thin and cold, despite the warmth of the room.

  “If you remember something, anything, write it down. Can you do that? And you know you can call us whenever you want.”

  Hanne nods without answering.

  * * *

  —

  We sit in the dark car outside Berit’s house.