Vanished?

by Christer Tholin

  “What I can tell you,” the policeman replied, “is the following: in the garden shed, we found some pieces of rope that had been cut through. That suggests that your story could be true.”

  “Aha. Thank you.” They apparently hadn’t classified him as a credible witness. “Anything more?”

  “Nothing more.” The policeman regarded him calmly.

  “Excuse me?” Martin was trying to contain himself. “What about Liv? Were there other people in the house?”

  “We didn’t go inside the house.”

  Now Martin was at a complete loss. “Why did you not go inside the house?”

  The policeman’s bushy eyebrows twitched as he gave Martin another of his penetrating looks. “The door was locked.”

  “Yes, I know. The front door was locked. But I told you the terrace door was open.”

  The policeman turned to his computer and began typing. “No, the terrace door was also locked.”

  “What? That can’t be. And the overturned furniture?”

  The policeman looked at Martin over his monitor. “As far as we could see, everything was in order.” He continued typing.

  Martin leaned back in his chair. What was going on here? Either the police hadn’t thoroughly checked the house, or the person who had assaulted him had put everything back in order.

  “So what about Liv?” he asked.

  “I couldn’t tell you anything about that.”

  “Now listen here!” This guy was about to drive Martin up a wall. “She has been missing for two days. Don’t you think someone will eventually have to file a missing person’s report?”

  The policeman stopped typing and looked up at the ceiling. He seemed to be contemplating something. Martin waited. His eye fell on the epaulets with the three stars. Why did an old East Frisian joke come to mind just then? One star meant the man could read. Two, that he could do arithmetic. And a grand total of three, that he could do both.

  At long last, the policeman turned back to Martin, unfortunately once more with that penetrating look, underscored by those twitching eyebrows.

  “Mr. Petzold, that is not your concern, and I would like you to let it be. However, I will tell you this much: Liv Ulldahl is fine. She has left her vacation house and is with her family. You may consider the matter closed.” He turned to his computer once more.

  Martin was speechless. There was apparently nothing he could do. He rose, intending to leave, but then decided to make one final attempt.

  “So that means that you’ve spoken with Liv?”

  “There’s nothing more I can say.”

  “Then you haven’t?”

  This time, the policeman’s eyebrows twitched even more furiously. Annoyed, he replied: “Liv Ulldahl is with her family. That’s all I can tell you. Accept it once and for all!”

  Martin was forced to admit defeat. “All right, then how does that affect my statement?”

  “You entered a stranger’s house uninvited and may have been knocked unconscious in the process.”

  “May have been? What about the wound on the back of my head?”

  “Right. That can result from a blow.”

  “Are you suggesting I made it up?”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. But let me give you one bit of advice: stay away from other people’s houses! Good day, Mr. Petzold.”

  Martin left the police station. Somehow that hadn’t gone at all as he had imagined.

  7

  He was puffing and panting, but he still kept up his pace and continued jogging the last few meters to the driveway. Once there, he cooled down and did some stretching exercises. It was critical now to keep fit and maintain his routines. He bounded up the steps to the massive front door, opened it, and stepped across the threshold. He went inside, removed his running shoes, and walked upstairs.

  Saga met him on the stairs, barefoot as usual, her braids swinging back and forth. She chirped excitedly: “Papa, we got a call from a man who didn’t know any Swedish. I had to speak English with him.”

  “What did he want?” he asked warily.

  “To speak with Mama.” Saga brushed a strawberry blond curl from her face.

  “What did you tell him?”

  Saga ran down the rest of the stairs. “Uh, that she was out of town.”

  “Hang on—wait a minute! Did he say anything else?”

  Saga turned around: “Nö.”

  “What was the man’s name?”

  “Don’t know,” she called and kept going.

  “Have you done your math homework?”

  “Yes!” And she was gone.

  He continued up the stairs, down the hall, through the spacious bedroom, and into the bathroom. Who could have called? The last thing he needed right now were more complications. Just one more week. It pissed him off that things had turned out like this. He wasn’t at all happy about it. And yes, he had made some mistakes, like wanting to earn too much too fast. In the beginning, things had gone well, but by the time they backfired, there was no turning back. And he knew that he couldn’t tell Liv what he had gotten himself into. Their relationship was no longer going well, and if she learned about the secrets he was keeping from her, she would immediately file for divorce. If that happened, he would lose everything.

  The sale of the company was his best chance for solving all his problems in one go. Liv had left him no choice. There was no way he could have talked to her about this, and the Russians kept exerting more and more pressure. The appeal period hadn’t suited them at all, which left the kidnapping as the only solution. Now his only hope was that Bosse wouldn’t screw up, or he would be in deep shit. And that applied to two things. First, Liv would have to drop off the radar for that week, but he also didn’t want anything happening to her. He prayed that Bosse wouldn’t make any mistakes with the sleep medication dosage and that he would carefully follow his instructions.

  He stepped into the shower and turned on the water. Having adjusted it to the perfect temperature, he was enjoying letting it flow from the huge showerhead over his sweat-covered body. He was feeling happier and happier with this bathroom—it had turned out great. Overall, the renovation of the villa had been worth it: it absolutely suited his social position. This was how a business owner should live. And no one would take that away from him.

  Wednesday, September 23

  8

  Martin was back on the freeway again, with Stockholm still 200 kilometers away. He hadn’t realized how large Sweden was—Stockholm wasn’t even halfway to the northernmost end. It was a good thing Liv resided in Stockholm and not even farther away.

  The day before had gone by fast. After his frustrating experience with the policeman, he had decided to forget the whole thing. After all, he barely knew the woman, and it was none of his business. This was also a foreign country. He had no authority here as a lawyer, and he didn’t speak the language. Besides, he was on vacation—his goal was to relax. He wasn’t about to let himself get knocked down again and then insulted by the police on top of it all.

  Martin had tidied up the cabin and afterwards fired up the grill. Once the sun came out, it felt very pleasant on the covered terrace. He had made himself a small salad and grilled a large steak. To go with it, he had treated himself to a Swedish beer, which he bought at the supermarket. He had been skeptical, since its alcohol content was a mere 3.2 percent, but there was nothing else available at the supermarket. The woman at the checkout stand had explained that anything over 3.5 percent could only be obtained in a specialty shop. Still, the beer was drinkable, and you couldn’t tell that it was a lighter version. And so, Martin had sat on the terrace, eaten his meal, and enjoyed the view across the meadow to the lake.

  After that, Martin had some coffee and read. When it got too cool for him, he moved inside to the sofa, where he nodded off. It was three in the afternoon when he awoke, and the sun was still shining, so he decided to go for a walk. Along the way, he tried out a new path through the woods and, after a good
half hour, was surprised to find himself back at Liv’s house. At least, he hadn’t gone that way on purpose. He was at the rear of the house, which meant that there was a second path leading to and from Liv’s place—whatever relevance that might have.

  The tool shed stood to Martin’s right, while the terrace lay straight ahead. He deliberated for a while, observing the surroundings the whole time. Since nothing had moved, he risked taking another look. The tool shed was still unlocked, and the double doors were ajar. He detected no change inside. Even the cut pieces of rope were still lying next to the lawnmower.

  What surprised him, however, was the state of the house. The terrace door was in fact locked. The previously overturned chair stood upright beside the table, and otherwise everything looked to be in perfect order. Even the terrace furniture had been put back in place. The red slippers were inside the house by the door, and from what he could tell by looking through the window, Liv’s jacket no longer hung inside the cabinet in the hallway. There were no cars in sight. All of this confirmed the policeman’s statements.

  As he headed back to his cabin, Martin simply could not let the matter go—and that, despite his decision that morning to stop worrying about it and to focus on his vacation. Had Liv returned and fetched her things? If so, then who knocked him down? And why, above all? Or why hadn’t she called him? It didn’t add up in his view.

  Back at the cabin, he had turned on his computer and gone on the Internet. The rest was easy. He googled the name Liv Ulldahl—and lo and behold, Sweden had web pages that listed every resident, complete with address, age, and phone number. Fortunately, Ulldahl was not an everyday name. In all of Sweden, that particular combination of first and last name occurred only once: Liv Maria Ulldahl, thirty-six years old, resident in the vicinity of Stockholm. She lived in the same house as one Thomas Lind, thirty-eight years old.

  Martin had then gotten up his courage and called the house. After several rings, a girl answered the phone. Luckily, she spoke English—unusually well, in fact, for what he guessed was a girl around the age of ten. He had asked for Liv and received the answer that she had gone out of town. The girl’s father was not at home, either. Martin hadn’t dared ask her anything else.

  Later, he had spent the evening thinking about the whole scene, unable to find a moment of peace. And yes, he had to admit again that he found the pursuit exciting. Anyway, since the assault, he had become personally involved, and besides, staying at the cabin the entire time had started to bore him. He confessed that he had another motive as well: he wanted to see those lovely blue eyes again.

  By the time Martin awoke the next day, he had reached a decision: he would drive to Stockholm and get to the bottom of this story. His vacation time would certainly allow him to make a detour to Sweden’s capital. If it turned out that Liv was all right, he would at least have had the chance to see the capital city. If she were not all right ... well, then he would have to see.

  He had booked a room in a smaller hotel, packed a few things, and set off after breakfast. So there he was on the freeway again, driving at 110 kilometers per hour. At least, his GPS had no problem with the hotel’s address, which meant that he could focus on driving and only needed to follow the “lady’s” instructions. The one thing bothering him was the wound on the back of his head, which hurt the minute he leaned back on the headrest. Although the wound itself had healed, the spot was still tender. That was why he had kept the gauze bandage on, though he intended to remove it once he got to the hotel.

  9

  Martin’s hotel room was small and simply furnished, but it was clean and sufficient for his needs. He unpacked his bag and focused on the bandage. From what he could see of the back of his head in the mirror, the wound was dry and hidden by his hair. That meant that he could now do away with the bandage. There was still some dried blood in his hair, so he decided to take a shower and wash it thoroughly. Now that he was in the city, he wanted to look decent.

  Just as Martin had stepped out of the shower and started blow-drying his hair, he heard his cell phone ring. Still dripping wet, he ran into the room and pulled the phone out of his jacket pocket. He could see from the screen that the caller was his partner from his law practice.

  “Hi, Jürgen.”

  “Hey, Martin. Sorry to bother you during your vacation, but I need your advice about the Wernicke case.”

  “No problem. Can I call you back in fifteen minutes? I just got out of the shower.”

  “OK, got it. I’ll call back in twenty.”

  “Thanks. Talk to you then.”

  Martin went back to the bathroom and finished getting dressed while he waited for Jürgen’s call. Finally, his cell phone rang again.

  “Hi, Jürgen.”

  “Hey. Are you done getting dressed?”

  “Yeah, I can talk now.”

  “So how are you doing up there in the far north? Aren’t you bored in the woods?”

  Jürgen had been skeptical on hearing Martin’s vacation plans. Of course, Jürgen was the type who was more likely to want a lot of socializing and action on his vacation. He took regular trips to Mallorca, where he would throw wild parties on Ballermann, the island’s party mile. It wasn’t Martin’s kind of thing at all.

  “No, it’s not even vaguely boring. I managed to get myself embroiled in some story that’s been keeping me on my toes. That’s why I drove to Stockholm today.”

  “Oh yeah? Let’s hear it! What kind of story?”

  Martin described to his partner how he had met Liv, how they had made a date for coffee, how she suddenly vanished, and how he was knocked unconscious while looking for her.

  “Have you fallen for this woman, or what? Why are you getting so caught up in it?”

  “No, I just thought she was nice—that’s all.”

  “OK, then let the police handle it.”

  “They’re not doing much of anything. They finally sent a patrol car to her vacation house after I was knocked unconscious there. The problem is that they found the door locked and the house all cleaned up. They also claim that Liv is back with her family in Stockholm. But when I called there, the daughter told me her mother had gone out of town.”

  “And that’s why you’re in Stockholm now?”

  “Right.”

  “And what are you planning on doing there?”

  “I don’t know the specifics yet. In any case, I’m going to drive to the address to see if Liv is there. If she is, then that takes care of it.”

  “Well, good luck with that. I think it’s great at any rate that you’re not spending your entire vacation sitting around in that cabin. Stockholm is bound to be more interesting. Now about the Wernicke case ...”

  This particular case involved a dispute over the boundary between two properties. Martin had originally taken it, but because of his upcoming vacation, he had passed it on to Jürgen. Jürgen, however, did not get along too well with Mr. Wernicke, and he wanted to advise him to drop the lawsuit. But Martin still believed that the suit stood a good chance of success, and he managed to convince Jürgen to pursue it.

  “Thanks, Martin,” Jürgen said after their discussion. “I’ll talk to Wernicke again. He never mentioned the bit about the earlier fence. I’ll keep you posted, although I can’t imagine a whole lot happening before you get back.”

  “Hey,” he continued, “about the thing with Liv ... If you really want to do something about it, shouldn’t you get help from some local sources? I mean, you’re all by yourself in a foreign country with a language you don’t understand. Seems like it would be hard.”

  “Yeah, that’s true. It is kind of awkward having to deal with everything in English. It’s just that I don’t know anyone here. Although what did you mean by help?”

  “Well, I had someone professional in mind. You know how when we’re stuck, we sometimes hire a private investigator for the case. Find someone like that in Stockholm. I’m sure it will cost a little something ... and, anyway, why are you so intent o
n sticking your neck out all the time?”

  “That’s true about the PI. I hadn’t even thought of that. That could be a good option—thanks for the tip. But now I’m going to go see if Liv is home, after all.”

  They said goodbye, and Martin promised to call if anything new turned up in the Liv affair. Jürgen seemed to take a great interest in it, and Martin felt much better after talking to him about it. Jürgen never doubted his story at all—unlike the police, who evidently assumed it was all in Martin’s head. Jürgen, on the other hand, had taken every bit of it seriously from the start. And Martin loved the tip about the private detective. Jürgen was right: he needed the help of someone who could speak the language and who knew his way around there. A couple of days’ worth of assistance would hardly cost a fortune.

  10

  Martin climbed the last step out of the underground station and made his way to the hotel. He had gone sightseeing and had been going around Stockholm all afternoon. He was extremely impressed by the city: lots of water, lots of green, and not a single skyscraper. He had found a tourist brochure in his room and had taken it with him. It explained that Stockholm encompassed sixteen islands that were linked to each other and the mainland by bridges. He had taken the underground—or tunnelbana, as the natives called it—and gone to the Old Town, which was known as Gamla Stan. According to the brochure, it was on a small island in the heart of Stockholm. This island had also given the city its name: “Stockholm” translated as “Pile Island,” from the fortification that was built in the thirteenth century by German workmen. One point of interest was that the island divided the fresh water from the salt water. Lake Mälaren, Sweden’s third largest lake, was situated to the west of the island, while the waves of the Baltic Sea splashed against its shores on the other side.

  Martin had walked all over the Old Town and was fascinated by its narrow alleys and the water all around. Until then, he had had no image at all of Stockholm, and he was truly enthralled. He had also been unaware that Stockholm was called “the Venice of the North,” and he found it a fitting expression—the place was teeming with bridges.