The boy’s parents were sitting by the table in the crowded kitchen. His mother, who was wearing a long dark dress and a purple headscarf that covered everything except her face, was crying, despite her husband doing his best to console her. On the table, among the cheese, butter, juice and other breakfast things, lay a number of tarot cards, and a baby was playing with a collection of measuring cups on a blanket on the floor.
‘Hi. You must be from the police.’
Lilja turned around to see a woman in her sixties with short grey hair and energetic eyes enter the kitchen.
‘Ingrid Samuelsson.’ The woman held out her hand. ‘I was the one who called it in. I live in the flat across the hall.’
‘Then maybe you can tell me what happened.’
The woman exchanged a glance with the mother, who nodded. ‘Adena came over to me at half eight, beside herself with worry. Moonif’s teacher had just called to ask why he wasn’t in school.’
‘And why are you so sure something bad has happened? Is there a reason to believe he’s not just playing hooky?’
‘Hooky? I no understand,’ the boy’s mother said, trying to collect herself.
‘She means to say Moonif might have not bothered going to school.’
The mother looked nonplussed. ‘My Moonif would never… He is very good in school. It’s his favourite.’
The woman nodded and turned back to Lilja. ‘Adena’s right. I know, because I used to be a teacher and I help him with his homework sometimes.’
‘I understand. But it’s only just gone eleven. Maybe he’s with a friend and lost track of time?’
‘The cards say different,’ the boy’s mother said.
‘What cards?’
‘The cards on the table.’ His mother pointed to the card that showed a skeleton dressed in a tattered black monk’s robe. ‘They say something really bad happened.’ She clapped her hand to her mouth in an attempt to suppress her sobs.
‘Just so I’m sure I’ve got this right. You’ve called the police because those cards—’
‘I’m sorry, but could I say something?’ the older woman broke in, stepping in between Lilja and the boy’s mother. ‘Between you and me, I don’t think anything serious has happened either. Just like you were suggesting, he often walks to school with Samira from next door. I’ve nothing bad to say about her, but she’s full of ideas that have nothing to do with school, put it that way.’
‘And yet you called the police. As though we have nothing better to do.’
‘What was I supposed to do? She was beside herself. I mean, look at her.’ The woman turned to the boy’s mother, who was still crying softly. ‘We give them a roof over their heads and money so they can get by. But how are we ever going to make them feel at home if we don’t also give them some empathy? That was all I was hoping for. That someone from the police would come by and show that we actually care.’
Lilja felt embarrassed. Not by the woman, but by herself. Because she walked around thinking she was better than everyone else because she voted for the left-wing party and gave money to charity whenever there was something particularly terrible on the news. When it came down to it, she was just like everyone else, too jaded to care. ‘You’re right,’ she said and nodded. ‘I’m sorry.’
Then she took out her notepad, walked up to the parents and sank into a squat. ‘My name’s Irene Lilja. I work for the Helsingborg police and I will do everything I can to make sure Moonif comes home safe and sound.’
‘Thank you so much,’ the boy’s mother said, wiping away her tears. ‘Aimar is not so good at Swedish, but he is also very happy you are here.’
She exchanged a look with the boy’s father and gave him a smile.
‘First, I need a picture of your son.’
‘I can get you one,’ their neighbour said and left the kitchen.
‘Can you describe what he was wearing when he left the flat?’
‘He had red trouser and blue jacket with Spiderman buttons.’
‘Did you notice anything different about him this morning when he was leaving?’
‘No, everything was the same. He was so very good.’ His mother shook her head.
His father said something in Arabic.
‘Moonif didn’t want to take the glass recycling. But everyone has to help, I told him. All Swedish people recycle and we should too. So he took them even though he didn’t want to.’
‘And this Samira, where does she live?’
‘House across the street, first floor.’ The boy’s mother pointed.
‘Did Moonif’s teacher say whether she was in school or not?’
‘I don’t know. I was so very worried and didn’t know to ask.’
Lilja nodded and put a comforting hand on the boy’s mother’s arm just as their neighbour returned with a school picture in which the neatly combed boy was dressed up in a nice white shirt, waistcoat and bow tie.
‘He told me he picked out the clothes himself and dressed up so Samira would like him,’ the woman confided quietly while the boy’s mother lit incense sticks and started shuffling the tarot cards. ‘I do think they’re a bit infatuated.’
*
Lilja hurried down the stairs. She needed to get out and get some fresh air. Something about incense made her feel sick and when the boy’s mother had started asking the cards about how she should proceed with the investigation, she’d decided to wrap things up.
All statistics suggested the boy would turn up of his own accord in the near future and that there would be an innocuous explanation for his disappearance. But she had promised to contact the school and Samira and her parents, and if that didn’t turn up anything, she was going to contact the local Bjuv police and ask them to put out a missing person alert.
It was the sign that changed her mind. Instead of stepping outside and filling her lungs with fresh air, she opened the metal door that was standing ajar next to the stairs to the basement.
Recycling Room.
According to the boy’s mother, Moonif had taken the glass recycling down there, so there might be some clue as to where he’d got to.
A fluorescent ceiling light turned on automatically when she stepped into the room and looked around. Apart from a number of big bins on wheels lined up against the grimy concrete wall, the room was as empty as it was silent. There was no one there. Even so, she decided to open the bins one by one and root around the cardboard, newspapers and sticky plastic containers.
But she could see no sign of a missing boy. Not until she turned on the flashlight on her phone and peered in under one of the bins. In that moment, it became clear she had made a grave error and that the boy’s mother and her tarot cards had been right all along.
The tiny button with the blue and red superhero was lying on the floor only inches in from the edge of the clear-glass bin. Had it just come loose or had someone grabbed the boy violently? Someone who had happened to come in and see their chance. Someone who lived in the building.
She went back into the stairwell and walked over to the blue felt board with the names of the residents, while pulling out her phone and finding the number of Sverker ‘Klippan’ Holm.
‘Hi there. How are you doing? I heard you stopped by my lovely hometown.’
‘The jury’s still out on whether it’s really all that lovely. And while we wait for it to return its judgement, I need your help with doing a quick check of the people who live in this building.’
‘No problem. What’s the address?’
‘Vintergatan 2A.’
‘Wow, that really is my old ’hood. Did you know I took my first trembling steps in a garden on Trumpetgatan 8, just a few minutes from there? It’s obviously changed quite a bit, but—’
‘Klippan, not now,’ Lilja broke in, realizing she should have called Astrid Tuvesson or Ingvar Molander instead.
‘All right, but just say the word if you need a suggestion for a good place to go for lunch. If you ask me, that would have to be schnitzel and�
��’
‘Klippan, for fuck’s sake!’ Her voice echoed all the way up the stairwell; it was an effort for her to lower it again. ‘I think he might still be in the building, with one of the neighbours, and I don’t know about you, but for my part, the last thing I want is to get there too late.’
‘Well, there’s no convicted paedophile living there,’ Klippan said in a tone that did nothing to hide that he was insulted.
‘Right now, a suspected one would be plenty,’ Lilja said in a tone that did nothing to hide that she didn’t give a flying fuck.
‘None of that description either. But there’s someone on the second floor who works as a nursery teacher at the Sunflower not too far—’
‘Do you have a name? I need a name.’
‘Yes, if you would let me finish, his name’s Björn Richter, he’s thirty-two years old and lives, as far as I can see, alone with all his—’
‘With all his what?’ Lilja’s eyes were caught by a small rust-red stain on the wall by the stairs leading down to the basement.
‘Wait, I just have to check if it’s him.’
It wasn’t that she’d failed to notice it before. She had just assumed it was one of the hideous stipples.
‘Yes, that checks out. Talk about creepy—’
‘Klippan, would you mind telling me what you’re up to?’
But this particular spot was slightly bigger than the rest and smeared on one side, which indicated it had been made later.
‘Yeah, I just have to—’
She couldn’t be sure, of course. For that, she would need to take a sample and let Molander run an analysis. But it certainly looked like blood. If it came from the boy, the location of the stain suggested that they hadn’t left through the front door, but rather walked down the basement stairs, which is why she continued down the steps and realized Klippan’s silence was due to the fact that the call had cut out.
Just like the door to the recycling room, the basement door was ajar, and here too her mere presence was enough for the fluorescents to flicker to life.
Storage, a sign on the grey metal door on her left said. Electrical Service Room, read the one straight ahead. Both were closed and locked. To the right were two more doors, one of which was open.
On her way to it, she passed a board on which the residents could book laundry times by moving a personal lock around the available slots. Of course it was a laundry room, and judging from the sound, the machines were running.
The fluorescent lights turned on, and it was instantly clear to Lilja that the laundry room had the exact same layout as the one she and Hampus had had in Helsingborg before they moved to the house in Perstorp. Three washers in a row, a dryer, a drying cabinet and an old mangle no one used.
It was the furthest of the three washers that was running. It was significantly larger than the other two and would easily accommodate a large rug or three sets of bedclothes in one go. They’d had one just like it in Helsingborg and that in itself was a good reason to move back.
But she couldn’t see any bloodstains or other signs of the boy. So she went back out into the hallway and continued up the stairs after deciding to have another go at the door leading to the storage units. Both the boy’s parents and the lady next door should have keys to it.
But when she heard the washing machine rev up and start the spin cycle, she realized something wasn’t right, so she stopped and turned to the booking board. It was Wednesday the thirteenth of June, but there was no lock in any of the slots under the number thirteen.
In other words, no one had booked the laundry room that day.
4
The silences between the signals in his headset were so drawn out, it felt like someone had deliberately reprogrammed the tempo just to make him stressed. On his first try two minutes earlier, they had eventually been replaced by the much more frequent beeping of the busy signal. But not this time. This time the silences seemed endless, and Fabian had to pace back and forth in the hospital corridor outside Matilda’s room to stay calm.
‘Hi.’
It took him a moment to realize it was actually Sonja answering and not just another beep. ‘Sonja, guess what’s happened.’
‘Uh, what?’
‘Just sit down and listen, because this is—’
‘Fabian, I’m sorry, but I’m in the middle of something here. Is it important?’
‘You might say. You see—’
‘So, are we done here or what? I actually really do have to get going,’ he heard Theodor sighing in the background.
‘The only thing you have to do is stay right here.’
‘What the fuck for? If you and Dad are just going to—’
‘Theo, you’re staying here!’
‘Sonja, what happened?’
There was a long, tired sigh. ‘Okay, so I went into his room to collect dirty laundry and change the sheets, my God, you should see the state of it. Anyway, I found two…’ She broke off. ‘Look, I think it might be better to talk about this later… Just tell me what’s so important.’
Fabian’s mind went blank, but he remembered why he had called as soon as he turned to look into Matilda’s room, where the staff were busy running tests and noting down stats. ‘She woke up. Matilda finally woke up.’
‘What, she did? But… Really? How is she?’
‘Good. I think. At least, considering the circumstances. That’s what they’re telling me. That her stats look good. But if you ask me…’ He faltered, trying to find the right words.
‘What, is she not okay? Fabian, what are you talking about?’
‘Maybe it’s just me, but—’
‘I’ll be right there.’
Before Fabian had realized that Sonja had hung up, one of the three nurses came up to him.
‘We’re going to leave the two of you alone now. If you need us, just call.’
Fabian nodded and waited until everyone had left before shoving the phone in his pocket and going back into the room to see Matilda, who was lying in her hospital bed, staring into space. He cleared his throat but got no reaction. He tried again, but it was as though she was oblivious to his presence. If not for the fact that she blinked from time to time, he would have been convinced something had gone terribly wrong.
He pulled one of the chairs up to the edge of the bed and sat down. ‘Hi Matilda,’ he said, taking her hand as cautiously as he could so as not to disturb the canula taped to the back of it. ‘How are you feeling?’
After a while she turned her head, as though it required a great effort, and looked at him exactly the way she had when she first woke up. Her eyes were as calm as they were serious and in every way completely different from the lively, inquisitive Matilda he knew. And that was what worried him.
There was no doubt it was Matilda lying there in the bed. The problem was that it didn’t feel like it was her looking back at him.
‘I don’t know if you have any idea what happened to you,’ he said, with no real plan of how to go on.
‘I remember,’ she said, and he instantly understood that her memories of that night were as detailed as his own.
The perpetrator must have broken in and surprised them, her and her friend Esmaralda. Maybe they had been down in the basement, performing one of their séances. Then he had forced them up into the living room and placed them on the sofa next to Sonja to wait for him to come home.
He, her own father, who should have been her rock, but who was so often absent, even when he was home. He, who once he did show up hadn’t reacted to the first warning, but only realized it was serious when it was too late. When the bullet had already ripped through her stomach, causing her to collapse, bleeding, on the rug.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, instantly regretting it. How could she ever forgive him?
‘You did your best,’ she said faintly. ‘How can anyone do more than that?’
Had he heard that right? Was this really Matilda?
‘That’s not the problem,’ she conti
nued, seemingly about to drift off.
‘No? Then what is? Matilda, tell me so I can help you.’
‘There’s nothing you can do. Like so many other things, it’s not up to you.’
‘I don’t understand. What’s the matter? You’re alive, and according to the doctors, you’re going to make a complete recovery.’ He took her other hand, too. ‘The fact that you’re lying here, talking to me, is amazing.’
‘That’s exactly it.’ She heaved a sigh and closed her eyes. ‘I survived.’
‘Matilda, listen to me. You don’t think that I… Me and Mum, who’s on her way over here right now, by the way, we love you more than anything. I hope you know that. Nothing can make us happier than that you’re all right and still with us.’
Matilda shook her head. ‘It’s not that.’
‘Okay.’ He tried to catch her eye, but this time she was too weak. ‘Can you tell me what it is?’
‘You wouldn’t understand.’
‘At least give me a chance.’ No matter how much he wanted her to confide in him, he could understand her silence. He was the one who had let that monster over their threshold.
‘Greta.’ The word was whispered so quietly, Fabian was unsure he had heard it right.
‘Greta?’
Matilda swallowed. ‘Water… Is there water?’
Fabian hurried over to the sink, filled a plastic cup with water from the tap and helped her drink it. ‘Just so I’m definitely getting this right. This Greta. Is that the ghost you and Esmaralda were talking to in the basement?’
‘Not a ghost.’ Matilda shook her head. ‘A spirit. She said someone in our family’s going to die.’
Fabian had thought those Ouija board games had been a bad idea from the start, but now the whole thing had become such a fixation it was the first thing she thought about when she woke up. ‘But, sweetie, you survived.’
‘But if it’s not me… Then one of you—’
‘Matilda, listen to me. What happened to you should never have happened. It should never even have come close to happening. But it did, and neither you nor some spirit calling itself Greta is to blame for that. I am. I’m the one who—’
Motive X Page 3