by Karin Nordin
‘Where would Hermod find a tooth?’
Stenar kept his eyes on the page. He looked as though he were reading the same sentence over and over again. ‘Where do they find anything?’
‘In the barn?’
‘I don’t let them out as much as I used to. Sara doesn’t like to help with the birds. She’s waiting for us to die.’
Kjeld gave Stenar a quizzical look. That struck him as an odd thing to say, but according to the websites Kjeld had skimmed in bed the night before, it wasn’t uncommon for people with dementia to make misplaced comments. His dad probably didn’t even know what he was saying. Nor did he realise how hurtful his words might have sounded.
‘That’s not true, Dad.’ Kjeld felt his phone vibrate against his thigh. He glanced down to see another message notification from Esme. He would call her back soon. ‘Sara is just stressed out. She’s always been highly strung.’
Stenar’s expression clouded over. ‘She didn’t get that from your mother.’
‘I guess not.’
‘Your mother was always very calm,’ Stenar said.
‘I think she had to be.’
The antique Mora clock on the opposite wall ticked away the seconds, the weight-driven pendulum swinging from one side to the other within the rounded longcase. It was hand-painted a light green, which had faded and cracked over the years, embellished with gold. The tall floor-standing clock had been given to his mother as a wedding gift and it struck Kjeld as being the only feminine object in the room. Like his mother had been, its presence was almost entirely unnoticed until the room was silent.
‘Did you know that female great crested grebes usually only lay two eggs?’ Stenar asked, removing a handkerchief from his shirt pocket to blow his nose.
‘I don’t think I know anything about them except that they have plumes,’ Kjeld said.
‘There’s too much competition in the clutch if they have more than two hatchlings. After they hatch, the parent grebes, both the male and female, will identify which of the hatchlings is their favourite and they’ll care for that single hatchling alone. They focus all of their attention on that individual hatchling, feeding it and teaching it everything it needs to know to survive to adulthood. So, in a clutch of more than two eggs, the others very often don’t make it.’
Kjeld craved a cigarette. His phone buzzed in his pocket again. This time he didn’t look to see who it was. ‘What if the parents have the same favourite?’
Stenar raised his gaze from the book to stare at Kjeld. His brows lowered, causing the lines around his eyes to deepen. ‘Then that chick has to wait until the other is fed and satiated.’
‘And then?’
‘And then hope that the parents haven’t forgotten about him.’
Chapter 7
The conversation with his father left Kjeld confused. He needed someone to confide in. Someone outside of the situation who could help him see past his own anger and biases. When he looked at his phone he realised he had a voicemail from Bengt and he briefly considered calling him. Bengt always had the ability to see through Kjeld’s problems, perhaps because he’d spent so many years working through them. But helping Kjeld come to his senses wasn’t Bengt’s job anymore. That was a commitment he’d quickly and rightfully relinquished when they separated. Besides, all of their recent conversations had turned into arguments. And the last thing Kjeld needed was another squabble that went unresolved.
Kjeld scrolled to his recent calls and tapped the name at the top. The minute he heard Esme’s voice bellowing on the other end of the line, loud enough for Kjeld to hear her clearly while holding the phone at arm’s length from his ear, he regretted calling at all.
‘Do you realise that I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for two days? Seriously, you can’t even respond to your texts? Where are you?’ she asked.
Kjeld could hear in her tone that she didn’t expect him to give her an honest reply.
‘I’m in Varsund.’
‘Where the hell is Varsund?’
‘Jämtland.’
‘Jämtland?’ Esme said in disbelief. ‘What in the world could possibly be going on in Jämtland?’
‘I had a family emergency,’ Kjeld said. He sat down on the edge of the bed in the room that used to be his but wasn’t anymore.
There was a pause on the other end of the line and Kjeld imagined that Esme was trying to determine whether or not he was being truthful. In the background he heard the sound of a dish being set on the counter.
‘Is it Tove?’ Esme’s voice lowered. ‘Is she all right? Did something happen?’
Kjeld rarely spoke about his private life with his colleagues, but Esme was the exception. It was therefore no surprise to him that her first thoughts would go to his daughter. For a while, before things soured between him and Bengt, Esme had spent a lot of time with Tove. In that almost hazy memory of the past before Kjeld had irreparably ruined the situation between him and his husband, Esme had become a sort of honorary aunt, always around to ease the tension. The four of them would picnic in Kungsparken or wander through the greenhouses of the botanical gardens where Kjeld would try to recall the scientific names of the northern plants he’d learned in his youth. His success rate seemed to diminish exponentially with each passing year.
Once, while Kjeld and Bengt were at an appointment with a marital counsellor, Esme took Tove to Liseberg. They rode the carousel so many times that Esme had gotten sick and spent half the afternoon lying in the grass while Tove stuffed her face with peppermint sticks and scared other children in the house of mirrors. To this day Tove still claimed that it was the best day of her life. Kjeld didn’t have the heart to tell her that was the day he and Bengt decided to separate.
‘Tove’s fine. It’s my dad.’
‘Your dad?’ Esme hesitated as though she were unsure of what to say. ‘I didn’t know your dad was still alive.’
‘His health isn’t that good. He has Alzheimer’s. Sometimes he’s clear as day and sometimes it’s like talking to a brick wall. We haven’t spoken in a long time. Too long, probably. And then he called me out of the blue the other day and I just had to come up here to see what was going on.’
‘I’m sorry, Kjeld. I— Well, I honestly thought you’d just bailed on me because of what happened with the case. I didn’t realise.’
Kjeld could hear the sound of water running from a tap on her end, but it was quickly cut off by another clinking of a dish. ‘No, I should have called you. I should have told you. I just couldn’t deal with anyone from work. And the thing with my dad—’
The stairs creaked as someone reached the top stop. Kjeld felt a surge of that age-old instinctual worry bred into all teenage boys that their parents might hear what they were saying in confidence to their friends. Not unlike the persistent and sometimes irrational fear from his adolescence that his father might walk in on him while he was looking through that conspicuously hidden box of magazines he kept under his bed. But then he realised he didn’t cut himself off because he was concerned that Stenar might hear what he was saying. Kjeld was listening to make sure he made it safely to the top step. He counted the creaks of the old wooden floorboard until he knew Stenar was on the landing.
‘Kjeld?’ Esme’s voice interrupted his thoughts.
‘Sorry. There’s something odd going on here, but I can’t tell if it’s something real or if it’s just me looking for something to explain all the shit that I remember about this place.’
‘What’s odd? Your dad’s health?’ Esme asked. A cat meowed in the background.
‘He called the police last week because he thought he saw a murder on his property.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘I wish I were. Anyway, the local police checked everything out, but they couldn’t find anything. Dad called me, rambling, and I didn’t know what to think. So, I just drove up here,’ Kjeld said, realising how ridiculous the entire thing sounded when he said it out loud.
‘And? Do yo
u think he really witnessed a murder?’
Did he? It was no secret in the Nygaard family that Kjeld had never gotten along with his father, but as far as he knew his father had never lied to him. And although Kjeld recognised that dementia could cause Stenar to say things that weren’t true or were skewed by inaccurate recollection, he didn’t feel like this was some kind of fabrication. It wasn’t an intentional lie. Kjeld believed that his father’s insistence on having seen something was based on an event that actually occurred. What that event was, however, Kjeld couldn’t say.
‘I think he saw something. Something that affected him enough to reach out to me despite our differences.’ Kjeld let out an audible exhalation as he stared at the dried remnants of sticky tack over his bed that used to hold up his music posters. ‘To be honest, I don’t know what to think. I know it’s insane, but I can’t help but feel like there’s something more going on here. I found something, too. It’s probably nothing. A fluke or a coincidence. But things just don’t seem right.’
‘What did you find?’ Esme asked.
‘A human tooth.’
‘What the hell, Kjeld? Have you taken this to the local police?’
‘I did, but I’ve got history with the guy in charge here and he’s none too pleased to see me.’
Esme paused and Kjeld assumed she was carefully thinking through her response. She’d always been more cautious of the words she used, which had saved them in numerous interview sessions over their years of working together. Esme had a knack for reaching out to people and for knowing when they wanted to say more than they did. In the beginning it had been a problem for Kjeld, who preferred doing things his own way. A way that normally involved taking a big leap without looking to see if there was sturdy ground to land on. But they’d both learned to find a balance between each other. Now she was not only his most trusted colleague, but his best friend as well.
After a lengthy silence she asked, ‘Are you okay?’
‘Yeah,’ Kjeld replied. ‘Being here is just more difficult than I remembered.’
‘Look, I have to meet with the chief tomorrow to talk about my report on the Aubuchon investigation. The media has turned this thing into a monster. Now that Nils is well enough to go to trial, the prosecution is trying to fast-track the case. Meanwhile the defence is arguing to get the date pushed back on the grounds that some piece of paper wasn’t filed properly or something. But if you want me to come up there, I will.’
‘Thanks, Esme, but I don’t think I’m going to be here much longer. Unless my dad can tell me something more, I’m at a dead end.’ A dead end that not only included his father’s unprovable memory, but their relationship as well.
‘Just let me know if things change and you want me to— Shit!’ Esme said.
‘What is it?’ Kjeld asked, holding the phone further from his ear.
‘I just cut myself.’
‘Cut yourself?’
‘I sliced my finger on a can,’ she said. She breathed a heavy sigh into the phone, muddling the sound of a wince as she ran the cut under the tap.
‘What are you doing?’
‘What do you think I’m doing?’ she said. ‘Trying to feed your damn cat.’
Chapter 8
Fredag | Friday
Erik Norberg, private lawyer for the Lindqvist family for going on forty years, watched as Roland reread the document. It was an official request for a declaratory judgement of death in absentia for one Peter Lindqvist. Legally there was precedent, but Erik couldn’t help but feel a sense of betrayal when he wrote up the request. It didn’t seem right. Not without a more thorough investigation into Peter’s last communications. But Roland had insisted. And whether Peter was actually dead or just off the grid, didn’t really matter. His absence was enough to prove him incapable of performing his corporate duties under Norrmalm’s company guidelines.
‘I just sign here?’ Roland asked.
‘And initial on the first page,’ Erik said.
Roland scrawled his signature across the bottom of the document, clicked his pen, and pushed the papers across the desk.
Erik removed a stamp and ink pad from a drawer. ‘You’re sure you want to go through with this?’
‘If I’m not sure now then I will be after we secure this merger with MineCorp,’ Roland said, glancing down at his watch.
Erik hesitated. ‘What if he shows up after this?’
Roland sent him an admonishing glare. ‘Then I’ll split my half with him as I’m legally obligated to do.’
Erik nodded his head. The law was very particular when it came to estates. Both Roland and Peter had inherited Norrmalm Industries upon their father’s death, giving them each half of the company, an even fifty-fifty. If Peter had had any children, his half would have then passed on to them. But since he had no children, his share would revert to the next closest living family member: Roland.
‘And you’re sure you want to sell it?’ Erik asked, rolling the stamp over the ink pad. ‘Norrmalm has been in your family for—’
‘Generations,’ Roland finished. ‘I know. But the future isn’t in mining. I don’t want it. My kids don’t want it. And if Peter wanted it then he’d be here, but he isn’t. Besides, there won’t be another deal like this.’
Erik glanced down at the document, swallowed his shame, and pressed the stamp over Roland’s signature. Then he signed in the witness box.
‘I’d offer my congratulations, but it doesn’t feel right.’
Roland reached over for the whisky decanter on the edge of Erik’s desk and poured them both a glass. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll feel better after you get paid.’
* * *
The darkness was deceiving. It stretched on disproportionate to the day, distorting a person’s sense of time and reality. Scientists claimed it was something a man could get used to, but Roland had spent much of his life in Varsund and it still felt unnatural. The human condition was not made for long nights and short days.
Roland stood on the wraparound porch that he and Peter had built after Roland’s daughter was born. Although they’d each had legal share to half the house, Peter had moved out shortly after his wife passed, leaving it to Roland and his family. He stared out into the pitch-black forest. It was uncommonly cold and he feared that winter would be longer and harder this year than was expected. That was always a burden on Norrmalm Industries. While the industrial aspects of mining didn’t change much in the winter months, the persistent cover of darkness and the bone-chilling temperatures were hard on the workers. Not the people in the office, who curled up in their cubicles continuing their easy day-to-day chores and checklists, but the employees who worked on site. The miners, labourers, foremen. The people who braced themselves against the weather conditions, no matter how unpleasant, and earned their paycheques with each physically and mentally exerting task set upon them. And with little complaint.
Granted, Swedish labour laws were some of the best in the world. But that didn’t change the fact that the work was hard. Arduous. Roland remembered working alongside the miners as a young man. Sweating, swearing, spending the evenings soaking his muscles in the bath to ensure they wouldn’t be too tight and wooden to continue the next morning. His father had insisted that he and Peter understand the physical energy and mental fortitude that went into the job so that when they were in charge they would know on whose backs the company was upheld.
Roland never insisted that his children go through the same process and he regretted it. Particularly with his son, David. He blamed himself for their selfishness, their ego and their entitlement. He should have been stricter like his father. Like Peter.
He puffed on a cigar, watching as the end glowed a hazy amber hue before darkening. The air outside was crisp, biting, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand out there much longer, but he enjoyed the solitude. He’d never been the social butterfly that Peter was. He didn’t have that same knack for drawing people in and captivating their attentions. Peter had always b
een the life of the party, with his charming smile and plethora of waiting compliments, while Roland was the more introverted, practical-minded brother. He preferred being in the background, which was why he’d been so furious with Peter when he decided to leave. Roland was never meant to lead a company. If given a choice, he probably would have preferred working alongside the miners as opposed to sitting in on budget meetings. But that’s not how things turned out. And it didn’t matter anymore. He’d inherited the company and now he was about to give it away.
Although he secretly wished that Peter had been around to make that decision for him.
Damn you, Peter.
His phone jingled the familiar email tone and he opened his inbox expecting to see an invoice from Erik Norberg. What he saw, however, left him speechless.
Roland set the cigar on the railing so he could hold the phone with both hands. His eyes squinted at the bright shine of the screen. He must have read the name of the sender and the title of the email five times before he opened it. And even then he couldn’t believe it. It was impossible.
Less than four hours after Roland had proclaimed him dead, Peter decided to make contact.
Chapter 9
The house was suffocating and Kjeld needed space to breathe. He needed to escape the overwhelming sensation of being smothered by the past and by his father’s unintentional reminders that Kjeld had failed him as a son. Kjeld did feel a pang of guilt as he headed out of the house, leaving his father on his own, but that guilt was nothing compared to the anger he kept close to his chest. Anger that he needed to vent before he said something he would really regret.
The Gruva was the only pub in Varsund and it wasn’t even a good one. It was dirty, the floor permanently stained orange from the copper dust that the miners trucked in on their boots, and the walls were coated in cigarette smoke even behind the corners where the paper began to peel. The beer was watered down, probably past date, and the only thing they served in bottles was a cheap Polish brand that was well known for smelling like cat piss. But it was the only joint open after eleven o’clock except for the bowling alley and after spending two hours trying to get his dad to go to sleep Kjeld didn’t want to deal with that crowd. He had enough stressors as it was without adding the irritating combination of bored teenagers and the din of crashing pins.