by Karin Nordin
Kjeld sipped his beer and winced at the taste. Flat.
He took out his phone and played the message from Bengt that he’d been ignoring since yesterday.
‘Kjeld, I seriously need you to answer my calls. There have been reporters outside of Tove’s school all week trying to get a sound clip about you and – I can’t even fuckin’ say his name – the goddamn Kattegat Killer. So stupid. Honestly, the media makes him sound like a villain in a comic book.’ Bengt sighed. The sound was probably louder than intentional, but it felt like he was blowing in Kjeld’s ear. ‘Please call me. Talk to Tove. She misses you. And if you can do anything to get these vultures off our backs … Yeah, that’s all I wanted to say.’
Kjeld clicked off the voicemail without deleting the message. He took another sip of beer. Somehow it tasted worse the second time around.
‘A little bird said you were in town, but I didn’t believe it.’
Kjeld looked up from his beer to the woman on the stool beside him.
The woman crossed her legs and rested her elbow on the countertop. She was dressed in a black turtleneck and a pair of light-coloured form-fitting jeans that tapered to the ankles. The outfit was flattering but practical, aside from the high-arched cheetah-print heels, which while adding a playfulness to her appearance did not seem sensible for the time of year. Then again, Kjeld made the drive to Varsund without a coat, so he wasn’t the best judge of sensible clothing. She was tall, probably nearing his own height, although it was difficult to tell while she was seated. Her hair, tight and curly in a style that reminded him of the late Eighties, was free around her dark face and it bounced when she tilted her head to the side to return his intrusive stare. She wasn’t old, but she looked much younger than she was thanks to the delicate application of contour and blush around her cheeks, which provided her otherwise round face with a more angular dimension. Her lashes were fake, but not overbearing, and her eyeliner drew out to thin points beyond her lids, giving her eyes a cat-like appearance. Compared to the rest of the bar’s patrons, who consisted mainly of smudge-faced miners wasting their paycheques on enough cheap swill to leave them hungover until the Monday morning whistle, she was overdressed. She leaned forward over the counter and snatched a thin straw from behind the bar. Kjeld was certain he knew her, but her name escaped him.
‘I scarcely believe it myself,’ he said, bringing the beer to his lips in a small sip. ‘Do I know this little bird you’re speaking of?’
The oddly familiar woman placed the straw into the glass of her negroni, stirring the ice around the orange peel. Then she nodded to a group of three ladies sitting at a corner table, cheering on a pot-bellied man with a bushy blond beard who was drunkenly trying to hit a dartboard mounted on the wall. His aim wasn’t even close.
‘Is that Camilla Aaberg?’ Kjeld could hardly believe his eyes. Camilla had been a close friend of his sister’s when they were younger and was considered, by most of the boys in Kjeld’s class, to be a looker. She was bigger than he remembered, pear-shaped, and her hair was dyed a shade of red that looked more plum in the yellow fluorescent lighting. Her roots were showing on her scalp. And if it weren’t for that abrasive laugh, Kjeld might not have recognised her.
‘The witch cackle gave her away, didn’t it?’ The woman smirked. ‘And that’s Stina Carlson, Jenny Frisk, and the impressive dart-thrower over there is Åke Hjorth.’
‘No.’ Kjeld’s jaw dropped. ‘Seriously? That guy was the athlete in school. Everyone said he was a shoo-in for the national football team. Wasn’t he scouted?’
‘Yeah, but he threw his back out in the first year of training. Never healed properly. Came back home. Started drinking. You know how it goes.’
Kjeld did know. Varsund was like a black hole. A stagnant place that was reluctant to change. It was almost a time-honoured tradition to return to Varsund after failing to make it in the world beyond that insignificant blip of a town. Kjeld only hoped that when it came to trying to make a successful life outside of his hometown that he would be the exception to the rule. He would never survive returning to Varsund permanently.
Kjeld watched the woman beside him as she shook her head at the group on the other side of the room. Her name was on the tip of his tongue.
‘We dated in high school, you know.’
Kjeld laughed. ‘I think I would remember if I’d dated you.’
She continued to stir the straw in the drink, the ice cubes clinking against the sides of the glass. ‘Well maybe making out behind the ticket booth of the spring fair doesn’t exactly count as dating, but it certainly left an impression.’
Kjeld set his glass down on the counter, brows furrowing together near the centre of his forehead, and looked at her again. Then it hit him. ‘Hanna? Hanna Eklund?’
‘Have I changed so much?’ She took a sip of her drink, leaving a lipstick print on the edge of the glass.
‘No,’ Kjeld said, shaking his head. ‘Well, if I’m being honest you’re—’
‘Slimmer?’ Hanna interrupted.
‘I was going to say taller than I remember.’
Hanna tucked a chunk of curls behind her ear. ‘It’s okay to say it. I was fat.’
‘I wouldn’t say fat.’
‘Heavy, then.’
‘Not heavy.’
‘Are you kidding? I was twice the size I am now.’ Hanna scoffed.
‘I guess I didn’t notice,’ Kjeld replied.
‘Plump. Chubby.’
‘Built.’
Hanna threw her head back and laughed. It was a nice sound. It was more familiar to Kjeld than her appearance, although now that he had a name to go with the face, he was beginning to see a reflection of the girl he’d once known.
‘If that isn’t a diplomatic way of putting it then I don’t know what is,’ Hanna said, raising her glass towards Kjeld’s beer. ‘Skål.’
‘Skål,’ Kjeld toasted.
Hanna puckered her lips and dabbed her fingers against them, wiping away a few drops of the drink that missed her mouth in an attempt to preserve her lipstick. Kjeld had the impression that she was doing it intentionally to keep his attention, but he was probably off the mark.
‘How long has it been?’ he asked.
‘Since high school or since the spring fair?’
‘Either. Both.’
The bartender came by and placed a bowl of nuts on the counter between their drinks.
‘Oh, goodness. Who knows anymore? I try not to think about it,’ she said, waving her hand in the air. ‘It just makes me feel old.’
‘Well, you look great,’ Kjeld said. He picked through the bowl of nuts until he found a cashew and tossed it in his mouth.
‘You’re not looking so bad yourself. Filled out a bit more in the chest, I see. Not that you were in bad shape back in school, but you were kind of skinny.’
‘I had ridiculous aspirations of playing for IFK Göteborg.’
‘Göteborg? Boo. Malmö FF forever.’
‘You’re not just saying that because they always win, are you?’
‘Are you kidding?’ Hanna reached over and took a handful of nuts from the bowl. ‘I’m just saying that because they always have the best-looking players. I watch for the aesthetic, not for the score.’
‘I guess it could be worse.’
‘You’re right. You could have said you were a Helsingborg fan.’
Kjeld snorted. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Good,’ Hanna said. ‘Then at least we share that in common.’
‘At least,’ Kjeld said, wondering what else they might have in common. He needed a distraction from the last few days. That was the main reason why he was malingering in Varsund’s only pub, after all. Home had too many memories that he wasn’t ready to face. And if anything, having a moment away from his father gave him the opportunity to collect his thoughts and cool his temper. It might save him from saying something he would regret for another twelve years. Maybe longer.
Hanna finished
her drink and waved the bartender over for another. When he looked at Kjeld, Kjeld shook his head. One was enough. Besides, he had to make the drive back to his dad’s house and those winding roads were unforgiving in the dark.
‘So, what are you doing here anyway?’ Hanna asked, fetching herself a new straw from behind the bar for her drink.
‘Here at Gruva or in Varsund?’
‘I forgot you thought you were something of a wise guy. Looks like some things never change.’
‘Just looking in on family.’ Kjeld sipped at his beer. He should have ordered something from a bottle.
‘Your sister?’
‘My dad. Sara, too, I suppose. Can’t really come to Varsund and not run into everyone.’
‘Ain’t that the truth.’ Hanna nodded. ‘I see her in town sometimes. She always looks like she’s tackling all the world’s problems at the same time.’
‘Kids’ll do that to you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I don’t let mine run me ragged.’
‘You’ve got kids?’ Kjeld asked. He couldn’t say exactly why he was surprised by the fact that she had children. Maybe it was just his memories of her as a teenager that conflicted with Kjeld’s image of motherhood. Or maybe he just had difficulty imagining the people from his past as anything other than what they were in his memories. Figures frozen in time and place. ‘I thought only models and movie stars got figures like that after kids.’
‘Models, movie stars, and anyone willing to spend their alimony on a personal trainer instead of a new house.’ She paused as though she didn’t find her own joke very amusing.
‘Whatever works,’ Kjeld said. ‘How many kids do you have?’
‘Two incredibly headstrong boys. But they spend most of their time with their father in Örebro.’ She raised her left hand and wiggled her fingers, making the absence of a ring impossible to miss. ‘Which is fine by me. The schools are better down there anyway. I get them every other weekend and during the summer holidays.’
‘How old are they?’
‘Fourteen and seventeen. Which means they aren’t interested in what their mum has to say anyway,’ Hanna said. Kjeld couldn’t help but notice a hint of bitterness in her tone.
‘I have a daughter,’ Kjeld admitted after a pause. ‘She’ll be turning seven next year. But her dad and I have been on the outs almost since the day she was born.’
‘Her dad?’ Hanna raised her brows over the brim of her glass. ‘Don’t tell me you’re playing for the other team now.’
Kjeld grinned. ‘I wouldn’t dream of taking sides.’
Hanna laughed and the corner of her lip turned upward into a more interested smile. Kjeld imagined he’d said something right.
She took a sip. ‘It’s a tough game, marriage. You won’t catch me signing up for that again. From now on I’m keeping it simple.’
‘Performing one night only?’
‘I’d consider making an exception for IFK Göteborg’s next goalkeeper.’ She winked.
‘Centre midfielder,’ Kjeld corrected.
‘See, now we’ve got a problem. I like to watch the players dive for the ball.’ Hanna stared at him, breaking eye contact only to blink.
A rush of heat seeped through Kjeld’s cheeks, causing his pale skin to flare a reddish hue. ‘I probably can’t run the length of a field anymore anyway. Suppose I could try a different position.’
‘I don’t know if I believe that. Rumour has it you’re quite the experienced policeman these days. Or are we supposed to say police officer?’
‘I prefer detective or inspector.’
‘Isn’t running part of a detective’s job description?’
Kjeld grinned. ‘Honestly, I’m probably due for a physical.’
‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve become more agreeable in your old age.’
‘Not too agreeable, I hope.’
‘I guess that remains to be seen.’
To say Kjeld was relieved to have come across someone who didn’t make him feel like his youth had been nothing but gloom and disappointment was an understatement. Hanna was easy to connect with. It was unfortunate he hadn’t been secure enough in himself when he was younger to recognise that. If he hadn’t been so desperate to escape Varsund he might have made a lifelong friend in her.
Kjeld finished his beer and placed a few hundred-kronor bills on the counter for both their drinks. He stood up from the stool and pulled on his jacket, nodding his head to the door. ‘You wanna go out for a smoke?’
Hanna glanced back to the trio of women drinking and laughing. Åke had given up on darts and was trying to impress them by chugging a pint of beer.
‘Unless you have to get back to the gossip party,’ Kjeld said.
Hanna stood up, grabbing her coat and purse off the stool beside her. ‘I’d rather catch up with an old friend.’
‘I’m glad to hear that.’ Kjeld smiled. He motioned towards the exit. ‘After you.’
Chapter 10
Lördag | Saturday
Kjeld stood on the APM Terminals port in Gothenburg, facing off against Nils Hedin, his good friend and the recently outed Kattegat Killer. They were surrounded by countless rows of stacked shipping containers. The company names – Scania, Maersk, CNA – were painted over with haphazard graffiti tags and dimly illuminated by the security lamps. They looked more like angry street art and menacing shadows than corporate logos. Kjeld held his breath as the sweat trickled down the back of his neck and puddled beneath his collar, leaving a damp cold spot. His grip tensed on his service weapon as he waited for Nils, posed to shoot with a steadier hand than his own, to make the first move. Esme shouted behind him. A gun went off.
A metallic crash jolted Kjeld awake.
He sat up, his head woozy from the night before, and looked down at the figure beside him. He had a vague recollection of being a teenager again. Driving down to the only late-night service station in the county, buying a pack of low-alcohol beer – discount German weizenbock – and a few bottles of pear cider, laughing as Hanna sang along to the radio as it played the pop classics of the early Nineties, and struggling to make love in a single bed.
Hanna rolled over onto her side. The sheets slipped down from her shoulder to expose her naked skin. It looked even smoother than he remembered last night. She mumbled something in her sleep.
Kjeld crawled out of bed. His body ached from trying to make love like he was twenty years old and from the unconscious politeness of giving Hanna more of the small mattress so she could rest easier. His back cracked as he pulled on his jeans. He picked up the shirt he was wearing yesterday from the floor, sniffed the armpits, decided it was too rank for breakfast, and stretched a hooded sweatshirt over his head instead. Then he went downstairs, careful to walk on the right side of the staircase so the steps wouldn’t creak.
Stenar stood in the kitchen wearing nothing but a pair of long thermal underpants and an untied robe. On the floor was a large cast-iron pan and two broken eggs.
‘What the hell, Dad?’
‘I wanted eggs,’ Stenar said.
Kjeld stepped around the eggshells and picked up the pan, setting it on the stovetop.
‘I just wanted eggs,’ Stenar said.
‘I know, Dad. It’s fine,’ Kjeld replied, grabbing a roll of paper towels from the counter. ‘Just have a seat. I’ll make you some eggs.’
Stenar walked over to the window, stepping into some of the splattered egg yolk with his slippers and dragging it across the kitchen floor.
Kjeld sighed.
‘Where’s Sara? Sara should be here.’
Kjeld bent down and began wiping up the egg from the floor. ‘We’ve had this conversation, Dad. Sara’s taking a break. She’s spending time with the kids.’
Stenar continued to stare out the window and into the yard, where a fine layer of snow covered the ground. It wasn’t fully light out. It wouldn’t be until midday. But there was a hazy morning glow that peeked through the trees and caused
the unbroken snow to shimmer. In the distance a chorus of cawing rang out from the barn.
Kjeld wasn’t used to the shorter days. While Gothenburg also saw a shift towards darkness in the winter months, it was never quite as pervasive as in the north. He’d forgotten how gloomy it could be. Even the snow, which was far too early in the season to be sticking to the ground, felt foreboding. He missed the faithfulness of the rain in Gothenburg. It was much more predictable.
‘I need to feed the birds,’ Stenar said.
‘The birds can wait, Dad. Just sit down.’
‘No, I have to go out there. They’re waiting for me.’
Kjeld tossed the paper towels in the waste basket and washed his hands in the sink.
Stenar made his way to the door, slippers smearing a path of raw egg across the space that Kjeld had just cleaned up.
‘For Chrissakes, Dad!’
‘I can make eggs,’ said a voice from the doorway.
Kjeld glanced over at Hanna who leaned against the entranceway. She wore one of his clean undershirts, the few that he’d brought with him, paired with her jeans from the night before.
Stenar, on the other hand, didn’t seem to notice anything peculiar in an unfamiliar woman standing in his kitchen. Perhaps he thought she was Sara or Mum. Maybe he didn’t notice her at all. Kjeld had trouble keeping up with his father’s manic recollection.
‘Don’t worry about it. I can make eggs,’ Kjeld insisted. ‘Dad, this is Hanna. Hanna, Dad.’
‘How do you like your eggs?’ Hanna asked, as she helped Stenar into a chair at the table. ‘Over easy? Scrambled? You look like an over-easy man to me.’