The Bucket List

by Peter Mohlin

  John put his beer bottle on the dirty cement floor and checked that his phone was still in his jacket pocket. As soon as he got back to the car, he was going to call Primer. It was time for the boss to be told exactly where Emelie Bjurwall’s remains were.

  PART 3

  2019

  24

  Lunch was served on the large terrace overlooking the Mediterranean. The party from AckWe was in the shade in one corner, surrounded by empty tables. Heimer knew that his father-in-law always rented out the whole place when they came here for their annual conference of the board and management team.

  The trip was a tradition that had been established by the second generation of AckWe’s owners. It was a mixture of work and relaxation, to which employees’ spouses were invited.

  Sissela had said that the younger members of the management team found the event a little strange. Their wives and husbands had their own careers and didn’t have the time or inclination to be bussed around the sights of southern Europe. Nevertheless, she defended the trips. They were part of what made AckWe unique—a publicly traded, international fashion group with the soul of a small family business.

  There was probably a grain of truth to it—but Heimer suspected the explanation was simpler than that. For Allan Bjurwall, the trip was the highlight of the year, and he was still the company’s biggest shareholder. He was a man with whom it was unwise to clash; even his daughter had to pick her battles carefully.

  Heimer looked around the exclusive band of invitees. He made eye contact with Volker, who’d headed up the business in Germany for many years. They were the same age and both enjoyed discussing architecture. In many regards, he was unlike the rest of the AckWe honchos: more confident and less eager to impress the empress.

  Heimer felt phony as he smiled at him. One morning two weeks earlier, Sissela had been in a bad mood and told him that sales were still falling in Germany.

  “I’m getting sick of Volker’s excuses,” she had said.

  Heimer felt sorry for the man. It wasn’t Sissela’s style to give people second chances. Once people stopped delivering, the trap door would open beneath them.

  There was the ring of a spoon against a wineglass and Heimer turned his gaze toward Allan, who apparently wanted to say a few words. AckWe’s chairman looked old—the man was almost eighty, after all.

  “First and foremost, I’d like to offer my thanks for the splendid few days we’ve had together. Tomorrow, we all return to the daily grind—but before that there are still a few things left on the program. This afternoon, the board and management team are going to work together on a number of key strategic issues. For the wives, we’ve arranged an excursion to a nearby market.”

  There was polite applause around the table but at the same time Heimer saw a few of the guests exchange glances with one another. Had he actually said “the wives”? Had he forgotten that half the management team and several of the members of his own board were women? Not to mention the chief executive officer.

  If Sissela was embarrassed, she didn’t show it. She sat calmly beside Heimer and appeared to enjoy the Chablis he’d selected to go with the fish.

  A younger version of Heimer would’ve been provoked and spent the rest of the day sulking. But he’d learned to accept that things were the way they were. He was the person he was and the same applied to Sissela and her father.

  After Emelie, it had been all about surviving. Every evening when he closed his eyes, he still saw her before him—but he didn’t talk to Sissela about it anymore. She didn’t like it when he let thoughts of their daughter paralyze him. His wife was grieving too—he knew that—but in her own way.

  In the beginning, she’d been patient with him. But after a couple of years, the urging to move on and find meaning in life had stopped feeling encouraging and started feeling mandatory. Eventually, he realized their marriage was in danger. At some point, the shame of divorce in the public eye would be easier to deal with than being married to him.

  Heimer had done some soul-searching. He was in no position to start his life all over again by himself. For as long as he was married to Sissela, money was no issue—but in the event of a separation the source would quickly dry up. The family’s lawyers had made sure of that when they’d had him sign a prenuptial agreement.

  The solution had been to separate his inner life from the outer one, an advanced role-play in which he acted the part of the husband rising from depression for Sissela, while trying to deal with his emotions in the wake of losing Emelie alone. Over time, he had grown accustomed to it. There were days—or at least parts of days—where it no longer felt like he was playing a role. Times when there was genuine congruity between the emotions he displayed on the outside and the ones he felt on the inside.

  Heimer lingered on, enjoying the view, as the other guests broke away. Majorca’s coastline, with its steep cliffs and burnt red-brown earth, was truly dramatic. On the north side of the island, it was also surprisingly calm—at a safe distance from the parties and budget hotels in Magaluf.

  Hugo Aglin, the director of finance, and the one he liked best out of Sissela’s colleagues, kept him company by the rail surrounding the terrace.

  “You know there’s a golf course right nearby,” he said. “If you don’t want to go to the market with the wives, I mean.”

  Heimer smiled at him to show that he had recognized the allusion to Allan’s faux pas.

  “Thanks for the tip—but I’m happy to go, actually. I’m on the lookout for a special bottle of wine.”

  They returned their gazes to the open sea and silently took in the magnificent view. The afternoon breeze had picked up and it felt good on Heimer’s sunburned face.

  “Hugo, we’re starting.”

  Sissela was standing by the open sliding door in her dark formal dress, a laptop under her arm.

  “Of course, just coming,” he said, nodding to Heimer before following his boss into the bowels of the hotel.

  The bus ride along the winding road up to the mountain village had been a nightmare, but once they arrived Heimer’s mood improved. The young lad on the market stand had grasped that Heimer was a connoisseur and that it would pay to give him some attention. He had called his father, who’d come to pick up Heimer and had driven him to the family’s vineyard a few kilometers away. The man had opened the door to their wine cellar and gestured that he should browse. However, when Heimer asked him to get out his own favorite, he shook his head.

  “Sorry, no sell,” he had said in broken English.

  Heimer insisted on at least looking at the bottle, so the man accompanied him into the innermost chamber of the cellar, where the wines were stored behind a barred black gate. He opened the heavy lock using a key on the ring in his pocket before handing over a bottle.

  “Best wine at vineyard. Only six bottles left. For my daughter’s wedding.”

  The man hesitated for a long time, but when he realized that the amount Heimer had offered for just one bottle would pay for the whole wedding, he gave in.

  When Heimer got back to the hotel room, he got the wine to temperature and decanted it into a carafe. The wine was a blend of the local grapes, Mantonegro and Callet, and it smelled wonderful. It felt good knowing that he and his wife would share this very bottle. Bought today, for this particular moment.

  When Sissela opened the door to the hotel suite fifteen minutes late, her face was the picture of irritation.

  “How was the meeting?” he said.

  “So-so,” she muttered. “Allan doesn’t understand why we should expect lower margins for a few years while we invest in the new e-commerce platform. He gets that physical stores cost money—but he doesn’t seem to be able to understand that digital ones do too. He’s stuck in a different age.”

  Heimer nodded, sensing that the meeting had gone somewhat worse than “so-so.” Sissela only ever called her father by his first name when she was angry or an outsider was present.

  “After his speech a
t lunch, I doubt you’re the only one who thinks he’s stuck in a different age,” he said, in an attempt to lighten her mood.

  The result was the exact opposite. Her eyes darkened and she turned her back to him to get his help with the zipper on her dress.

  “Sometimes I just get so tired of him. Doesn’t he know what it feels like for me to sit there as a woman and hear him being so out of touch?”

  Yes, or for me as a man, Heimer thought to himself—but he was sensible enough to keep the comment to himself. He didn’t want to make the atmosphere any worse.

  Sissela explained that she needed a shower before dinner and vanished into the bathroom. When she emerged, she had put on one of the hotel bathrobes. Heimer had changed into a clean shirt and put out three wineglasses on the small round table between the rattan armchairs on the balcony.

  “Let’s sit outside,” he said.

  Sissela looked at him and then the clock on the wall above the sofa.

  “We don’t have time. I have to get dressed and do my makeup.”

  She went into the bedroom in their suite and he heard her opening the sliding doors of the wardrobe. Had she forgotten? Surely that wasn’t possible.

  “What do you mean, don’t have time?”

  “It’s almost dinnertime and I’m not going to piss off that old fogey any more than he already is by being late.”

  “Do you know what date it is?” he said in a low voice.

  “No, why?”

  He waited and let her realize by herself why he had put out three wineglasses on the balcony. That was what they did each year on Emelie’s birthday. One for Sissela, one for him, and one between them that they drank on behalf of their daughter.

  “Surely it isn’t?” she said.

  He nodded, gazing at her gravely.

  “Oh, forgive me, Heimer. Forgive me.”

  She sat down next to him on the edge of the bed. Part of him wanted to push her away and ask what kind of mother forgot her daughter’s birthday. But the years of practice at separating his inner emotions from his outer appearance meant he was able to control himself. He needed this period of shared sorrow that their daughter was no longer with them. So it would have to be on Sissela’s terms—better that than not at all.

  “You’ve got too much to think about,” he said. “Do you think we can sit outside just for a little while?”

  She smiled and gently kissed him.

  “Let’s sit outside for as long as we like,” she said, leading him toward the open balcony door.

  25

  John looked at his brother through the window into the interview room. Billy was sitting perfectly still on the uncomfortable chair with his hands resting on the table. The officers who had carried out the arrest overnight hadn’t given him long to clean up. His holey jeans were dirty, and his t-shirt bore the washed-out logo of a lighter fluid brand.

  The man sitting beside him was decidedly more neatly turned out. His shirt was carefully ironed and his tie impeccably knotted, despite it being half past seven in the morning. The nonexistent chin made his face look like a rodent’s.

  Then the door opened and Primer stepped into the interview room. He glanced at the window, even though he couldn’t see his colleagues through the one-way glass. Ruben checked that the video was on and then turned to John.

  “Why the hell haven’t you spoken to Primer?”

  “There hasn’t been a chance to,” he said. “You gave me until the end of the week.”

  Ruben snorted at him.

  “I didn’t know you were going to dig up Emelie Bjurwall’s body, did I? As soon as this interview is over, you need to tell him. I’m serious.”

  “Of course.”

  “ Really, I ought to throw you out of here, but it’d only lead to a lot of questions. And don’t you dare say anything about me already knowing your true identity. One of us getting fired is enough.”

  “Calm down. I’m not going to get you mixed up in this.”

  John discerned the sour odor from his colleague’s armpits. He presumably smelled just as bad himself. There was rarely time for showers and deodorant at critical points in investigations.

  On the other side of the glass, Primer greeted Billy and the lawyer—then he sat down at the table. He had no notebook. It was a conscious strategy to make the conversation feel more informal.

  “Well, Billy,” he heard his boss say through the speakers.

  He didn’t get any further before a woman stumbled into the interview room. The guard on the door received an annoyed glance from Primer and a silent question about why he had let her in.

  “She says she’s the guy’s legal counsel,” he said apologetically.

  “You already have a lawyer, though, don’t you?” said Primer, turning to Billy.

  “Mr. Nerman wishes to change counsel with immediate effect,” the woman said firmly. “As of now, I’m his public defender.” John studied Erina Kabashi through the glass. She had large almond-shaped eyes and golden skin. Her hair, once again tied back in a tight bun, was as glossy and black as the paint on a grand piano. He guessed she had family roots somewhere in the Balkans.

  John turned his gaze to his brother and followed the drama. Two lawyers fighting for the right to defend him—now he needed to make his mind up. The rodent made it easy for him. He got up of his own accord and carefully put his notebook and pen back in his briefcase.

  “Good luck,” he said, as the guard opened the door.

  Once he had disappeared, the woman took the seat next to Billy—and immediately the dynamic in the room shifted.

  “I need to speak to my client, and hereby call for a one-hour break,” she said.

  Primer didn’t even answer.

  He simply got up, pushed his chair under the table, and left the room.

  “How on earth did she know we had arrested him?”

  Saliva sprayed from the boss’s mouth as he spoke. The rage he’d managed to suppress on the other side of the glass was now being expressed with double intensity in the observation room.

  “Billy Nerman hasn’t contacted her—I know that much,” he added. “He didn’t have any specific request when he accepted the offer of a public defender and it’s not in the media yet. So it can only have come from us.”

  He crashed his fist into the desk holding the control panel for the recording equipment. The coffee in Ruben’s cup sloshed over the rim and he hurried to wipe it away with a napkin before an ugly ring stained the wood.

  Primer paced back and forth in frustration.

  “This godforsaken building is full of nothing but fucking blabbermouths,” he said, pounding the desk again for good measure.

  John waited a few seconds until the boss had gotten out the worst of his aggression.

  “Is it really that bad? It’s just a lawyer.”

  Primer sank into the black leather sofa by the wall.

  “Erina Kabashi isn’t just a lawyer. She’s the devil incarnate. She’ll cause us more grief than you can possibly imagine. You saw how that weakling reacted when she came in. He just handed over his client like that.”

  “It might say more about him than her,” John said.

  “Yes, that’s possible—but I’ve had so many bad experiences in cases where that woman’s been involved.”

  The boss leaned back on the sofa. He was breathing heavily after his outburst and needed time to calm his large body. After a period of silence, he looked happier—as if he’d had a good idea.

  “You’re going to lead the next interview,” he said.

  John met Primer’s gaze and froze.

  He realized the impossibility of the situation. He couldn’t stay quiet any longer; the bandage had to be ripped off. Ruben was sitting next to him and if John didn’t open his mouth now, his colleague would.

  “That won’t work. I’m afraid I can’t interview him.”

  “Why not?” said Primer, getting up.

  John turned toward Ruben.

  “Could you g
ive us some privacy?”

  “Absolutely,” his colleague replied, feigning an expression of confusion. Then he took his mug of coffee and left the room.

  Primer still looked quizzical.

  “Why can’t you interview him?” he asked again.

  John felt his body perspiring under his clothes. Without saying anything, he took off his jacket and hung it on one of the chairs. He crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked at his boss.

  “I have a personal connection to him.”

  Primer looked surprised.

  “A personal connection?”

  “Yes.”

  “To Billy Nerman?”

  “He’s my half brother.”

  John didn’t know what reaction he was expecting, but the laughter that burst out of Primer took him by surprise.

  “You’re messing with me.”

  “I’m afraid not. It’s the truth.”

  His boss’s smile died as the news sank in. He looked through the window into the interview room where Billy was still sitting with Erina Kabashi. It was as if it had only now occurred to him that John had the same color skin as the suspect.

  “I don’t understand. You mean you’re siblings?”

  “Yes, we have the same mother.”

  “But … why the hell didn’t you say something before?”

  John took a deep breath and told Primer about the letter that his mother had sent to him and the decision he’d made in his hospital bed in Baltimore. How he wanted to find out the truth about his brother and make sure the investigation was fair. That it was personal for him and something he had to do in order to move on with his life. Primer listened attentively without interrupting once. He just stood there, hands to his cheeks, as though he were being doused by a cold shower. His face grew redder and redder. Once he’d heard enough, he came up to John and held out his hand.

  “Give me your badge and service weapon.”

  John took the piece of plastic out of his wallet and checked the safety on the pistol in his shoulder holster before handing it over.

  “And what happens now?” he said, careful not to lower his gaze.