To Annika, one of the very best
THREE LOST MEN
APRIL 2016
The First Man:
THE WILL
All these decisions. During the last months of his life, this was what he would think about the most. All the questions that needed an answer, all the answers that were in fact decisions. How he wanted to live, how he wanted to die. And which secrets he wanted to share, how many he would take with him to the grave.
He was in no doubt: she deserved to know. However, he was less certain whether she really needed to know while he was still alive what he’d hidden for all those years. He thought their relationship would be better off if he continued to keep quiet. The time was so short, and he still had so much to do. To use a clichéd expression: it was time to atone for the sins of the past.
So one rainy morning in April he sat down at his desk and wrote the most important letter of his entire life. Every word had to be chosen with extreme care, every sentence polished to perfection. When he had finished he read through it over and over again. Eventually he was satisfied. Or rather resigned. This was the best he could do, and he would never know how she reacted when she found out what he’d done. Exhausted, he got to his feet. He needed lunch, a rest, a walk. He needed to get away, but suddenly he was overwhelmed with fear and anxiety.
He sat down.
Again, he thought. I have to read the letter again.
And so he did.
My darling,
Some months have now passed since we were given the worst possible news. When you read this, I will be gone. The day of my death has been decided, and we both know exactly when it will be. It is incomprehensible – impossible to grasp – that I am sitting here writing, yet I am aware that my time is measured out. It always has been, to be fair, even if we human beings often choose to believe that death will come to others and not to us, as if there is a third option somewhere between eternal life and eternal rest. As if we can come and go as we wish through the portal that separates the living from the dead. Trust me, that option does not exist.
Perhaps I don’t deserve any better than this. Perhaps the fact that I will be snatched away sooner than either of us would have wished is actually a kind of justice. That’s why I’m writing this letter, because I am so afraid that I deserve the death that awaits me.
I did something very stupid a number of years ago. Do you remember just after our daughter was born, when I was still recovering from the car accident? Of course you do, it was a terrible time. No doubt you also remember the tablets I was taking, how we both laughed and said they were strong enough to knock out a horse. God knows I needed them to function in my everyday life, to regain my strength and to cope with my body. But you were right – neither my brain nor my eyes were clear until the pain went away and I managed to free myself from the grip of the morphine.
I was careless just once. Once. But that was enough to ruin another person’s life. It was a Tuesday. This is what happened. I got in the car and drove to Uppsala to meet my boss in connection with a dinner that was to be held later that evening. In spite of the fact that I was signed off work due to my injuries, in spite of the fact that I had mobility problems. And in spite of the fact that my senses were befuddled because of the medication. I have never forgiven myself for driving. I should have taken the train. But I didn’t.
And I ran into someone.
Yes, you read those words correctly. It’s appalling, and impossible to undo. The sound when she hit the bonnet, when her head thudded against the windscreen. And then the utterly bizarre sight of her lying lifeless on the road behind the car. Less than three seconds had passed. I remember staring into the rear-view mirror, I couldn’t understand how she’ d ended up there.
However, I understood everything else with great clarity.
Either I stopped and took responsibility for what I’d done, in which case my life would be over. I might even lose you and our child. Or I drove on and pretended nothing had happened. I looked around; there wasn’t a soul in sight. No witnesses, just silence. So I chose the latter option. I left her there on the road. I thought that the decision would have to be made only once, and there could be no remorse. I don’t really recall what thoughts were going through my head as the car began to move – probably not too many. But the guilt and the shame were embedded in my very bone marrow, and since then there hasn’t been a single day when I haven’t struggled with the memory of what I did. The story was in the papers, of course, and I secretly read about the woman I’d hit. She actually survived, much to my surprise. I say survived, but everything she had once been was gone. That’s what we do, unfortunately – we keep people alive at any price.
By this point I’m sure you are deeply shocked, castigating me for my cowardice, wondering what the hell I was thinking. I was thinking about myself – that’s the short answer. And you and our daughter, and later our son. And that’s the way it stayed until a few months ago, and the day when everything changed. When everything came crashing down and I learned something about my own death that I could never have suspected. That’s when I decided I had to take responsibility for that terrible mistake. To atone for my crime.
So that’s what I’ve done. I’ve tried to compensate my victim, as far as possible at least. I’m afraid that in doing so I have inevitably left a trail. That’s why I’m writing this letter, because I think there’s a risk the police will start digging into the accident I caused, and might well track me down. Track me down and discover that I am dead, and of course that’s not how you should find out what I did. You need to hear it from me.
I ran into a young woman and left her lying on the road without attempting to help her. Others have done similar things, behaved atrociously and evaded all responsibility, but I don’t want you to remember me that way. That’s why I want to tell you that I’m different from those people. I am actually trying to take responsibility, in spite of all the years that have passed. As an author once said: I am putting everything right.
I’m afraid I can’t do any more.
I love you more than anything.
The Second Man:
THE HOUSE
Just as the man who knew when he was going to die was signing his written confession, another man was contemplating a house that was more like a secret. The air was cold and raw, irritating his windpipe when he inhaled. The April weather was changeable. This was going to be good. Very good. The house had been built by hands so discreet that hardly anyone knew it existed. Hardly anyone. That was enough for the man, who turned to the woman standing beside him.
‘Could I take a look indoors?’ he said.
‘Of course.’
The man glanced around. The garden was pretty large, and beyond it lay a small field, then nothing but forest as far as the eye could see.
Perfect.
The woman unlocked the front door and held it open for him.
‘The construction was completed just under five years ago. There was nothing illegal about the project, but we were very careful to keep it quiet as far as we could. The house isn’t linked to the municipal water supply or the sewage system. We dug a well, and we have a septic tank that we empty ourselves. We also have our own electricity supply thanks to a diesel generator.’
‘I understand,’ the man said, even though he really didn’t.
To think that such a place could exist. It was astonishing. It also made him feel more than a little naïve. Was this how it felt when time slipped away? Or was it simply that this house was a consequence of a society that was growing colder and colder? He knew who the property developers behind the project were, knew their history.
As he stepped inside he felt at the front door. It was thicker than a normal door, seemed to weigh a ton.
‘Both the windows and doors are designed to withstand gunfire,’ she explained. ‘The glass was ordered especially from a supplier in Germany and is strong enough to take dozens of blows with a hammer or something similar without breaking.’
‘Sounds like the windows in the Oval Office,’ the man said.
His companion laughed.
‘We actually had the White House in mind when we designed this bunker. I think we did pretty well.’
The man raised an eyebrow.
‘Bunker?’
‘We don’t want anyone to forget that it’s no ordinary house.’
Stunned into silence, he walked from room to room. His pulse rate increased; never in his wildest dreams had he imagined there could be such a simple solution to his problem. The house was perfect, absolutely perfect.
‘How long can I rent it for?’ He couldn’t do anything about the hoarseness in his voice.
‘It’s available for at least six months. Do you think that’ll be enough?’
All of a sudden he wasn’t sure.
‘I don’t know. The thing is, I don’t need it until later in the spring. When my daughter returns from overseas.’
The woman placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘I heard what happened to you. Dreadful.’
The sun was shining in through one of the windows, and it was clear that the light was affected by the thickness of the glass.
‘It certainly was,’ agreed the man who was going to rent the house. ‘But much worse for my daughter and her family than for me. It would be fantastic if they could find sanctuary at long last. I mean, they can’t hide overseas forever.’
The woman straightened her shoulders.
‘I can guarantee they’ll be safe here. No one will be able to find them. So unless their situation changes before they come home . . .’
‘It won’t.’
‘. . . then they’re welcome here.’
The man allowed himself a smile.
‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Excellent.’
The Third Man:
THE EMPTINESS
And then there was the third man. The man who felt no need to confess his sins, or to find a place of sanctuary for someone close to him. The man who had lost so much that he was no longer himself.
He was sitting in his office staring silently at the wall. He didn’t react when his boss walked past his door and came to a sudden halt.
‘I didn’t realise you were here,’ his boss said. ‘I thought you were off duty.’
It was obvious from the tone of his voice that he didn’t like what he was saying. And ‘off duty’ wasn’t the right phrase under the circumstances.
‘I had a few things to sort out.’
His boss lingered.
‘I can see you’re not feeling too good,’ he said. His voice was soft; he really wanted to help.
‘I’m fine, I just don’t want to be at home all the time.’
His boss cleared his throat.
‘You need a break – this isn’t working.’
‘I’m sorry?’
His boss looked troubled. More than troubled.
‘I can’t have you flying off the handle at everybody over every little thing,’ he insisted quietly. ‘Your attitude, your lack of balance – it can’t go on. That’s why we suggest you take some sick leave.’
Silence.
So the words had finally been said. The words he’d been waiting to hear for so long. He wasn’t welcome, they didn’t want him around.
‘Fuck off,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to go on fucking sick leave.’
His boss took a step backwards, but only one.
‘I want you out of here today,’ he said. ‘I’ve already given you more chances than you deserve.’ He walked away, still somehow hesitant.
The man behind the desk knew he would be left in peace now. No fucker dared approach a man in the throes of grief, especially if that man had also been insulted. None of his friends or colleagues would come near him, because they didn’t know what to say. Not that he blamed them; he himself found it hard to put into words what he was going through right now. It must be impossible for someone else.
The hours passed much too slowly. He stayed where he was, staring at the wall. That was what he looked like when he was thinking. His boss had said he wanted him out today, but he hadn’t given him a time. An idea was slowly taking shape, and he felt the need to develop it in peace and quiet. He had messed up plenty of things, but he had to get this right. Not only for his own sake, but for the sake of many others. All those who were unable to gain redress themselves, all those who had been abandoned.
Time had become something he had both too much and too little of. On this particular day it was too much. But at last evening came, and he had to go home. Home to what was called life, home to emptiness, desolation.
I can never make everything right again, he thought. But I can make it better.
He got to his feet and walked out of his office.
INTERVIEW WITH ALEX RECHT
06-09-2016
Present: Interrogators one and two (I1 and I2), Detective Chief Inspector Alex Recht (Recht)
I1:
Thank you for making time to see us today. I believe you’re going to the funeral tomorrow?
Recht:
That’s correct.
I2:
Must be difficult.
Recht:
To be honest it’s unbearable.
I2:
Do you miss her?
(silence)
I1:
We know that you and Fredrika . . . If you don’t feel able to talk about her at the moment, we’ll try to work around it. We realise you’re under pressure, but we do have to conduct this interview. A colleague has been accused of committing a criminal offence, and we need to speak to someone who was involved from the start.
Recht:
In that case you need to speak to someone else. Because I wasn’t involved from the start. None of us were.
I2:
What do you mean?
Recht:
I mean we were blind to what this whole story was about. I mean things would have been easier if we’d understood some of the basics – like how many victims we would be faced with, for example, and in what order those individuals were killed.
(silence)
I1:
Okay, let’s make that our starting point. Who was the first victim?
(silence)
Recht:
A man who was like the rest of us.
I2:
Sorry?
Recht:
I said a man who was like the rest of us. A man who was nothing more than a human being.
SATURDAY
It was in the middle of the summer that would be the longest of all that the first grisly murder was committed. It began on a Saturday, a day that could have passed like any other but was destined to be one that radically changed the lives of a number of people. Henry Lindgren was one of those people, but he didn’t know that.
It was 8.45 in the evening when Henry left his apartment to go and buy a newspaper, one of those with plenty of crosswords in it. There was nothing worth watching on TV, and he always slept well if he completed a crossword before switching off his bedside light. If he’d known what that brief excursion would cost him, he would have stayed home.
It was raining and a little chilly, so Henry put on the autumn jacket he’d been wearing for almost a year thanks to a mild winter, a cold spring and a cool early summer. He also picked up his umbrella. He was heading for the newsagent’s on the corner, and wouldn’t have to go far in the bad weather. Which was just as well – the wind tore at his umbrella as soon as he stepped outside, and his trouser legs were soon soaked through. A bell tinkled as he pushed open the door of the shop.
‘What a summer,’ said Amir, the owner.
‘Could be worse,’ Henry replied. He liked the fact that the su
mmer brought both sun and rain. He paid for his paper and left.
The shadow came from nowhere. Not particularly large or tall, but very clearly in his way. Henry stopped and tried to make out who was blocking the path.
‘I need help with my dog,’ the man said.
Henry looked around. There was no sign of any dog.
‘Oh?’
The man took a step closer.
‘My dog,’ he repeated. ‘It’s not well. Can you help me carry it up the escalator?’
That should probably have rung a warning bell in Henry’s brain, but it didn’t. He assumed the man was on drugs and was hallucinating about both the dog and the escalator.
‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think there’s anything I can do,’ he said, trying to get past.
He hurried back to his apartment block and keyed in the four-digit code. He shook his umbrella and closed it. Too late he discovered that the man had followed him into the building. The outside door clicked shut behind both of them.
Damn. This wasn’t good, but Henry Lindgren kept his composure. It was important not to panic, he’d read that so many times. Never panic when faced with an unpredictable individual.
He didn’t dare wait for the lift, but took the stairs instead. He lived on the top floor, and his knees were already protesting by the time he reached the second storey. The man seemed to have stayed put; Henry couldn’t hear any footsteps behind him. By the third flight of stairs he was breathing heavily; he was running out of steam, finding it hard to focus. He concentrated on keeping going, making sure he wasn’t being followed. Unfortunately he failed to notice that the lift was on its way up.
Henry was on the point of bursting into tears by the time he reached his own front door. He fumbled for his key and inserted it in the lock just as the lift came to a halt. Then everything happened so fast that an elderly person like Henry could be forgiven for not reacting in time. It was as if the man flew into his apartment. He slammed the door and locked it. Henry stood there in the hallway clutching his dripping umbrella.
The Flood Page 1
