The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  He tried to scream, but only a faint hiss came from his throat. He had screamed his voice away already during the first night. It didn’t matter anyway, because no one seemed to ever pass outside there at this time of year. But soon, in just a few weeks, the shed would be opened for the season and the tools inside would be out in the spring earth. Earth, the knees of your trousers were always black with earth, but what did that matter? Earth was clean dirt and the smell of potting compost filled the car as he reversed out of the parking space at the end of their apartment building. The boys squabbled in the back seat and suddenly a little foot shot out between his own seat and his wife’s.

  ‘Stop that!’ he said as sternly as he was able. ‘That’s dangerous. You have to sit still in the car, so that you don’t touch any of my controls. That might make us crash and we don’t want that, do we?’

  ‘What is that control for?’ little Tobias asked curiously.

  ‘That’s the handbrake.’

  ‘Can I pull on it?’

  ‘No, you mustn’t touch anything in the car. It’s really dangerous.’

  ‘What would happen?’

  ‘If you tug on the handbrake, the car will stop suddenly and then someone might run into us from behind.’

  Tobias turned around to look out through the rear window.

  ‘But there’s no one behind us!’ he exclaimed eagerly. ‘So I guess I can –’

  ‘Andreas, keep your little brother under control,’ his wife interrupted.

  Then she turned towards her husband and said with a wry smile, ‘Two hours are more than enough …’

  ‘Listen, this sort of thing takes eighteen years,’ he sighed with pretended resignation.

  The boys were lively the whole way into town, and several times they were given friendly but firm admonitions to quieten down a little. The road they were driving on now ran parallel to the river and the rays of the sun glistened animatedly on the black water. Right where the city centre’s somewhat denser development began he slowed down to finally stop completely and park the car alongside the playfully rippling river.

  ‘I’m just going to run into the cobbler’s and pick up my shoes,’ he explained. ‘I’ll be right back, boys, and then we’ll drive you to Mummy.’

  ‘Can I drive the car? Please, I get to sit in front!’ Tobias asked.

  The sorely tried babysitter closed the door to the driver’s side behind him with a slam and stuck his head in through the window he had left half rolled down.

  ‘No, little man, you may not. Be nice to Lady Girl now!’

  Before he pulled his head out he blew her a kiss and had time to see it answered before he turned around and began to cross the street. Only then came the reaction from the older of the brothers.

  ‘Okay!’ he heard Andreas call out after him from the back seat, no doubt with the best intentions.

  Wednesday Evening

  Modesty Blaise – or Blaisy, as she was called – came to meet him eagerly but calmly at the door. She was a two-year-old female Silken Windhound and Jenny’s current live-in partner, and she had given extra energy to the hysteria in the support staff dog lovers’ club. The dog nosed Hamad curiously with her tail wagging but refrained from jumping up or barking. Jenny on the other hand threw herself around his neck, which Hamad felt somewhat dubious about, before dragging him into the apartment.

  There were lighted candles on the kitchen table and it was attractively set with tea and sandwiches. Hamad had thought that he would fix the computer in fifteen minutes and then leave, but when he saw the effort Jenny had made he realized he would have to think again.

  ‘You’ve arranged things very nicely,’ he said as he stood in the kitchen doorway, convincing himself that his body could manage without hot food that evening and that his fatigue was just an illusion caused by the weather and the solstice. ‘That looks good. I’m really hungry!’

  She took him by the hand and led him the few steps to one of the chairs at the table, and it happened so quickly that he did not have time to wriggle out of her grasp before she released him of her own accord. He sat down and Jenny sat down on the chair beside him.

  ‘Sit across from me instead. It’s easier to talk then,’ Hamad suggested.

  ‘It doesn’t matter where we sit, does it?’ said Jenny, placing her hand on his arm. ‘We can talk anyway.’

  He noticed that she had put on make-up. Maybe she wore it every day, but now it was definitely more clearly visible. For some reason he did not like that. He got up and went around to the other side of the table.

  ‘You talk better when you can see each other properly,’ he repeated, sitting across from her.

  She looked at him with a worried expression.

  ‘Not when you’re dating. Then you sit next to each other.’

  ‘No, not then either,’ Hamad persisted. ‘And this is not a date.’

  ‘It isn’t?’ she asked, with a surprise that seemed genuine.

  It struck him that everything about Jenny was probably genuine for that matter. This was not some crappy role play. The most honourable thing he could do, of course, was to be honest in return.

  ‘No, it’s not. I’m only here to help you with the computer. You’ve made tea and that’s sweet of you. We’ll sit and talk for a bit while we have our tea, then I’ll try to fix your computer and then I’m going home. Okay?’

  ‘But don’t you like me? Don’t you think I’m pretty?’

  Jenny looked a little sad, but Hamad suddenly felt completely relaxed. He felt that he could do something about this, something that her father was apparently not able to do. Simply because he was her father.

  ‘I think you’re super, Jenny. You know that. And you’re very pretty.’

  She lit up again. Hamad poured tea for them both and continued.

  ‘But that’s not why I like you. Because you’re pretty. That’s not important. And there are different ways to like someone. I like you as a friend. Because you’re nice. And capable. And a good friend. I’m not in love with you and you’re not in love with me.’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ said Jenny, looking completely sincere.

  ‘You only think you are. Maybe because you think I’m nice?’

  ‘Mmm.’

  She tucked a golden wisp of hair behind her ear and brought half a rye roll with liver sausage and cucumber up to her mouth.

  ‘Maybe not everyone is nice to you, but you shouldn’t worry about that. Not everyone is nice to me either. But you don’t fall in love with every person who is friendly to you. Then you would be in love with lots of people, and carry on and kiss and hug all those people all the time,’ Hamad said with a laugh.

  Jenny laughed too, but he doubted whether she really understood what he meant.

  ‘And I would really like to be your friend,’ he continued. ‘You can come to me and tell me if someone is being mean or if you’re in love or just want to talk, so I can help you. Does that sound good?’

  Jenny nodded, seemingly satisfied. Hamad could not think of anything else to say about it, so they drank their tea, ate a few sandwiches and talked about other things.

  ‘So, what’s wrong with the computer?’ Hamad asked when they had finished eating.

  ‘It’s so slow.’

  ‘You probably have a slow connection. Because I guess you mean that the Internet is slow?’

  ‘Yes,’ Jenny confirmed.

  ‘When you send email?’

  ‘No, that works fine. It’s when I watch movies that it stops all the time. I can’t stand waiting.’

  ‘Okay. We can try installing the latest version of Adobe Flash Player. Otherwise I don’t know what to do.’

  They got up from the kitchen table and went into the combined bedroom and living room. Hamad sat in the armchair and turned on the laptop that was on the table. Jenny sat on the arm of the chair and watched as he brought up the Adobe website and downloaded the most recent software. It went reasonably fast – there did not seem to be any problem with the
broadband connection itself.

  ‘What is it you want to watch?’ Hamad asked. ‘Shall we go on to YouTube?’

  Without waiting for an answer he searched for the site and clicked on one of the day’s most popular clips: something from a Champions League match. They were able to watch the whole clip without being left hanging.

  ‘It wasn’t any harder than that!’ said Hamad, who in no way felt he was a computer specialist, and turned towards Jenny.

  ‘I should check if it works with another film too,’ she said and got up.

  Hamad did the same and made room for her on the chair. A little breath of a nice-smelling perfume or soap swept past him when she moved. She looked under her favourites and chose one of them. While waiting for the page to come up she turned on the sound, and Hamad decided to make a visit to the bathroom before he left. But he stopped in mid-step when the screen suddenly changed. It was now occupied by an image that was anything but expected. In the middle of the image was a ‘play’ symbol and before he had time to react she had clicked on it and the film had started. To human sounds and something monotonous that was reminiscent of music a partially blurred man was pleasuring himself with a young girl. Whom the heading designated ‘Lucy in the sky’. And in this age of public exposure of almost everything it probably would not have been particularly sensational. If it weren’t that the girl was Jenny.

  Hamad suddenly broke out in a cold sweat. Why had she recorded such a video at all? Why had she put it out on the Internet? And why was she showing it to him? The last question was the easiest to answer. She had obviously not understood a word of the conversation they had just had. Holy shit.

  He leaned over her and turned off the screen, after which he turned the volume down to zero. Then he went over to the bed and sat down with a sigh. Jenny looked at him with big expectant eyes, but he only shook his head, not knowing what he should say.

  ‘Didn’t you like it?’ she asked uncertainly, perhaps noticing that something was wrong.

  He hesitated to answer, forcing himself to order his thoughts before he took a deep breath and replied, ‘No, Jenny, I really didn’t. I thought it was awful.’

  ‘But why? You say you think I’m pretty.’

  ‘You’re pretty like this, Jenny! With clothes on and … I don’t want to see you that way! What do you think your dad would say if he knew? He would go completely crazy!’

  ‘But you don’t have to tell him, do you?’

  ‘That’s not the point. Everyone else who knows you would also … Why did you do that, Jenny? Why did you put this on the Internet? Do you want a lot of dirty old men to sit and … well … when they look at this, do you want that?’

  Jenny almost looked scared.

  ‘I’m not the one who put it up, it was Pontus,’ she answered, looking as if she might start crying at any moment.

  ‘Which Pontus?’

  ‘Pontus Örstedt. My boyfriend. Who I lived with before.’

  ‘He’s not your boyfriend any more?’

  ‘No, he moved out.’

  ‘Yes, that was just as well. He exploited you, Jenny. You don’t do this to someone you like.’

  Hamad had calmed down somewhat, and tried to think rationally.

  ‘But it doesn’t matter –’ Jenny began, but was interrupted at once.

  ‘Of course it matters. You were lucky that it was just me who discovered it. Your mother would cry blood if she knew about this. And your dad would maybe get sick again; you don’t want that, do you?’

  He was piling it on now, trying to get her to change her attitude.

  ‘And your friends at work,’ he continued. ‘What would they say? They would laugh behind your back, Jenny, and you would –’

  ‘But everyone does it!’

  Jenny was looking wounded, as if she felt she had been treated unjustly.

  ‘Not everyone does it. No one I know exposes themselves like this on the net. It’s only –’

  ‘Yes, they do,’ said Jenny.

  ‘No,’ said Hamad.

  ‘I’ll show you,’ said Jenny.

  ‘Don’t do that, I don’t want to know.’

  ‘But you don’t believe me! I have to show you …’

  She reached towards the computer and turned the screen back on, went in under her favourites and brought up a new film. Hamad let her have her way; he would spend the whole evening making this lost child see reason if he had to. Nag about the same things over and over until they stuck.

  The film had started: yet another unprofessional amateur porno sequence of the genre ‘considerably older man whose face is not seen screws young woman’.

  ‘I don’t want to see any more of this sort of thing, Jenny. I’m not interested. Turn it off.’

  ‘But don’t you see who it is?’

  An expectant smile spread across Jenny’s face.

  ‘No, I don’t. And I don’t want to know. Turn it off.’

  ‘But look carefully. You see who it is, don’t you?’

  The intimate scene came closer as the camera zoomed in on the girl who, with eyes closed and mouth half open, was being screwed from behind with great intensity. She did not seem to react, she was just a piece of meat that swayed back and forth with the tempo of the man’s movements. She was not really with it: she seemed drugged, unconscious or simply indifferent. It took several seconds before the penny dropped and Hamad suddenly realized who the film’s protagonist was, who the title ‘Bad cop, good cop’ alluded to. And it hurt. He almost felt like crying.

  ‘Turn it off,’ he said, clearly with considerably greater authority now, for he was immediately obeyed.

  Jenny looked at him reproachfully.

  ‘There, you see,’ she said. ‘It’s not just me.’

  He shook his head dejectedly, uncomprehendingly. What was happening? What should he do?

  ‘Where did you find this film?’ he asked.

  ‘At the same place. It’s on Pontus’s website.’

  ‘Amator6.nu? Is that Pontus’s website?’

  Jenny nodded.

  ‘And how the hell did Petra end up there?’

  She shrugged her shoulders, had no idea.

  ‘I have to speak to him, make sure he removes these films. Where does he live?’ Hamad asked, now beginning to think clearly again.

  ‘I don’t know. We’re not in contact any more.’

  ‘What did you say his last name was? Örstedt? You’ll have to write it down for me.’

  Jenny did as she was told while Hamad took a flash drive out of the coin compartment in his wallet and copied over both of the films, though he wasn’t really sure what he would do with them.

  ‘We won’t talk to anyone about this, Jenny. Soon these films are going to disappear, and I don’t want you to tell anyone about them. Is that okay?’

  Jenny nodded without understanding.

  ‘Petra would be really sad if she found out about this. And your parents would fall apart, I promise you.’

  ‘Why do you care about Petra?’ asked Jenny. ‘She doesn’t like you.’

  ‘Doesn’t she? Maybe she’s a little angry at me right now, but that will pass.’

  ‘She says you eat girls like me for breakfast.’

  Hamad could not conceal a little smile. Even if he did not understand what was going on in Westman’s head these days.

  ‘I see, she says that? I like her a lot anyway. And I’m sure that she does not want to be found on a website like that. And you don’t want to either. Now let’s go back to the kitchen. Then I’ll explain what I mean.’

  A couple of hours later he left Jenny and Blaisy with great hope that this time he had actually reached her. A good deed that unfortunately must be followed by one more.

  Thursday Morning

  By six o’clock Sjöberg had already taken off in the car from the five-room apartment on Skånegatan. When he reached Arboga it was eight o’clock and he imagined that the conscientious Hansson was already at work. He took the phone out of the fro
nt pocket of his shirt, already wrinkled after the drive, and entered the lab number. Her unmistakable voice in his ear confirmed his suspicions.

  ‘Hansson.’

  ‘Good morning, Bella, it’s Conny. Am I disturbing you?’

  ‘No problem. What’s on your mind?’

  She was one of the most competent and reliable people he had ever dealt with in his occupation. She was a very pleasant and interesting person privately too, he knew from talking to her at a few work parties and evenings at the pub. Chatting casually over the phone however was not one of her strong suits. She preferred to express herself concisely and that whoever she was speaking with did the same, leaving out polite chit-chat and other insignificant things.

  ‘I’m calling regarding that paternity test on one of our suspects, Christer Larsson. Have you done it?’

  ‘Yes, Linköping has received it.’

  ‘Can you put it on twenty-four-hour response? We need the result as soon as possible.’

  ‘I’ve already done that, with reference to the murders. We should have the result later this morning.’

  ‘Good, call me as soon as you get it, please. Anything else new?’

  ‘No, not right now.’

  ‘You’re going to be getting a number of shoes this morning. I want you to compare them with the prints at the crime scene. Look for blood. Comparison material will be coming as well for the fingerprints in the apartment. These matters have the highest priority as far as my investigation is concerned.’

  Sjöberg ended the call and got out of the car in a neighbourhood of apartment buildings that he imagined must be one of the dreariest in the otherwise rather picturesque Arboga. The outside door was unlocked; Ingegärd Rydin lived on the third floor. It took so long before her door was opened that Sjöberg was about to give up, but at last she was standing there, looking at him suspiciously.

  ‘I’m looking for Ingegärd Rydin,’ said Sjöberg, extending his police ID towards her.

  She took it from his hand and studied it at close quarters before she gave it back and answered, ‘That’s me.’

  Her voice was so hoarse that Sjöberg immediately assumed that she had had a long career as a heavy smoker. He introduced himself and asked to speak to her. She shrugged and opened the door wide to let him in. He closed it behind himself before following her into the apartment.