The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  ‘Do you sail?’ Hamad asked, catching sight of a framed photograph on the wall of a sailing boat, of a type unknown to him, which with billowing spinnaker was ploughing through an azure-blue sea in radiant sunshine.

  ‘I did at one time,’ Larsson answered in a low voice without looking up.

  He spoke very slowly and the two police officers exchanged glances before Hamad started speaking again.

  ‘We are truly sorry about what happened. It must be hard for you?’

  This elicited a shrug of the shoulders, nothing more.

  ‘You must be feeling awful right now?’ Westman clarified, to get him to talk.

  ‘You get what you deserve.’

  His gaze was still aimed down at the rug. He straightened the fingers of one hand and lightly cracked the knuckles with the other.

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Hamad.

  Instinctively he wanted to develop the question, but he restrained himself and tried to be patient. After a period of silence Larsson answered.

  ‘An old bore like me. They were better off without me.’

  ‘And what about you? Haven’t you missed them?’

  ‘Well …’

  Silence.

  ‘Not enough.’

  ‘Do you have a bad conscience because you didn’t stay involved with your family?’ Westman attempted.

  Suddenly Christer Larsson looked up and his eyes met hers. In a drawling voice but with a razor-sharp gaze he answered, ‘Guilt is a heavy chain that rattles behind you wherever you go. It’s part of your body. Finally you don’t notice it any longer.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Nothing other than what I said.’

  Hamad made an attempt to interpret Larsson’s words.

  ‘You feel guilt because you’ve been a bad father?’

  Christer Larsson turned his eyes away from Westman and looked out of the window.

  ‘I have been a very bad father.’

  Hamad expected that something would follow this, but nothing did. He was having difficulty with the slow tempo of the conversation and wanted to pick up the pace.

  ‘Such a bad father that you killed the children?’

  ‘Not in the legal sense.’

  ‘Did you or did you not murder your wife and your children?’ Hamad asked with new sharpness in his voice.

  ‘I haven’t murdered anyone,’ Christer Larsson replied.

  Westman changed tack.

  ‘We now know that Catherine had a new man in her life. He was the one who bought the apartment for her.’

  Larsson did not react, but still sat with his eyes morosely lingering on some indeterminable thing outside the window.

  ‘He called himself Erik. Does that sound familiar?’

  A hint of a shake of the head.

  ‘You haven’t heard Catherine mention a man called Erik?’ she tried again.

  ‘No.’

  Hamad took over.

  ‘But actually his name is not Erik. His real name is Eriksson. Einar Eriksson.’

  Christer Larsson turned slowly towards him and in his eyes there was now something new, something that neither of the two police officers was able to interpret. Hamad thought he sensed surprise, perhaps worry, in Larsson’s eyes, while Westman would later say that she saw a moment of passion. But it disappeared as quickly as it had come and immediately the brown eyes looked just as mournfully tired as before. But for a fraction of a second a different Christer Larsson had been discernible. Still a tall, muscular man with coarse fists, but now with a flame burning behind the indifferent facade. And that combination, Hamad imagined, could be disastrous if the circumstances were right.

  ‘I have a picture of him here that I meant to show you,’ said Westman. ‘To see if you recognize him.’

  She got up from the sofa bed where she and Hamad had sat down and went over to the armchair.

  ‘Do you suspect him of the murders?’ asked Christer Larsson.

  ‘We’re not ruling anything out,’ Westman replied.

  Larsson straightened up in the chair and looked at the photograph in Westman’s hand. Hamad could see from his seat on the couch that Larsson squinted and moved back a little, as the far-sighted do, to be able to see the picture more sharply. It was completely quiet in the room for several seconds. Then something quite unexpected happened. Christer Larsson leaped up from the chair and Westman stepped to one side and stood as if petrified with the photograph in her hand, observing this phlegmatic man’s suddenly flaring emotional outburst.

  ‘You bastard! Have you done it again, you sick bastard? As if you hadn’t done enough! What the hell is going on in your stunted little fucking … ? Ahhh …’

  Then there were no longer any words; only grunts and distressed moans came out of his mouth. He rushed over to the wall beside the window and pounded his head against it again and again with full force. The picture of the sailing boat fell to the floor and the glass shattered into a thousand pieces, but Christer Larsson did not bother about that and even stepped with one foot on the broken glass as he made his way over to the opposite side of the room and rammed his clenched fist right into the wall.

  Hamad got up from the couch and took a couple of determined steps towards the frantic man. He tried to make himself heard, saying, ‘There now, let’s calm down,’ but his words had no effect. Westman rushed over to Christer Larsson and tried to hold on to him around his waist, but without even noticing her Larsson stepped quickly away, spinning around the room, incapable of finding expression for his tumultuous thoughts. Then he suddenly fell sideways, making no attempt to put out his hands to break his fall. His head struck the floor with a nasty crack, and the two police officers saw the tension in all his limbs instantly disappear. He remained lying quietly on his side, with his arm at such an unnatural angle that it must surely be broken. His eyes were wide open, and he was still breathing hard. Hamad sank down in dismay at his side and stroked a hand over Larsson’s forehead.

  ‘We have to turn him,’ he said. ‘Take his feet.’

  While Hamad linked his hands around Christer Larsson’s upper body Westman took hold of his ankles. The burly man made no resistance and they managed to place him gently on his back without causing further injury to the broken arm.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Hamad, gently touching his hand to the side of the face that had taken the heavy fall, but Christer Larsson showed no signs of consciousness besides the open eyes and breathing.

  He did not even react when Hamad carefully raised the injured arm.

  ‘We have to … do something. Place a pillow under his neck and fetch a towel and cold water. I’ll call an ambulance,’ said Westman.

  When the ambulance arrived a short time later Christer Larsson still showed no signs of awareness, but strangely enough he seemed almost at peace lying there on the living-room floor.

  * * *

  Christer Larsson’s breakdown had been trying and Hamad had ridden along in the ambulance to give his account of what had happened. Afterwards he needed to clear his mind, so once back at the police station he decided to go and work out. After a fairly hard session on the machines he went into the boxing room next door to do some stretches on the mat. Like the gym section, this room too had glass walls, in line with the prevailing fashion. Hamad actually preferred to work out in peace, without being put on show for curious passers-by, but apparently you had to be a display object while you tormented your poor body with exercise.

  Just as he was about to enter the room he spotted Westman in boxing gloves on the other side of the glass, shiny with sweat and putting her all into thumping a punchbag. He stopped with his hand on the door handle, but convinced himself not to let another person’s demons determine his own actions. Perhaps this might even be a good time to try a little strategic rapprochement? He changed his mind about stretching, opened the door and went in.

  ‘Hi,’ he said, not expecting a reply and not getting one.

  Hamad tossed
aside his water bottle and towel in a corner, while Westman seemed to get a burst of energy and pounded on the poor bag even faster. He went over to the equipment alcove and took out of a pair of practice gloves that he put on. He took a deep breath, and then he plucked up courage and went over to Westman.

  ‘Come on, lady. Let the bag recover and box a little with me instead.’

  It seemed to be a marketable proposal; he barely had time to get his gloves up in front of him before the blows started raining down. It was crucial to keep his feet going to counter the hits and meet them with just enough resistance. He was about to back off and ask her to calm down when he managed to get into a rhythm, and with that get his balance too, just in time to halt the words on the tip of his tongue. Sweat was spraying off Westman as she plugged away; her eyes were dark as night and had still not met his for a moment. If anything, she seemed to be looking for gaps in his technique, gaps between, under, over or to the side of the gloves where she could get in a hit against his body instead.

  He had never seen her so full of energy, so full of … yes, it must be hate, that blackness in her eyes. This was not an exercise session for her; she was hitting to hurt. And when that realization suddenly occurred to Hamad he no longer wanted to be part of it. He probably had a chance against her, even though she had proper gloves and he only had clumsy workout equipment; he was a head taller and no doubt considerably stronger. But he lacked the energy and above all the will for this sick spectacle. She seemed prepared to beat him to death, and he did not want to be beaten to death, much less hit back. He had to put a stop to this relentless maniac who was pounding on him like a frenzied woodpecker.

  ‘What are you up to, Petra? Can’t you calm down a little?’

  ‘What am I up to? You’re out of your fucking mind!’

  During this exchange he lost concentration for a moment, she got a clear hit on the cheek and it was followed by another to the stomach.

  ‘Lay off now, damn it, can’t we talk about this instead?’ he attempted while he folded his arms up to protect his head.

  With unusual doggedness she continued to hit him, first two quick blows to the side and then one across the neck.

  ‘I know what you think,’ he whimpered, ‘but you’re completely on the wrong track!’

  She answered with several blows to the head. In the midst of the panting and puffing, kicks, blows and quick feather-light steps on the mat he could suddenly make out the sound of the door being opened, and at the same time Bach’s Badinerie started up on someone’s mobile from the same direction. He hoped that this new arrival would stop Westman’s assault, but she continued to pound on him with undiminished strength for another minute or two, the time it took for his rescuers to grasp what was happening, make their way over to the mat, get hold of Westman’s slippery wet arms from behind and pull her away from him, where he now lay curled up on the mat in a foetal position.

  When he had recovered somewhat he looked up to see Holgersson leaning over him, with a self-important expression, sponging his face with a damp towel. Hamad wanted to get an overview of the situation and his clouded gaze ranged across the room. By the door stood Roland Brandt, the police commissioner, looking ruefully at Hamad with his mobile in his hand. And in the far corner of the room he finally caught sight of Petra, and that image would linger in his mind for a long time to come.

  With a satisfied and somewhat cheeky smile on her face she stood – still with the boxing gloves on – leaning back as if in a boxing-ring corner. Leaning over her, with a hand on the wall on either side of her face, the deputy police chief, Gunnar Malmberg, was talking in a low voice. Evidently it had been him who had come in and freed Hamad from the irritable Amazon, and now presumably he was questioning her about what had happened and discreetly making her see reason.

  Hamad did not know if he lay there for a matter of seconds or minutes, with the thoughts whirling in his head, but the peculiar atmosphere was relieved by Malmberg’s phone ringing. An extremely familiar tune, which Hamad in his foggy condition could not put a name to, sounded across the room and somehow brought everything back to something like normality. Holgersson reached out his hand and pulled Hamad to his feet. Brandt shook his head, tapped his thumb on his own phone, brought it to his ear and left the room. Malmberg stepped aside to let Petra, still smiling, slip past him. She gave Hamad an expressionless look as she passed him on her way out. Holgersson gave him a thump on the back and he too left the room. Hamad staggered over to pick up his towel and water bottle, while Malmberg answered his phone.

  ‘Yes? … I see … Yes … No, that I don’t know.’

  Their eyes met as Hamad turned around at the door, but Malmberg’s thoughts were elsewhere.

  ‘Talk to Lu– or that new girl. Jenny … Sure. No problem.’

  Hamad made an effort anyway to seem grateful and nodded at Malmberg before he headed off towards the changing room.

  He sat for fifteen minutes in the sauna to soften up his stiff, tender body, took a long shower and despite everything felt in decent physical shape when he went back up to the office to work for a while longer. It seemed as if he had escaped a concussion, and a few bruises he could put up with. But his mental state was not so good. That he had made himself ridiculous in front of the police commissioner and his coterie was bad enough, but how could he sort things out with Petra? How could they continue to work together when she was obviously prepared to beat him to a pulp when the opportunity arose?

  He did not expect an apology – and didn’t need one either, for that matter – but he had to get a chance to talk to her, get her to trust him again. And as soon as possible; they were caught up in a complicated investigation, and that needed everyone to do their best and not to pull in different directions. Perhaps it would be a good idea to get help from Sjöberg, as a kind of intermediary? But no, his boss had enough worries as it was, with one of his own officers a prime suspect in a triple murder and Sandén working part-time besides. He and Westman ought to be able to resolve their own private difficulties, in a professional and mature fashion – which Westman had actually shown herself incapable of. She’d treated him like a punchbag. He couldn’t deny that he was starting to feel a little upset.

  In that frame of mind he reached the marble landing between the reception level and the stairs up to his own corridor.

  ‘Jamal, come here. You’ve got to hear this!’

  Lotten’s voice echoed across to him, and that if anything would usually have put him in a better mood. But it didn’t this time; he wanted to get up to his office and get to work on what felt most urgent.

  ‘Sorry, but I don’t have time right now. We’ll deal with it tomorrow.’

  ‘But it’s important,’ Jenny chimed in. ‘There was a little boy here who told us an awful story about animal cruelty!’

  ‘Prepare a report then, but you’ll have to ask someone who doesn’t have quite as much to do as me right now.’

  ‘The Ugly Duckling – that sounds like a café or something. Do you know where it is?’ asked Lotten.

  He shook his head, starting to move away.

  ‘A pig,’ she tried again. ‘There was some idiot who was kicking a pig to death. We can’t just let that sort of thing go on, can we? It’s a living creature, for crying out loud!’

  Then suddenly her tone changed to one – so typical for Lotten, and in this situation extremely irritating – of a grown-up coddling a child.

  ‘But honey, what have you been doing? Your face is completely red!’

  It had not occurred to Hamad that what he had just been through would be apparent on his face. He had only dragged a hand through his hair after his shower and not looked in the mirror.

  ‘A pig kicked to death – that’s roughly the way I feel right now,’ he muttered, but not so loudly that it reached Lotten’s ears.

  ‘What happened?’ she went on, but Hamad recovered quickly.

  ‘I’ve been … in the sauna,’ he replied, making his way up the
stairs.

  He had barely made it into his office before Malmberg was there, knocking on the doorframe. Damn it, the fight had really stirred things up.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, sighing inwardly as he sat down at the desk and showed his visitor to a chair.

  Malmberg ominously pulled the door shut behind him, took a gulp of the Ramlösa he had with him and sat down.

  ‘Well now, that was not a pleasant experience,’ he noted with a look that clearly demanded something from Hamad.

  Presumably an explanation, but Hamad had no intention of giving him one. Not an honest one in any event. He felt disrobed, somehow childish under the chief’s scrutinizing gaze.

  ‘No, not for me either,’ he answered with a wry smile.

  Say as little as possible, he told himself. The less said, the less that can be refuted. Malmberg finished the last of his mineral water and set the bottle aside on the desk.

  ‘You look a bit worse for wear. Are you sure everything is okay?’

  Instinctively Hamad’s hand flew up to what he hoped was so far only redness on his cheek.

  ‘It’s cool. I was just taking a sauna.’

  ‘What really happened?’

  ‘Oh, we were working out. But she’s such a competitive person, Westman, she went at it a little hard. It got a little out of hand, you might say.’

  He tried another smile.

  ‘Yes, you can safely say that,’ said Malmberg.

  Hamad had hoped for a laugh there, but Malmberg was deadly serious.

  ‘And you’re not a competitive person yourself?’

  ‘No,’ Hamad lied, but his competitiveness had nothing to do with it.

  ‘And what is your attitude to this assault? For we must consider it an assault, mustn’t we?’

  Is that what Malmberg wanted it to be? Or was he subjecting Hamad to some kind of loyalty test? The question was easily answered in any event. It was Hamad’s turn to be deadly serious.

  ‘Hardly. As I said, a boxing workout got a little out of control. It’s already forgotten.’

  ‘No report?’