The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  By and by she showed him a photograph of herself with her family, and his heart skipped a beat when it turned out to be Christer she was married to. It felt as if someone had struck him with a bat across the stomach, and everything came back to him with renewed force: the terror, sorrow, guilt.

  He tried to stop her; he did not want to encroach on Christer’s territory, did not want to awaken old emotions, either in himself or in Christer. But Kate, in her charmingly forward and open way, could not be stopped. She had met a person who listened to her, a person who had noticed a little lost, homesick Filipina among the broad backs in Björn’s Garden, so she opened the floodgates and told him a story of depression and inaccessibility, about nightmares, estrangement and mood swings. And he understood – no one could understand better than him what Christer was like to live with – and he gave her the support she so desperately needed to carry on.

  They continued to meet. She did not want to let him go and he could not release her, thought that maybe Providence had had something special in mind when their paths crossed. When she and Christer at last decided to go their separate ways and she told him, relieved but with a glimmer of fear in her dark eyes, that she and the children would move to an apartment in Fittja, the reason they had met became clear to him. It was time to give up his dream of a normal family life in the townhouse in Huddinge. He had been given a new chance to do his share, to pay off a little of the great debt he owed to Christer Larsson. He offered her a considerably more agreeable solution for everyone involved.

  He worked hard and there was not much left over for himself, but nothing could give him greater pleasure than being close to those brown-eyed, silken-haired little rascals, and seeing their happiness among their playmates at preschool and in the light, pleasant apartment with a view of the water. This was the closest to happiness he could come and for the first time in a very long while he felt he had a purpose in life.

  In Kate he had also found a friend. Their relationship made no demands and her unforced manner invited openness and laughter. He was a little ashamed however about the secrecy he imposed on her. But she accepted without asking any questions the fact that he did not give out his telephone number and could not reveal his identity. For her, a first name, their friendship and the love he offered her children was enough. That was how it had to be, for more than anything he was watching out for Christer.

  * * *

  Sjöberg sat in the car for a long time staring into space. He felt that they were very close to solving the case now, but still he did not understand a thing. What was it he was not seeing? Here they had a clear connection between Christer Larsson and Einar Eriksson. In Christer Larsson’s eyes, Einar was responsible for the boys’ deaths. It was as good a motive for murder as any. But it was a motive to murder Einar and it was far from certain that Einar was dead. And why now, more than thirty years later? Above all there was no motive for Christer Larsson to cold-bloodedly murder his current wife and his children by her. Yet the murders of the two children, which had seemed at first like a chance misfortune, now seemed to make sense in the aftermath of the tragic accident long ago.

  When Christer Larsson saw the photograph of Einar he fell apart. That was reasonable if that was how he had found out Einar was involved with his wife and children, especially if he had got the impression that Einar was suspected of the murders. However, that did not necessarily mean he was behind Einar’s disappearance. On the other hand, Larsson’s cool reaction to the news of the deaths – though possibly due to his numbness and depression since the tragedy in Arboga – could suggest that he himself was the one who had murdered his family. The phrase ‘not in the legal sense’ came back to Sjöberg again. Christer Larsson clearly considered himself in some way guilty of the children’s deaths. Could it have been the deaths of his two sons long ago he was referring to? Presumably he blamed himself for having turned responsibility for the children over to Einar and his wife. No doubt Ingegärd Rydin had blamed him for this and many other things in the wake of the catastrophe, when the accusations came thick and fast, as Edin had put it.

  Sjöberg changed perspective. What might be going on in Einar’s head? This fresh information cast new light on Einar’s involvement in Catherine Larsson and her children’s lives. Was this about love? Could it be coincidence that the new woman in Einar’s life happened to be married to his old buddy, the father of the boys who had perished while in his care? That could not be the case, Sjöberg decided. And with his new knowledge of Einar’s character it slowly occurred to Sjöberg what it was Einar had devoted himself to. It was perhaps by chance that he had met Catherine Larsson, but what Einar did subsequently had been very carefully thought out. It was not about love at all and what Catherine had said to her girlfriend was correct: she and Einar did not have that kind of relationship.

  In reality it was about guilt. It was about the unbearable weight Einar had struggled with ever since the tragic accident at the Arboga River more than thirty years ago. Quite suddenly an opportunity had arisen for Einar to do something for Christer Larsson and his children. Einar had committed his life to giving Christer Larsson’s living children and the woman he had chosen to have them with a tolerable life. In that way he was also doing Christer Larsson a service – even if Larsson was and must be completely unaware of it. It was Einar’s way of relieving some of his heavy burden, a small joy in an otherwise sorrowful life. Einar Eriksson was a man who lived for a single thing: to atone for his crime by helping the people he had dragged down with him in the fall.

  Sjöberg was now dead certain of his case: Einar Eriksson had not murdered Tom, Linn and Catherine Larsson. On the contrary, he had met with some great misfortune. In the worst case he was already dead. In any event Sjöberg did not need to call Ann-Britt Berg at Solberga to ask questions about Einar’s shoes. On Saturday he had certainly had them on, but not when the murders were committed, because Einar Eriksson was no murderer. And Einar’s wife wasn’t either, although her punishment was far worse than that of most murderers.

  His thoughts wandered to his own mother. His grandmother considered her a murderer and had rejected her, even though she had managed to rescue her son from the flames. ‘All of you were sleeping in the same room,’ Grandmother had said, ‘but she woke up and took you with her down to the garden.’ Why hadn’t his father woken up when his mother did? Probably he was already asphyxiated and impossible to rouse. He was certain that his mother’s intention had been to run back into the house again to drag his father out to the garden too. But she had not succeeded. For one reason or another she had not had time to get her husband out of the house before it was too late. All of you, thought Sjöberg. How many were there? On a sudden impulse he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and searched through the list of numbers called, and then once again called the Arbogabygden parish.

  ‘We spoke yesterday,’ Sjöberg explained. ‘Christian Gunnar Sjöberg, born 22 August 1933 – can you please look up his information for me again?’

  ‘Of course,’ the helpful woman replied, and after a minute or so she was back. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  ‘I want to know how many members of the family there were in 1961.’

  He held the phone tightly to his ear, with a strange feeling that her answer would turn everything upside down.

  ‘Let’s see now … Here he is … A proper nuclear family: mother, father and two children.’

  Sjöberg felt as if his heart had stopped for a moment.

  ‘Me and … ?’

  ‘Alice Eleonor, born on 3 October 1955.’

  ‘Dead … ?’

  ‘I’ll have to change books. One moment …’

  Almost immediately she was back on the line.

  ‘Died on 20 August 1961.’

  ‘Now I won’t disturb you any more. Thanks very much for your help,’ said Sjöberg, ending the call without waiting for her reply.

  This was beyond what he ever could have imagined. He’d had a sister three ye
ars older and like his father she had perished in the fire. Grandmother had not even mentioned her. Her sorrow encompassed only her son. It was reasonable to think that his mother would have tried to wake her husband and daughter and was forced to trust that they would manage to get out on their own. What could be more obvious in an emergency situation than to rescue the younger child first and hope that the older child would be able to escape?

  Sjöberg tried to put himself in his mother’s place in the terrible misfortune that had struck her. But there was something that put up resistance, something inside him that would not let him closer to this very distant tragedy. The new knowledge about the sister and her gruesome death was too much for him and he was suddenly no longer able to summon the energy to assimilate his new impressions. Vainly he made the decision to try to keep his personal brooding at a distance for now, to push it to one side and focus on Einar Eriksson’s tragedy.

  With a listlessness that he did not recognize in himself he again tried to bring to life the thoughts of the four adults, each of whom in their own way had been hit so hard by the accident at the Arboga River long ago. How would he, in the Larsson couple’s shoes, have managed to go on? Would he have had more children? That was impossible to answer. Children are not interchangeable, but perhaps a new child could have relieved their grief for the lost boys, at least at times? Christer Larsson did in time have two more children, but had that helped him? Obviously he had not bonded with the new children, so for him it had not been a successful strategy. Quite apart from the fact that he had now also lost both of these children in traumatic circumstances, becoming a parent again had not turned out well for him.

  Sjöberg’s own mother had also lost a child. Try as he might, he could not shake off this thought. She had a child in reserve and had been content with that. The circumstances were not the same as for a woman who had lost her only child or all of her children.

  Ingegärd Rydin? In Sjöberg’s scant experience of women who had lost their children, they either accepted the loss and continued without children or they hurried to try to fill the vacuum with a baby. Ingegärd Rydin had rejected a relationship and thereby also the possibility of bringing new children into the world. But could he be sure of that? It struck him that his investigation of her had been careless. He had found out her name and address, he knew she had once been married to Christer Larsson, that since the divorce she had remained unmarried. What more he knew about Ingegärd Rydin was what he had seen with his own eyes and what the two police inspectors Möller and Edin had told him. He had not made any effort to find out more, because due to her poor health he had immediately removed her from the list of suspects. He had not bothered to find out whether she’d had more children or not after the loss of her two sons. Sjöberg cursed his hasty assumptions, once again took his phone out of his pocket and entered the number of the census office. Four minutes later they called back. Eight minutes later Sjöberg had found out that Ingegärd Rydin had a son. Mikael Rydin would turn thirty at the beginning of April.

  * * *

  ‘He’s not at home anyway,’ said Sandén. ‘He’s not answering the phone or the door.’

  ‘Where does he live?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘At Gärdet. In a student room. But he doesn’t seem to be pursuing any studies to speak of, because he hasn’t earned too many credits over the past few years.’

  ‘What is it he’s supposed to be studying?’

  ‘This term it’s Music History. Last term it was Introduction to Law.’

  ‘If he doesn’t earn enough credits, he won’t get any student grant either. He must have a job.’

  ‘He works part-time, five hours a day, Monday to Thursday, at a cleaning company.’

  ‘A cleaning company?’ Sjöberg said thoughtfully. ‘Could he have come into contact with Catherine Larsson through his job?’

  ‘It’s possible,’ Sandén replied. ‘But they’ve never been employed by the same company. We talked to several other students on his corridor. Mikael Rydin keeps to himself. He doesn’t attend their parties, never eats with any of the others. He never has visitors, except for the occasional girl, much younger, who spends the night, never more than once.’

  ‘Younger?’

  ‘Read teenage.’

  ‘So what does he do during the day, when he’s not studying?’

  ‘Apparently he works out a lot. No one knows how or where he works out, but he usually carries a gym bag. He plays guitar too, they say. For that matter there could be a machine gun in the guitar case. Maybe he robs banks.’

  ‘Does he have a record?’ Sjöberg asked hopefully.

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Any other thoughts? Is he well liked?’

  ‘Of course not. Apparently he barely answers when he’s spoken to, but on the other hand he has never made an arse of himself either. He seems to keep a low profile, but according to his neighbours he gives a generally unsympathetic impression.’

  ‘How long has he lived there?’

  ‘Four years.’

  ‘Can you live in student housing if you’re not studying? I thought there was a shortage,’ said Sjöberg.

  ‘As long as he applies for and goes to classes I guess he can keep living there,’ said Sandén. ‘Maybe that’s why he signs up for those courses. And he has actually earned some credits, but during the past year he hasn’t been seen at the lectures at all. So maybe he’ll be kicked out now.’

  ‘And no clues as to who his father is?’

  ‘Father unknown,’ said Sandén drily. ‘Do you think Mikael Rydin is our man?’

  ‘Everything else has felt like a dead end. This guy opens new doors.’

  ‘And his motive would be … ?’

  ‘Well,’ Sjöberg sighed, tired of endless speculation, ‘I guess I’ll have to stick with my revenge motive, but I don’t have the energy to develop it right now. I’ll have another chat with Ingegärd Rydin. There was nothing in her home or in what she said that gave any indication whatsoever that she had a son. I’ll find out why. Then I’m coming home. In the meantime you can try to find this guy.’

  ‘Sooner or later he has to show up back at his room. Then we’ll bring him in for questioning.’

  ‘Or at work,’ Sjöberg suggested.

  ‘As I said, he’s off on Fridays. Are you napping, Conny?’ Sandén teased.

  ‘I must be,’ Sjöberg said lamely.

  He was not in a joking mood. Einar must be found and this so-called student was perhaps their best chance.

  ‘It’s not enough to sit and wait for him to show up,’ said Sjöberg with fresh determination. ‘Put all your energy into finding him.’

  ‘Should we go into his room?’ Sandén asked cautiously.

  ‘Absolutely not. We have nothing on him and this has to be done right.’

  ‘Look who’s talking.’

  ‘That was different! What I did I did out of concern for a missing colleague, not to put him away for murder.’

  ‘According to my feeble understanding, Einar is still the prime suspect in this case. If it’s the prosecutor you’re afraid of then –’

  ‘Cut the crap,’ Sjöberg interrupted him, half in jest, half in earnest. ‘Question Rydin’s co-workers, people at his workplace, wherever that is. Find him.’

  * * *

  ‘Who is it?’ Sjöberg heard Ingegärd Rydin call from inside the apartment.

  He crouched down and tried to make himself heard through the letterbox.

  ‘Conny Sjöberg, Hammarby Police. We spoke yesterday. May I come in?’

  Unable to catch her reply, he stood up and opened the door anyway. He could see her in the armchair in the living room and she gestured for him to come in.

  ‘How are you doing?’ he asked, even though he was not particularly eager to hear the answer.

  ‘I can’t get up to answer the door,’ she said from the corner of her mouth, and that answer was quite sufficient for Sjöberg, who was struggling not to imagine the blackened remnants of
lung she had left to breathe with.

  He extended his hand in greeting and then sat down in the same armchair as last time. Her breathing was laboured even with the oxygen. The smell of cigarette smoke in the apartment could not be ignored.

  ‘You have a son,’ Sjöberg began. ‘You didn’t mention that yesterday.’

  She let go of the mouthpiece for a moment and gave him a surprised smile.

  ‘It never came up …’

  Sjöberg had to agree with her on that point. When they had spoken the day before, he had not known about the Eriksson and Larsson families’ common past. And consequently he had not mentioned Einar’s involvement. And that she had had a son after the divorce had hardly had any relevance then.

  ‘He’s thirty,’ said Sjöberg.

  ‘Yes, soon. His birthday is in April,’ said Ingegärd Rydin, still uncomprehending.

  ‘So he was born rather soon after your and Christer’s divorce. Who is his father?’

  ‘I don’t know. Life was a little turbulent there for a while. After the divorce and everything,’ she added with, Sjöberg thought, a slightly embarrassed expression.

  ‘Since we spoke last I’ve found out what happened,’ Sjöberg said seriously.

  She did not answer, but he could see how her slender body tensed in the chair. Perhaps she was also breathing a little harder through her mouthpiece. She looked suspiciously at him, but however much he wanted to he could not spare her from this.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry to have to bring this up, but it’s necessary. I understand that it’s difficult to talk about, but I need to know what it was like after the accident.’