The Last Lullaby

by Carin Gerhardsen

  She did not say anything for a while, perhaps wondering what she should say, what could be said. Sjöberg watched her transformation. He saw how, from having been a brittle creature with an oxygen tube in her mouth, she now became a warrior, almost unnaturally straightening up to steel herself against the difficult things. The Ingegärd Rydin who lost both her children in a dramatic accident many years ago was a strong woman who did not intend to let herself be broken. She was a person who did not allow herself to be pitied and who kept all the terrible things at arm’s length. She had not, like Solveig and Christer, been broken down by sorrow and guilt, nor had she fought on like Einar against a constant headwind. Ingegärd Rydin had kept her pain somewhere deep inside her and never let it come out. Reminders of the unmentionable she squashed like vermin. Sjöberg had to force his way through her solid defences.

  ‘Is that why you’re here? Do you think that the murders have something to do with the boys?’ she asked with doubt in her eyes.

  ‘The story of the accident is a new circumstance that we have to take into account in the investigation,’ Sjöberg answered factually, but hurried to return to what really interested him. ‘What was it like after the accident?’ he repeated.

  ‘It was tough, naturally,’ she said severely. ‘At that time there were no grief support groups. You had to deal with your problems yourself.’

  ‘And how did you do that?’

  ‘I divorced Christer,’ she answered with a crooked smile. ‘We couldn’t go on together after what happened. There was nothing left. He packed his things and moved to Stockholm and since then we’ve not been in touch. I moved here. I couldn’t stay living in the apartment.’

  ‘Do you blame him for the accident?’ Sjöberg asked directly.

  She looked searchingly at him before she answered.

  ‘I did then. I have to admit that. I went to work one morning and when the work day was over … I no longer had a family. He farmed out the boys, to some people who did not have children themselves. He should have taken care of them. He didn’t.’

  ‘And now? Do you still blame him?’

  ‘No, I suppose I don’t. I rarely think about him. But when you said that –’

  ‘About his depression?’ Sjöberg filled in.

  She nodded.

  ‘Then I actually felt sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault, of course. It was their fault.’

  ‘Theirs?’

  Sjöberg wanted to hear her say their names, but apparently she had no intention of doing that.

  ‘Her fault,’ she corrected herself. ‘She knew the boys. She knew how they were.’

  ‘Solveig wasn’t slow in taking on the guilt either,’ Sjöberg attempted.

  ‘All the same, I can’t forgive her,’ said Ingegärd Rydin, the muscles tensed hard around her mouth. ‘Certain things you cannot forgive, however much you want to.’

  ‘It’s probably not so much about your forgiveness in her case. She never managed to forgive herself. Do you know what it’s like for her?’

  Ingegärd Rydin nodded and turned her face towards the window.

  ‘And Einar, have you had any contact with him?’ asked Sjöberg.

  She turned her eyes on him again and answered without taking the tube from her mouth.

  ‘He was stubborn to begin with. Wouldn’t leave us alone. Begged for our forgiveness and wanted to compensate us in every conceivable way. But we didn’t want anything to do with him. It wasn’t money we needed. Finally he gave up. He hasn’t been in touch since I moved from there.’

  ‘Do you still feel bitterness towards him?’ asked Sjöberg, well aware that he was out in rather deep waters, but she answered without hesitation.

  ‘They had responsibility for our children and they didn’t manage it very well. As I said, things don’t go away just because you make an apology.’

  ‘And Mikael?’ Sjöberg said provocatively. ‘Did he grow up in this spirit of implacability?’

  Ingegärd Rydin looked at him with an expression that seemed almost surprised.

  ‘Mikael grew up without any knowledge of these people. He didn’t even know what happened to his siblings.’

  It was with something like pride in her voice that she answered the question. Sjöberg reacted immediately to her use of the past tense.

  ‘Didn’t know?’

  ‘Yes, until I told him about the boys and the accident. And I only did that when he was grown up.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘A few years ago. Three or four, maybe. That was when I got sick. I thought he had a right to know his family history. I’m not going to survive this, you realize.’

  ‘You mean that he only found out then that the boys had existed?’

  She nodded.

  ‘I showed him pictures of them. Yes, of all of us actually. I never look at them myself, but I thought it was time for him to find out … how it was.’

  ‘Did you also tell him who his father is?’ Sjöberg asked with a look that he hoped was penetrating.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but stopped herself and looked searchingly at him until finally she answered.

  ‘No. That will have to wait a little longer. I didn’t want to create problems while I’m still alive.’

  ‘You’re protecting yourself,’ Sjöberg said conciliatorily. ‘Can’t bear to bring all the old feelings back to life. Are you afraid you would have to see Christer again?’

  She sighed and he saw how she shrank a little in the chair.

  ‘More or less,’ she said simply.

  He had managed to break through the wall. Sjöberg could feel himself relax, but there were more questions that had to be answered before he could leave this sick woman in peace.

  ‘Will you tell me about Mikael?’ he said carefully. ‘What is he like as a person?’

  ‘He’s a good boy. Has never been any trouble. Considerate and loyal.’

  ‘Loyal?’

  Sjöberg thought it sounded like a description of a dog.

  ‘Yes, friendly and accommodating. Helpful.’

  What had he wanted to hear? Sjöberg could not put his finger on it, but there was something impersonal in Ingegärd Rydin’s description of her son. He happened to think of Christer Larsson. His two children with Catherine had not been any trouble either.

  ‘I imagine it might be difficult to bond with a new child when you’ve just lost two,’ he ventured to say.

  ‘I was never a good mother to Mikael,’ Ingegärd Rydin admitted straight out. ‘I should have had an abortion, but … that wouldn’t have looked particularly good. I couldn’t make myself … He had to manage a lot on his own when he was small. But he has never seemed unhappy about it. On the contrary … he’s almost suffocating in his attention to me. I guess that sounds hard, but as a single mother … Sometimes you just need to be left alone.’

  Sjöberg hastened to smooth things over. He felt that this poor creature did not need any added burden.

  ‘All mothers feel that way sometimes. And fathers too. I’m a dad myself,’ he said with a friendly laugh.

  Then he quickly became more serious.

  ‘How did Mikael take it when you told him about the accident?’

  ‘He was upset. At first he didn’t believe me when I told him about his little brothers. His little older brothers,’ she added with a mournful smile. ‘Then he got very sad for my sake, wanted to console me, but I can’t stand that sort of thing. I don’t like it when people feel sorry for me, not even if it’s Mikael. He must have noticed that, so instead he started questioning me about the details of the accident. As you can understand, I don’t like talking about what happened, but to get it over with, once and for all, I told him.’

  ‘And showed him photographs?’

  ‘And showed him photographs. He wanted so much to create a true picture of everyone involved.’

  ‘By “everyone involved” I assume that you are also referring to Einar and Solveig?’

  ‘Yes, he insi
sted.’

  ‘Could I look at those pictures?’

  ‘They’re in the second drawer from the top.’

  She pointed towards the bookcase behind him and he got up and pulled out the drawer.

  ‘Under the tablecloths,’ she clarified before he had time to ask.

  He hauled out a thick bundle of photographs held together with a rubber band, sat down in the armchair again and scattered the pictures on the coffee table.

  ‘Is he athletic, Mikael?’ asked Sjöberg as he studied the photographs.

  ‘Yes, nowadays he is. When he was little he wasn’t interested in football and that sort of thing like the other boys were, but in the past few years he has exercised hard.’

  ‘What kind of exercise does he do?’

  ‘He goes to the gym, I think. He has really built himself up. Mikael was always rather small and slight, but recently he has grown into a big strong man.’

  ‘Do you have any pictures of him too?’

  ‘There are a few photos in the drawer here in the coffee table.’

  Sjöberg browsed further among the pictures and when he had gone through the whole bundle he pushed it across the table so that she could reach it.

  ‘Did you show Mikael all of these pictures?’ he asked.

  She nodded, making no effort to reach for the photos.

  ‘Show me the pictures of Einar Eriksson,’ he said urgently.

  Reluctantly she picked up the pictures from the table and started browsing through them on her lap. After a few minutes she had gone through the whole heap.

  ‘They’re not here,’ she said with surprise. ‘Mikael must have taken them. There are a few pictures of the boys that are missing too.’

  Then her expression changed. A suspicious frown appeared between her eyebrows and Sjöberg sensed a flash of worry in her eyes.

  ‘Why are you here actually? Why are you so interested in Mikael?’

  ‘There is one thing I haven’t told you,’ said Sjöberg. ‘After their separation Christer’s wife, Catherine, and their children moved into an apartment she could not have afforded by herself. After the murders it has come to light that it was Einar who bought it for them.’

  Ingegärd Rydin looked at him with dismay and Sjöberg could tell her breathing was becoming more laboured again. He hoped that what he was now telling her would not shorten her life further.

  ‘To start with we made the assumption that he and Catherine had a relationship, but that did not turn out to be the case at all. Einar met Catherine by chance and when he realized who she was, or more precisely who her husband was, and then that they were going to separate, he decided to help them. A poor Filipino woman with two small children in an inhospitable Stockholm suburb – Einar thought that Christer’s children and wife deserved a better fate –’

  ‘But Christer – didn’t he do anything to help them?’ Ingegärd Rydin interrupted him.

  ‘Christer is mentally worn out and depressed,’ Sjöberg explained. ‘He never recovered after the catastrophe with your boys. He never managed to live the family life with Catherine that he had hoped for and he never really bonded with the children. When Einar found this out I imagine he saw the chance of his life to do something for Christer. And his children. Even if Christer himself would never find out about it. Einar never revealed his name to Catherine; it was that important for him not to stir up old emotions. His intentions were good. Now he’s gone.’

  ‘Gone? What do you mean?’

  ‘Einar disappeared at the same time as Catherine and the children were murdered. I think he has either been murdered too or is being held captive by the perpetrator. We need to get in touch with Mikael.’

  Ingegärd Rydin suddenly became defensive.

  ‘How can you know it’s not Einar who is the murderer?’

  ‘That’s a possibility, naturally,’ said Sjöberg matter-of factly. ‘But based on what I’ve told you, I don’t think it seems very likely. Einar wished Christer well. To brutally murder his wife and children does not fit in with that.’

  Sjöberg paused before he continued.

  ‘On the other hand, as far as Mikael is concerned I can see a motive.’

  She looked at him with sudden ice in her gaze and with great control took the tube out of her mouth before she answered.

  ‘Mikael has nothing to do with this. He’s a good person. He calls me several times a week, helps me when I need it. He would do anything for me.’

  ‘Perhaps that is exactly the key to all this,’ said Sjöberg in a steady, friendly tone. ‘Perhaps he is taking revenge for your sake, avenging his brothers.’

  ‘By murdering his siblings and his father’s wife!’ she exclaimed before hurriedly stuffing the tube back in her mouth.

  ‘From what you said, I understood he didn’t know that,’ said Sjöberg with unruffled calm. ‘And in that case, if Mikael committed these crimes, he would have seen it purely as revenge against Einar, against the one who had caused his siblings’ death and destroyed his mother’s life, who blighted his childhood. What could possibly be better revenge than to take the life of the woman and children Einar was now involved with?’

  ‘But it wasn’t that way.’

  ‘But that’s how it looked.’

  ‘In that case revenge should have been directed at … his wife to begin with.’

  ‘As you surely also told Mikael, Solveig has already had her punishment. I beg you, help us find Mikael. In the best case we’ll be able to rule him out of the investigation. Otherwise it may be a matter of life or death for Einar.’

  Sjöberg had no hope that this plea would strike the right chord in Ingegärd Rydin. He leaned over and pulled out the drawer where the photos that weren’t hidden away were stored and pulled out the pictures there, no more than a handful.

  ‘I don’t know where he is anyway,’ she said sharply. ‘If he’s not at home he’s probably at work.’

  ‘He’s off on Fridays,’ said Sjöberg, setting two of the photographs on the table.

  ‘Then he’s probably working out; I have no idea where.’

  ‘He appears to work out a great deal,’ Sjöberg noted, comparing the two pictures he had in front of him.

  One depicted a slender adolescent with an unkempt youthful hairstyle, while in the other picture the same man had shaved off all his hair and obviously prided himself on an upper body of a quite different character. From below one sleeve of his tightly fitting T-shirt a tattooed monster’s tail was looking out.

  ‘How many years were there between these pictures?’ Sjöberg asked, holding up the photographs so that she could see without changing position.

  ‘That one is from last Christmas,’ she answered from the corner of her mouth, pointing at the tattooed athlete. ‘The other is from my fiftieth birthday three years ago.’

  Sjöberg saw no reason to trouble Ingegärd Rydin further with questions about her son’s intake of dietary supplements, but he was beginning to get a clear picture of this unwanted son. He tucked both photographs in his notepad and got up out of the chair.

  ‘You’ll get them back,’ he said, leaving her, his mind weighed down with apprehension.

  Friday Afternoon

  So once again the ground had parted under his feet. Once again his life had been smashed to pieces, but this time someone had done it intentionally. He had not even made it out of the car before the unknown man stepped out of the darkness and pressed a rag to his face. Of what happened then – from the attack in the car park outside his building until he woke up in the tool shed – he remembered nothing. When he did wake, he had felt mostly surprise. The pain was manageable and the cold was not hard to endure. He was alone in the darkness and did not know where he was or why. He remembered that he had been yawning in the car on his way home from Solberga, that he had stopped at a rest area and drunk a cup of lukewarm coffee from the Thermos to keep himself from falling asleep behind the wheel. But had he lost control of the car? This was no forest glade by the side o
f the road, much less a hospital. Tied tightly around his head and across his mouth was a strip of cloth, apparently for the purpose of muffling the sounds from his throat. He was indoors, and bound hand and foot. Even if the temperature was almost the same as outside, he was under a roof, and on a hard, splintery wood floor; he could feel that with his hands.

  For a long time he lay and pondered, trying to understand what had happened. Several of his teeth were missing, and his body ached. Who wanted to injure him? Had he put up any resistance? If this was a question of a regular kidnapping, they had the wrong person. He had no money, knew no one who could or would want to ransom him. It must be a misunderstanding. He squirmed; his position was starting to get uncomfortable. He rolled over on to his other side and noted that the keys in his pocket were missing. He’d had both the car keys and the keys to the apartment in there, but now they were gone. For some reason he did not have any shoes on either, but he had been allowed to keep his jacket.

  Then the memories of the attack came back. He had not managed to see the face of his assailant before he blacked out. Judging by his movements and clothes it had been a man, but what age he did not know, nor whether he was a Swede or a foreigner. He was not kept in a state of uncertainty for very long, however. He heard a key being put in a lock outside and soon he had company in the little shed, but not in the way he had expected. He heard the door shut and suddenly it was light in the room. At first he could see only the bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, but then the terrifying figure appeared above him. The man looked down at him for a few seconds without saying anything. Then his lips parted in a joyless smile. Without a word, he started to kick him, in the stomach, ribcage, face. There was nothing he could do to defend himself. With his hands and feet bound he could not even curl up sufficiently to protect his head. All he could do was scream and he did that until his voice broke. But the muffled sound that penetrated through the gag did not carry far and the strange man who was assaulting him in a fury and with inexhaustible energy took no notice. It seemed an age before he lost consciousness. And he was not sure that the brutal assault had ceased even then.