Now, for the first time, she pulled out Erik’s desk drawers and rummaged through his papers, not caring whether he noticed what she’d done. Because she was becoming convinced that the oppressive silence of the past few days could mean only one thing. He was thinking of leaving her. Throwing her away like rubbish, used goods – and yet she had given birth to his children, kept his home clean, cooked all those fucking dinners for his fucking business contacts who were usually so boring that she felt as if her head would explode when she was forced to converse with them. If he thought that she would just step aside like some wounded animal and not put up a fight, he was sorely mistaken. And besides, she knew about business agreements that he’d made over the years that wouldn’t stand closer examination. It would cost him dearly if he made the mistake of underestimating her.
The last drawer was locked. She tugged on it, harder and harder, but it refused to yield. She knew that she had to get it open. There was some reason why Erik had locked it, there was something that he didn’t want her to see. She looked at the surface of the desk, which was a modern piece of furniture – in other words, not such a challenge to break into as an older, more solid desk would have been. Her eyes were drawn to a letter opener. That would do. She pulled at the drawer until the lock stopped it from moving. Then she inserted the letter opener into the crack and began prising at the lock. At first it looked like the drawer would refuse to give, but then she tried a little harder, and her hopes rose when the wood began to crack. When the lock finally let go, it happened so suddenly that she almost fell over backwards. At the last instant she grabbed the edge of the desk and managed to stay upright.
Curiosity mounting, she peered inside the drawer. Something white was lying on the bottom. She stretched out her hand, trying to focus because her vision had gone a bit hazy. White envelopes. The drawer contained nothing but letters in white envelopes. She actually recalled seeing them arrive in the post, but she had paid little attention at the time. They were all addressed to Erik, so she had simply added them to his stack of post, which he always opened when he came home from work. Why had he put them inside a locked drawer?
Louise took out the letters and sat down on the floor, spreading them out in front of her. Five of them, all with Erik’s name and address on the envelope, written with black ink in an elegant script.
For a moment she considered stuffing them back in the drawer and continuing on, ignoring everything. But she had broken the desk lock, and as soon as Erik came home, he would know that she had been in here. So she might as well have a look.
She reached for her wine glass, needing to feel the alcohol running down her throat and into her stomach, soothing the place where it hurt. Three sips. Then she set the glass on the floor beside her and opened the first letter.
After she had read them all, she stacked them up on top of each other. She didn’t understand a thing. Except it was clear that somebody wanted to harm Erik. Something evil was threatening their life, their family, and he had said nothing about it. That filled her with a rage greater than any anger she might have felt. He hadn’t considered her an equal, not enough to tell her about something important like this. But now he was going to have to answer to her. He could no longer treat her with such lack of respect.
She decided to drive into town, to Erik’s office. She placed the letters next to her on the passenger seat in the car. It took a moment for her to insert the key in the ignition, but after taking a couple of deep breaths, she managed it. She knew that she shouldn’t be driving right now, but like so many times before, she pushed aside any scruples and pulled out into the street.
12
He thought she looked rather sweet as she lay there so still, no longer crying or demanding or taking. He reached out his hand to touch her forehead. His movement stirred up the water again, and her features were blurred by the ripples on the surface.
It sounded like Father was saying goodbye to whoever it was at the front door. He could hear footsteps approaching. Father would understand. He too had been shut out. She had taken from him too.
He drew his fingers through the water, making patterns and waves. Her hands and feet were resting on the bottom. Only her knees and a small part of her forehead stuck out of the water.
Now he heard Father just outside the bathroom door. He didn’t look up. Suddenly it felt like he couldn’t take his eyes off her. He liked her this way. For the first time he liked her. He pressed his cheek even harder against the edge of the tub. Listening and waiting for Father to realize that they were free of her now. They had Mother back, both he and Father. Father would be happy; he was sure of that.
Then he felt someone yanking him away from the bathtub. Surprised, he looked up. Father’s face was contorted with so many feelings that he didn’t know how to interpret them. But he didn’t look happy.
‘What have you done?’ Father’s voice roared and he grabbed Alice out of the tub. Helplessly he held her slack body in his arms, and then he gently set her down on the rug. ‘What have you done?’ Father said again, without looking at him.
‘She took Mother away.’ He felt the words stick in his throat, unable to come out. He didn’t understand a thing. He thought Father would be pleased.
Father didn’t say a word. Just gave him a quick glance, a look of disbelief on his face. Then he leaned down and pressed his fingers lightly on the baby’s chest. He held her nose, blew gently into her mouth, and then pressed on her chest again.
‘Why are you doing that, Father?’ He could hear how whiny his voice sounded. Mother didn’t like it when he whined. He pulled his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around them as he leaned his back against the tub. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Why was Father giving him such strange looks? He wasn’t just angry at him; Father also looked scared of him.
Father kept on blowing into Alice’s mouth. Her hands and feet lay motionless on the rug, just as still as when they were resting on the bottom of the tub. Every once in a while they jerked a bit when Father pressed his fingers on her chest, but that was Father moving them. She wasn’t moving them on her own.
But the fourth time that Father stopped blowing, one of her hands quivered. Then came the coughing, and after that the scream. That oh-so-familiar, shrill, demanding scream. He didn’t like her any more.
Mother’s footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. Father picked up Alice, holding her so close that the front of his shirt was soaked. She was shrieking so loudly that the bathroom seemed to vibrate, and he wished that she would stop, that she would be as quiet and sweet as she was before Father did what he had done to her.
As Mother approached, Father squatted down in front of him. His eyes were big and frightened as he leaned forward and whispered: ‘We will never talk about what happened here. And if you ever do it again, I’m going to send you away so fast that you won’t even hear the door close after you. Do you understand? You are never to touch her again!’
‘What’s going on here?’ Mother’s voice in the doorway. ‘The minute I go upstairs to take a nap for a moment’s respite, pure hysteria breaks out down here. What’s wrong with her? Did he do something?’ She turned to look at him sitting on the floor.
For several seconds the only answer was Alice screaming. Then Father stood up, still holding her in his arms, and said, ‘No, I just didn’t get the towel wrapped around her fast enough when I took her out of the bath. She’s just angry.’
‘Are you sure he didn’t do anything?’ She stared at him, but he just bowed his head and pretended to be busy tugging at the fringe of the rug.
‘No, he was just helping me out. He’s been very nice with her.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Father gave him a warning look.
Mother seemed satisfied with that response. Impatiently she reached out for Alice, and after a moment’s hesitation, Father handed the baby to her. When she had left the room to calm the child, they looked at each other. Neither of them said a word. But he saw in Father’s eyes that he meant what he ha
d said. They would never speak of what had just happened.
‘Kenneth?’ Her voice broke as she tried to call her husband’s name.
No answer. Was she imagining things? No, she was sure that she’d heard the door open and then close again.
‘Hello?’
Still no answer. Lisbet attempted to sit up, but her strength had been seeping away so fast over the past few days that she couldn’t manage it. What energy she had left, she saved for the hours when Kenneth was at home. All for the purpose of convincing him that she was doing better than she actually was, so that he’d let her stay home a little while longer. So she could escape the smell of the hospital and the feel of the starched sheets against her skin. She knew Kenneth so well. He would drive her to the hospital in an instant if he knew how bad she was really feeling. He would do it because he was still clinging desperately to hope.
But Lisbet’s body told her that her time was near. She’d used up all her reserves, and the disease had taken over. Victorious. All she wanted was to die at home, with her own blanket over her body and her own pillow under her head. And with Kenneth sleeping next to her in the night. She often lay awake, listening, trying to memorize the sound of each breath he took. She knew how uncomfortable it was for him to sleep on that rickety camp-bed. But she couldn’t get herself to tell him to go upstairs to sleep. Maybe she was being selfish, but she loved him too much to be away from him in these last hours that she had left.
‘Kenneth?’ she called out again. She had just persuaded herself that it was all in her imagination when she heard the familiar creak of the loose floorboard out in the hall. It always protested whenever anyone stepped on it.
‘Hello?’ Now she was starting to get scared. She looked around for the telephone, which Kenneth usually remembered to leave within reach. But lately he’d been so tired in the morning that he sometimes forgot. Like today.
‘Is someone there?’ She gripped the edge of the bed and again tried to sit up. She felt like the main character in one of her favourite stories, The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka, in which Gregor Samsa is changed into a beetle and can’t turn over if he lands on his back. He just lies there, helpless.
Now she heard footsteps in the hall. Whoever it was moved cautiously, but was still getting closer and closer. Lisbet felt panic taking over. Who would refuse to answer her calls? Surely Kenneth wouldn’t try to tease her in that way. He had never subjected her to any sort of practical jokes or surprises, so she didn’t think he would start now.
The footsteps were very close. She stared at the old wooden door, which she had personally sanded and painted what now seemed like an entire lifetime ago. When the door didn’t move, she again thought that her brain must be playing tricks on her, that the cancer had spread there too, so that she could no longer think clearly or tell what was real and what wasn’t.
But then, very slowly, the door began to open. Someone was standing on the other side, pushing it open. She screamed for help, screamed as loud as she could, trying to drown out the terrifying silence. When the door swung all the way open, she stopped. And the person began to speak. The voice was familiar and yet not, and she squinted to see better. The long dark hair she saw made Lisbet instinctively touch her own head to make sure the yellow scarf was in place.
‘Who are you?’ she asked, but the person held up a finger. And Lisbet fell silent.
The voice spoke again. Now it was coming from the edge of the bed, speaking close to her face, saying things that made her want to cover her ears with her hands. Lisbet shook her head, didn’t want to listen, but the voice continued. It was spellbinding and relentless. It told a story, and something about its tone and the narrative’s movement, both backward and forward, made her understand that the story was true. And the truth was more than she could bear.
Paralysed, she listened to the inexorable outpouring of words. The more she heard, the weaker was her hold on the fragile lifeline that had been keeping her going. She’d been living on borrowed time and sheer force of will, relying on love and her faith in it. Now that it had been taken from her, she let go of her grip. The last thing Lisbet heard was the voice. And then her heart burst.
‘When do you think we can talk to Cia again?’ Patrik looked at his colleague.
‘I’m afraid we can’t wait,’ said Paula. ‘I’m sure she understands that we need to keep working on the investigation.’
‘You’re probably right,’ said Patrik, but he didn’t sound convinced. It was always a difficult balance. Doing his job, which might involve intruding on someone’s grief, or showing compassion and thereby putting his work in second place. At the same time, Cia’s steadfast Wednesday visits to the police station had shown him what she considered the top priority.
‘What should we do? What haven’t we done yet? Or is there anything we need to do over? Have we missed something?’
‘Well, to begin with, Magnus spent his whole life here in Fjällbacka, so if he had any secrets, either now or in the past, we should be able to find them here. And that makes things easier. The local gossip mill is usually highly efficient, and yet we haven’t found out a single thing about him. Nothing that might give us a motive for why someone would want to harm him, much less take the drastic step of killing him.’
‘He seems to have been a real family man. A stable marriage, well-behaved children, a normal social circle. But in spite of all that, somebody went at him with a knife. Could it have been an act of insanity? Some mentally deranged person who snapped and then chose a victim at random?’ Paula presented this theory without a great deal of confidence.
‘We can’t rule that out, but I don’t think so. The most significant thing contradicting that premise is the fact that Magnus phoned Rosander to say that he’d be late. And besides, Rosander said that Kjellner didn’t sound like himself. No, something happened on that morning.’
‘In other words, we need to focus on the people he knew.’
‘Easier said than done,’ replied Patrik. ‘Fjällbacka has approximately a thousand inhabitants. And everybody knows everybody else, more or less.’
‘Oh, great. I’m beginning to see the problem,’ laughed Paula. She was a relative newcomer in Tanumshede, and she was still trying to get used to the shock of losing the anonymity of a big city.
‘But in principle, you’re right. So I suggest that we start at the centre and then make our way outwards. We’ll talk to Cia as soon as we can. And to the children, if Cia will allow it. Then we’ll move on to Magnus’s closest friends: Erik Lind, Kenneth Bengtsson, and especially Christian Thydell. There’s something about those threatening letters …’
Patrik opened his top desk drawer and took out the plastic bag containing the letter and the card. He told his colleague the whole story about how Erica had acquired them. Paula listened in disbelief. In silence she read the hostile words.
‘This is serious,’ she said then. ‘We should send these to the lab for analysis.’
‘I know,’ said Patrik. ‘But let’s not jump to any hasty conclusions. I just have a feeling that everything might be connected somehow.’
‘I agree,’ said Paula, getting up. ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence either.’ She paused before leaving Patrik’s office. ‘Should we talk to Christian today?’
‘No, I’d like us to spend the rest of the day gathering all the information we can find about all three of them: Christian, Erik, and Kenneth. Then we’ll go through all the material together tomorrow morning, to see whether there’s anything we can use. I also think both of us should read through all the notes from the interviews that were conducted right after Magnus disappeared. Then we’ll be able to catch anything that doesn’t jibe with what people said the first time around.’
‘I’ll talk to Annika. I’m sure she can help with the background material.’
‘Good. I’ll phone Cia and find out if she can bear to meet with us.’
With a meditative expression on his face, Patrik sat and stared at the p
hone for a long time after Paula had left.
‘Stop calling here!’ Sanna slammed down the phone. It had been ringing nonstop all day. Journalists wanting to talk to Christian. They never said exactly what they wanted, but it wasn’t hard to guess. The fact that Magnus had been found dead so soon after the existence of the threatening letters was revealed had prompted the reporters to link the two events. But that was absurd. They had nothing to do with each other. It was also rumoured that Magnus had been murdered, but until she heard it from more reliable sources than the gossipmongers in town, Sanna refused to believe it. Even if such an unthinkable thing was actually true, why should there be a link to the letters that Christian had received? In an attempt to reassure her, Christian had said that the letters were probably sent by a mentally disturbed person who had decided to target him for some reason. A person who was most likely quite harmless.
She had wanted to ask him why, if that was the case, he had reacted so strongly at the book launch. Didn’t he believe his own theory? But all of her questions had vanished as soon as he told her where the blue dress had come from. In light of that revelation all else had paled. It was horrifying, and her heart had ached when she heard his explanation. At the same time, it was comforting to know the real story, because it clarified so much. And excused a good deal.
Her worries also seemed insignificant when she thought about Cia and what she’d been going through. Christian was going to miss Magnus. She would too, even though their relationship had at times been a little strained, but that was only natural. Erik, Kenneth, and Magnus had grown up together and shared a past. Sanna had been aware of them, but because she was so much younger, she had never spent time with them until Christian came into the picture and got to know the other men. Of course she knew that their wives thought she was young and perhaps a bit naive. But they had always welcomed her with open arms, and over the years that particular group of friends had become a regular part of their lives. They celebrated holidays together, and occasionally they ate dinner together on the weekends.
The Drowning Page 18
