by Viveca Sten
“No.”
“All night?”
“No.”
Only now did he begin to realize that there was a problem.
“Has something happened to Herman? I hope he’s OK,” he said.
“We can’t get a hold of him,” Gunilla replied, pushing her hands deep in her coat pockets. “He’s not answering his phone, and he didn’t come into work today. That’s not like him at all.”
Leila took a closer look at the door to Wibom’s apartment. There was no sign of forced entry. Everything appeared to be normal.
Except that Herman Wibom had gone up in smoke.
The logical approach would be to wait for twenty-four hours, which was the accepted time frame before a person was officially regarded as missing. If Wibom had been playing Bach last night, then only nineteen hours had passed since there had been any sign of life from him. Maybe he was on his way home from a wild party, with a killer hangover and a cell phone that needed charging.
Which didn’t fit with his personality at all.
A small mark on the marble floor outside Wibom’s door caught Leila’s attention. She bent down and peered at it.
Dark brown—the color of dried blood.
Something wasn’t right.
She took out her phone and called the locksmith they used in an emergency.
Bosnia, May 1993
Selma couldn’t sleep. She lay there wide awake with her mind racing, fear and anxiety building a nest in her breast. The darkness was too compact; in the end she switched on the night-light to keep the demons away.
Shortly after four, she gave up and got dressed.
The first light of dawn crept into the house as she walked around saying good-bye to her beloved home. She ran her fingertips over the back of the sofa, the piece of furniture she had coveted and saved for. She touched the mats her mother had crocheted, the little porcelain figurine she’d inherited from her grandmother. She’d taken such good care of it, made sure the children didn’t break it.
Finally she went into the kitchen and looked through the window. The garden was a riot of color. Was there any other country where the plants were so lush, where the roses were so beautiful, so perfect?
Selma blinked away the tears.
Maybe another family would move in and tend her lovely flowers. She would like to think so, but she knew there was a good chance that the place would be shelled and destroyed in a firestorm.
She fetched her keys and put them on the table. There was no point in taking them with her, or locking the door behind her.
She would never see her home again.
With a heart so full of despair she thought it might burst, she opened one cupboard after another, trying to imprint every single thing on her memory.
She must remember what it looked like; there was nothing else she could take with her.
Then she went and woke Andreis. He whined and refused to get up. She had to dress him while he was half asleep, and as soon as she’d finished, he rolled over and closed his eyes. She made a few sandwiches with what she had, then changed Emir’s diaper for the last time before leaving.
The only positive thing was that Zlatko was going with them.
All the bitterness, all the anger that had built up over the past year had dispersed like veils of mist over the meadow early on a summer’s morning.
Zlatko came into the kitchen and stroked her cheek. Selma looked out and saw Blanka’s car approaching.
Was it possible to die of sorrow?
Zlatko picked up Andreis and their bag and walked out of the door. Selma followed with Emir in her arms.
CHAPTER 111
It usually took about fifteen minutes to walk to the store. Anna-Maria was reluctant to leave Mina right now, but Lukas’s formula was running out and wouldn’t last the night. It was better for Anna-Maria to deal with it than for Mina to realize later in the evening.
She felt so sorry for the girl. This morning there had been color in her cheeks and a spring in her step for the first time, and now she was in an even worse state than she’d been when she arrived, floored by grief.
Anna-Maria had long ago stopped believing in a benevolent higher power, but surely there ought to be some form of justice. Mina had already gone through so much; when would it end?
Why couldn’t God strike down Mina’s husband instead, before he caused even more trouble? Why was he allowed to live and do whatever he pleased, while Mina had to hide away, and her mother was dead?
There was no one around. Anna-Maria pushed her hands into her pockets and realized she’d left her phone charging in the office. It didn’t matter; she wouldn’t be gone for long.
The gravel on the narrow lane crunched beneath her feet. It was nice to get some fresh air, escape from the misery within the walls of the shelter. Mina’s troubles had brought back her own terrible memories.
A little hare bounded in front of her and disappeared toward the field, where the sheep had been let out to graze.
Anna-Maria angrily dashed away the tears. The pain of losing Malin never eased, no matter how many years passed. The day she took the call from the emergency department was forever etched on her mind, like a fresh tattoo on sensitive skin that refused to heal. The invisible burden of agony.
She had hurried to the hospital and raced through the corridors, searching for her daughter, calling out her name and flinging open doors, finding only other sick and injured patients.
Eventually someone had shown her where to go.
She had hardly recognized her daughter’s bruised and battered face. This time Gustav had gone too far—he’d used a hammer. The injuries to Malin’s body bore witness to such rage that Anna-Maria couldn’t take it in. It was an evil too great to comprehend.
How could one human being do this to another?
She was worried about the baby, concerned that the unborn child might have been harmed by the attack on Malin. She could never have imagined that things would get worse—that it would prove impossible to save the baby or Malin.
That they would both die that night.
Afterward she had sat alone with her despair. The nurses had lit a candle and folded Malin’s shattered hands over her breast. The hands with which she had tried to protect her belly.
In the semidarkness Anna-Maria could almost convince herself that her daughter was sleeping. For the first time in many years, Malin’s face had been peaceful. The fear had finally gone.
In death there was no need to be afraid.
The solitary flame had flickered through the night. The hours had passed; the candle had burned out. Eventually a nurse had whispered that Anna-Maria had to leave, Malin was to be taken to the mortuary.
It was time to say good-bye.
Anna-Maria increased her speed, marching along, the dust whirling up around her feet. The sun had disappeared behind lead-gray clouds; it was going to rain.
Mina would not suffer the same fate as Malin. Anna-Maria had no intention of allowing that to happen. Maybe there was a higher purpose behind Mina’s arrival at Freya’s Haven rather than another shelter? Maybe Anna-Maria had been given the chance to save another young woman, as she’d been unable to protect her own daughter?
The future of Freya’s Haven might be uncertain, but she was determined to make sure that Mina had a new life.
As the lane curved, she saw a broad-shouldered man approaching from the opposite direction. He was wearing a black leather jacket, and his dark hair was slicked back.
Anna-Maria didn’t recognize him, but he didn’t belong on Runmarö; his clothing was all wrong. Almost three hundred people lived on the island, and she usually met familiar faces on her way to the store, which was only a few hundred yards away now.
She sensed danger instinctively, even though it was broad daylight and she knew there were people not far away. He was striding along purposefully.
The hairs on Anna-Maria’s arms stood on end as he came straight toward her.
CHAPTER 112<
br />
“There you go.”
The locksmith stepped aside. Leila pushed down the handle, and the door of Herman Wibom’s apartment swung open. The hallway was in darkness, and she couldn’t hear a sound apart from Gunilla breathing heavily behind her.
Leila glanced around.
She could see a corridor with dark wallpaper leading to the dining room and presumably the living room. There was a closed door—a bedroom? The farthest room was the one that adjoined the neighboring apartment; that was where the music had come from.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
A worn leather briefcase was propped up against the wall. If Wibom had left for the office, it shouldn’t be here. Another sign that he was in the apartment. She waited a few seconds.
“Hello?”
A Persian runner in shades of blue lay on the floor of the corridor. Leila recognized the design from her childhood home. It was an elegant Nain rug patterned with ornate flowers, their stems intertwined. Her father had been very fond of that particular style.
Several irregular reddish-brown stains marred its beauty. The distance between them suggested that someone had walked to the door with something unpleasant on the soles of their shoes.
Someone who’d been in a hurry.
The locksmith was leaving; the sound of his footsteps echoed in the stairwell, then the outside door slammed shut.
Silence.
Leila knew she ought to call for backup, but instead she drew her gun. “Stay here,” she said to Gunilla.
The adrenaline was pumping as she edged forward, holding the gun in front of her.
She checked the kitchen. Wibom wasn’t there. She stopped outside the bedroom, took a deep breath. Then she flung the door open in a single movement with her left hand, not knowing what she might find.
A neatly made up bed stared back at her. Herman Wibom hadn’t slept there last night.
Which left only one more room.
CHAPTER 113
The man was only fifty yards away when Anna-Maria recognized him. Andreis Kovač.
The deep-set brown eyes, the broad mouth with well-formed lips—it couldn’t be anyone else. He’d found out where Mina was hiding.
How the hell had that happened?
She reached into her pocket for the phone that should have been there, remembering too late that it was out of reach in her office. She had no way of calling for help or warning Mina.
What was she going to do? She stopped dead. He was only a couple of yards away now. She stared at him, and fear took over.
“Oh my God!” she gasped. As soon as the words left her lips, she saw her mistake. He would realize that she knew who he was. And where Mina was hiding.
What had she done?
Kovač strode right up to her and grabbed her by the wrist, twisting the skin so that she cried out in pain. “I want to see Mina,” he said. “Take me to her.”
A flash of insight. He had no idea where Freya’s Haven was. There were no street names on Runmarö, just one red-painted wooden building after another. They all looked the same to anyone who was visiting the island for the first time.
This could be Mina’s salvation.
As long as Anna-Maria could hold out.
She looked around; there still wasn’t a soul in sight. On one side of the lane a flock of sheep were grazing contentedly, on the other lay the forest, dense and inhospitable.
No one would hear her scream.
Kovač twisted her wrist a little more; Anna-Maria thought she was going to faint.
“Where is she?”
The underlying aggression frightened her more than anything. Suddenly she understood why Mina was so afraid. Her own daughter must have felt the same. The thought gave her strength. She couldn’t allow him to get to Mina.
“I’ll call the police if you don’t let me go,” she managed to say. She had to keep quiet for Mina’s sake. For Malin’s sake.
Kovač smiled, exposing even white teeth, as if she’d said something amusing. Then his eyes narrowed. His wedding ring glinted. “Tell me where she is.”
“No—let me go!”
“I don’t care what I have to do to find out where Mina is—don’t you understand that?” He sounded terrifyingly normal. He altered his grip on her hand and bent her little finger back at a dangerous angle. “Where is she?”
The pain was unbelievable. Anna-Maria dropped to her knees as tears sprang to her eyes. “Please, no,” she gasped. She heard herself scream as the finger snapped like a chicken bone.
“Where is she?”
Anna-Maria shook her head.
Kovač produced a knife and brought it close to her face. She felt the touch of cold metal; he slowly stroked the blade over her skin from temple to chin. “Tell me where she is or I’ll cut you.”
“No,” Anna-Maria sobbed. “I can’t.”
CHAPTER 114
Leila hesitated outside the last closed door in Herman Wibom’s apartment. Her mouth went dry when she saw another dark-red stain. Slowly she pushed the door open.
The sun wouldn’t set for a few hours, but the room was gloomy. It faced northeast, and the building opposite took most of the light. The dark furniture and crowded bookshelves reinforced the impression of a cave.
There were two wing-backed leather armchairs by the fireplace.
Leila took a step forward, her feet crunching on broken glass on the floor. It took her a second or two to register the leg sticking out from behind one of the armchairs. She moved closer.
Herman Wibom was lying on his back with his eyes closed, his face battered. Blood had run down onto the parquet flooring, discoloring the herringbone pattern. Both palms were badly cut, as if he’d tried to defend himself against his attacker with his bare hands.
Was he still alive?
Leila slipped her gun back in its holster and knelt down beside Wibom’s unconscious body. His face was deathly white; she couldn’t tell if he was breathing. She placed two fingers on the side of his neck, checking for a pulse.
“Oh God!” she heard from the doorway. Gunilla was standing there, eyes wide with horror. “Is he dead?”
At that moment Leila felt the faintest beat beneath her fingertips. “Call an ambulance!” she shouted. “He’s still alive!”
Suddenly Wibom opened his eyes. The whites were bloodshot. He tried desperately to say something; his lips moved, but nothing came out. He groaned.
“What are you trying to say?” Leila leaned closer and put her ear to his mouth.
“He was here,” Wibom mumbled eventually.
“Who was here?”
“Mina’s husband . . . knows where she is.”
He tried to raise his hand, but his eyes rolled back in his head and he lost consciousness.
CHAPTER 115
Thomas left his car in the parking lot at Stavsnäs and headed for the small marina where he usually moored his boat when he went into town. He looked around for Nora. He was a few minutes early, so maybe she hadn’t arrived yet. The Vaxholm ferry was still at the main quay, waiting for the bus from Slussen.
He continued toward the Buster. The sky was overcast; he hoped it wouldn’t start raining before they reached Runmarö.
At that moment the bus pulled in. Thomas saw Nora as soon as the double doors opened. Most of the passengers made their way toward the ferry, weighed down with shopping bags. It must be the last trip of the day.
Nora waved to him, but stopped when her cell phone rang. She fished it out of her purse and answered it. Her face changed immediately; shock and horror were written all over it. She broke into a run. “Kovač has found out where Mina is!” she shouted. “We have to go!”
Thomas moored the Buster in Styrsvik as quickly as he could. Every second counted, bearing in mind what Kovač had done to Herman Wibom. Nora had tried to contact Anna-Maria during the short crossing, but there was no answer.
Mina’s phone was switched off.
Even if they used a helicopter, backup wouldn’t get the
re in time.
Nora’s face was white as she slipped her phone into her purse and jumped ashore before Thomas had tied the last knot.
Dusk was falling, rain hung in the air, and the water was the color of lead.
Nora had a head start, but Thomas soon caught up with her. They ran past the store and around a corner. A small group of people had gathered in the middle of the lane.
A car with the driver’s door open and the engine running was parked behind the group.
Someone was lying on the ground.
Thomas felt a surge of adrenaline. He increased his speed, even though he knew Nora wouldn’t be able to keep up.
“I’m a police officer,” he shouted when he was about fifteen yards away. “What’s happened?”
A young man in blue dungarees turned toward him, looking horrified. “She was just lying there,” he stammered. “I think I might have hit her, but it was an accident. I couldn’t avoid her.” He broke off and swayed where he stood. “She’s covered in blood, and there’s something wrong with her hand . . .”
No one else spoke, but people stepped aside to let Thomas through.
An unconscious woman was lying on her back. She had a slash wound to one cheek, and the blood had run down her chin. Two of the fingers on her right hand were sticking out at an impossible angle. They were broken in a way that couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the car. She hadn’t been there long; the blood hadn’t dried.
The attack had been brutal—and deliberate.
“It wasn’t me,” the driver whispered. “I swear, I barely touched her with the fender.” His face crumpled, and he sank to the ground, his back against the car.
Thomas crouched down to check for a pulse just as Nora arrived, panting. “She’s alive,” he said over his shoulder. “But she needs to go to the hospital. Has anyone called an ambulance?”
Nora inhaled sharply. “That’s Anna-Maria!” she exclaimed, looking around. “She’s the manager at Freya’s Haven.” She tugged at Thomas’s jacket. “Kovač must be here—who else would have done this to Anna-Maria?”
