He was also spending an increasing amount of time in the darkroom, developing his photos. That was his second job, even if the line between job and hobby was only a hair's breadth when the activity in question took up time without actually generating any money. In the 8os he had published a book of photographs which received very good reviews, but these days it was mostly a case of commissions from the local council, pictures for brochures and that sort of thing, which brought in a little extra cash. He had tried the advertising industry for a few years and had done fairly well as an art director before he developed an allergy to computer screens and, with considerable relief, was forced to abandon his ambitions on that front.
But photography was still the activity closest to his heart. Apart from that he really only wanted a job that would bring in money and wouldn't make any more demands on him than he was prepared to meet. He wanted to be able to work less so that he had more time for his passion. At least that had been the logic when he gratefully agreed to run Thomas's old workshop. It was just that the hours in the workshop on top of the hours in the darkroom turned out to be far more than a full-time job, which was something he perhaps hadn't reckoned with.
Lise-Lott no longer had any idea what he was developing in his darkroom. That was the saddest sign - the fact that he had stopped taking photographs of her. When they first met she had been his favourite subject. Lise-Lott in bright sunlight, Lise-Lott when she'd just woken up, Lise-Lott slightly tipsy, her eyes seductively half closed. She had loved it, once she had got over her initial shyness of course.
That was the price they'd had to pay for fulfilling their dreams and combining their work with their interests: they had to work all the time. But it was fortunate that Lars had the workshop to provide a steady income, fortunate that Thomas had left her the workshop and that she had been so stubborn, or perhaps so incapable of doing anything, that she hadn't sold it straight after his death. It was also fortunate that she had met Lars and that he had been handy with cars.
She thought about how lucky she had been, and this put her in a better mood. Despite everything, Lars was a real catch.
A middle-aged widow in a run-down house out in the middle of nowhere with a car workshop and no employees wasn't exactly at the top of anyone's wish list, but Lars had seen her qualities. Not only on the inside, but on the outside - his camera had brought out a beauty she didn't know she possessed, and presumably no one else did either. It was also Lars who had persuaded her to follow her dream, who had supported her every time she almost lost heart in the struggle to open her fabric shop. He could make most things seem easy. And with that attitude everything became achievable.
Looking back now, she couldn't understand why she had gone through life being so afraid of… of failing, perhaps. She had grown several centimetres in the last few years, she felt. That might have had something to do with the fact that she had shrunk several centimetres during her marriage to Thomas, and that she had rediscovered herself and her self-confidence in the calm waters of a normal relationship with a normal, nice guy. Whatever the reason, she was very happy.
In the car on the way home she decided that things were going to change, and that she was going to initiate that change. From now on they would invest more time in each other. Special candlelit dinners, taking a bath together, romantic weekends at that little hotel in Osterlen. She started planning, aware of the soppy grin on her face. It didn't matter, because Marianne was fast asleep beside her, her cheek pressed against the seat belt. She had a red stripe on her temple when Lise-Lott helped her unload her suitcases outside her terraced house.
'Thanks for a fantastic week, Lise-Lott. Can we do it again next year?'
Lise-Lott waved as she drove off. She had a good feeling in her stomach. Christmas wasn't far away, and for once she could hardly wait to make a start on the preparations.
She felt a great sense of calm as she made the sharp turn on to the gravel track. She would be home in a few seconds.
.
* * *
Chapter 7
They hadn't needed to break open the front door when they went into Lise-Lott Edell's house that morning; a cellar window had been left ajar. Karlberg was constantly surprised at how careless people were when it came to their hard-won possessions. Mostly people fell into two categories: a minority who went over the top and built walls taller than the house, got themselves a guard dog or a security firm or ridiculously expensive alarm systems; and then there was the vast majority who fastened the front door with a double lock and left the cellar window open.
Perhaps they hadn't thought a burglar would find his way to a house that was as inaccessible as this one. Perhaps all the years in the job had damaged Karlberg.
At any rate, the murderer had found his way here. Karlberg gave an involuntary shudder at the thought.
The neighbour - they couldn't exactly chat over the fence, although they might be able to exchange light signals across the fields on dark winter evenings - had informed them that Lise-Lott Edell was away on holiday.
'She's gone to the Canary Islands - on her own! While her man is at home working.'
Yes, they were sure. Lise-Lott had told them all about it when they met in the shop.
'Lars hadn't time to go with her. Lars is the one who runs the workshop these days since Thomas - that's Lise-Lott's first husband - went and died. There's plenty of work because I hardly ever see him leave the place, but she goes past here every day. You can't help noticing, officer, because they have to drive past our house whenever they go anywhere. And if you're as old as Bertil and I you haven't got much to do apart from sit here and gaze out of the window. And there aren't that many people who drive along here these days.'
Karlberg had declined coffee and cakes three times before he managed to get away. He could just imagine Tell's reaction if he'd sat dunking cake in his coffee in the middle of an investigation.
'We'll be back to ask you some more questions, fru Molin, probably tomorrow. It's good that you and your husband sit here looking out of the window; I'm sure you must have seen or heard something significant.'
He backed out on to the steps and pulled his woolly hat down over his ears. But fru Molin wasn't satisfied. She was wringing her wrinkled hands.
'I mean, we just presumed it was a break-in. But then we saw an ambulance, and of course that made us wonder if something might have happened to Lars. That would be terrible! You shouldn't have to lose two husbands when you're as young as Lise-Lott. You understand, officer -1 knew Thomas when he was just a little lad… and his father too, in fact. When Thomas died, it was just too much for Lise-Lott, looking after the house and the workshop. I mean she didn't know anything about cars or farming. For a while we thought she would sell up and move away, but… It would be absolutely dreadful if anything happened to Lars…'
'Thank you, fru Molin. I just wanted to check if you knew where your neighbours were, but as I said, I will be back.'
Karlberg tramped across the muddy field, which was already beginning to freeze as the light faded. He could feel fru Molin's gaze on his back for a long time. At the bottom of the field, with a grove of trees behind it, the Edell property stood etched against the darkening sky.
Tell was smoking impatiently at the bottom of the steps when he got back. Karlberg was glad he hadn't spent too much time with the neighbour.
'The woman has gone off on holiday on her own,' he informed Tell. 'Lars, the husband, runs the workshop, but as far as I understand, Lise- Lott Edell owns the firm; she inherited it from her late husband.'
'Thanks, we already knew that.'
'Anyway, the neighbours seem to have a fair amount of information. It's probably worth having a chat with them again later.'
Karlberg walked past Tell towards the front door, aware that with the mood his boss was in, it was best not to get involved in any kind of discussion. Best just to get on with the job.
An hour later they had gone through some of the mess contained in the kitc
hen drawers and the small office on the ground floor without finding anything that might help them get in touch with the woman who was supposed to be on holiday.
It was obvious that a woman lived in the house. The outside might have been in need of a coat of paint and the workshop wasn't exactly a statement in style, but the rooms of the house itself were pleasant and tidy.
'You might think the mouse would play while the cat's away, but that doesn't seem to be the case here,' said Tell thoughtfully.
Karlberg shot him a questioning look.
'It's tidy. I mean, the husband has been looking after himself here, so you might expect to see a load of pizza boxes and empty beer cans on the coffee table. Or socks on the floor. Or maybe that's just the way I imagine these country mechanics live.'
'Mmm. Either that or the wife has only just left. Perhaps he hasn't had time to make a mess yet.'
At this point Karlberg realised he ought to have asked the neighbours when Lise-Lott Edell had gone away, and when she was expected back.
Tell didn't waste any time, of course.
'Did the old woman next door say when she left?'
'I forgot to ask,' Karlberg admitted, but to his great relief a sigh was the only response. He liked working with Tell, he really did, but at this stage of the investigation, before he found a clear line to follow, a gallery of characters to start mapping, a motive, a suspicion, he could definitely be a pain in the arse.
'She might have run off,' said Tell, 'got tired of her husband and the whole thing.'
'Somebody certainly got tired of him,' said Karlberg with a wry smile. 'Maybe it was her. Who murdered him, I mean. It wouldn't be the first time a woman has lashed out at a useless unfaithful husband who beats her up every time he's had a drink.'
'Statistically it's the men who do the beating up who tend to kill the women,' muttered Tell.
'OK, but it's the husband who's lying out there. Or who was lying out there. And the fact that the murderer ran over him below the waist… doesn't that suggest something sexual? Symbolically, I mean. Something to do with him being unfaithful? He's been screwing around and she's had enough and she runs over his lower body. Gets herself an alibi by booking a trip and pretending to go away. But in fact she doesn't go anywhere.'
Karlberg was getting excited, and he noticed a spark in Tell's eyes.
Most murders were more or less straightforward. In a surprisingly large number of cases the perpetrator was still at the scene of the crime, ready to be arrested or sent to a psychiatric ward or a detox cell, in no condition even to think about getting rid of any clues or running away.
Tell wasn't buying Karlberg's hastily cobbled-together theory, that was obvious, but it clearly put him in a better mood.
'I think we'd better meet this woman and have a chat with her before we put her down as a murder suspect.'
'The relatives are always suspects to start with,' Karlberg persisted, but his words fell on deaf ears. Tell seemed to be communicating with a higher power as a pair of headlights appeared around the bend in the road.
From travelling at a comparatively high speed, the vehicle slowed and finally stopped ten metres from the entrance to the yard. For a minute or so Tell and Karlberg gazed across at the stationary car, painfully aware of what must be going through the mind of the person behind the wheel.
It was a woman who finally opened the door and stepped out on to the road, her movements endlessly slow: Lise-Lott Edell. Afterwards Karlberg would marvel at the fact that those close to someone who has died always know what's going on, long before the police have informed them and expressed their condolences. Lise-Lott Edell knew immediately that this was not a case of a break-in or criminal damage. Karlberg closed his eyes as the first scream echoed against the wall of the barn. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
Chapter 8
1993
She would think back to her room at Stensjö Folk High School as other people think back to their first apartment. In a way that was when she left home, even if she had spent weeks on end staying in town with older friends since she was fifteen. From now on she discounted the option of crashing out at her mother's when everything was spinning too fast, when life kicked her in the teeth. She wanted a new start, and the room beneath the sloping loft with the little handbasin next to the window represented it.
There was a faint smell of damp in the autumn and winter, but the first time she stepped in through the creaking door and gazed across the room and out through the window - you could see nothing but the sky and the tops of the trees - there was an aroma of summer dust and warm wood rising from the floor. There was a little cupboard tucked under the handbasin, and on the opposite wall was an ungainly linen cupboard with jade-green fabric fixed inside the glass doors. The cupboard was empty, but its smell resembled her grandmother's ointment and tiger balm. The only other furniture was a bed; she made it up with the bedclothes she'd brought from home. The bedspread was made up of crocheted stars.
Her early days at the school were terrible. In the evenings she would creep down to the little room on the ground floor and close the door silently, like a burglar. The walls of the telephone room were burgundy, and apart from the phone the room contained only a battered velvet armchair and a small wicker table with a large ashtray made of stone. Maya clutched the receiver and wondered who she could ring back home. She couldn't come up with anyone.
Above all the doors in the building was a sign with the name of the room. Perfectly adequate and perfectly understandable on the ground floor: CAFE, COMMON ROOM, OFFICE. On the first floor were the teaching rooms, dedicated to famous names, a daring mixture of film stars, authors, politicians and philosophers. The residential rooms had names taken from space: the narrow corridor was THE MILKY WAY and she slept in GALILEO. The loft was closest to the sky, after all.
Sometimes she would talk to Caroline, but not because she sought her out. On the contrary, Caroline made her nervous with her intense gaze, and Maya was relieved when she went away for a couple of days. At the same time she wondered where Caroline went. If she had a boyfriend to go home to.
The fact that they had any conversations at all was down to Caroline. She was stubborn, refusing to leave Maya in peace with her homesickness. She could see it and would mention it without a trace of embarrassment.
'You haven't settled in yet, have you?'
They were sitting at the back, on the steps leading into the garden. Maya didn't want to be a stroppy teenager; she wanted to answer. She longed for intimacy, but suddenly all she could focus on was the ant crawling boldly across her bare foot instead of choosing the longer way round. It was really too cold to go barefoot. The autumn had seized the garden in a firm grip after a few cold and rainy days, and her feet suddenly felt chilled to the bone.
'I didn't settle at first either. I absolutely hated it, thought I'd made completely the wrong choice. And I was scared as well.'
Their conversations often followed this pattern. Caroline talked. Maya reacted silently in her mind to what Caroline said but never managed to think of answers quickly enough to come out with them.
'Now I'm celebrating my eighth year here. Hopefully I won't make the decade. You can get stuck in a little lost corner of the world because in the end you don't know what's waiting outside. So it's easier to stay.'
'I think it's much more scary here. I mean, in town I knew my way around. I ran away from the whole shitty mess.'
Maya said this without looking up. For a moment there was complete silence. Caroline threw back her head and stretched her legs out in front of her. She hummed thoughtfully but didn't speak. A light breeze rustled through the leaves.
'I ran away from the whole shitty mess too, eight years ago,' she said finally. 'I could see things were the same for you.'
A wave of heat flooded up through Maya's chest, staining her throat with patches of red. She cursed her tendency to blush. In order to hide her face she rested her forehead on her knees and wr
apped her arms around her shins.
'So do you live here?'
Caroline laughed and pointed to one of the little cottages on the edge of the forest.
'I've lived in that house over there for a couple of years now. Before that it was a studio for the painting and ceramics courses but they're held on the first floor now. For the first few years I lived in one of the attic rooms, but it's nice to have something of your own, a kitchen of your own and so on. It's good to be able to close the door when you don't want company and have a bit of peace and quiet.'
'But don't you have an apartment to go to when you have time off?'
'Not any more. I got a place when I finished studying, but it was just standing empty during term time.'
Caroline hesitated and seemed to be evaluating Maya with her gaze.
'I… I had a few problems before I ended up here. Such a lot happened. I don't really want to talk about it but let's just say that coming here was my salvation in many ways. So in the summer, when I realised that the idea of going away from here made me anxious, I was afraid that… Anyway, I got rid of the apartment.'
Maya didn't let on that this confidence filled her with joy. She looked
at the group of pupils standing outside the former studio, chatting loudly.
'You can't get that much peace and quiet!' she exclaimed.
Now Caroline was hiding her face in her hands. Close by, a squirrel was scampering up and down a tree trunk. Every time it reached the ground it seemed to come a little nearer, as if it were getting more used to the presence of people.
'You see, the idea of sitting by myself in an apartment trying to do something sensible with my life makes me go to pieces. I just haven't got the nerve to do it. Being alone is an art, and I'm no good at it.'
Caroline picked up her shirt and her coffee cup.
'Hanging out with other people is an art too,' said Maya by way of consolation.
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