Frozen Moment

by Camilla Ceder

  When the breathing changed, he knew she was awake.

  'Christian?'

  'Yes.'

  'I daren't turn over. I'm so afraid of being confronted by your regrets.'

  Her voice was hoarse from the alcohol and outpourings of the previous evening. It broke and became a whisper, more sensed than heard. He was filled with a warmth that began at his toes and spread like wildfire through his limbs until it reached his aching head and exploded in the form of a smile that he wanted to hide and show at the same time.

  He had always found these unwritten rules difficult to understand: the game that had to be played at the beginning of a relationship. The precisely measured amount of give and take a man must master, in order to avoid being perceived as an arrogant bastard with intimacy problems, or a suffocating control freak.

  She turned over, and he clumsily stroked her tousled hair.

  'Merry Christmas,' she said, pulling the duvet over her head with a muffled howl.

  All day Seja kept saying that she would take a stroll over to the northern part of town to pick up her car and go home. First of all they were just going to have a traditional Christmas Eve breakfast. She rang Åke and asked if he could see to Lukas, while Tell went out shopping for rice pudding, spiced wort bread and Cheddar cheese; he also found some eau de toilette on the perfume counter, and wrapped it in flowery paper.

  Then they collapsed together in front of the TV, watching Donald Duck, Karl-Bertil Jonssoris Christmas Eve, and an old film before finishing off the half-bottle of Jameson, which Tell had produced from the cupboard. And that was how she ended up staying until Christmas morning, after ringing Åke once again and pointing out that he still owed her a favour or two.

  In the hallway they held hands for several minutes before Seja pulled away. Tell stood in the doorway until the sound of her footsteps died away and the outside door closed behind her. For the first time in almost two days he thought about work. It gave him a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  1994

  Maya's teacher was talking about the 'disturbing development in the level of her ambitions'. He really wanted to discuss her relationship with Caroline, but it was clear that he was unable to formulate the words to describe what was really troubling him.

  Maya didn't offer him any assistance. He would have to deal with his jealousy as best he could. In the end the conversation died away, after she had dodged the issue and promised to pull her socks up.

  Oh yes, she knew she was young and had very good prospects, if only she would make the same effort she had made at the beginning, a year or so ago when nothing of any significance had happened in her life. Because that was the most terrifying thing of all: she didn't care about anything except Caroline. Why? Because Caroline made her happy. Because Maya was more than happy to fulfil her expectations.

  She had returned to school after visiting Borås for a couple of weeks that seemed empty because of her longing to get back to Stensjö. Therefore she was bewildered when Caroline met her with angry accusations, saying she had lost her passion. That she was drifting away from her.

  There were small but unmissable signs, Caroline insisted, blind to Maya's growing fear: Maya was friendly, but not intimate. Her lover but not her twin soul. She couldn't bear it.

  However much Maya professed the sincerity of her love, it was never enough.

  When the anger had worked itself out, Caroline turned her back on Maya, hurt. She suddenly began to hang out with one of the boys in Maya's class, a dark-eyed silent young man. They held hands behind the canteen, and Caroline's cheeks were red. At dawn Maya would stand behind the curtain in the school's guest room, where she now slept; she had found a refuge there in her anger. She saw him on the porch of the studio cottage, his shirt buttoned up all wrong and his hair standing on end.

  She had no one to talk to. In her darkest hours Maya thought that Caroline seemed to be enjoying her despair.

  Maya was lucky and managed to get another room; it wasn't her old one, but it did look out over the garden. It was fine. For two whole weeks she left her cases without unpacking them, like a tourist just passing through.

  Then Caroline was standing there again, triumphant: I love being the first one for you, not just the woman you go to bed with, but the first one who has touched your soul. She had let the hair on the top of her head grow into a stubby coxcomb. 'Now I know I mean something to you.'

  Maya forgave her and moved back into the studio. She handed in her room key, blushing with embarrassment as she gave it to Greta in the office. Greta tilted her head to one side and tried to look pleasant, despite the fact that her cryptic comments were poisonous.

  'You're not the first one to get caught up with Caroline. I think a conscientious girl like you should be careful, Maya. You can't always be sure you know everything it's important to know about a person.'

  But who knows what is important and what is right in life, while it's still going on? Maya allowed herself to be swept away by a passion that held her in its grip for weeks, during which she and Caroline hardly let go of one another. Love was a roller coaster, the betrayals unspoken and barely touching the scope, the breadth and the depth of the emotion; betrayals that it was impossible to put into words, and therefore impossible to come to terms with. When Maya did not fulfil her expectations, Caroline would retreat, needing to be alone, silent and inaccessible, and Maya would weep once more.

  And if Maya devoted only part of her attention to her studies when she and Caroline were passionately in love, she was barely capable of bothering with them at all when they weren't speaking. All her strength went into resisting the impulse to plead and pray, to beg on her knees to be loved again, the way she now knew it was possible to be loved. Sometimes she gave in to this impulse and detested the way Caroline closed her eyes and allowed herself to be filled up, apparently entranced by the fact that Maya was humiliating herself for her sake.

  Caroline was smoking outside the door of the main building.

  Maya thought once again how Caroline was capable of making her feel less lonely, how she could choose whether to love or not. She wanted to run up to her and take her to task for the careless way she handled other people's feelings, but the number of people around them stopped her.

  Suddenly the situation seemed so constricting and stifling that she felt as if she couldn't move. The little group of houses on the edge of the forest aroused nothing but loathing in her, the charm of the old school building seemed musty and out of date. It was suddenly incomprehensible to her that Caroline should have stood this year after year, a world where nothing changed except the fresh cohorts of students, who stayed for a while and then moved on in life.

  She pushed her hands down into her pockets. The clock struck ten, and dutiful students headed for their classes.

  'We're going to move away from here,' said Maya when they were alone on the steps. 'We'll move out and get a place of our own, you and me. We can't stay here for ever.'

  Caroline's face was completely expressionless.

  Maya went on: 'I mean, I'll finish my exams soon, and there's nothing for me to do here after that. Maybe we could move to Gothenburg. Or get ourselves a little house.'

  The words released the emotion. It was too late for pointless power games, and she wasn't that kind of person. Maya was no strategist when it came to love.

  'You and me?' A smile played around the corners of Caroline's mouth. 'So you're sticking around then?' As she gazed at Maya, her eyes narrowed. 'A lot of people are treacherous by nature, but not you.

  Do you understand? We're the same, you and I. You'll be there for me until the end.'

  Her pupils contracted, making the iris appear unnaturally blue. Maya dared to move closer.

  'Yes, I'll be there.'

  'You won't let me down, will you?'

  'No, I won't let you down.'

  * * *

  Chapter 21

  2006
<
br />   Bärneflod let out his belt one more hole and sadly contemplated what Christmas had done to his already corpulent torso. He jumped as Karlberg rapped briskly on the desk.

  'We've found a tyre model that matches the casts. What's more, one of the tyres shows specific damage from wear and tear, which could be very helpful indeed.'

  'When we've found the murderer, you mean? And his car.' 'Spoilsport. Where's Tell, anyway?' asked Karlberg. 'Nobody knows. But I think he's on his way in. And I'm on my way out.'

  'OK. See you later.'

  'Hey!' He shouted back to Karlberg. 'Why don't you come with me? I'm going to see Edell.' 'Are they digging him up?' 'The younger brother, idiot.'

  They hadn't phoned in advance, and when they arrived at the farm it seemed as if they were out of luck. After all, it was between Christmas and New Year, and normal people were on holiday and had gone away. Bärneflod grunted discontentedly at the thought of all the holidays he'd worked through during his career.

  There were no lights on, and there was no car on the driveway.

  They swore at some length, and were about to turn away when a window on the ground floor opened and a cascade of water came flooding out, splashing on to the frozen flower bed and over Karlberg's shoes, much to his surprise.

  'Oh, goodness, I'm so sorry. I didn't know anybody was there.'

  The apologetic voice belonged to a woman who would presumably turn out to be Gertrud Edell, Reino Edell's wife. She didn't seem to know what to do with herself, standing there at the window.

  Bärneflod and Karlberg took control and invited themselves in, after wiping their feet on the fir branches by the steps. They were provided with coffee and something to dunk in it, along with a stream of apologies concerning both the involuntary shower and the inadequacy of the biscuits on offer.

  Gertrud seemed nervous. Her husband was not at home, she said repeatedly, and it was clear from her reluctance to sit down that she found the situation uncomfortable. She kept flitting around the kitchen, finding pointless things to do. Bärneflod and Karlberg had seen this kind of behaviour before, usually from people who didn't want to talk to the police. An invisible mark was wiped off the draining board, a mat was moved a fraction to the left. It would be good to find out the reason behind her nerves before Reino Edell got home, Bärneflod thought. He had a feeling that this woman was accustomed to letting her husband do the talking.

  He passed on his thoughts to Karlberg when Gertrud Edell left them alone for a moment to visit the bathroom. Karlberg nodded in agreement. Or, he whispered back, they could turn it around and highlight the husband's habit of speaking on behalf of his wife. You needed two people to form a destructive relationship, he said. Barneflod leaned back and shrugged his shoulders, but Karlberg wouldn't give up.

  'Can you say that an unequal relationship is destructive if neither party perceives it to be destructive?'

  Bärneflod looked at him in exasperation. 'For God's sake! Just forget it.'

  Gertrud Edell came in and was surprised to see the older police officer looking so annoyed. He increased her feeling of unease by smiling sweetly while pointing decisively at the chair opposite his own.

  It was an exhortation not to be ignored. She sat down on the very edge of the chair.

  Bärneflod decided to stop pissing about.

  'What sort of relationship did your husband have with Lise-Lotte Edell and Lars Waltz?'

  Gertrud Edell looked down at her hands, which were bright red, as were her face and throat. She twisted her wedding ring round and around.

  'Well?'

  'Why are you asking if you already know the answer?'

  She looked up defiantly. So there was a bit of spark in the old girl, Karlberg thought, pleasantly surprised.

  'Waltz made a complaint against your husband alleging threats and harassment on three separate occasions. That's what we know. You can tell us the rest.'

  She carried on twisting the ring around her finger as she watched a fly making its way across the plate of biscuits. She was saved by the sound of a tractor outside.

  Reino Edell crossed the yard, came up the steps in just a few strides and stood in the doorway. Tall and powerfully built, he was dressed in his work clothes, and most of his face was adorned by blue-black stubble. Karlberg, who couldn't exactly boast about his ability to grow a beard, noticed that Edell had missed a few long dark hairs just under one eye. He wondered quietly to himself what the man would look like with a full beard.

  Edell took off his cap and nodded grimly at the visitors. He didn't come over and offer his hand, which suited Bärneflod perfectly. He preferred to keep things simple too.

  'We're from the police, and as I just said to your wife, Lars Waltz made complaints about you on three occasions; would you like to tell us about that?'

  The man looked at his wife as if he were trying to discern whether she had said anything inappropriate.

  'Nothing to tell.'

  'I very much doubt that, particularly given the fact that Lars Waltz is dead.'

  'I don't know anything about that.'

  Bärneflod had had enough.

  'OK, then we can continue this conversation at the station. We have access there to more detailed information about your quarrels with Waltz. And I think you won't find anybody there who's as well disposed as I am to give you the chance to tell your side of the story.'

  Edell twitched and decided to cooperate.

  'All right, I can explain things!' He slammed his cap down on the worktop. 'I admit I was furious with him. He was an arrogant bastard! He wouldn't listen, and he had no respect for other people's property! That's what I told him.'

  Bärneflod nodded thoughtfully.

  'OK. This is what I think happened. You went to see him several times. On one occasion you shoved him up against a wall and threatened him. What was it you said? All that stuff about respect for other people's property?'

  'Yes.'

  'And you also accused him of being gay.'

  'Maybe I was right,' said Edell. 'He was a queer. He had a bloke down in town, I even know his name, Zachariasson. I did a little bit of investigating too. He was being unfaithful to Lise-Lott, the cocky bastard.' Edell cleared his throat. 'But I didn't murder him because of that, if that's what you're thinking.'

  'I'm not thinking anything, I'm just saying that a man was murdered shortly after you threatened to kill him. I don't know. Perhaps you wanted to frighten Lise-Lott away?'

  'Yes, but killing somebody is a bloody extreme way of doing that,' Edell muttered. He wiped his hands on his trousers and picked up two large pieces of sponge cake.

  'I've got to get going. I only came home to pick up my dinner.'

  A lunchbox was standing ready on the worktop; he grabbed it on his way out.

  Bärneflod waved away Karlberg's move to stop him. 'Forget it. We'll keep an eye on him. We can bring him in later if we need to.'

  Gertrud Edell gave a hollow cough and squeezed the dishcloth between her hands.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  I never want to live like this, thought Christian Tell, who had just found the address he was looking for.

  The semi-detached houses were arranged in horseshoes around a grassy area, with swings and sandpits in the middle. It was a relatively attractive place, serviced by the tram, and only quarter of an hour into town by car.

  Tell was standing in front of a mailbox with a Dalarna County motif on the flap and waltz in ornate writing. He turned around and waved to Gonzales, who was trying to bring to an end a conversation with God knows who.

  A straight line of paving stones split the garden in two, and there was a set of garden chairs in dirty white plastic with puddles of rain on the seats. Never like this. He had lived in the city centre all his life, and was used to its roar and pace. Without the noise he felt oddly naked, as if he and the city were one and the same. In an odd moment of confusion he had thought about moving, like others who had stopped making use of the wealt
h of bars and cafes and whose only contribution to inner-city life was to cough up a ridiculous amount in rent each month for a tiny two-room apartment. He could use his ridiculously small savings to put a deposit on a little house somewhere on the coast, or perhaps in the mountains with a view, rather than feeding it to the greedy capitalist landlords. He might even be able to get a transfer to some little police station out in the country. Investigate one murder every ten years and have time to do other things.

  The thought brought him some comfort, mainly because he knew it was never going to happen. He would remain in his little apartment in Vasastan, not far from the house where he was born. He would carry on renting instead of buying, because the world looked the way it did and because a police officer's salary was a joke. He would complain when the rent went up, but secretly he would be content with the way things were. He had never really seen himself in any other context, and definitely not in a place like this. Carina had called him elitist, teased him about his phobia of the middle class and his fear of living on some suburban estate - joking, but with a sting of pedagogical seriousness: these people are happy, and they are not inferior to you.

  He would never contradict her, and yet he and Carina had never taken that step from going out to moving in together, from a rented apartment to a house. It was all down to him. And in the end Carina had packed the few belongings she had in his apartment, an embarrassingly small carrier bag that she held up in front of him, tears glistening in her eyes. This, Christian, is why I'm moving out. This! And that was down to him as well, what entrenched habits and an unwillingness to change had cost him.

  The rusty framework of a hammock stood beneath the roof of the veranda. The blinds of the house were partially closed, but shadowy movement was perceptible between the slats. Just as Tell was about to knock, the door was pushed open so suddenly that he had to take a quick step back to avoid being hit in the face.

  'Who are you looking for?'