Unspoken ak-2

by Mari Jungstedt

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” he said sullenly.

  Knutas put his arms around both children and gave them a hug. Petra relented, but Nils was still mad and pulled away.

  “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

  “Leave me alone,” snapped Nils, giving his father an angry glare.

  Knutas took Nils aside, and after some persuasion, his son reluctantly agreed to come downstairs for dinner.

  Lina looked tired and worn out.

  “So what happened?” asked Knutas when peace had once again settled over the household.

  “Oh, we had a problem at work. I’ll tell you later.”

  “But we want to hear about it, too,” objected Petra.

  “I don’t know… It’s such an awful story,” cautioned Lina.

  “Please, Mamma. Tell us.”

  “Well, okay. A woman who was supposed to give birth to her first child came in this morning with labor pains. Everything looked fine, but when she started to push, we couldn’t get the baby out. Anita thought we should give the mother an epidural to ease the contractions, but I wanted to wait.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes as she talked. Knutas reached for her hand under the table.

  “Then the baby’s heartbeat suddenly got fainter, so we had to do an emergency cesarean. But it was too late. The baby died. I feel like it was my fault.”

  “Of course it wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could,” Knutas assured her.

  “Oh, that’s so sad. Poor Mamma,” said Petra, trying to console her.

  “I’m not the one you should feel sorry for. I’m going upstairs to lie down for a while.” Lina gave a big sigh and got up from the table.

  “Shall I come with you?” asked Knutas.

  “No, I’d rather be alone.”

  Usually her work was a source of great joy for Lina, but when things went wrong, she was very hard on herself. She would go over and over everything that had happened, brooding about what they could have done differently, whether they could have done this instead of that.

  It wasn’t really so strange, thought Knutas. She had to deal with life and death all day long. Just as he did.

  WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21

  Pia Dahlstrom was a tall, dark, and very beautiful woman. Completely unlike her parents, both in appearance and demeanor. She was wearing a jacket, black pants, and high heels. Her hair was pinned up in a knot. She had arrived early because she had to leave that same morning. It was only 7:00 a.m., and police headquarters was still deserted.

  Knutas had offered her coffee, which he had taken the trouble to make himself. It was rare that anyone bothered to make real coffee, even though the coffeemaker stood right next to the dreary office coffee machine. They chatted while they waited for the coffee to brew. She reminded him of Audrey Hepburn in the old movies from the fifties. Her big, dark eyes were rimmed with dark eyeliner, just like the movie star’s eyes.

  When the coffee was done brewing, she sat down on his visitor’s sofa.

  “Could you describe your relationship with your father?” Knutas asked, thinking that he sounded like a psychiatrist.

  “We weren’t close at all. His alcoholism prevented that. He started drinking more and more the older I got, or maybe I just noticed it more as I grew up.”

  She gave her beautiful head a slight shake. Not a strand of hair was out of place.

  “He didn’t care about me,” she went on. “He never came to watch any of my riding lessons or gymnastics routines. Mamma was always the one who went to the PTA meetings and the quarterly teacher conferences. I can’t remember him ever making a single sacrifice or doing anything for my sake. No, I really couldn’t care less about him.”

  “I can understand that,” said Knutas.

  “You speak Gotland Swedish, but you sound like a Dane,” she said with a smile.

  “I’m married to a Dane, so I guess some of it has rubbed off. How did you react when you heard about your father’s death?”

  “I just felt empty inside. If he hadn’t been murdered, he probably would have ended up drinking himself to death. When I was younger I was angry at him, but that feeling is long gone. He chose the life he was living. He used to have everything: a stimulating job, a family, and a house. But he chose booze over me and my mother.”

  “When did you last have contact with him?”

  “The same day I passed my school exams,” she said without changing expression.

  “But that must be more than fifteen years ago,” exclaimed Knutas in surprise.

  “Seventeen, to be exact.”

  “How could it be that the two of you haven’t had any contact since then?”

  “It’s very simple. He never called, and I never did, either.”

  “And you didn’t have any contact with him after the divorce?”

  “Sometimes I would spend the weekends with him, but it wasn’t much fun. The fact that I was there didn’t stop him from drinking. He never had any ideas about what we should do except stay in his apartment, and then his buddies would come over. They’d drink without paying any attention to me. Watch the races and soccer games on TV, or sometimes they’d sit there and look at girlie magazines. It was disgusting. Usually I’d end up going back home after an hour. Then I stopped going there at all.”

  “What about your relationship with your mother?”

  “It’s fine. I suppose it could be better, but I think it’s at an acceptable level,” she said, sounding as if she were talking about stocks and bonds.

  She scratched her collarbone and her bra strap was visible for a moment. It was a glossy gold with a nice embroidered edge.

  She’s undoubtedly just as perfect underneath, thought Knutas, and then he was annoyed with himself for letting her femininity affect him.

  “So how are you doing now?” he asked, to change the subject.

  “Fine, thanks. I work at the municipal library in Malmo, and I like my job. I have lots of friends, both in Malmo and in Copenhagen.”

  “Do you live alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know if your father had any enemies? You haven’t had contact with him in so many years, but something from the distant past might also be important.”

  A frown appeared on her face. “Not that I can think of.”

  Not much more came out of the conversation. When Pia Dahlstrom left, a faint trace of her perfume lingered.

  Several Months Earlier

  “Are we going to eat here?”

  She couldn’t hide her disappointment. She had thought that they were going to a restaurant.

  “That’s right. I borrowed an apartment from a friend. The food is ready upstairs. Come on.”

  He led the way through the front entrance. The building was located on one of those posh streets near Sodertorg, inside the ring wall. There was no elevator, so they had to trudge their way up to the fifth floor. When they reached the top landing, she was out of breath and had a growing sense of uneasiness in her chest. She looked at his trousers with the sharp creases. He suddenly seemed so old. What did he want with her here, anyway?

  She had an urge to turn around and run back down the stairs, but then he took her hand.

  “Wait till you see how nice it is.”

  He fumbled with the keys.

  The apartment was the biggest one she had ever seen. It was on the top floor, with thick beams in the ceiling and a view of the sea. The living room was enormous, with a polished hardwood floor and big, colorful paintings on the walls. In one corner stood a table that was set with plates and glasses. He hurried over to light the candles in a candelabra.

  “Come on,” he said eagerly. “Come over here and have a look.”

  They went out on the balcony, which had a panoramic view. She could see the water and part of the harbor, the town, with its labyrinth of buildings, and the tower of the cathedral.

  “Let’s have some champagne.”

  He made it sound so natural that she felt very grown up. He ca
me back with a bottle and two glasses. He eagerly filled them.

  “Cheers.”

  She didn’t dare refuse. Cautiously she took a sip. It tickled her nose but didn’t taste very good. She hadn’t tried much alcohol before. Just a couple of times when her mother had urged her to have some wine on a Saturday evening so that she wouldn’t have to drink alone. Red wine tasted horrible. This was better. She took another sip.

  “So, what do you think? Isn’t this grand?” he said, putting his arm around her as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It made her feel uncomfortable. She didn’t know how to react.

  He drank another toast with her.

  “Drink up, little lady. Then we’ll go in and eat.”

  For dinner they first had toast with some kind of topping. She ate carefully, watching him to see what he did. He poured the rest of the champagne and clinked glasses with her again and again. She took small sips but soon began to feel dizzy. The conversation kept stalling. He asked her a number of questions but mostly talked about himself. Boasted about all the amazing trips he had made to exotic places in the world. As if he wanted to impress her.

  She listened but said very little. Reluctantly she began to relax. It was wonderful to be sitting in such a beautiful room, feeling the warmth from the candles. To be eating such an elegant dinner with muted music in the background. The main course was pork tenderloin with saffron rice. And red wine with the food, much better than the wine she’d tasted at home. She drank the whole glass. He kept on talking as Fanny devoted herself to studying the movements of his lips. She started getting the giggles.

  “Did you enjoy the food?” he asked as he stood up and started clearing away the plates.

  “Yes, thank you. It was great.” She snickered.

  “That’s good.”

  He looked so satisfied that she started laughing even more. To think he could be so pleased just because she was happy.

  “Would you like some coffee? Or maybe you don’t drink coffee?”

  She shook her head.

  “Where’s the bathroom?”

  “It’s out in the hall, to the right. It says ‘WC’ on the door.”

  He pointed, eager to show her the way. She was in such a hurry to pee that she felt as if she would burst.

  The bathroom was just as elegant as the rest of the apartment. It had a light dimmer. She played with the light switch, moving it back and forth. The bathroom was sparkling clean, and it smelled nice. Everything looked new and unused. The toilet paper had a pattern, and it was softer than what she was used to. She smiled at herself in the mirror, then giggled. To think she was allowed to enjoy all this luxury.

  When she went back, he had dimmed the lights and was sitting on the sofa. On the low coffee table stood two glasses of wine and a tray with candles of varying sizes.

  “Come here,” he said softly.

  She felt wary, didn’t really know what he wanted. She sat down cautiously, some distance away from him.

  “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?” he said gently.

  He moved closer. Took her hand and played with her fingers. She hardly dared look at him. He put one hand on her leg. It felt warm and heavy through her jeans.

  He left it there, not moving.

  “You’re so beautiful,” he whispered.

  Cautiously he tugged at a strand of her hair.

  “And you have such lovely hair, black and shiny and thick.”

  He leaned back and stared at her.

  “Your body… it’s perfect. Do you know how sexy you are?”

  She felt anxious and uncomfortable but couldn’t utter a sound. No one had ever said anything like that to her before.

  Suddenly he pulled her close and kissed her. She didn’t know what to do, just sat there, motionless. Her head was spinning from the wine. His mouth pressed harder against hers, and he tried to open her lips with his tongue. She let him do it. His hands began groping under her shirt, sliding up toward her breasts. She felt his weight as he bent over her. Then his hand reached one of her breasts. She was frightened by his reaction. He moaned and whimpered. Started getting rough, tugging and pulling at her bra. His tongue whisked around in her mouth. Suddenly her thoughts were crystal clear. The only thing she knew was that she had to get away.

  “Wait,” she said. “Wait.”

  He didn’t seem to hear but just kept tearing at her clothes.

  “Wait a minute. I have to go to the bathroom,” she added to make him stop.

  “But I just want to touch you a little,” he cajoled.

  “Please, wait.”

  He put his hands on her back. They were sweaty now, he was sweaty all over. They sat motionless for a moment, and she listened to him breathing hard.

  Then he loosened his grip. It seemed as if he were giving up.

  He held her away from him and fixed his eyes on her breasts.

  “Do you know how beautiful you are?” he whispered. “What are you doing to me?”

  He began groping her again. Even rougher than before.

  “No,” she said. “I don’t want to.”

  “Just a little. You can just give me a little.”

  He pushed her down onto the sofa, pulled down her zipper, and took a firm grip on her jeans, pulling them off with a jerk. They were so tight that her panties came off with them. She was completely exposed and realized that she didn’t have a chance. She stopped struggling and lay still. He pushed her thighs apart.

  Then she started to cry.

  “I don’t want to,” she screamed. “Stop it! Stop it! ”

  All of a sudden he seemed to come to his senses. He let go of her.

  When he drove her home, he didn’t say a word the whole way. She didn’t, either.

  Against all odds, Emma had agreed to meet him for lunch. Johan had finished the interview with the county governor, which meant that he was free for the rest of the day. He was supposed to fly home in the morning.

  They had agreed to meet at his hotel room. She didn’t dare go anywhere else.

  Grenfors had called to talk about the story Johan had been assigned to do back in Stockholm; it sounded totally uninteresting.

  After the phone conversation, he sat in an armchair and looked at his watch. He had twenty minutes until Emma arrived. Should he order lunch now, to get that out of the way? It was probably a good idea. If the food was delivered faster, they would have more time to themselves. He grabbed the menu and scanned the selections: toast, Caesar salad, sole on a bed of spinach for two hundred and forty kronor-scandalous. Hamburgers with pommes frites-couldn’t they just write French fries for once?

  What would Emma like? What did she eat? Shrimp, shellfish-no, not shrimp soup. Pasta Bolognese-a fancy way of saying ordinary spaghetti with meat sauce. Something light, but not too light. But maybe she was super-hungry. How about an omelet?

  He started to sweat. He would have to take a shower. Without making up his mind, he punched the number for room service. What did they recommend? What’s fast, good, not too heavy, and not too expensive? Meatballs with cream sauce and lingonberries-sure, maybe not very elegant, but what the hell.

  He ordered two portions and then tore off his clothes. Fifteen minutes left. Would the food come on time, or would they be interrupted in the midst of this longed-for rendezvous? At least he had been longing for it-as for her, he had no idea. What if she had agreed to meet him just to tell him that it was over?

  As he got out of the shower, there was a knock on the door. No, it couldn’t be… He needed to get dressed, comb his hair, and put on some aftershave. He stopped. Or was it their food? He crept over to the door with water dripping all over.

  “Yes?”

  “Room service,” said a voice on the other side of the door. Relief flooded over him. Why did everything feel as if it were a matter of life and death?

  The waiter started setting the table. No, no, that wasn’t necessary, thanks. He couldn’t offer him a tip, standing there like that in his
underwear with a meager towel held up in front of him as a shield. Two minutes left. He threw on some pants and a clean shirt. Then it was twelve ten and she hadn’t arrived. Time for a panic attack. What if she didn’t come? Had he missed a text message on his cell phone? It was on the table. No, no messages. She had to come, damn it. He looked at himself in the mirror-pale, helpless, at the mercy of his stormy emotions and the despair that would inevitably flood over him if it turned out that she had changed her mind.

  There was a knock on the door. He took such a deep breath that he saw stars. He shook his head. To think he couldn’t take control of his own life.

  It was unreal seeing her standing there in the corridor. With her dark eyes and rosy cheeks, she looked shamelessly perky and healthy. She smiled at him, and that was enough to make the floor disappear from under his feet.

  “Mmmm… that smells good. Meatballs,” she said without much enthusiasm.

  How could he be so hopelessly stupid? Offering a teacher meatballs. That’s what they probably had every day at school. What an idiot. They sat down at the table.

  “Would you like a beer?”

  “Sure, thanks.”

  What an absurd situation. Here they sat, each of them with a plate of food on the table, in a hotel room with cloudy skies outside, and it was the first time they had seen each other in almost a month. She had put on a little weight, he noticed. It suited her.

  “How are you?”

  The question sounded as artificial as the flowers on the table.

  “Fine, thanks,” she replied without looking up from the food. “What about you?”

  “Not too bad.”

  The meatballs felt like cardboard in his mouth.

  Silence.

  They looked up from their plates at the same time and finished chewing with their eyes fixed on each other.

  “Actually, I feel like hell,” said Johan.

  “Me, too.”

  “Miserable, in fact. I feel sick all the time.”

  “Same here. I keep feeling as if I’m going to throw up.”

  “The whole situation is rotten.”

  “Rotten to the core,” she said, and her eyes danced.