‘Mmh.’ Borg’s grunt suggested he had just learned something new, which pleased Månsson. It was thanks to him that they were here, after all. It was thanks to him that they were getting close to solving the case, and it was high time the two detectives recognised that.
‘Come and look over here!’ Bure had opened the low door at the far end of the room. Inside was a small room, no more than five or six square metres in area.
The light from the other room wasn’t strong enough to reach inside, so Bure had switched his torch on again. He was pointing it at an old metal bedstead covered with a stained mattress and a blanket. Beside the bed was an electric radiator, and beside that an empty vodka bottle and a bundle of adult magazines, their edges curled with damp.
The fox barked out in the forest again. Closer now, more shrill. It sounded almost like a child’s cry and Månsson shivered in spite of himself. Bure swung the beam of the torch towards one end of the bed, where a metal object was fastened around one of the posts.
A pair of handcuffs.
Chapter 25
O
ne of the first things she notices when she emerges from the forest onto the great expanse of the plain is all the wind turbines. White steel towers, almost one hundred metres tall, in regimented lines, their red eyes winking in sequence at night. Wind giants, that’s how she usually thinks of them. On breezy days their heartbeat can be heard several kilometres away. A dull, pulsating rumble that makes her feel unsettled.
When she was a child there weren’t any wind giants. Back then the silos were the tallest things around. Big, shiny metal cylinders, one or two per farm, sometimes more. She used to think of them as silver towers silently watching over the fields, farms and people. Now the towers look tiny in the company of the giants, shrunken, like so many other things from her childhood.
Mattias took her up onto their silo once. It was before Billy disappeared, in the days when Mattias was still her best friend and she never wanted summer to end. They waited until Billy was having his lunchtime nap, didn’t want to have the little tell-tale following them.
She can still remember how she felt as she climbed the rusty steps. The vibrations in the warm metal, the excitement of doing something that wasn’t allowed, and the fact that Mattias trusted her.
‘Keep looking up, Vera. Just look up.’
She followed his advice. She didn’t look round until they had reached the gently domed top of the silo and the height turned her stomach into a knot of terror and excitement.
Mattias pointed everything out to her. The church tower in the village a few kilometres away. Ängsgården, which Uncle Harald had taken over from Grandfather, with three times as many silver towers as anyone else. The ridge and Northern Forest which blocked the view way off in the distance like a dark, jagged line. When she turned and looked south, there were no such obstructions. Just a patchwork of green and yellow fields all the way to the horizon, and above them a blue sky that seemed endless. It was the first time she realised just how big the world actually was. The first time that anxious, nagging feeling hit her.
The birds’ nest was built from sticks, twigs and bits of green paper from seed sacks. It was tucked between two of the silo’s roof struts, tucked beneath a loose sheet of tin that protected it against wind, rain and crows. There were three eggs, greenish blue-white, in the middle of the nest.
‘Goshawks,’ Mattias said confidently. ‘They catch chickens and ducks. Pheasants too, Uncle Harald told me. Poachers.’ He spat over the edge of the silo and nodded towards her. It took her a few seconds to realise what he meant. What he wanted her to do.
Afterwards she swore never to tell anyone. That it would be their secret for ever and ever. It wasn’t until they got down and saw their younger brother running towards the house as fast as his legs would carry him that they realised that wasn’t what was going to happen.
*
The car radio crackles, wavering between static and music before finally opting for the former. She turns the dial until she finds a local station playing old favourites. An Abba track is playing and she turns the volume up. Then she winds the window down a bit further. Her car doesn’t have air-conditioning, so she has to try to find the right balance between maximum airflow and being able to hear the music.
‘Hasta Mañana.’
She can hardly remember anything about the first two hours of her drive the previous evening. She has a vague recollection of throwing a few essentials in a bag, rushing down the stairs and jumping into the car. She remembers passing Södertälje and realising that she was heading south. She stopped in Linköping, completely exhausted. She spent the night in an impersonal motel with noisy air-conditioning and cheap sheets. But that was still better than staying at home. Because someone had definitely been in the flat. An intruder who had climbed in through the window facing the courtyard and gone through her belongings, so carefully and quietly that he had left hardly any sign that he had been there. If it hadn’t been for the steps and moved box, she might almost have been able to persuade herself that he’d never even been there. That her home was still a safe place.
He must have been caught by surprise when he heard the door to the flat open. Snuck into the hall to check he’d heard right, realised she’d locked herself inside the bathroom, then left in a hell of a hurry.
She could have called Mattias and told him all about it, that there really had been someone there, that she hadn’t imagined it. That there was proof that even he couldn’t dismiss. But Mattias is no longer her best friend. And these days he has his own secrets, the sort he doesn’t share with her. That thought sours her mood and she turns the radio up a bit more and joins in.
It was one of her mum’s favourite songs, on one of the albums she used to play for her before Billy was born. She wonders if the records are still there in the cupboard under the record player. Probably. Dad never moves anything. Especially not Mum’s things. So the records are almost certainly still there, along with the James Last albums she and Mattias gave him every Christmas after Billy, and which he hardly even plays. The last time Veronica was home was when her dad turned fifty-three. She tries to tell herself that was only last year, or possibly the year before. In fact it was just over five years ago. Half a decade. A bit longer than Billy was alive. Or perhaps not.
The song comes to an end. It’s followed by adverts, so she turns the volume down again.
By now she has had the chance to think everything through carefully, put the pieces of the puzzle together in a way that seems more or less logical.
Fact: she should have been leading a group therapy session at the Civic Centre at the time of the break-in, so the flat ought to have been empty.
Conclusion: the intruder is someone who knows her routine. Someone who has mapped out her movements, maybe even been watching her.
She thinks about the smoker outside her flat. And the fact that she never saw whoever it was enter or leave any of the other buildings. All she saw was a dark silhouette, the glow of a cigarette, then later a few butts in the gutter. Red Prince, enough to suggest that the smoker had stood down there in the street on more than one occasion. Smoking in silence, possibly while he looked up at her windows.
The blond man smokes. He should have been at the therapy session yesterday, just like her. He’s in his mid-twenties, has memories that correspond with both Billy’s disappearance and the garden back home. If you added the strange attraction she feels towards him, not to mention his disconcerting similarity to the photofit picture – what conclusions dare she draw from that?
She’s been through her reasoning several times, but she’s still having trouble accepting it. If Isak is Billy – and she sticks with ‘if’ mostly to stop herself getting carried away – that would turn her whole life upside down. It would turn all their lives upside down, which is the main reason why she has set out on this roadtrip. Because she could have driven back home this morning instead. She could have changed the locks on the door, got an
alarm, made sure she kept the bedroom window properly shut. But she didn’t.
Obviously she’s thought about Billy over the years. Wondered who he would have become if he’d had the chance to grow up. If he would have been good at sport like Mattias, or liked writing like her and Mum. Maybe Billy would have inherited Dad’s gentleness, his interest in cooking and gardening? Dreams and speculation, at least up until now. Because suddenly there’s a possibility of getting answers to those questions.
The first thing she realised when she woke up on that hard motel bed was that she needs to talk to Dad. Tell him that his youngest son is probably alive, and that even if everything isn’t going to be fine from now on, it will at least be much better. And she has to do it face to face, like a good daughter. For Dad’s sake, she tells herself for the umpteenth time. Even if she knows that isn’t the whole truth.
‘Hasta mañana,’ she sings to herself. She raises her voice to drown out the noise from the open window.
Chapter 26
Summer 1983
M
ånsson had stood up and was about to pack up for the day when there was a knock on the half-open door to his office.
Britt from reception was standing in the doorway. He pulled his jacket from the back of his chair to demonstrate that she had come at a bad time, but she didn’t let herself be deterred.
‘You’ve got a visitor,’ she said curtly.
Månsson threw his hands out. ‘Now? I was just about to go home. I haven’t eaten dinner with my family for two weeks. Or supper, even,’ he added.
He was being treated to cod with mustard sauce, and he’d been looking forward to it all day, just as he’d been looking forward to spending a bit of time with Malin and the boys. The chance to spend a few hours not having to think about that dank pump house and its horrific contents.
Britt nodded. ‘It’s probably best if you see this visitor.’
Månsson sighed.
‘OK, but can you do me a favour? Come back in five minutes and say that the Regional Chief of Police is on the phone, please.’
Månsson put his jacket aside and sat down on his worn office chair, thinking about the dinner that risked being delayed. It struck him that Britt hadn’t said who the visitor was, and obviously he should have found out before he agreed to stay.
There was another knock on his door, and before he had time to react Harald Aronsson walked into the room.
‘I want to see him,’ he said abruptly, without bothering with any introductory pleasantries.
Månsson sat up straighter. ‘Well . . .’ he began, but Aronsson cut him off.
‘Tommy Rooth. I want to see him. Now!’ Aronsson folded his arms and stared at him.
‘I see . . .’ Månsson said, mostly to gain a bit of time. He glanced towards the door in the hope that Britt might be about to come to his rescue.
Aronsson went on staring at him with his bird of prey’s eyes, and Månsson couldn’t help squirming uncomfortably. He thought about his dinner again, and Malin and the boys waiting for him.
‘OK. But it’ll have to be quick.’
*
Månsson slowly tapped in the code to open the sturdy door that separated the station’s offices from the custody unit. He had realised that this was a bad idea during the short walk along the corridor. He should have refused Aronsson’s request point blank. But he hadn’t, and now it was too late. He wished Bure and Borg had been there. It would have been far easier if one of them had confronted Aronsson, but he hadn’t seen either of the detectives all day.
There was something about Harald Aronsson that scared him. All his resolve turned to doubt the moment the tall man fixed his eyes on him. Månsson wasn’t alone in that. There weren’t many people in the village who dared to oppose Aronsson, but that was scant comfort just then.
Kant, the officer on duty in the little glass-sided office in the custody unit, stood up when the two men walked in. He took a couple of steps forward and raised his eyebrows slightly. Månsson gestured to indicate that everything was fine. He needed to stay calm, and stop the situation from getting out of control.
‘Rooth,’ he said. ‘Which cell is he in?’
‘Has something happened?’ Kant didn’t move, just kept looking between Aronsson and Månsson.
‘No, we’re just going to check on him,’ Månsson said. ‘Which cell is he in?’
The policeman gave Månsson another long look.
‘Four.’
Månsson turned and gestured to Aronsson to follow him. He walked as slowly as he could along the grey linoleum.
The custody unit only had four cells, and Rooth’s was at the end, in the corner. Månsson stopped outside. He paused for a couple of seconds before opening the eye-level shutter in the door.
Rooth was sitting on the bunk inside the bare room. He barely bothered to look up when he heard the sound of the hatch. He looked deflated, and there was no sign of his usual arrogance. When he caught sight of Månsson he straightened up a little and his eyes regained some of their defiance.
Månsson turned and nodded towards the hatch, at the same time pressing his back against the door handle and lock.
‘There you go. He’s in there.’
Aronsson stared at Månsson with those bird of prey eyes. He made no move to look through the hatch. Aronsson was a head taller than him. His stare burned into Månsson’s face, and he realised why the man was there. And knew what would happen if he backed down again.
He lowered his chin and folded his arms before meeting Aronsson’s gaze. Through the various smells of the custody unit he suddenly became aware of the odour of sweat, and realised it was coming from him. Aronsson went on staring silently at him.
Månsson felt a trickle of sweat run down one temple. He pursed his lips. Forced himself not to look away. He mustn’t back down.
‘Well, he’s in there. Do you want to look or not?’
Aronsson didn’t move. Månsson almost imagined he could hear the seconds ticking by. He counted them off silently to himself as the sweat poured down his back.
When he had got to eight Aronsson suddenly turned his head and leaned forward to look through the hatch. Then he slowly straightened up. The clenched set of his mouth and chin had suddenly softened a little.
‘Happy?’ Månsson said. His uniform shirt was so wet that he was almost sticking to the cell door.
The corners of Aronsson’s mouth rose in what could be taken to be a smile, but he still didn’t speak. He didn’t open his mouth until they were back out in reception.
‘Thank you, Krister.’
‘Don’t mention it.’ Månsson did his best to sound relaxed. As if what had just happened inside the custody unit was perfectly normal.
He waited a few moments for Aronsson to leave, but instead of walking off towards the glass doors he just stood there. Aronsson held out his right hand, and after a brief hesitation Månsson shook it. Aronsson’s grip was firm, and he held on to Månsson’s hand, then nodded and looked at him with an expression that Månsson couldn’t interpret at first. Then he suddenly realised what it was. Something he had worked hard for, but had begun to doubt that he would ever achieve.
Respect.
Månsson straightened up. He cleared his throat and squeezed Aronsson’s hand a little harder.
‘Just doing my job, Harald.’
Chapter 27
T
he turning is getting closer, she sees the sign and eases her foot off the accelerator pedal. All of a sudden she feels nervous. Five years since last time. But it doesn’t feel like it. Maybe that’s because everything still looks almost exactly the same. First the rectangular boxes of the pea factory out in the middle of the fields. The weekend shift’s cars are parked outside. Ten, twelve, no more. Far fewer than when she had a summer job there. Most of it’s probably done by machines now. More efficient, cheaper. More money for the shareholders. The company logo on the flag has changed since last time, but the sign at the top of t
he corrugated wall is the same: PEAFAC – PROUD SPONSORS OF MISS PEA SINCE 1965.
She thinks of her mum, who won the very first Miss Pea contest when she was just seventeen years old. In spite of the title, and no matter how rotten the whole notion of beauty pageants is, her junior-school self still feels rather proud of that. That her mum was more beautiful than everyone else’s. But she would never admit that, barely even to herself.
After turning left at the junction she passes the big red building of Reftinge Brickworks. From a distance it looks almost attractive, but as she gets closer she can make out the boarded-up windows and barbed wire fence, where plastic bags have got caught and are now fluttering in the wind. On the cracked cement yard there are four long white cylinders waiting to be joined together to form new wind giants. They belong to Strid Engineering, which is based next door to the brickworks and has been specialising in wind turbines since the 1980s.
She remembers the Strid brothers pretty well. Two stocky men with bull-necks who used to hang around the drinks table at Uncle Harald’s parties, occasionally casting longing glances at her mum when they thought no one was looking. How old had she herself been when men started to look at her that way? Fifteen, maybe, or sixteen. No older than that.
Immediately beyond the workshop and petrol station is the sports ground with the wooden stand that was the ultimate hang-out for smoking and snogging in the eighties. The space under the stand was locked, but you could easily climb over the gate into the darkness. She remembers the excitement, the smell and taste of cigarettes, of another person. The feeling of doing something forbidden, something Mum and Dad wouldn’t like. Of having your whole life ahead of you, when anything was possible. She smiles at the memory, but that all fades away as she reaches the steep slope leading down towards the village itself.
Reftinge lies in a hollow, a long geological depression that cuts across the plain. At one end the hollow rises almost imperceptibly until it reaches the level of the surrounding land about ten kilometres south of the village. At the other end it narrows as it disappears into the Northern Forest, where it ends in a steep ravine high up on the ridge where coal was once mined. The mine is the reason Reftinge’s coat of arms features both an ear of corn and a pickaxe. She heard the explanation at some local festival, and tries to repeat the words in her junior-school teacher’s nasal voice in the rear-view mirror. The result is good enough to prompt a small smile.
End of Summer Page 12
