The Boy in the Shadows

by Carl-Johan Vallgren

  At eight that night she went home. Every patrol car in the county was now keeping an eye out for Lisa. An investigator had called the hospitals to see if she was there, but with no result. She didn’t know if she ought to feel relieved. Because, at the same time, of course, she knew how it worked—the more time that passed without finding Lisa, the more likely it was that they would not find her alive.

  And then came the call. It was as if she had been waiting for it, she thought. As if she’d known beforehand what was going to happen. She knew that she would remember every detail for the rest of her life. That certain things were etched forever into a person’s mind.

  She had hardly been able to look at Katz since she came back to the apartment; she just gave him a summary of what had happened and what she knew. It was impossible to look any other person in the eye, not least a person she had slept with less than twenty-four hours earlier—except for Ola, who, for a change, was the only one who understood her, the only one who was feeling the same boundless fear.

  She didn’t want Katz there. She just wanted to be alone. To take a sleeping pill and fade away, to wake up and hope that it had all been a dream.

  But it wasn’t. This was just the beginning, she realized the same instant she picked up the phone.

  “Is this Eva Westin?”

  She knew it was him even though she hadn’t heard his voice before.

  He explained very calmly that he had Lisa, and that she was unharmed. He explained that he knew who she was, that he knew most things about her: where she worked, where she lived, her family situation.

  “We did meet once before,” he said, “a long time ago. But I don’t think you remember much of the actual event. And then again recently, in the house where I grew up, but you didn’t see me.”

  Grubbholmen, that was what he meant, and the house in Djursholm. He sounded completely normal, as if this were just any old conversation; he sounded like one of those telemarketers who called sometimes, wanting to sell mobile-phone contracts or some strange insurance—professionally friendly.

  “What do you want from me?” she said.

  “I’ll explain in a little bit.”

  “I want to talk to Lisa.”

  Her voice disappeared as she ran out of air. Katz was standing next to her now, as she sat on the bed with the phone pressed hard to her ear. She knew he understood everything: who she was talking to, and that it was the worst news possible.

  “Lisa is fine. You don’t need to worry about her. She’s sleeping right now.”

  “What do you want from me?” she said again.

  “For one thing, I don’t want you to tell anyone that I called. Not Lisa’s dad, and definitely not the police. That’s a prerequisite for us to be able to work together.”

  “I want to talk to her now; wake her up . . .”

  “For another thing, I don’t want to be interrupted. From now on, you speak when I ask you to; otherwise, you keep quiet and listen. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good, then I want something from you in return.”

  She was quiet, waiting.

  “I want Katz. Do you understand? My guess is that he’s nearby. May I speak to him?”

  She handed the phone to Katz. For one instant, she hated him. She didn’t want him there; she didn’t understand why he was part of her life and how she could have let herself be dragged into this mess.

  Katz took the phone with the sensation of being outside his own body.

  “Yes,” he said. “It’s me.”

  Silence at first, just Klingberg’s breathing. Then the voice he hadn’t heard in a quarter of a century: “Danny, it’s been a long time.”

  He didn’t answer, because what could he say?

  “Is it possible for you to sit down? And perhaps take out a pen and paper—I was planning on giving you some instructions.”

  Katz went over to the computer desk and took a sheet of A4 from the printer and a pen from his pocket.

  “I’m ready,” he said.

  “Don’t stress, Katz. I’m trusting in you. Remember . . . the only person I’ve ever really trusted.”

  Those words again, another variation of them that brought something nameless to life. He just couldn’t think what.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I don’t remember.”

  “No? Listen carefully. I’ve got Eva’s little girl here. And I want to trade her for you.”

  Silence on the line again, just the breathing, and in the background a sleepy girl’s voice that suddenly shouted something. But Klingberg must have immediately gone into another room, because everything was quiet again, and more compact, as if he were in a very small area, close to a wall.

  “Tell me what to do.”

  “I want you to go to the Dominican Republic. To Santo Domingo. I want you to be there by three days from now.”

  “I’m wanted by the police.”

  “That’s not my problem. Right now it’s . . .” Silence again. The girl had to be there, somewhere in the background—the terror she must be feeling. “Ten-oh-five p.m. The time difference is minus six hours. So you have to be there by four-oh-five p.m. in three calendar days.”

  “That won’t be possible.”

  “Everything is possible. You’ll have to improvise. You’ll be given further instructions once you get there.”

  The girl’s voice again; Klingberg had returned to the room she was in. She was calling for her dad.

  “Lisa is awake now,” Klingberg said matter-of-factly. “Do you want to talk to your mom, Lisa? Hold on, here she comes . . .”

  It was her turn again. She hoped that her stutter wouldn’t show itself, that she could keep it together for Lisa’s sake. The phone slid through her fingers; she had to use both hands to press it to her ear.

  “Hi darling, it’s Mom. Listen to me. Everything will be okay, no matter what you think right now. I promise you. Everything will work itself out.”

  She could hear Lisa’s panicked breathing on the other end.

  “Calm down, Lisa; it’s important. You have to try to breathe normally. Nothing dangerous is going to happen. I promise you. I’m your mom and you can trust me.”

  Lisa settled down a little bit, seemingly calmed by her voice.

  “Where are you, Mom?”

  “I’m at my house.”

  “Are my things there? Did you find Arvid’s Bakugan?”

  “I found it. Everything is perfectly normal here, but I cleaned your room so it will be nice for when you come back.”

  Lisa gave a small whimper, as if she were in pain.

  “I don’t want to be here, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “Nothing’s going to happen. We’ll be together again soon, and you’ll get to go home. It might take a little while, but eventually it will happen. I promise. I don’t know if we’re going to get to talk on the phone very much until then, but in the meantime I want you to try to think of things that make you happy. Things you can look forward to.”

  Was this her own voice? She couldn’t fathom it. Memories of Lisa fluttered by on an inner screen, a sort of résumé of her seven years on earth, from when she had been a newborn at BB Stockholm on that beautiful snow-sparkling February day to the last time she’d seen her in the stairwell at Ola’s.

  “I love you, Lisa.”

  “I love you too, Mom.”

  Then she started crying again, and her sobs faded into the background like a murmur. She thought that Klingberg would take the phone again to say something. But the call had been ended.

  Katz was driving south on the E4 alongside Lake Vättern. He could see Visingsö like a floating graphic object out in the water. The traffic was light, mostly tractor-trailers and commuters. Tender greenery on the slopes that led down to the lake.

  Near Gränna, he turned off at a rest stop and remained in the car to eat the lunch he’d brought along. He felt safe behind the tinted wi
ndows.

  He would drive the rental car to Malmö, park it near Central Station, and drop the keys off in the slot at Hertz. That way he would avoid anyone seeing him. That was the most important thing right now, not to be recognized.

  In the inner pocket of his jacket was the passport that one of Jorma’s friends had managed to arrange for him. It was issued by the embassy of the Russian Federation in Stockholm. He was traveling under the name Igor Liebermann. A Jewish-Russian journalist born in Rostov the same year as he was. The airline tickets had been purchased under the same name. If anyone started asking questions, he would answer in Russian.

  The suitcase in the trunk was packed as if for a normal vacation. Clothes, toiletries, a guidebook about the Dominican Republic. And a miniature satellite phone, no larger than a matchbook. It could be used to call from anywhere, even from the South Pole, according to Eva. She had managed to obtain it from the operational police unit at EBM.

  On the seat next to him was the little fabric doll, the paké. He didn’t know why he’d brought it along. Like an amulet, maybe, even though he didn’t believe in superstitions.

  Katz continued southward, past Huskvarna and Jönköping. He was careful to stick to the speed limit, and he kept the radio on in case there were any traffic updates.

  He looked at the fuel gauge. The car was efficient; he still had over two thirds of a tank. He wouldn’t need to get gas before he got to Malmö.

  The forest closed in around him as he drove on through Småland, kilometer after kilometer of planted firs.

  Just north of Värnamo he passed a speed trap: a patrol car and two motorcycles; he took his foot off the accelerator on reflex and watched the rearview mirror for a long time until he was sure they weren’t following him.

  He was going to make it. He would get to the airport in Santo Domingo, Aeropuerto Las Américas, go up to a particular car-rental agency, and receive further instructions. Meanwhile, Eva and Jorma would look for the girl. But after that . . . what was the point?

  At one thirty in the afternoon, he parked the car at Malmö Central, left the key in the box outside Hertz and walked into the arrivals hall. He cautiously looked around for police in plain clothes; things seemed to be okay.

  According to the information board, an Öresund train was on the platform. Soon he could relax a bit, he thought, if only he could make it to the Danish side.

  He took a window seat and read a paper someone had left behind as the conductor went by, clipping his ticket without looking at him. No customs officials; they worked the opposite direction.

  He was up on Öresund Bridge now. It was a beautiful day; the sky was deep blue with hazy clouds along the horizon. The sea below was greenish black.

  When the train stopped at Kastrup, he avoided looking at the people who got on; he sank into himself, keeping his face turned away, looking out of the window.

  He suddenly remembered a trip he’d taken to Copenhagen in the early 2000s when he’d been at rock bottom. He’d been there with a younger man from Uppsala who was going to pick up a shipment of heroin from a distributor in Vesterbro. Katz’s job was to be a decoy. He would sit a few seats away in the same compartment on the way back. If customs were to do a random inspection, they would pick out Katz, the obvious junkie, and not the well-dressed young guy with the briefcase who was paging through a business magazine.

  What had he been paid—fifteen grams of H? That was the price he thought he was worth back then.

  It was quarter past two when he arrived at Hovedbanegården, took the escalator up to the ticketing hall, and purchased a one-way ticket to Hamburg. Good timing again. The train would be leaving in ten minutes. He had seven hours before the plane would take off from Fuhlsbüttel.

  She hadn’t been to the office in ages. People stared at her as she walked past them on the way to her desk. She heard voices from the conference room. “An implementation time of ninety days is super fucking rough . . . it’s unreasonable . . . can someone tell me what the Financial Crimes Unit is thinking?”

  She closed the door behind her and turned on the computer. She checked her emails from the legal division but didn’t see anything that couldn’t wait. She had received a reply from the London office of Interpol. The Virgin Islands were still trying to delay the bank-transaction matter; it might take up to six months before they learned who the account belonged to.

  She scrolled down through her inbox. Four messages from Danielsson. He wanted to see her, but apparently he didn’t dare call. She glanced through the most recent one, which had been sent the night before. He wondered if she was feeling better and suggested that they have dinner at a Chinese restaurant once she was back; he wanted to give her some info on how far they’d come in the investigation surrounding Angela Klingberg.

  Nothing about Julin or Pontus Klingberg. So, the bodies were still in Djursholm.

  She changed into her indoor shoes, went to the canteen, and got a cup of coffee from the machine. She had gone into the police station on her way to the office. She’d met the female inspector who was in charge of investigating Lisa’s disappearance. Publishing the description hadn’t brought any results; no witnesses had seen her since she disappeared. The woman had asked the standard questions in her office. Had Lisa been acting strangely in the past few weeks? What sort of friends did she have; had she ever run away? The woman had patted Eva’s shoulder before she left and lied, saying that they would find her soon.

  She’d been on the verge of confessing everything, the way things really were, but she realized it was so complicated that they would have a hard time believing her. And yet that’s not what decided it for her. It was Joel Klingberg. She knew he was in a position where he might do anything. He would kill Lisa at the least suspicion that she had cooperated with the police.

  How had he managed to abduct her? In a car, she thought as she returned to her office, probably a stolen one that he dumped somewhere afterward. He or his accomplice had been lucky; no one seemed to have seen it happen. The papers had just begun to write about it. Perhaps that would bring out some witnesses.

  Her cellphone rang. Ola. She accepted the call.

  “Have you heard anything new?” he said.

  His voice was hoarse with exhaustion.

  “No, nothing new. I met with the investigator in charge again an hour ago. They haven’t made a single step of progress.”

  The lies continued, the withholding of information, and she hated herself for it. But if only Lisa were rescued she would tell him everything. And the police. Even the part about Katz. That was a promise.

  “And the hospitals?”

  “Nothing there either.”

  “This just can’t be happening!”

  He took a deep breath before he went on.

  “Could she have drowned?” he said. “This whole city is full of water . . . did she go somewhere and fall in?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “So what the hell is it? Pedophiles?”

  “I don’t know, Ola. Go and get some sleep if you can. You seem absolutely exhausted. I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything more.”

  They hung up. The National Intelligence Center’s report on Katz’s time in the military was still on her desk. She hadn’t heard anything from him yet, and she didn’t know if she should take that as a good sign or not. On his way to the Dominican Republic with a fake passport. From Fuhlsbüttel in Hamburg to Madrid, and then on to Santo Domingo. What the hell were they thinking?

  Lisa . . . she didn’t want to think about how she was, because as soon as Eva did she was paralyzed with fear. She hadn’t been able to talk to her since the first time Klingberg contacted her. The second time he called, he had just asked to speak to Katz and had told him what to do when he arrived in Santo Domingo.

  She had to keep thoughts of Lisa at bay in order to think clearly. Imagine that she was someone else’s daughter.

  Where was she? In Stockholm, she thought, at a place Klingberg considered secu
re.

  Her only inroad was Sandra Dahlström. She had to have told Klingberg about Eva’s visit, thus putting him on her trail. It was the only reasonable explanation. But she had disappeared. Jorma had gone out to Mörby to look for her. He had peered in through the mail slot; there had been a big pile of letters and magazines on the hall rug.

  She spent the rest of the morning doing more searches on Sandra Dahlström. The results were meager. There was nothing on her in the criminal registry or the general registry. Nothing at the Enforcement Authority. She didn’t own any property or any vehicles. She didn’t even have a dog. She surfed the net for a while and found Sandra’s name in a number of contexts, but they seemed to involve different people. To be on the safe side, she did an image search to see if there was a picture of her anywhere, but she found no results.

  She had just shut down the computer when her phone rang again. The number was blocked; her voice hardly held up as she answered.

  “Eva Westin.”

  “Mom, it’s me.”

  “Sweetie . . . are you okay?”

  Someone coughed in the background. It was important, it was all important, every detail, no matter how irrelevant it might seem, if she was going to find her.

  “I miss you and Dad. Why can’t I talk to Dad too?”

  “I don’t get to decide that . . . Lisa . . . everything is going to be okay; you’ll get to come home again soon.”

  “I know, Mom.”

  She listened intently for background noises. But she couldn’t hear anything.

  “I’m allowed to talk to you for a little while, Mom, isn’t that good?”

  “Yes, it’s very good. Listen, Lisa . . . tell me something, anything you think sounds fun.”