The Gingerbread House

by Carin Gerhardsen

  He held his arm under hers during the brief, agonizing encounter with her dead son, but looked away himself. After the papers were signed he left her, with a twinge of guilt, standing alone on the pavement. It was twenty past three and already dark. The temperature was below freezing and a thin layer of snow was starting to settle over the city.

  Thursday Evening

  The snow was falling heavily outside his kitchen window and Thomas thought, when he saw the flakes dancing around in the glow of the streetlights and the people moving down on the street with red cheeks and snow in their hair, that it looked cosier outside than it did in his own bare kitchen. Perhaps he should do something about his place after all. He had always thought it served no purpose to make things nice just for himself, but in the past few days everything had felt a little different. He was still slightly exhilarated after what happened on Monday – the adventure. He thought of it as the adventure, because he had crossed a boundary for the first time in as long as he could remember. He had done something forbidden.

  The pan started sizzling and the margarine had already taken on a light-brown colour. He quickly cut open the packaging and tossed the frozen piece of pork schnitzel in the frying pan and the wrapper into the sink. The saucepan of water boiled over and when he dried off the cooker top with a paper towel, a small piece got stuck and the whole kitchen smelled burned. He poured in the noodles and stirred them with the spatula. They were done long before the schnitzel, but when at last it too was ready, it was also burned. He ladled everything on to a plate and wolfed it down in a couple of minutes, even though he was full when he was only halfway through. But there was no point in saving it, and he would rather finish it than throw it away.

  Suddenly he made a decision. He got up so quickly that the chair almost tipped over. He walked resolutely out to the hall and fished a ruler out of a box in the cupboard. Then he climbed up on the chair and measured the kitchen window. Tomorrow after work he would go to the fabric shop, choose a nice fabric and have them sew a pair of kitchen curtains for him.

  He washed the dishes, wiped off the stove and counter, and made himself a cup of coffee. Then he sat down on the bed with the pillow behind his neck and started thumbing through the tabloid he had bought on his way home from work. Suddenly he froze. A quarter of a page was taken up by a picture of Hans – King Hans – who, according to the article, had been found murdered two days earlier in a house south of the city. The house belonged to a poor old woman by the name of Ingrid Olsson, who said she did not know the victim. It was a summer picture: the wind was fanning his blond hair, he was tanned and he was smiling happily.

  ‘He who laughs last, laughs best,’ Thomas mumbled to himself.

  The article stated that the family was in a state of shock, but in his mind Thomas saw something quite different from a grieving wife. It was at that moment he decided to find out how things stood with Ann-Kristin. He felt significant for the first time. He was now a very important person who knew things no one else knew.

  Friday Evening

  Tracing her was no problem. He called the tax office in Katrineholm and found out that her married name was Widell and that she had moved to Stockholm in 1996. Then he simply looked up Ann-Kristin Widell in the phone book and found someone by that name in Skärholmen. Then he called the relevant tax office and a friendly woman confirmed that she was the person he was looking for.

  On Friday afternoon, he did not go home after work. Instead, he took the metro out to Skärholmen. On the local map outside the ticket window he found the address he was looking for almost immediately, and walked there in less than ten minutes. The building was one of several similar massive, white apartment buildings, in a residential area on a hill. The front door opened with an entry code, but after a little while a young mother with a pushchair came out of the building and he held open the door so that she could get the pushchair out more easily. She accepted his assistance without thanking him. As usual he was reduced to nothing.

  He took the opportunity to slip in through the open door and scanned the directory until he found what he was looking for: Widell, two floors down – you could also live below street level in these apartment blocks. He went down the steps, his nostrils picking up an odour reminiscent of his childhood apartment building in Katrineholm. It was the floor that smelled – a white floor with black patches, meant to look like stones perhaps – in combination with various cooking odours, especially fish, that escaped through the plain, brown wooden doors of the apartments. He found her door. It said simply ‘Widell’ on the letter box, but otherwise there was no clue to what kind of person, or people, lived inside. He contemplated going out again to try looking through her window. But the darkness and cold outside were not enticing, and considering the sparse traffic he had seen so far in this stairwell, he did not dare take the chance of not being able to get in again in the near future. Probably she had her curtains drawn to keep passers-by from looking in anyway. Instead, he sat down on the stairs leading up from street level, where he could see anyone coming up from the basement.

  Without any real idea of how long he should wait, he sat there thinking about how she might have evolved over the years. Not like Hans, he thought. Not like Hans if she lives here. Only unhappy people live here. No one would actually choose to live here. But how could a person like Ann-Kristin, who had made all the kids dance to her tune, be unhappy?

  He remembered how Ann-Kristin had ordered him to go and skip with the girls one day when he was on his way home from preschool. Any other boy would have refused, but not Thomas. He did as he was told, not without some enthusiasm at actually being included. But he couldn’t jump; instead he got one foot tangled up in the rope. Ann-Kristin, of course, noticed his predicament, and with lightning speed she tore the skipping rope out of the hand of one of the girls. Then she danced around him, together with the girl holding the other end, turn after turn, until he was completely wrapped in the rope from head to toe, accompanied by the other girls’ squeals of delight. Then she knocked him down, so that he was lying on the ground, squirming in his cocoon. Then they dragged him out to the street and there – in the middle of the road – they left him to die.

  He remembered the feeling of panic as he saw a truck turn the corner at the far end of the street and head straight towards him. He screamed at the top of his lungs and the girls, crouching behind a parked car, could not conceal their enjoyment. The truck driver spotted him however, put the brakes on and jumped down to where he was lying. ‘What kind of damn place is this to play cowboys and Indians!’ he swore, untied the skipping rope and gave him a slap. Thomas ran home as fast as he could, with tears streaming down his cheeks, not daring to look over at the car where the girls were giggling. Could that happy, popular Ann-Kristin possibly be living out here in the suburban ghetto, feeling depressed?

  * * *

  When she woke up it was already dark outside. She looked at the clock on the DVD player and could see it was past six. She turned on the bedside lamp, leaned down and picked up the ashtray from the floor and set it on her stomach. She was almost out of cigarettes. She would have to run down to the corner shop and buy some before seven o’clock. She lit one and took a few deep puffs. There was a half-empty can of beer on the bedside table, and she emptied it in one gulp, regretting it at once. The lukewarm, sticky liquid nauseated her, but by swallowing a few times she was able to minimize the discomfort.

  Her eyes wandered across the small room and stopped at the framed photograph of herself and her sisters. It was a happy picture, from summer camp long ago. She was sitting on a little pony with her sisters standing either side. It had been a long time since she had heard from them. At least five years ago, she thought, when their dad died. Marie-Louise, the oldest, had married an American and lived in Ohio on a farm with horses. Viola was wandering around Asia with some idiot, whom Ann-Kristin had only met once, getting high presumably, if she was still alive. Viola always did exactly as she pleased; she’d coasted al
ong, dropped out of school and gone out into the world, without goals and without money.

  She was not doing much better herself, but at least she didn’t do drugs. She’d had a so-called accident when she was fifteen, but it wasn’t an accident. It was Widell, their neighbour in Julita where they were living, who had got off with her at one of her dad’s parties. He was drunk, and her dad was drunk, and she was drunk herself and probably didn’t really have anything against it. Then he dragged her into the sauna and she didn’t like that, but the old guys cheered them on, so she probably didn’t resist as much as she should have, being drunk and all. Some time later she moved to the other side of the fence and into the neighbour’s house, and after a few years they got married. They had three children in as many years, but they had moved out now, all of them. Widell died when his hand was cut off by a combine harvester ten years earlier, and she’d taken the opportunity to leave that godforsaken hole and move to the capital.

  In Stockholm there weren’t any jobs for her, but she lived for a while on the money left by Widell. After a few years she started her ‘business’, as she called it. She figured she might as well get a little money for her trouble after doing it for free for nineteen years with an old lecher like Widell. In the beginning, when she’d still had children to take care of, there hadn’t been much left over, but in recent years she had saved piles of money. Her dream was to move to Ohio and live and work on her sister’s farm. She had a long-standing invitation.

  She put out the cigarette and set the ashtray on the floor again. After a quick shower, she dried her hair, put on rather heavy make-up, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and rushed down to the corner shop. In her basket she put six cans of beer, Coca-Cola, juice and some bread. At her request, the cashier handed her three packs of cigarettes, then scanned the price tags on the goods and took payment without making eye contact. If there had been condoms in the basket, she wouldn’t have been able to keep from staring, Ann-Kristin thought, but that was something she never bought here. She hoped the neighbours couldn’t guess what she was doing. That was the big advantage of living two flights down – being the only tenant on the floor, and not having any neighbours pounding on the wall or observing your activities.

  After a quick clean of the apartment she changed into more provocative clothes and splashed a little perfume behind her ears and in her cleavage. Then she sat down in front of the TV with a cigarette and a drink in her hand, waiting for the first customer of the evening.

  * * *

  Thomas was shocked when he saw her for the first time. She had been very pretty as a child, if you over-looked the malicious smile and the calculating look. Now she was fat and bloated, with worn, bleached-blonde hair and heavy make-up that was hardly becoming to a respectable person. When she came jogging up the stairs and out into the November cold dressed only in a T-shirt, he felt nothing but surprise. Pure surprise that the winner Ann-Kristin had let her appearance decline to such a degree that she almost resembled a … well, he didn’t know what. A loser, maybe. Then, when she came back with a cigarette in her mouth and a bag of beer and Coca-Cola in her hands and he saw her from the front, it struck him that maybe she wasn’t a respectable person.

  A few hours later he knew what she was.

  * * *

  The murder of Hans Vannerberg happened on Monday evening, and though it was already Friday there had basically been no progress in the investigation. Petra Westman was in her office in the police station in Norra Hammarbyhamnen, staring listlessly at the colourful shapes of the screensaver dancing before her eyes. Yesterday’s visit with Vannerberg’s widow had produced nothing but a sore throat from the effort of holding back the tears. Pia Vannerberg looked pale and emaciated, and perhaps slightly medicated, but it was the sight of the two quiet children that was most depressing. A seemingly inexhaustible grandmother was trying to entertain them with board games while their little sister took a nap, but the children were uninvolved and absent. The following Monday they would go back to school and nursery, and that might divert them for a while, but their childhood was changed for ever.

  Petra had spent most of Friday on Hans Vannerberg’s work computer, without finding anything of interest. Now it was six o’clock and she was back in her own office. Normally she would work until late in the evening, but she was out of ideas and considered going down to the gym to activate some endorphins.

  ‘Hey, guess what?’

  Jamal Hamad was standing in the doorway, looking mischievous. Petra tilted her head to one side and met his eyes encouragingly.

  ‘You don’t have to use the default screensaver that comes with the computer. You can even have a slideshow of your own photos to look at while you sit there twiddling your thumbs. If you have any photos, that is. That presumes you have a life. Which you don’t have if you don’t leave the office when the work day is over. Which you are allowed to do. Did you know that?’

  ‘You don’t seem to be at a loss for words. What exactly are you trying to say … ?’

  Jamal and Petra had known each other since their days at the police academy. They were never classmates, but they socialized at times in the same circles and had always had a soft spot for each other. Besides her good qualifications, Petra possibly had Jamal to thank for her job at the Violent Crimes Unit in Hammarby. He had been there a few years longer than her and she imagined that he put in a good word for her when she applied, though she had never asked him about it.

  ‘Forget it,’ he said. ‘Do you want to go up to Clarion and have a beer?’

  ‘I thought it was Ramadan.’

  ‘Yes, actually, it was. A month ago. Come on.’

  The computer emitted a sound indicating that she had been automatically logged out and the screen went dark.

  ‘You see. A sign from God,’ said Jamal.

  ‘Allah,’ said Petra, getting up from the chair. ‘Okay, I’m in.’

  After a ten-minute walk along Östgötagatan and up to Ringvägen, they entered the hotel. It was noisy and looked like a construction site; the stairs and passages they walked up and through to reach the bar appeared temporary or perhaps under renovation. There were no vacant tables, but at the bar they managed to get their hands on the only free bar stool. After hanging up her coat and bag on a hook under the counter, Petra convinced Jamal to take the stool and stood beside him.

  ‘I was just thinking about working out when you came and lured me out into bad ways,’ she explained. ‘I’ve been sitting all day, so I’m happy to stand for a while. Or does that offend your Arabic manhood somehow?’

  ‘Drop it. What would you like? Something to eat?’

  ‘A beer to start with.’

  When they finally got the bartender’s attention, they ordered two large beers and peanuts. As it turned out, the kitchen was closed.

  ‘When you’re up here and it’s dark outside, Johannesbron looks beautiful,’ said Petra. ‘I guess it’s just all the lights that make it seem so cool and urban. Like Manhattan or something.’

  The bartender set their beers and a bowl of nuts on the counter in front of them.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Jamal, taking a deep gulp.

  Petra did the same. As she set the glass down, two young women on Jamal’s side got up to leave. She reacted quickly and managed to grab the closer of the two stools as a man in his fifties took the other one. Their eyes met and they exchanged a smile.

  ‘You’ve got to be on your toes in here,’ he said, drawing one hand through his light-blond hair before sitting down on the coveted stool.

  Petra dragged the heavy bar stool behind Jamal and over to her own spot, climbed up on it and took another gulp of her beer.

  ‘Are you through exercising now?’ Jamal asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, clenching her fist in front of his face to reveal her flexed upper arm.

  Petra Westman exercised regularly and had nothing to be ashamed of when it came to biceps. The seams on her shirtsleeve were bulging.

 
‘Thanks for dragging me out. I was stuck anyway.’

  ‘Now let’s forget about work for a while and talk about something else.’

  ‘Well said. Let’s go for it.’

  They toasted each other and drank and she felt the alcohol already making her feel relaxed and a little tipsy. Thinking about it, she had not had time for a real lunch, yet she did not feel particularly hungry. Maybe that was down to the tension of the slow-moving investigation, now in combination with the filling beer.

  They discussed Christer Fuglesang’s impending journey into outer space and laughed at Swedish television’s ongoing parodies of the poor astronaut who never seemed to take off. They ordered another round and Petra wolfed down the last of the peanuts and pushed the empty bowl aside.

  ‘So where’s the wife this evening?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s with the mother-in-law,’ Jamal answered, looking down at his glass.

  ‘Yours or hers?’

  ‘Mine, of course.’

  ‘Isn’t she comfortable with your big, fat Lebanese family?’

  ‘Sure, but –’

  ‘And you weren’t invited to your mother-in-law’s?’ Petra interrupted. ‘Poor you.’

  With feigned sympathy she caressed him lightly on the cheek with the back of her hand, but he recoiled with an irritated frown, so she pulled back her hand.

  ‘What’s going on with you?’ she asked with surprise.

  His reflex movement had embarrassed her. To do something with the rejected hand, she reached again for her glass and took a few substantial gulps.

  ‘Stop flirting or whatever it is you’re up to,’ said Jamal morosely.

  She shifted her gaze over his shoulder and for the second time her eyes met the blond man’s. He raised his wineglass to her. He looked friendly, with an open appearance reminiscent of Conny Sjöberg’s. This similarity prompted her to respond to his toast, contrary to her usual instincts. Jamal noticed something going on over his head, so he glanced quickly over his shoulder to see whom she was toasting. When he looked back she had put the glass down again and looked him right in the eyes.