Box 21

by Anders Roslund

  She had reasoned with herself, trying to banish the ache inside. Her heart was racing and she took deep, slow breaths to settle down, but instead was alarmed by the way she gasped for air. No peace of mind, she didn’t dare go to sleep, scared that she would never wake up, didn’t want to, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t close her eyes, not any more.

  Jonathan and Sanna. She couldn’t keep them away.

  All night long they had insisted on being let in.

  She had tried to banish them by taking slow breaths, calm. She loved them like she had never dared to love anyone else, except perhaps Hilding, way back, before he had made her stop feeling. The children were different, they were part of her.

  That man knew that the children existed. He had found her photos.

  The damned pain in her chest.

  The children were her weakness and her protection at the same time, little human beings she could not bear to lose and who strangely also made her able to control the panic that almost overwhelmed her.

  The detective who had questioned her after Hilding’s body had been found, and who had made her identify that man Lang, DI Sven Sundkvist, had phoned early in the morning when she was still in bed, apologised, explained that they were working hard on the case and asked her to come to the station as soon as she could.

  She was waiting in a dark room somewhere inside the main City Police building. She wasn’t alone. Sundkvist was there too and a lawyer, who presumably represented the accused, had just come through the door.

  DI Sundkvist told her to take her time. There was no hurry and it was important that she did everything in the correct way.

  She went and stood at the window. He assured her that it was a one-way view only. Only those on the police side could see through it. The men on the other side just saw their own images in the mirrored surface.

  There were ten of them, all about the same height, roughly the same age, and all had shaved heads. Each man had a label hung round his neck, a large white board with a black number on it.

  They stood shoulder to shoulder, staring straight at her. At least that’s how it felt – as if they were waiting and watching to see what she would do.

  She looked at them without seeing.

  A few seconds for each one, scanning them from their feet to the top of their head. She avoided their eyes.

  ‘No.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘None of them.’

  Sven Sundkvist took a step closer. ‘Are you quite certain?’

  ‘Yes, I am. He wasn’t one of these men.’

  Sundkvist nodded at the window.

  ‘They’re going to walk in a circle now, one at a time. I want you to watch carefully.’

  The man furthest to the left, number 1, took a few steps forward and walked slowly round the relatively spacious room. Her eyes followed him. She saw him this time, his slightly rolling gait, a self-assured way of moving. It was him.

  That was Lang all right.

  Bugger, bugger Hilding.

  She saw him return to the line. It was number 2’s turn. The men ceased to look alike as she watched one after the other do the circuit of the room. They had all looked the same before when they were standing still, and now she saw their differences.

  DI Sundkvist had been standing next to her, silently observing the parade. He turned to her when number 10 was back in his place.

  ‘So you’ve seen them again now: their faces, how they moved, their posture and so on. I need to know if you recognise any one of them.’

  Lisa didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nobody?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  Sven took a step closer and tried to meet her evasive eyes.

  ‘Are you quite certain? Positive that none of these men was the one you observed before he killed Hilding Oldéus, your brother?’

  He looked at the woman in front of him. Her reaction surprised him. The death of her brother did not seem to sadden her. Instead it seemed to make her angry, or something akin to that.

  ‘You’re thinking about sisterly love, aren’t you? I did love him once, the Hilding I grew up with. But not the one who died yesterday. That was Hilding the heroin addict. I hated him and hated the person he forced me to become.’

  She swallowed. Everything she felt inside, the rage and hatred and fear and panic. She tried to swallow it all.

  ‘Anyway, I repeat, I don’t recognise any of the men in there.’

  ‘You haven’t seen any of them before?’

  ‘No, I haven’t.’

  ‘You are absolutely certain?’

  The lawyer, who had come into the room last, spoke up for the first time. He was a man in his forties, dressed formally in suit and tie. His voice was edgy, almost upset.

  ‘That is surely enough, Inspector. The witness has stated quite clearly that she doesn’t recognise anyone, still you keep pressurising her.’

  ‘Not at all. There is a discrepancy between Dr Öhrström’s response today and her previous witness statement.’

  ‘You’re using undue pressure.’

  The lawyer came closer to Sven.

  ‘And now I must insist that you let Mr Lang go. At once. You can’t hold him.’

  Sven took the lawyer’s arm and led him towards the door.

  ‘I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I know the rules, don’t worry, but we still have some things to discuss.’

  Once the lawyer had been ushered out of the room, Sven checked that the door was properly closed. Lisa had turned towards the viewing window, staring at it, into the empty room behind.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  Sven went over to the window and stood between her and the empty room.

  ‘I don’t understand. Do you remember our interview yesterday?’

  Lisa’s neck blushed, her eyes pleaded.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then you also recall what you said?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You identified the man on photograph thirty-two. I told you that his name was Jochum Lang. You said, several times, that you were certain that he was the man who had injured and killed Hilding Oldéus. I know it and you know it, which is why I fail to understand why, when you see him directly in front of you today, you come nowhere near even a tentative identification.’

  She didn’t answer, just shook her head and looked fixedly at the floor.

  ‘Have you been threatened?’

  He waited for her reply. It didn’t come.

  ‘That’s how he usually operates. He silences people with threats. It allows him to carry on maltreating people at will.’

  Sven was still trying to meet her eyes, still waiting.

  Finally she looked up. She wanted to avoid this, but she stood her ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I really am sorry. Please understand – I have a niece and a nephew. I love them dearly.’

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘You do understand, don’t you?’

  The morning traffic had died down and it had been easy to cross the city centre. The motorway was clear and the journey took about half an hour this time. Suddenly he was there, for the second time in less than twelve hours.

  Lena was happy to see him.

  She came outside, stood on the steps waiting and then gave him a hug. Ewert was not used to physical contact and his first instinct was to back away, but he didn’t. They needed it, both of them.

  She went in to get a jacket as the air was chilly, even though the rain had stopped. It was that kind of summer, no real warmth.

  For almost twenty minutes they walked together in silence, deep in thought, following the path across the fields towards the Norsborg reservoirs. Then she asked again who that woman was. The girl who had shot Bengt, the one who had lain beside him on the floor.

  Ewert asked her if it was important and she nodded. She wanted to know, but couldn’t bear to explain. He stood still, telling her about the first time he had seen Lydia Grajauskas, inside a flat with an electronic lock, where she had been beaten senseless,
with great red, swollen welts all over her back.

  She listened, walked on a little, then asked another question.

  ‘What did she look like?’

  ‘How do you mean? When she was dead?’

  ‘No, before that. I want a picture of who she was. She has taken the rest of our life together, Ewert. I know that you, of all people, can understand that. I watched the news for as long as I could bear. Then as soon as I woke up this morning I looked through both the morning papers, but there are no pictures of her. Maybe there aren’t any anywhere. Or maybe what she looked like doesn’t matter to anyone else. Maybe what people need is to know what she did, how she ended up.’

  The rest of our life together.

  Ewert had thought exactly that, said it too.

  A wind had started to blow. He buttoned his jacket while they walked. I’ve got them here, he thought. In my inside pocket – the photographs we got from the Lithuanian police.

  Lena, I have that bloody video too. The one that will soon disappear. There’s so much that you must never know.

  ‘I have a photo.’

  ‘A photo?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He unbuttoned enough to get the envelope out and handed over a black-and-white photograph of a girl.

  The girl was smiling. Her long blonde hair was pulled back and held with a ribbon tied into a bow.

  ‘That’s her. Lydia Grajauskas. She was twenty. From Klaipeda. The picture was taken about three years ago. She disappeared soon afterwards.’

  Lena stood very still, fingering the photo, touching the face as if seeking something she could recognise.

  ‘She’s pretty.’

  Lena wanted to say more, he could sense it, but she only looked at the picture of the girl who had killed the most important person in her life.

  She said nothing.

  Sven had got home late last night.

  Anita had been waiting for him in the kitchen when he arrived a little before midnight, just as she said she would. He held her tight and then went to fetch a silver candelabra they were both very fond of. He lit the white candles and they looked at each other. They drank wine and ate half the birthday cake by candlelight, celebrating the start of his forty-second year.

  Later he went upstairs to see Jonas, kissed him on the forehead and instantly regretted it when the boy woke and seemed confused, mumbling something inaudible. Sven stayed by his bedside, gently caressing his cheek, until Jonas fell asleep again. He found Anita in the bathroom and told her how lovely she was. He held her hand hard when they went to bed. She was naked, and afterwards they went to sleep in each other’s arms.

  He had woken early.

  Their little house was very quiet when he left.

  He realised he was being a bit keen – they had a photo identification after all – but as soon as he got to his office he had contacted Lisa Öhrström and asked her to come in for an identity parade that morning. He was aware that it would be seen as unprofessional to put a witness through two identifications, but the pressure was on and he wanted to make sure. They needed all they could get to persuade the prosecutor, Ĺgestam, that he must not let Lang go free, not this time.

  Which was why he was furious when he left Dr Öhrström by the one-way window that separated her from the ten men who were lined up with numbers on their chests. He tried not to show it, because he knew in his heart of hearts that she was not to blame. If anything, she was a victim too, terrified by the death threats. But he didn’t manage to control himself. He became sarcastic and condescending.

  He hurried out, made his way to the Kronoberg interview room.

  Lang would not be released.

  Roadworks somewhere between Skärholmen and Fruängen made Ewert bang the dashboard and shout out loud. He was in a hurry to get back, would pass by Kronoberg and the City Police Building to run a quick errand, then walk over to the St Erik’s Street restaurant where he had just arranged to meet Sven for lunch.

  He knew he wasn’t any good. He had stood with his arm around Lena and tried to say the kind of things he felt he ought to say, all the while feeling useless. He wasn’t any good at hugging or comforting people; he never had been. While the wind blew across the fields, Lena had stood with the photo of the Lithuanian girl clutched in her hand, until he gently made her give it back.

  Why had he gone to see her? All he had done was intrude into her grief. Was it because he missed Bengt? Because there was nobody else for her just now? Or because he himself had nobody?

  The cars crawled ahead, three lanes merged into one. The minutes dripped off his forehead. He would be late. He had no choice.

  He had to get to the office electronics store before lunch.

  Sven would have to wait.

  The interview room was as bleak as ever.

  When Sven got there he was out of breath, his anger had propelled him through the building at an unnecessary speed. Lang was sitting at the table. He was smoking and didn’t even look up.

  Sven Sundkvist, interview leader (IL): You visited Hilding Oldéus, who was in one of the medical wards at the Söder Hospital, immediately before he died from the injuries inflicted on him.

  Jochum Lang (JL): That’s what you say.

  IL: We have a witness.

  JL: Really, Sundkvist? That’s good news. You could bring them here and set up an identity parade.

  IL: The witness showed you to the ward where Oldéus was.

  JL: You know what I mean, don’t you? Like, they come along and look at me and nine other blokes through a one-way window. Fucking brilliant. You do it, Sundkvist.

  Sven was raging inside. The man opposite him was trying to make him lose control and was close to succeeding. Must keep calm, must ask my questions and no matter what he says, just keep asking until I get what I want.

  He saw that Jochum Lang was smiling. His lawyer would already have informed him that the parade had been a washout. Lawyers were quick off the mark with that kind of thing. Never mind, no way was this ruthless thug going to leave, not yet.

  He was going to answer the questions again and sooner or later he would say more than he wanted to, enough to satisfy Ĺgestam that he should keep the suspect locked up and carry on with his preliminary investigation.

  IL: We picked you up in a BMW that was parked illegally at the hospital entrance.

  JL: Busy man, aren’t you? No idea you did parking fines as well.

  IL: Why were you sitting in the passenger seat of a car left inside the cordoned-off area?

  JL: I can sit wherever I fucking like.

  IL: We won’t let you go this time.

  JL: Sundkvist, get off my back. You’d better return me to the fucking cells! Or else I might do something that I could be charged for.

  It was ten minutes past twelve when Ewert parked outside the police building. Sven was probably waiting impatiently in the restaurant by now.

  He hurried inside, down the corridor leading to his room, and stopped near the coffee machine. Not for a coffee, though; he went into the storeroom, which was next to it, just where Hermansson had said.

  Brown cardboard boxes containing blank videocassettes were stacked on shelves at the back of the stale-smelling little room. He took one out, tore off the plastic cover and checked that it looked exactly like all other videotapes. Then he went to his office, picked up Grajauskas’s carrier bag and placed the new video in it.

  Lena’s shame? Or hers?

  Lena was alive. She was dead.

  Grajauskas’s true story did not exist any more. Well, it did, deep down in the water off Slagsta beach, where he had stopped on the way back from Eriksberg. The burden of shame is so much heavier when you’re alive.

  Ewert yawned and swung the carrier bag with the new videotape in it a couple of times. Then he put it back in the box with the rest of her belongings.

  Ewert found a table in one of the furthest, darkest corners, where he was unlikely to be seen by someone who had just stepped inside for a look. What a dump, he thought, this small restaurant on
the busy corner of St Erik’s Street and Fleming Street, quite a walk from Kronoberg. Too bad. He had no choice. Reporters had been chasing him all over the Kungsholmen area and knew where he usually went for lunch. He had been on his way there when he spotted a few hacks already buzzing about outside.

  He wouldn’t give them any answers. He’d give them nothing. The police press officers could work for their wages, they could explain as little as possible at one of those press conferences where everybody shouted at the same time.

  He had turned on his heels, phoned Sven who was already sitting in there waiting, and walked to a place he knew a few blocks away where he had sheltered before when someone’s death had caused excited headlines and words. Here he would be left in peace to consume the foul food.

  He picked up a newspaper someone had left behind, opening to a six-page news feature about the hostage drama at Söder Hospital.

  ‘I had just been served, you know.’ Sven patted him on the shoulder. ‘That’s sixty-five kronors’ worth down the drain.’

  He sat down, looked around and shook his head.

  ‘And for what? Great place you’ve chosen.’

  ‘At least nobody hangs around asking questions here.’

  ‘I can see why.’

  They ordered beef stew, Skĺne style. Served with pickled beetroot.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘Lena?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She’s grieving.’

  ‘She needs you to be with her.’

  Ewert sighed, shifted about restlessly on his chair and put the paper down.

  ‘Sven, I have no idea what you’re supposed to do or say. I’m no good at things like that. Take this morning. Lena wanted to see what Grajauskas looked like and I showed her the photo.’

  ‘If that’s what she wanted.’

  ‘I’m not sure. It didn’t feel right. Her reaction was odd, as if she didn’t . . . almost as if she recognized Grajauskas. She looked at the picture, touched it and tried to say something, but didn’t.’

  ‘She is still in shock.’

  ‘She doesn’t need to know what her husband’s dead killer looked like. I felt like I was rubbing it in her face.’

  A few pieces of meat, swimming in gravy. They ate because they had to.