Maria was at home with Ellen and Axel. It was nice to be able to shop in peace and quiet, without stress, without children tugging at her. Malin realized that Ellen would have to go back to school, but she hated the thought of dragging her there again. She had had time to consider a number of more or less impossible alternatives. Should they change schools? Would that help or would everyone soon know that the girl who had been kidnapped from the Fårösund school had transferred to the school in Slite or Visby or … It wouldn’t work anyway. Not unless the whole family moved and then they might as well go back to Stockholm. Sometimes she thought that would be best, at other moments the very thought felt like a defeat.
Malin pushed the shopping cart out to the parking lot with her bags. She opened the back hatch, stowed away the groceries, and politely returned the cart to the neat row outside the entrance.
It was only when she had started the car and backed out of the parking space that she caught sight of Stina Hansson. She was just getting into her white Toyota at the other end of the asphalt lot and started it up just as quickly as that time outside the school. Had she even put on her seat belt? Had she caught sight of Malin, was that why she was in such a hurry?
The rest was instinct. When the white car rolled out from its parking space and headed toward the exit she quickly put the gear selector in drive and stepped on the gas. She had to keep to the left, dangerously close to the parked cars to get there ahead of Stina Hansson, but it worked. She jammed on the brakes with the SUV at a diagonal, right in front of the exit. A sharp sound of metal scraping against metal cut across the parking lot and the SUV jerked sideways.
Malin quickly unbuckled her seat belt and jumped out of the SUV. She rounded it in back and rushed over toward Stina Hansson’s Toyota.
She struck her fist on the white car body.
“You damn well leave my family alone, do you understand? You damn well leave us alone.”
Malin’s throat ached after the outburst. Stina Hansson stared terrified at her through the side window. A little splash of saliva had stuck to the glass.
September 3
I’m caught here—in what was us. I do think that everything will work out. Because it can’t feel this way and have it just be me. It’s impossible. But then come the short flashes of something different. Violent blows that say I’m wrong. That I sit here like an idiot with my messed-up feelings and you don’t care at all about what I feel, if I live or die, if I kill myself or just lie down somewhere and rot. And you get that pained expression—that you want to be somewhere else. I’m just something that’s in the way, something you would prefer to throw away. And that burrows its way deep inside. I’m afraid then because I don’t know how I’ll manage—I hardly know how I will put up with waiting for everything to be all right, that you will understand, gather courage or whatever it is you need to do, that time will convince you that you must take the step and come back. That it will be you and me. I hardly know how I will bear to wait for that—how I will stand it if I’m wrong. I’m not wrong, I know I’m not wrong, but I’m saying if. Then I get afraid and only think about death. My death, your death. I know that these are just bad, ugly fantasies that come over me when those flashes come. Flashes—like short bursts of lightning, yes, but there are flashes of darkness, when the black gets so compact that there is no other side, no way out, no hope. Maybe it’s just a silly cliché that hope is the last thing that abandons us. But if that is true then those dark flashes are the end, because there is no hope, no continuation. The darkness is so dense, it is earth, denser than earth. Like black, congealed formalin and I’m floating in it. Caught, incapacitated—I have reached the end. This is total loneliness.
Should I try to kill myself? Again. Cut open my veins. A knife. Can I do that, cut myself apart? It’s nice to think about, but can I do it?
A knife. I will kill you. An ugly fantasy. I could never harm you. But I want to free myself. The thought liberates me.
Have you been down? Sometimes I think that you are completely different inside. That you have never been tormented by your feelings. That it’s so easy for you. That you’ve already forgotten me.
38.
Malin studied the carefully arranged red beet carpaccio that the blond, talkative waiter set down on the table in front of her. The last evening light filtered in through the high windows of Friheten facing toward Donners Place. They had gotten one of the two tables on the little raised platform next to the windows. Malin sat turned in toward the restaurant with a view of the patrons a half-flight down and the darkness in the bar.
Henrik raised his glass, and his eyebrows. The candles on the table glistened in the wineglass.
“Cheers,” he said quietly.
It felt nice to have him home again. Extremely nice. Even though Stina Hansson’s perfect breasts were dancing before the wineglass. They were sharing a glass of Sauvignon blanc with the appetizer. Henrik could not drink more than that. He would be driving.
It was Maria who suggested they should take the opportunity to go out when she was there and could take care of the kids. Malin’s very first thought was that she didn’t want to leave them, not even with Maria, but then she changed her mind. Maybe it was just the sort of thing they needed. Some time to themselves.
Henrik told about the days in Barcelona. Long and intensive, but not without enjoyment.
“It’s so typical,” he said. “First they’re as tough as nails in negotiations, then they send along three people who don’t fill any function at all and book everyone in business class and of course we have to go off to some legendary restaurant that takes an hour to get to by taxi. Fun, but they could have held down the costs and paid me a little better instead.”
“You don’t appear to be suffering,” said Malin.
Henrik laughed.
“It was great, but it’s crazy. You never cease to be surprised by this advertising world.”
“Do you regret it?”
“Regret it? No. What do you mean?”
Yes, what did she mean? Fårö. Her. The children. That he had dropped his dream, or changed dream, or whatever it was he had done. Everything that picture of him and the almost-naked model and the over-the-hill Elvis impersonator stood for.
She had not said anything about the pictures she found in the negative cabinet. Not about what had happened in the parking lot outside ICA, either.
Fredrik Broman had called her up the following day to tell her that Stina Hansson had reported the incident. Threat and negligence in traffic. It was hard to deny. He was not the one running the investigation, Fredrik explained, but he wanted to advise Malin to let them run the investigation of the incident at the school and keep as far away as possible from any possible suspects. Malin had asked whether he knew anything more about Stina Hansson’s report, but he only said that she would be called in for questioning.
There was at least one witness, she could figure that out for herself. There were people in the parking lot. They would obviously testify to the Gotland native’s advantage, whatever had happened. Fucking banana republic. It was good luck anyway that the police who were investigating what had happened to Ellen were not all from Gotland, then she would really have gotten paranoid.
She reached out her hand and took a big gulp from the glass. She should have told Henrik. She tried to make herself believe that she hadn’t had time, but that wasn’t true. Not really.
“What’s going on?” Henrik asked.
Malin reached for the cell phone.
“I’m just going to make a quick call to Maria,” she said.
“Again?”
“I want to hear that everything’s okay.”
She had called from the car, on the way to Visby, but that must have been an hour ago.
The phone rang, but no one answered. Finally the voice mail started.
“Strange,” said Malin. “She doesn’t answer.”
“Maybe she’s in the john,” Henrik suggested. “Try in five minutes.”
“I’ll just try the landline.”
He did not protest, but she knew what he was thinking. Malin got no answer on the home phone, either.
“They must be outside,” said Henrik.
“But it’s almost dark.”
“Malin, take it easy now,” he pleaded. “Call again in a little while.”
She took a deep breath and set the cell phone down on the table.
“You’re right, but…”
“I get that this is tough,” he said. “I think it’s tough, too. But we have to pull ourselves together. Otherwise this is going to make us completely nuts in the end. The children don’t do well, either, if we’re getting ourselves upset all the time.”
“I know, I know,” she said, becoming aware of a slight panting in her own voice. “I’ll call again in ten minutes. Fifteen.”
She speared a piece of red beet on her fork and chewed it slowly. It was hard. She had completely lost her appetite.
Henrik fished for something in the inside pocket of his jacket, which he had hung on the chair alongside.
“Look at this,” he said with a broad smile, holding up a white plastic card.
Malin did not understand. It looked like some kind of membership card. Only when Henrik handed it to her did she see Wisby Hotel’s logo on the card. A key card.
“Know what I mean, know what I mean?” Henrik said with a smile.
She was flattered, happy, and actually a little turned on. But also worried.
“What do you mean, are we going to spend the night?”
She noticed that it was not really the response Henrik had been hoping for, but he exerted himself.
“Not necessarily. A couple of hours is enough for me.”
“Okay,” she said, trying to sound flirtatious, but she could not think of anything except that those ten minutes she had promised to leave the cell phone alone should pass.
Somehow Malin managed to eat up most of the appetizer. The waiter cleared the table and came in with a glass of red wine that she had ordered earlier and a mineral water for Henrik.
Twelve minutes had passed. She had been obedient, she thought, and picked up the cell phone. She tried Maria’s cell first. The phone rang, but no one answered. Without looking up she went over to favorites and selected the home number. It rang, but no one answered.
“No one answers there, either.”
Henrik looked anxiously at her and that made her even more worried.
“Someone ought to answer somewhere, don’t you think?” she said. “Ellen always answers our phone.”
“They’re probably outside,” said Henrik vaguely, sneaking a glance out the window toward the darkening sky.
It didn’t sound especially convincing.
Malin tried to think. No answer in almost fifteen minutes. What could they be up to? No matter how she thought about it she could not come up with any explanation. Maria was aware, of course, of what had happened, the whole situation. She understood that she had to be available.
“I’ll wait five more minutes, then, then…”
Her mouth was completely dry, she reached for Henrik’s glass and took a gulp of mineral water. Her stomach ached. She would not be able to eat another bite until she got hold of Maria.
They sat silently looking at each other with an occasional nervous sidelong glance into the restaurant or out the window. Malin fingered the napkin on her lap as Henrik’s cell phone signaled a message. Malin straightened up, leaned tensely across the table while he fished the cell phone out of his pocket.
He shook his head.
“It’s the assistant who’s going to be there tomorrow.”
Malin could not bear to just sit there. It wouldn’t do.
“I’ll call one more time. If I don’t get an answer we’re going home.”
Henrik did not protest.
Malin went through the same procedure as before. Maria’s cell, then the home phone. No answer.
She stood up abruptly.
“We’re going.”
Once she had made the decision everything suddenly became extremely serious. Her legs felt heavy, her mouth was dry despite the water just moments ago. Panic was lying in wait.
Henrik got up and looked for the waiter to pay. Malin waited by the exit, saw the waiter make an anxious face and say something to Henrik. He talked on and on and gestured, seemed to never be done. Couldn’t he keep quiet and just take payment? Just that would take an eternity, back and forth with credit card, receipts … but suddenly Henrik raised his hand in thanks and left.
“They’ll send a bill,” he explained as he came up to her.
It took them no more than a minute to walk to the car, which they had parked on Hamnplan.
“I’ll call the police,” said Malin when she had shut the door.
“Maybe that’s just as well,” said Henrik, subdued.
He backed out of the parking spot and drove south to go around the inner city. It would take too long to work their way through the labyrinth of alleys.
Malin hesitated with her thumb on CALL as she entered 911. She would end up with an operator who did not know the background at all, she would have to make a long-winded, complicated explanation and certainly get a skeptical reception from that person who, in the worst case, was not even on Gotland.
She deleted the three numbers and instead looked for Fredrik Broman’s number, which she had saved in the phone.
What should she do if he didn’t answer? Then she would be forced to go through 911. She counted the rings. Three, four …
Soon the voice mail would start up.
“Fredrik Broman.”
Thank God. After quickly saying who she was, Malin let the words pour forth.
“Henrik and I are in Visby, my sister is at home with the kids, but we don’t get an answer on any of the phones.”
He immediately understood her worry and promised to see to it that a patrol car drove up.
“But it will take awhile before they are there,” he said. “You don’t have a neighbor who can go over and knock on the door? Then we’ll have a quicker sense of the situation.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “I’ll call and see whether they’re at home.”
Why hadn’t she thought of that?
“Call me as soon as you know anything more,” said Fredrik Broman.
* * *
Henrik drove as fast as he dared on the dark road. Malin had tried to call Bengt and Ann-Katrin, but they had not answered. There was nothing to do other than try to tough it out and hope that everything had a trivial explanation. Between Malin’s repeated attempts to get hold of Maria they sat silently and listened to the grinding of the tires against the asphalt. Neither of them could get themselves to turn on the radio.
After forty minutes they were in Fårösund. The ferry was in with the boom up. A minute or two after they drove on a police car rolled on board and right after that the ramp was drawn up and the ferry departed, even though it was five minutes to the hour.
“Do you think they’re on their way to our place?” said Malin, glancing backward.
“Presumably.”
Good Lord, she thought, that’s as far as they’d gotten?
“I’ll go and ask.”
Before Henrik could answer she had opened the door and was on her way out of the car. She went up to the driver’s side and knocked on the window. She recognized the bald policeman at once who rolled down the window. He had been there outside the school when Ellen disappeared. Alongside him sat a female police officer with braids.
“Hi,” she said. “Are you the ones who are on the way to our house?”
“That’s us,” Leif Knutsson confirmed.
He got out of the car and greeted her.
“You still haven’t heard anything?”
“No, I keep on calling,” said Malin. “I’ve tried the neighbors, but they’re not at home.”
“Okay, but then we’ll drive ahead.”
“Tha
t’s good. We’ll follow as fast as we can.”
“Just drive carefully,” said Leif Knutsson, with a little smile.
“Of course,” she promised.
“Is there anything else we ought to know?” he asked.
“I don’t think so. My sister is at home with our two children, Ellen and Axel.”
“Yes, we know that,” he said. “What does she look like, your sister?”
“Like me except blond,” she said.
“I see, that was easy.”
Malin was about to turn around and leave when she thought of something.
“Perhaps you want my key, so that you can get in if that should be necessary.”
“Yes,” said Knutsson a little hesitantly. “Just wait a moment.”
He stuck his head in the police car and exchanged a few words with his colleague, then he was back.
“Maybe it’s best that you ride with us. If you don’t have anything against that?”
Malin did not need to think about it. The sooner she got home, the better. She valued every second.
“I’ll just tell my husband.”
* * *
The police car drove with blue lights on, but without sirens. They had rattled across the first two cattle guards. Two left. They had left Henrik far behind them. The car jumped and shook from the high speed. The headlights swept over the dark forest and the enclosed pastures, reflected suddenly in an animal’s eyes.
They would soon be there. Still, she could not keep from thinking that she and Henrik got to the ferry ahead of the police. It was that far to help and rescue if you lived on Fårö. She was starting to understand more and more the older Fårö residents’ attitude to the world beyond the water’s edge. Here you had to rely on yourself.
Malin fingered the cell phone, but had stopped calling. She had lost count of how many times she tried before they got to the ferry. Why didn’t they answer?
She tried to keep from thinking about what the reason could be, scared that her imagination would bring up something she could not handle. Instead she concentrated on the back of Leif Knutsson’s neck. He had not said much during the drive from Broa. The woman, on the other hand, whose name was Gunilla Borg, had asked a number of questions about Maria, the children, and the house. She got a feeling that it was mostly to keep her in good spirits.
The Intruder Page 17
