“Forty-four eighty-five twenty on Fårö,” Fredrik answered.
“I see that you are only a couple of miles from Kalbjerga, over.”
“Yes. We’re en route to question Henrik Kjellander. We’re about five minutes from there, over.”
“Wait, you’ll get VB here, over.”
There was a snap and Anna’s voice was replaced by the duty officer.
“Kjellander called nine-one-one, he was certain that Katja Nyberg was outside the house. But that’s all we know. The call was cut off, over.”
“Have you tried to call back, over.”
“We’re trying now. So far no result, over.”
Sara increased speed and soon they were driving twice as fast as before. The car hopped and swayed on the uneven road.
“Okay, what do we do, over.” said Fredrik.
“We’re sending reinforcements. Get to the house, but be extremely careful and report in as soon as you know more. If it’s even slightly unclear what the situation is, wait for reinforcements, is that understood, over.”
“Yes,” said Fredrik. “That’s understood, over.”
“We’ve stopped the ferry so they’re coming right away, but both cars are in Visby, so you’ll have to count on it taking an hour from now, over.”
“We’ll do what we can in the meantime,” said Fredrik. “End over.”
The narrow road, lit up by the headlights, rushed quickly toward them. The gravel sprayed around the car and large stones struck hard against the chassis. Sara braked for a cattle guard, but increased speed again as soon as they were over.
91.
Henrik got her to sit down on one of the chairs in the bower. It had taken an eternity of more and more irritated nagging. It was as if she didn’t hear what he said, or even understand. Was she deliberately misunderstanding? Was she trying to manipulate him?
To what end, in that case?
Henrik sat on the bench with the shotgun on his lap. The lamp above the stairs lit Katja up with a sharp glow. He saw every motion, while he was a shadow to her.
It irritated him that she didn’t listen. He was finding it more and more difficult to keep calm. And the calm he showed was not much more than a front. He had hit that pine tree up in the forest, but that did not mean he was comfortable with a shotgun in his hands. He was not even sure he would be able to pull the trigger if something were to happen.
Katja smiled at him with a kind of inscrutable seriousness and reached out a hand. Five long, pale fingers, an upturned hand, a dead crab.
Why had she come? Was she a ticking bomb that could explode at any moment? Did she have a hammer inside her jacket? A knife? What would he do if she suddenly went on the attack? What if she was too quick, was over him before he could react. And then? Would she continue into the house, up to the top floor?
Katja moved her hand again. She could not reach him. There was too much distance between them. He observed her peculiar smile, the deceptively friendly eyes, and the right cheek with a dry patch, big as a thumbnail. She didn’t have that when he met her in Copenhagen.
Chapped.
He was shaking inside. No. He was really shaking. His hands that were holding the gun jumped. Did she notice that? If he had any idea how it was done he would have liked to frisk her to see if she had a weapon on her. But he didn’t intend to go near her. He didn’t intend to leave the bench he was sitting on. He was convinced that any attempt to do anything other than remain sitting where he was would end badly.
He was starting to boil inside when she did not do as he said, when she pretended like he had never opened his mouth. Then he would pull the trigger at once. To escape that boiling feeling that said she was dangerous, that said that he would miss if he waited any longer, that he would drop the gun and shoot himself in the foot. Anything could go wrong.
Malin. Axel. His little Axel lying lifeless in front of the stove. Who he tried to waken from the dead. He had done everything he could, but nothing had helped.
Katja. Was it really her? The woman from St. Petri. They’d had a good time together. Why should she kill his family? He hadn’t made any promises that he hadn’t kept. They met in a hotel bar and had sex in a hotel room. What had she expected?
He shook off the thoughts. There was no point in trying to understand. If it really was her who had been here, who rented the house when they were away and then … There was no logic, no reason.
“Henrik.”
He didn’t like it that she said his name.
“Henrik…”
She rose up from the seat of the chair.
“Sit down!”
She stood up.
He stood up, too, raised the shotgun with trembling hands.
“Sit down, I said.”
Around them were Malin, Axel, and Ellen. A warm summer evening in the bower. Axel rushing up and down out of the chair, could not sit still, didn’t need to sit still.
And then only Katja. Everything narrowed down to that familiar face, the quiet smile that was only a mask. She had destroyed his life. He wished that she would take a step forward. Just one more step so he could shoot her. He really wanted to. He wanted her to disappear from the face of the earth. Be erased from history. He did not want her to sit in prison, perhaps tell her story in the newspaper. Become a serial without end. One day be released. Get out in twenty years. Continue living her life. While his life was destroyed.
Ellen. He had Ellen. Yes, he ought to shoot to protect Ellen. Shoot her so that Ellen would not have to worry that Katja Nyberg would ring her doorbell one day in the distant future.
One more step.
92.
Sara let the car creep forward with the headlights off the last stretch and stopped halfway up the gentle slope. They got out of the car, left the doors open to make as little noise as possible. They sneaked ahead in single file, Sara first, in one of the rutted tracks.
The evening seemed lighter when the headlights were turned off. There was still a faint blue sheen over the landscape.
“There’s a car there,” Sara whispered over her shoulder.
Fredrik could see it, too. A Volvo alongside the two bigger cars that belonged to the household.
They stopped when they reached the gate. There was a light over the front door and in a window up toward the road. They stood stock-still and listened. Not a sound, not a movement. Had they arrived too late? Fredrik remembered the house from the night of the murders. Would this be a repeat? Dead bodies. Blood.
“I hear something.”
Sara hissed out the words with her mouth right next to Fredrik’s ear.
“Do you hear it?”
After a moment’s concentration he could hear a voice. It came from below the house.
“It sounds like Henrik,” he whispered in Sara’s ear.
A moment later he heard another voice. A woman’s this time.
Without saying anything more, they took out their guns, released the safeties, and held them lowered to the ground. Sara signaled that they should continue through the gate. He heard the woman’s voice again, but still could not see anyone as they walked carefully down toward the house.
He pointed toward the overgrown lilacs and Sara nodded.
She took a few steps to the side so that they had a gap of two or three yards between them before they went the final bit up to the bower.
Henrik was sitting closest to them. The woman sat farther in, with her back against the straggly green leaves. She looked up toward them. Her hair was shorter and the hair color different compared to the passport photo, but Fredrik recognized the broad mouth and beautifully shaped but sorrowful eyes.
The strong lamp above the front door cast a hard light over them, but also left large sections in deep shadow.
“Henrik,” said Fredrik.
If it hadn’t been for a negligible shift in his body he almost would have thought that Henrik had not heard him.
Fredrik sought Sara’s attention for a moment to make sure
they were in agreement about how to proceed. Sara nodded in the direction of Katja as confirmation.
“Henrik, it’s Fredrik Broman,” said Fredrik. “I’m here with Sara Oscarsson. Is everything as it should be?”
Henrik did not answer and did not turn now, either. It felt stupid to talk to the back of someone’s head. The whole situation was strange. Why didn’t he answer?
Sara moved a few feet forward to the right and then stopped abruptly.
“He has a gun,” she said. “A shotgun.”
Fredrik took a couple steps to the right, then he saw it, too. Henrik was holding it along his leg, aimed at Katja Nyberg.
He looked at Sara and again they exchanged a momentary look of mutual understanding.
“Katja,” said Sara. “I want you to hold out your hands so that I can see them.”
Katja started at her name and stared at Sara, who was holding her service revolver aimed at her.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? I want you to hold out your hands in front of you so that I can see them.”
One of Katja’s hands was resting on her lap, the other was hidden behind the chair.
“Katja. Can you do as I say?”
She remained seated, as if the words hadn’t sunk in.
“Katja?”
Slowly she extended her arms.
“Good,” said Sara. “Put your arms up in the air and put your hands behind your neck.”
Fredrik looked at Henrik, who was following Katja’s movements with his eyes. His left hand took a firmer hold on the shotgun. He raised it.
“Wait now, Henrik,” said Fredrik.
He took a couple of slow steps over toward Henrik.
“We’re going to end this now. Take Katja with us to Visby, make sure that she is indicted for the murders.”
Fredrik had a feeling that Katja was staring at him, but he had all his focus on Henrik, did not intend to release him. He would have preferred to get Katja out first, but the bower was a dead end. Sara could not tell her to back away. The only way was forward, past Henrik.
Henrik did not let out a sound now, either, but his right hand was moving on the gun. His finger rested dangerously close to the trigger.
“Did you hear what I said, Henrik? We’re going to take Katja with us. But before we do that you must put down the gun.”
The seconds ticked away. Henrik kept silent, but Fredrik could see that he was listening. The words affected him. The question was, in what direction?
“We have everything under control. You don’t need to worry any longer. We’ll take care of Katja. You can put down the gun.”
A brief glance in Fredrik’s direction showed that Henrik was listening. But nothing happened. He sat there as if paralyzed.
“You know that you cannot fire that gun. If you do, you won’t be let out until your daughter is grown. Ellen will have to grow up in a foster family.”
Henrik breathed heavily, his head lowered a few inches.
“Henrik,” said Fredrik. “For Ellen’s sake if nothing else.”
He could hear Henrik’s breathing, then how he swallowed.
“You’ll get the gun,” he said hoarsely.
“Good,” said Fredrik. “That’s the right decision. Do as I say now. Set the gun down on the ground beside you.”
Henrik took a deep breath.
“Calmly and carefully,” said Fredrik. “With the butt in my direction.”
Henrik changed his hold on the gun and leaned slowly to the side, setting it down on the ground.
“And then scoot it backward in my direction as far as you can.”
Henrik did as Fredrik told him.
“And now?” he said tonelessly.
“Just sit there,” said Fredrik.
When Henrik was settled again, Fredrik went over and set one heavy foot down on the butt of the gun. Not until then did he lean down to pick it up.
He backed away with the shotgun, holstered his own weapon, opened the shotgun, and took out the cartridges; at the same time, he kept a worried eye on Henrik.
“Henrik,” he said.
“Yes?”
“I want you to get up and go over and sit on the steps.”
“Okay,” said Henrik.
Henrik got up and went toward the steps. When he was there he turned around toward Fredrik.
“Can I go in to Ellen?” he asked.
“Is she in the house?”
“Yes, in her room.”
“Very soon,” said Fredrik. “First we’re going to take Katja to the car. During that time I want you to sit down on the steps, nothing else. Okay?”
Henrik sank down on the steps without saying anything else.
“Thanks,” said Fredrik.
He didn’t want to take any risks, did not want to give Henrik the chance to change his mind and come rushing out with a knife or some other weapon.
Fredrik went over to Katja and set the unloaded gun down in the grass.
He told her to stand up with her hands still on her head, then he took out the handcuffs and shackled her arms behind her back.
“Ready?” asked Sara.
“Yes.”
He saw how she relaxed and holstered her gun. They took Katja Nyberg by either arm and led her out of the bower.
“We’re going to take her up to the car, then I’ll come back down,” he said to Henrik.
Henrik nodded silently, and they passed him with Katja between them. No one said anything else. When they were on their way up the rise, Katja twisted her head and looked over her shoulder toward Henrik. Fredrik turned around, too. Henrik had stood up from the steps and was staring after them. The strong lamp above the door glistened in his dark eyes. Fredrik had never seen anyone look so incredibly alone.
93.
It was Monday afternoon, calm and quiet in the police station. And warm. The summer heat had come back with full force the day before. Fredrik was off all day Sunday. He had spent the day with Joakim, or to be more exact, from when he woke up at noon until Fredrik dropped him off outside the ferry terminal at three thirty.
He had asked him what type of work he would prefer if he became a photographer. Joakim grinned and said he didn’t know. Fredrik told about the visit with Janna Drake and the two worlds on the wall in the entry, the children in the slums and the photo model. He could see that Joakim did not really understand what the problem was. Maybe it was only in the head of a middle-aged man born in the sixties that those two pictures were poles apart.
Fredrik let the water run from the tap in the kitchenette until it got really cold. He filled two glasses and carried them up to the interview room.
“Are you okay?” he said, looking at Henrik Kjellander, who was already waiting in the room.
Henrik met Fredrik’s look with tired eyes.
“Yes, of course,” he said hoarsely.
Fredrik set the glasses down on the table. Henrik thanked him, picked up his glass, and took a couple of deep gulps.
“I hardly slept last night,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve slept at all.”
His voice was clearer now, maybe thanks to the water. Henrik set down the glass.
“I can’t understand this. So it’s really her?”
“Yes.”
“You mean it was her the whole time?”
“She denies everything, but I’m certain. She is going to be convicted.”
“This is damned incomprehensible.”
Henrik rubbed his neck and looked down at the table.
“Why didn’t you ever say anything about Katja Nyberg?”
“I couldn’t imagine that … I never thought of her.”
“You never thought of her, despite everything we talked about?”
The tone had gotten harder. He could not help it.
“Yes, yes, of course. That’s not what I meant. Of course I thought of her. But I never believed—”
He fell silent, turned away from Fredrik, and took hold of the back of the chair.
“That it might be her?” Fredrik filled in.
“I know,” said Henrik. “I was supposed to tell about everything, but I didn’t. I didn’t tell about Maria, and not about Katja Nyberg.”
And perhaps there were others he didn’t tell about, thought Fredrik.
“Is that hard to understand?” Henrik turned back toward Fredrik. “Is it completely incomprehensible?”
“No,” said Fredrik.
Fredrik let it go. He had not been asked to torment him, just to get the pieces to fit together.
“Tell me about Katja,” he asked.
Henrik cleared his throat a couple of times, settled himself on the chair, and then hesitantly started.
He had met Katja Nyberg at Hotel St. Petri on the fourth of October. That was already known. She had been in Copenhagen during the day to interview a Danish politician. When she was done with the interview she went to St. Petri’s bar to have a drink. Henrik arrived later along with Marte Astrup and Agnes Lind. Someone exchanged a few words with Katja, Henrik could not remember who. They started talking and later when they moved over to a table, Katja came with them. They remained sitting for several hours, then the editor and Henrik’s assistant left in turn. Katja went with Henrik up to his room and spent the night. Henrik left the hotel early in the morning while Katja was still asleep, but left a note on one of the hotel’s note cards—the note that was pinned up on Katja’s wall at home in Malmö.
When Henrik came back to the hotel on the evening of the fifth Katja was sitting in the bar waiting. They spent that night together, too, as well as Henrik’s third and last night at the hotel.
When Henrik was going to fly to Copenhagen again a few weeks later, he called Katja and asked if she had time to take the train over.
“It was an impulse. I never really thought I would see her again, but then … Well, now it turned out that way.”
“And it was on your initiative?” said Fredrik.
“Yes. She came to the hotel, we … Yes, she stayed over, but … I guess I knew it wasn’t a great idea. I told her that I was married and had children, I mean, I said that right from the start, but that I couldn’t continue with a relationship on the side.”
“How did she take that?”
The Intruder Page 37
