This constant struggle.
To what end?
The mental confinement of life scared me more than anything else.
I leaned back in the seat. Strengthened by the thought that there was no going back. It would be a solitary fight from here on. Presumably Nina and Christer were sitting there in the apartment forging common plans. I needed to be one step ahead. Now it was about my own survival. Those two people had to be out of my life. I could no longer afford to leave any stone unturned. They had entered the game. Perhaps they didn’t understand with what high stakes they were playing.
They would soon find out.
SIXTY-SEVEN
Olivia opened her eyes. Like every time she woke up she had to look around the room for a while before she remembered where she was. A beam of sunlight shone in, forming a light triangle across the floor next to her. The desk, the Windsor chair, the wig. She was still there. In the same room she had been in for many, many days. She didn’t know exactly how many.
When she moved, she found that she was still sore in some places. She slowly lifted the covers and looked down at her body. The light-blue nightgown Mommy had given her was stained. The lace hem at the bottom had come apart. She ran her fingers along one knee and felt that the scab from when she had fallen on the way to Grandma’s was almost gone.
Daddy said she’d had a concussion. Olivia thought that it must have been true, because she’d felt so dizzy afterward, like her brain had been shaken. But now she only had an occasional headache.
The only thing that still hurt a lot was her foot. Daddy hadn’t noticed until afterward that it had also been hurt when she fell. At first it was just a tiny, tiny cut, but then it had turned blue, and had swollen. When Daddy had found out, he’d tied a piece of cloth from his T-shirt around the foot. This time he had bandaged it so hard that it hurt. As she sat up she happened to move the blanket so that it pulled against her foot. She took a deep breath. Tried to loosen the cloth around her foot a little. She had to hold on hard with both hands to loosen the knot. Pulled as hard as she could. Grimaced as the cloth pulled tighter. Finally she got the knot untied. Carefully she unwrapped the cloth, which was wound in several layers. The bottom one was sticking a little to her skin. She pulled carefully so it would loosen but had to stop because it stung so bad. She lifted the cloth again from the other side and gasped. The skin had turned even bluer than before.
She started sobbing loudly. Couldn’t help it. It looked so horrible. The sound echoed in the room. She heard steps. It was Daddy. She put the cloth back over her foot and quickly pulled the covers up to her chin.
The door opened. Daddy entered. Without saying anything he went over to the mattress and pulled down the covers. Olivia was crying loudly but that didn’t matter anymore. He had already heard her anyway. He swore a little, quietly, and quickly left the room. Olivia listened to the steps. Into the living room, then the kitchen. A drawer was opened; he took something out of it. Ran water in the sink. He quickly came back with a red T-shirt, a scissors, and a water glass.
“Open wide.”
In one hand he held the water glass, Olivia could not see what he had in the other. She opened her mouth between sniffles. Knew she had no choice. He put two pills in her mouth and handed her the glass.
“Drink.”
She took the glass. It was hard for her to balance it when she was lying down. The pills were big in her mouth. She tried to hold her head up to be able to drink.
“Drink, I said. It won’t hurt as much then.”
Olivia took two big gulps. Some water ended up outside her mouth. The water was good. She took several smaller sips more, but it ran too fast. She started coughing.
“What the hell! Can’t you do a single thing right?”
Daddy took the water glass and set it on the table. He cut a gash in the red T-shirt and started tearing it apart into long pieces of cloth. While Olivia coughed and cried quietly he took away the old pieces of cloth and started bandaging the foot with the new red cloth. Not as hard as before. Much gentler, more careful. On top of the foot he fastened the piece of cloth with a knot. He told Olivia not to open it again. Olivia nodded and tried hard to stop crying. Daddy reached his hand toward her face. She turned her head away. Closed her eyes. Then she felt Daddy’s rough hand against her cheek. He stroked it quickly and left the room.
SIXTY-EIGHT
I was sitting in the car a couple of blocks from Christer Skoog’s house in Vällingby. I’d been forced to prepare everything in a single evening. The night before I had made my way into his house, retrieved a knife from his kitchen, bought boots in the wrong size, and arranged clothing. I would have liked more time, to learn about his evening habits. My plan was far from perfect, but I couldn’t wait.
I sat in Peter’s and my car. Memories flooded me. Family outings in the car, to Skansen, the swimming pool, movies, other children’s birthday parties…The life that I was used to, it was over. I hadn’t had time to reflect on the change. But I was relieved. With every piece that came loose from my self-created sandcastle, I felt more free.
More alive.
Was I ready for what I was about to do? What was the use of asking myself that? I had no choice. I needed to defend myself. To make sure to keep my own head above the water.
I went through the steps in my head. In through the cellar door. Up the seven steps of the cellar stairs, then in through the door up to the hall, which would probably be unlocked. It had been yesterday. If it wasn’t, it would take me another two minutes to get into the house. He would be sitting at the computer in the living room facing toward the window, his back to the living room door. If I hadn’t managed to turn off the ceiling light he would see me in the reflection of the window as soon as I entered the living room. Then I would only have a few seconds. A couple of steps to reach him. Get him down. It was important that he wasn’t able to get up. Under no circumstances could this become a wrestling match between us. Not because I was worried that I couldn’t handle him, but a struggle meant a greater possibility for the police to produce evidence. I needed to get into the house and reach the living room so soundlessly that I could turn off the light without him getting up from the desk. It was also important because the big window was like an illuminated aquarium facing out toward the street. I couldn’t risk anyone from outside seeing.
I tried to breathe calmly. Focus. Committing a murder was something quite different from averting one.
Murder.
The word, which I had said so many times at work, had now acquired a completely new significance. The thoughts…the thoughts about what in God’s name I was doing. They were there. They came and bounced around in my head. I did everything to push them away. I no longer had any choice.
I had to do this.
Didn’t I?
My heart pounded hard in my chest. I was used to the feeling of excitement, of adrenaline, but it was different now. I had to stop thinking and act instead.
I opened the car door. Got out. The shoes were one size too big but a pair of extra socks had solved the problem. With calm, deliberate steps I moved along the sidewalk. The house came closer. I disappeared into the hedge by the property line. There were still leaves on the trees. I crouched in the bushes. Peered out. Drops of water from the leaves fell down onto my clothes. The darkness and the backlight made it impossible to see what was around me. From the bushes I could see into Christer’s living room. It was brightly lit. The flicker from the TV created a white glow against the walls. Where was he? I stood there for a good five minutes, waiting, until I saw him come into the living room with a bowl in his hand. I ducked instinctively when he looked right out toward where I was standing. It was just a reflex. He couldn’t see me. I knew that. For one thing, I was completely clothed in dark garments, and in any case the light was reflected by the windows indoors, so it was hardly possible to see out. I had to relax. I drew the cold, damp autumn air deep down into my lungs. He sat down at the desk next to the window,
opened the cover on his laptop, and started eating. Pasta. It was a good sign that he was eating at the computer. Then I could be sure that he was alone. Between bites he was writing. Besides his eating and writing at the same time he looked fairly relaxed, almost pleasant. But if there was one thing I had learned in my profession it was not to rely on appearances. His way of threatening me and pressuring me for information showed who he really was. The fact that he had gotten Nina on his side, and that together behind my back they were trying to frame me, had driven me to this. It was his life or mine. I had to defend myself. Perhaps he was even sitting there writing lies about me that he intended to publish tomorrow. Yes, he probably was. Just as well I get it over with now.
I moved quickly toward the cellar door. After a minute and a half I got the lock off. Many years working with locksmiths to get into other people’s apartments made it easy for me to get in. I opened the door carefully. The muffled, murmuring sound from the TV was the only thing I could hear. I determined my location with the help of my flashlight. Step by step, one at a time. Silent, calm, and steady, even though my heart was pounding. When I took hold of the handle on the hall door I heard a scraping sound and his steps across the floor. I stopped breathing. Released the handle. Stood stock-still. Prepared. If he opened the hall door I would be forced to do it here and now.
He walked past, and into the kitchen. Pulled out the silverware drawer and took something out. Then the steps moved back toward me and again out into the living room. I heard the scraping sound of the wooden leg of the chair as he pulled it over the floor. I took a deep breath. Without a sound I pressed down the handle on the hall door. The strong light in the hall meant that I had to squint. I was in. Only a few meters from the living room. I crept forward, with my back against the wall in the narrow hall. I saw myself in the full-length mirror that was on the wall opposite. I stared at my own reflection. Didn’t recognize myself. It was like looking at someone else. It was a movie with a scared protagonist who was just about to commit the crime on which the story was based. I was rigid. With wide-open eyes like a cocaine user. I looked away. Had to keep going. The doorway into the living room was only a meter or so away. Now I didn’t have much time to spare. He could get up at any time and go out to the kitchen again. I was there now. By the doorway. I leaned my head out and looked into the living room. Saw him sitting with his back to me, tapping on the computer.
I took out the knife. Slowly. Soundlessly. Four short steps was all that was required. Then three quick stabs. Was I prepared?
Yes.
No.
My heart wouldn’t stop pounding. I adjusted the knife in my hand. It slid out of my glove and thudded on the floor. Damn it! He stopped writing and looked over his shoulder. He had seen me. Now I had seconds left. I picked the knife up from the floor. I got hold of the switch that turned off the ceiling light and ran four steps straight toward him. A quick stab in the upper part of his back. It was hard to get the knife in. Not at all like I had imagined. He let out a moaning sound. Blood started seeping out through the blue T-shirt. I pulled out the knife. Another hard stab next to it. Out with the knife a second time. A final stab to the lung. He was lifeless. His upper body lay across the desk. I left the knife in his body and quickly closed the blinds on the window facing the street. Went back. I took off one leather glove and put two fingers on his neck. I had put on plastic gloves under the leather ones for just this purpose. No pulse. I pulled the knife out slowly. As if I was afraid of injuring an organ. His whole back had turned dark with blood. I had seen a lot of blood in my job, but I was disgusted by this. I began to feel nauseated by the smell of bodily fluids that had spread throughout the room, but I couldn’t get myself to leave. I stood there, paralyzed. Observed him. Astounded by how quickly it had happened. A minute ago he’d been sitting there writing. Completely alive.
Now he was lifeless.
It was impossible to take in.
I knew that I had to finish and get out but I couldn’t. My body would not obey me. To get rid of the overwhelming image of him I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths. I wiped the knife a little carelessly on the couch. Took the plastic bag out of my pocket. Held it up. The dark strands of hair in the bag weren’t visible in the darkness but I knew they were there. My hands were shaking. I tried to calm myself. Had to get this done now. The little bag was well sealed. I had to pull hard, but I couldn’t really get a grip. With trembling hands I tore harder. The bag burst open, ripped along one side.
“Damn,” I whispered, as if someone could hear me. I held the bag up toward the light coming from the kitchen down the hall. The strands of hair couldn’t be seen. Because I couldn’t make myself turn on the light in the living room I went into the kitchen with the torn bag. The hair strands were gone. Must have fallen out. Where? I had planned to place a strand of hair in the blood on the knife, and one near the chair where Christer was seated, and one more on…damn, my hands were still trembling. I clenched them. Walked steadily into the living room. Stood in the doorway, focusing my gaze on the couch to avoid seeing Christer. I switched on the light. The large fixture on the ceiling illuminated the room. Focusing on the couch, I moved in. My eyes flicked to the desk chair where Christer sat but I forced them back. Stared at the black fabric couch. Finding a brown strand of hair there would be impossible. I crouched down by the coffee table and swept my eyes across the rug. Nothing but crumbs.
A dripping sound from the desk chair made me look. Blood. It dripped from his body. Down onto the wood floor where a red pool was forming. I got up quickly. Had to get out of the house. I crumpled the redline bag into my pocket. Took the knife and went into the kitchen. Pulled out the kitchen drawer a centimeter or two. The same drawer the knife I’d taken the night before had been in. I unlocked the outside door and moved backward through the door and away from the house in the too-large boots. I walked around the block and placed the knife in a bush under some leaves not far from the house. Then I went back past the house and to the car. I looked at Christer Skoog’s house.
It looked different now.
Soulless.
It was over.
SIXTY-NINE
I’d been forced to take a sleeping pill. Even so, I only slept for two hours. My body felt ten kilos heavier in the hard office chair. I had to exert myself even to pick up the pen on the table in front of me. Everything was happening in slow motion. Blinking, turning my head, taking hold of the pen. My entire existence felt surreal. When I had woken up that morning I’d been uncertain whether the events of the day before had really happened. Everything was normal. Breakfast with the children, Peter dropping them off at day care, the road to work with red lights turning to green, pedestrians crossing the street, buses following their regular route, colleagues who said good morning in the corridor, my office that looked the same as the day before — all of that was as usual. Inside, I knew. It was no dream. I could now count myself as being a part of that small group of people who had taken someone else’s life. It was impossible to comprehend.
It was what it was.
Unreal.
The day didn’t become any more real from the fact that now, at eight o’clock in the morning, I was in a meeting with a medium. Now was the time for us to try and somehow combine fact and nonsense into something sensible. I needed to be friendly to him and at the same time keep him at a distance from the investigation. Not because I thought he would actually come up with anything by means of his supernatural talents, but because having someone on my heels, analyzing my every movement, would complicate my work.
“I’ve never worked on an investigation together with someone who is not well schooled in police working methods. How do you see your role in the collaboration?” I asked.
He gave me a look that I could not decipher. Had I been slurring? I didn’t know for sure. Felt numb.
“In order for me to be able to see anything I need to get in contact with the environment in which the crime occurred. I’m also going to want t
o acquaint myself with the interviews and the surveillance video from the investigation.”
“You can visit the crime scene whenever it suits you,” I said. “It’s probably best that you work by yourself there and not have me around disturbing you.”
“Well, it would be nice if…”
“I have a lot to do, because I’m also working on other investigations in parallel. It will probably be best if you can try to work as independently as possible and then come to me once you’ve had any visions.”
It was taxing for me to talk. Partly because the sleeping pills were still working in my body and partly because I didn’t know how I should speak to a medium.
“I need access to all the documents in the investigation, especially the interviews.”
“No problem. I’ll print them out for you.”
Then he could work as he wished and I could avoid having Mr. Hocus-Pocus at my heels.
“I work outside a lot, but you can always reach me on my mobile.”
I got up. The room turned black in front of my eyes. I staggered and had to sit down in the chair again.
“How are you doing?” he asked, taking me by the arm.
Shouldn’t he already know what’s going on with me? That I had spent the previous evening killing a journalist and was slightly affected by it all?
“Must be a little anemia,” I said.
I took a gulp of water from the glass in front of me.
“Another thing, Leona. Do you know if there’s a vacant office I can use?”
The eternal question of space. So the agency had not even arranged an office for him. Remarkable, since he was clearly so important.
“Claes will make sure you get a nice office.”
I wanted to end the meeting. Felt dizzy. But first I needed to reassure myself.
“By the way, has Claes talked to you about the media?”
“Nothing other than that the case is extensively covered. I’ve studied what’s been written myself.”
Leona Page 28
