Mortensen did not answer.
“Clearly we’re going to look into the matter of these animals. We may even have to reevaluate Cederén’s death.”
“What do you mean?”
“There may be a connection.” Lindell made a note on her pad.
“I don’t know what got into that devil!”
“You said he was your friend. You should know.”
Again Mortensen didn’t answer, sitting collected but grim on the other side of the table. His face had grown paler during the course of the conversation. He had a slightly indignant expression, as if Lindell had betrayed a prior agreement.
The conversation was over. Mortensen got up without a word while Lindell made a point of staying put.
“Let me show you out,” she said finally.
She knew they were not going to get any further. She was convinced that a check on the primates at Ultuna would result in a report that all was in order. Perhaps not a pretty sight but very likely in accordance with the regulations. The man in front of her conjured up a feeling of distaste in her. The earlier sensation of relaxed intimacy from the garden was nowhere in evidence. She hated pathetic men, pathetic witnesses. Mortensen was trying to play a martyr, and the claim that Cederén was his friend was nothing more than an act and a bad one at that.
They walked in silence through the corridor and Lindell ushered Mortensen out with a sense of relief. She wanted to be alone. The nausea had come and gone all night and she felt exhausted. She had not been so smart in her conversation with Mortensen. She blamed this on her distaste. The feeling of having reached the end of her rope irritated her. Investigating an attack on a television station was not a task to her taste. She was the first to give primates their due, but it wasn’t the same as solving human problems. She was a little ashamed of this feeling, because she had in fact become enraged by images of chimpanzees and other animals pierced with tubes, needles, and god knows what, but it was the image of Josefin and Emily by the side of the road that always forced its way to the front. Most of all she wanted to know what had happened to them, but she also knew that they were unlikely to get any further. Sven-Erik Cederén had taken the explanation for the drama with him to his grave.
Maybe it was Frisk’s pose of confidence that had irritated her. She didn’t have much faith in his lists of vegans and other similar groups. She suspected that pretty much anyone could end up on a list like that. A sense of arbitrariness radiated like an aura from Security, and not least from the division head. Where this feeling came from, she didn’t know. Perhaps the source of it was the investigation of Enrico Mendoza from a couple of years ago. That was when she had realized how extensive their mapping of the left had been and that Security was still keeping an eye on completely harmless types such as Rosander, a middle-aged entomologist. They knew what newspapers and magazines he read, where he had been published. Massive resources were expended on these mental ghosts: There were many more Rosanders all over Sweden.
She walked back to her office. She knew that Sammy was still in the building, but she wanted to be by herself. It had been a long day. What will happen if I’m going to live with Edvard? she wondered. Will he accept that I’m gone so much? She tried to imagine Edvard in an apartment in the city, hanging out in front of the television or reading a book, as she was down at the station or chasing around the countryside. It was hard to believe that he would put up with it for any length of time.
The nausea came over her in an instant and she barely managed to get to the trash can before she vomited a thin green-tinted soupy liquid. An image of Frisk’s greasy hamburger floated before her eyes and she crouched over the bin again. Please don’t let anyone come by, she thought before the next wave.
There, her brow sweaty, crouched over on shaky legs, she suddenly realized what was wrong. She should have realized it long ago, but only now did it dawn on her. It spread through her body like ice. She felt as if her body temperature fell by several degrees and she shivered. So wrong! So damned wrong!
She stared down at the bottom of the trash can, where the scrunched papers—the result of the day’s clever deductions—lay in a paste of vomit. So wrong, she screamed inside, and she knew that life was laying down its cards.
She should have realized. Her period was supposed to have come at least ten days ago. She remembered that she had wondered about it in the middle of her vacation week, had reflected that it would be a pity if it came when she headed out to Gräsö Island. Then she had put it out of her mind. That her period was late or even skipped a cycle was not unusual in times of high stress. She rarely bled very much or for very long. Her cycles were irregular, and she was never very aware of the days or weeks involved.
But now she was suddenly painfully aware of her body. She should have understood the signs. The nausea that came and went, how she had been sick to her stomach both at home and at Gräsö the morning after Midsummer. She had blamed this on her irregular meals, on the herring and the schnapps, but not this.
She suddenly recalled her recent cravings for sugar and salt. She had seen pregnant girlfriends reach for chocolate coconut balls, mustard sandwiches, licorice, and all kinds of candy. But she hadn’t connected it to her own snacking habits these past couple of weeks.
Contempt was what she felt first. Contempt for herself. She—an investigative detective—hadn’t been able to keep track of her own body. Then came the anger. Why go to bed with a boring engineer? Then fear. Now she would lose Edvard, the man she loved. And last, doubt. I can’t be pregnant. I’m on the pill. This is just stress.
Her inner monologue was like a swarm of angry bees stinging her. The nausea had passed, but it had been replaced by something far worse: a throbbing sense of worry that she knew would hold her in its iron grip for the foreseeable future.
How was it possible to get pregnant on the pill? It simply couldn’t be. It couldn’t be!
The telephone rang and Lindell shot up from her crouch. She stared at the appliance. Four signals. Immediately thereafter, her cell phone started to ring.
She fished it out of her pocket and did not know if she should answer. The display read “Private Caller.”
She pressed the talk button and said her name.
“Is this Ann Lindell?”
“Yes, as I already stated.”
Her voice wobbled. The woman on the other end took a breath so deep that Lindell heard it.
“I have certain information regarding Sven-Erik Cederén.”
It’s his lover, Lindell thought, suddenly convinced.
“I see,” she said.
“He didn’t take his life.”
“Who are you?”
“That isn’t important.”
“It’s very important to me,” Lindell said.
“No, it doesn’t matter. What matters is that you don’t believe that Sven-Erik ran over his family and then took his own life. He would never do that.”
“Are you his female companion?”
The words sounded silly, but she couldn’t bring herself to say lover.
“I’m a friend of the family.”
It was clear that the woman had now used up her store of courage and strength. The line went dead. She had hung up. Lindell put her phone down with a feeling of great defeat.
She sank down on her chair. Who was the woman? I’m pregnant. Edvard. It was as if the events of the day had paralyzed her. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think clearly, could hardly breathe. She simply sat there with a single wish in her head: not to lose Edvard.
I should call Sammy, she thought and observed her hand that moved unbidden across the shiny surface of the desk.
“Hell,” she said aloud. “But what about the baby? Am I willing to lose it?”
She stood but immediately sank back onto the chair.
“Take it easy, call Sammy, go home.”
It was as if the sound of her own voice calmed her and she continued a dialog with herself. She talked incessantly like a very co
nfused person, gathered her papers on the table, tied the stinking plastic bag from the garbage can, grabbed her coat, and looked around the office as if she were about to leave it for good.
* * *
She walked into the warm evening air and wanted to cry. I’m carrying a life inside me, a child that I’ve wanted so much earlier but that I now hate. Who was he, the father? She was hardly able to formulate the word “father” in her mind.
She would recognize him if they met in the street. As a trained police officer of course she would, if need be, be able to identify her temporary guest, whose sperm had outsmarted her. He had tricked her. No, she had wanted it. She hadn’t been so out of it. She had wanted him in her home and in her bed.
She lingered outside her car. The feeling of low-level functioning was similar to a state of intoxication, and she was suddenly unsure if she would be able to drive.
“Idiot,” she said aloud and unlocked the door. “Get ahold of yourself.”
* * *
She dialed Sammy from the car and told him about the call. In turn, he told her that Frisk had presented him with a handful of names of the core members of the animal rights activists. They agreed to meet early the next morning. Lindell knew without saying that Sammy would spend the evening giving the names on the list a little more substance. Where were they? Addresses, jobs, if they were enrolled in courses, if they were already in the police register—all questions that it was possible to find answers to, if only you were logged in to the right databases.
* * *
Lindell had only one thought as she drove home and parked the car. To pour herself a glass of wine, lie down on the couch, pull the blanket over her, and sink deep into her own thoughts. The investigation of MedForsk that would normally have dominated her ruminations flashed past like speeding cars. Single words, a phrase she had heard the past week, the image from Uppsala-Näs, and the forest clearing in Rasbo. The woman whom she believed to be the lover had sounded nervous, her controlled voice an effort. She knew more than she had said, and Lindell believed that she would call again. The woman was apparently convinced of Cederén’s innocence and would not be able to sit on her information. She would do anything to make Lindell believe her version.
But what was it that made her so certain? Lindell guessed it was love. To come to grips with the fact that one’s lover had committed both murder and suicide was something that took time.
The wine didn’t have much taste. Campo Viejo was the kind she almost always drank. She was a regular at the wine store on Skolgatan. It was almost to the point where the clerk put three bottles on the counter when Lindell stepped into the store. Recently she had been going to the store at OBS. It was self-serve and she could be more anonymous.
Do I want children? She had asked herself that question many times, and the past few years she had always answered yes. She had wanted them with Rolf, the man she was together with before she met Edvard. She had wanted them with Edvard, although she had been less certain. She was approaching forty and knew that it soon would be too late.
Why a child seemed so important, she didn’t really know. As she lay on the sofa, staring into space, she reviewed her situation. She calculated that she would give birth in February of 2001. She was a March child herself. She thought of her parents in Ödeshög, their patient longing for a grandchild. What would they say? A child without a father in its life.
She reached for the wineglass, perched on her elbow, and took a sip. She shouldn’t be drinking. She sank down on the pillow, pulled the blanket more tightly around her, and felt sorry for herself.
After ten minutes she was asleep. Her last conscious thoughts circled around the fact that she should have contacted Haver and told him about the woman’s call. In some way this was his territory.
Sixteen
Gabriella Mark stopped by the door to the earth cellar. Like Lot’s wife, she stood paralyzed. For a moment she had looked back and that had been enough. She had seen him right here, his hand on the stone wall of the cellar. The lady’s bedstraw had been in full bloom; she never touched it and had made a narrow path to the thick door. “My lady,” he had said, “my beautiful flower,” and he had gazed at her with loving eyes.
The scent of the bedstraw intoxicated him. Gabriella believed in the healing powers of plants. She knew that he was in the force field of this yellow flower, defenseless, stripped to his skin—no, the sweet smell went even deeper than that. It was the flower that brought the smile to his face, looking at her.
He loved her. Why, she could never understand. She wasn’t particularly attractive. Not like his wife.
It was in the garden that she appeared at her best. Her body was delicate but with wide hips made to rest seed boxes against and with muscular legs and shoulders from digging, from loosening dirt, from crouching in dirt. Her arms were so slender that he could easily encircle them with his hands.
She had become a new person the day she had bought the house. Years of desperation, of searching for a life of meaning, had been replaced with a deeply felt sense of peace. Her period on disability after the accident that had cost her husband his life had been long, and she had feared for her life. Not physically—the doctors had fit her back together well—but her equanimity had been shaken. She found herself bumping against life, having to take detours and lean on pills, on sleep. She never woke up feeling happy.
And then she bought the house. It was by instinct, as if her body and soul were in charge. Dazed, she signed the sales contract and loan documents. Already after only a couple of days—that was also at the time the bedstraw was blooming—she felt her body slowly start to work again, as if her limbs were regrowing. Things she held in her hands took on a sense of weight and meaning. She fumbled for the poker, opened the door to the wood-burning fireplace in the kitchen, saw the glowing embers, and drew in the heat.
She stood there for a long time in the doorway of the old shed, peering into the half darkness, picking up raw and earthy smells. Then she stepped inside and found some rusty shovels, a garden fork, a wheelbarrow with a punctured tire.
The birds, enlivened by their guest, flew in wide arcs between the bushy thickets, chirping and tending to their little ones. A cat turned up after a couple of days, first keeping to the edge of the property, slinking around the shed and hiding in the nettles, but creeping closer.
The creaking doors were greased, the paths cleared, the firewood that had stood stacked for years received her with muted voices. She stood on the sawdust-strewn floors of the woodshed and smiled at the sawhorse and the chopping block.
Slowly but surely she had floated up to the surface, grown more beautiful and stronger, and taken up her place in the house, the garden, and the landscape.
She hired carpenters, painters, and electricians. The money from her husband’s insurance was enough to make a lovely home out of the old cottage with its addition. Contact with the workers energized her. She looked forward to their voices and hands. She became the perfect client who baked, cooked, and brought home cases of beer. Rarely had they been as well looked after on a job. They thought of her as a jolly woman, eager and honest.
The fact that they were men—a couple of them attractive—meant that she gave more attention to her appearance. Not that she wanted anything to happen, but she noticed that they looked at her, that they probably made comments about her and her appearance. All men do, she thought, and in spite of herself she liked the fact that she could attract their gaze and innocently flirtatious comments.
* * *
Then Sven-Erik came along. He had known her husband, had found out that she had moved to Rasbo, and had called her. There were some photos he wanted to show her. He had found them in a box when he was cleaning up and throwing away some old junk. The photos were taken some fifteen, sixteen years ago by a guy in the group of boys he associated with as a teen. Nils, her husband, was also in that gang.
Sven-Erik had thought she might want a couple and that was why he had called. Af
ter the first visit, he had returned, and Gabriella had seen him change each time. She started to long for him to come by.
* * *
Now he was gone and she didn’t know how she would be able to live. The memories of him were everywhere. He spoke to her in the darkness of the night, he caressed her in her dreams, and she wept with grief and sorrow when she woke up.
She knew that he could never have killed his wife and child. Not that he still loved Josefin, but he was not a murderer. He wanted to divorce her—that was something he had talked about with increasing frequency over the past year—but not in that way. And then there was Emily, his greatest love. He had talked a great deal about Emily and had shown her pictures. Never.
She had followed the reports in the papers. Each line pained her, but she had to read everything in order to understand what had happened. She had seen the obituary. She would visit the grave too, but later.
At first she had accepted the idea that he had become confused, committed the murders, and then taken his own life. There was no other explanation. After a couple of days she had spoken with Jack Mortensen, who had supported this theory and told her about Sven-Erik’s worsening temper. He had asked her not to reveal her identity. He thought of Sven-Erik’s family, he said. Things were bad enough as they were.
She had promised him that. He had called her several times, and in some way that was a comfort, to have someone who knew, someone who could acknowledge her grief.
After another couple of days her doubt had started to grow. Sven-Erik couldn’t possibly have done this, not the man she loved and had come to know as a sensitive person whose values were changing during the time they spent together. He had become critical of his work, complained of the stress, of the constant need for money for the development of the company, of the demand for quick results from the Spanish investors. Most of the time he didn’t want to talk about work, but sometimes it came up, and she sensed that he would soon break free of it. There was no other way. Sven-Erik was not the type of person who could take things lightly, simply push concerns aside and go on for the sake of his career or the money.
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