by Viveca Sten
The Christmas tree in the garden spread only a small circle of light. The hedge melted into the night sky; the glow of the lone streetlamp over on the corner didn’t reach this far.
I’m too scared.
She could hardly breathe. The ice-cold air made her nostrils close up. Her fingers had already begun to stiffen inside her gloves, even though she’d pushed her hands deep into her pockets.
Her heart was pounding so hard that she could hear every single beat.
Do you want to know how your mom died?
The words throbbed through her brain. One last glance over her shoulder at the house, where Dad lay sleeping.
In the distance she could hear the dull roar of an engine.
Alice pulled up her hood and walked toward the gate.
CHAPTER 38
Aram was on a subway train, the green line, on his way home. They had reached Stureby; only a few more stations to go.
The car was fairly empty; two teenage girls were giggling over their cell phones diagonally in front of him, and an old man who didn’t look well was resting his head against the window. Farther along an elderly woman in a woolen coat was reading her book.
It was ten to midnight, much later than he’d intended. He’d spent the whole evening going through Jeanette’s papers, but it had been worth it; most of the documents had now been sorted into various piles with explanatory notes. Several were earmarked for Karin’s attention, many of them with barely legible handwriting. According to Thomas she was an expert at interpreting that kind of thing.
The exercise had made him feel as if he was getting to know Jeanette. Somehow he had grown closer to the deceased woman. He had felt her presence in the newspaper clippings, the articles she’d carelessly torn out, the coffee stains on the pages.
He had also found and read many of the pieces she’d written over the years. They were almost all about injustices of various kinds—against women, against immigrants, against the more vulnerable members of society.
It felt as if she knew exactly what Aram himself had been through, what his family had been subjected to.
She was dead, yet she lived on in her writing. Aram realized he was almost . . . mourning her.
It was an unexpected feeling; he could usually keep his distance, even in difficult cases. He rarely became involved on a personal level.
But Jeanette was a woman worth admiring, he thought as the train left Bandhagen. It picked up speed, lights whizzing by, streetlights and car headlights, Christmas tree lights in people’s gardens.
His eyes ached behind his glasses. He had run out of contact lenses the day before Christmas Eve; he must remember to buy a fresh supply before traveling down to Norrköping for New Year’s.
Jeanette wasn’t afraid of speaking up, he thought; he couldn’t help being impressed by her. She hadn’t allowed herself to be silenced, even though she must have known that her articles would provoke strong reactions.
It wasn’t easy write to about racism and anti-immigration views, nor was it particularly opportune. Aram knew that many reporters avoided the subject for fear of the repercussions that often followed. Attacks on journalists were a frequent occurrence online; some had their names and pictures posted, as well as those of their family.
The vitriol prevalent in those circles frightened many into keeping quiet. Sweden had become a heartless place in many ways, but Jeanette Thiels appeared to have carried on regardless, judging by what he had read today.
Surely there must be a connection with her death?
“Next stop, Högdalen,” a metallic voice announced over the loudspeaker as the train began to slow down.
Aram yawned. His shoulders were stiff after all those hours bent over Jeanette’s papers.
The doors opened, and three guys with cropped hair got on. They were probably in their twenties, wearing sneakers and leather jackets. Two of them sat down opposite the girls, in spite of the fact that there were plenty of empty seats elsewhere. They stretched out their legs, giving the girls very little space. However, the girls didn’t protest, they simply edged over to make room.
The third guy stood in the aisle, looming over the girl at the end of the row. His neck was so short he looked as if his head was perched directly on his shoulders.
Bodybuilder, Aram thought. He felt a faint pulse of tension, and instinctively clenched his fists.
The girls had stopped giggling. The one closest to the aisle was clutching her phone; she bent forward so that her long dark hair concealed her face.
The elderly woman farther along had closed her book and was glancing anxiously at the new arrivals. The old man still had his eyes shut.
The guy standing up gave the girl a push and nodded at her phone.
“Who are you texting?” he said with a grin. Aram could just see a black tattoo above his collar.
“Nobody.”
The other girl had pressed herself into the corner by the window. Her face was so pale that her lilac lipstick looked ghostly, like some kind of Halloween mask.
“I saw you. You were texting.”
“It’s just a friend.”
“A friend.” He snorted and made a crude gesture to his friends, who guffawed. “Let’s have a look.”
He held out his hand. “Give me the phone!”
The girl by the window looked terrified.
Aram reached into his pocket for his police ID and got to his feet, but before he could say anything the elderly woman had left her seat and marched down the aisle.
“Leave those girls alone!” she said authoritatively. “Stop harassing them right now!”
She tilted her chin and waved her book, as if to underline her words.
The subway car fell eerily silent.
The bodybuilder was taken aback at first, then his expression changed to fury.
“What the fuck?”
He took a step toward the woman, fist raised, but Aram blocked his way. He held up his ID so that everyone could see it clearly.
“You heard what she said.”
The metallic voice spoke again.
“Next stop, Rågsved.”
Seconds passed and no one moved. The train stopped, the doors opened. The platform was deserted; a few snowflakes drifted in, but no passengers stepped aboard.
“I think you should get off here,” Aram said to the bodybuilder, who stared right back at him. Aram could see that he was undecided, then he suddenly made up his mind.
“Come on,” he said to his friends. “Let’s go.”
They just made it before the doors closed.
Aram gazed after them. Should he have followed them, taken their names and phone numbers? No, he was too tired. Technically nothing had actually happened. It had been an unpleasant interlude, especially for the girls, but no one had come to any harm.
He hadn’t even managed to intervene first; the elderly lady had beaten him to it. She sat down opposite the girls and placed her hand on the arm of the one with long hair.
“Are you OK?” she asked gently.
The girl let out a little sob. “I think so. Thanks for stepping in.”
The woman’s courage made Aram feel better. Jeanette Thiels wasn’t the only one brave enough to speak out.
“Next stop, Hagsätra. This service ends here. All passengers must disembark.”
He nodded to the woman. “Well done,” he said.
CHAPTER 39
Alice tried to hurry, but the slope was slippery. She didn’t dare go any faster; she was afraid of falling. There wasn’t time for that.
She followed Strandgatan down to the water—the same route she had taken so often in the past, but then she hadn’t been frightened and stressed out.
The fortress on the other side was lit up as usual, but the sight didn’t calm her; it simply made her feel even more alone, as if her entire body was frozen. Her thighs were ice-cold against the fabric of her jeans.
She glanced at the houses lining the road to the harbor; they were all i
n darkness. On one driveway she saw a car covered in snow; it looked like Dad’s Audi. He didn’t know she’d gone out in the middle of the night. No one knew. She was regretting her decision now, but she had to keep going. She couldn’t return home without learning the truth.
Deep down she knew this was dangerous. Why had the sender of the text messages chosen to remain anonymous? Whatever the risks, she had to find out what had happened to Mom.
The darkness and the shadows were terrifying. She stopped dead in the middle of the street, clutching the envelope in her pocket. She wasn’t sure what she feared the most: not getting there in time, or hearing the truth about her mom.
Do you want to know how your mom died?
“Mom,” she whispered, like a little prayer.
Alice tightened her grip on the envelope, forced herself to keep walking. A movement caught her eye. Up ahead, by Tullhusgränd, a man came around the corner, heading straight for her. His cap was pulled down over his forehead, and the turned-up collar of his dark padded jacket covered his chin. She couldn’t even make out his features when he passed beneath the streetlamp.
He didn’t seem to be in a hurry; he was walking slowly, as if he wasn’t sure of the way.
Was he looking for Alice?
Dad doesn’t know where I am.
In spite of the cold, the man wasn’t wearing gloves.
Alice stopped, hardly daring to breathe as she waited for him to reach her. His footsteps echoed in her ears, even though the thick snow muffled every sound.
The impulse to run away grew stronger with every second. Her heart was pounding so hard it hurt, but she stayed where she was, as if her feet were frozen to the ground.
No one will hear me if I scream.
The man appeared to have noticed that she was staring at him; he was frowning, and his gaze was icy.
He was only fifteen yards away now.
Alice squeezed the envelope; she couldn’t take her eyes off the man. He was about the same age as her dad, but with a lined face and dark stubble peppered with gray. His jacket was torn; there was a gaping hole in the right sleeve.
Don’t hurt me, she wanted to whisper, but she didn’t dare open her mouth.
He was passing her now, and she could smell the booze.
“What are you fucking staring at?”
He kept on walking, and Alice turned in confusion, watching him disappear in the same direction from which she had come. He stomped off up the hill, showing no interest in her whatsoever.
Alice remained where she was, trying to regain her equilibrium. Her pulse was still racing, and she could hardly breathe. She did her best to inhale deeply, but the oxygen wouldn’t enter her lungs.
Gradually the paralysis eased.
She’d been wrong. It wasn’t him.
She must get to the hotel as quickly as possible, before it was too late.
Wait for me.
As she rounded the corner, the lights almost blinded her. The street and the quayside were brightly lit, as was the front of the hotel. She stopped, attempted to focus, looking for someone even though she had no idea who that person might be.
Who are you? Are you still here?
Someone called her name: “Alice.”
CHAPTER 40
Sunday
They had just disembarked from the Vaxholm ferry in Stavsnäs when Thomas’s cell phone rang. It was almost nine o’clock in the morning. He was carrying Elin in her sling and wearing a large backpack. Pernilla was behind them with a bag in one hand and a garbage bag in the other.
“Hang on,” he said, trying to extract his phone from his inside pocket. The number was familiar, and he felt a surge of adrenaline.
“Good morning,” said Oscar-Henrik Sachsen. “You’re welcome to come by and take a look if you like.”
“Are you finished already?”
“As much as I can be at this stage.”
Sachsen must have made a real effort, Thomas thought. He must remember to thank him for that.
“Anything you can tell me over the phone?”
“I’d rather not; it’s complicated. It would be best if you and Margit came here.”
Elin had woken up and begun to cry—quietly at first, but the volume was increasing.
“No problem—around eleven?”
“See you then.”
Pernilla had produced a pacifier and was comforting their daughter. “It’s OK, sweetheart.” She popped the pacifier into Elin’s mouth, and soon the little girl’s eyes closed once more. Pernilla stepped back, watching to make sure all was well.
“Work?” she said to Thomas.
“I’m afraid so—I have to go in. But I’ll take you two home first.”
Thomas had just turned onto Klarastrand when it occurred to him that Nora would know where Jeanette’s grandmother’s house was. Could Jeanette have gone there before her death?
He held the wheel with one hand and called Nora with the other.
“Hi, Thomas.”
“Hi—are you still on Sandhamn?”
“I am—why do you ask?”
“Could you help me out? Jeanette Thiels’s grandmother had a house on the island—any idea where it is?”
“What was her last name?”
Thomas frowned. What had the documentation said?
“Söderberg, I think.”
Judging by the background noise, Adam and Simon were squabbling over something.
“Wait a minute,” Nora said, putting down the phone. Thomas heard her shouting at the boys to keep it down, then she picked up again.
“There’s a family by that name who owns a house on the other side of the island,” she said. “Could it be them? I’m pretty sure an elderly lady used to live there.”
“That might well have been Jeanette’s grandmother.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“I was wondering if you could go over there and take a look around. Check if anyone seems to have been there recently.”
A roar disturbed their conversation.
“Stop that right now!” Nora yelled. “Otherwise you don’t go anywhere near a computer for the rest of the day!”
Total silence.
“Am I allowed to use my computer?” he inquired tentatively.
“Sorry,” Nora said, sounding more like her old self. “Sometimes it’s like having a troop of monkeys in the house.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “Just wait until Elin’s a little older—you’ll understand.”
“So do you have time to go over to the Söderberg house?”
“Of course—I’ll take a walk after lunch. Unless my sons have driven me completely crazy before then.”
CHAPTER 41
Margit’s car was in the parking lot outside the low brick building when Thomas arrived. She was heading for the entrance before he’d even climbed out of the car.
He caught up with her by the glass door, where Axel Ohlin was waiting to let them in, looking more like a schoolboy than ever behind his square glasses. And yet he had chosen a career path that demanded strong nerves and a mature approach.
Interesting contrasts, Thomas thought as they followed Ohlin to the autopsy lab. Sachsen was standing by one of the doors.
“Do you want to have a look at her, or shall we just have a chat in the staff room?”
Thomas exchanged a glance with Margit, who tilted her head toward the lab.
“We’ll take a look,” he said, shrugging off his jacket.
It was like walking into a sauna after the cold outdoors. Thomas was already perspiring in the thick sweater he’d needed to put on this morning when they went down to catch the boat in the freezing weather.
Sachsen led the way into the room, where Jeanette Thiels was lying beneath a white sheet, which covered her body up to the chin. In the harsh light, the marks of the scalpel on the scalp were clearly visible; admittedly everything had been neatly put back and stitched up, but the sight still reminded Thomas of a rag doll that had been cast aside.
“I think she died on Christmas morning,” he began. “I can’t give you an exact time, as you know, but I’d say late Christmas Eve or in the early hours of the morning.”
Jeanette had arrived on Sandhamn in the afternoon, which meant she had lived for less than twenty-four hours from that point.
“What else do you want to know?” Sachsen asked.
What the hell is wrong with him? Thomas thought. Obviously they wanted to know how she died, if there was a murder weapon involved, and if so, what it might look like—anything that could help them solve the crime. If it was a crime.
Sachsen had a strange sense of humor, as Thomas was only too well aware.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake!” Margit said, making no attempt to hide her impatience as she took off her jacket. “What have you found?”
“There’s a lot to tell,” Sachsen said, pulling back the sheet. In spite of the fact that Thomas had seen plenty of dead bodies, this sudden exposure always felt intrusive.
“Jeanette Thiels was a very sick woman when she died.” Sachsen pointed to a scar on her stomach. “Firstly, she had cancer, and it was advanced. Her womb and ovaries had been removed, and not very long ago—maybe a year, no more.”
“I assume there’s more, since you said ‘firstly’?” Margit said.
Sachsen took off his glasses.
“There are signs that the cancer was spreading; I found swollen lymph nodes in the armpits. The cilia in her trachea are also badly damaged; she must have coughed a great deal.”
“A smoker.”
Thomas moved closer to Jeanette; once again he noticed the fine lines above the upper lip, the mouth that had closed around a cigarette so many times.
“Yes,” Sachsen said. “There’s also a slight swelling in the throat.”
Thomas sensed that Sachsen was expecting something from him, as if he should have drawn an important conclusion by this stage. But what was it?
“What are you saying?”
The forensic pathologist regarded the two colleagues with a sorrowful expression, a teacher contemplating his uncomprehending students.
“I don’t believe she had more than a year or two left to live.”
