In Harm's Way

by Viveca Sten

  It took them just over forty minutes to drive to Stadshagen where St. Göran’s was located at the top of a hill.

  When they walked into the building, they were met by a sign bearing the name of the venture capital company that ran the hospital these days. Thomas lingered by the entrance to ward sixty-two while Margit found out the number of Bertil Ahlgren’s room. He looked around the yellow-painted corridors with worn linoleum on the floor. There was no sign of any nursing staff, but an elderly lady was sitting in the dayroom watching TV, her walker by her side.

  That familiar smell pervaded the air, an indefinable mixture of detergent and sick people. Thomas shuddered; he hated that smell. It always took him back to his own stay in the hospital a few years earlier.

  He had fallen through the ice just outside Sandhamn one dark night, and had suffered a heart attack. Two toes had been affected by frostbite, and had had to be amputated. It had taken weeks before he could even bring himself to look at the foot, and during the depression that followed he had doubted whether he would ever be capable of working as a police officer again.

  Thomas would have liked nothing better than to walk away right now, but he turned and saw Margit heading toward him with a nurse. Pain stabbed through the toes that were no longer there, and he forced himself to focus on his colleague.

  “He’s in room four,” she said, not noticing his discomfort, “but he’s probably sleeping.”

  “He regained consciousness earlier today,” the nurse added. She was in her fifties, her short brown hair streaked with gray. According to her badge she was a registered nurse by the name of Tiina. “Bertil suffered a concussion,” she explained. “He’s also broken his hip. We can go and see if he’s awake, but if not, you’ll have to come back tomorrow. I’m sure he’ll be more alert by then; the first couple of days are always the worst.”

  She led the way to the room at the end of the corridor. Thomas followed her slowly, breathing through his mouth to try and avoid the smell. Tiina went over to the bed and gently touched Bertil’s shoulder.

  “Bertil, are you awake? You’ve got visitors.”

  No response. Bertil was lying on his back with his mouth half-open. He was hooked up to an IV, and his fingers were slightly swollen beneath white gauze. The thin plastic tube attached to his hand moved in time with his breathing.

  “Bertil,” Tiina tried again. “There are two police officers here to see you.”

  “Do you know why he was so eager to speak to us?” Margit asked.

  Tiina shook her head.

  “Sorry, I’ve been off the last few days. I came on duty at two o’clock this afternoon.”

  “So who contacted the police?”

  “I’ve no idea, but I can check. It must have been someone who was on this morning; there’s bound to be a note.”

  The light in the room shifted as the sun slipped behind a cloud. The old man’s face had a sickly pallor against the pillow.

  “How old is he?” Thomas asked.

  He thought about his own parents; he’d hardly seen them during the fall. There was never enough time. His father would turn seventy-four soon, his mother seventy-three. If they didn’t have the summer cottage on Harö, he would never see them, even though they lived in the same city.

  “Eighty-six.” The nurse leaned forward and patted Bertil’s hand, the one without the cannula in it. “He’s a widower, and he still lives in his own home—with help, of course. Otherwise it wouldn’t be possible.”

  A little sigh.

  “It’s not easy, getting old.”

  Margit gave Thomas a little nudge. “We’ll have to come back. Could someone tell him we’ve been here? And maybe you could contact us tomorrow when he’s awake?”

  CHAPTER 48

  On the desk in front of Aram lay a number of thick folders, neatly labelled. The material from Jeanette’s apartment, anything that seemed worth taking a closer look at.

  One file was marked with a Post-it note: New Sweden. There had been quite a lot about that particular organization in Jeanette’s study; when he read through her notes and articles, he was struck by how much worse New Sweden was than the other loudmouths who peddled their message of hate.

  The tensions in Swedish society are increasing all the time, he thought. In spite of the fact that more than ten percent of the population had been born abroad, or had parents who were born elsewhere. Like him and Sonja.

  Learning to live in Sweden hadn’t been easy. Aram remembered how incomprehensible the language had seemed at first. New letters, strange sounds. He’d been put in a class where hardly anyone spoke proper Swedish. He should have been with students his own age, but ended up in second grade along with other refugee children who couldn’t make themselves understood either.

  The Swedish kids had laughed when he didn’t know how to behave.

  He hadn’t eaten anything for the first few days in school, because he had no money and thought he had to pay. When he showered after PE, he didn’t dare turn the faucet on all the way—instead he stood beneath a mere trickle of water. He had lived with a water shortage for as long as he could remember; what if it ran out here as well?

  The Swedish kids had laughed at that, too.

  As time went by, he learned to ignore the sniggering and the comments. Things improved when they moved to Norrköping, where many other Assyrians had already settled; he didn’t stand out in the same way.

  At high school he made Swedish friends, but every time he went home with someone, he was reminded that he was different. There was always a reaction, a blink, a smile that stiffened just a fraction.

  A marker. You’re not like us.

  Aram shook his head and spread out the contents of the file so that he could go through it more carefully. He had already read the first article several times, but he couldn’t help glancing at it just once more:

  “The concept of tolerance has gotten out of hand,” New Sweden’s general secretary Pauline Palmér tells Dagens Nyheter, commenting on yesterday’s demonstration. “If we don’t preserve our cultural identity, we’ll all end up as Muslims. Sweden must slash immigration. From a purely ideological point of view, we cannot risk foreign religions taking over our Swedish traditions, particularly when they are built on a creed that lacks democratic values. It’s time to face up to the truth: our national heritage is in the process of being obliterated because of a flawed and misguided immigration policy. The fear of criticizing Islam in Sweden must not prevent us from speaking openly about what is going on.”

  A fleeting smile crossed Aram’s face. The largest immigrant groups in Sweden were Finnish Protestants and Christian Assyrians. And yet Muslims constituted the greatest danger, apparently.

  He put down the article and took a sip of coffee from the cup he’d fetched earlier. It had gone cold; he wrinkled his nose and put it aside.

  The door opened, and Karin came in carrying another folder.

  “Look what I’ve found,” she said, looking pleased with herself. “It was in the pile you gave me—copies of the threatening letters Jeanette received. There are quite a lot, and many of them are anonymous, as you might expect.”

  “Well done—I thought they must be somewhere.”

  Karin glanced at the newspaper article on the desk.

  “She’s the one from that racist organization.”

  “I don’t think Pauline Palmér would agree with that description,” Aram said.

  “She looks good, I have to give her that,” Karin remarked, running a hand over her hair.

  Pauline Palmér’s smiling face looked up at them from the press photo, her blond hair in a flattering updo, pearl studs in her ears to match the double rope of pearls around her neck.

  Aram opened the folder Karin had given him and took out the first letter.

  You fucking whore.

  “It seems as if there were plenty of people who didn’t like Jeanette’s articles,” he said. “Even before she turned her attention to New Sweden.”


  CHAPTER 49

  Nora had just opened the refrigerator to get a start on dinner when Simon came running in from the TV room with the phone in his hand.

  “Dad wants to talk to you.”

  He gave her the phone and rushed back to the TV.

  Nora put down the Falu sausage; she was planning to make sausage stroganoff with spaghetti, one of the boys’ favorites.

  “Hi, Henrik.”

  “Hi—how’s it going out there in the archipelago?”

  Henrik’s familiar voice gave her a fluttering sensation in her chest. Suddenly she felt guilty.

  “According to the weather forecast, you’re in for a record cold spell,” he went on. “Let’s hope those old tiled stoves don’t give up the ghost, or you’ll all freeze to death!”

  “We’re fine,” she reassured him. “But it really is very cold.”

  Nora turned to the window. A short distance away, she could see lights in one of the neighboring properties, the former slaughterhouse that had been converted into a spacious summer home. It was too dark to see the shore.

  “I just wanted to say thank you,” Henrik said. “It was so good to spend Christmas with you and the boys. I think they appreciated the fact that the four of us were together.”

  “I’m sure they did.”

  Nora wondered where he was, whether he was standing in the kitchen of their old house in Saltsjöbaden. She had always liked that kitchen, and she still missed it, even though there was nothing wrong with the one in her new apartment in town.

  Marie had moved in as soon as Nora moved out, but these days Henrik was living there on his own.

  “Are you staying on Sandhamn for the whole week?” he asked.

  “Yes. Well, I’ve got to go into work tomorrow—I have a meeting. But otherwise we’ll be here for New Year’s.”

  Should she have mentioned that Jonas was coming over on Wednesday? No, Henrik didn’t need to know that.

  “Are you leaving the boys on their own when you go into work?”

  Nora stiffened. Was he going to criticize her, as he used to do in the past? She had no desire to defend herself at this point.

  “They’ll be fine on their own for a few hours. They’re getting pretty grown-up now, you know.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that. I was just thinking . . . If you like, I can come over first thing in the morning, then they won’t have to fend for themselves all day. I mean, it’s going to take you a while to get over to the mainland and back, especially at this time of year when the boats don’t run as often as they do in the summer.”

  Nora felt stupid; why was she still so suspicious?

  “Aren’t you working tomorrow?” she said, making an effort to sound pleasant.

  “I was supposed to be on call, but the rotation’s been changed. It’s absolutely no trouble for me to come over and spend a few hours with the boys.”

  Of course it would be better if Adam and Simon didn’t have to be alone. Nora was planning to take the eight o’clock ferry so she’d have plenty of time to prepare. Her meeting with Einar was at three, so she’d be able to catch the last boat to Sandhamn at twenty past six. Which meant she wouldn’t be home until around seven thirty. If Henrik came, she wouldn’t have to worry about leaving lunch or dinner for the boys.

  “I’m coming back on the evening boat,” she said. “You could catch the return trip.”

  “If that’s what you want.” A quiet sigh. “Come on, Nora, I’m only trying to help; how many times do I have to prove that? I know I behaved like an idiot when we were married, but I’ve had plenty of time to think things over, get a fresh perspective. There’s so much I’d change if I could go back, believe me. This business with Marie . . .” Henrik broke off.

  Once upon a time I knew exactly how your mind worked, Nora thought, but right now the words wouldn’t come.

  “I know I hurt you deeply when I got together with Marie,” Henrik went on. “And I really do regret that.”

  The memories that came flooding into her mind were so powerful that Nora’s heart started racing. She had to end this conversation.

  “OK, I’ll see you tomorrow at the jetty,” she said quickly.

  Michael Thiels couldn’t relax. He was sitting in his favorite armchair in the living room; he finished off the last of his wine, which tasted of earth and mulberries. The box was empty now, standing on the counter.

  He wanted nothing more than to get drunk. He would have been happy to fall asleep on the sofa, even if it meant waking up in the middle of the night with crumpled clothes and a mouth full of cotton wool. At least he would have had a few hours’ sleep and escaped from reality for a little while.

  But the booze refused to work this evening. He couldn’t settle down; his mind kept racing no matter what he did.

  Should he open another box?

  He stared at his empty glass, knowing that he’d already consumed more than enough. It was almost midnight, but his brain wouldn’t switch off.

  The television was on, but he had no idea what the program might be. He pressed a button on the remote, and the picture disappeared. It was a relief to put an end to the background murmur, the voices and faces conveying nothing to him.

  He got up, went over to the big window, and gazed out toward the water. He could hear the wind whistling around the house, the tops of the trees rustling and creaking. Wearily he rested his forehead on the cool glass. His breath formed a patch of condensation, a faint, misty circle that soon vanished.

  In the distance he could just make out the lights of a car ferry setting off from Vaxholm. He followed it with his eyes; there was just one car parked on the foredeck, its paint job glinting.

  No doubt Alice was asleep by now, which had to be a good thing; it was obvious that she had no intention of allowing him to console her.

  Right now he didn’t know how to reach her, how to bridge the gulf that had opened up between them. Every attempt at communication foundered; whatever he said sounded unnatural. But he realized she was grieving, of course.

  “Jeanette,” he said quietly, picturing her there in front of him. Always restless, her hands constantly busy with something.

  Once he had loved her beyond all reason. Loved her strength and commitment, the fact that she never gave up, refused to compromise.

  But she had let him down. Michael’s mouth narrowed to a thin line at the thought. Just as she had let down their daughter.

  When he held Alice in his arms for the first time, he had made a promise. “No one will ever hurt you,” he had whispered in her ear.

  He went back to the sofa and picked up his laptop in order to check the news. Then he remembered the USB stick Petra had given him before Christmas. It had been in one of the side ports, but wasn’t there now. He looked around, ran his hand over the rug. It contained lots of uploaded photographs from a weekend they’d spent in London, when Alice had stayed with Jeanette for once.

  Maybe it had fallen out when he put the computer away last night? It had been late; he’d sat here in the gloom, gazing out of the window. He’d drunk too much wine, just like tonight.

  He searched through the pile of newspapers without success. Alice must have borrowed it without telling him. It didn’t really matter; he put the laptop back underneath the coffee table without opening it. He didn’t feel like surfing the net; he didn’t feel like doing anything. Instead he took out his phone. Petra had called several times, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to talk to her at length; he’d simply said he’d call her back.

  Jeanette’s sister, Eva, had also left a message: she wanted to discuss the funeral, fix the date and the church. All the practical details that had to be considered when a loved one passed away.

  Stupid bitch. The very thought of his ex-sister-in-law made Michael feel weary. He had always found her deeply uninteresting, with her anxious personality. She was nothing like her vibrant, energetic sister.

  “Jeanette,” he murmured again.

  The last
embers of the fire in the old tiled stove crackled; there was no point in putting more wood on at this hour. Michael closed his eyes, felt the angst demanding his attention, the invisible spirit by his side.

  After a while he opened his eyes and stared out across the water once more. The snowflakes were whirling outside; the wind must have changed direction. It felt as if it was blowing straight into the living room.

  Abruptly he leaped to his feet and went into the kitchen. He took out a bottle of vodka, poured himself a glass, and knocked it straight back.

  It was only a matter of time before the police found out what he’d done on Christmas Eve.

  He wouldn’t be able to keep Alice away from them forever.

  CHAPTER 50

  Bertil Ahlgren was lying on his back with only the night-light lit. It spread a faint glow; the rest of the room was in darkness. He could tell that his breathing was uneven, with short, panting breaths. It was as if it was getting caught somewhere around his ribs.

  The equipment behind him made a low humming sound. The white sheet was drawn up to his waist, one arm resting on his stomach.

  What time was it? It must be almost midnight; it had been quite a while since someone had been in to check on him. He couldn’t be sure, though; he was as confused as a child, with no concept of time or space.

  During the day he had been awake occasionally, but he had no idea for how long. Tiredness kept overwhelming him.

  I haven’t got the strength to do anything, he had thought, then when he opened his eyes again he realized he must have dropped off for a while. Later on he’d managed to sit up for a few minutes and drink a glass of water.

  I just hope I can go back home, he said to himself for the hundredth time. His breathing became even more erratic as the memories came flooding in of the person who had broken into Jeanette’s apartment and attacked him.

  It had all happened so fast; one minute he’d been standing outside her door, trying to see in through the narrow gap. Then came the blow that knocked him down, the pain as his hip broke when it hit the stone floor.

  The nurse had told him the police had come to see him earlier on, but he’d been asleep and she’d thought it best not to wake him.