by Sten, Viveca
“Horrible,” Karin Ek said, making a face.
Larsson nodded. “There are a couple recent cases that attracted significant attention. One was an eighteen-year-old woman from Lycksele who was found strangled and dismembered; in the other, a man killed and chopped up his fiancée when she threatened to leave and take their kids back home to Finland.”
“I worked that one,” Erik said. “I helped out with door-to-door inquiries when we were looking for her. I’d just graduated from the academy.”
Larsson took another sip of coffee. “Anyway, the reasons why a perp dismembers his victim after a homicide vary, but it doesn’t have to be as horrific as it sounds.”
This strange comment caught everyone’s attention.
“First of all, the perp usually knows what he’s doing; he’s familiar with the necessary technique. Secondly, the dismemberment is almost always carried out in order to conceal the crime. We’re not talking about someone whose aim is to desecrate the body, or to exact some kind of revenge. There is a logic, however twisted, in the perpetrator’s actions. Evidence must be eliminated, and chopping up the body is the most rational way to go about it.”
“So you’re saying our perp knows how to do this kind of thing?” Kalle said.
“Exactly. Typical occupations are a butcher or a surgeon, someone familiar with bodies, someone who knows how to cut through muscle and tissue.”
“What about a hunter?” Thomas asked, remembering what Sachsen had said.
“Also a possibility; a hunter certainly knows how to dismantle a body.”
“Plus there’s the fact that a hunter usually carries a knife.”
“Absolutely.”
“There are lots of people in the archipelago who hunt,” Thomas went on. “Mostly small game and seabirds, of course, but on the larger islands they hunt moose, and the odd deer.”
“So someone who hunts on a regular basis could be our perp,” Margit said. “We need to check who on Sandhamn and the neighboring islands has a hunting license. Can you take care of that, Erik?”
Erik Blom nodded and made a note on his pad.
Mats Larsson’s reasoning made sense, Thomas thought, but there was something he wanted to ask.
“Is this a one-off, or do you think he might kill again?”
“Good question. The problem is that I don’t have an answer.”
“Why not?” Margit demanded, a touch impatiently.
There was a brief pause before Larsson responded.
“Because there’s so much we still don’t know. The motive, for example. We don’t actually know if he meant to kill the girl, or if things got out of hand. Nor do we know whether her body was dismembered in order to get rid of the evidence, or if it was a goal in itself; although, like I said, I tend to go with the former.”
He looked at Thomas, spreading his hands wide.
“Which is why I can’t answer your question right now. I’m sorry.”
“I understand.”
Thomas wasn’t surprised, but he had hoped for more. Lina’s death was bad enough; the thought of another homicide was unbearable.
Sandhamn 1924
Since the end of the 1880s, the well-off summer visitors had been building fine houses outside the village, beyond Dansberget. Two of the largest were trader Lindgren’s villa and the Rådberg house. A little farther along stood a splendid home that Bruno Liljefors, the artist, sometimes rented, and right in the middle of Dansberget was a little cottage owned by Herr Möllersvärd, the newspaper editor. His beautiful daughters were courted by a series of young men.
In the summer, laughter echoed from the gardens. There was a buzz of spontaneous coffee mornings and merry dinners. District judges and master builders socialized with wealthy factory owners, attracted by the peaceful environment of the archipelago. Everyone was very friendly, enjoying the informality of their island existence. It was so delightfully simple compared with the strict etiquette that had to be observed in the capital.
No effort was spared to ensure that life on Sandhamn was every bit as comfortable as in their spacious Stockholm apartments. Sometimes a separate cabin was built on the grounds to accommodate the housekeeper, gardener, and cook. Nets and other items could also be stored there.
And, at the end of the season, it was with great sadness that the temporary residents packed up to catch the steamboat back to the city. One last meal of steak and onions, known as “steamboat steak,” and the summer was over. It would be many months before they returned.
For the islanders, everything went back to normal when the visitors disappeared. September was cold and wet. The foliage changed quickly; in just a few weeks the leaves turned from joyous green to red and yellow.
Then came the storms, leaving behind bare trees, their naked branches stark against the sky. The alleyways were full of puddles. It was impossible to avoid splashing through them; the hems of women’s skirts were stiff with mud, while men’s pants were splattered up to the knees.
Thorwald spent most afternoons picking lingonberries or digging up potatoes in the kitchen garden. It was filthy work, and his fingers froze as he scrabbled in the sodden earth.
On this particular day, the village was veiled in wet fog, and he really didn’t want to go home from school. He knew exactly what chores awaited him there.
“No one’s picked the apples in Dr. Widerström’s garden,” Arvid Black announced. He was a classmate of Thorwald’s and lived in a white house not far from Fläskberget. He had four older brothers and a younger sister. He’d never worn a new item of clothing in his life, and he was always hungry at school because his mother never packed enough for lunch.
“No one’s taking care of old Fru Widerström’s apples,” he reiterated.
“Uh-huh.” Thorwald kicked a pebble along as he wondered how he could get out of digging up potatoes.
“Her apples are the best on the island. She hasn’t been here since August. I don’t think she’ll be back before spring.”
Arvid looked meaningfully at Thorwald, who stopped dead.
“That’s stealing.”
“Not really—we’d just be taking care of them. I mean, they fall off the tree anyway. The bible says it’s a sin to waste.”
Thorwald shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He knew exactly what the bible said, and what his father would say if he discovered Thorwald had taken something that didn’t belong to him.
But he was hungry, and he was sick of digging up potatoes. Arvid was right; Dr. Widerström didn’t come in winter. She went back to Stockholm, just like the other summer visitors. When she was on the island she would spend hours puttering in her garden. She had once given Thorwald a handful of strawberries when he ran an errand for her. They were the best he’d ever tasted—huge and deep red, carrying the scent of summer. No doubt her apples were just as good.
The image of his father came into his mind once more.
“I have to go home,” he said hesitantly, one foot drawing circles in the wet sand.
“Oh, come on—we could at least go and take a look.”
“What if someone catches us?”
Arvid wasn’t listening. He had already set of in the direction of Sandfälten. Thorwald still wasn’t sure, but then again, how would his father ever find out? He made up his mind. It wouldn’t do any harm just to look. He didn’t need to take anything.
When they arrived, there wasn’t a soul in sight. The flowers were long gone, but the care that the garden’s owner had taken throughout the summer was clear.
The well-tended flower beds led from the gate up toward the house, and yellowed water lily leaves still floated on the surface of the little pond. The gravel path was so neatly raked that for a moment Thorwald thought Dr. Widerström must be around after all.
However, as he drew nearer to the yellow-painted house, he could see the curtains were closed and the garden furniture had been put away. He pressed his face against the window, and, through a gap in the curtains, he
saw the furniture draped in white sheets. The place had definitely been shut up, ready for winter.
There were two apple trees in front of the house. They were heavy with big red apples that made his mouth water, and the ground was already covered with windfalls. It was high time the rest were picked; anyone could see that.
They had completely different apples in the garden at home: floury golden ones that Vendela stewed and little red-and-green ones that got wrapped up in newspaper so they would keep through the winter. Their trees had gnarled branches and had been planted many years earlier. They were functional trees, not meant to give their owner pleasure, unlike these.
Thorwald could actually taste how delicious the fruit would be. He glanced around but couldn’t see anyone. They were all alone.
Arvid was watching him.
“No one need ever know. Let’s do it.”
He dropped his school bag on the damp ground and grabbed a branch. He heaved himself up and sat there with one leg dangling on either side. Carefully he selected a beautiful apple and took a big bite.
His enjoyment was palpable.
“Catch!”
An apple came flying through the air. Then another. They ate until their bellies hurt. The juice was trickling down their chins, and bits of peel were stuck to their clothes. When they couldn’t eat any more, they flopped down in a corner of the garden, gorged and happy. They lay there like contented cats, digesting.
From that day on, they made a habit of sneaking into Dr. Widerström’s garden. They would spend half an hour reveling in those wonderful apples, then they would hurry home with full stomachs and pounding hearts.
Thorwald soothed his guilty conscience with Arvid’s words.
If they didn’t eat the fruit, it would rot. It was a sin to waste. That’s what the bible said, and his father often made the same point.
All God’s gifts must be used in the best way possible. They were doing nothing wrong.
CHAPTER 22
Thomas pushed open the door of the local Italian restaurant. He and Pernilla had often met here for dinner when they were still married. She had worked for an advertising agency nearby, and this had become a favorite place when they had both worked long days and neither felt like cooking.
He spotted her right away. She was sitting in a booth, leaning back against the wine-colored leather. She was facing the door as she studied the menu. She had a new hairstyle, much shorter than before. It was different, edgier.
She had also put on weight, which suited her. During their last few months together she had gotten thin and gaunt, almost transparent. Now her face had matured, acquired more character. She no longer looked like the carefree girl he had married in Värmdö church on a sunny June day eight years earlier, but she was just as beautiful as always.
The last time he’d seen her was in the lawyer’s office when they’d met to sign the final papers. Thomas hadn’t protested when Pernilla made sure that their marriage, which had already ceased to function, also came to a legal end.
He had wandered around in a fog after Emily’s death, and rarely came home. He sought refuge in his work, and took on any extra duties he could. For a long time he did everything he could to avoid both his own thoughts and the increasingly strained atmosphere in the apartment.
It only took an hour with the lawyer to dissolve their life together. They had barely exchanged a word, simply did as they were told and signed each document that was put in front of them.
When the meeting was over, though, something happened that Thomas had struggled to get over. They were standing in the lobby, and Pernilla was looking at him with a weary expression. She gave a polite smile that failed to reach her eyes, then held out her hand to say good-bye.
The gesture hurt him deeply. This was the woman with whom he’d intended to spend the rest of his days. The woman he had vowed to love and cherish, the woman with whom he’d had a much longed-for child. As they stood there like two strangers, their relationship passed before his eyes. Warm summer nights making love outdoors, mornings when they woke up together on the island of Harö, the inexpressible joy when baby Emily lay between them, gurgling happily.
All of it swam before his eyes as Pernilla opened the lobby door and walked out of his life.
Now she glanced up from the menu, saw him in the doorway, and smiled.
Thomas felt warm inside. He had been unsure how to behave, but she immediately got to her feet and gave him a hug. He was surprised at how easy it was to hug her back, how familiar it felt to hold her in his arms. As if they’d never been apart. Even her smell was the same.
She took a step back. “I see you still dress the same—leather jacket, blue shirt.” Then she gazed at him searchingly, a hint of sadness in her eyes. “But those gray hairs weren’t there before . . .”
They sat down, and Thomas ordered a drink. The soft hum of conversation in the restaurant helped them to settle, and he leaned back with a sense of peace.
“How’s Nora, by the way?” Pernilla asked after they’d chatted for a while. “I haven’t had any contact with her, as you can probably understand.” She gave a wry smile.
Thomas hesitated, wondering how much to tell his ex-wife about Nora’s current situation. Pernilla had never objected to his close friendship with Nora, but had treated her like family. Almost like a younger sister.
“Not great,” he said. “She and Henrik just split up, so she’s pretty low right now. She’s on Sandhamn with the boys; I spoke to her yesterday.”
He deliberately avoided mentioning events on the island; he didn’t want to bring the conversation down with the previous day’s macabre discovery.
“I’m surprised their marriage lasted this long,” Pernilla said, with a directness that took Thomas aback. He had never noticed any antipathy toward Henrik on her part; in fact, the four of them had spent quite a lot of time together.
“They’re so different,” she went on. “He’s a total snob, and she’s one of the least pretentious people I know.”
Thomas nodded in agreement. She was absolutely right.
“And that ghastly mother-in-law,” Pernilla said. “I think Nora’s a saint for putting up with her.”
“They’ve been having problems for a while.”
“Let me guess—he’s screwing some pretty little nurse at the hospital?”
“Exactly right,” Thomas confirmed. He had heard the whole story during a tearful telephone conversation on Sunday evening.
“I should give her a call this week, see how she’s doing. I do know a little bit about divorce,” Pernilla said with a faint smile.
They were interrupted by the arrival of the waiter with their food: linguine for Pernilla and spaghetti carbonara for Thomas. While they were eating, Thomas told Pernilla about his life and his job, all the time observing her secretly. She seemed to be feeling good, he thought, really good. He asked a few questions, and as usual she gesticulated animatedly as she talked, telling him how she had fallen in love with the west coast. When she shared some typical Gothenburg jokes, they both laughed so loud the other diners looked up.
“Sorry,” Pernilla said, wiping a tear from her eye. “But they do have a fantastic sense of humor down there.”
“Why did you move back?” The question slipped out before Thomas could stop himself.
Pernilla’s expression grew serious. She took a sip of her wine before she answered.
“I missed home,” she said simply. “Gothenburg was exactly what I needed during a difficult period, but Stockholm is my home.”
She looked as if she were about to go on, but then changed her mind. They sat in silence for a little while, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Strange, Thomas thought. It was as if the events of the last few years had never happened. As if they were about to pay the bill and go home to their apartment. He realized that Pernilla had said something.
“Sorry?”
“I said this has been lovely. It was good to see you again, Thomas
.”
She gently touched his hand, which was resting on the table. For a second he toyed with the idea of grabbing hold of her hand, not letting her go this time. The warmth of her fingertips lingered for a few seconds, then the moment was gone.
“Maybe we could do it again sometime?” she said. “If you want to, of course.”
The look in her eyes was suddenly cautious; Thomas glimpsed a hint of hesitation. And something else that he couldn’t identify.
In an attempt to keep things casual, he reached for the bill.
“Sure,” he murmured as he took out his wallet. “Absolutely.”
CHAPTER 23
“You bring my sons back home right now!”
Henrik was yelling, and there was no mistaking the fury in his voice. Wearily, Nora deleted the voice mail and turned off her cell phone.
This was the fourth call from Henrik since they’d arrived on the island. She didn’t answer when she saw his number on the display; she didn’t want to speak to him, and she definitely didn’t want to see him. She knew she’d have to maintain some kind of contact for the sake of the boys. They were an indissoluble connection to the man who would soon be her ex-husband. She could never be free of him.
Nora sighed. She’d never considered the fact that the boys could chain her to Henrik like this, but then she’d never planned to divorce him either.
They’d go back to Saltsjöbaden on Monday, when school started, and she’d tackle the ruins of her life then. This week was all she had, and she felt a deep need to be left in peace for just a few more days.
She was lying on the blue-striped sofa with a blanket over her legs. A crackling fire made the living room warm and cozy.
The doors of the woodstove were slightly open so she could see the flickering flames. There was something hypnotic about their constantly changing, never-ending dance.
