by Sten, Viveca
“What are you talking about?”
“The boys will stay in the house with their father, of course; anything else is out of the question.”
“Henrik isn’t getting sole custody of Adam and Simon!” Nora protested.
“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” Monica’s tone had changed, and her voice was low and hostile. “Don’t forget you were on sick leave last year. You isolated yourself and spent a lot of time crying, from what I’ve heard. You were also seeing a psychologist. You were pretty volatile.” Monica paused, allowing the words to sink in. “And, of course, the children need a stable parent. Their welfare has to come first. Surely you must realize that.”
Nora went cold all over. So Monica knew she had been seeing a psychologist. Henrik had betrayed her in so many ways.
“I only saw her a few times.”
The words were barely out of her mouth before she regretted them. There was no reason to apologize. Why was she letting this happen?
“As I said, we have to consider what’s best for the children. If I am forced to make a statement about your suitability as parent, I can’t refuse. For example, I remember the time Henrik had to leave the hospital because Simon hit his head on the corner of a table at preschool. The poor child needed several stitches. But you were too busy to even show up.”
That’s not true, Nora thought. She remembered the incident very clearly. She had spent months working on a major credit agreement at the bank. All parties were on the point of signing the paperwork when the school called. She was usually the one who dealt with any problems, but on that occasion it was impossible to leave such an important meeting. It just couldn’t be done. She had managed to get hold of Henrik and had begged and pleaded with him to go. He had been irritable for several days afterward, but she’d had no choice.
She had already paid with a string of apologies and Henrik’s guilt trips; was she going to lose her children because for one day her career had come before his?
“Think very carefully, Nora. Don’t embark on a course of action you will regret. We have many good friends who can help Henrik, eminent lawyers, influential judges . . .”
Nora had no doubt that Monica was prepared to pull those strings. Her mother-in-law could be ruthless when it suited her.
All at once Monica’s tone softened.
“Don’t you think it would do you and Henrik good to get away for a few days, sort out your problems? Harald and I would be happy to take care of the boys if you’d like to go on a romantic trip. You only have to say the word—we’re always available, you know that.”
Nora hung up but stood there a long time, unable to get her mother-in-law’s voice out of her head.
CHAPTER 40
“Come on, boys!” Nora called with as much cheer as she could muster. “Let’s go out for dinner tonight. Sausages and fries, what do you say?”
She was still seething from the conversation with Monica, but she was determined not to let the boys know anything was wrong. She needed to get out for a while, be among normal people who didn’t try to tell her how to run her life. In the front hall, she took her jacket off the brass hook and grabbed her hat. Simon was ready in no time, but Adam was dragging his heels.
“Hurry up—you can have a Coke even though it’s not Saturday. And ketchup, lots of ketchup!”
Simon loved ketchup and poured it over everything, including fish sticks and rice.
Nora’s cell phone rang; it was Henrik, and there was no way she was going to talk to him right now. Not after Monica’s threats. She needed time to think; plus, she knew he would demand that she leave the island and come home to Saltsjöbaden. Not a chance.
Not under any circumstances.
Once again she blessed Annie for advising her to keep the boys on Sandhamn for a few days to normalize things. Now she could counter Henrik with the opinion of an expert.
Take the boys home . . . what did home even mean now?
“Mom.” Simon tugged at her sleeve. “Can we go? I’m really hot in my coat.”
She turned to Adam and put her arm around his shoulders. “Everything will be fine, honey. I promise. Let’s go and eat.”
Adam didn’t say anything as he put on his coat and gloves. He’d been very quiet all day.
Simon seemed relatively unaffected, almost as if he thought the macabre event had happened in one of his beloved—and often grotesque—computer games. He was chattering away as usual, showing no signs of anxiety.
But she was concerned about Adam. How upset had he been by the discovery, and to what extent was he aware of his parents’ marital problems? He was an intelligent, sensitive boy who probably understood more than she realized.
The sun had already gone down by the time they left the house. In February it sank quickly behind the headland at Västerudd, in contrast to the spectacular sunsets beyond Harö in late summer.
Nora closed the gate, and they headed for the harbor. There were lights in the windows of just a few houses, and the sight struck her as deeply melancholy. Almost all the properties were owned by summer residents these days, and were largely unoccupied for the rest of the year. Those who only visited for a couple of months probably had no idea how desolate the little community felt late in the year.
Nora turned her back on the dark houses and swallowed hard to force back tears, which were still threatening to come after Monica’s phone call. The events of the past week felt like weights around her legs.
On top of her own heartbreak, she grieved for the Rosén family. She grabbed both the boys’ hands and squeezed them tightly. What would she do if anything happened to Adam or Simon? The thought was unbearable.
Adam realized she was sad. He squeezed her hand in return and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder. The unexpected gesture made her feel much better.
“Hurry up, Mom,” he said. “It’s freezing out here!”
Then he scampered ahead.
The cellar bar was almost full. Nora paused for a moment in the doorway, looking for somewhere to sit. The three window tables were taken as usual; they were almost always occupied by islanders. That was their territory, and only visitors who didn’t know better would try to sit there.
Farther in, there were long tables with the contours of sailing ships carved into the tops. Candlelight created a warm, cozy atmosphere, and it felt good to come in out of the cold and sink into a comfortable chair.
Nora was wondering if there was going to be room for them when she spotted an empty table to the left of the bar. They hurried over and sat down, with the boys on one side and Nora on the other.
“I want a Coke,” Simon piped up immediately. “You said we could.”
“It’s not Saturday,” Adam said before Nora had time to speak.
He knows exactly what Henrik would say, she thought. Simon looked disappointed but didn’t take his eyes off her.
“It’s fine, you can both have a Coke if you like. We’ll make an exception—it’s OK to do that sometimes.”
She studied the menu board on the wall and decided on the fish stew. It was one of the restaurant’s specialties, and always contained generous amounts of fish and shellfish. She was also planning to have a glass of white wine. Or two.
“Sausages and mashed potatoes, or sausages and fries?”
“Fries,” they chorused.
Nora smiled. Fries always beat good old-fashioned mashed potatoes by a mile. Personally she loathed both the smell and the taste after far too many visits to burger joints with the kids.
“OK . . .”
She went over to the bar to place their order. She still hadn’t taken off her coat; it took a while to get warm, even though they hadn’t walked very far.
As they waited for their food, the boys played rock-paper-scissors, while Nora sipped her wine and let her mind wander.
She had nodded to the other diners when they came in; this was a small island, and the restaurant was a natural gathering place, particularly on chilly winter evenings
when there was hardly a soul in sight outdoors. She was enjoying the company, even though she would never be an integral part of the community of those who lived here year-round. At a time like this, having people she knew around her made her feel more secure.
Unfortunately, the other diners apparently felt the need to discuss the terrible events; she could hear fragments of conversation, all on the subject of Lina Rosén. The Rosén family had lived on the island for generations.
Nora took another sip of wine and decided to leave the outside lights on when they went to bed. Suddenly, loud voices came from a table in the corner. The boys stopped playing and turned to look.
“Stop hassling me, you bitch! I’ll do what I want!”
The angry voice belonged to a man in his sixties. He leaped to his feet, sending his chair flying. His face was bright red, and a prominent vein throbbed at his temple. He knocked back the contents of his beer glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
A woman of about the same age sat at the table looking miserable. Quietly she asked him to calm down, but her efforts merely served to enrage him further.
“Shut your mouth and stop whining. I’m so sick of your goddamn nagging!”
Nora recognized the couple: Bengt and Ingrid Österman. They were permanent residents who lived not far from the Mission House. Ingrid always nodded to Nora when they met in the village, but Bengt was a miserable creep who rarely acknowledged anyone.
Right now Ingrid looked like she was about to burst into tears. She glanced around anxiously, mortified. Nora averted her eyes, embarrassed on the other woman’s behalf. She hated the way Bengt had spoken to his wife, and was filled with sympathy for the poor woman. Tears sprang to her eyes; marriage wasn’t easy, as she knew only too well.
She blinked the tears away; she didn’t want the boys to see how upset she was. They were still transfixed by the Östermans; Nora snapped her fingers.
“Stop staring,” she muttered. “Go back to your game.”
Bengt grabbed his jacket and headed for the door. Nora could smell the booze as he marched past their table. He was followed a few seconds later by Ingrid; her cheeks were flushed, and she kept her eyes fixed on the floor as she clumsily tried to put on her coat.
“Who was that? He smelled funny,” Simon said anxiously.
Nora tried to reassure her son. “His name is Bengt; he’s just had a little bit too much to drink. Grown-ups do that sometimes.”
“He’s disgusting,” Adam said firmly. “And drunk. He can’t even walk straight.”
“He almost fell over, didya see?” Simon tittered.
Adam frowned as he watched the man stagger through the door, and Simon was still openly staring. At that moment both boys were exact copies of their father. Henrik had a tendency to judge people mercilessly. Yet again Nora felt a surge of anger; how dare Henrik pass on this lack of empathy to their sons?
“Enough,” she said, hoping Bengt hadn’t noticed. No one seemed to have heard; at least, no one was looking at them. The hum of conversation had resumed after the brief interruption.
Nora was ashamed of the fact that Adam and Simon could so casually dismiss a fellow human being, and for a moment she saw both her husband and her mother-in-law reflected in her boys. She finished her wine and pushed back her chair.
“Let’s mind our own business,” she said. “Dinner will be here in a few minutes.”
She got up to go to the bar for another glass of wine, and discovered to her surprise that her hands were shaking.
Is there no such thing as a happy marriage anymore? she thought. People are either arguing in public or having affairs. Thomas and Pernilla were divorced, and soon she would be, too. Henrik had even hit her.
What happened to love? she wondered sadly. Why is it so hard to hold on to?
Sandhamn 1928
As evening turned to night, Thorwald wandered aimlessly in the pine forest on the southern end of the island. He knew what was waiting for him at home.
He considered seeking refuge with Great-Uncle Olle but dismissed the idea. Olle was tired and sick; there was no way he could protect Thorwald from Gottfrid’s anger.
By midnight he was too cold and hungry to stay away any longer. It was June, and the temperature was just a few degrees above freezing. The sea chilled the air, and he was so cold he was shaking.
There was nowhere else to go. He couldn’t hide forever; it was an island. Wearily he trudged home and opened the door.
Gottfrid was waiting for him. He was sitting on a kitchen chair and had already taken off his broad leather belt. It was lying on the table, and Thorwald saw it as soon as he walked in. The bible lay open beside it. Gottfrid pointed to a verse and read it aloud.
Thorwald didn’t say a word. There was no point. It was clear that Gottfrid believed God had instructed him to punish his son. Wearily Thorwald unfastened his pants, let them fall to the ground, and bent over the table.
When Gottfrid had finished, he went into the bedroom. Thorwald remained where he was, curled up on the floor. The blood flowing from his flayed skin formed a pool beside him.
It reminded him of when he was little and used to wet the bed at night. The piss warmed him at first but quickly grew cold.
In his befuddled state he wondered whether Vendela would be angry at him for making a mess of her rug. He had heard her mention once that bloodstains were hard to get out.
The first rays of the sun found their way through the window, and the birds began to sing. Midsummer’s Eve had dawned. Today they were supposed to go over to the island of Kroksö to collect flowers and birch twigs to decorate the pole. Karolina would be waiting for him.
She would be waiting in vain.
He was terribly thirsty; slowly he tried to creep closer to the stove and the pail of water, but it hurt so much that he soon gave up. I hate him, he whispered, and the rage made him feel a little better.
I hate that bastard, he said to himself. And God. God doesn’t care about me, or he wouldn’t let Father treat me this way.
I hate Father and I hate God.
He collapsed back down on the floor, utterly exhausted. His back was burning where the belt had left deep wounds. Gottfrid had beaten him slowly and methodically. Neither of them had made a sound; the only thing that could be heard were the blows as the bare skin was torn by the buckle.
He’s crazy, Thorwald thought. And so is that damned bible.
Sooner or later, he’s going to kill me.
This new thought terrified him, but for a long time he had feared what his father might be capable of.
In the name of God.
Thorwald lost consciousness for a little while; when he came around he was in agonizing pain, and he gradually realized that he had only one option.
He had to get away from Sandhamn.
He’d never been outside the archipelago, had only visited Möja and Runmarö a few times. But he knew how to get to Stockholm. The steamboat that brought summer visitors every week went straight there. He also knew how to navigate by the stars; Great-Uncle Olle had taught him. He could take the skiff and row across to the mainland if necessary.
He attempted to turn over, hoping to find a less painful position. That bastard is going to kill me, he thought once more, before the darkness closed around him.
CHAPTER 41
Friday, March 2, 2007
The conversation with Mats Larsson lingered in Thomas’s mind.
You had to get over your feelings of guilt, stop blaming one another, and then grief could be transformed into a unifying force rather than a divisive wedge. Old accusations could be replaced by fresh hopes.
He was the one who had blamed her, not vice versa. He’d hardly been able to look at Pernilla without his head being filled with dark thoughts. He had been so lost in his despair that he had refused to accept that a child could die without it being anyone’s fault.
Only now did he realize that Pernilla was not responsible for the fact that he’d lost his
daughter. He should be grateful for the time they’d had, and stop brooding over Emily’s untimely death. And above all he had to stop blaming Pernilla.
His cell phone was on the table in front of him, and he brought up the text message from his drafts folder.
The display showed “Send?” in glowing white letters.
Thomas hesitated, then deleted the message and wrote what he’d originally planned to say.
Thanks for a lovely evening—it was great to see you again / Thomas
Send.
A knock made him look up; Margit was standing in the doorway.
“Another death on Sandhamn. We have to leave right away.”
“What happened?”
“All I know is that a woman died; the call came in a few minutes ago. The helicopter is busy, so we’ll have to drive to Stavsnäs. Let’s go.”
When they walked into the Östermans’ house, Thomas was immediately struck by the smell of stale booze.
The source didn’t take long to find: Bengt Österman was sitting on the sofa in the living room. His flannel shirt was stained and his face was unshaven. Thomas glanced into the kitchen; the counter was covered in empty bottles, and something had trickled onto the floor, leaving a dried brown patch. A poodle was standing in the corner drinking from its water bowl.
A uniformed officer showed them into the bedroom, where they found a woman on the bed in a nightgown, half turned on her side. Her eyes were closed, her skin waxen; she had obviously been dead for several hours.
On the bedside table were several pill bottles with Ingrid Österman’s name on them. Margit bent down and read the labels aloud. Thomas recognized some of the names: a lethal cocktail of antidepressants and sleeping tablets.
Propped against a glass of water was a card, neatly written in black.
Staffan Nilsson, the forensic technician, was already there. He’d been on the island of Djurö when the call came, and had arrived more quickly than Thomas and Margit. He didn’t look as frozen as last time, Thomas thought. At least they didn’t have to work outside today.
