by Sten, Viveca
Thomas moved even closer, very slowly, so that he wouldn’t frighten the lone figure. He slipped and almost fell, but regained his balance at the last minute.
“She was biking down the Trouville road,” Bengt went on in a monotone. “It was late, dark and stormy. I was just taking the dog out for a few minutes, but I’d had a lot to drink. Too much.”
“What happened?”
“She got off her bike and started going on about Sebastian. She said it was all her fault; if she hadn’t asked him to drive the boat, he would still be alive. She was crying, begging me to forgive her.”
Bengt took a deep drag on his cigarette; flakes of ash drifted through the air. The snow was falling even harder now.
“I don’t know how it happened. It was her fault, just like she said.” The bloodless lips curved into a mirthless smile. “She had to pay. Why should she live, when my son was dead?”
He spoke as if in a trance, his gaze fixed on some unknown point in the distance.
“I raised my hands, and I didn’t let go until she stopped moving. It felt good—can you understand that?”
Thomas didn’t say a word.
“Her mother and her grandmother took everything from my father. Everything. He died without a penny to his name. My mother struggled to raise me; we were dirt poor. Kristina and her children lived in their fine big house, while we barely had running water.”
He spat on the ground.
“They even took my son away from me; he was the only good thing in my life. Do you have any idea what things have been like for Ingrid and me since he died? We haven’t been alive, we’ve been existing.”
He ran a hand over his chin in a gesture of resignation.
“Why should she live when Sebastian was dead?” he said again. “Why should that fucking family escape when we were in so much pain?”
The silhouette of the windbreak was just visible behind him, the bare wooden poles resembling an old-fashioned pillory. It looked as if they were swaying, although in fact they were firmly embedded in the concrete jetty.
Thomas realized that Bengt was inaccessible, lost in a world of his own. The burning passion in his eyes when he talked about what he had done was evidence of an incomprehensible madness. In Bengt’s mind, he had been perfectly justified in taking the life of his cousin’s child.
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.
“Then what?”
Bengt waved his hand. “I had to get rid of the body. Couldn’t just leave her there in the middle of the road, so I thought I’d take her home.”
“Take her home?”
“I had to hide the body, put it in the freezer. But it wouldn’t fit.”
“So you cut her up.”
“Yes.”
Just for a second, something like fear passed across his face.
“I hunt, so I know how to deal with a carcass.”
“Where did you do it?”
“I broke into the Grönbergs’ woodshed.”
“It was you who set the fire.”
Bengt nodded. “Cover the traces. Then I put the bags in the freezer at home.”
Thomas pictured him carrying the sacks home in the middle of the night and packing them into the freezer. An involuntary shudder ran though him.
“Weren’t you worried that Ingrid might suspect something?”
“No. She didn’t ever go in the shed, but I put a padlock on the freezer just in case.”
“And then you moved the body parts?”
Bengt nodded again.
“After a month or so; I buried them in different places all over the island. I couldn’t have them at home anymore; didn’t feel right.”
Thomas asked a question that had been bothering him from the start.
“Why did you go to the trouble of burying them? Why didn’t you just take them out to sea and throw them overboard?”
Bengt took a final drag on his cigarette, then threw it down.
“This was where it all started. On Sandhamn. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . . I returned her to where she came from.”
Thomas shuddered again. The man in front of him wasn’t in his right mind.
“Did you murder your wife, too?” he asked, stepping forward until there was no more than six feet between them.
Bengt shook his head, and for the first time he betrayed something that looked like sorrow.
“I don’t think she could go on any longer. She probably suspected. Found my bloodstained clothes from that night, put two and two together. But we never talked about it. Never.”
A hint of pride crept into his voice.
“I think she knew I had to avenge Sebastian. Maybe she thought I did the right thing.”
To be on the safe side, Thomas slowly drew his service revolver, keeping it hidden behind his back.
“As I’m sure you realize, you have to come with me,” he said. “You’ll also have to show us where you buried the other parts of Lina’s body.”
A bark of laughter. “For the sake of her poor parents, you mean? To ease their suffering? Never. They can suffer. Dig up the whole island—you’ll get no help from me.”
Another mirthless laugh, and Thomas recoiled.
“It was Lina’s own fault. And the fault of her fucking mother and grandmother. They started the whole thing; I just finished it. Kristina and her family have only themselves to blame.”
He spat again. “It’s not my fault things turned out this way. I am not to blame.”
Bengt Österman raised his clenched fist toward Thomas’s face.
“I am not to blame.”
Before Thomas had time to react, Bengt turned and ran westward across the ice.
Sandhamn 1928
It was almost midnight, and in the bright moonlight the jetties stood out against the shoreline like black ink drawings.
Arvid opened the door a fraction and stuck his head out. When he was sure there was no one around, he beckoned Thorwald out of the shed. Keeping their heads down, they scurried across to one of the smallest jetties where an old skiff was moored.
Arvid bent down and started to undo the rope.
“I’ll tell Mom and Dad it must have broken free.”
Thorwald was going to protest, but thought better of it.
He had spent the last twenty-four hours hiding in the shed; Arvid had brought food and drink to help him regain his strength. They talked and talked, but could see no other solution: Thorwald had to leave the island before Gottfrid found him.
He was carrying a bundle of supplies, and the leather pouch of money was safely tucked inside his waistband. Arvid had given him his best sweater so he wouldn’t freeze on the long trip to the capital, and also got hold of a maritime chart. It would be a disaster if Thorwald got lost, rowing through the archipelago.
The moonlight was a blessing. It made the journey seem more manageable, and gave Thorwald consolation. Something was finally going his way.
“Get in,” Arvid whispered. “You have to go before anyone sees us.”
Thorwald clambered into the skiff and grabbed the oars. The words stuck in his throat as he tried to work out how to say good-bye.
Arvid had saved his life, he was certain of it. If his friend hadn’t kept on searching for him, Thorwald would have died in that churchyard. It might have been months before anyone found his body.
It was impossible to express how grateful he was.
“Thanks,” he said eventually, his voice thick with emotion. He wanted to ask Arvid to say something to Karolina, but the thought of even uttering her name was too painful.
Arvid pushed the skiff out as hard as he could to give Thorwald a good start. It seemed like he didn’t know what to say either. Thorwald was almost out of earshot when Arvid managed to speak.
“Take care,” he called quietly across the water. “You take care of yourself.”
It looked as if he was raising a hand in farewell, but Thorwald couldn’t be sure.
He glanced back at Sandha
mn for the last time. Diagonally to the left, high up on Kvarnberget, he could see the Brand villa, where Karolina lay sleeping. He knew exactly which window was hers; he had committed it to memory long ago.
He pictured her cheek resting on the pillow, her brown hair spread all around. Missan lying on top of the covers at her feet.
Karolina.
A thousand images of her lovely face flooded his mind. Karolina picking flowers. Karolina playing with Missan in the garden. Karolina’s smile when he said something funny down on the shore.
He would probably never see her again. Or his mother.
A sob rose in his throat, but he suppressed it with a fierce pull on the oars. All this was Gottfrid’s fault. The terror that had filled his life was replaced by a deep, implacable hatred.
“I hate you, Father,” he whispered into the September night. “One day I will have my revenge.”
After a few more powerful strokes he allowed the oars to rest on his lap. The boat slipped through the still water, shimmering in the cold, white moonlight. He was in the middle of the channel, and had already passed Västerudd, the western headland, which was lost in shadow.
Sandhamn lay behind him now.
“I will have my revenge, Father,” he whispered once more. “I swear it.”
CHAPTER 52
The ice had long since formed in the bay off Fläskberget, between Västerudd and the old shipyard.
Thomas hesitated for no more than a second before taking off after Bengt Österman. Leaning on a bollard for support, he scrambled down from the jetty and ran after the fleeing man.
“Come back here!” Thomas roared as loud as he could in the biting wind. His lungs ached in the ice-cold air, and he clenched his fists to distract him from the pain in his chest.
His cell phone began to ring in his inside pocket, but he couldn’t risk stopping and losing sight of Österman. Stress cracks appeared here and there in the ice, and he had to watch where he put his feet.
They were level with the bathing beach when Österman suddenly changed direction and started to run away from the land. He wasn’t far from the shipping lane used by the Waxholm ferries, and Thomas realized they’d soon reach open water. He could already see ice floes drifting in the dark, menacing channel. It looked like smoke rising from the water: icy mist drifting above the surface of the sea.
Thomas was not prepared for this. He had no ice claws with him, and his heavy boots would drag him down in seconds if he went through. But he had no intention of giving up the chase. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to go on.
Österman was now moving west, dangerously close to the channel. All at once he stopped dead. He stood perfectly still for a few seconds, then his body swayed. As he began to move backward, the ice literally cracked beneath his feet.
He looked like he was dancing. He turned this way and that, trying to get back the way he’d come, but the ice couldn’t bear his weight.
Thomas watched as Österman flung out his hands to save himself, but it was too late. Arms flailing, he disappeared into the black depths.
Thomas was almost there. He lay down on his stomach and began to crawl the last few feet toward the edge. Österman’s head popped up.
“Grab my hand!” Thomas yelled. He wasn’t quite close enough, so he wriggled a little further. Then there was an alarming cracking noise beneath him, and he could see the Waxholm ferry approaching in the distance.
His stomach contracted. This was a worst-case scenario. The swell created by the ships produced huge waves that rocked both wooden jetties and small boats. He didn’t want to think about what they would do to ice that had already started breaking up.
His cell phone rang again, but he had to get Österman out right now, before the ship got any closer; otherwise they would both go under.
Thomas shuffled forward as far as he dared. He stretched out his arm until it felt as if it might fall off, and with the last of his strength he managed to seize Österman’s wrist. The man was hardly moving; his sodden clothes made him almost impossible to maneuver.
Desperately Thomas wondered how he was going to pull him out. Österman must weigh well over two hundred pounds—even more in wet clothes.
The ship was getting closer; Thomas could hear the roaring engines.
He pulled as hard as he could, but every time Österman’s upper body emerged from the water, the ice broke again.
“I can’t do this,” Thomas muttered; he was exhausted. “I can’t do this.”
If only he had something to brace against, he might have been able to haul the man out. Something he could drive into the ice. Otherwise it was a hopeless task.
The sound of the engines was almost upon them. With his free hand Thomas groped for his gun and managed to fire it.
Please let someone hear the shot, he thought. It was their only chance.
CHAPTER 53
Loud banging on the front door reverberated through the whole house. The boys looked at Nora in horror; she leaped out of her armchair and ran to the hall.
The look on Margit’s face told her something was wrong.
“Is Thomas here?”
Nora shook her head. “I haven’t seen him since he went off to meet you and the dog handler.”
“He’s not answering his phone,” Margit said. “That’s not like him. He left me an hour ago to see if he could find Bengt Österman, and now I can’t get hold of him.”
“Do you think something happened?”
“Do you know where Österman’s boathouse is?”
“Yes, down by the old marina.”
“I’ll go and check it out.”
Nora reached for her jacket. “I’m coming with you. Stay here, boys,” she called over her shoulder. “Adam, watch out for your brother. And stay indoors—promise me!”
“OK, Mom.”
The expression in Margit’s eyes was scaring her. If she was afraid something had happened to Thomas, then it was serious. She knew from what Thomas had said about his colleague that she didn’t worry for no reason.
They ran down to the jetties. The lone streetlamp didn’t do much, but it was possible to see that someone had left footprints in the ice and snow.
“Österman is crazy. I shouldn’t have let Thomas go off alone,” Margit said.
Nora wasn’t sure if Margit was talking to herself.
“Did you hear that?” Margit yelled all of a sudden.
Nora nodded. A shot in the distance; it sounded as if it came from the west. Margit was already in motion.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she shouted as she ran.
CHAPTER 54
The Waxholm ferry was almost parallel with them, and Thomas knew the swell would follow within seconds. The bow was speeding through the water, the steel-covered hull cleaving the sea in two.
The first shudder passed through the ice, a faint movement that made the surface rise. Immediately it began to crack beneath Thomas’s body. He could no longer hold on to Österman, who slipped inexorably from his grasp.
Österman was wearing a strange smile; the cold was already affecting his faculties.
“They’re waiting for me,” he murmured as he disappeared below the surface. The dark waters closed over him.
“No!” Thomas yelled, his fingers grasping at nothing. He had failed to save the son, and now the father was dying right in front of him. He couldn’t bear it.
At that moment there was a cracking sound like nothing he had ever heard before. It was ominous and earsplitting, and he instinctively knew that it could be nothing but a harbinger of death.
He tried to crawl backward, but the ice just kept on giving way. He had to get out of there; otherwise he, too, would drown.
Too late.
With a deep boom the ice split and Thomas went down. The shock was so great that he didn’t feel the cold at first; it was as if a gigantic hand had seized him and was squeezing as hard as it could.
It was impossible to orient himself; he had no idea what was up
or down, and he fumbled helplessly for something to hold on to.
Then he floated upward and hit his head on the edge of the ice.
Air, he had to get some air.
His fingers scrabbled at the ice and suddenly he could breathe again; his head was above water. He tried to grip the slippery surface so that he could heave himself out, but every time he slid back. He couldn’t gain purchase no matter what he did.
The fear of death sliced through his body like a knife.
Not now, not like this, he thought, seeing Pernilla’s face before him. The sky was pitch black, and he had never felt so small and so alone.
The cold was unbearable now. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer. His arms were starting to grow numb; clinging to the ice was such hard work.
“Pernilla,” he murmured to stop himself from giving up. “Pernilla.”
How much time had passed? He had no feeling in his legs, and his lungs were no longer able to supply oxygen to his whole body. Fragments of information drifted through his brain. He could survive for fifteen minutes in freezing cold water. Or was it five minutes?
The temptation to let go was growing; he was so cold. He had read somewhere that drowning was supposed to be a pleasant death. What was the point of fighting it?
“Help me,” he whispered. “Help me, Pernilla.”
Suddenly, through the fog in his brain, he remembered the screwdriver he had used to fix the leg of Nora’s table. He had put it in the back pocket of his jeans when Sachsen called; was it still there?
He let go of the ice with his right hand and pulled off his glove with his teeth. If he was going to die anyway, it didn’t matter if he got frostbite on his fingers. They were so stiff they would hardly move, but he somehow managed to push his hand into his pocket. His fingertips touched metal.
“Please, God, let it hold,” he said as he drove the screwdriver into the ice. Against all the odds he managed to heave himself out of the water. Breathing was agonizing, and his clothes froze in seconds. The distance to the shore seemed immeasurable. He tried to drag himself closer, away from the open water that was still only inches away. His progress was slow, painfully slow.
