The Ice Beneath Her

by Camilla Grebe

  “Emma,” Manfred says.

  “Like the woman who wrote that letter,” I say, and look at the handwritten note, which is now hanging from the evidence wall next to the other pictures and documents.

  “What?” Bergdahl asks, and looks confused.

  “We found a letter at Orre’s house,” I say, “from someone named Emma who apparently had a relationship with Orre and got pregnant.”

  Bergdahl nods slowly.

  “Okay. Was it written recently?”

  “We don’t know. We didn’t find an envelope, just the letter itself. It was in the pocket of his jeans.”

  “Can we compare the handwriting to that of the missing woman, Emma Bohman?” Manfred asks.

  “Sure,” I say. “But probably dental records will be faster.”

  Sanchez puts her notebook on the table and says: “Fatima said that the victim had either given birth or been pregnant. Angelica Wennerlind had a child, but what about the other women?”

  “Only Angelica had any children,” Manfred says. “But we don’t know, of course, if either of the other two have been pregnant. If Emma Bohman is the Emma who wrote the letter, she was pregnant.”

  There is silence for a moment; then Manfred continues:

  “Well, I talked to the glazier. He replaced the glass in one of the basement windows on the west side of Jesper Orre’s house two weeks ago. Orre told him he’d had a break-in, but nothing had been stolen. Beyond that the glazier had nothing interesting to say. Thought Orre seemed a bit pompous and stressed out, but that’s hardly illegal.”

  From the corner of my eye, I see Hanne writing in the notebook she always carries with her. She seems to have become more diligent over the years; she takes notes constantly, as if she’s anxious not to miss a single word of what’s being said. It’s a bit odd—when we were seeing each other ten years ago, I perceived her as more careless and unstructured. Bohemian, almost. She never wrote anything down, but she seemed to remember everything anyway.

  Sanchez stands up. Tugs at her silk blouse.

  “We got a call from the County Police too. They’re investigating the fire in Orre’s garage. The crime is classified as second-degree arson, since the building was situated in a residential area. They confirmed the insurance company’s assessment that the fire was arson. The National Lab found traces of gasoline onsite, and there were a number of burnt gasoline cans in the garage. Apparently, Orre was away on that particular evening. He was in Riga to meet some Baltic store managers. So he couldn’t have set the fire himself, if it was insurance money he was after.”

  “He could have hired someone,” I suggest.

  Sanchez nods and stretches so the silk blouse slips up again, exposing a flat, tattooed belly.

  “Sure. But there’s nothing to suggest Orre needed the money. Plus, there’s new witness testimony from a neighbor who says she saw a woman standing on the street watching the fire. She couldn’t describe what the woman looked like, but she was sure it was a woman, and that she left while it was still burning.”

  “A passerby?” Manfred asks.

  “It’s possible. Or the person who set fire to Orre’s garage. It’s impossible to say at present. The only thing we know is that a woman stood there watching the garage burn for a while. Like it was a damn bonfire. Those were the neighbor’s words.”

  EMMA

  THREE WEEKS EARLIER

  “I have a doctor’s appointment. I need to leave at four. I’m sorry, but I can’t change it,” I say, and make an effort to look anxious.

  Mahnoor raises her well-plucked eyebrows and nods slowly, as if pondering what I said.

  “Sure. But you’ll get a demerit.” She nods toward the calendar.

  “I know, but I still have to go.”

  Olga, who is sitting at the table with a cup of tea, rolls her eyes.

  Mahnoor turns instantly on her. “I saw that.”

  “Saw what?” Olga retorts, and looks at her innocently: widens her pale blue eyes and cocks her head to the side so her bleached hair falls over one shoulder.

  “Stop it. I’m not stupid. I’d be a little more cooperative if I were you. You have…” Mahnoor turns to the calendar, sliding her finger slowly across the line with Olga’s name on it, counting. “Five demerits this month,” she says contentedly, turns around, and exits the staff room without another word. Her steps fade away, blending with the familiar music pumping out of the speakers.

  “What did she eat for breakfast?” Olga murmurs, biting her fingernail.

  “Be careful,” I say. “It’s not the world’s most fun job. But it’s a job.”

  She shrugs. “So what? I could always work for Alexej’s cleaning company if I want. He always needs help.”

  “Do you want to clean ferries?”

  Olga fidgets. “Better than eating her shit with a knife and fork every day.”

  “Come on. This is an okay job. Do you have any education? Any work experience besides this? Do you seriously think you could get another job tomorrow if you get fired from here?”

  Olga slumps into the chair opposite me, suddenly looking older than she is. “Well, aren’t you a little bitch.”

  “Come on. I’m not being a bitch. I’m just trying to help you. I don’t want you to lose your job just because Mahnoor has gone over to the dark side. It’s not worth it. Try to be a little tactical instead. Ignore her when she says that kind of stuff. Move on, put it behind you. Don’t be so damn proud.”

  “Like you?”

  Her voice is a whisper, but I sense the sharpness in it. “What do I have to do with any of this?”

  “Like you and that guy. The one you never stop going on and on about. Sometimes moving on is not so easy. But you know what? I don’t want to hear more about you and that guy. It’s not fun anymore. Go harass somebody else with your boring life.”

  I’m speechless. Jesper has robbed me of my life. Just days ago, I lost my child, and now this little Eastern European cunt says that it’s not fun anymore. How does she think it feels for me?

  “It’s not the same thing,” I say.

  “You’re obsessed with him. You do nothing but talk about him. Love ends—accept it. Get a hobby. Hang out with friends. Get a life.”

  Olga stands up. Stretches like a cat. “I need a smoke.”

  Then she disappears into the corridor, headed for the garbage room, without turning around.

  —

  It’s four o’clock when I get to the car rental company. All the employees seem to be boys under the age of eighteen and members of the same basketball team. They’re tall, lanky, and beardless.

  “I just need to rent a car for one day,” I explain to a clerk named Sean, according to his name tag, “and I don’t need a big car, just a roomy trunk.”

  “Maybe a station wagon,” he suggests, and runs his hand over his pimply chin.

  “That’s fine.”

  I hand him my credit card and driver’s license while he goes through the conditions: The car has to be returned by no later than six P.M. the next day. The gas tank should be full, and the keys should be tossed into the mailbox. Do I have any questions?

  I shake my head.

  “Then have a pleasant trip.”

  “Who said I was going on a trip?”

  “Oh. Okay. Well, drive carefully, then.”

  “I will,” I say, and try to smile. “Was it number six, you said?”

  He nods without saying anything more, and when I leave the shop he has already started helping the next customer.

  —

  The paint store is crowded with people.

  “Terrible weather we’re having,” says a fat lady wearing a loden coat and holding a dachshund on a leash.

  It strikes me that she looks a lot like the woman I met the other night, when Jesper was stalking me in the shadows around Karlaplan. Or maybe all the old ladies in this neighborhood have dachshunds? Loden coats, dachshunds, and tweed hats. They all look like they live on some country estate,
the lot of them.

  I put my cans on the counter. My palms sting and my muscles are trembling from exertion. The man standing at the checkout looks incredulously at the cans. Then he looks at me again, as if he wants to make sure I’m not crazy.

  “There are smaller containers,” he says hesitantly. “We have one-liter bottles.”

  “I want these. Thank you.”

  He shrugs, decides it’s my problem if I buy too much. The door to the shop opens again, and the dachshund barks.

  “Okay, then.” He tips the can to the side to scan the bar code and nods at me. “How many are you buying?”

  I look down at the floor, where two cans sit between my feet. “A total of four,” I say.

  —

  I drive carefully. The temperature’s dropped to just above freezing, and I’m afraid that the shiny black road has become deceptively slippery. Strangely, it’s not hard to find my way to the house again. It’s as if my body remembers, as if every twist and turn in this exclusive suburb is imprinted on my spinal cord. I don’t even need to think, just follow where my body takes me.

  Big cars are parked on neat driveways. Palatial homes tower over manicured lawns. Then the houses start getting smaller again, and I know I’m almost there.

  I see his house in front of me in the dark. There are no lights on inside, and no car parked outside. The piles of wood are still on the sidewalk next to the newly built garage.

  I park a short distance away, careful not to get too close.

  The cans are heavy and awkward to carry. I have to make two trips. On my way toward Jesper’s gate I look around, but there are no signs of life. Though lights are on in the surrounding houses, I see no people.

  I inspect the new building next to the gate. A real door has now replaced the gaping hole that was covered by plastic last time I was here, but the small window to the left of the entrance gapes open. I stand on my toes, bend forward, and look inside. After a few seconds my eyes adjust. There are two cars in the garage—a small red sports car and an older-model Porsche. So you like vintage cars, I think. Another secret you never shared with me.

  I back away from the window, open the lid of the first can, and pour the contents along one wall. After a bit the can becomes lighter and easier to handle. I try to splash the liquid as high up on the wall as I can. Then I repeat the procedure with the remaining three cans. How much is needed? I couldn’t exactly ask the guy at the paint store for advice.

  The work is heavy, and I’m sweating under my thick jacket. A light rain has started to fall, small, soundless, almost imperceptible drops. Still, moisture starts to cover my face and hands.

  When I’m finished, I push the empty cans, one by one, through the small window. They fall to the garage floor with a hollow sound. I step back, make sure I have the car keys ready. The last thing I want is to get stuck here, or to be forced to make a run for it without the car.

  Then I take out the matches, lean forward in order to protect them from the rain and the wind, and light one.

  The flame flickers in the darkness.

  This is for the money you stole, you bastard.

  —

  That night I sleep better than I have in a long time, even though the smell of smoke has penetrated my skin and hair and won’t wash out, even after showering twice. When I wake up, the image of those flames is burnt into my retinas. I remember how they lit up the autumn night, how the heat scorched my skin, even from a distance. It felt cleansing somehow. I don’t know if it was the fire or the fact that I was taking back what was mine, something he’d robbed from me.

  I get up, shower again, dress, and eat some cornflakes while doing my hair and putting on my makeup. Maybe it’s my imagination, but I think I look more alert somehow. Stronger. And maybe that’s true; maybe the woman staring back at me from the mirror is someone else. Maybe yesterday changed me in some essential way.

  Before I leave, I dig the journalist’s business card out of the pile of bills in the bread bin and put it in my pocket. I decide it’s time to call him.

  On my way to the subway, I realize something else feels different. At first I can’t quite put my finger on what, but then it comes to me. The sun is shining for the first time in weeks. I stop, close my eyes, and turn my face to the sky. Soaking in heat and light. I stand like that until my skin is hot and my eyelids are glowing. Thinking life might not be so bad, after all.

  For some reason, the image of my father the night before he died pops into my mind. How he lay motionless on the bed in his dark room. Outside, Mom paced back and forth worriedly. I couldn’t understand why she, who seemed to hate Dad so much, would be so worried now that he was sick. It was as if she had only two states of mind, angry or worried, and now she was very worried.

  She’d spent most of the morning on the phone with various aunts. I had been working on my physics homework while listening to her long, whispered conversation about Dad’s health. Words like “totally passive” and “lost the will to live” were interwoven with theatrical sobs and the usual talk about the lack of money and her boring job and egocentric boss. Everything culminated in the assertion that she deserved better, something that the aunts seemed to agree with, because there was never any argument after she said it.

  I thought about what she meant by “deserved better.” Was Mom dissatisfied with her life? Did she want another one? Another apartment, another husband? Another child, perhaps? And was that something you earned, which you were entitled to if you were a better person? Was Mom really better than Dad and me? And if I was so bad, what did I deserve?

  I sat down gently on the bed beside Dad. The dim room smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke and something else, something that reminded me of old dandruff, and I realized I didn’t have to worry he’d notice I’d been sneaking cigarettes with Elin earlier.

  I couldn’t understand why he insisted on keeping the blinds down, why he wanted to be in the dark all day. The bed sagged when I sat down on it, even though I tried to be as careful and light as I could.

  “Little Emma,” he mumbled, and turned to me.

  Then he took my hand in his. That was all. He didn’t say anything else, just lay still, breathing heavily, as if every breath was painful. I thought for a moment about what might make Dad happier. Normally, I’d suggest that we go do something together, maybe take a walk or cook some food. But I sensed that wasn’t going to work this time.

  “Are you feeling better now?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said after a long, worrying pause. Even his voice sounded different. Hollow, toneless. As if it came from inside a can.

  “Little Emma,” he repeated, and pressed my hand harder. “I just want you to know how much I love you. You’re a wonderful girl.”

  I didn’t know what to say. The situation made me uncomfortable. I wasn’t used to seeing Dad so weak. He could be tired and indifferent or angry and disorderly or even drunk and reckless. But not weak. The man who had been my idol from the time I learned to walk wasn’t weak. It was as simple as that.

  “Please, Daddy—”

  “Emma,” he interrupted me, “remember that caterpillar you kept in a jar when you were small?”

  “Yes?”

  I wondered where he was headed with this.

  “I’m so damn sorry I let Mom smash that jar. I knew how that night would end, and I did nothing to stop her.”

  “Stop it; it was just a silly insect. And besides, that was a long time ago.”

  “Yes, an ‘insect,’ that’s what she called it. But it was more than just a butterfly. It was your special project that you’d been working on all spring. It was the only thing you cared about at that time, and despite that, or maybe because of that, she destroyed it. And I let it happen, so I’m just as guilty.”

  I thought I heard a sob in the darkness, but wasn’t sure.

  “Do you remember how beautiful it was?” he continued. “Remember its metamorphosis from an ordinary caterpillar to a beautiful butterfly? It was
so blue it almost glowed. Do you remember?”

  I nodded, although he couldn’t see me in the dark. This conversation had given me a lump in my throat, and I no longer trusted my voice to carry.

  “I just want you to know…you’re just like that little caterpillar, Emma. One day you’ll also turn into a beautiful butterfly. Never forget that. No matter what people say about you, you have to promise me that.”

  “Oh Dad.” I let out a giggle; the situation suddenly seemed so absurd. As if I were trapped in a melodrama. “Stop talking like that. You’re scaring me. Okay?”

  He didn’t say anything. The only sound in the room was his labored breathing.

  “If someone says you’re different, I want you to think about that butterfly. Different doesn’t mean worse. Different can just as well mean better. Promise never to forget that.”

  “Sure, but…”

  The lump in my throat grew. I’d never heard Dad talk like this before. This was something I wasn’t prepared for. No special dinner or impromptu walk along the waterfront was going to fix this problem.

  “I want you to be…like before,” I whispered, trying to avoid the word “healthy,” because that would mean he was sick now, and that just wasn’t something we said to Dad, neither me nor Mom. We said it about him, but not to him.

  “Everything’s gone to shit for me,” he said with an unexpectedly cheerful voice, as if he’d made a joke. “Complete shit.”

  And those were the last words my father said before Mom found him hanging in the apartment the next day.