Sonja falls silent and I can tell that she thinks she has said too much.
“But I must ask you once again to think about any individuals in your circle who may want to harm you. However far-fetched it may seem.”
I was ready—as ready as I ever would be—as I stood outside her house with my blue backpack in my hand.
But.
She wasn’t there. Actually, I had already suspected it, as I had carefully approached the cottage through the dense forest and saw… or more likely it was what I didn’t see that made me understand: no brightly lit windows, no half-empty wineglasses on the kitchen table. Not a movement. Not a sound.
She had gone underground. I had foreseen that this might happen, and it really didn’t change anything, because I knew how to find her and get her to return. Everything was predetermined. Now I only needed to pull on a couple threads to set events in motion, nudge fate in the right direction.
I turned around and started walking back toward the main road. It was time to visit another one of Siri’s twisted patients.
Darkness.
Life has taught me a few things about darkness. About the blackness that penetrates your very soul when you least expect it. Like discovering that your rubber boots are leaking halfway through the swamp. The same cold, clammy feeling.
Sometimes I sense it in my patients.
Perceive it.
Sometimes it’s enough to crack open the door and the darkness seeps out. But normally you can’t tell. You look at the people around you. They seem normal, do normal things, and live their extremely ordinary lives. It is hard to conceive just how much darkness can fit inside someone.
Hard to grasp.
It’s even harder, of course, to imagine that a friend or a colleague could be filled by it. Controlled by the darkness.
I can’t believe it.
I look into Markus’s eyes across the table. Try to process what he is saying. Take it in. That it is probably someone I know. Someone who has a connection to the practice.
We are sitting at a little vegetarian restaurant on Fjällgatan. I would never have guessed that he liked this kind of food, but he is happily digging into the marinated chickpeas and tofu stir-fry.
Around us, the lunch rush is starting to thin out. A woman in her fifties wearing a white tunic with batik print and chunky silver jewelry looks around for her lunch mate, lost. I think absentmindedly that she looks like a psychologist.
To my right, a young woman with a baby is speaking agitatedly with the staff.
“He has to eat something too, surely you must understand.”
The black-haired, pierced waitress looks uncomfortable and talks quickly, in a low voice.
“But we can’t warm up meat products in our microwave. Not even baby food.”
“And why not, can you give me one good reason?” the young mother counters.
“Because it will make a smell in the microwave and—”
“I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit. But you know what, it doesn’t matter. I’ve lost my appetite anyway.”
I watch the woman get up, the baby on her hip, pack the jar of baby food in the big diaper bag she had hung on the chair, and quickly walk out of the restaurant.
Markus raises an eyebrow and looks at me.
“So are you for or against it?”
“For or against what?” I ask in return.
“Meat.”
“Meat.” I have to laugh. “For or against… I don’t know. It’s good.”
Then we are suddenly serious again. Markus spears chunks of carrot with his fork, but instead of bringing the food up to his mouth he sets it down on his plate, looks at me, and takes my hand. He looks serious and I wonder what he’s about to tell me.
“You know, the puddle of blood in your garden, the dog blood? The same night that happened, a guy from Värmdö disappeared with his dog. He was going to take a short walk before dinner but never came back to his girlfriend and their child. No one has seen him since. He lived a few miles away from you. At the beginning, they didn’t connect his disappearance with Sara’s murder. The guy had debts and was also unfaithful to his girlfriend. There were reasons to believe he was hiding voluntarily. But there may be a connection. Maybe he saw something that evening. Or someone. Maybe he saw too much…”
I shake my head and close my eyes, thinking I can’t bear to hear more, but Markus takes a firm hold of both my wrists, as if bracing me for what comes next.
“There’s more. That afternoon, when we found your cat. The technicians found footprints in the snow, made by a man’s size ten and a half shoe. Worn sole. Some kind of sneaker, but it was impossible to determine the brand. In any case, it was a man’s footprint. Apparently, they can calculate how much the person weighs, more or less. Don’t ask me to explain how. They’re guessing we are dealing with someone who weighs about one sixty to one seventy pounds. If we consider the shoe size and assume the man has a normal weight, that means he is between five ten and six feet tall.”
“You don’t know anything else?”
I feel disappointed and led on.
“Wait a moment.” Markus interrupts me. “We know that the man was snooping around on your property and that for a certain period of time stood in the same spot, by those tall trees down by the water. Presumably he hid down there and was spying on us.”
“So he was there. He was there, watching us?”
The recollection of how I felt we were being observed is unsettling.
Markus nods. “He was there. Or someone was there, and most likely it was him. We also have traces of car tires. And this is interesting. It’s a special type of snow tire that isn’t used on very many cars—actually, they’re almost only used on newer Volvo models. And we also have a witness.”
“You have what?”
“Someone saw a black car, probably a Volvo Cross Country, driving down the main road at a relatively high speed. The timing fits and the witness is credible.”
“Who is the witness?”
“You know I can’t give you that type of information. Damn it, I shouldn’t even be telling you this much…”
Markus stops himself abruptly and wearily shakes his head.
I realize I have gone too far. Markus has already crossed a number of boundaries to inform me, and I know I shouldn’t ask for more. Instead, I nod, indicating that he is right.
“Sonja is right,” he says suddenly, picking at his vegetables.
“Right about what?”
Markus doesn’t answer, just continues to pick at his food. He does that sometimes, I’ve observed. He closes up, doesn’t answer my questions. I almost get angry.
“Right about what?” I repeat.
Markus sighs and draws his hand through his hair.
“She’s right that I’m not… impartial anymore.”
“What do you mean? Why did she say that? You haven’t told her about us, have you?”
My question is feather-light and careful, but nevertheless it has an edge. I know that I sound accusing. Markus nods slowly and fixes me with his eyes.
“I’ve talked to Sonja, yes,” he says, sucking in air to confirm, in the typical Norrland manner.
It’s an innocent statement, but I know what it means.
“I’m going to be removed from the investigation.”
I glare at Markus sitting across from me in his usual hoodie. I refrain from reminding him that I had warned him about this, but anger is growing inside me, spreading to every cell. This also means that our relationship, or whatever you want to call it, is official. But Markus doesn’t seem to notice my reaction.
“It’s okay. I’m not getting fired or anything. Sonja transferred me to an assault case. A teen gang in Tumba stole a thirteen-year-old’s cell phone and twenty-five bucks and kicked his head in.”
I shake my head, incapable of verbalizing my fury.
“I don’t know…”
“What?”
“Maybe it’s okay for you, but I’m
not sure this is… good.”
The fact is, I don’t think what Markus just told me is okay at all. It feels as if he is taking things for granted. Taking me for granted. As if we were a couple. As if I were his. Completely.
“What do you mean?” Markus looks confused.
I withdraw my hand from his.
“I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Can we talk about something else?”
I can tell that Markus is offended. He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest.
“I can’t figure you out, Siri,” he says.
I laugh curtly. A misplaced, loud laugh that cuts through the air.
“Well, join the club.”
Markus is not amused. He looks demonstratively out the window. Takes in the marvelous view. His jaw clenched, he looks out toward Skeppsbron, enveloped in damp gray November mist.
And I am staring down at the chickpeas, as if that would help.
Then he looks back at me. There’s something different in his eyes now. Something harder. I know that I’ve hurt him, disappointed him. I don’t understand why I always have to mess things up. Why it has to be so hard. He would be better off without me.
I am a burden to him, too.
I am sitting in the kitchen at the office. Aina has temporarily stepped into Marianne’s shoes and decorated the room with an electric candlestick and red aromatic candles that smell like spruce and currants. There’s an amaryllis in the window that won’t bloom for another few weeks. The practice seems to have entered a new order, and we are getting used to the empty reception desk. Though we all look hopefully at Marianne’s place when we arrive in the morning, we know she isn’t there, that she remains in a coma at South Hospital.
Her absence is tangible. In a small working group, every individual becomes very visible. But we still don’t talk about it. We have slowly become accustomed to her absence. We sent flowers to the hospital but are waiting to visit her, and the reception desk and the file cabinet are more or less as she had left them.
In no way does Sven show how he feels about everything that has happened, about all the police interrogations. I wonder what he is thinking as he walks up the steps to work every day. How does it feel for him to meet Aina’s and my eyes across the kitchen table? Is he looking around for a new workplace? Our practice seems to be dissolving at the edges, like a sugar cube in hot tea. What was once a pleasant, warm office, enhanced by the feeling of being your own boss, now feels uncertain and diffuse.
I hear the front door open and I know that Aina has returned from an exhibit. She glides into the kitchen with glowing red cheeks and static blond hair, bringing in with her a wave of cold air and crystal-clear frost. With a sweeping motion she tosses a brown paper bag onto the table.
“Fresh-baked cinnamon rolls from the coffee shop. Have one!”
I just shake my head. I’m not in the mood to stuff myself with pastries.
She looks at me, curious. “How’s the apartment working out?”
“It’s fine, thanks. You know that I really am very grateful—”
“Cut it out,” she interrupts me. “You know that if I had my way you would have moved out of that damn house a long, long time ago—when Stefan died. I never understood why you chose to stay there. And the way things are now, well… it’s the least I can do.”
She tears open the paper bag and takes out an enormous cinnamon roll that she bites into at the same time as she wriggles out of her coat and throws it over one chair, sinking down in another. She looks tired. Inevitably, our relationship has also been affected by the events of the fall. Aina was there for me, an attentive listener through it all. She even found me an apartment.. She never asks for anything in return, but I know that I disappoint her. She’s irritated when I don’t listen to what she says. Her good advice seems to run off my back.
“Any news on the investigation?” Aina asks, her mouth full of cinnamon roll.
“Not much… Actually, there is something. The technicians found footprints from the person who killed Ziggy. From a man. And then there was a witness who saw a black Volvo that same day.”
“A black Volvo?”
Aina stops chewing, leaving her mouth slightly open, and I can see the half-mashed, saliva-drenched piece of pastry.
“A Volvo Cross Country? Like the car your dad has?”
I nod and wonder how she knows that.
“I know who has a black Cross Country. In fact I’m quite certain, because I almost ran into his car in the parking garage.”
A little piece of pastry drops out of her open mouth and lands on the table.
“Who?”
Aina wipes around her mouth with the back of her hand and says in a low voice, leaning toward me, as if she were sharing a secret.
“Peter Carlsson has a black Cross Country.”
Vijay leans forward in the biting wind, his thin coat fluttering behind him like a tattered sail. We’ve left his office at the department and are now walking along Brunnsviken toward Haga Park. It is a beautiful day. For the first time in two weeks, the sun is shining. The sky is light blue and thin, veil-like clouds are quickly moving north. The only disturbance is the powerful gusts of wind that almost make us fall down on the narrow path. The snow has melted away and left smooth, wet patches of ice behind. I lose my balance for a moment and Vijay takes hold of my arm.
“Be careful, Siri!”
His reaction sounds so ominous that I start laughing. He has told me to be careful on so many occasions recently that it feels like they are all flowing together. This time I can actually do as he says. I concentrate on where I set my feet.
I told Vijay about Peter Carlsson. Not using specifics, I sheathed his story in veils of mist, changed facts and details so that he will not be recognizable. I am still tormented by the thought of breaching confidentiality and hurting an already vulnerable man. I cannot say anything to the police without having more to go on, but at the same time, I cannot get rid of my fear that it just may be Peter—I can’t get his descriptions of violence and death out of my head. My fear has escalated after what Aina said about Peter’s car. I feel like a gigantic wave has washed over me, making me lose composure and control. And for that reason, I have to talk with Vijay.
“What do you think, Vijay?”
He throws up his arms and I am close to losing my balance again.
“What do we know about the man we’re looking for?”
Vijay’s question is rhetorical and I let him continue.
“We think he is middle aged, well educated, has plenty of money. He is well organized. Easily offended. And very, very driven. He is a man with a mission.”
Vijay stares out over the dark-blue water of Brunnsviken, where the waves are topped with foam. He looks resolute and worried, but I don’t know what is really bothering him.
“We also think he had some kind of nonsexual relationship with Sara. For some reason, he chose not to be intimate with her. The patient you told me about actually doesn’t match the pattern. He does not seem to have any personal connection to you. It is hard to find a tenable motive. True, he has some knowledge about the practice and he knows at least one of your patients personally. But what really makes me hesitate is the complexity of his problems. A man with the type of compulsive thoughts you describe is not really credible as the perpetrator, assuming he’s not manipulating you during your sessions. To my ears, it just sounds like compulsive thoughts. His fear is that he might lose control and for some reason start doing crazy things that he really doesn’t want to do at all. More or less like new mothers who hide all the medicines and hazardous things in the house because they get compulsive thoughts about harming their babies. He’s afraid of harming what he holds dear. But you’ve already thought about all this, right?”
Vijay turns to me and I nod in response. Of course this is something I have already thought about. I think about the conversations Sven and I had about Peter Carlsson at the end of August. That feels like ages ago.<
br />
“So,” Vijay continues, “the alternative is that this man has simply faked his symptoms. That he thought up this whole story to scare you. And to get close to you. That he gets a kick out of being able to trick you. People with this type of personality disorder enjoy feeling intellectually superior. And the man who killed Sara harbors a strong, exaggerated hatred toward you. A hatred so great that he doesn’t hesitate to hurt others to get at you. He killed Sara Matteus. He… stuffed your cat… that is horribly sick. Deceiving you would be yet another way of humiliating you. Of getting at you.”
I close my eyes and see Peter Carlsson’s face before me. His blue eyes and combed hair, his manicured nails, the silk tie. I remember him as a very unhappy man. His suffering felt genuine, his shame and his tears, but also his eagerness when I hit the mark with my questions. I cannot believe that Peter Carlsson is Sara’s murderer. As if Vijay can read my mind, he continues.
“You can’t know, Siri. It is impossible for you to know for sure. I’ve met murderers who were part of search parties looking for missing children they themselves had killed. Perpetrators who fooled experienced police officers. You just can’t know for sure.”
“But what should I do?”
My question remains hanging in the air between us.
Vijay says nothing at first, but then turns toward me. “Have you talked to Markus about this?”
“Markus has been removed from the investigation.”
I look away to avoid Vijay’s eyes. I wait for a comment or a question, but he remains silent. Instead, I feel his hand stroking my coat sleeve. Vijay understands that this is not the time to ask questions.
“Maybe you should talk to him anyway. Even if he isn’t working on this case, he’s still a policeman. You are still talking to him, aren’t you?”
I nod to confirm that I am—more than ever before.
“What do we really know about Sven? About why he had to resign and all that,” I ask quietly, without looking up at Vijay.
Some Kind of Peace: A Novel Page 23
