‘I’m afraid I have to go now,’ she said and set the carrier bag with the grapes, magazines and chocolate on the bed. ‘But I’ll be back, of course.’
Without looking at Markus, she left the room and hurried down the corridor.
ON TUESDAY MORNING Karin Jacobsson and Thomas Wittberg met with their Stockholm colleagues, who gave them an update on the interviews they’d conducted so far. No one knew of any connection that Markus Sandberg might have to Flemingsberg, which was where his mobile had been traced to. The police had done a thorough examination of his life, talking to many of his closest family members, co-workers and acquaintances. They’d come away with a clear and unequivocal picture of the man. An irresponsible womanizer with an appetite for good food, alcohol and a number of different drugs, primarily cocaine, at least when he was young. These days, he might still smoke a joint or snort a line at some party, but his level of drug use was nowhere near what it had been in his youth.
Markus Sandberg was the son of one of Sweden’s foremost defence lawyers. He had grown up in a huge flat in Stockholm’s Östermalm district, where his parents still lived. He was used to moving in upper-class social circles, and he’d always had plenty of money. Yet he was the black sheep of the family. His three brothers had all followed in their father’s footsteps and each in his own way had dedicated his life to the law. They were all married and lived in large homes in the posh suburbs. They had steady jobs within the banking sector and with various law firms. The fact that Markus had chosen photography as his profession had been hard for his family to swallow, and it was even worse when he gravitated towards porn. The family’s patience finally ran out when that scandalous TV programme debuted with Markus as the controversial host. When the police interviewed his family members, it became clear that he was regarded as their enfant terrible – charming and charismatic, but a temperamental rogue who was impossible to rein in or control. When Markus left the TV show and stopped taking pornographic pictures to become a respectable photographer, as his father expressed it, the entire clan had heaved a collective sigh of relief.
When Markus Sandberg’s name began to attract notice in the most exclusive fashion circles, his family finally stopped disapproving of him. Instead, he became the son of whom his parents were most proud. He was not only successful in his profession and made lots of money, he was also a celebrity. A star who hobnobbed with Sweden’s elite. And that was what impressed Markus’s family most. He was the one son who could measure up to his father’s fame, and for that he was greatly admired.
So the brutal assault and its consequences were the worst thing that could have happened to his family. Both parents were utterly distraught, and his father had quarrelled with the hospital every single day, demanding that all sorts of experts be called in. His brothers were better at keeping their composure, although they, too, were worried and upset.
As far as his colleagues and friends were concerned, they had all told the police much the same story. Markus Sandberg was a well-liked and charming rogue who managed nevertheless to carry out his work brilliantly. Even though he was pushing forty, he still lived very much for the present and didn’t seem at all interested in settling down. Nor did he worry about the future. He earned a huge salary, but he spent it fast. There were always new trips, new parties, new girlfriends.
‘I wonder where his restlessness comes from,’ Jacobsson said as she and Wittberg left police headquarters. ‘Markus seems to be constantly on the move, as if he’s either searching for something or running away.’
‘His behaviour sounds perfectly normal to me,’ said Wittberg. ‘If you’ve got the money and the opportunities and don’t feel like settling down for the moment, then why not? To me it sounds like a great life – one day jet-setting to Cannes, the next day going to a nightclub in Milan and mingling with Hollywood stars. I could see myself doing that.’
‘I’m sure you could,’ said Jacobsson, laughing. ‘Your life isn’t that much different, just on a more modest scale. Surfing at Tofta in the summer, partying at the Gutekällaren, and showing off your muscles at the Kallis beach club. And in the wintertime you keep your summer romances going by taking exotic trips to see Eva in Haparanda, Sanna in Skövde, and Linda in Lund.’
‘What about you?’ said Wittberg, irritated. ‘You should talk. You haven’t exactly settled down either. And don’t forget that you’re ten years older than me.’
Jacobsson ignored his remarks and merely walked faster. But Wittberg wasn’t about to give up.
‘You’re always so bloody secretive. So tell me. How’s it going with that photographer you met – Janne Widén?’
‘None of your business,’ said Jacobsson, annoyed to feel herself blushing.
They weren’t exactly a couple, but they did spend a lot of time together.
At the same time she’d made contact with her daughter, she had met Janne. All of a sudden, two new people had come into her life, which was otherwise quite solitary. And ever since, she’d been preoccupied with both of them, although for very different reasons. Right now, she was looking forward to Janne coming home. But that was nothing compared to how much she longed to see Hanna.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her mobile.
‘Hi. My name is Anna Markström, and I work on the reception desk at the Grand Hotel.’
‘Yes?’
Jacobsson and Wittberg hadn’t yet managed to pay a visit there.
‘My boss told me that the police are interested in a phone call that was made from here on 15 November by a man who rang the Hotel Fabriken on Furillen.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, when I heard about that, I remembered that we had a big fashion show here that day – in the Winter Garden – and all the models were from the same agency, Fashion for Life. Jenny Levin was one of the models.’
‘Are you sure? This was on 15 November?’
‘Yes, that’s right. I checked to be sure, and that’s when it was.’
JENNY CAME OUT of the hospital and sank down on to a bench next to the front entrance. She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, trying to calm down. She quickly realized that she was sitting at a taxi rank, since cabs kept driving up to ask if she needed a ride. After this happened five times, she got up and left. She needed to take a walk, to regain her composure and gather her thoughts. She headed along the path which passed under the thoroughfare, went through a dark tunnel, and then over to Brunnsviken and Haga Park. She wandered along the shore, thinking about Markus. What would happen if he didn’t regain his memory? She was filled with despair when she recalled the way he had looked. She tried to tell herself that he’d be better soon. The swelling would go down, his wounds would heal, and whatever disfiguring marks didn’t disappear on their own could be dealt with by plastic surgery. She shivered when she thought how vain Markus was and how important his appearance was to him. She sincerely hoped that the hospital staff wouldn’t allow him to look in a mirror.
She stopped at the water’s edge. Several ducks glided towards her on the smooth surface. Winter was approaching, but they hadn’t yet had a proper snowfall, and a few leaves were still stubbornly clinging to the tree branches. The air felt damp and raw. She pulled up the zip on her jacket, then continued walking to stay warm as she tried to clear her head. Again, she pictured Markus’s lacerated and bruised face. He simply had to get well. She left the waters of Brunnsviken behind and moved further into the woods. The trees, tall and cold, crowded in around her. The smell of damp earth made her long for home. For her mother and father and all the farm animals: the lambs and horses and dogs. She wanted to bury her face in Miranda’s thick coat and forget everything else. Miranda was her favourite ewe. All the sheep had names, and her parents knew every one of them. Jenny had more trouble telling one from the other because she was so seldom home, but she could always recognize Miranda among the hundreds of sheep. She had a shimmering, dark-grey coat and such a gentle expression on her face. Her eyes, set so
wide apart, radiated warmth and intelligence. She would always come running on her skinny legs, bleating loudly, whenever Jenny called her name. Jenny had been present in the sheep barn when Miranda had been born five years earlier. The lamb had been in the breach position, so the birth had been difficult and taken a long time. At one point, it wasn’t certain that Miranda would survive.
Jenny’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of a branch snapping right behind her. She turned around and peered into the trees, but didn’t see anything. She realized then that she hadn’t seen anyone in quite some time. Near the water, plenty of people had been out walking, some of them with their dogs. But here in the woods no one was about. Just her and the big, mute oak trees. She decided to go back the same way she had come. A few minutes later the path divided and she was suddenly in doubt; she couldn’t remember which way to go. She paused and looked around.
Jenny was not familiar with the area. She’d heard about Haga Park, but she’d had no idea it was so big. Again, a snapping sound in the trees. She knew there were deer that lived very close to central Stockholm. She took a chance and chose one of the pathways, picking up her pace. She wanted out of here. The overcast skies made the light dim, even though dusk was several hours off.
After a while she realized that she’d made the wrong decision, because she found herself going deeper into the woods and further away from the most frequented paths. Good Lord, she thought, am I really lost in a stupid city park? In broad daylight? What a joke. She felt both nervous and irritated. What was she doing out here? Right now, all she wanted was to go back to the warmth of the flat, which even had a fireplace. She would make a fire and ring up a friend. Then they could make dinner together. She needed company, didn’t want to be alone after everything that had happened. She thought about the man who had seemed to be following her when she’d arrived in a taxi from the airport and had to walk the short distance to the block of flats. He had appeared out of the dark, and stared at her. She had asked him what he wanted, but he merely turned on his heel and left. She wasn’t certain that he’d been following her. Maybe she had just imagined it. But there had definitely been something odd about that man.
Now, as she continued on, all alone, her uneasiness grew. She had to find her way back to the main path. How could she feel so isolated when she was so close to the middle of the city? She hurried along. The ground was soggy, and she stumbled over some wet leaves, coming dangerously close to falling, but then she regained her balance. She was aware of how quiet it was all around her. She could no longer hear the traffic.
This doesn’t seem much like a park, she thought. It’s more like the green belt. Her heart almost stopped when, without warning, a screeching pheasant flew out of the bushes right next to her. She started walking even faster. She needed to calm down. She was in no danger.
None at all.
KARIN JACOBSSON HAD just stepped inside her hotel room when Knutas rang.
‘Bad news. I spoke to the hospital and Markus Sandberg has suffered another cerebral haemorrhage. He’s in a coma.’
‘Oh, no. Don’t tell me that. And here we were just starting to interview him. Damn.’
‘I know. It’s bloody awful,’ Knutas agreed. ‘The doctor said that at the moment they don’t know how things might go. Apparently, it could go either way. If Sandberg does pull through, he’ll need more surgery. No matter what, it will be a while before we can speak to him again.’
‘What terrible luck. We were so close.’ Jacobsson sank down on to the bed.
‘All we can do is try something else,’ said Knutas.
‘Of course.’
‘How are things otherwise?’
‘I already told you everything we’ve done today.’
‘Right. I meant, how are things with you?’
‘Okay. But now we’re back to square one.’
‘I know,’ said Knutas. ‘Take it easy. We’ll talk more tomorrow.’
Jacobsson decided not to join Wittberg and a few other colleagues for dinner. She wanted time to herself. She was extremely disappointed about the news of Markus’s deteriorating condition, but she was also thinking about her daughter, Hanna. She was trying to decide whether to call or not. She hesitated, because she didn’t know if she could stand to hear the response she feared most: No, I don’t want to see you.
Listlessly, she stared out of the hotel-room window at the black roofs with their chimneys and garrets. Sleet was falling from the leaden-coloured sky. In a few places the snow was sticking, creating patches of white. Her room was on the top floor of the hotel in Gamla Stan, and she was only a kilometre from her daughter’s flat. She was feeling too restless to stay here. She glanced at her watch. Ten past seven in the evening. She hadn’t had any dinner, but she wasn’t the least bit hungry. Without deciding what exactly she was going to do, she went into the bathroom to pee, then combed her hair and put on some make-up. Next, she put on her boots, her leather jacket, her scarf and gloves, and then left the room.
It was bitterly cold outdoors. As she peered inside the restaurants she passed, everything looked so pleasant and inviting, with glowing candles, warm food on the plates and wine in the glasses. She left Gamla Stan and headed towards Slussen, then continued over Hornsgatan hill, admiring the small galleries lining Mariaberget. When she happened to look into a restaurant with big glass windows facing the street, she stopped short.
At a table towards the back of the room Hanna was sitting with another young woman. They were drinking wine and seemed totally immersed in their conversation. Karin’s eyes filled with tears and her heart lurched. She couldn’t help staring at them. Then the other girl got up and left, probably to go to the loo. Hanna stayed at the table. She took a sip of wine and looked around. Suddenly, their eyes met. Karin froze. She didn’t know what to do. Incapable of moving, she simply stood there, staring at her daughter, this person she had carried inside her body, this person to whom she had given birth. The other girl came back from the loo. Through a fog, Karin saw Hanna put her hand on her friend’s arm and lean forward to say something. The next instant she stood up and came towards the door. Karin felt the ground give way under her feet, and she had to hold on to a lamp post in order not to fall.
She saw Hanna appear in the entrance to the restaurant and then take a step outside, a quizzical look on her face.
THE AFTERNOON PLODS along. The afternoon snack is over, and there are still several hours until dinner. The days in the clinic are so monotonous, each day exactly like all the others.
Agnes’s father, Rikard, and his girlfriend, Katarina, came to visit in the morning. Or, rather, her father did. Agnes never speaks to Katarina, who had to stay in the day room and wait, as always. Agnes refuses to let her take part in the visits, won’t allow any outsiders into her private hell. Yet Katarina stubbornly insists on accompanying Rikard every time. As if she doesn’t dare let him out of her sight. Rikard seemed a bit stressed and didn’t stay long.
Now Agnes and her room mate Linda are stretched out on separate sofas in the common room. Linda is reading, as usual. Agnes can’t understand how she does it. Personally, she’s too restless to read even one chapter of a book. She just can’t concentrate. The letters seem to leap and dance before her eyes, and the words keep changing places. She can read the same sentence twenty times without comprehending what it says. And that’s scary. She used to be such a good student. Now she understands what it must feel like to be dyslexic. She thinks that she’s probably just tired and lazy; that’s why she can’t read anything. Per doesn’t read either. They talked about that this morning. He says he simply doesn’t feel like it, can’t concentrate properly. Just like her. She finds that consoling. As if the two of them have something in common.
Instead, she absent-mindedly leafs through an old issue of Sköna Hem. How absurd to see all these huge mansions and Scanian houses sandwiched in between quaint little cottages and idyllic summer homes. Perfectly set tables in neat and tidy country kitchens. Exquisite
flower arrangements, fragrant herb gardens, lilac arbours with hammocks, and drinks made with raspberry juice. As if there were not a problem in the world.
Yet for her, every day is a battle between life and death. A war in which she is always fighting new armies. With a sigh, she lowers her hands and the magazine sinks on to her lap as her thoughts wander.
At the moment the most important thing is to keep the disease inside herself. And not gain any weight. That was exactly the argument she used at the beginning of her brief modelling career. And it had brought her recognition and success, all because she had won the battle against those extra pounds. This spurred her to continue. She would get even thinner, then things would go even better. The skinnier she was, the more successful she would be. Everyone stopped complaining about her weight, and even Markus showed his appreciation and admiration for her increasingly slender figure.
But after a few months all the positive comments began to wane. No one mentioned any more how beautifully thin she was. Agnes came to the only possible conclusion: she needed to lose even more weight. And the transformation had to be so dramatic that no one could avoid seeing the change. Then they would begin to praise her again. That was how she would control her fate and gain control of her life.
Eventually, various people at the agency began to say that she was too thin, that she needed to eat more. Agnes couldn’t for the life of her understand their reasoning. In the end, the agency dropped her because she was anorexic.
The disappointment she felt was overwhelming. No matter what she did, they were never satisfied. Yet she personally believed that she needed to be even thinner.
Then things went downhill fast. She continued to lose weight. In hindsight, her father blamed himself for not noticing how ill she was during that time, how she exercised so much and ate so little. Agnes doesn’t think it’s strange that he didn’t notice.
The Dangerous Game Page 13
