On top of everything else, we’re expected to put up with her constant reminders of what she has done for us. We’re supposed to be so bloody grateful, because of all the sacrifices she has made.
Mamma has always made it perfectly clear that she could have been a big star if it weren’t for us. She once sang on the radio, after all. If she hadn’t given up her career for her children, she could have been another Birgitta Andersson or Lill Lindfors. She was so gifted when she was young. A great dramatic talent. And she could really sing. She was simply amazing – none of her siblings could measure up to her. She was special. But no one saw her greatness, and no one discovered her glory. She received no encouragement at home. And we felt sorry for her, of course. How awful that nobody realized what a promising artist Mamma was. What an awful fate to give birth to us and then be forced to live on a desolate island in the Baltic, far from all the glamour and opportunities in the capital. The fact that things had gone relatively well for all of us – meaning that we had jobs and hadn’t ended up as drug addicts – was solely due to her efforts. If she hadn’t sacrificed herself like a lamb on the altar and squandered her unique talents on three snot-nosed kids, well …
In spite of how self-absorbed my mother was, for years I felt a great admiration for her. I hate duplicity. Even today, it’s not something I’ve been able to master.
I picture her in my mind. My beautiful mother who would hug me and kiss me and love me. And in the next second crush me. A remark, a glance, an expression of disapproval. She had dreams; she encouraged me to travel, to experience things and enjoy life. She was ill but she still helped me with my homework. Stroked my hair. Made me hot cocoa. What happened to all that?
We enjoying clowning around as we cleaned, and Mamma would laugh so hard that she had to double over when I teased her with the hose of the vacuum cleaner. I loved to play the buffoon for her. The best thing I knew was making her laugh.
She used to dance in the living room to Miriam Makeba’s song ‘Pata Pata’. Turning and spinning, her eyes closed as she twirled the skirt of her dress. She loved Mikis Theodorakis, Lill Lindfors and Gösta Linderholm. She sang loudly as she did the cleaning. And she looked so cute with a chic scarf wrapped around her blond hair, with those dark eyebrows of hers, and those pink lips.
She was always short of cash, but she liked to set the table with nice things and make it cosy with lighted candles. She made pizza capricciosa, she baked rolls, and she booked a holiday in the mountains even though we really couldn’t afford it. She wanted us to learn to ski, she said.
On Saturdays we would go into town to shop for groceries and buy a treat at the pastry shop. Mamma would buy fancy clothes for herself in the boutiques. We were allowed to drink Cokes through a straw and eat coconut buns. She laughed loudly, she always sang in the car, and she made delicious ham sandwiches to take to the beach. I loved to place my ear against her flat stomach, which always gurgled merrily. And she smelled so good. The skin under her chin was soft and smooth, and I felt so warm when she hugged me.
Her sobbing was heartbreaking. It split me apart.
When I was little, I thought she was perfect – an ideal human being. I was never ashamed of her. And everyone thought she looked so young. In my eyes, she was the most magnificent person in the whole world.
I don’t know what happened after that.
* * *
Whenever Mamma calls, I’m filled with sorrow, tenderness and loathing. I have to stop myself from slamming down the phone when I hear her voice. I force myself to suffer through the conversation. Limit my replies to a few words. Allow her to dump all of her complaints on me, as usual. I hold the receiver several centimetres away from my ear and try to think about something else. But my patience is wearing thin. The conversations have been getting shorter. I can’t stand to listen to her voice.
Soon I won’t be able to control myself any longer.
That inescapable thought keeps rumbling in the back of my mind, like an approaching thunderstorm. I dread what might happen when the storm breaks loose. When the lightning flashes in the sky and the clouds open up to send rain down upon us. Then there will be no turning back. Then all hope will be lost.
And then there will be only one option if I’m going to be free.
KNUTAS CELEBRATED WALPURGIS Eve with his family at the cottage in Lickershamn. They had a relaxing holiday playing cards, making a fire in the fireplace, eating good food, and taking walks along the shore. Just the four of them.
Normally they spent the Walpurgis holiday with good friends, but this year he and Lina had declined all invitations. Much to the disappointment of his elderly parents, they had even decided against the traditional 1 May dinner at their farm. And the twins weren’t allowed to bring along any friends, as they usually did. Knutas and Lina had agreed that they needed to shut out everything else so the family could spend some time together.
Knutas was nervous before they left, anxious about how things would go. He was uncertain how to act in order to regain Nils’s trust. If that was even possible. The stunned despair that he’d felt immediately after the big scene with his son had gradually subsided. But Nils’s words had left deep wounds, and he wondered if they’d ever heal.
After the fight they had both been polite but cautious towards each other. Knutas didn’t know if it would be wise to broach the subject again, or whether that might just make matters worse. He wished that Nils would take the first step towards reconciliation. When the kids were younger, he’d made sure he had a talk with them after he had yelled at them or they had argued. It was his responsibility as an adult to make things good again. He had always thought that the process of reconciliation was very important. But now he was unsure what would be best. It felt as if everything had been turned upside down. Deep in his heart, he probably thought that Nils should apologize for his cruel words. Provided he hadn’t really meant what he’d said, of course. But maybe he did. Knutas felt ill at the thought.
He wondered how this breach of trust had come about. He and Lina seldom fought, he didn’t have any sort of addiction problem, and he wasn’t a violent man. They had a good life together; he did his job and paid the bills. There was always food on the table, and they always attended the parent-teacher meetings at school. The family took a holiday trip every year, and they spent time at their summer cottage. They seldom said no if the children wanted money for the cinema or asked if they could invite friends home. How much could realistically be expected of parents?
He thought that he was always willing to listen to his kids. He made a point of asking them about school and sports practice. But he couldn’t very well have deep, therapeutic conversations with the kids every night before bed. That would be intolerable.
Apparently Nils had an entirely different view of things. Maybe even different from Petra. Knutas hadn’t yet dared ask his daughter about that. All he could do at the moment was to try to be as nice a father as he could be. Without acting too pushy.
He was sure that with time things would get better.
At any rate, the Walpurgis holiday had been pleasant and calm. There were no arguments, not even any minor spats between the twins. It was as if they were both feeling a bit subdued after what had happened. They played cards in the evening, and Nils even laughed once in a while. Each time he did, Knutas felt happy for a moment, but then his uneasiness returned. He noticed every gesture and glance, and tried to interpret each one.
He was finding it hard to really relax.
ON THE FIRST day back at work after the holiday, Knutas walked from police headquarters over to where Veronika Hammar lived on Tranhusgatan. The sun was out, and Visby’s streets were practically deserted. At this time of year the city is at its loveliest, he thought as he passed the high cliff. From there he had a view of the sea and the horizon. In the foreground stood the magnificent cathedral amid a cluster of picturesque buildings, medieval ruins and winding lanes. He went up the cathedral steps and continued along Biskopsgränd,
past the ruins of St Clemens and over to Tranhusgatan, which ran parallel to the Botanical Gardens. Veronika lived in a small, whitewashed house that looked as if it had been built in the early 1900s. There was no one in sight. The police surveillance had been discontinued on the previous day, even though Knutas had tried to convince the county police commissioner to keep it in place until the end of the week. He was given the usual answer: lack of resources.
Knutas was dreading this meeting with Veronika Hammar, considering her outburst the last time he’d seen her. But he had still decided to go alone. If there were two officers, she might feel at a disadvantage, and he realized that with this particular woman it was essential to tread lightly. He had phoned her yesterday to say that he would be coming to see her. She had sounded friendly and amenable, as if she’d completely forgotten how their last meeting had ended.
He went up to the front door and rang the bell. No answer. He rang three more times and was just about to give up when the door opened a few inches.
‘I wanted to make sure who it was first. They took away the police surveillance, those stingy bastards,’ explained Veronika Hammar, looking at Knutas with a dull expression. Her hair was limp and lank. She was wearing an ugly pair of sweatpants and an old spotted cardigan that was missing its belt. This woman who was usually so elegantly attired looked as if she’d simply given up.
He greeted her politely, hoping that she wouldn’t see how concerned he was about her appearance. She led the way into the house. They walked through a lovely living room with ceiling beams and floral-patterned curtains and continued out to the terrace at the back. The sun was shining on the small courtyard, and they sat down at a patio table.
‘How are you doing?’ he asked.
Veronika smiled wanly.
‘Well, I’ll live. At least I hope so.’
Knutas studied her in silence as she served the coffee from an old-fashioned ceramic pot adorned with roses. He noticed that the cup she handed him wasn’t quite clean, but he took a sip anyway as he gathered his thoughts. Veronika seemed almost bewildered. The coffee was weak and barely lukewarm.
‘How have things been going since you got out of hospital?’
‘Fine. Thanks for asking.’
Knutas frowned. The impression he was getting from Veronika indicated that things were far from fine.
‘Have you noticed any strangers around here, or anything suspicious?’
‘You wouldn’t believe how many strange and unsavoury people there are wandering about. I haven’t wanted to leave the house since I got back from hospital.’
‘So how have you been managing?’
‘I ask my son, Andreas, to get groceries for me. He’s the only child that I have here on Gotland.’
She pressed her lips together to keep them from quivering. Then she pulled a pack of cigarettes out of her cardigan pocket and lit one. Knutas noticed that her hand was shaking.
‘Well, it was actually your children that I wanted to talk to you about. How would you describe your relationship with them?’
‘I live for my children and always have. They’re a real blessing, and I’m so lucky to have them. Otherwise I probably wouldn’t have lasted this long.’
Knutas shifted position uneasily.
‘Why don’t we start with Andreas. How do you view your relationship with him?’
‘It’s wonderful. He’s my safety net. I can always count on him, no matter what happens. He’s been a bachelor all these years since he moved away from home, but we’ve always had each other, and that has been a great support for me.’
‘So you’re saying that you’ve been single all these years too?’
Veronika gave him a disapproving look.
‘More or less, after I got divorced. Yes, I think you could say that.’
‘But weren’t you having an affair with Viktor Algård?’
‘My dear inspector, that had been going on for only a couple of months. We’d just met.’
Knutas stared at her pensively. When they last spoke, she had described Viktor as the love of her life and claimed that they were on the verge of getting married.
‘What about your other children? Simon, for example?’
‘He’s the one I’m closest to. We think so much alike, Simon and I. We understand each other.’
‘But he lives in Stockholm now.’
‘That’s just temporary. He had to get away for a while, you see. Away from that awful Polish woman he was living with. Or was she Hungarian? She treated him horribly, to tell you the truth. I could tell from the start that it wasn’t going to last.’
‘Why was that?’
She grimaced, her expression almost spiteful.
‘Well, my dear. First of all, they were polar opposites. Simon is a gentle and open person, just like me. But that Katrina was harsh and silent and uptight. Always sullen and surly. I’m really glad he’s rid of her.’
‘From what I understand, he’s not doing very well.’
‘And no wonder. She broke his spirit over the years. She was terribly domineering, and he was always having to dance to her tune. She ruled that home with an iron hand. You could see that the minute you stepped in the door. I’m sure he’ll be feeling better soon. And then he’ll come back here where he belongs. I’ve told him that he can live with me. I have plenty of room, you know.’
‘How often do you speak to each other?’
‘Every day on the phone.’
‘Every day?’
‘Yes. Ours is a special relationship. We understand each other. We’re on the same wavelength. He always knows what I mean. But it’s not good for him to be all alone over there in Stockholm.’
‘If you get along so well, why doesn’t he move in with you now? Then he’d be closer to his own son. What’s stopping him?’
‘My dear sir, that’s not really so surprising, is it? Simon is suffering from depression. He needs peace and quiet for a while. But soon he’ll be back on his feet, and then he’ll move back over here. I’m convinced of that.’
‘How long has he been gone?’
‘I don’t really remember. Now wait a minute, I think it’s been since Christmas.’
‘So over four months.’
Veronika Hammar didn’t reply. Her lips were pressed so tight that they were no more than a thin line.
‘What about your daughter Mikaela? How often do you see each other?’
‘Ah, yes, Mikaela.’ She sighed a bit and then smiled again. ‘My little daughter. She’s always gone her own way.’
‘She lives quite a distance from here. Is it difficult to stay in contact?’
‘Difficult? Why should it be difficult? Some people have children living in Australia.’
‘From what I understand, you never see each other. Is that right?’
‘What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be in touch with my daughter? That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.’
She stood up abruptly and gathered up the coffee cups. Without a word she carried the dishes into the house. Knutas waited as he tried to decide how to proceed without risking another outburst. The sun was hot, and he was sweating under his jacket. He suddenly felt trapped in the small courtyard and wanted to leave. There was something very unpleasant about Veronika Hammar. She was unpredictable. It was impossible to foresee how she was going to react. Why had she denied so strongly that her daughter had broken off their relationship?
That was as far as he got with his muddled thought before Veronika appeared in the doorway, her expression tense.
‘I’d like you to leave now,’ she said, sounding stressed.
‘But I do have a few more questions,’ Knutas said. ‘How are things with your eldest son, Mats?’
A cloud passed over Veronika’s face. She had to gasp for air before she repeated her demand.
‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Get out of my house. Now,’ she snarled, spraying saliva.
Knutas stared at her in astonishment. He saw a hint of in
sanity in her eyes. This woman is off her rocker, he thought.
He stood up and slipped past her.
‘Thanks for the coffee,’ he said quietly.
AFTER HIS MEETING with Veronika Hammar, Knutas rang Jacobsson at the police station. She told him that everything was going smoothly, and his presence wasn’t immediately needed. He decided to pick up his car at headquarters and drive out to have a look at the site of the fire near Holmhällar. The techs had finished their search of the area without finding anything new, other than to reinforce the theory that the fire was the work of an arsonist. It had apparently started in the kitchen, which indicated that the perp had also been inside the cabin.
Knutas was frustrated by the fact that they didn’t have the faintest lead on a possible suspect. The perpetrator’s shadow kept dancing before his eyes but he couldn’t distinguish any features. There was no pattern. First a man was poisoned to death, and by all indications it was the wrong victim who had died. Now they were dealing with an attempted murder by arson. This was clearly not someone who was a hardened criminal or a cunning murderer. In fact, all the circumstances pointed to someone whose actions were prompted by intense emotions, someone who had a strong personal connection to Veronika Hammar. Maybe it’s one of her children, thought Knutas. Or else she has a relationship with somebody that we don’t know about yet. He needed to talk to her again. And her children too. He would have preferred to meet all four of them in person, but her son Simon refused to answer any phone calls. And both Mats and Mikaela were still away.
Knutas drove south along the coast road. It was a beautiful day, offering a hint of the summer that would soon arrive. The birches were sprouting leaves, and spring flowers were just starting to come up along the road.
As he approached the exit for Holmhällar, he happened to think about Sten Bergström. Had anyone interviewed the man again? Knutas reminded himself to check with Rylander. Viktor Algård’s former competitor lived only a kilometre or so from the summer-house area where the fire had occurred. Was that just a coincidence? Maybe Bergström’s fight with Algård over clients was not the only thing he was hostile about. He was about the same age as Veronika Hammar, and they were practically neighbours out here in the country. When they interviewed Bergström, he and Karin had confined their questions to the conflict between the two companies owned by Algård and Bergström. Could there be something else behind their animosity?
Inspector Anders Knutas 6 - Dark Angel Page 18
