by Will Dean
‘They use animal . . .’ he looks down at Mikey, who’s finishing the last mouthfuls of his macaroni, ‘bits and pieces, did you know that? They get some big cheese from Karlstad or Gothenburg request something twisted and immoral, they’ll make it for them if the price is right. Oh, yeah. Rumour is they got money troubles and they’ll take any job they can get hold of. I heard they made a . . .’ he mouths the word troll, ‘with a . . .’ he mouths the word penis, ‘made from stuffed, preserved deer meat.’ He pauses. ‘A deer organ, so to say. Well, I ask you, that must be criminal, mustn’t it? I also heard, although this was a few years ago, I have to admit, that they made one of these satanic little creatures with real eyes. I heard, from a reliable source so to say, that they made the thing with actual badger’s eyes. I ask you, what kind of people would do that? I heard they got that order, probably for thousands of kronor, y’know, they have a bad economy that pair, and they caught and killed a badger, they’re both real good shots, you know. Always out there in the deep woods, shooting this thing and that, and then they took out its eyes, and preserved them.’
Mikey is looking up at his father now with even more terror than before.
I point to the boy and Viggo stops talking.
‘Well done, son, you ate it all up. That’ll put hairs on your chest, that will. Let’s get you down from the table so you can play a bit with the nice lady and I’ll fix you some fruit.’
Viggo stands by the sink and uses a metal baller to scoop out marble-sized balls of honeydew melon while I park toy cars with Mikey. I’m trying to play but it’s not easy, the kid won’t even look at me. He shuffles from room to room, so I follow him and that background noise is still there. I find more houseplants and even more crosses. There’s a door with a heavy mahogany sideboard pushed up against it.
‘Can we play in that room?’ I ask Mikey.
He stares at me like I just threatened him.
‘What’s in that room, Mikey?’
He’s holding an Action Man and he clings to it so tight that his nails are digging into the brown plastic.
‘Games,’ he whispers.
‘Your games?’
He shakes his head.
‘Shall we play in the kitchen?’
He runs away and I follow. I get a strange vibe from Viggo, and my gut says something bad has happened here. I arrive at the kitchen table and then the halogen spotlights in the ceiling flicker, but they stay on. Viggo looks at me with a bowl of perfectly round melon balls in his hand and a tea towel tucked into his grey slacks.
‘We get more than our fair share of power outages here, Tuva. The electricity’s a bit iffy.’ The lights flicker again and Viggo places the bowl down on the kitchen table. The noise is still there. ‘It’s because we’re at the end of the line just here, so to say. We’re right at the very end of the line.’
16
I tune my truck’s radio to a Saturday breakfast show and pull onto the motorway, little Mikey’s haunted face still vivid in my head from last night. My hand taps the key fob hanging from the truck’s ignition and it rattles and my shoulders loosen a little. I’m driving south towards Karlstad in the slow lane at one hundred and twenty and it feels pretty good to be honest. No traffic, and a loop of chart music on the stereo, and a bag of wine gums open on the passenger seat.
I’m still driving through forest much of the time, still green on my left and green on my right, but it’s more open. I can see far ahead and behind with no risk I’ll need to reverse. A taxi drives past me in the northbound lane and I think it’s Viggo but I’m not sure. I cross rivers and overtake lumber lorries full of logs and see signposts to small towns and cross-country ski trails.
I’m avoiding the news for the first hour. On the passenger seat sits a new merino wool shawl I bought for Mum and a tube of the hand cream she likes and a small princess torta cake she’ll probably not be able to eat more than a teaspoon of. I’m looking forward to spending a few hours in Karlstad before I drive back north past Gavrik to the strip club. It opens at 3pm.
Sushi. I’m daydreaming of good sushi. Not London good or even Stockholm good, but still. With extra wasabi and a plate of pickled ginger on the side, thank you very much. I’m going to sit at a bar in Karlstad and eat little strips of melt-on-the-tongue sashimi and look out of the window at streams of Saturday shoppers. It’s a taste of civilisation and the only downside will be Mum’s reaction when she sees me. Her lack of reaction. I can just about remember her hugs and her baking from before the crash. Proper hugs, no rushing to disengage. And her stories. She read bedtime sagas with gusto; special voices for characters, different facial expressions, the lot. Now her stories are more like dreams than memories.
A TV4 van passes me on its way to Gavrik. The satellite dish on its roof is clearly visible over the motorway’s central reservation. And then Lena calls so I switch off the radio.
‘You heard?’
‘What?’
‘Tuva, it’s that ghostwriter in Mossen village, the one you interviewed. It’s looking more and more like he’s the man who shot Freddy, at least that’s what the town thinks. Checkout girl at ICA, you know the one, the pretty one, she sold her story to Expressen and it got printed today. He comes across like a complete sociopath.’
‘But is there any new evidence?’
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m on the E16. Halfway to Karlstad to see my mother.’
‘I’m really sorry. Can you postpone?’
I look over at the princess torta, the bright green icing starting to sweat in its plastic container. Shit. I’ll have to make it up to her.
‘I can turn around at the next exit.’
‘Okay, fine, I’ll see you at the office unless you hear from me in the meantime.’
I take the exit and drive under the E16 and then loop back around to join the northbound lane. My stomach aches. Mum could be gone this year, this actual year, and what am I doing about it? If Dad was around, he’d . . . I don’t know . . . He’s not around, it’s just me and I’m not doing half of what I should be doing. Maybe if I drop in midweek to surprise her, the hospice will let me in for an hour.
I accelerate to one forty and switch on the news and it’s all David Holmqvist. It’s all ‘pigs’ hearts’ and ‘books ordered specially’. ‘Books on how to butcher big game’ and ‘he never had any friends, nobody ever visits his house’. I roll my eyes and overtake a two-section lorry with slices of house roof strapped to its back. Statements from locals are fed to me: ‘Never felt safe around him’ and ‘I heard he had an accomplice’ and ‘he creeped me out’ and ‘I heard he’s got no alibi’.
Then the story shifts to a statement from a Lund-based criminal psychologist. She doesn’t talk about David specifically, not even about the Mossen bodies. Her voice is all textbooks and sensible shoes. ‘Statistically speaking, most serial murderers are white middle-aged, middle-class males. They tend to have little social awareness and there’s often a history of abuse of some kind.’
Just before the Gavrik exit, I spot a sign for the strip club:
Enigma Gentlemen’s Club. Exit 84. High-class Entertainment. Stop By and Say Hi.
The mass of Utgard forest looms on my left as I approach the exit. I turn and join the road to Gavrik. Everything looks like it did yesterday. I pull up outside my office and Lena’s waiting in reception wearing sneakers and a tracksuit.
‘They’re in ICA right now, the TV crews. He’s doing his weekly shop like he always does on a Saturday, at least that’s what this article says.’ She shoves a rolled-up copy of Expressen at me. ‘Cashier reckons her dad, now long dead, once saw Holmqvist deep in Utgard forest wearing plastic shoe covers over his boots. Get over there, take lots of photos, don’t let them steal the story from you.’
I nod and take the paper and turn back to my truck.
‘Call me if you need me or Lars to back you up.’
My back to her, I stick the rolled-up Expressen in the air in acknowledgement and ski
d off towards the supermarket. I park in a lorry unloading bay and grab my camera from the back seat and head inside.
I run past the bottle recycling machines – the ones that suck in plastic and spit out money – and I overhear two teenage boys chatting.
‘Eighty grand they paid her. Eighty fucking grand.’
‘I heard it was a hundred and eighty.’
I run past and through the entrance barriers, scanning around, trying to find a commotion, jogging to the tills.
‘You’re too late, Tuva.’
I turn and see the guy I usually go to when I pay and he’s restocking discount chocolate bars and salt liquorice.
‘Sorry, they left five minutes ago, about ten of them plus Holmqvist. They just left.’
‘Thanks,’ I say, tapping his shoulder and then barging past paying customers to get back to the exit. I jump in my truck and speed back towards the motorway, and then turn and drive under it. The day’s sunny but there’s a grey cloud over Utgard forest now, one of those clouds with a distinct dark edge and I can see rain falling from it in sheets.
I get to the Mossen entrance and pass Hoarder’s place and then Taxi’s place. I accelerate hard up the hill and a piece of gravel hits my windscreen and chips it, an acne scar on an otherwise flawless surface.
I approach the wood-carving sisters’ workshop and I see lights ahead of me and my heart races a little. Is it the TV crews driving towards David Holmqvist’s house?
No. It’s a 4x4 heading my way and I can’t remember where the damn passing places are. They’re not marked. I slam my foot on the brake pedal and my seatbelt digs in between my breasts.
The truck keeps heading at me like it’s me that should reverse but I don’t see why. I look in my mirrors and I can’t find any passing place, just this narrow dirt track with a drop either side of it. I start to reverse slowly and the 4x4 comes at me a little too fast. It’s closing on me, so I put my foot down. I start sweating. It’s like the elk all over again. I press the button to open my window and it’s not raining but it smells like it will. The 4x4, one of those tall Volvo SUVs, is in my face and it speeds up and I’m gripping my steering wheel hard but I can’t do it. The reversing’s too difficult. The Volvo accelerates and I see his face now through my chipped windscreen. It’s Hannes. He looks mad, or maybe just impatient, like it’s ridiculous that I’m reversing this slowly and I’m holding him up. I check my mirrors and there’s a bend behind me and still no passing place. Sweating, nowhere to go, I turn the wheel and veer down into the ditch. My wheels skid, and my wine gums scatter across the floor of the truck. I come to a shaky stop resting at an angle on the slope. I look over to my left and see Hannes Carlsson speed off. No thanks, no wave, no flash of headlights. Ignorant fuckpig.
I exhale and turn the wheel and accelerate slowly. My tyres slide a little and then they bite into the walls of the ditch and drive straight up and out and then I’m back on the level. Thank you, Hilux. I close the window and drive past the sisters’ smoky workshop. As I approach David Holmqvist’s house, I see the trucks and vans parked in his driveway. There’s no place left for me, so I leave my truck in the road with my hazards on and grab my camera.
Outside Holmqvist’s front door there are two cameras on shoulders and one on a tripod. I see three other photographers and a couple of reporters with made-up hair and painted faces. No sign of David.
‘Tuva,’ a guy yells to me from the centre of the pack. It’s the guy from before, the bearded Stockholm slick-back from the cop show.
I nod to him and retreat back a little so I can see the first floor windows and the veranda. All they show is pine trees reflecting back at me. I pull out my phone and check my contacts and dial David Holmqvist’s number. No reception. I pace back towards my truck. Patchy reception, but something. No pick-up. I call again. No pickup. I call again.
He accepts the call but says nothing.
‘It’s Tuva Moodyson. I’m outside your house.’
‘Are you behind all this?’ Holmqvist asks me. ‘Whatever it is that you think I have done, I have not done.’
‘Wasn’t me,’ I say. ‘The girl from ICA sold her story, pal. And now you’ve got a gang of reporters at your front door.’
‘You think I don’t know that? Well I can tell you, I’ve got important work to do up here and I have enough food and supplies for weeks, if not months, so that’s what I think of you and your gang.’
‘They’re not my gang, David.’
I hear a screech from the direction of the sisters’ workshop. The walls of spruce each side of me flash blue.
‘The police are here, David. I don’t know what you’ve done, if anything.’ I watch Thord and Björn walk purposefully up to David’s veranda-covered front door, flashbulbs strobing their faces and dark-blue uniforms.
‘Police!’ Thord shouts, knocking on the door. ‘David Holmqvist, open up.’
Holmqvist’s still on the phone to me, but he’s not talking. Then I start to hear him sob. I can hear his mouth burbling and spitting through tears.
‘Is there anything you want to tell me, David? This may be the last chance you get, is there anything you want to let me know?’
‘Call my lawyer for me, his name’s Oscar Krevik. And . . .’
‘Go on. I’ll call him for you. Oscar Krevik. What else?’
‘I can’t live like this. I keep myself to myself and still I get harassed. You think Hannes and Frida are the perfect couple, don’t you? I heard she’s been giving you home-cooked food, her famous housewife stews. They’re not perfect, Tuva.’
The police are banging on the front door again. I can hear it from out here and I can hear it through the phone like an echo. The reporters are trying to question Chief Björn. I hear Thord bark at them to get back and give them some space.
‘Hannes is a beast,’ David says.
There’s a commotion at the doorway. I see it open and I see the other journalists inch forward, shouting over each other. David Holmqvist walks out, his phone pressed against his ear.
‘Hannes is a goddam beast, Tuva.’
17
They walk David Holmqvist to the police Volvo. They don’t say ‘David Holmqvist, I’m arresting you . . .’ like they do in the movies. Maybe they’re not arresting him. They get into the car, could this be for his protection or something? Thord sits in the back seat next to Holmqvist, and Björn reverses at speed away from the flashbulbs. I take a flurry of shots with my camera and then jump back into my truck.
I’m parked the wrong way so I do a quick three-point turn with the other hacks beeping and complaining as I turn, and then I drive after the police car. I feel like Hannes earlier, because I’m driving forwards and in front of me somewhere is Björn still reversing. I drive fast but don’t want to get too much in his face. I see flashes of light in my wing mirrors as the TV crews start catching up, and at the bottom of the hill I reach the police Volvo and they’ve managed to turn around someplace because they’re driving forward and I’m pleased about this. It’s a relief. The clouds darken even further and then they burst open like water from a broad showerhead in a fancy hotel. I turn my wipers on full speed but still I’m squinting through the windscreen as the droplets bang and bounce off the chipped glass. The sound from the roof of the Hilux is there but it’s okay. I’m fine. We pass Taxi’s house and then Hoarder’s house and as we turn onto the main road the light levels bounce back up and the shower ends just as fast as it started. I can’t see a rainbow but a rainbow’s due.
I google Holmqvist’s lawyer and call his mobile, but he cuts me off and tells me he’s already at the station. It takes twenty minutes to reach Gavrik, and I guess the TV vans are a little way behind me. I pull up in time to see the lawyer – fine blond hair, golf jumper – lead his client into the station. Thord closes the door and locks it behind him.
Looking around at the shiny wet town centre, I see a few people milling around. There’s only one person I don’t recognise: an older lady who looks a b
it like Tammy, wearing a bright red coat, and riding a bike. I see my office and then realise what I have to do. I’ve got one chance at this. So I drive up the back street and past the hotel and wait there out of sight. I see the TV vans arrive. I sit and wait until the last one passes me and then I drive off out of town the same way I just came. I’ll get the police statement from Thord later. When the police confronted Holmqvist, I’m pretty sure he left his front door open. Or at least unlocked.
I drive west out of town and call Mum.
‘Mrs Moodyson’s phone.’
What? My throat closes up. Is this it? Already? After my missed visit? My vision blurs at the edges. I need to say things. Hear things.
‘Is Mum okay?’
‘Who is this, please?’
‘This is Tuva, her daughter.’
‘Mrs Moodyson is out today. Can I take a message for you?’
Out?
‘Where is she? Who is with her? I was due to visit today.’
‘I’m not sure, my shift just started. Can I get her to phone you back when she returns?’
‘Please tell her Tuva called.’
How can she be out? How? I feel dizzy not knowing where she is. I always know where she is. What if something happens now and I can’t find her? I clear my throat and wipe my forehead on the back of my hand and pull a wine gum from my pocket and let it sit on my tongue. It’s a green one and it’s dusty.
I park up at Holmqvist’s house and it looks like nothing’s happened here. The only marks of change are the carved-up gravel and the muddy tyre grooves from the vans. I step out of my truck and get hit by sporadic drops of rain, fat drops tumbling from the sharp points of pine needles far above my head.
The front door’s ajar. I look around and then head back to my truck and get my camera and Tammy’s bear-spray. I place the camera strap around my shoulder like a handbag and walk inside.
‘Hello?’ I call out. ‘Anybody home?’
