For the Missing

by Lina Bengtsdotter

  That day

  Nora was at the shops so Annabelle had had no trouble getting the blue dress from her closet. She had worn it that time when she went to Gold Island with Him. She had sat at the prow with her hand in the water, telling him the lake was bottomless. And he had laughed and told her that wasn’t true, that everything had a bottom somewhere.

  And then he had pulled the boat up and spread a blanket on the dry grass underneath the pine trees. He had brought crackers and wine. After drinking a glass, he’d wanted to go swimming.

  She’d said she hadn’t brought a swimming costume.

  And he’d replied it didn’t matter; he’d already seen her. Felt her.

  As she undressed, she thought about how it was the first time she was naked in front of a man in broad daylight. All the fumbling in dark bathrooms, under duvets … nothing was like this. He took his clothes off as well. For a long time, they just stood there, naked, looking at each other.

  ‘Last one in,’ she yelled and ran towards the lake. He caught up with her and they disappeared into the freezing water at the same time.

  ‘Stop staring at me,’ she told him when they got out.

  ‘You stop. You’re no better. How are you doing?’ he added. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m so cold, I think I’m going to die.’

  ‘I’ll warm you up,’ he’d said and taken her hand. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘What are you doing to me?’ Annabelle had whispered. Lying on the blanket, she had no longer felt the cold. ‘What are you doing?’ she’d said again and looked up at the swaying pines above her.

  ‘Do you want me to stop?’ he’d asked.

  She had shaken her head, grabbed his hair and asked for more.

  ‘More.’

  Annabelle studied herself in the full-length mirror. She picked up her phone. Nothing from him, of course. Just as well, she thought. It was over. Even so, she sent him the picture, the digital stick with the text ten weeks pregnant.

  32

  Olof had called an urgent meeting. Micke was dressed in a dated, oversized suit. He had been interrupted in the middle of a birthday dinner, he explained when Adnan ribbed him about his sartorial choices.

  ‘Charlie has something we need to see,’ Olof said, ‘but I can’t get the damn projector to work, so you’re going to have to make do with the computer.’

  They crowded around the screen.

  ‘What is this?’ Adnan said.

  ‘A video clip,’ Charlie said. ‘From the village shop that night.’

  ‘Where did you get this? Who filmed it?’

  ‘Shut up and watch,’ Charlie said. A picture appeared on the screen. The world was swaying in an unsteady hand. A punk song, ‘Staten och Kapitalet’ by Ebba Grön, was blasting in the background.

  Three teenagers on a green plush sofa: William Stark, Svante Linder and Jonas Landell. They were passing around a pipe.

  ‘Fuck, that’s a good hit,’ Svante shouted after a deep toke. ‘This shit’s outstanding!’

  Then it cut to a turtle in a murky aquarium.

  ‘Who’s filming?’ Adnan asked.

  ‘Sara Larsson,’ Olof replied, ‘Svenka’s daughter. What are you doing?’ he added when Charlie pressed pause.

  ‘Sara’s Svenka’s daughter?’

  ‘Yes,’ Olof replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘I just met him briefly yesterday,’ Charlie said. She pressed play again.

  Annabelle’s face appeared in close-up, partly obscured by curly strands of hair. Her make-up was smeared and the straps of her blue dress had slipped off her shoulders. She was dancing, eyes closed, arms above her head. Charlie had always felt provoked when victims of crime were described as beautiful, but this girl’s obvious beauty was difficult to disregard. Then, the kitchen, Annabelle with her hand on the table and the knife between her fingers. Neither she nor anyone else seemed to notice that she missed, that blood was dripping from her hand onto the table.

  ‘Why wasn’t this handed over to us before?’ Micke exclaimed. ‘How the fuck can that brat wait to show us something like this?’

  ‘She didn’t know she had it,’ Charlie said. ‘She still doesn’t remember filming it. She discovered it today when she was deleting pictures on her phone.’

  ‘And why didn’t she come to us?’ Micke demanded.

  Charlie looked at him and said she didn’t understand. Wasn’t that exactly what she had done?

  ‘We can talk about that later,’ Olof said. ‘At least now we know Annabelle was still at Vall’s at eleven o’clock.’ He pointed to the time-stamp at the top right corner of the mobile phone screen, 11.06 p.m., and then pressed pause.

  ‘Didn’t we already know that?’ Micke said. ‘The question is, what happened next?’

  ‘That’s what I’m about to show you,’ Olof said. ‘I just want to say a few words first. What happens next has to stay between us. Yes, it may seem a bit over the top, but it’s important this doesn’t get out. Does everyone understand me?’

  When he pressed play again, the camera panned across an overgrown garden. A thick blanket of fog covered the tall grass.

  ‘The land behind the village shop,’ Olof said.

  The hand holding the camera was even shakier now and laughter and shouting could be heard over the music.

  Charlie steeled herself for the final scene. She had watched the film about ten times before showing it to Anders and Olof, but there was no getting used to images like these.

  Sara took a tumble. A close-up of the grass followed. Hi there, tiny fiddler guy.

  ‘Who is she talking to?’ Adnan asked.

  ‘The grasshopper,’ Charlie said, pointing at the screen.

  ‘How did you see that?’ Adnan said, squinting.

  The screen turned black for a few minutes and then curses were heard from Sara.

  ‘She dropped her phone,’ Charlie said. ‘We’ll see things again shortly.’

  The world was upside down for a few seconds before a flowering apple tree appeared on the screen. And there, on the ground next to the trunk, was Annabelle. Her dress was pulled up over her protruding hip bones, someone was kneeling next to her, half turned away from the camera. Despite the distance, his face was clearly discernible when he looked up.

  ‘Svante Linder,’ Micke said. ‘What the fuck!’

  Adnan shushed him.

  Svante leaned down over Annabelle. They watched her writhe under his hands, saw his swaying erection when he pulled his trousers and underwear off in one motion, saw him spit in his hand and rub saliva between her legs and then penetrate her. They could see Annabelle trying to turn over, and Svante pinning her wrists above her head and carrying on.

  That day

  Annabelle’s hands shook when she put the phone down on the bed, screen down. She didn’t want to know if he replied. What was he supposed to say? And what was the point of telling him about the child when it would all soon be over? Or maybe it wouldn’t be?

  She had never been particularly interested in children, but now she suddenly pictured herself with a warm, wriggly bundle in her arms. It didn’t matter that her realistic side told her it was impossible, that a child would wreck everything she’d ever dreamt of. She knew how things had turned out for the people who’d had children at her age in Gullspång, the ones who had ended up single and were forced to work in the factory. Children could really make life a lot harder and life … it was hard enough as it was. Besides, the foetus was probably damaged. The way she had been acting lately, it was a wonder anything could live inside her. But she was going to tell Rebecka tonight. And I’m going to say it like it is, she thought to herself. I’m going to tell her who the father is. I have no reason to protect him any more.

  33

  ‘This had better be important,’ Svante Linder said as he took a seat across from Charlie in the interview room.

  ‘A girl is missing,’ Charlie said, ‘it’s important.’ She could hardly look at Svante without seeing the image of him lean
ing over Annabelle, his coldness.

  ‘So, what can I do for you?’ he said self-importantly. He looked from Charlie to Anders and back.

  ‘We’ve seen a video from the night Annabelle disappeared,’ Anders said. Charlie concluded that what Sara had said must be true, that Svante hadn’t noticed her filming, because now he looked genuinely uncomprehending.

  ‘From the garden behind the village shop,’ Charlie said. ‘Someone filmed the whole thing.’ She had a pleasant feeling of satisfaction when she detected a slight shift in Svante’s face.

  ‘Okay? And what does that have to do with me? Am I under suspicion of something?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Charlie said.

  ‘To be honest, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about right now.’

  Charlie noted a popping vein on his forehead. ‘Well, so say something, then,’ Svante went on. He stood up suddenly.

  ‘Sit down,’ Anders said. ‘Take a seat.’

  Svante shook his head and sat back down.

  Charlie shot Anders a look telling him not to ask any questions.

  ‘I haven’t kidnapped her,’ Svante said at length. ‘No one can have filmed that, because it didn’t happen. Why are you looking at me so weirdly?’

  ‘I’m just waiting,’ Charlie said.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘The rest of the story.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘So there’s a video of you and Annabelle from the garden behind the village shop,’ Charlie said. ‘Does that clear things up for you?’

  ‘Who the fuck was filming?’ Svante said. He turned pale.

  ‘That’s neither here nor there. What matters is what you did to Annabelle.’

  Svante leaned across the table.

  ‘Just because I had sex with her, doesn’t mean I … Well, because I assume that’s what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Had sex?’ Charlie said. ‘You call this having sex?’ Her laptop was on and the clip cued up at the exact point where Svante grabbed Annabelle’s wrists and held them over her head. She turned the screen so Svante could see.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Oh my God. Are you as dumb as you seem or is it an act?’

  ‘I’m not dumb,’ Svante said. ‘Dumb’s the last thing you could call me.’

  ‘One of the problems with stupid people,’ Charlie said, ‘is that they rarely get just how stupid they are.’

  ‘Is that what we’re here to talk about. My IQ?’

  ‘No. Definitely not. We’re going to talk about how you raped a girl, a girl who disappeared that same night.’

  ‘Rape?’ Svante looked genuinely surprised. ‘That wasn’t rape. It’s not like she said no.’

  ‘She was in a helpless state; that counts as rape.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s how she saw it. The parties in the village shop … they’re always pretty wild. People drink, fight and fuck. It looks worse than it is.’

  Charlie pressed play again, zoomed in and played the part of the clip where Annabelle tried to resist.

  ‘How does this look to you?’

  ‘I’m not a rapist,’ Svante said.

  ‘If you have sex with a person in a helpless state, that’s exactly what you are. And now I want you to tell me what you were doing on the night Annabelle disappeared. Aside from raping her, I mean.’

  ‘You know I was still at the party when she left,’ Svante said.

  ‘You could have got rid of her quickly and then returned to the party.’

  ‘But people saw her leave, and I was back by then! Why don’t you go have a word with Jonte and the others?’

  ‘Are they reliable?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe they want to protect you. Maybe you’ve already threatened them?’

  ‘Why would I threaten them?’

  ‘I’ve been told you’re in the habit of doing that when things don’t go your way, that you threaten your friends with making their parents unemployed.’

  ‘Don’t believe everything you hear,’ Svante said.

  ‘That’s why I’m asking,’ Charlie said. ‘But,’ she went on, ‘I still believe what I can see with my own eyes.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Svante said when she hit play again. ‘I get it.’

  ‘Does it make you feel uncomfortable? I thought it was the kind of thing that happened at these parties. The question is what you did with her afterwards.’

  ‘Nothing. You have to believe me.’

  ‘You lied about this,’ Charlie said. ‘Why wouldn’t you be lying about the rest of the night as well?’

  ‘I’m telling the truth now.’

  ‘How generous of you.’

  They were interrupted by someone shouting outside. Someone who was there to pick up his son.

  ‘My dad,’ Svante said. ‘He’s probably pretty pissed off at you right now.’

  ‘That’s nothing compared to what he’s going to be with you later,’ Charlie said and left the room.

  There and then

  And one day, Rosa tells her about the child, about the sister she would have had if that bastard of a man hadn’t come to their house and punched her mum in the stomach, punched and kicked until the baby died and came out.

  Alice doesn’t say anything. She’s waiting for Rosa to tell her it was a joke, that she’s the most gullible person ever. But Rosa says nothing of the kind. She just pulls out the little box where she keeps her cigarettes, lights two and hands one to Alice. Then she starts talking about the blood.

  ‘I’ve never seen so much blood in my life,’ she says. ‘I didn’t think people had that much blood inside them.’

  ‘How do you know it was a sister?’ Alice says after a while.

  Rosa said it was obvious. How else would she know? All her parts had been ready, nails, hair, eyebrows, everything. It had all been ready, even her lungs. But what difference did it make when she couldn’t breathe with them? What difference did it make that she was perfect when she was dead? And then Rosa tells her about all the nines you had to dial to get an ambulance. It was like they never ended.

  ‘When was this?’ Alice asks.

  ‘When I was seven,’ Rosa replies. ‘I had just turned seven.’

  ‘And who was he?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The violent man?’

  Rosa pulls hard on her cigarette.

  ‘He was just some guy.’

  34

  It was just coming up to eleven when Charlie left the police station and started walking towards the motel. Anders was going to stay behind for a while to write the interview report. Svante, despite his father’s vociferous protests, had been sent to the detention facility in Mariestad for further questioning in the morning. They had also decided to interview all the young people who had been at the village shop again. There was a risk they were withholding information, that Svante had manipulated or threatened them.

  Her phone rang. That familiar H on the screen. Was it Hugo, or his wife? Charlie declined the call. A text popped up instantly. ‘I have to talk to you. It’s important.’ It rang again. She figured she might as well accept it. To end things once and for all.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Can you talk?’ Hugo asked.

  ‘I suppose the real question is, can you?’

  ‘I really need to talk to you, Charlie.’

  ‘Make it quick,’ she said, ‘we have a lot going on here.’

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Not great, but I’m sure you didn’t call to talk about work.’

  ‘No, I suppose not. Are you alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Maybe you didn’t get my message. It’s Anna, she’s … been through my phone and she found our texts.’

  ‘I know,’ Charlie said. ‘She called.’

  ‘She called you?’

  ‘Yes, she gave me a ring and called me all kinds of lovely names.’

  ‘She’s fucking
insane,’ Hugo said. ‘She’s saying she’s going to leave me and …’

  Charlie felt like telling him that sounded more like good sense than insanity to her. She couldn’t quite figure out why he was calling. What was he after? Did he want her to console him?

  ‘I’ve told her it was just a fling,’ Hugo went on, ‘but she doesn’t believe me.’

  ‘Big shock,’ Charlie failed to stop herself from replying. She thought about the contents of their texts. They were impossible to misinterpret. ‘Hugo,’ she said. ‘Why are you calling me about this?’

  ‘I don’t know, I guess I figured you could talk to her, but now it turns out you already have.’

  Neither of them spoke for a while.

  ‘I thought you were tired of her?’ Charlie said at length. ‘Seems you get your wish if she does decide to leave you.’

  ‘I’m not tired of her. I love my wife. I thought you’d figured that out by now.’

  Charlie was surprised by how calm she sounded when she replied that that had not been her impression, but that she was sure she had just misunderstood the whole thing.

  Hugo was apparently too upset to catch the sarcasm, because he just confirmed that she most certainly had. What they had … it was just … fleeting passion. He didn’t want anyone but his wife.

  ‘Well, that’s lovely then,’ Charlie said. ‘I hope it works out for you.’ Then she came pretty close to hurling her phone away, but instead she contented herself with just hanging up on him.

  It felt like her brain was overheating with too much stimulus. Svante Linder’s smug grin, the video of him and Annabelle running on a loop in her head, and on top of everything else, she was going to have to play the part of the other woman. Enough, she thought. She’d rather die than be in his wife’s position; anything she’d ever felt for Hugo was gone. But if that was true, what was this thing throbbing inside her, if not jealousy? I don’t want him to be happy, she thought. I’m a spiteful person, a bad person, but then she thought of the things people had done to seek revenge, all the things she had seen on the job, women’s faces destroyed by acid, battered bodies in pits. There were always people who had it worse. The world was full of them.