Questions whirled through his mind.
Feeling discouraged, he walked back to his car.
WHEN KNUTAS RETURNED from his expedition to Holmhällar, he ate a late lunch at his desk, wolfing down two cheese sandwiches with a cup of coffee. Then he slowly spun his chair as he filled his pipe. He was trying to gather all the impressions from the day, all the thoughts he’d had about Veronika Hammar’s odd personality.
The police had interviewed two of her sons. Neither of them had an alibi. What sort of motive could Andreas possibly have?
The relationship between him and his mother seemed basically chilly and sporadic, but it wasn’t any worse than in many other families. He hadn’t been willing to say very much during the interview.
Through an aid worker in Bolivia, Jacobsson had finally managed to get in touch with the daughter, Mikaela. She seemed to have left behind both Gotland and her mother for good. A few years back she had broken off all contact with Veronika and had never tried to resume their relationship. She said that she simply couldn’t take any more of her mother’s martyr act, which wreaked havoc with her own life and had done so ever since she was a child. Of the four children, she was the most candid, explaining that her mother had nearly annihilated her. Veronika lacked any sense of boundaries, and she had prevented Mikaela from living her own life. Or rather, a decent life, as the daughter expressed it.
As a teenager, Mikaela had started cutting herself, and she had also been anorexic for many years. She didn’t want to risk developing any more psychological problems now that she was responsible for her own children.
Was it possible that she might have decided to take her revenge? She’d been away ever since her mother’s cabin had burned to the ground. Was that merely a coincidence, or was it actually part of a carefully devised plan? Knutas still hadn’t met her in person. She was expected home on the following day. Veronika’s eldest son Mats was also supposed to come home from his trip abroad within the next few days.
The youngest son Simon was perhaps the most likely candidate. He had closed up like a clam when the police in Stockholm had tried to interview him, but his former live-in girlfriend, Katrina, had been more than willing to talk about him. She said that she’d left Simon several months ago because she realized that his mother occupied too big a place in their life. And he was too weak to free himself from Veronika, always giving her priority over Katrina and their son Daniel. Finally she had come to the conclusion that things were never going to change. Simon then fled to Stockholm, where he was living in a borrowed flat. And he had sunk into a deep depression.
Knutas felt a strong urge to meet Veronika Hammar’s other children. He was literally itching with impatience.
He glanced at the clock. It was four fifteen.
There was still time.
I‘LL NEVER FORGET that day. The day when everything fell apart. I had left work around four in order to pick up Daniel from the day-care centre by four thirty. It was already dark. Christmas was approaching and everyone had lit the Advent stars that hung in the windows. To the delight of the children, it had been snowing for several days. Daniel was completely worn out after playing outside all day. They had gone sledding on the little hill behind the centre and made snowmen that were lined up in the snow-covered yard.
Daniel was allowed to sit in the pushchair all the way to the Konsum supermarket. We had to buy groceries because I was planning to make Falun sausages with macaroni. When we got home, I put my son in front of the TV to watch cartoons while I cooked. Katrina came home just before dinner was ready. When I gave her a hug in the doorway, I noticed that she looked pale and tired. But who doesn’t these days?
After dinner she let me relax while she cleared the table and filled the dishwasher. I watched her in silence. We never really talked much to each other. I thought that was just fine. I worked as a mechanic and she was a personal assistant. We lived a quiet life in a flat on Bogegatan. Katrina was from Hungary and had been in Sweden only six months when we met at the home of one of my co-workers. She was dark-haired and beautiful. The first thing I noticed about her was her smile. Those red lips and the dark eye make-up. Women on Gotland didn’t usually wear that much make-up. She was tall and slender, and she smiled at everyone. I’d never had a long-term relationship before, and hadn’t really been interested in having one. I liked doing my own thing without interference from anyone else. I enjoyed the silence in my flat and the solitude of eating my meals in front of the TV. At work, I kept to myself. I was doing fine, and nobody complained. I spent much of my free time at the gym, working out for several hours every other day. Those gleaming machines were my best friends. I exercised so hard that my body practically screamed, but I enjoyed the feeling of straining my muscles to the limit. That was how I could empty my mind of all thoughts and relax completely. Bodybuilding was my lifeline. Maybe it was my body that Katrina fell for. I can’t help thinking that was the case, even though I know it sounds bitter and most likely wasn’t true at all.
After we put Daniel to bed, we had our coffee in front of the TV, as usual. When the Swedish programme that we always watched was over, Katrina got up from the sofa and turned off the TV. ‘There’s something I want to talk to you about,’ she said. I felt a jolt of excitement. My first thought was that she was pregnant again. I was eager to have another child and kept waiting for that to happen. Maybe a little sister for Daniel. A daughter. We hadn’t used any contraception after Daniel was born, and he would soon be three. I remember closing my eyes briefly, wanting to hold this moment in my heart. My eyes had filled with tears even before she came back to the sofa and sat down beside me.
She seemed to be having a hard time finding the right words. She took my hand and looked at me with a serious expression. Her face was almost translucent. I was filled with tenderness, and my gaze fell on her waist. Her raspberry-coloured T-shirt was tucked into her jeans and she wore a narrow, black belt. Very chic, as always. Nothing showed. Yet. Then she broke the silence. She spoke slowly, hesitantly. As if the words came from far away.
‘This isn’t going to work any more.’
I stared at her, uncomprehending. She looked away and swallowed hard. Then she cleared her throat and went on.
‘I love you so much. That’s not it. But we’re too different. Daniel and I aren’t a priority for you, and you allow your mother to take up too much space. She keeps worming her way into our life and I can’t take it any longer. I always have to share you with her. The minute she calls for help, you rush right over there. Every weekend she comes here. She’s poisoning our life. She never gives us any peace. Sometimes you talk to her four or five times in one day. I feel sick to my stomach every time the phone rings, because I’m afraid it’s your mother. I’ve tried to tell you this so many times before, but you never take it seriously. You just brush my concern aside. You let her intrude on our plans, you allow her to be rude to me, and you let her totally control you. I can’t take it any more. We can’t even have a holiday in peace. You’re a wonderful father to Daniel. That’s not it. It really isn’t.’
She squeezed my hand as if to underscore her words.
‘It’s because you either won’t or can’t free yourself from your mother in order to live your own life. I’m not saying that you should ignore her completely, but you need to see less of her. Not let her take up so much of your time. But you refuse to listen to me, and I don’t want to do this any more. I give up. You think she’s more important than I am. You think of her as the most important member of the family, not me and Daniel. I’ve been disappointed so many times, and it’s never going to change. I’ve been over and over this in my mind, thinking that we should stay together for Daniel’s sake, but I’ve decided that it’s not good for him if things are so bad between you and me. Children notice that sort of thing. We can share taking care of him. It’ll be fine. He can stay with you every other week. The important thing is that we remain friends even though we split up.’
The words poured out of her, as
if she had planned in advance exactly what she wanted to say. Practised, as if she were giving a bloody speech. I sat there paralysed. Her words rolled over me like tanks, crushing me.
‘I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and now I’ve made up my mind. This isn’t going to work any more,’ she repeated. ‘I’m going to stay with Sanna tonight. I’ve already packed a suitcase.’ She nodded towards the front hall. ‘We’ll talk more about this tomorrow. I’ve taken a few days off from my job, and I’m going to take Daniel with me so you can think about things in peace and quiet.’
She squeezed my hand again, as if asking for my approval. Wanting to know that I agreed. That I wanted the same thing. My lips felt dry; they refused to move. Not a word came out of my mouth. When she closed the door I was still sitting on the sofa in the exact same position, staring dry-eyed at the blank TV screen.
And at my shattered world.
THE PLANE LANDED at Bromma airport at five thirty. Jacobsson had instantly agreed to go to Stockholm with Knutas, which made him happy. Whenever it was necessary to conduct sensitive interviews, it was best to have a colleague along, especially someone he trusted. And he didn’t know the officers in Stockholm very well. He’d been in contact with Mikaela Hammar’s husband to warn him that they would be paying his wife a visit the following day. That was fine, even though she was expected home from her trip to South America that same day. Her plane was due to arrive at seven in the morning. Knutas and Jacobsson were going to rent a car and drive out to Vätö, which was about a hundred kilometres from Stockholm. They agreed to meet with Mikaela around noon.
The setting sun cast a crimson glow over the capital. Their taxi crept its way through the city streets. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, so they had plenty of time to look out of the window. Everywhere they saw people sitting at outdoor cafés and restaurants.
‘I can’t believe there are so many people. It’s way too crowded,’ said Knutas.
‘Pretty soon it’s going to look like this in Visby too.’
Jacobsson gave him a crooked smile. She seemed more relaxed than usual.
The cab dropped them off at a grand-looking building on Kornhamnstorg in Gamla Stan, the old part of the city. Surrounding the square, like beads on a necklace, were countless outdoor restaurants filled with people dressed in summer attire who were enjoying a drink as they sat in the fading sunshine after work. Right across from them was Skeppsbron where the ferryboat had just pulled away, headed for the verdant island and the zoo across the water. Near the Karl Johan sluice a few boating enthusiasts, getting a head start on the season, sat in their vessels, waiting to pass into the locks. From there their boats would be lowered to the water level of Saltsjön. They were probably going out to the archipelago for the weekend since the weather was so nice.
Knutas tapped in the code on the door of the block of flats. Then they took the lift to the fifth floor.
Knutas thought Simon Hammar looked younger than his thirty-three years, and he bore a striking resemblance to his mother. He was dressed in worn jeans and a wrinkled T-shirt.
‘Come in,’ he said listlessly, and he turned to lead the way.
It was a typical early-twentieth-century flat. The high ceiling embellished with plasterwork, the wainscoting which reached halfway up the walls and the hardwood floor all suited the style of the building. The rooms were lined up along one side, providing a fabulous view of both lakes, Mälaren and Saltsjön. Knutas and Jacobsson were amazed when they stepped inside the magnificent living room. They went over to the window to look at the view.
They felt as if they were truly standing in the centre of Stockholm. Jacobsson, who knew much more about the city than Knutas did, pointed out the characteristic red-brick Laurinska building with its pinnacles and turrets situated on Mariaberget, the yellow façade of Södra Theatre near Mosebacke Square, and the statue of Karl XIV Johan seated on his horse and proudly gesturing towards the city.
The furniture in the living room, which easily measured over 45 square metres, consisted solely of a sofa, coffee table and two armchairs. An old-fashioned tile stove stood in one corner. The room was so empty that any sound echoed. They sat down around the coffee table. Even though it was hot and stuffy in the flat, their host offered them nothing to drink.
Simon Hammar immediately lit a cigarette.
‘Would it be possible to open a window?’ asked Knutas.
‘Can’t do that. Too noisy.’
Knutas and Jacobsson exchanged glances. This wasn’t going to be easy. Knutas decided to get right to the point.
‘Do you know whether your mother has any enemies – someone who might wish to harm her?’
Simon stared at the police officers, his expression inscrutable.
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘We think her life is in danger. We have reason to believe that someone is trying to kill her. Her boyfriend, Viktor Algård, was murdered, but all indications are that he wasn’t the intended victim. We think the killer was after your mother. And then someone tried to kill her by burning down her cabin.’
‘Viktor Algård? He and Mamma were an item?’
‘Yes.’
Simon managed a lopsided grin as he shook his head.
‘You didn’t know that?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘No, she’s never mentioned it.’
‘So you are in contact with each other?’
‘Sure, but only by phone at the moment. Although it’s been a while since she called.’
‘And you haven’t called her?’
‘No.’
‘Could you describe what sort of relationship you have with your mother?’
‘Why should I do that?’
‘Because we think it’s relevant to our investigation.’
Simon looked at Knutas with suspicion. He didn’t say anything for so long that both officers began to feel uncomfortable.
‘What exactly do I have to do with all this?’
‘We’re not saying that you have anything to do with it. But we’d like to know how you view your mother.’
‘What the hell do you mean by that?’ he asked heatedly. ‘How I view her?’
‘Take it easy,’ said Jacobsson, annoyed at Simon’s stonewalling. ‘We’re in the process of investigating more than one serious crime, and your mother appears to be the target. So I want you to tell me now what sort of relationship you have with her. Just answer the question.’
‘And how the hell do you expect me to answer that in five minutes? What do you want to know? How often we see each other or talk on the phone? What kind of criteria am I supposed to go by?’
‘It hasn’t escaped our attention that your sister has broken off all contact with your mother. Why did she do that?’
‘Mikaela probably wanted to be able to live her own life,’ he said quietly.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Mamma has a tendency to suffocate her children. What Mikaela did was the only right thing to do.’
‘And why haven’t you done the same thing?’
‘I suppose I’m too weak. Or too strong, depending on how you look at it.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I think that despite all the things she has ruined for me, I still hold on to a faint hope that everything will turn out OK in the long run. That we’ll be reconciled and that one day she’ll be happy. We’ll have a happy ending.’
His voice faded. For a while none of them spoke. Simon lit another cigarette.
‘You don’t really think that you can fix things in her life so that she’ll be happy, do you?’ Jacobsson asked at last.
‘I guess I do. I’ve always thought that.’
‘Can I bum a smoke from you?’ asked Jacobsson. ‘And how about a cold beer? I’m going to open a window, whether you like it or not.’
They stayed in that flat for several hours. Surprisingly enough, Simon decided to open up and tell them about all the difficulties he’d encountered, both in his childhood
and more recently. Jacobsson proved to be very sympathetic, and she was the one who was able to encourage him to talk. Knutas mostly kept to the background, listening and watching. It was 9 p.m. by the time they left.
As they took the lift down, Jacobsson looked at Knutas and said, ‘I don’t think it’s him.’
THE MINUTE I got on the commuter train to Nynäshamn, I knew. The end was near. Mutely I gazed at the landscape rushing past outside the window. The rolling hills, horse pastures, and fields of Södertörn.
In Nynäshamn I got off, bought a newspaper and some chocolate biscuits at a kiosk, and then strolled down to the ferry terminal. It was an overcast day, and the sea looked forbidding. A strong wind was blowing at the dock, and I pulled up my jacket collar over the turtleneck of my sweater.
The weather suited my mood. I was filled with foreboding. It had to end. The boat was half empty. The tourist season hadn’t really begun yet, and it was an ordinary weekday.
I sat down on a deckchair and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to go to the cafeteria, even though I could have used a cup of coffee. But I had no desire to talk to anybody.
I am empty of all feeling, spent, used up and broken down like an old tractor. All those ruined expectations, all the hysterical outbursts and insane demands that I’ve had to fend off for as long as I can remember. I have no right to my own life. That’s what I have finally understood.
She is stronger. She has won. There is only one way that I can get rid of my tormentor, my own flesh and blood, the person who long ago brought me into this wretched life. I wonder why she even decided to give birth to me. Was it in order to torture me, suck all the life out of me, obliterate me? To pass the sins of the parents down to the children in a pattern that would repeat itself, etched into the family tree for all eternity? So that the children would be afflicted, one generation after another? Trying to keep them from having a real mother and father because you never did, you fucking bitch? No one is allowed to have anything that you never had. Your children aren’t allowed to have good relationships since you never did. Your children are trying to live decent lives, but you keep trying to stop them. You’re like a huge, malicious demon standing in the road, imbuing your children with the same hatred that fills you. And they are repeating the irrational pattern that you created.
Dark Angel Page 19
