KNUTAS TOSSED AND turned all night, lying on the narrow hotel bed, unable to sleep. The small room was stifling. Heavy curtains in a drab, rusty-brown colour hung at the window. He could hear a fan whirring somewhere. The traffic noise was clearly audible, now and then interrupted by the siren of a police car or ambulance. Occasionally some passerby would yell or laugh out on the street. He couldn’t for the life of him understand how Stockholmers could stand all this racket. The city was never silent. He would go crazy if he had to live here.
Thinking about Karin kept him awake. At this moment he regretted insisting that she tell him what was bothering her. How strong could a friendship be? She had put him in an impossible situation. She had deliberately allowed a double murderer to go free; that was totally unacceptable. It was very unlikely that Vera Petrov would ever kill again, and any reasonable person would understand how a terribly tragic and heartbreaking episode in her past had motivated her actions. But that was no excuse. Karin could not remain on the police force. She had been his colleague for almost twenty years, but now she was going to have to leave. The thought was so alarming that it made him shiver. Imagine going to work every day and not seeing her there. She wouldn’t be getting coffee out of the vending machine or sitting at the conference table for a meeting. He wouldn’t hear her laugh or see that gap between her front teeth. Karin Jacobsson was his sounding board, both professionally and personally. He couldn’t even picture what it would be like at the station without her.
In the past he had sometimes worried that she might quit. She was still single, as far as Knutas knew, which had always seemed to him incomprehensible. She was so beautiful with her dark hair and warm eyes. He used to worry that she might meet someone who would take her away from Visby. She was so intense, so lively. Sometimes he had wondered how she viewed him. What did he have to offer her? He was just an ordinary middle-aged man with pitiful personal problems, which he never hesitated to discuss with her. He wasn’t a particularly inspiring friend.
When he thought about what she had been through – the rape, the birth, her parents’ betrayal – he was filled with anger. Finally he got out of bed, found his pipe and sat down in the armchair next to the window. He pulled aside the curtains and opened the window. It was four in the morning, and he realized it was hopeless trying to sleep.
He lit his pipe and sat there until dawn, watching the city wake up outside the window.
THE YARD IS filled with children playing. Their raincoats – yellow, blue, red, green and pink – form a colourful bouquet against the backdrop of the black asphalt and surrounding grey buildings. The rain has just stopped, but the air is dripping with moisture. Cold winds keep the temperature down. A low-pressure area has settled over Gotland, instantly and brutally dropping the temperature from 20 to 9 degrees Celsius. The change in the weather doesn’t seem to bother the kids, who are running from one side of the playground at the day-care centre to the other. A few teachers are chatting as they keep an eye on the children. Their conversation is constantly being interrupted when someone falls down and starts crying, or another child stuffs something in his mouth, or a few of the kids start fighting. The youngest toddlers, who can barely walk, are sitting in the sandbox with buckets and shovels, happily digging in the rain-soaked sand.
It takes me a minute to spot him. He’s wearing a dark blue rain jacket, waterproof trousers and a matching sou’wester hat. He’s busy with a bright yellow bucket and shovel. He’s sitting next to a friend, and they seem to be talking and playing well together.
I feel a pang in my heart. I’m having a hard time breathing, and I have to squat down. I’m hiding behind a warehouse, not wanting to draw attention to myself.
My boy. His dark hair is sticking out from under his rain cap, his cheeks are a glowing pink, and I catch a glimpse of his dark eyes. A contented child. What does his future hold? How will he be affected by what is about to happen? What will he think when he gets older? How many questions will he have? And how much will he suffer? That little boy sitting there, playing so happily in the sand. Innocent, carefree. He has the right to a safe and secure childhood. To deny him that would be reprehensible. And now here I am, about to shirk my responsibility.
But there’s no other way out of this straitjacket, none at all. Mamma will continue to plague me for the rest of my life. I will never be free. Other people die – from cancer or in a car crash. She will presumably go on poisoning the lives of everyone close to her until she’s a hundred years old. By then I’ll be almost eighty.
I once had a dream that I was leafing through the newspaper until I came to the obituary page. There I saw her name. And the only thing I felt was relief.
I stand up and look at my son one last time before I turn on my heel.
And with heavy steps, I walk away.
WHEN KNUTAS CAME downstairs to the hotel breakfast room, he found Karin sitting next to the window with a cup of coffee and the morning paper in front of her. She had dark smudges under her eyes and she was frowning. As usual, she wore jeans and a T-shirt. Around one wrist was a leather strap with a green stone. On her feet, which stuck out from under the table, she wore purple trainers. She was deeply immersed in the article she was reading and didn’t notice when he paused in the doorway to study her.
Knutas was overcome with tenderness for the slight figure sitting near the window. He felt a prickling in his hands and legs, as if tiny needles were sticking into his skin. For a second everything went black, and he had to hold on to the doorpost. He hadn’t slept a wink and his body ached with fatigue. When he left his hotel room, he had made up his mind. There was nothing else to do. He had to ask Karin to resign. To leave the police force. He took a step forward, then another. The distance to her table was about 10 metres. Moving like a sleepwalker, he continued forward, his eyes fixed on her face. Suddenly she felt his approach and looked up. Their eyes met.
No, he thought. I can’t make a decision right now. I need more time to think things through.
‘Good morning,’ he said.
‘Good morning.’
‘Listen, I’d rather not discuss what we talked about last night. I need time to think.’
‘OK. But when we get home, I plan to hand in my resignation. Just so you know. I don’t want to cause you any problems, Anders.’
Her words made him feel panic-stricken. Once before she had almost quit her job, and he didn’t want to go through that again.
‘Let’s not do anything hasty. You’re not responsible for my bloody welfare. Whatever I decide, it’ll be my decision. Please give me some time to think it over,’ he pleaded. He could hear for himself how insistent he sounded. ‘You’ve had to carry too much on your own. Try to let it all go for the time being.’
She gave him a wan smile.
They got the rental car from the Katarina garage, just a stone’s throw from the hotel. They did their best to ignore what they were both thinking about and tried to focus on the task ahead of them. Their personal problems would have to wait until later.
Knutas found it surprisingly easy to make his way through the city. At first he kept to the shoreline, driving along Skeppsbron and Strandvägen, past the TV and radio building on Oxenstiernsgatan. Then he turned on to Valhallavägen, one of Stockholm’s most fashionable streets, which was designed like a French boulevard, very wide with a double row of trees down the middle. It came to an end at Roslagtull, and from there they continued straight ahead along Norrtäljevägen. Presumably he could have taken a more direct route through the city, but at least he had found the right road. And the view was spectacular, with the water glittering in between all of Stockholm’s islands and the magnificent buildings of the royal palace, the National Museum, the Dramaten theatre, and the Nordic Museum on Djurgården, which resembled a renaissance palace with its turrets and towers.
As the investigation had progressed, Knutas had grown more curious about Mikaela Hammar. She had created a whole new life for herself away from Gotland. She had
married a mainlander and moved to Stockholm’s archipelago. There she started a riding school, which she and her husband ran together. At the same time, she worked for a humanitarian aid organization.
It was quite a drive. Knutas checked his watch as they passed Norrtälje, with at least 10 kilometres still ahead of them. It was just past eleven. Their plane home left at three thirty. They had plenty of time.
When they drove across the bridge to the island of Vätö, he was reminded how different the archipelago was from Gotland. An entirely different kind of landscape. No long sand dunes here. Instead, he saw cliffs, boulders and skerries. Vätö was one of the bigger islands in Stockholm’s archipelago, with about a thousand permanent residents, shops, a post office, library and school. Many people who lived on the island commuted to Stockholm or Norrtälje. Mikaela Hammar and her family lived in Harg, at the centre of the island.
They came to a big old gate at a curve in the road and turned into a horse pasture. The car bumped along on the narrow tractor track, and then the farm appeared beyond a hill. It stood there in lonely majesty, atop a plateau with hills on one side and an expansive view of the countryside on the other.
Several Fjord horses came trotting towards Knutas and Jacobsson as they climbed out of the car.
Knutas, who was rather frightened of horses, hurried towards the gate. The farm consisted of a main building, painted Falun red, and two smaller buildings forming wings on either side of it. Further away on the property was a barn with a paddock in front. A riding track was visible beyond the barn. The front door of the house opened and a plump suntanned woman in her mid-thirties came out on to the porch holding a tray with a coffee pot and cups. She smiled and welcomed them warmly.
‘I was thinking we could sit outside. It’s such a beautiful day.’
She led the way to some patio furniture at the side of the house with a view of the hills. Cowslips and lilies of the valley were already in bloom. It was almost like summer.
‘Thank you for your willingness to meet with us right after returning from such a long trip,’ Knutas began.
‘It’s no problem. I understand that this is important.’ A trace of sorrow was evident in her voice.
‘You know what’s been going on. By all accounts, your mother was first the target of a murder attempt by poisoning, and then barely escaped an arsonist’s fire. We’re still not entirely sure whether the murder at the conference centre was actually aimed at her, but that’s what she claims. And we’ve had her story at least partially confirmed by witnesses. What’s your reaction to all of this?’
‘If somebody is trying to kill my mother, I’m not really surprised, to be quite honest.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘There’s a reason why I’ve broken off all contact with her. My mother has a talent for obliterating everyone close to her.’
‘In what way?’
Mikaela Hammar sighed. Knutas noted that she was not at all like her mother. She was tall and quite stocky, with long, wavy light brown hair and blue eyes. There was actually nothing about her that reminded him of Veronika Hammar.
‘I grew up with a mother who was so self-absorbed that she never really saw me or my siblings. I’ll stick with describing my own experience. As a child I was made to feel invisible and I was never treated with respect. Each day brought new offences, any problems were simply shoved under the rug, and my mother always acted the martyr. Our lives were filled with dishonesty. It was like living on a stage set. I went through long periods of depression, which got worse when I was a teenager. Things got so bad that I started cutting myself and developed eating problems. I would binge on food and then throw up afterwards. That went on for five years, and she never noticed a thing.’
‘How old were you at the time?’ asked Jacobsson.
‘It started when I was fifteen and lasted until I moved away from home. That’s when I met my husband, thank God. He was my salvation. Without him, I wouldn’t be alive today.’
She spoke in a matter-of-fact tone, without a shred of self-pity.
‘What caused these problems?’
‘I think that I’d been suffering for a long time because no one really paid any attention to me. There were probably two reasons why I started cutting myself. Partly from anxiety and partly because deep inside I wanted someone to see me, notice me. Discover what was going on. But nobody did.’
‘What happened when you met your husband?’
‘I met him in the summer. He came to Gotland on holiday, like so many other people. Of course my mother criticized everything about him. The way he looked, the fact that in her eyes at least he didn’t have a very good job, and that he lived in Stockholm. She complained about everything. But for once I refused to listen to her. And I thank God for that. For the first time in my life I felt truly loved, and it was wonderful. Here was someone who liked me just as I was, without reservation and without making any demands. He listened to me, let me speak my mind, let me have my own opinions. Because of him, I grew as a person and I started believing in love. I saw that love actually existed and could last. I will always be eternally grateful to him for that. He healed me.’
Mikaela Hammar spoke with such genuine feeling and warmth that both Knutas and Jacobsson were moved by her words.
‘You and your mother haven’t been in touch for a while. How long has it been?’
‘It’s been ten years since we talked to each other.’
‘What exactly happened?’
‘I finally had enough. The children and I went to visit Mamma at the summer cabin. We were only going to stay a few days. That was as much as I could stand. My kids were young then. Linus was four, and Doris was two. One afternoon I needed to go grocery shopping, so I asked my mother to look after the children while I was gone. It wasn’t going to take more than two hours. She said that would be fine. Mamma never babysat for us, but I didn’t think anything could happen in such a short time. Besides, it’s so much easier to shop for groceries without having little kids tagging along. Linus was playing with his plastic cars on the lawn, and Doris was asleep in her pram when I left. When I came back, both of them were howling. Doris had blood on her cheek, and the neighbours were standing around, shouting. A huge commotion. It turned out that Linus had gone to the privy, which is a short distance from the cabin, and Mamma was supposed to wipe his bottom when he was done, but she forgot about him. So he sat there and cried for over an hour while she was inside the cabin, talking to someone on the phone. In the meantime, Doris had toddled over to the neighbours’ place and their dog bit her. That was the last straw. After putting up with my mother’s selfish behaviour for so many years, I finally told her off. Then I packed up all our belongings, grabbed my kids, and left.’
‘And afterwards? Did she try to get in touch with you?’
‘According to my siblings, she thought that I had treated her terribly. In her words: That’s not how anyone should treat their mother. I refused to phone her. After a month or two she started sending me letters. Long furious tirades in which she described all the things she had done for me and how grateful I ought to be. I read the first couple and then tossed the others out. I didn’t even bother to open them. She had always been on my back, and it was so liberating to break off all ties with her. It’s the smartest thing I ever did. The best present I ever gave to myself and to my husband and children. Even though I know how awful that must sound.’
Mikaela Hammar spoke in a firm voice, but her hand was shaking as she lifted her coffee cup. For a moment no one said a word. Knutas could easily picture the scene in his mind. He sipped his coffee.
‘Considering how long it has been since you communicated with each other, I can understand that it might be hard for you to say anything about possible threats to your mother’s life. If that’s what we’re actually dealing with, that is.’
‘In reality, I think any of us could be pushed so far that we might want to kill her. That’s how hard she has stomped on us, abused us and ex
ploited us. Plus she has always kept certain things secret. Has either of my brothers told you anything about Mats?’
SHE HADN’T SET foot outside the house since coming home from hospital a week ago. She got up every morning, ate breakfast, read the paper, and listened to the local radio station. Then she waited for lunch, which usually consisted of soup or a salad. Around two in the afternoon she had coffee, and she ate dinner in front of the TV, watching the news. The hours in between meals dragged along. She couldn’t concentrate on anything. Had no interest in doing any cleaning or painting or pottering about in her little garden, which was what she usually did at this time of year. She felt frozen. As if waiting for something, but she had no idea what it might be. The days passed, and she longed for the cabin that no longer existed. The realization that it was gone had hit her suddenly, making her sob for hours. She lay on her bed like a child, shaking all over. She felt overwhelmed by fear, but no one came to her rescue. Viktor was dead, and none of her children answered the phone when she rang. She was utterly alone.
The fact that she couldn’t get hold of Simon was something she’d grown accustomed to over the past few months. But what about Andreas? He had changed lately. His tone of voice was harsher, less amenable. And he wasn’t as easy to reach as he had been before. Maybe because he’d met someone. There were clear signs in his house. She’d found an eyeliner pencil in the bathroom, a hair clip on the hall table. All of a sudden he had plain yoghurt in his refrigerator. And he never picked up the phone when she called.
* * *
This morning she was feeling even more anxious than usual. She got up and went through her usual morning routine, but she was filled with nervous energy. She wandered through the rooms of her small house, then went out in the courtyard and tried to read the paper. But she couldn’t sit still. She washed her hair, but that kept the anguish at bay for only a brief time. She tried to do a crossword puzzle but her thoughts kept drifting in different directions. She couldn’t focus. Nothing held her attention for long. When she decided to have her afternoon coffee, she was dismayed to discover that there were only a few grounds left in the bottom of the tin. And there wasn’t another one in the cupboard. Andreas still wasn’t answering his phone. She was going to have to go out. She gave a start when she saw her own reflection in the mirror. She needed to do something about her appearance.
Dark Angel Page 21
