The Last Lullaby (Hammarby Book 3)

by Carin Gerhardsen

  They only ever saw each other on his initiative – she never called, never sought him out. That was how he wanted it and she seemed to read his thoughts, because they had never discussed it. Even this was something he was ashamed of. He was exploiting Margit for his own needs, whatever they may be. And that was not the sort of man he wanted to be, a man who exploits women – people – for his own satisfaction. That was not who he really was, never had been. But the damned dream had drawn something rotten out in him, something that evidently had been inside him all along but that he did not recognize. He thought he had become alienated from himself, become colder, less empathetic.

  With a jerk he was wakened from his brooding or his sleep, he did not know which. It was the mobile, still in his hand under the covers, that was ringing. The lamp was still on; he cast a glance at the clock radio on the bedside table. The time was three-thirty.

  ‘Hi, Conny, it’s Jenny.’

  That’s right, Jenny had called him earlier and he had promised to call her back. But he had forgotten that and now he’d got his punishment in the small hours. Sjöberg had known the Sandén girls since they were born. He definitely did not see himself as some kind of reserve dad, because they didn’t need one, but he was without a doubt the adult person that Jenny knew best besides her parents. But he could not figure out what business she could have in the middle of the night; nothing like this had ever happened before.

  ‘But my dear, what are you doing up at this hour? Don’t you have to get up for work tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, but I can’t sleep.’

  ‘Have you slept at all?’

  ‘Maybe a little, but I don’t think so.’

  ‘Poor thing. So what’s on your mind? Has something happened?’

  ‘Isn’t cruelty to animals against the law?’

  Sjöberg smiled, realizing what this was about. Micke and especially Lotten had turned Jenny’s head. Since she had become the owner of little Blaisy she had become mad about dogs, and she soaked up her collegues’ craziness like a sponge.

  ‘Yes, it can be a punishable offence. But that depends of course on what kind of animal it is and what has been done to it,’ he answered factually.

  ‘There was a little boy at the station today and he told such an awful story.’

  ‘Oh dear. Have you told your dad?’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t care. Or didn’t have time,’ she corrected herself. ‘There was a man who had a pig locked up and it was lying in its own dung.’

  ‘Pigs usually do that.’

  ‘But he yelled at it and kicked it hard as anything.’

  ‘And the boy saw this?’

  ‘No, but he and a friend were hiding nearby and heard the whole thing. Isn’t it strange to keep a pig in the city?’

  ‘It’s probably not that common, but I don’t think it’s illegal exactly. By the way, maybe it wasn’t an ordinary pig but one of those Vietnamese potbellied pigs. They’re popular these days.’

  ‘He kicked it really hard anyway, lots of times. And it didn’t get proper food either, no potatoes or anything.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Sjöberg.

  ‘The man was laughing at the pig because it had got sick from the food.’

  ‘But potatoes?’ said Sjöberg, surprised. ‘Where did you get that from?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Jenny. ‘It was the boy who said it.’

  Sjöberg could not help smiling a little.

  ‘He’ll have to make sure he stays away from that man. He seems to be an unpleasant character.’

  ‘But we have to rescue the pig, Conny! If cruelty to animals is a crime and you’re a policeman, then you have to be able to do something, don’t you?’

  ‘I see, you’re actually phoning to report a crime?’ said Sjöberg, mildly amused.

  ‘Yes, because Daddy wouldn’t help me and Jamal wouldn’t either.’

  ‘They have a lot to do right now.’

  ‘But it’s important. Lotten thinks so too.’

  ‘Hmm, I can imagine. Let’s do this, Jenny, we’ll file an official report when I get back. But now let’s both sleep. Okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Jenny answered, and he heard her yawn. ‘Good night then.’

  ‘Good night, my dear. Sleep well.’

  Friday Morning

  So Conny Sjöberg, at nearly fifty, found himself for the first time face to face with his paternal grandmother. He immediately recognized the high cheekbones and the narrow, long bridge of the nose from the image he saw in the mirror. Signe Sjöberg was a woman with her head held high, standing up straight in the doorway, wearing a simple but elegant dress and court shoes with heels. She looked suspiciously at him with intense blue eyes from behind a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ she wanted to know when Sjöberg, preoccupied with studying her facial features, did not say anything.

  ‘My name is Conny Sjöberg, and I think’ – he was convinced at that moment of the family relationship – ‘that you are my grandmother.’

  She stared at him without revealing what she was thinking.

  ‘May I come in, so we can talk?’

  She examined him critically up and down, and seeming to approve his exterior she backed up a little to let him into the apartment. Sjöberg felt awkward standing there in her little hallway, with his hands clasped in front of him like a shy schoolboy. After closing the outside door she turned her back to him and walked quickly for a ninety-five-year-old into the living room. One of the chairs at the dining table was already pulled out and she sat down on it. On the table was an open newspaper and alongside it a pencil and a rubber. Sjöberg drew the conclusion that he had interrupted her in the middle of the daily crossword puzzle, which he knew from his own experience could be quite irritating. Something hereditary perhaps? He pulled out a chair and he too sat down.

  She studied his movements with clear scepticism. The atmosphere in the little apartment was saturated with antipathy and he was determined to find out why.

  ‘Is it true that you are my grandmother?’ Sjöberg opened, with a friendly smile.

  She hesitated a little before replying, but then said curtly, in a sharper tone than he had expected, ‘It’s not inconceivable.’

  ‘If you’ll excuse my saying so, you don’t seem to be especially happy to see me,’ Sjöberg suggested.

  ‘Should I be?’

  Sjöberg laughed, feeling that he was being dragged into some kind of psychological power play, the reasons behind which he did not grasp. He decided to try to avoid any strife and put his cards on the table.

  ‘I’ve grown up believing that my grandmother and grandfather died before I was born. Yesterday I discovered that my grandfather died when I was nine years old but that you are still alive. As you can imagine, I was extremely surprised by that discovery, but above all I was happy to suddenly have been given a grandmother. It doesn’t feel like you are equally happy to see me.’

  She did not say anything, simply stared at him with icy-cold eyes. At first glance he had been positively surprised at her vitality and the clearness of her gaze, but now he began to think it would have been easier if she had been more confused.

  ‘Could you explain to me why?’ Sjöberg continued.

  ‘Your mother can explain that to you.’

  Is it us versus them now? thought Sjöberg. How much could he say about his mother without being disloyal?

  ‘She’s not the talkative sort. Believe me, I’ve tried to ask questions about this and that, but she avoids talking about what’s in the past. But you should know that she has never said a bad word about you or my grandfather.’

  ‘I should think not. We have never done her any harm,’ his grandmother replied.

  Her blue eyes stared right into his. She stood by what she said and Sjöberg had great difficulty not averting his gaze.

  ‘But you think that she has done something to you? To both of you? Then in that case I would like to know what.’
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  ‘She killed my son,’ Signe Sjöberg answered in a firm voice.

  Sjöberg turned completely cold inside. What could she mean? But he maintained his factual tone as he continued to coax his grandmother into revealing the missing pieces of the puzzle of his life.

  ‘Can you expand on that, please? I have no idea what you are trying to say.’

  ‘I’m not trying to say anything. You are the one who is trying to force me to talk about things that should have been forgotten long ago.’

  ‘Should have been forgotten? I have a feeling that you are the one who refuses to forget, Grandmother.’

  She winced at the last word. Apparently she did not appreciate his choice of address.

  ‘I thought that Dad got sick,’ Sjöberg continued. ‘I recall that he was in the hospital for a long time before he died. I never got to visit him, so I’ve never understood what illness he suffered from.’

  ‘Illness!’ she exclaimed. ‘It was no illness; he was in intensive care with severe burns for months before it ended.’

  ‘Burns?’ said Sjöberg with a shudder. ‘Please, tell me what happened.’

  ‘Your mother ought to have done that. Why should I have to sit here and dwell on the past?’

  ‘Because I’m asking you,’ said Sjöberg, showing his open palms as if to underscore that he had no hidden agenda. ‘Because your son was my father. Because I have the right to know.’

  ‘You and your mother have forfeited your rights. I don’t owe you anything.’

  Not for a single moment did she take her eyes off him. Signe Sjöberg seemed to be a strong person, someone you would rather have with you than against you. But Sjöberg found it easier to deal with this type of person than with the repressed, evasive type, like his mother. He decided to appeal to her common sense and steeled himself against her frosty scrutiny.

  ‘I was three years old. I understand that I was involved in the crime that was committed against Dad, but actually I have no memories at all from that age. So I feel no guilt. It seems to me that the question of guilt is extremely important to you, so for that reason I ask you again: what happened?’

  Her eyes gave no clue to what she might be thinking, but Sjöberg noticed how her lips tensed. He waited in silence until finally she spoke.

  ‘The house caught fire. All of you were sleeping in the same room, but she woke up and took you with her down to the garden. Only you. She left Christian behind in the flames. The men managed at last to pull him out, but it was already too late. He got to live a few more months, but what kind of life was that?’

  No tears, and the gaze as well as the voice was firm, but the whole room was permeated by bitterness, all directed at his mother. And obviously at him too. Because he’d had the luck to escape from a fire when he had just turned three, because his mother had helped her little son out of the burning house first and not her husband. Sjöberg felt a lump growing in his throat. So this was his mother’s lot; after having lost her husband and her home, she assumed the guilt for the irreplaceable loss and was rejected besides by her in-laws.

  Sjöberg felt an urgent need to get out of there; he could not bear to sit there with this inhuman statue of a grandmother and be the scapegoat of her absurd accusations. But on the surface he maintained his friendly calm as he got up from the chair.

  ‘I’m sorry it turned out the way it did,’ he said. ‘I assume we won’t meet again. Take care, Grandmother.’

  She looked back at him with her inscrutable gaze, and he lingered there for a few seconds before he calmly turned and left.

  Westman was already in her office when Hamad passed her door at nine. He thought he had built up enough self-confidence last night and this morning to go in to her with authority, and get out what he wanted to say. But at the same time he cursed himself for not having dealt with it earlier. Which would, in fact, have been difficult because then he had not had the slightest idea what the problem was. But still, it never hurt to clear the air. If the relationship meant anything.

  He tore off his jacket and tossed it on his desk, strode back to Westman’s office and walked in without knocking. She looked up at him from her seat at the desk with a blank look. He pulled the door shut and sat down in the visitor’s chair without asking for permission. Leaning back with his hands on the armrests and his legs crossed, he looked at her contemplatively. Her expression was completely neutral.

  ‘We have to talk,’ he said.

  ‘I see.’

  Contempt.

  ‘I repeat: I know what you think, but you’re on the wrong track. For my sake and for your sake and the team’s, we have to work this out.’

  ‘The team’s?’

  ‘The management mob is threatening a split if we can’t cooperate.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so scared. I’m sure I’m the one who will have to go.’

  Sarcasm. How could she be so sure that he was the one in a precarious position and not her?

  ‘And you have no fucking idea what I think,’ she added.

  He steeled himself, tried to look confident, although he knew his hands would shake like an old wino’s if he ventured to release his grip on the armrests.

  ‘Okay then. You think I spend my nights drugging and raping women. And that I film that shit too.’

  He tried to sound impersonal, but his cheeks were burning and it was not impossible that his voice was trembling a tiny bit too. He was afraid that she would have another outburst, wallop him again. But she stayed in her chair. Simply raised one eyebrow and smiled condescendingly.

  ‘Do I think that? I think that proves it’s true. I take that as a confession.’

  ‘Don’t. I can prove I’m innocent.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. It seems highly probable that you would know all about it if you aren’t involved. It’s the talk of the town, I understand.’

  More sarcasm.

  ‘When I left you at the Clarion that Friday in November 2006 I went home and got a divorce from Lina. We sat and talked for almost the whole night. The next morning we divided up our things and then I drove her home to her parents’. You can call her and check.’

  Westman listened. Still without visible interest, but she did not interrupt.

  ‘After that body-language course, when we parted outside the Pelican, Bella picked me up in her car. We drove to her place and I stayed the night. We had a relationship for a while. That has nothing to do with you or anyone else, but I’m telling you because I have to. Ask her and you’ll see.’

  He saw something new in Westman’s eyes, something that had not been there before. She still said nothing, but she was thinking. Hamad believed he had some idea of what was going on in her mind. If he was innocent after all, how could he know what dates had any significance in this mess?

  ‘I found some shit on the computer,’ he clarified.

  A white lie; he did not think she needed to know that he was not the only one who had seen the unpleasant, humiliating images.

  ‘Not until the other day. I didn’t look that carefully, didn’t want to see. But I saw enough to understand what had happened. And the date was in one corner.’

  Westman frowned, suspicious now.

  ‘And the other date, where did you get that from?’

  So she had asked. He would not be able to keep the truth from her, that other people had seen that film. But there was hope. He had managed to make her curious.

  ‘Someone sent those images from my email address.’

  ‘The images?’

  ‘The film.’

  ‘Was it a film? Not just an image?’

  ‘It was a film clip. As I said, I didn’t look all that carefully.’

  ‘You’re lying,’ Westman stated firmly. ‘I found an image on your computer, not a film. And I deleted it. And if something had been sent from your computer then the traces were wiped out. The image was sent from my email address.’

  ‘You’ve been into my computer?’

  ‘I had to confirm that it was you.’<
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  Suddenly they had a dialogue. They could set factual argument against factual argument, and that was a good start.

  ‘But it wasn’t,’ said Hamad.

  ‘What you’re saying doesn’t add up.’

  ‘Listen to me, Petra. Someone has sent an image from your computer and a film from mine. So on my computer there are no traces, except that the image that was sent from your email is there, but you’ve deleted it. You’re right. But I found out from the addressee that the film was sent from my email address. I wanted to spare you, thought you’d be better off not knowing.’

  ‘Not knowing what?’

  ‘That others besides me have seen the film.’

  ‘And who was the film sent to?’ Westman wanted to know.

  She looked more sad than angry now. He felt that he was near to achieving his goal, and started to relax. His hard-clenched jaw muscles softened, the pressure he’d felt for six months at his temples eased. Most of all he wanted to give her a big hug – she seemed to need it.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you. But don’t worry, he no longer has it. Trust me. Do you trust me?’

  Westman studied him thoughtfully for several seconds. She had collapsed in her chair, deflated.

  ‘So how did you find out that this person had the film?’ she asked with an almost mournful expression on her face. ‘And that it came from you?’

  ‘Detective work,’ Hamad said with a smile. ‘I’m a police officer, as perhaps you are aware.’

  ‘Was it Conny?’

  He shook his head, surprised.

  ‘Hadar?’

  This was even more of a surprise. Was he the only one who didn’t know what this was all about?

  But now he could not hold himself back any more. He had longed for this moment for months, though never so clearly as now. He got up and went around the desk, carefully pulled her out of the chair and put his arms around her.