She's Never Coming Back

by Hans Koppel

  More than just a bit pathetic, the man thought, as he followed him at a distance to his workplace in town.

  When Johan Lind, true to habit, stopped at the bar on the way home from work, the man decided it was time.

  He waited further down the road. When Johan Lind drove past a few hours later at a more leisurely pace than normal, his speed reduced slightly to compensate for his alcohol consumption, the man turned the key in the ignition of his rental car and pulled out after him.

  It was dark and there weren’t many cars around.

  The man held back until they came to a stretch of road without houses. Then he overtook and swung the car across the road in front of the motorbike. Johan Lind lost control and toppled over. The bike spun away from him and he lay there on the asphalt. The man parked up by the side of the road and hurried back to him.

  ‘You idiot – you fucking drove me off the road!’ Johan screamed.

  The man went up to him, looked hastily around. Johan Lind tried to blink away the pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ the man asked.

  Johan Lind was startled when he heard his mother tongue. He looked up in surprise at the reckless driver who had so nearly cost him his life. He seemed familiar.

  ‘Let me help you,’ the man said. ‘I’m a doctor.’

  He placed his arm under Johan’s neck and took a firm grip.

  ‘Do you remember Annika?’ he said, and then broke his fellow countryman’s neck.

  ‘In other words, you’ve got nothing?’

  The public prosecutor glanced up from the papers he had demonstratively continued to read while Karlsson and Gerda rattled through the information they had gathered in connection with Ylva Zetterberg’s disappearance three months earlier.

  They had concentrated on the missing woman’s affair, her conflicting messages about where she was going that Friday evening and, finally, her alleged liking for a bit of rough in the sack.

  Karlsson and Gerda looked at one another, each hoping that the other would come up with a neat paraphrase that would lend authority to the thin and, in practice, useless report.

  The public prosecutor continued to sort his papers, a clear indication of how little he valued their work.

  ‘No body, no witnesses, no inexplicable bank withdrawals, no mysterious emails or phone calls – in short, nothing.’

  He looked at them for a response. Neither Karlsson nor Gerda said anything.

  ‘Then the case is closed,’ the public prosecutor said, and returned to his papers without paying any more attention to the two policemen.

  ‘That is all,’ he added in a quiet voice.

  33

  There was such a thing as the professional mourner, someone who went to funerals where they had no reason to be, who cocked their head and nodded sympathetically with a pained expression. They turned out in numbers. But most people withdrew. The vast majority were nonplussed by other people’s grief, they didn’t know what to do or say. They were afraid of being intrusive, of being a reminder and adding to the pain. They were also frightened that some of the heaviness and sadness might spill into their own lives.

  Those who had experienced grief and loss and had been confronted with the uncertainty of those around them often said afterwards that it didn’t matter so much how those around them responded, what was important was that they did. In whatever form that took.

  In Mike’s case, there was nothing to grieve, only uncertainty and questions.

  ‘And she’s just disappeared?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So, she’s run off?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  ‘Did something happen then?’

  ‘I don’t know. She’s missing. She left work and never came home.’

  ‘What do the police say?’

  ‘Nothing really. They said that it happens, people just disappear.’

  ‘She must be somewhere. I don’t understand …’

  Mike’s friends and colleagues couldn’t offer their condolences. To do so would signal that they’d given up hope. After a while, they started to keep their distance. There was nothing more to say. Ylva’s disappearance was a mystery.

  When she’d been gone five months, the local paper did a long article in conjunction with the TV programme, Missing, in an attempt to bring to light more information. The article detailed Ylva’s last day at work. It also included a list of those who had disappeared without trace in the region in recent years, under the heading People whose bodies have never been found.

  Most of them were men, more than half of whom were feared lost at sea. Some of them had been seen in the days after they’d disappeared, but the witness reports were conflicting and vague.

  In his capacity as investigating officer, Karlsson made statements, rattling off statistics and possible scenarios.

  ‘In cases where we suspect that the missing person may have been killed, we concentrate on those closest to them. That’s usually where we find the culprit.’

  The statement didn’t name Mike directly, but the article was illustrated with a photograph of Ylva, which the paper had been allowed to borrow in connection with her disappearance.

  Karlsson couldn’t have pointed his finger more clearly, without the risk of libel.

  Mike spent the greater part of the following week refuting the accusations.

  He phoned Karlsson, who claimed that he had been misquoted and misunderstood. He had been talking in general terms and not specifically about Ylva’s disappearance.

  The public prosecutor said that it was a matter for the Swedish Press Council.

  ‘And if you read it correctly, then—’

  Mike threw down the phone and called the newspaper.

  ‘My daughter was crying when I picked her up from school today. And guess what the other children had said?’

  The managing editor was apologetic and understanding and said he was willing to publish a correction, which he did. A small notice on the front page, which stated that neither the police nor the public prosecution authority had named any suspects from Ylva’s closest family and friends.

  As with most denials, this just made matters worse.

  34

  Ylva lay in bed looking at the TV screen. The light was taking over, morning forcing back the night. It was the best time of day. She knew that she would soon see Sanna and Mike flit past the windows and three-quarters of an hour later leave the house and get into the car.

  Ylva stared at the screen as if their safety depended on her vigilant supervision. She concentrated so hard that everything around her disappeared. It was almost as if she was there, inside the image of reality that she was watching.

  Mike and Sanna had found new routines. It was obvious from their familiar movements. The way Mike closed the front door, the way Sanna walked round the car and jumped in as soon as he opened it. The booster was now a permanent fixture on the passenger seat. Sanna put her backpack down under the seat and reached up for the safety belt. Mike might throw out yesterday’s rubbish. Hesitate for a moment before he emptied the right things into the right bins.

  Mike had adapted his working day to suit Sanna’s timetable. In the mornings, at least. His mother was there most afternoons. She came back hand in hand with Sanna from school, carrying bags of food.

  Ylva wondered whether her mother-in-law was happy now. If she truly valued the importance she had acquired.

  Kristina had also lost a spouse. The difference was that she’d known. She had almost certainly taken her fair share of the blame, gone over and over what she might have done differently, punished herself in that way. But she had known.

  Sanna had a new autumn jacket. Ylva was sure that Mike had let her choose it herself. She thought to herself that she wouldn’t have been so generous.

  As soon as they had disappeared from the screen, Ylva started her morning exercises. Five minutes marching on the spot, pulling her knees up high, hands at her side. A hundred sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups.<
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  Ylva wanted to do more, but was afraid that she might injure herself and have to stop altogether. The feeling of strength was important to her mental wellbeing.

  They had murdered Anders, they had murdered Johan. Murdered. The man had told her proudly, in great detail, and informed her what they now expected from her.

  There was no rush, the woman had explained. Ylva could prolong her own suffering if she liked, she didn’t deserve a quick fix. But when she was ready, they would provide her with the necessary equipment.

  Then the woman had complained about the smell of sweat. She complained about everything. Ylva was more scared of her than of the man.

  Once she had showered, Ylva made a cup of tea and buttered a slice of bread. Then she did the laundry and ironing, the jobs she had been given. She carried them out with surprising energy and care. She was given food, electricity and water in return for her work. Allowed to carry on living.

  The floor lamp, electric kettle and books were in return for the other thing.

  Ylva deserved rewards, she did more than was expected of her.

  And she was always ready.

  Calle Collin was in the Odengaten branch of Stockholm Public Library. There were signs everywhere that said that you could only take one newspaper at a time, but Calle was in a hurry and so grabbed half a dozen of the local newspapers before he sat down in the reading room.

  Journalism was cyclical. The one thing spawned the next, which in turn required research, which resulted in new articles, which spawned … etc.

  Textbooks tended to emphasise the importance of multiple, independent sources. Access to objective information was a prerequisite for good citizens to make considered choices and then vote for the party that he or she believed was best placed to rule the country for the coming parliamentary term.

  Political journalism was not really Calle’s bag. His ‘cause’ was primarily to keep the wolf and creditors from his door, but even the content of the weeklies worked on the same cyclical basis. He got ideas for his own material from other people’s articles.

  He flicked through the papers quickly, looking for material with a trained eye. The notices in local papers were what interested him. That was where he normally found stuff, unusual events in normal people’s lives.

  He made a quick note of everything that caught his eye. Even if it wasn’t suitable for an article or interview, it could perhaps be turned into a Readers’ Own Story. These weren’t as well paid, but easy to cobble together. Calle had been working as a freelancer for a family magazine for a while now, providing that sort of copy, and had soon come to realise that it was far simpler to write the article yourself than to edit the incomprehensible manuscripts that readers sent in.

  Thirty minutes later, Calle left the library. He went home and fired off emails with ideas for three stories to four editorial desks. To send any more suggestions would test the patience of the editors.

  He would call them in the afternoon and ask if they’d managed to look at his suggestions. Hopefully, some of them would be cautiously positive.

  He heard the post drop through the letterbox – the postman must have been a basketball player in the past. Calle went out into the hall and picked up the window envelopes with a sigh. He opened them with his thumb and, true to form, confirmed that even when things looked bad, they could always get worse.

  Three hours later he had spoken to the fourth and final features editor. No takers. Two of them said they would think about a couple of the ideas but couldn’t promise anything. One had been openly disinterested and sighed loudly when Calle introduced himself. Another, a young man with great social skills but obviously very little between the ears, had declined and wittered on about cutbacks. Calle was sure that the guy would swiftly clamber his way to the top of Sweden’s largest media group.

  Calle had just laid down on the bed and started to stare at the ceiling with apathy when the phone rang. He checked the display. Helen, the managing editor of Children & Family. Calle answered brightly.

  ‘It’s been a while.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, harassed. ‘And I’m sorry. We’ve had so much to do. And still do. Which is why I’m calling. Quick question. Could you come in and do some editing?’

  ‘Absolutely. When?’

  ‘Tomorrow and Friday. And the whole of next week.’

  ‘Of course,’ Calle said.

  ‘Really? That’s fantastic. I love you.’

  ‘No problem,’ Calle said, and hung up.

  ‘The phone just hasn’t stopped ringing,’ he said out loud, with a huge grin.

  35

  Ylva was dead, Mike was certain of it. He no longer held out any hope that she would suddenly get in touch from somewhere on the Mediterranean, where she was picking grapes in sandals and loose clothing, making trouble as a horny, post-pubescent hippie. Something had happened and he didn’t care to speculate too much about what. Instead of ruminating on how terrifying the final hours of her life might have been, Mike consciously blocked all thoughts that led in this direction and focused instead on the practicalities of what lay ahead.

  ‘Daddy, you’ve been invited to a fancy dress party!’

  ‘What, have I?’

  Sanna came running towards him with the invitation in her hand. Mike lifted his daughter up and hugged her tight. He nodded to his mother, who was standing in the kitchen in her apron, smiling as she looked on.

  ‘What are you going to wear?’ Sanna squealed.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s have a look at the invite.’

  He put Sanna down and took the card that she handed him. He hung his jacket up and was reading as he walked into the kitchen.

  ‘So, she’s turning forty,’ he said, and kissed his mother on the cheek. ‘Mmm, smells good.’

  ‘It’s just meatballs, nothing special.’

  ‘Couldn’t be any more special.’

  ‘What are you going to go as?’ Sanna nagged.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s see if I go, first of all.’

  ‘What? Aren’t you going to go?’

  This was beyond Sanna’s comprehension. A fancy dress party, the chance to dress up. The best of the best.

  ‘Of course Daddy’s going to go,’ Kristina said.

  ‘We’ll see,’ Mike remarked, and sneaked a meatball straight from the pan.

  Sanna looked at her father in disappointment.

  ‘You never want to do anything fun.’

  ‘Don’t I?’ Mike asked.

  ‘No, never,’ Sanna said.

  ‘But maybe I don’t think fancy dress parties are that great.’

  ‘Daddy, you don’t think anything’s great.’

  Calle Collin gave a loud sigh. The article was nonsense and bore no relation whatsoever to the heading. The quotes were inane, the facts nothing new and the angle about as exciting as a night out in Nässjö.

  It was Friday afternoon and the editorial team for Children & Family were sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. Helen had tried to get Calle to join them, but he refused to leave his desk until the article was set. It was his last day as an editorial temp and he wanted to get it finished, even if he couldn’t for the life of him understand why Helen had bought the story in the first place.

  The phones kept ringing all around him, first one, then the other.

  ‘Could you ring reception and ask them to hold all calls?’ Helen shouted through. ‘Say that we’re in a meeting until four.’

  Calle picked up the phone and dialled.

  ‘I think it might be best if you took this call all the same,’ the switchboard operator said. ‘I actually think Helen should take it herself.’

  ‘Okay, transfer it then.’

  Calle introduced himself to the woman, who was extremely distressed and demanded to talk to the managing editor.

  ‘What’s it concerning?’ Calle asked, as he didn’t want to disturb the team’s coffee break for yet another subscriber who hadn’t got their magazine on time.

 
; It took about half a minute before Calle realised that this was serious.

  ‘Just a moment,’ he said. ‘I’ll go and get her.’

  He put the receiver down on the desk, swallowed an uncomfortable lump in his throat and went out to the kitchen. The expression on his face obviously reflected what was going on in his head, because everyone fell silent and looked at him in suspense.

  ‘There’s a woman on the phone,’ Calle said. ‘Something about a report in the last edition. About Africa.’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘Yes. What about it?’

  ‘The guy’s dead,’ Calle said. ‘He was killed in a road accident four months ago.’

  ‘Oh dear God.’

  Helen got up quickly.

  ‘Your phone?’ she asked.

  Calle nodded.

  He stayed in the kitchen and, like the others, listened to Helen’s measured and calm response. Her concern and sincere apologies, her deepest sympathies. And, given the situation, her honest but meaningless explanations for the mishap.

  One of the reporters had managed to find a copy of the relevant edition and turned to the article in question. Though it had been written six months ago, it had not been used until now. Calle leaned over the table to get a look at the man who had died in a road accident four months ago. The man was posing proudly with his family, an African wife and two children. A baby girl, judging by the clothes, and a son of about two.

  It took a few moments for Calle to recognise him. He felt his heart beat faster as he searched for the man’s name in the text. He was right. It was him.

  The man who had been killed in an accident in Africa was Johan Lind, one of the playground tyrants who was part of what Jörgen Petersson had called the Gang of Four.

  Mike did go, even though he viewed fancy dress parties as a crime against human dignity, something that only dull, unimaginative and sadistic people would come up with.