by Håkan Nesser
I say that’s correct. That we’ve been in Morocco for a few months and are now returning to Stockholm.
‘Your names?’ says Lene. She is sitting with a notebook and pencil, ready to write down everything I say.
‘My name’s Maria Holinek. My husband is called Martin Holinek. We—’
‘Do you have your passports?’
I shake my head. ‘Martin . . . My husband has them. He took both of them because . . . Well, he just took them.’
Knud nods, Lene writes.
‘Some kind of identification perhaps?’
I produce my driving licence. Lene notes down various details, then hands it back.
‘What happened on the ferry?’ says Knud.
‘I don’t know. We went our different ways for a while. He went to the restaurant for a meal, but I wasn’t hungry and so I stayed with Castor . . . Our dog. He said he might smoke a cigarette as well. But . . . But he never came back.’
At this point I start sobbing violently. Lene produces a box of paper tissues. I take one and blow my nose painstakingly.
‘I’m sorry. I sat waiting with Castor until they announced that it was time to return to the car deck, and when Martin didn’t appear . . . well, I suppose I thought he would go straight to the car.’
Knud clears his throat. ‘Perhaps we must take things a little easy now. You seem very upset, fru Holinek.’
‘Yes . . .’
I don’t know what to say. All three of us sit there in silence for a few seconds.
‘What do you think might have happened?’
I shake my head. I feel panic building up inside me – no wonder.
‘What state was he in?’ asks Lene. ‘It’s important we discover how things are and we keep our calm. What do you think, fru Holinek?’
I don’t answer, just stare down at the table.
‘Was your husband depressed?’ asks Knud. ‘Had you quarrelled?’
I shake my head, then nod. Without looking at either of them. I clasp my hands together.
‘Yes, he was depressed. But we hadn’t quarrelled.’
They exchange looks.
‘Could it possibly be that . . .’ says Knud slowly, scratching at a stain on the sleeve of his shirt with the nail of his index finger. ‘Could it possibly be that your husband has jumped overboard?’
I stare at both of them, one after the other. Feel that the whole of my body is shaking. Then I nod.
Knud stands up and leaves the room, clutching his mobile tightly. Lene stays with me and Castor.
‘Let us now take it calm,’ she says again.
We get a room at the Danhotel in Rødbyhavn. It’s past midnight when we go to bed. Police officer Lene is in the room next to ours, in case I might need her assistance. We have sat talking in a corner of the hotel dining room for over an hour. I have told her all about Martin’s depression, how he couldn’t work, how he had started drinking too much and started smoking again, having given up over fifteen years ago. That I was worried about him, and that . . . well, that it is not impossible that he chose to jump overboard rather than going back to Sweden with the millstone of a major failure round his neck.
Lene has explained that they are searching for Martin with the aid of both boats and helicopters, but of course it is an almost impossible task in the dark. They will increase their efforts as soon as it gets lighter, but I must probably prepare myself for the worst. You can’t survive for very long in the water at this time of year.
I broke down and cried several times, and I didn’t need to make much of an effort to do so. Gudrun Ewerts would have been proud of me. Lene asked whom I would like to be informed – our children, for instance – but I said I didn’t want to tell anybody until a bit more time has passed. Tomorrow, perhaps.
When we said goodnight outside my room door, she gave me a hug.
‘Just knock if you want something,’ she said. ‘I can sleep in your room if you want, you know that.’
‘I have my dog,’ I say. ‘I’ll be all right. But thank you.’
56
We go for an hour’s walk before breakfast. It’s a grey morning with light rain showers that come and go. We can occasionally see a helicopter out over the sea: I assume it’s searching for Martin’s dead body.
We walk along deserted streets and eventually come down to the water, and a stretch of sandy beach: I take out of my pocket the plastic bag containing our cut-up passports. I have spent quite a while before we set off, tearing them into small pieces, none of them bigger than a couple of square centimetres – and now I spread out the confetti in about ten different places. Dig it all down and remove all traces as far as possible. I throw his mobile telephone and wallet into the sea – I should probably have done that from the ferry, but I simply didn’t have the nerve.
When we get back to the Danhotel, Lene is sitting waiting for us in the breakfast room. She has an elderly colleague by her side. Knud has been working throughout the night and is now at home, catching up on sleep, she explains.
Her colleague greets us and introduces himself as Palle – I wonder if Danish police officers only have first names. He explains that he and Lene need to speak to me for a while, but that of course I can have breakfast first.
Morgenmad – he uses the Danish word for breakfast, which reminds me that the Danish word that sounds like the Swedish word for breakfast actually means lunch . . .
‘That’s a lovely dog you’ve got,’ he says. ‘Rhodesian ridge-back. A neighbour of mine has two of them.’
He strokes Caspar in the right way, and I immediately decide that I trust him.
We spend the whole of the morning in the Danhotel in Rødbyhavn. Palle tells me that the sea searches last night and this morning have been fruitless, and he asks me to repeat yet again exactly what happened on the ferry crossing. They also want some more background, and I tell them about our stay in Morocco and about Martin’s depression.
‘Did he talk about committing suicide?’ Palle asks.
‘No,’ I say somewhat hesitantly. ‘I don’t recall him mentioning it openly.’
‘Are you surprised? Or can you see that the situation we now find ourselves in has to do with his state of mind?’
I say that I don’t know. I mention that his sister took her own life. Palle nods and Lene notes that down.
‘Is it possible that he considered it a defeat to have to come home early without having achieved what he set out to do? His writing, I mean.’
‘Yes, I assume so.’
I burst into tears on several occasions – the attacks just come and I don’t need to fake them. As usual when I cry, Gudrun Ewerts comes into my mind again. I am bombarded with so many confused thoughts and impulses as I sit talking to the two Danish police officers. For instance, I get the feeling that I have been swimming for ages under water, and that what has now happened is that I have at last managed to raise my head above the surface. It is a strange image, of course, in view of the fact that we are talking about Martin’s body which went the opposite way. Or so the police think, at least.
When they have run out of questions to ask about what happened, they wonder what I am going to do next. Do I want to stay on in Rødbyhavn a bit longer – in case a miracle happens – or do I want to go back home to Stockholm?
I say I want to go home.
‘Have you been in contact with relations and friends?’
I shake my head.
‘Who would you like to get in touch with?’
I say I would like to contact our children, and shortly afterwards I compose an e-mail message I send to both of them. Only a few lines, but it’s not easy to find the right words. I tell them I’m on my way up to Stockholm, and that I’ll have my mobile switched on all afternoon.
‘Do you think you’ll be able to drive all the way to Stockholm?’ Lene asks.
I say I do. I’m used to driving, and it’s better than sitting still.
‘Do you have somebody to look after you when you
get there?’
‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘That’s not a problem.’
‘And you’re sure you’ll be able to drive?’
‘Yes, I’ll be okay.’
At noon I take my leave of the two police officers. They tell me they’ve been in touch with their Swedish colleagues, and they also say that they don’t intend to inform the media about what has happened – neither the Danish nor the Swedish hacks. It’s up to me to decide how to make the accident public knowledge.
It seems they have been told by the police on the other side of the Sound that Martin and I are not exactly unknown in Sweden.
‘Look after yourself,’ says Lena. ‘Feel able to ring me when you like.’
I thank her. I have her business card in my purse.
And so we get into the car and set off on our journey northwards through Denmark. When we reach the Öresund Bridge an hour and a half later, it starts snowing.
It’s Gunvald who rings first. I’ve stopped at a petrol station just outside Helsingborg, and am about to get out of the car and fill up when I see the call is from him, so I drive over to a parking bay instead.
‘Hi,’ he says, ‘Is it true?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid it’s true.’
‘Good God!’
‘Yes indeed.’
‘Where are you?’
‘On the E4 north of Helsingborg. I’m on the way home.’
‘When did it happen?’
‘Last night. We came on the ferry from Puttgarden.’
‘And he . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you see it?’
‘No. But he didn’t come to the car when we were instructed to drive ashore.’
‘I didn’t know . . . I mean, he did write . . . And so did you.’
‘I had no idea, Gunvald. I didn’t realize it was that bad. I thought going home was the right thing to do, but . . .’
‘You can’t know things like that.’
‘No.’
‘But they haven’t found him, have they?’
‘No.’
‘Is there any chance that—’
‘No. It’s too cold.’
‘Good God.’
Then we have nothing else to add, neither I nor Gunvald. But we don’t close down the call. I sit staring out at the swirling snowflakes for a while, listening to Gunvald’s breathing. I recall lying awake at night when he was newly born, listening to his breathing. Now I’m sitting at a petrol station and his dad is dead.
‘I’ll try to get up to Stockholm tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Does Synn know about it?’
I say that I’ve e-mailed her as well, but of course they are several hours behind us in New York.
‘You don’t need to come tomorrow,’ I add. ‘Wait a few days, let me come to terms with it all first. We can keep in touch by telephone.’
‘Okay,’ says Gunvald. ‘Let’s do that. Mum . . . ?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m so sorry . . .’
‘So am I, Gunvald. We’ll just have to try and get over it.’
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to try.’
Then we hang up. I drive back to the pumps and start filling up.
The snow persists. I buy an evening newspaper which says that it will continue all evening and all night as well. Drivers are warned to be careful.
When we are somewhere in the Småland hills Synn rings. She has just got back from a jog in Central Park and is crying loudly. That surprises me.
‘I’m so sorry that I wrote what I did, Mum,’ she sobs. ‘I didn’t realize he was that bad.’
‘No, but he did,’ I say. ‘I never told him what you wrote, so you don’t need to worry about that.’
Then we say more or less the same things as Gunvald and I had said an hour earlier, and suddenly the connection is lost without warning. Perhaps it’s the snow, perhaps it’s something else. She doesn’t ring back until after we have passed Gränna, and she announces that she is looking for flights home.
I tell her to wait for a bit. It’s better to take things easy for a few days and try to come to terms with what has happened. And there’s no body – without one there’s no hurry when it comes to the funeral.
‘I didn’t realize,’ says Synn, and starts crying again. We finish the call just as I’m passing the slip road to Ödeshög.
It’s half past nine in the evening when I park outside our house in Nynäshamn. It’s minus eight degrees according to the thermometer in the car, and the snowfall has eased off a little. Judging by the snow in our street the snow ploughs have passed through not long ago.
I remain sitting in the car for a while before I feel up to opening the door and getting out of the car. Castor remains on the passenger seat, and doesn’t move a muscle.
57
The sixteenth of February.
Twelve degrees of frost. It’s half past five in the evening, I’m in the kitchen preparing roast fillet of beef. I’ve browned it on the outside and am now wrapping it in foil: then it will go in the oven for an hour on low heat. I can hear Chet Baker from the living room.
Just a salad and a mushroom and rosemary sauce to accompany it – I’ve prepared this dish a hundred times and it never goes wrong.
Blinis with sour cream, whitefish roe and shallots for starters – that’s a Nordic classic, and I want to give him something I don’t think he’s ever tasted before.
Mind you, at first I tried to stop him. Obviously, fitting him into my Swedish existence, overlapping his Exmoor and my Sweden in this way without any precautionary measures seemed both unmotivated and risky. But then he explained that he only wanted to meet me as usual. An evening, a night and a morning. Just as in Heathercombe Cottage. When I still protested he told me he had already booked flights – from Heathrow on Saturday afternoon and back again from Arlanda on Sunday afternoon. He didn’t want to go on a guided tour of Stockholm and Sweden. He didn’t want to meet my friends. Didn’t want to visit the famous archipelago or see the Town Hall. He simply wanted to be together with me for half a day, as usual.
I gave way. He gave me no time to think it over: he rang on Thursday and today is Saturday. I asked if he wanted me to meet him at Arlanda, but he said I should stay at home and prepare a meal. He was very keen to become acquainted with my cooking skills.
He laughed. I laughed.
‘And I suppose you’ll then take another taxi to the airport on Sunday afternoon, will you?’
‘Exactly,’ said Mark Britton. ‘You won’t even need to step outside.’
‘What about Jeremy?’ I asked.
‘My sister’s coming here,’ he said. ‘She couldn’t be away from home any longer than this, otherwise I’d have stayed for a few days. To tell you the truth.’
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Okay, you’re welcome.’
‘How long does it take from the airport to where you live?’
‘About an hour and a half. The quickest way is to take the Arlanda Express into central Stockholm first.’
‘I’ll fix that. So I’ll be at your place around seven. I’ll ring if there are any delays. But you can count on my being there. Even if I have to swim over.’
‘Give me a call when you’ve landed.’
‘Of course.’
When we had hung up I passed by the hall mirror and saw my face in it. I smiled.
I shall drive Mark back to Arlanda. Of course I shall. I have to be out of the house tomorrow afternoon anyway, as there will be people coming to look it over then. The official viewing time isn’t until next weekend, but the estate agent said he had a few very promising prospective buyers, and so it would be silly not to give them an advance viewing.
Everybody says I’m being too precipitate, but I let them think so. They reckon I should continue living here for at least six months, and see how it feels. But you don’t know the whole story, I think to myself as I listen to their arguments. You don’t understand. You shouldn’t make important decisions when you�
�re in a state of crisis, they say: you should at least finish mourning first.
I’m not in a state of crisis, I think. I’m not mourning.
Christa is the only one I’ve told that I can’t bear the thought of carrying on living in this house. Not another week, barely another day. I think she understands me. Or at least, understands the fiction I present her with.
Gunvald and Synn have been here, then left again. We were together all last weekend, and as far as I was concerned it was a flawed and stiff theatrical performance. I know that they are both deeply affected by Martin’s death, but we’re simply not on the same wavelength. We are three individual instruments, all out of tune, trying to pretend that we are a trio – despite the fact that we have never been one, and have little prospect of ever becoming one. But it seemed to me that despite everything, I might – eventually – be able to establish a better relationship with Synn. I had that feeling, in brief moments when our eyes met; but the presence of Gunvald and the situation we found ourselves in closed all doors for the time being.
Gunvald returned to Copenhagen last Monday. Synn flew back to New York the following day. We are not yet thinking in terms of a funeral, but we agreed to have a sort of memorial service at Easter. I’ve spoken to a clergyman, and he said it was usual to make such arrangements, given the circumstances.
Unless something new happens before then, that is. Assuming they don’t fish up a dead body down at Fehmarn. A police officer I spoke to explained that the sea currents in that area are completely unpredictable. Some flow up towards Denmark, others flow out into the Baltic – it’s more or less impossible to predict where things that have fallen overboard will end up.
The day after I got home I composed a short e-mail that I sent to everybody involved: Bergman, Soblewski, Christa, Martin’s closest colleagues in his university department, my closest colleagues at the Monkeyhouse, and a few others. My brother, of course. People got in touch the first couple of days, but then everything was remarkably silent. I think most of them linked Martin’s suicide with what happened in that hotel in Gothenburg almost a year ago. It would be rather odd if they didn’t.
