‘She’s absolutely nuts,’ Anna gasped between fits of laughter.
‘And that’s not all,’ said Erica. She demanded that her nephew be in charge of the entertainment.
‘And? What’s wrong with that?’
Erica paused for effect. ‘He plays the hurdy-gurdy.’
‘No-o-o, you’ve got to be kidding.’ ‘Oh, I can just picture it. A gigantic wedding with all of Kristina’s aunts with their rolling walkers, you in a crocheted miniskirt, Patrik in his graduation suit with sideburns, and all to the tune of the hurdy-gurdy. God, how fantastic. I’d pay any price just to see it.’
‘Go ahead and laugh,’ said Erica. ‘But the way things look now, there’s not going to be a wedding. We’re so far behind with the arrangements it’s not true.’
‘Okay, listen,’ Anna said resolutely, sitting down at the kitchen table with pen and paper poised. ‘We’re going to make a list, and then we’ll get moving. And don’t let Patrik even think about getting out of doing his part. Are you the only one getting married, or is it the two of you?’
‘Yeah, well, it’s probably the latter,’ said Erica, sceptical of freeing Patrik of his delusion that she was both the project leader and foot soldier when it came to pulling off this wedding. He seemed to think that after proposing, all his practical duties were done; the only thing he had left to do was show up on time at the church.
‘Hire a band for the reception, hmm, let’s see . . . Patrik,’ Anna decided with glee. She wrote his name down with great resolve, and Erica was enjoying not being in the driver’s seat for once.
‘Book time to taste the wedding menu . . . Patrik.’
‘Look, this isn’t going to . . .’ Erica began, but Anna pretended not to hear her.
‘Bridal gown – well, that’s probably going to be you, Erica. You’ve got to start making an effort. What do you say we three girls drive down to Uddevalla tomorrow and see what they’ve got?’
‘Well,’ Erica said hesitantly. Trying on clothes was the last thing she was up for at the moment. The extra weight she’d put on during her pregnancy with Maja simply wouldn’t budge, and she’d even added a few more pounds since then. The stress in recent months had made it impossible for her to think about what she was stuffing into her mouth. She stopped her hand with the bun that she was just about to wolf down and put it back on the tray. Anna looked up from her list.
‘You know, if you stop eating carbs until the wedding, all that weight will just melt away.’
‘Anna, the pounds have never dropped off me with any great speed before,’ Erica said morosely. It was one thing to have this thought herself, but something else entirely when somebody else pointed out that she needed to lose some weight. But she had to do something if she wanted to feel beautiful on her wedding day. ‘Okay, I’ll try. No buns and cakes, no sweets, no bread, no pasta made with white flour, none of that.’
‘You’ll still have to get started on finding a dress now. If necessary, we can get it altered just before the wedding.’
‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ Erica said dully. ‘But let’s go to Uddevalla tomorrow morning as soon as we’ve dropped off Emma and Adrian. Then we’ll see. Otherwise I really will have to get married in my jogging suit,’ she said, imagining herself with a gloomy expression. ‘Anything else?’ She nodded at Anna’s list. Her sister kept writing down tasks and dividing them up. Erica all of a sudden felt very, very tired. This was never going to work.
* * *
They were in no hurry as they crossed the street. It was only four days ago that Patrik and Martin had taken the same route, and they were unsure of what they would now find. For four days Kerstin had lived with the news that her partner was gone. Four days that surely must have seemed like an eternity.
Patrik glanced at Martin and rang the doorbell. As if they’d coordinated it, they both took a deep breath and then exhaled some of the tension that had built up inside them. In a way it felt selfish to be so distressed about seeing people in the depths of grief. Selfish to feel the slightest discomfort, when things were immeasurably easier for them than for the person who was mourning the loss of a loved one. But the discomfort was based on a fear of saying something wrong, taking a false step and possibly making matters worse. But common sense told them that nothing they could say or do would worsen the pain that was already almost beyond endurance.
They heard steps approaching, and the door opened. Inside stood not Kerstin, as they had expected, but Sofie.
‘Hello,’ she said softly, and they could see definite traces of several days of tears. She didn’t move, and Patrik cleared his throat.
‘Hello, Sofie. You remember us, don’t you? Patrik Hedström and Martin Molin.’ He looked at Martin but then turned back to Sofie. ‘Is . . . is Kerstin at home? We’d like to talk with her a bit.’
Sofie stepped aside. She went into the flat to call Kerstin, while Patrik and Martin waited in the hall. ‘Kerstin, the police are here. They want to talk to you.’
Kerstin appeared, and her face was red from crying as well. She stopped a short distance from them without saying a word, and neither Patrik nor Martin knew how to broach the subject they had come to discuss with her. Finally she said, ‘Won’t you come in?’
They nodded, took off their shoes, and followed her into the kitchen. Sofie seemed to want to follow, but Kerstin seemed instinctively to sense that what they were going to discuss wasn’t suitable for her ears, because she shook her head almost imperceptibly. For a second Sofie looked as though she were going to ignore the dismissal, but then she shrugged and went to her room and closed the door. In time she would be told all about it, but for now Patrik and Martin wanted to speak with Kerstin in private.
Patrik got straight to the point as soon as they had all sat down.
‘We’ve found a number of . . . irregularities surrounding Marit’s accident.’
‘Irregularities?’ said Kerstin, looking from one officer to the other.
‘Yes,’ said Martin. ‘There are certain . . . injuries that may not be attributable to the accident.’
‘May not?’ Kerstin said. ‘Don’t you know?’
‘No, we’re not positive yet,’ Patrik admitted. ‘We’ll know more when the medical examiner’s final report comes in. But there are enough questions to make us want to have another talk with you. To hear whether there’s any reason to believe that someone might have wanted to harm Marit.’ Patrik saw Kerstin flinch. He sensed a thought fly through her mind, a thought that she rejected at once. But he had to find out what it was, he couldn’t ignore it.
‘If you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm Marit, you have to tell us. If nothing else so that we can exclude that person from suspicion.’ Patrik and Martin watched her tensely. She seemed to be wrestling with something, so they sat quietly, giving her time to formulate what she wanted to say.
‘We’ve received some letters.’ The words came slowly and reluctantly.
‘Letters?’ said Martin, wanting to hear more.
‘Ye-e-es.’ Kerstin fidgeted with the gold ring she wore on her left ring finger. ‘We’ve been getting letters for four years.’
‘What were the letters about?’
‘Threats, filth, things about my relationship with Marit.’
‘Someone who wrote because of . . .’ Patrik paused, not knowing how to phrase it, ‘because of the nature of your relationship?’
‘Yes,’ Kerstin admitted. ‘Somebody who understood or suspected that we were more than just friends and who was . . .’ Now it was her turn to search for words. She decided on ‘offended.’
‘What sort of threats were they? How blatant?’ Martin was now writing everything down.
‘They were quite blatant. Saying that people like us were disgusting, that we went against nature. That people like us should die.’
‘How often did you get these letters?’
Kerstin thought about it. She kept twisting her ring nervously round and round. ‘We go
t maybe three or four a year. Sometimes more, sometimes less. There didn’t seem to be any real pattern. It was more as if somebody sent one when the mood came over them, if you know what I mean.’
‘Why didn’t you ever file a police report?’ Martin looked up from his notebook.
Kerstin gave him a crooked smile. ‘Marit didn’t want to. She was afraid that it would make matters worse. That it would turn into a big deal and our . . . relationship would become public knowledge.’
‘And she didn’t want that to happen?’ asked Patrik, then remembered that was precisely what Kerstin and Marit had argued about before Marit drove off that evening. The evening when she didn’t come back.
‘No, she didn’t,’ Kerstin said tonelessly. ‘But we saved the letters. Just in case.’ She got up.
Patrik and Martin stared at each other in astonishment. They hadn’t even thought to ask about something like this. It was more than they’d dared hope. Now maybe they would find some physical evidence that might lead them to the person who wrote the letters.
Kerstin came back with a thick bundle of letters in a plastic bag. She dumped them out on the table. Patrik was afraid to destroy any more evidence. Enough damage had already been done through handling in the post and by Kerstin and Marit. So he poked cautiously through the letters with his pen. They were still in their envelopes, and he felt his heart quicken at the thought that there might be additional DNA evidence under the licked stamps.
‘May we take these with us?’ Martin asked, also regarding the pile of letters with anticipation.
‘Yes, take them,’ Kerstin said wearily. ‘Take them and burn them when you’re done.’
‘But you never received any threats besides the letters?’
Kerstin sat back down and thought for a moment. ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. ‘Sometimes the phone would ring, but when we picked up the receiver the person wouldn’t say anything, just sat there in silence until we hung up. We actually tried to have the call traced once, but it turned out to be a pay-as-you-go mobile phone. So it was impossible to find out who it was.’
‘And when did you last get such a call?’ Martin waited tensely with his pen poised over his notebook.
‘Well, let me see,’ said Kerstin. ‘Two weeks ago, maybe?’ She was fiddling with her ring again.
‘But there was nothing besides this? Nobody who may have wanted to harm Marit? How was her relationship with her ex-husband, for example?’
Kerstin took her time answering. After first glancing into the hall to make sure that Sofie’s door was closed, she said at last, ‘He used to bother us in the beginning, for quite a while, actually. But the past year it’s been calmer.’
‘What exactly do you mean by bother you?’ asked Patrik as Martin took notes.
‘He couldn’t accept that Marit had left him. They’d been together ever since they were very young. But according to Marit it hadn’t been a good relationship for many years, if ever. To tell the truth, she was rather surprised at how strongly Ola reacted when she said she was moving out. But Ola . . .’ she hesitated, ‘Ola is a real control freak. Everything has to be neat and in order, and when Marit left him that order was disrupted. That was probably the thing that bothered him most, not the fact that he’d lost her.’
‘Did it ever turn physical?’
‘Not as such,’ Kerstin said hesitantly. Once again she cast a nervous glance at Sofie’s door. ‘I suppose it depends how you define physical. I don’t think he ever hit her, but I know that he dragged her by the arm and shoved her a few times, stuff like that.’
‘And what was their arrangement regarding Sofie?’
‘Well, that was one of the things there was a lot of trouble about at first. Marit moved in with me straight away, and even though the sort of relationship we had was not explicit, he probably had his suspicions. He was staunchly opposed to Sofie being here. He tried to sabotage things when she stayed with us, coming to fetch her much earlier than agreed on and things like that.’
‘But things settled down later?’ asked Martin.
‘Yes, thank goodness. Marit was adamant on that matter, and he finally realized that it was fruitless. She threatened to call in the authorities and all sorts of things, and then Ola relented. But he’s never been happy that Sofie comes here.’
‘And did Marit ever tell him what sort of relationship you had?’
‘No.’ Kerstin shook her head vigorously. ‘She was so stubborn on that point. She said it was nobody’s business. She wouldn’t even tell Sofie.’ Kerstin smiled and shook her head again, but with less vehemence. ‘Although Sofie just told me that she wasn’t fooled for a minute by our moving our stuff back and forth from the spare bedroom and trying to kiss discreetly in the kitchen like a couple of teenagers.’ She laughed and Patrik was amazed how the laughter softened her face. Then she turned serious again.
‘But I still find it hard to believe that Ola would have anything to do with Marit’s death. It’s been a while since their worst arguments and, well, I don’t know. It just seems unbelievable.’
‘And the person who wrote the letters and phoned you? You have no idea who that might be? Did Marit ever talk about any customer in the shop who may have behaved strangely or anything like that?’
Kerstin thought about it long and hard, but then shook her head. ‘No, I can’t think of anyone. But maybe you’ll have better luck.’ She nodded at the pile of letters.
‘Yes, let’s hope so,’ said Patrik, sweeping the letters back into the bag. He and Martin got to their feet. ‘Are you sure it’s okay for us to take these letters?’
‘Yes, of course. I never want to set eyes on them again.’ Kerstin followed them to the door and then shook hands in farewell. ‘Will you let me know when you find out something definite about . . .’ She left the sentence unfinished.
Patrik nodded. ‘Yes, I promise to get in touch with you as soon as we know anything more. Thanks for taking the time to talk with us at this . . . difficult time.’
She just nodded and closed the door behind them. Patrik looked at the bag he had in his hand. ‘What do you say we send a little package to the National Crime Lab today?’
‘Sounds like an excellent idea,’ said Martin, setting off in the direction of the station. Now at least they had somewhere to begin.
‘Yes, we have great hopes for this project. Is it Monday you begin broadcasting?’
‘Yes indeed, it’s all set,’ said Fredrik, giving Erling a big smile.
They were sitting in the spacious office of the town council, in the section where some easy chairs were placed around a table. That had been one of the first things on Erling’s list of changes: replacing the boring municipal furniture with something a bit more upmarket. It had been no problem to sneak that invoice into the bookkeeping; they always needed office furniture.
The leather squeaked a bit as Fredrik shifted position in the easy chair and went on: ‘We’re very pleased with the footage we’ve shot so far. Not so much action, perhaps, but good material to introduce the participants, set the tone, if you know what I mean. Then it’s up to us to make sure that intrigues develop so we get some great lines out of it. I hear there’s some sort of evening entertainment here tomorrow, and that might be a good place to start. If I know my cast members, they’ll certainly liven up the party.’
‘Well, we do want Tanum to impress the media at least as much as Åmål and Töreboda did.’ Erling puffed on his cigar and gazed at the producer through the smoke. ‘Sure you won’t have a cigar?’ He nodded towards the box sitting on the table. The ‘humidor’, as he always called it, putting the stress on the ‘o’. That was important. It was only amateurs who kept their cigars in a bloody box. Real connoisseurs had a humidor.
Fredrik Rehn shook his head. ‘No thanks, I’ll stick with my regular coffin nails.’ He pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his pocket and lit a cigarette. Thick smoke was starting to hover over the table.
‘I can’t emphasize enough how important
it is that we make a big splash in the coming weeks.’ Erling took another puff. ‘Åmål was in the headlines at least once a week while they were shooting, and Töreboda wasn’t far behind. I’m expecting at least the same coverage for us.’ He was using the cigar as a pointer.
The producer wasn’t intimidated; he was used to handling self-important TV bosses and wasn’t afraid of some has-been who had set himself up as mini-pope in this Lilliput.
‘The headlines will come, trust me. If it’s sluggish to begin with, we’ll just have to heat things up a bit. Believe me, we know exactly which buttons to push when it comes to these people. They aren’t that sophisticated.’ He laughed and Erling joined in. Fredrik went on: It’s dead simple: we put together a group of thick, media-mad youngsters, supply booze on tap, and set up cameras that film non-stop. They get too little sleep, eat poorly, and the whole time feel the pressure to perform and be seen by the TV viewers. If they don’t succeed with that they can cruise local bar tours, go to the head of the queue at night clubs, pick up plenty of babes, or make money posing for centrefolds. Believe me, they’re motivated to create headlines and increase viewer numbers, and we have the tools to help them channel that energy.’
‘Well, it certainly seems that you know what you’re doing.’ Erling leaned forward and flicked off a long column of ash into the ashtray. ‘Although I must say, I much prefer the sort of programmes that were done in the old days. Now that was quality television. This Is Your Life, that charades game show, the Hagge Geigert talk show. They just don’t have hosts like Lasse Holmqvist and Hagge Geigert anymore.’
Fredrik stifled an impulse to roll his eyes. These old farts always had to go on about how much better the old TV shows used to be. But if you sat them down in front of a segment with Hagge what’s-his-name, they’d be nodding off within ten seconds. But he just smiled at the old fart, as if he agreed with him completely. It was important to cultivate Erling’s cooperation.
The Gallows Bird Page 8
