Chapter 18
She would have to decide what she was going to do today. Ambra peered at the things she had spread across her hotel bed. The notepad full of thoughts and angles, her computer, cell phone, and a map of Kiruna and its surroundings that she got from reception.
Stay here and investigate her former foster family or head home and go on as normal, that was the question.
The list of things in favor of investigating:
She was already in Kiruna, so she might as well make the most of the opportunity.
It would be a way of getting “closure” (ugh, she hated that word).
There might be a story in it (maybe).
And what if more kids were being subjected to the same things she had. What if. That last point was circled over and over again. It would be almost unbearable if that was the case.
She got up from the bed and hunted for her skin lotion. Jill was always being given things for free, and she would send Ambra a bag of them every now and then. This particular cream contained cloudberries, apparently, which was very fitting, considering where she was. She rubbed it into her skin and kept thinking.
The list against investigating Esaias and Rakel Sventin:
Most things.
She got up and stared out of the hotel window. She had looked up the Sventins’ address. They still lived in the same old house. What should I do?
Deep down, she already knew the answer.
Her driving force was to defend those who lacked a voice, to write about appalling conditions, to gain redress, and to fight for democracy. To reveal faults.
The whole thing would have been considerably easier if it wasn’t the Sunday right after Christmas. She still called social services, a helpline.
“My name is Ambra Vinter. I’d like to talk to whoever is responsible for foster home placements in Kiruna,” she said calmly. She was in her professional role. Over the years, she must have talked to several hundred bureaucrats and public officials, maybe even several thousand.
“Anne-Charlotte Jansson takes care of that. But she’s on vacation until after New Year’s,” the voice on the end of the line informed her.
“Is there anyone else?” Ambra asked impatiently.
“I’m sorry, everyone is on vacation. If it’s an emergency, you should call 112.”
She left a message for Anne-Charlotte Jansson to call her back, adding that it was urgent, and then Ambra went down to eat breakfast with her laptop beneath her arm. Since neither the Internet nor the heating worked especially well in her room, she stayed in the dining hall with her nose buried in her laptop.
She went to aftonbladet.se and caught up with her colleagues’ latest work. Walls were being built in Europe, and interest rates would either be raised or lowered. After that, she surfed around a little, read everything she could about the foster home system, about children who had suffered, about laws and regulations. At noon, she got up, her body ridiculously stiff.
As soon as Tom had dropped her off at the hotel, she’d fallen asleep instantly in her bed. She probably wasn’t used to so much fresh air. Now, many hours later, indoors among the lunch guests and the murmur of conversations, it felt surreal that they had lain beneath the animal furs together. It had been amazing. The snowmobile ride, the star-filled sky, the Northern Lights. The almost-kiss . . . Christ, she was turned on when that happened. She wished she could send him a text to thank him for the trip, but she didn’t have his number. And, of course, there were no hits when you Googled him.
She sat back down at her computer and explored the Lodestar Security Group home page. It was a nice-looking site. Somber colors and people in suits sitting in some kind of office environment. Keywords like security, global, professionalism. It was completely impersonal, as though they had bought generic photographs directly from a photo bank. No staff members were mentioned by name. No contact address, just a switchboard number. But she could read between the lines.
This company provided tailor-made private security in a number of the world’s most unstable countries. She knew that Tom was a former elite soldier, and she assumed that the majority of Lodestar’s employees had a similar background.
Aftonbladet had recently hired an award-winning security policy journalist. He probably knew plenty about this type of business. Should she give him a call and do a little digging? She wrote herself a reminder and continued to scan the site. She could call the Lodestar switchboard and ask whether they could pass on a message to Tom. But something made her hold back.
As she sat there, surfing the elegant, impersonal website, it was as though she finally realized what type of man Tom really was. It scared her a little. He wasn’t a dry, suit-wearing boss or an eloquent media type. Violence and brutality were his everyday. No, she probably didn’t dare get in touch after all. Besides, if he wanted her to contact him, he surely would’ve given her his number. Or gotten in touch himself. She was, like any normal person, perfectly visible online. She was also woman enough to think that he would call if he cared. He was about to kiss her again last night, wasn’t he? Right? Yeah, he was, so she couldn’t be so terrible with men after all. Tom liked her.
Ambra got up from the table again, packed away her laptop, and paced restlessly into the lobby. As she stood there, studying a cabinet of Sami handicrafts, her cell phone rang. It was Grace.
“I thought you were taking some time off,” Ambra said.
“A few of the news editors are sick, so I’m helping out.” Ambra was well aware that Grace was as much of a work addict as she was, that she didn’t have anything against doing an extra shift. It was a dangerous approach, of course. And like everything dangerous, it was irresistible for story-seeking journalists.
“I just wanted to check that everything was okay,” Grace continued. “You did a great job on that piece with the old woman. I’ve heard compliments from a number of sources.”
Ambra looked down at her feet. She wasn’t comfortable taking praise. “Thanks,” she said.
“Did you make it back from Kiruna like you planned? Wasn’t there some kind of issue with the plane?”
“I’m actually still here. There’s something I want to check out.”
“But will you make it home by tomorrow? You’re working then, right?”
Shit, she hadn’t thought about that. “Grace, I worked extra. I came up here over Christmas. I assumed I could take a few days off.”
“Didn’t you just hear me say we’re short of people? I need you in the office.”
“But I’m onto something up here. I want to write about foster home placements and kids who end up suffering.”
Grace usually liked softer stories. The male news editors always wanted people to write about corrupt German car manufacturers, Russian presidents, and the North Korean nuclear threat—the harder, the better—but Grace consistently fought for stories about the most vulnerable in society.
But now she groaned. “That kind of thing’s always a mess. One person’s word against another’s. And all the authorities are bound by confidentiality. No, forget it,” she said.
“I contacted social services. The story could be linked to a religious sect.” There was always room for sects in the news world.
“Do you have a contact? Really? Someone who’ll speak out?” Grace sounded skeptical. Ambra heard a clatter in the background.
“Not yet, but I . . .”
“What the hell, Ambra. You know better than that. This’ll never work. I can’t have you up there writing that kind of crap story.”
“We’re talking about children here,” Ambra said, angrily starting to pace around the lobby.
She heard Grace cover the mouthpiece and shout at someone before she came back on the line. “Lots of kids have a crap time. I want you to come home now. There’s plenty for you to write about here.”
“I want to do something important.”
“Don’t be so damn difficult. I’m expecting you to be in the office in line with your usual hours.
You won’t get any special treatment from me, if that’s what you were thinking. You want to write about kids having a tough time, Stockholm is full of them. Go down to the emergency services center and listen to all that shit. We have five domestic disturbances involving mothers who were beaten to a pulp by their husbands while the kids watched. Children who’ve been thrown out, barefoot, in the snow. So unless you have someone from social services in Kiruna willing to put their name and title to a statement about placing kids with satanists, you can damn well fly back down here and come to the office.” Toward the end, Grace was practically screaming.
Ambra kept quiet. Her jaw was clenched. “I’ll head home then,” she said sullenly.
“You do that.” Grace hung up.
* * *
Annoyed at Grace, Ambra went back to her room, pulled on her coat, and left the hotel. She was still free right now; she could do what she liked. She walked to the bus station and found she was in luck, she didn’t have to wait. She climbed onboard and sat down at the very front. She looked out of the window. Snow and more snow. How could there be so much of it?
The closer she was to her destination, the more she recognized. Plenty had changed over the years, but so much was still the same, and memories of the house and the street names washed over her, made her sit stiffly in her seat. She hadn’t expected to react so strongly. When the bus pulled up and she stepped outside, unease washed over her. She slowly walked the short distance from the bus stop to the house where she’d lived during her foster time in Kiruna.
She’d lived with the Sventin family for just over a year. She arrived at Christmas, and her period had started that spring. There was so much that she had repressed, but she remembered how painful it was, how little comfort she was given, and how Esaias became obsessed by the fact she was changing. Eventually, his talk about the devil and the demons she carried inside her became unbearable. She ran away, back to Stockholm, and lived on the streets with lonely refugees and other runaways before social services found her and placed her in another home. It was a sheer miracle that she made it through that time unscathed.
And now she was back. She’d come out here on a whim, hadn’t really thought it through, and wasn’t prepared for the emotions that were now welling up inside her. She slowly approached the red wooden house with her heart pounding in her chest. They still had the same mailbox—funny how the memory could wake so many feelings—an ordinary black mailbox made of steel. There was no smoke rising from the chimney. The house seemed empty; it was pitch black inside and no one had cleared the snow on the walkway. Damn it, this was badly planned on her part. She wondered whether she should peer in through the windows, but she couldn’t bring herself to get that close.
She felt physically sick. Her stomach ached. Her body remembered that time better than she did. She was so damn scared when her first period arrived, because she didn’t understand what was happening to her. The cramps hurt so much, and the feeling when it ran out of her, as though she was peeing herself, and then when she saw it was blood. She was terrified, afraid she was dying. She didn’t dare say anything and bled onto handkerchiefs and bedclothes and her underwear. Rakel was furious about the mess she made. And then Esaias grabbed her by the neck and dunked her into a tub of cold water. She didn’t remember what happened next; her head was empty.
No, she couldn’t stay here any longer.
She hurried back to the bus stop, waited an eternity for a bus, and was practically frozen solid by the time she made it back to the hotel. Her room was chilly when she stepped inside. She took off her gloves and felt the radiator, which was ice cold, but she didn’t have the energy to call down to reception and complain. Instead, she lay down on the bed still wearing her hat and scarf.
She listlessly bit one of her nails. Took out her cell phone and called Jill, but only got her voice mail. She realized she should do something sensible, but instead she ended up surfing Instagram. Jill had uploaded pictures from some party yesterday.
Ambra put down her phone. All the happiness she’d felt on the snowmobile trip was completely gone. Tom hadn’t been in touch, the Sventins were on her mind, and Grace was angry. It was hard not to feel like a failure. And to add insult to injury, her immediate future involved enduring a night in a cold hotel room, then somehow trying to get home from Kiruna even though all of the planes were full.
* * *
“So you watched the Northern Lights, you said. Nothing else?” Mattias wiped the countertop, hung up the dishcloth, and gave Tom a skeptical look.
“Nope, nothing else,” Tom replied. He took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and reached for a glass. Paused when he remembered how close he had been to kissing Ambra again, how her mouth almost tempted him. But nothing happened. So, no, nothing else. Not exactly.
Mattias leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms. “Is her sister still in town?” he asked neutrally.
“Why?”
“No reason. Just making conversation. How’re you feeling today?”
“Stop asking how I feel all the time.”
Tom turned away from Mattias’s piercing gaze and looked out the window. He was aware of it himself—his mood was at rock bottom again. He couldn’t shake it off today, the anxiety just beneath his skin. It was so damn annoying. He was used to always being in control, of himself, his body, his feelings. If he at least knew why.
He’d been in a great mood yesterday, out in the forest with Ambra, but he woke with a headache and palpitations, and since then things had gone downhill. He hated that his moods were so illogical, that he swung from one extreme to another without knowing why. Mattias had offered to take Freja out both that morning and at lunch, but it almost felt worse that Mattias felt obliged to help out.
As though she could sense he was thinking about her, Freja came over to him. She wagged her tail and he petted her.
“Is it okay if I get the sauna up and running tonight?” Mattias asked as he watched the dog.
“Do whatever the hell you want,” Tom replied. He hadn’t used the sauna once, didn’t even know if it worked.
“Or I could check into a hotel,” Mattias said. It wasn’t the first time he had offered.
“When does your plane leave?”
“I managed to talk my way into a standby seat tomorrow. If you need some time alone, I can go into town.”
“Lay off,” said Tom. The idea felt ridiculous. The house was several hundred square meters.
“How are you doing, really?” Mattias asked.
“I need to go out,” he snapped. If Mattias asked once more, he would explode.
“Take the dog with you,” Mattias shouted after him.
* * *
Freja was beside Tom, in the passenger seat. She was looking out the window with interest, but she would turn to look at Tom every now and then, as though to make sure she wasn’t doing anything wrong.
It was time to give her back to Nilas. He was hardly in any shape to take care of a dog.
He turned off onto Ellinor’s street. Slowed down, tried to see whether anyone was home. His cell phone was back on the counter in the house. There was a light on in Ellinor’s kitchen. He kept the engine running. Freja studied him tensely. He reached out to her, let her sniff at his hand, and then he petted her gently behind one ear. Her fur was coarse, and she trembled beneath his hand.
“You can’t stay with me,” he said.
She looked up at him with her big, pleading eyes.
“Ah, what the hell,” he muttered, driving away. He glanced at Freja. “Tomorrow,” he said to her, noticing that she was paying attention to him. “Don’t start getting any ideas. I’m giving you back tomorrow.”
What difference would one more day make? It wasn’t like anyone had been in touch asking about her.
“Come on, we’ll go into town instead.” Freja gave a short bark and he stepped on the gas, leaving Ellinor’s house behind him.
* * *
There were ple
nty of dogs in Kiruna—hunting dogs, sleigh dogs—and he managed to find a huge pet store, where he bought a sack of dry food; two big bowls; a collar; and a new, sturdier leash. Freja allowed him to clip the collar around her neck, and then she obediently waited for him to attach the new leash. He let her nose around, followed her wherever she went, and suddenly they were outside the Scandic Ferrum, Ambra’s hotel. He slowed down, wondering whether she was still there or whether she had managed to find a seat on a plane.
“Come on, let’s go in,” he said to Freja, and he managed to squeeze them both in through the revolving glass doors.
“Is Ambra Vinter still here?” he asked at reception.
“She is. Would you like me to call up to her room?” the receptionist asked with a watchful eye on Freja’s impressive size.
“Hello?” He heard Ambra’s voice on the line. Guarded, brief.
“Hi there. This is Tom,” he said. “Lexington.”
“Ah. Hi. Why are you calling me on this phone?”
“Because I’m at your hotel. In the lobby. Want to come down?”
She appeared almost immediately, her hands in her back pockets, the same sauntering walk, her thick scarf wrapped around her neck several times.
“Hi,” he said. He realized his mood was already better. She had such a strange effect on him, and it took a while before he managed to identify the feeling. Happiness. He felt happy whenever he saw her.
She pushed her hair from her forehead, stuck out her chin. Her lips were pink and glossy. “Hi. Thanks for last night. I wanted to send you a message to say thanks, but I don’t have your number.”
The idea of exchanging numbers had never crossed his mind. This thing between them, it couldn’t go on. Could it? Though why not? They had a good time together, so why deny himself that?
Ambra reached out toward Freja. The dog sniffed cautiously.
“Did you manage to get any more sleep this morning?” Tom asked. She looked pale, with dark circles beneath her eyes, and a sudden wave of protectiveness welled up inside him. There was something so fragile about her, something brittle.
High Risk Page 17
