I know what burkas and rapes are, but not caliphates, so I’ve made a note of it to google later—I usually do that with words I don’t know. I like words, especially hard ones.
I like collecting them.
That’s another secret I can’t tell anyone. You get beaten up for less in Ormberg, like listening to the wrong music or reading books. And some people—like me, for example—get beaten up more often than others.
* * *
—
I walk out onto the deck, lean against the railing, and stare out over the creek. The storm clouds have thinned out and exposed a sliver of blue sky and an intense orange sun just above the horizon. Frost, which makes the wooden deck look hairy, glitters in the last rays of sunshine, and the creek flows by dark and sluggish.
The creek never freezes—because it’s always moving. You could swim it the whole winter, but of course nobody does.
The deck is littered with branches that blew down during the storm late last night.
I should probably gather them up and throw them onto the compost pile, but I’m hypnotized by the sun, hanging there like an orange just below the edge of the clouds.
“Jake, come inside, for fuck’s sake,” Dad shouts from inside the living room. “You’ll freeze your ass off out there.”
I let go of the railing, stare at the perfectly shaped wet imprints where my hands just lay, and go back into the house.
“Close the door,” Dad says from the massage chair in front of the huge flat screen.
Dad lowers the volume with the remote and looks at me. A wrinkle appears between his thick eyebrows. He runs a freckled hand over his bald head. Then he absently moves his hand to the massage chair’s control panel, which no longer works.
“What were you doing out there?”
“Looking at the creek.”
“Looking at the creek?”
The wrinkle between Dad’s eyebrows deepens as if I’ve said some hard words he doesn’t know, but then it’s as if he decides he doesn’t care anymore.
“I’m going to Olle’s for a while,” he says, unbuttoning the top button on his jeans to make room for his belly. “Melinda made some grub. It’s in the fridge. Don’t wait up for me.”
“Okay.”
“She promised to be home by ten.”
I nod and go out to the kitchen, grab a Coke, go up to my room, and feel butterflies in my stomach.
I’ll get at least two hours to myself.
* * *
—
It’s dark when Dad leaves. The door slams so hard that my windowpanes rattle, and after a moment the car starts and I hear him drive off. I wait a few minutes to make sure he’s not coming back, then I go to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.
The double bed is unmade on Dad’s side. On Mom’s side the blanket is stretched neatly across the bed and the pillows stand perfectly fluffed against the wall. The book she was reading before she died still lies on the nightstand, the one about the girl who gets together with a rich guy named Grey. He’s a sadist and can’t fall in love, but the girl loves him anyway, because girls like when it hurts. At least that’s what Vincent says. I find it hard to believe—I mean, who likes getting whipped? Not me, anyway. I think the girl probably likes Grey’s money, because everybody loves money and most people would do anything to get rich.
Like take a whipping now and then or give a blow job to a disgusting sadist, for example.
I walk over to Mom’s closet and pull the mirror door aside. It sticks a bit and I have to give it a shove before it glides open. Then I run my hands over her clothes: sleek silks, sequined dresses, soft velvet, tight jeans, and wrinkled, unironed cotton.
I close my eyes and swallow.
It’s so beautiful, so perfect. If I were rich, as rich as that Grey, I would buy a walking closet or whatever it’s called. I’d fill it with handbags for every occasion, every season, hang them on special hooks, and my shoes would be lined up on their own shelves with special lighting.
I realize, of course, that’s impossible. Not just because it costs tons of money, but because I’m a guy. It would be totally preposterous to get a closet full of women’s clothes. If I did, it would truly prove I’m a freak. That I’m worse than that weirdo Grey—because it’s okay to hit women and tie them up, but not to dress like one.
At least not in Ormberg.
I take out the gold-sequined dress, the one with the small shoulder straps, and the slippery lining. Mom used to wear it on New Year’s Eve, or when she took a cruise to Finland with her girlfriends.
I hold it up in front of me and take a few steps back so I can see myself in the mirror. I’m skinny and my brown hair is like a crown around my pale face. I gently lay the dress down on the bed and go to the dresser. Pull out the top drawer and select a lacy black bra. Then I take off my jeans and my hoodie and put on the bra.
It looks kind of bulky, of course. There’s nothing where the breasts should be, just a flat, milky white chest with small, stupid nipples. The bra cups stand straight out from my chest. I put a rolled-up sock in each cup and then slip the dress over my head. As always when I try on the sequin dress, I’m struck by how heavy it is—heavy and cold against my skin.
I observe my image in the mirror and suddenly feel uncomfortable. I’d rather use someone else’s clothes beside Mom’s, but I don’t have any women’s clothes of my own, of course, and Melinda mostly has jeans and tops. She’d never wear something this pretty.
I ponder which shoes would go best with the dress. Maybe the black ones with pink jewels on them? Or the sandals with blue and red straps? I choose the black ones—I almost always choose them because I love the sparkling pink jewels. They remind me of expensive jewelry, like what the girls wear in those YouTube clips Melinda watches.
I back up and examine my mirror image. If my hair were just a little longer, I’d definitely look like a girl for real. Maybe I can let it grow out a bit, at least long enough so that I can put it up?
The thought is titillating.
When I walk into Melinda’s room, I leave imprints on the thick carpet. Dad put in wall-to-wall carpet in all the rooms except the kitchen, because it feels nice to walk on. I love the feeling of that softness under high heels; it’s almost like I’m walking on grass, like I’m outside.
Melinda’s makeup bag is huge and messy. I take a look at the clock and decide I have time. I paint thick black lines around my eyes like Adele and color my lips with wine red lipstick. The heat spreads inside of me when I look in the mirror.
I’m beautiful, for real.
I’m Jake, but not, because I’m prettier and more perfect and more like myself than before.
In the hall I pull on one of Melinda’s sweaters—it’s freezing outside and even if I wanted to, I couldn’t go out in just the dress. The black wool is scratchy and the buttons have fallen off, so it won’t stay closed. The chill nips at my legs as I lock the front door, put the key under the empty, cracked flowerpot, and head for the road. The gravel crunches under my weight, and I have to concentrate on keeping my balance in these high heels.
The night is dark and colorless and smells like wet earth.
A light mixture of snow and rain has started to fall. The dress makes a sound as I walk, a sort of rustling. The trees are silent along the path, and I wonder if they see me and if so, what they think. But I don’t think the spruces would have any objection to my attire. They’re just trees.
I take off on a smaller path.
A country road lies about a hundred meters in front of me. I can walk there, but no farther, because someone might see me and that would be the worst thing that could ever happen. Even worse than death.
I love walking by myself in the woods. Especially in Mom’s clothes. I usually pretend I’m out on the town in Katrineholm, on my way to a bar or restaurant.
When I
’m a few meters from the road, I stop. Close my eyes and try to enjoy this as much as I possibly can, because I will have to head back soon. Back to Ormberg’s prettiest house, back to the flat screen and massage chair and my bedroom with all the movie posters. Back to the fridge filled with fast food and an ice machine that works if you bang your fist against it a few times.
Back to Jake, who doesn’t have a dress or bra or high heels.
Cold raindrops fall on my head, flow down my neck and in between my shoulder blades.
I hunch over, but really the weather isn’t that bad. Not compared to yesterday, when the wind blew so hard I thought the roof would fly away.
I hear a thud coming from somewhere; maybe it’s a deer—there’s a lot of them around here. Once, Dad came home with a whole deer that Olle had shot, and he hung it upside down in the garage for several days before skinning and butchering it.
More sounds.
A twig snapping and then something else—a stifled groan, like an injured animal. I freeze and peer into the darkness.
Something moves between the trees, creeping through the brush toward me.
A wolf?
The thought scares me, but I know there are no wolves here. Only moose, deer, foxes, and hares. The most dangerous animals in Ormberg are human beings; that’s what Dad always says.
I turn around to run back to the house, but one high heel sticks in the ground, and I fall backward. A sharp rock penetrates the palm of my hand and pain pierces my lower back.
A moment later a woman crawls out of the forest.
She’s old. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and her thin blouse and jeans are soaked through and torn. She has no jacket or shoes and her arms are streaked with blood and dirt.
“Help me,” she says in a voice so weak I can barely understand the words.
I slide backward on the ground in complete terror to escape her. She looks exactly like a witch or an insane murderer from one of the horror movies I watch with Saga.
The rain has gotten heavier and a big puddle spreads out around me. I get up onto my haunches, take off my shoes and hold them in my hand.
“Help me,” she mutters again, trying to get to her feet.
I realize that she’s not a witch, but maybe she could be crazy. And dangerous. Last year, the police arrested a mentally ill guy in Ormberg. He’d escaped from Karsudden Hospital in Katrineholm and hid for almost a month in somebody’s empty summer cottage.
“Who are you?” I ask, still backing up, my feet sinking into the wet moss.
The woman stops. She looks surprised, as if she doesn’t know how to answer that question. Then she looks at her arms, pushes away a branch, and I see she’s holding something in her hand, a book or maybe a notebook.
“My name is Hanne,” she says after a few seconds.
Her voice sounds steadier, and when she meets my eyes, she tries to press out a smile.
She goes on:
“You don’t need to be afraid. I won’t hurt you.”
The rain whips against my cheek as I meet her eyes.
She looks different now, less like a witch and more like somebody’s aunt. A harmless old woman who’s ripped her clothes and fallen down in the woods. Maybe she got lost and can’t find her way home.
“What happened?” I ask.
She looks down at her ripped-up clothes and then looks up and meets my gaze. I can see the despair and horror in her eyes.
“I don’t remember,” she murmurs.
At that very moment, I hear a car approaching in the distance. The old woman also seems to hear it, because she takes a few steps toward the big road and waves her arms. I follow her up onto the edge of the highway and stare into the darkness toward the oncoming vehicle. In its headlights, I can make out Hanne’s bare feet, which are covered with blood, as if she’d scratched them on sharp twigs and stones.
And I see something else, too: I see the sequins of my dress glitter and sparkle like stars in a clear night sky.
Who knows who might be sitting in that car—could be a neighbor or a friend’s big brother or the crazy old man on the other side of the church—but the likelihood that it’s someone I know is pretty high.
The terror spreads inward, twisting my intestines, squeezing my heart tight.
There’s only one thing worse than witches and mental patients and insane murderers—being discovered. If people in Ormberg found out you might as well just shoot me now.
I back up into the woods and squat down behind a few bushes. The driver must have seen me, but hopefully didn’t recognize me. It’s dark, the rain is pouring now, and I am in a costume of sorts.
The car stops, and the window glides down with a hum. Music flows out into the night. I hear the old woman talk to the driver, but I don’t recognize the woman inside or the car. After a minute, the old woman opens the back door and jumps in. And the car disappears into the night.
I stand up and walk down the path, which runs like a dark, shining snake through the woods. The only sound is the rain.
The old woman whose name was Hanne is gone, but she left something on the ground—a brown book.
Malin
I huddle over against the wind in the parking lot, staring down at the shiny black asphalt, my mind still on the question Mom asked just before I got the call.
Why did you become a cop, Malin?
When I get that question I usually laugh and roll my eyes. I make some joke about how it’s not for the money, or the car, or the hours. In other words: I deflect. I don’t want to consider the question seriously, examine my motives or myself. If I were to try to explain it, I’d say it’s in part because I like helping people, that deep down I really believe I can make a difference. Also, I’ve always had the urge to create order, put things in their proper place, like that feeling you get when you clean your house or weed your garden.
Besides, going away to study at the Police Academy in Sörentorp, just north of Stockholm, was an easy way to escape. A free ticket out of Ormberg, and an excellent excuse to avoid having to visit on the weekends.
And the skeleton that Kenny, Anders, and I found in the woods eight years ago—did that have anything to do with my career path?
I don’t know.
At the time, it was exciting to be at the center of a high-profile criminal investigation. Even if the victim, a little girl, was never identified. And the perpetrator never found.
It definitely didn’t occur to me that I might work that very case one day.
A bitterly cold gust of wind blows an empty plastic sack and some leaves in the direction of the one-story brick hospital. Someone exits the reception area, stands with his back to the wind, and lights a cigarette.
Manfred Olsson, my temporary colleague, called me less than an hour ago.
I remember the surprise on Mom’s face when I took the call. Her eyes flicking between the clock and me, and then her realization that something serious had happened, and I was going to have to leave. Even if it was the first Sunday of Advent, and she had a roast in the oven.
Manfred sounded out of breath when I answered the phone, as if he’d run the three-kilometer track near the church. But he often sounds out of breath, probably because he’s carrying around an extra fifty kilos. And I was completely unprepared for what he said: Hanne Lagerlind-Schön had been found in the forest yesterday—alone, suffering from hypothermia, and confused. Could I head to the hospital and meet her with him?
It apparently took the local police almost a day to connect her to us and contact Manfred. Not so strange, I suppose—there’s no police station in Ormberg. The closest one is in Vingåker, and we don’t have much contact with them. Plus Hanne couldn’t remember what she was doing in the forest, or that she’d ever been in Ormberg.
Of everyone I’ve ever worked with, Hanne is the last perso
n I’d expect something like this to happen to. She’s a kind, quiet, and pathologically precise criminal profiler in her sixties, from Stockholm. She never comes late to a meeting and takes constant notes in a little brown book.
How is it even possible? How can you forget where you are and who your colleagues are?
And where the hell is Peter Lindgren? He never leaves her side.
Hanne and Peter are two of the five people investigating the murder of the girl in the cairn. Since the arrival of our new national police commissioner, there’ve been a number of new initiatives: We’re going to get tougher on vandalism. Our clearance rate is supposed to increase. Special teams will focus on gang violence in vulnerable areas. And a new task force has been set up to revisit cold cases related to deadly violence. The statute of limitations for murder was abolished in 2010, and now there are stacks of murder cases lying unsolved all over the country.
The murder of the little girl in Ormberg is only one such cold case dug out of storage for a new review. We’ve been working on it for just over a week. Hanne and Peter are here from the National Operations Department. If I understand correctly, they’re also a couple—an odd couple, since Hanne must be at least ten years older than Peter. Manfred came down from NOD as well. He’s been working with Peter for a long time. Besides them, Andreas Borg is in our group—a police officer in his thirties who’s stationed in Örebro usually.
And then there’s me, Malin.
That I would end up working on the investigation into the murder of the girl at the cairn is unforeseen to say the least—not just because I was the one who found her that autumn night eight years ago, but also because I’ve been working at the Katrineholm police station since graduating from the academy. But there’s a logic to it: I was sent to Ormberg because I grew up there. I’m expected to contribute my local knowledge. I think I might be the only police officer in all of Södermanland who grew up in Ormberg.
The fact that I discovered the body wasn’t even a part of the calculations when my superiors made this decision. They wanted someone on site who knew their way around the seemingly endless forests in this area, and who could to talk to the old people who live inside them.
After She's Gone Page 2
