After She's Gone

by Camilla Grebe

  I go over to the bed and gently sit down at the other end, as far away from her as I can.

  “Do you think I should paint it?”

  She grimaces.

  “Why?”

  “The real Eiffel Tower is painted. It was dark red in the beginning, and now it’s brown.”

  She moves closer to me, and my stomach flips again.

  “Of course you shouldn’t paint it. Then you wouldn’t be able to see what it’s made of. That’s the whole point—it’s made of beer cans. We’re supposed to recycle something. That’s the assignment.”

  My body feels stiff, and I try to force it to relax. I lean back, but I end up askew and have to put my hand on the wall to support myself. But that position feels weird, too: unnatural, uncomfortable, and above all embarrassing.

  “What did you build?” I ask.

  “Oh, well, I haven’t come up with anything good yet. First, I wanted to build something out of tampons. They’re terrible for the environment. Do you know how many tampons are sold every year?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly. Nobody thinks about it. But you can’t recycle used tampons.”

  Saga makes a disgusted expression and twirls the ring in her nose.

  “Anyway,” she continues, “I thought I’d make a dress of those empty pillboxes. You know, from medicines. Mom has fibromyalgia and takes a lot of drugs, so I collected the empty boxes. Have a whole bag at home. They are pretty nice, actually. Silver—shiny, sort of.”

  “Good idea.”

  I move farther up in the bed and lean against the wall. Saga feels dangerously close, but I can’t sit bent over like a cheese doodle.

  “But guess what? It’s not enough! You can’t even make a skirt out of them. Imagine, a whole bag isn’t enough.”

  “Maybe you can build something else from them?”

  Saga sighs and leans against the wall next to me. She’s so close I can feel the warmth of her body against my cheek and hear her breath.

  It’s as if there are two dueling voices in my head. One wants me to move away from her, and one wants me to stay: next to her breath and warmth and the slight scent of her citrus perfume.

  “Fuck. I’m not gonna have time,” she mumbles.

  “I’ll help you.”

  She turns her face toward mine. We’re so close now that our noses almost touch. I look straight into her bright eyes, see the freckles under her makeup and the thick black eyeliner that turns up like bird wings.

  And then she does it.

  Slowly, she leans forward and kisses me. When her lips touch mine, it’s as if something inside my body explodes. The only thing that exists is Saga’s soft mouth against mine. This kiss is so light you can barely feel it. A kiss I might have thought I’d imagined if my lips didn’t burn like I just drank something hot.

  I don’t want to move away anymore.

  The voice in my head that thought I was too close is silent. It’s given way to something else. I want to grab her, drag her close to me, and kiss her again. But I don’t dare, of course. Instead, I sit as still as I can, as if my life depended on it.

  “You’re the best,” she says, and she sounds like she means it.

  * * *

  —

  After Saga leaves, I sit for a long time in bed with my fingers on my lips. They feel just like before, and yet everything is different.

  I wonder if we’re together now, or if everything will be the same as before when we meet again.

  I wonder if I’m in love.

  How can I tell? All I know is that it felt good everywhere, and that it changed me. Like I became someone else. As if the cells in my body exchanged places, though I look the same on the outside.

  But what I wonder most is if Saga is in love with me. I think so, but would she still like me if she knew about The Sickness?

  Probably not.

  I put it out of my mind—it’s too confusing—and take out Hanne’s diary again. I almost feel bad that I haven’t finished reading it yet, because in some mysterious way I feel like I know her now. Almost as if she’s my friend for real, just because I’ve read her notes.

  And you don’t leave a good friend in the lurch.

  You show up if something terrible happens.

  ORMBERG, NOVEMBER 24

  We just had a Skype meeting with the medical examiner (Samira Khan) in Solna.

  She summarized her conclusions: The Ormberg Girl was found in the autumn of 2009 after lying in the forest for about fifteen years. Thus she was murdered in 1994.

  She was about five years old when she died, so she was probably born in 1989 (plus or minus a few years).

  The cause of death was blunt force trauma. There was a cross fracture on the back of her head, resulting in multiple bone fragments. Several ribs were also broken.

  The medical examiner didn’t want to speculate on what had happened, but suggested the damage could have occurred either as the result of an accident or abuse.

  There were metal plates in the girl’s right radial bone, just above the wrist. They’d been inserted there after a broken wrist (a common operation, which seemed professionally performed). There were also traces on the skeleton near the plates, indicating an infection (which may help us identify her).

  The doctor believed the wrist surgery had been performed sometime in the early nineties, based on the technique and type of screws that held the titanium plate in place (which were only used for a limited time in Sweden. Apparently, such things go out of fashion, too). The bone had just begun to heal when the girl died. She was probably murdered within three months of the surgery.

  Andreas and Malin are going to contact the hospitals to find out if any patient matches the description. (This was never done during the original investigation.)

  We also looked at what was left of the girl’s clothes. Most of them were completely rotted, but a blue synthetic shirt was still in a relatively good condition. There was even a tag left with the letters “H&M” on it.

  This detail stung.

  Who hasn’t gone shopping at H&M? I thought of the mother or father who bought that shirt. They never could have imagined it sitting here today, so many years later, while we looked at pictures of the girl’s skeleton.

  The thought made me dizzy.

  No remnant of shoes had been found, which was noteworthy. (Shoes often contain plastic or rubber, which don’t break down as quickly in nature.)

  Finally, the medical examiner told us that the girl had been buried outside Katrineholm.

  The gravestone has no name engraved on it, only a heart and a small bird.

  After the Skype meeting, Malin asked if the perpetrator could have taken the girl’s shoes as a trophy.

  I said it was possible, but not likely. Of course, some murderers do take trophies, but shoes…? I have never heard of any criminal that saves their victim’s shoes. They usually take smaller things: jewelry, locks of hair, or, sometimes, body parts.

  I promised to look into it anyway.

  Then we went through the interviews that were conducted when the girl’s body was found (especially with residents in the area).

  There are three properties near the cairn. We’re going to talk to all the owners again.

  The closest: a small cottage that belongs to an elderly couple—Rut & Gunnar Sten. Andreas and Malin are going to talk to them tomorrow.

  A little bit farther away, on the other side of Orm Mountain: Margareta & Magnus Brundin. (That situation is a bit “delicate.” Margareta is police officer Malin’s aunt, and Magnus is her adult son, i.e., Malin’s cousin).

  P and I will talk to them.

  Finally, the Birgersson family. They live a few hundred meters south. The father, Stefan, a carpenter, is according to Malin an unemployed alcoholic. The moth
er died a year ago (cancer). Their two children, Jake and Melinda, also live there.

  P and I will talk to them, too.

  I put the diary on my lap. It suddenly feels very heavy and unwieldy.

  They talked about us, about our family. And they called Dad an alcoholic.

  Something cold spreads inside me, as if the black water of the creek were flowing through my veins instead of blood. Sure, Dad likes to drink beer, but an alcoholic? Wouldn’t you be sick and drunk all the time?

  I glance over at the Eiffel Tower on the desk. How many beer cans did I use? And maybe more important: How many cans of beer does Dad drink a day?

  I haven’t thought about it before, but the garage is actually filled with paper bags of empty beer cans. They cover almost a whole wall.

  There’s a knock.

  I quickly put the diary on the bed and pull the blanket over it.

  The door opens, and Melinda comes in. She has on a short red skirt and a tight black sweater that clings to her breasts. Her lips are raspberry red, and she smells like hairspray.

  She stops in the middle of the floor, looks at me, smiles, and does a little pirouette.

  “Do I look okay?”

  “You look really pretty,” I say, and mean it.

  What I can’t say is that I too would love to wear such beautiful clothes one day.

  A closet filled with short shiny skirts and tight tops, long sweeping dresses and high-heeled boots with rivets. I love the feeling of fabric under my fingertips: baby-soft velvet, slippery silks, and rustling tulle. Sharp sequins, tight wool, and soft, thin cashmere.

  Everything you don’t find in Ormberg.

  All the things that exist only on the Internet and in Melinda’s magazines.

  I think she notices my eyes. She can probably smell my longing, smell The Sickness, because she suddenly seems a bit confused. As if I asked her a trick question, even though I was quiet the whole time.

  “What?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  I hesitate for a moment, but then gather my courage.

  “Is Dad an alcoholic?”

  Melinda freezes. Seems surprised, as if this was the last question she expected, then shrugs her shoulders.

  “Why do you ask that?”

  “Just wondering.”

  Melinda walks over to my mirror, pulls at her top a little and readjusts her skirt. Then she runs her hand through her thick brown hair, purses her lips, and makes that face she always does when she takes selfies.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “He definitely loves his beer. A lot.”

  She looks at the clock and continues:

  “Shit. Have to go. Markus is picking me up in five minutes. I made food for you and Dad. He’s asleep. Don’t wake him up, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say, following her with my eyes as she walks out of the room.

  A whiff of her perfume lingers like an invisible memento of her visit. It feels like it’s teasing me, reminding me of who I am in my innermost being, but can never really become.

  Malin

  Berit Sund’s little red cottage is idyllically situated between the woods and a snowy field.

  I haven’t seen Hanne since Manfred and I visited her at the hospital on Sunday, though he’s talked to her on the phone.

  Berit, who must be at least seventy by now, meets Manfred and me at the front stairs. She’s short and square. A childish barrette holds her sparse gray bangs in place above one ear. Her old white and brown shaggy dog noses around our feet.

  “Holy moly,” she says, and squeezes my hands so hard it hurts. “Malin! You’re all grown up. And a cop, too. Who would have believed it.”

  She hesitates for a moment, smiles wide so I see all the fillings in her yellow teeth, and then gives me a quick, tight hug.

  “Well, come in! Can’t stand out here freezing,” she continues, and herds us into the hall.

  Then she stops, pulls at her shirt a little, and nods in the direction of the woods.

  “Is it true? Did you find a dead woman at the cairn?”

  I nod. “Yes. Unfortunately.”

  Berit shakes her head.

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Do you know who she is?”

  “No,” Manfred says, without offering to expound.

  That seems to work, because Berit doesn’t ask any more questions. But she gives me a long worried look.

  The hall is tiny and cramped, and I recognize the scent of coffee and wood smoke. In the window some yellow rickety geraniums are wintering, and on the floor, shoes stand in a neat row.

  We enter the kitchen, which has a real woodstove. Orange flames lick at the gaps in the cast-iron door. The small table is already set with coffee and gingerbread.

  “I’ll get Hanne,” Berit says. “Sit down and have some coffee.”

  We take our seat on Windsor chairs and stare out through the window. A snowy yard spreads out in front of us. Leafless bushes stand at the edge of the property, and behind them a field stretches out until it reaches the forest.

  A cat passes by under the table, and its soft fur brushes against my legs. Berit appears in the doorway. After a couple of steps she stops, sighs, and turns toward us.

  “It’s the hip.”

  She grimaces and disappears into the room next door.

  I meet Manfred’s eyes. He looks at me without saying a word, and then pours coffee into a chipped cup. Steam is still rising from the piping-hot liquid when he hands it to me.

  Voices can be heard in the room next door, and then Berit and Hanne enter the kitchen.

  Hanne looks much more alert now than at the hospital. Her gaze is steady, and her curly hair is newly brushed. Most of the scratches appear to have healed, though I glimpse a few scabs on her hands and face.

  When Hanne sees us, she stops, seems to hesitate. Then her face breaks into a cautious smile, and I’m reminded again just how beautiful she is.

  “Manfred!”

  Hanne takes a few quick steps toward the table. Manfred rises, and they hug for a long time in silence. Then Hanne turns her gaze to me, her head tilted to the side, and blinks a few times.

  Just like at the hospital, I think, as she stretches a hand in greeting to me.

  I take it gently and smile.

  “Hello, Hanne. It’s me, Malin, your colleague.”

  Her eyes narrow and she opens her mouth a little as if intending to say something, but hesitates.

  “Malin?”

  She lingers a little on the word, as if tasting the syllables.

  I do my best not to look disappointed or shocked. Don’t want to throw her off balance now that so much depends on her remembering something that happened last Friday.

  We sit down around the table, and Manfred serves Hanne some coffee as Berit puts a couple of logs into the stove.

  “Don’t you want some coffee, Berit?” I ask.

  Berit limps over to the table.

  At this close range she looks very old. A web of deep wrinkles spreads around her eyes and the skin on the back of her hands is thin and transparent, like wax paper. Blue veins wind beneath it, like snakes trying to make their way out of her skin.

  “No thank you, my dear,” Berit says. “Just had some coffee. You probably need your privacy. I’ll take Joppe out for a walk.”

  As she turns around, I see three long lacerations on Berit’s left forearm. It looks like somebody scratched her.

  Berit notices my eyes on her. Blushes and moves her hand toward the sores. Pulls down her sleeve to cover them and wanders out of the room with her dog in tow. As they disappear into the hall, I notice that the dog limps, too.

  It’s quiet for a moment.

  Hanne, who sat down next to Manfred, fiddles with her coffee cup, seeming a little self-conscious.

&
nbsp; “Sorry,” she says, and meets my eyes. “For not recognizing you.”

  I wave her concerns away. “It’s no problem.”

  Hanne nods, looks at Manfred, and smiles again.

  “The beard suits you.”

  Manfred runs his hand over his chin and smiles.

  “You think so? Afsaneh disagrees. She thinks I look like a motorcycle thug. Claims I’m scaring Nadja.”

  “Motorcycle thug?” Hanne laughs. “Come on! That’s the last thing you look like.”

  “Afsaneh?” I say.

  Manfred turns his eyes from Hanne to me.

  “My wife. And Nadja is our daughter. She’s almost two.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say.

  “How is Nadja?” Hanne asks. “Have you figured out her ear problems?”

  “She’s doing well now. They put in tubes. Since then, knock on wood, we haven’t had a single ear infection. It’s a fucking miracle, if you ask me.”

  Hanne leans over to Manfred and readjusts his pocket square. The gesture is so intimate, so full of care, that it shocks me.

  “When we worked on the investigation of the decapitated woman,” Hanne begins, “you were a wreck, Manfred. Quite literally. Nadja’s ears were bothering her the whole time.”

  Manfred laughs a little and sips his coffee.

  “I don’t know if that was because of Nadja’s ear infections or the investigation.”

  I almost feel like an intruder here.

  It’s so obvious that they share a past I have no access to. They haven’t just worked together, they know each other’s families and children and have been through ear infections and diaper changes and God-knows-what-else.

  Manfred glances at me, perhaps sensing what I’m thinking, because he takes out his notebook and clears his throat. Hanne also seems to pick up on it; she straightens a little and says:

  “I know why you’re here, and I’ll do my best to help you, but I’m not sure I can. It’s so odd. I remember so much. My childhood, for example. How to get to school—every tree, house, and step are burned into my memory. And I remember my job. The murders, the rapes. But since we came back from Greenland, it’s as if nothing really stuck, if you know what I mean. Everything is a blur in my head. And the more I try to remember, the blurrier it gets.”