Women Without Mercy

by Camilla Lackberg

  The speedometer said she was doing seventy-three kilometres an hour – there was about twenty metres to go.

  Tommy looked up and froze. Julia’s mouth formed into a scream.

  At that moment, Ingrid realised her mistake. The satnav. How many true-crime podcasts had she listened to where the murderers’ alibis had crumbled because of technology? Even if Ingrid told the police she had been at home and she scrubbed the car free from all blood, they’d still turn over every stone. Not least when it turned out that Tommy was with his lover. She’d go to prison. At the last moment, she turned the wheel a few degrees to the right.

  The car skidded, missing Tommy’s body by a few centimetres.

  Ingrid straightened the car up. The wheels got a grip on the slippery asphalt and she sped up. In her rear-view mirror, she could see Tommy and Julia watching the car go.

  Now he knew she knew.

  How was he going to react?

  The traffic light was red, but there were no other cars in sight. Ingrid turned right, heading for Liljeholmsbron bridge. She wondered whether he would call or wait until they saw each other. Would he stay at Julia’s to calm down, plan his next move? And what was she meant to do?

  Get divorced? Apply for jobs in journalism? Digitisation meant she’d hardly be an attractive prospect on the labour market. She didn’t even have Twitter. But Ingrid would have to support herself. The prenup was as clear as day – she wouldn’t get a penny of Tommy’s money in the event of a divorce. Would he leave her and start a new family with Julia? She was young – probably wanted kids. Ingrid overtook a truck without indicating and pulled back into the inside lane. No, divorce was out of the question. No matter how she looked at it, Tommy had to die. For what he had done to her and to ensure that she and Lovisa avoided the shame of wasting away in some rented flat in a distant suburb.

  24. Birgitta Nilsson

  In the attic was a doll’s house that Birgitta had played with as a girl and that she had planned to give to the daughter she had never had. When the twins had been little, she had still brought it down from the attic so they could play with it. But when Jacob had got home from work he had flipped.

  ‘Jesus Christ, do you want to turn them into queers?’ he’d shouted, tipping the doll’s house onto its side. Birgitta had had to hurry to put it back in the attic, otherwise he would have smashed it into kindling. Instead, he took the boys out into the garden with a hockey stick each.

  Birgitta ran her hand over the roof of the miniature house. Once it had become clear she wasn’t going to have a daughter, she had decided to give it to her grandchildren. But now it was unlikely she’d have time to become a grandmother. That was a pity. She was convinced she would have been a good grandmother – at least, better than the mother she had been.

  Birgitta patted the doll’s house one final time and cautiously went downstairs. She was still a mother. Her responsibility for the boys wasn’t over yet. It was up to her to make sure they had a good life even when she was gone. Without the financial handouts from Jacob they got every month, they wouldn’t make ends meet. And truth be told, it was getting more expensive to keep them afloat. Jacob’s accountancy practice, which appeared to be successful and respected on the outside, was on its knees. Birgitta knew he had ‘borrowed’ money from clients to invest in various projects. The returns from those projects had not materialised. Instead, some of the investments had made losses. It was only a matter of time before it was discovered. Then Jacob would be in a tight spot – he’d probably end up in jail. Birgitta could have lived with moving out of the house, living in a flat – cutting expenses so that they could give the boys a couple of thousand kronor every month. But now? She was going to die, and Jacob was going to be prosecuted. Poor boys.

  They could have solved it by signing over their properties and cars to Birgitta or the boys to protect their assets, but Jacob had refused. Now it was up to Birgitta to solve it all. And quickly too.

  She took the bus to the school, went down to the library and switched on one of the computers. She logged in with a guest ID and went to Google.

  25. Victoria Brunberg

  There was a rattle when she tried to speak. Her throat was strained and hurt – a bit like when she’d had tonsilitis as a little girl. It even hurt to cry. The night before, she had been convinced she would die with Malte’s fingers around her throat.

  Before she had been knocked out, she had asked herself how many women in history had ended their lives with that exact same sight: the man they had married, a contorted expression on his face, looming above them while the life was squeezed out of them. When she had come to on the cold stone floor of the garage, she had taken deep breaths of the petrol-laden air. She had lain there for two hours before she had got up on shaky legs and staggered into the house.

  She had promised herself not to become one of those women. Malte would never get the chance to end her life. No man would ever get that. But she needed help.

  26. Ingrid Steen

  It took three days for Tommy to show his face at home. Up to the moment he stepped through the door, Ingrid spent all her time polishing the plan that she had hatched.

  When she heard the front door opening, she stayed where she was, sitting calmly at the kitchen table. Tommy popped his head into the kitchen, looked at her and then came slowly into the room.

  Stay calm, Ingrid thought to herself. Everything depends on you staying calm.

  Tommy pulled out a chair. Carefully, as ever, lifting the legs a couple of centimetres off the floor to avoid making a racket. He sat down, fixing his gaze on Ingrid. She waited a few seconds. She had promised to love him for better or worse, until death parted them – and she intended to keep that promise.

  Tommy cleared his throat.

  ‘How long have you known?’ he asked.

  ‘A couple of weeks,’ Ingrid replied quietly.

  ‘Why … why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘What was I supposed to say, Tommy?’

  ‘Something. Anything. Instead you tried … to kill me,’ he said, shaking his head slowly.

  ‘I didn’t mean to kill you. Or her. I was just so upset. Angry.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now I’m mostly upset.’ Ingrid ran a fingernail over the table. ‘Are you going to leave me?’

  Tommy extended a hand and placed it on hers. It was big and warm. Small islands of straggly hair were growing just above the knuckles. Before, when they had been younger, she had helped him to wax those.

  ‘I don’t see how we can get through this.’

  Ingrid squeezed the hand.

  ‘Lovisa needs you. We need you,’ Ingrid said, steeling herself. ‘You can’t leave us now. Be with her if you must. I can understand that I’ve not been easy to live with.’

  Tommy blinked, uncomprehending.

  ‘You mean that you’re … that it’s okay?’

  Ingrid nodded.

  ‘As long as that’s what you want. But keep it tidy, so that no one finds out. I can live with it if it means you’re still here for me.’

  Tommy struggled to hide the fact that he felt like he’d just won the jackpot.

  Poor bastard, Ingrid thought to herself. The poor, pathetic wretch of a man.

  PART II

  Three weeks later

  27. Ingrid Steen

  Ingrid parked in the car park outside the old garrison. She turned around. Lovisa was fully occupied with her iPad.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said.

  She opened the car door and checked there were no traffic wardens nearby. A group of schoolchildren in neon yellow vests passed by. Ingrid opened the door to the post office, letting an elderly lady walk slowly out while she examined the roof. No cameras so far as she could tell. It didn’t really matter. She was just there to retrieve an envelope from a PO box. Box 1905. The same as the year Norway had declared independence from Sweden. She ducked right and stopped in front of the long row of metal boxes. Ingrid was about
to take off one of her leather gloves, but she changed her mind. When she found the right box, she got the key out of her bag and inserted it into the lock. Turned it. Inside were two envelopes, but she returned the one that said Three on it in old-fashioned handwriting. Ingrid was number two – both last month and this time.

  She wondered who the other two women were. Best not to think about it too much. Just like her, they probably had their reasons, she thought to herself.

  Lately, Tommy had been away for two or three nights a week. She wondered how he had explained the arrangement to Julia. She must think Ingrid was desperate, letting her husband have an affair. Perhaps they were laughing at her. It made no odds.

  She put the envelope in her bag, locked the box again and left the small post office. Lovisa barely looked up when Ingrid opened the door and slid in behind the wheel.

  ‘Time for us to go home, sweetheart.’

  ‘Is Dad coming home tonight?’

  Ingrid shook her head.

  ‘No, not tonight. But he promised he’d be home tomorrow.’

  28. Birgitta Nilsson

  Lying inside the boot of the hire car was a five-metre length of wire and a can of black spray paint. She had also bought a basic toolbox including a screwdriver and hammer. For Birgitta it felt like she was driving around with a bomb or a couple of kilos of coke. She had been careful to stick to the speed limit all the way from Stockholm. Even so, she had checked her rear-view mirror every three seconds, expecting to see the blue flashing lights at any moment. The letter – which she had burnt after reading it twice – was written in halting Swedish. Just like the first, heartrendingly desperate cries for help that she had stumbled across on the Family Life online forum.

  While she might be about to kill a man, she was also going to liberate a woman. The sum of her actions would be a positive. And then someone was going to liberate her. She enjoyed the feeling of freedom – it felt good to drive a car without anyone commenting on her driving. Jacob only let her drive when he was tired. He had even opposed her getting a licence in the first place.

  She passed a petrol station, stopped at a crossroads and then drove past a sign marked Heby. To her right there was an ICA supermarket.

  ‘Right after ICA,’ she repeated to herself. She peered into the darkness, found the turning and indicated. She left the small community behind and found herself enveloped in dark forest. The road was narrow. When she encountered the first car, she wasn’t sure whether the roadway was wide enough for them both. The other car passed by uncomfortably close. Fifteen kilometres, then the sign would appear.

  She hoped that the woman she was going to save had done her part. Otherwise someone might get hurt. Someone innocent. Birgitta didn’t know what she’d do with herself if that happened. She could feel her palms getting sweaty and she wiped them on her thighs. The time was 16.37. She put her foot down as much as she dared in these slippery conditions. It was better to arrive too early than too late. She hoped it would be easy to find the place and that the unknown woman’s instructions were precise.

  29. Victoria Brunberg

  Victoria was pacing back and forth in the kitchen. She wished she had a cigarette left, but she had smoked them all already. She had gone over the plan a hundred times. Things could go wrong – horribly wrong – but she had to take the chance. Malte had to die and if Victoria was going to avoid spending the next few years in prison, then this was the only way out.

  She had done what she could do; now it was up to the other person, who ought to be nearby by this time. The trees were discreetly marked. The car was in the garage, unusable, and in a minute or two Malte should be putting on his helmet and climbing onto the motorbike. Hopefully he would take the shortcut through the forest, just like he did every time he took the motorbike. As long as it didn’t start raining. She’d heard the furious profanities coming from the garage. When he stormed into the house, Victoria thought he’d looked at her suspiciously. She was imagining things. She knew Malte didn’t think she was capable of ruining a car. A bit of sugar in the petrol tank and it was all done and dusted. Just like her mother had instructed her when her good-for-nothing classmate Aleksandr had touched her up at the youth club disco in her early teens. The blue moped that he’d been so proud of had never started again.

  30. Birgitta Nilsson

  The trees in the forest were creaking in the wind. The darkness was dense. Using a torch, she had found a red scarf tied to a tree trunk. Birgitta looked around, got the bag out of the boot and shook the can of spray paint. She was about to apply the paint to the wire when she realised she was standing too close to the car. No traces, she thought to herself. Then she shut the door and walked a few steps away. She made quick work of the task with the spray paint. The fumes left her a little dizzy and she giggled. When she was done she shone the torch on the wire and noted with satisfaction that it didn’t gleam at all.

  ‘Good.’

  She checked her wristwatch – there were only a few minutes left until the man was supposed to show up. She had thought she’d wait until the last minute so that no one else got hurt. On the other hand, she realised that it was unlikely anyone else would come driving this way. No sane person would get on a motorbike of their own volition in this weather.

  She strung up the wire, gave it an experimental tug and then went back to the car to drive off.

  She pulled at the handle. Locked. She groped in her pockets. Nothing. The keys weren’t there.

  ‘No, not now. Anything but that,’ she gasped.

  31. Victoria Brunberg

  Victoria ran through the checklist in her head once more. She noted, again, that she hadn’t forgotten anything. As long as her unknown saviour did their part and Malte was as predictable as usual, she would never see him again.

  She got out the ingredients she needed to make meatballs and mash and went over to the cooker. In Russia, she had dreamt of becoming an actress and joining a theatre company, but she had dropped out before her first play when it had become clear she wasn’t being given the leading role.

  Now, in a few hours’ time, her talents as an actress would truly be put to the test. And then she would be free.

  32. Birgitta Nilsson

  Birgitta felt the panic welling up. Where could she have dropped the key? She turned around and jogged back the way she had come, shining the torch on the ground.

  ‘Please, please,’ she whispered.

  Could she call it off? Take down the wire, go home and forget all about it? The other women didn’t know who she was, so they would never find her. But then she wouldn’t be rid of Jacob. What would happen to the twins when she was rotting in her grave? They weren’t strong enough, weren’t ready for life. Birgitta returned to the car and shone the light through the window. The keys must be inside. She looked around for a rock, pointing the torch at the ditch beside the track. There. She picked up the rock, weighed it in her hand and took aim, drawing back her arm and lobbing it with all her might at the passenger-side window. It exploded in a shower of glass shards.

  There was a gaping hole right in front of her.

  The next moment, she heard the sound of a vehicle approaching.

  She twisted round to look. On the larger road, a single light source slowed down and turned towards her.

  She threw one final, helpless glance at the hire car before taking a few steps across the ditch and into the forest. The sound of the engine grew in intensity. She lay down behind a stone, breathing heavily, seeing the road in front of her illuminated. She couldn’t see the wire, but the rider was approaching the two trees.

  Just a few metres to go. Birgitta closed her eyes. When she opened them she saw the motorbike disappear into the forest and crash into a tree and fall silent. She craned her neck, trying to understand what had happened to the rider. Was he alive? The forest was silent. Her footsteps echoed as she made her way through it.

  The wire had come off.

  She followed the tyre marks a little way down the
track before they deviated off into the forest.

  He was lying in front of a tree. His body was contorted, legs and arms at unnatural angles like a stick man drawn by a small child.

  ‘Good God,’ Birgitta whispered. ‘Good God.’

  She slowly approached him, fumbling for her mobile phone with trembling hands. She found it, fiddled with it for a bit to turn the torch on, and then gave up. She shone the feeble light of her display on the driver.

  A small movement of his arm made her realise he was still alive. Blood was dripping from beneath the bottom edge of the helmet onto his top. She moved the light downwards. She screamed. A large tree branch was sticking out of his chest. Birgitta put her hand to her mouth to silence herself. She had to get out of here. Quickly.

  Twenty minutes later, Birgitta was panicking. She had got the torch on and shining it in front of her she had searched everywhere inside the car for the keys. Now she was forced to acknowledge they weren’t there. She lay down on her tummy, sweeping the beam of light under the car. Could she leave on foot? Impossible. The car hire company had her name. The police would ask why she had left the scene of the accident. She could say she had lost her mobile and gone for help. No – far-fetched. Far too far-fetched. They would be able to see that the mobile was in the area and switched on. But she couldn’t stay there until the police arrived. Or was that exactly what she should do? She glanced at the car, trying to marshal her thoughts. If she was found at the scene of the accident without having contacted the police it would look bad. She gave it some thought for a while before dialling 112 for emergency services on her mobile. She stood at the feet of the body, crouched, reached out with an arm and opened the visor. Dead eyes stared out into nothingness. There was a click on the phone.