Easy Money

29

The inner journey: by train. JW was on his way to Robertsfors.

Was he on his way home? Or away? Where was home, really? The boyz’ co-ops, the bathrooms at Kharma where the C deals were brokered, his room at Mrs. Reuterskiold’s, or Robertsfors-at Mom and Dad’s?

He was listening to music-Coldplay, the Sadies, and other pop-while he munched on a bag of candy. Tried to see if the gummy colors tasted different from one another. Red, or green, or yellow, or

… what? Did a blind test.

It was dark outside. He looked at his reflection in the window. JW thought, A wonderful vantage point for a narcissist like me.

The train car was almost empty of people. One of the advantages of being a student was that you could travel any day of the week. Of course, he could’ve afforded to take any train or flight, almost at any price. But it was unnecessary-stupid to make his parents suspicious.

He should really be studying. He had an assignment to do on macroeconomic theories: the relationship between interest, inflation, currency rates. He even had the laptop open in his lap. But the movement of the train lulled him. He felt tired.

He closed the computer. Shoved his mouth full of gummies and shut his eyes. Chewed and contemplated his circumstances.

It’d been four months since he found Jorge in the woods. Since then, Abdulkarim’s coke expansion’d taken most of his time. JW and Jorge were each project managers of an area. The gelt kept growing, an average of a hundred G’s a month. Soon he’d be able to buy his BMW-cash-and maybe a co-op apartment. Just had to launder the money first.

He was barely getting by in school. He nearly flunked the exams. Was he on the verge of breaking his promise? The positive effect of his scholarly neglect was that he was becoming a name in the Stureplan jungle. Everyone with a penchant for skating on ice knew of him. JW bided Abdulkarim’s orders; he was careful about giving out his cell phone number. Couldn’t make it too easy. People called, left messages. JW called back, checked up on people, dictated the terms. Played according to the Arab’s strategy-safe.

He hung out with the boyz, more and more with Jet Set Carl and other acquaintances, people raised in rich suburbs like Bromma, Saltsjobaden, and Lidingo. In Djursholm. Important parentheses: Know-it-all types thought you were supposed to say on Djursholm, not in, when people who really knew said the opposite. They were people with contacts and cash: party organizers, coke snorters-above all, clients.

JW approached the inner circles around the Swedish royal family. Golden glamour. Progeny of the landowning aristocracy. Wild parties with wild winners and their families. Important C sales. A private arena with exclusive access. Forget pricey tix. This scene was VIP only.

He’d been getting together with Sophie like two or three times a week. Sometimes they went out to eat, got a drink at a bar, or went for a walk.

Their problem, according to JW: The relationship wasn’t developing. Felt like they were still playing a game. She wouldn’t call for days. JW didn’t call back. They waited. Played hard to get.

The sober sex sucked. Embarrassing. JW was all nerves. It took twenty seconds. Tops. He tried to make sure it happened when he was tripping on coke. Worked better that way.

After a couple of months, their relationship’d become more stable. He slept over at Sophie’s place several nights a week. At the same time, a certain distance remained. Sometimes she didn’t want to get together, without JW knowing why. He missed her whenever the time between their dates got too long.

Nothing wrong with the Jorge dude. Not JW’s type, but fine enough. The Chilean possessed sick knowledge about coke. JW tried to absorb all the info, all the know-how, all the tricks.

The train slowed down at Hudiksvall. JW glanced out at the station. There was a lake on the other side of the tracks. He was halfway home.

Three days ago, Abdulkarim’d called. Sounded worked up: “JW, I got something big goin’.”

“I’m all ears, Abdulkarim. Tell me.”

“We goin’ to London. Fix a fat import.”

“Okay. How? Is your secret boss in on it?” JW felt more and more secure with Abdulkarim-almost dared be cocky.

“Chill, habibi, my boss’s in on it. Big stuff, you understand. Much bigger than our other imports. We’re gonna contact the wholesalers direct. Gonna be ill, inshallah. You gotta book tickets for us. Me, Fahdi, and you. We need, like, five days. Have to be there by March seventh, latest. You gotta book hotel rooms, I want it nice. Classy. Fix sweet clubs. Fix a weapon for Fahdi. Fix up London for me. You with me, buddy?”

It drove JW crazy every time Abdulkarim used the word buddy. But he didn’t feel so safe in his seat that he’d mock the Arab. Sucked it up instead.

“Course. I’ll be your travel agent. But I have to check the dates; I’ve got exams and stuff. And how’ll I get a gun there?”

“No, no ‘check the dates.’ Gotta be there March seventh. Talk to Jorge about guns. And hey, buddy, I want you to fix sightseeing in London, too. Big Ben, Beckham, and all that?”

It sounded exciting. Glam. Abdulkarim and he’d talked about it a lot-they had to get purchase prices down even more in order to increase the import. Find new smart ins. After his visit to Robertsfors, he was going to deal with planning the trip.

The only thing he’d already looked up was how to score a gun for someone in London. Jorge knew a guy who’d done time in England. They contacted him. Contacted his contacts. Promised to pay two thousand pounds. Sent a five-hundred-pound advance via money transfer. Arranged a spot for the handoff. A Yugoslavian pistol, Zastava M57, 7.63mm, would be available for pickup at the Euston Square Tube station at twelve o’clock on March sixth.

Definitely a step up for JW. He felt exhilarated about being invited along to negotiate directly with the big boys. Allowed entrance to the C business’s VIP room.

One thing worried him: JW noted that Abdulkarim was changing. Talked more about Islam and world politics. Started wearing a white Muslim headpiece. Referred to the latest Friday sermon in the mosque. Praised Muhammad in every third sentence, stopped drinking alcohol, and whined about the U.S. running the world. In JW’s opinion, the Arab was digging his own grave. There was only one loyalty: sales. Nothing could come before that, not even God.

JW hadn’t seen his mom and dad since the summer. Their communication’d been patchy since then. One call from his mom, Margareta, every other week or so and that was it. Her reoccurring questions annoyed him. “How is school going?” “Are you coming up to see us and Grandma soon?” His reoccurring answers were bland, whiny. “School’s fine; I’m doing well on all my exams.” “I don’t have time to come up; I have to do my job as a taxi driver. And no, Mom, it’s not dangerous.”

Love and guilt baked together. The fear in Margareta’s voice was always there; he could hear it. The terror that something would happen to him.

He could see Camilla’s face in front of him. What did he know that their parents didn’t?

He’d found out some things.

If he hadn’t seen the yellow Ferrari over six months ago, things would’ve stayed the way they were. Silent sorrow. Repressed grief. Conscious forgetting.

Maybe it was the car’s speed that’d bothered him. The sound. The roar of the engine. The senselessly cocky move of driving through the city streets at a speed of at least fifty-five miles an hour.

JW’d been forced to choose: either keep searching and maybe discover something unpleasant or just stop right now. Forget it all, try to keep leaving the past behind, like he’d been doing during the past few years. It would probably be best to tell the police what he’d found out. Let them do their job.

He couldn’t-not when Jan Bruneus was lying about something.

JW’d called him up. The teacher was obviously unwilling to meet with him again. JW coaxed. Tried. Told him how happy he was that Jan’d known Camilla. Jan armed himself with excuses: He didn’t have time. He had to go to a teacher’s conference. He was sick. Had to grade papers, was going on vacation.

The weeks passed. JW stopped calling. Instead, he went reluctantly back to the school again.

He pulled the same moves as last time. Positioned himself outside the classroom and waited. The same young black kid who’d come out of the door last time, came out first this time, too.

Jan was still in the classroom. JW got flashbacks to the last time he’d been there-the same girls were still in the classroom, stuffing notebooks into bags.

He remained standing in the doorway and waited for a reaction. Jan was calm. Walked up to JW. Didn’t even look surprised.

He greeted him, “Hi, Johan. I’ve been thinking a lot about you. I understand if you think I’ve been acting strangely.”

JW looked him in the eyes.

Who was Jan Bruneus? JW’d looked him up. The teacher was married, no kids, and lived in a row house in a lower-middle-class suburb. Drove a Saab. Besides teaching at Komvux, he taught high school. Didn’t show up in Google searches. He seemed normal on the surface. But, then again, who didn’t?

JW replied, “That’s an understatement.”

“I have a suggestion. Let’s take a walk. What about walking out toward Haga Forum. It’s pretty there.”

JW nodded. Jan had something to say.

It was December. Freezing and snowing out. The ice had set, although thinly, over the Brunnsviken Bay. JW didn’t dig the season. It was so difficult to wear nice shoes; they always ended up heavy on rubber and light on finesse.

They were walking behind Wenner-Gren Center when Jan started telling his story.

“I’ve been a shit. I should’ve seen you a long time ago and told you. I admit that.”

Steam billowed from his mouth as he spoke.

“This whole story has really weighed on me. I have nightmares and can’t sleep. Wake up in the middle of the night and wonder. What really happened to Camilla?”

Shared silence.

Jan continued: “She had a rough time. Not a lot of friends. Her talent pushed other girls away, I think. You could tell by looking at her that she wanted to get somewhere. Maybe her ambition scared the others off. Anyway, I took her under my wing. Encouraged her. I used to discuss things with her after class. She really liked studying English, I recall. I mean, she was a grown woman. People who go to Komvux aren’t kids anymore. Despite that, I sometimes see them as kids. I mean, most of them haven’t made it through the regular school system without problems. There’s often something missing.”

JW wondered when the guy was going to cut to the chase.

“When you showed up here at Komvux, wanting to know more about Camilla, I got scared. Felt guilty. That I didn’t encourage her even more. That I didn’t see it coming. Her sorrow and alienation. Her frame of mind. Depression. Suicide.”

JW stopped. Thought, What is Jan talking about? No one knows what happened to Camilla.

“Where did you get the idea about suicide?”

“Of course, I can’t know for sure, but now in retrospect I can see that the signs were there. She lost weight. Must’ve had trouble sleeping, came to class with dark circles under her eyes. Pulled more and more away, into herself. She was feeling like shit, to put it simply. I was blind. Blame myself. I should’ve told someone, sounded the alarm, so to speak. But at the same time, how could I’ve known?”

The thought wasn’t new. JW’d wondered many times how his sister’d really been feeling.

Jan continued: “That’s why I’ve stayed away from you. I guess I haven’t been able to deal with this situation. Been afraid. I understand if you’ve been wondering what I’ve been up to. I really have to apologize again.”

They walked another hundred yards or so. JW didn’t have much to say. Jan said he had to get back to Sveaplan Gymnasium. He had more classes to teach.

They shook hands.

JW watched him walk away. Jan was wearing a padded brown Melka jacket. Had bad posture, walked with quick steps toward the school building. Seemed stressed.

JW was standing outside Haga Forum by himself. He was cold, wrapped in thoughts. Had Jan given Camilla good grades to be nice? To encourage her? Because he saw how she was feeling?

He felt low. For his sister’s sake. For not finding out anything new. If Camilla had, in fact, killed herself, where was her body? Why hadn’t she left a note? Wasn’t suicide, as the shrinks say, a call for help? No, even though he hadn’t known his sister that well, he’d known her well enough to know that she hadn’t killed herself. She wasn’t like that.

JW’d ridden straight out to Kista. He knew Abdulkarim would be angry. They’d agreed to meet up and exchange cash for coke, but it’d have to wait.

The Kista Mall’d been newly renovated since the last time he was there: the movie theaters, the restaurants, the clothing stores, you name it. He went straight to H amp;M. Hoped Susanne Pettersson was working that day. It’d been several months since he’d been there the first time and she’d hinted that he should look up Jan Bruneus.

It was like he was paralyzed for long stretches at a time. Couldn’t bear to do anything about the Camilla thing. He blamed the C biz, school, Sophie. When he finally did look into what’d happened, it was always in spurts, with sudden stops and starts.

Susanne was manning the register. There were people in the store. JW asked to speak with her. No problem. Another girl took over. Susanne and JW positioned themselves by the denim section.

She was visibly stressed-out by the situation. Was glancing around, eyeing the customers, her colleagues, anyone who might be listening.

“Pardon me for busting in like this. And I’m sorry for bothering you. How’re you doing?”

“You know, fine.”

“How’re the kids?”

“They’re good, too.”

“I wanted to tell you that I met Jan Bruneus, your old teacher.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll make it brief. He says Camilla was feeling like shit. That she must’ve killed herself. That he tried to encourage her, help her. He blames himself for the way things turned out.”

“He does?”

JW waited. Susanne had to say something more.

Nothing.

“What do you have to say about that?”

“I don’t know anything more than that. I guess it’s the way Jan said.”

JW followed her with his gaze.

“Susanne, you know something. Why did Jan give Camilla all A’s even though you guys never went to class?”

Susanne folded a pair of jeans. Refused to answer. JW could see plainly: She was blushing.

“What the fuck, Susanne, answer me.”

She held up another pair of jeans, tenderly. Fake wear on the knees and thighs. She put one leg on top of the other. Folded the pants in three steps. The back pocket and the label symmetrically aligned. The Divided logo in the customer’s eye.

Loud background music playing in the store: Robbie Williams.

“You haven’t figured it out by now? Didn’t you know your sister, or what? Don’t you know in what way she was talented? Ask Jan ‘Horndog’ Bruneus the next time you see him. You think Camilla got top grades in other subjects, or what? No. Just from him. Do you know how she used to come dressed for his classes?”

JW didn’t get it. What was she talking about?

“Don’t you get it? For an entire semester, Camilla was Jan’s plaything. Good grades for sex. That pig fucked her.”

The train passed Sundsvall. The conductor called out, “Tickets, please.” JW opened his eyes. Conscious again. It had been two months since Susanne Petterson’d almost shrieked out her explanation for Camilla’s good grades.

Who was his sister, really? Or, who’d she been? Was she, like he was, a treasure hunter, but one who’d ended up with the wrong crowd? Who hadn’t been able to take the pressure and skipped town. Or had someone else made sure she was erased from the picture? And if so, why?

JW was hungry but didn’t want to eat. In an hour and a half, he would be sitting at his parents’ dinner table, and it was important that he not lose his appetite by then. That he not be too full.

He got up. Walked toward the dining car. Not because he planned on buying anything, but because he was so antsy. The restlessness’d been creeping up on him more and more over the past few months. When he’d sit down to study, during lectures, while waiting for Fahdi or someone else to meet him and load him up with coke. He’d had to move. Direct his concentration on something. He’d learned to deal. Be prepared. Always kept his Sony player in his breast pocket, often took a paperback with him, downloaded sweet games on his phone. The margins of his college notebooks were filled with doodles.

Now he felt he had to move. Cell phone games wouldn’t help. Had to do a few laps. The question that worried him: Was it his new snort habits or the Camilla thing that was making him jittery?

He eyed the people in the train car. Tedious, tired people. Sven squared. JW wore common camouflage: Acne jeans, Superlative Conspiracy sweatshirt, and semi-ratty Adidas running shoes. He blended in. Suitable for his parental reunion.

He’d made up his mind after the conversation with Susanne. Playing private eye wasn’t his thing anymore. Even so, it’d felt strange to call the police, to talk to the investigator who’d been in charge of the case. He’d explained what he’d found out: that Jan Bruneus’d had some kind of relationship with Camilla Westlund in the time before her disappearance. That Susanne Petterson was aware of this and had told JW. That Jan’d given Camilla top grades despite her lack of attendance.

The investigator’d promised to look into the info more closely. JW assumed that he meant that Jan Bruneus would be called in for questioning.

That JW’d been in touch with the police was a contradiction. Abdulkarim couldn’t know.

But it’d felt like a relief-he’d let go of the burden. Was letting the police do their job.

He’d drifted back into denial. Focused on C, school, and Sophie. Prepared the London trip. Discussed strategies with Jorge. Sold. Dealt. Counted cash.

He’d made up his mind: He wouldn’t tell his parents what he’d told the police.

He was arriving in Robertfors within five minutes. His stomach was growling violently. Was it worry or hunger?

In truth, he knew he was worried about seeing Mom and Dad.

It was almost six months since he’d last bid them good-bye and studied his mother’s worn face and his father’s tight jawline. Would they be feeling better now? JW couldn’t stand being reminded of the tragic plodding of their lives. His goal had been to get away, start over. Be accepted as something different. Something better. Bigger than his parents’ whole-milk lifestyle with its accompanying angst over a lost child. He’d wanted to forget.

The train pulled into the station. People were waiting for arrivals and to depart themselves. The brakes screeched loudly. His car stopped right in front of his waiting parents. JW saw that they weren’t talking to each other. As usual.

Tried to calm down. Look happy and relaxed. As he ought.

He stepped down onto the platform. They didn’t see him at first. He walked toward them.

JW knew that Margareta was trying to call out. But for some reason, she’d been unable to raise her voice ever since the Camilla thing. Instead, she greeted him with a tense smile.

Hugs.

“Hi, Johan, let us take your bags.”

“Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.” JW handed one of his bags to Bengt.

They walked toward the parking lot together in silence. Bengt still hadn’t said a word to his son.

They were sitting at home, in the kitchen. Wood paneling along the walls and stainless-steel counters. A white Electrolux stove, linoleum on the floor, and a shiny wooden table from IKEA. The chairs were Carl Malmsten copies. There was a copy of a PH-lamp in the ceiling that cast a warm purplish glow. Above the sink hung green pots with words painted on them: Sugar, Salt, Pepper, Garlic, Basil.

The food was on the table. Thin strips of beef with a blue-cheese sauce. A bottle of red wine, Rioja. A carafe with water. A glass bowl with salad.

JW didn’t have much of an appetite. The food was good; that wasn’t the problem. It was really good. Mom’d always been a good cook. It was something else-the look of the place, the topics of conversation, and that Bengt talked with his mouth full. Margareta’s clothes were all wrong. JW felt like a stranger. The combination bothered him-contempt mingled with a sense of security.

Margareta reached for the salad. “Tell us more, Johan. How are things?”

A few seconds of silence. Her real question was: How are things in Stockholm? The city where our daughter disappeared. Who are you spending time with? You don’t run with a bad crowd, do you? Questions she would never pose directly. The fear of being reminded. The fear of coming too close to the dark scream of reality.

“I’m doing really well, Mom. Passing my exams. The latest one was on macroeconomics. There are over three hundred students in the class. There’s only one lecture hall that’s big enough.”

“Wow. There are so many of you. Does the lecturer use a microphone?”

Bengt, with a chewed gray beef mass in his mouth: “Of course they do, Mother.”

“Yes, they do. It’s kind of funny, ’cause they draw all these graphs and curves. You know, in a perfect market, the price is where the demand curve meets the supply curve. All the students copy every single graph into their notebooks, and since there are so many different curves, everyone’s got those four-colored Bics-you know, the pens with four different colors of ink in them-so they can tell the curves apart. When the lecturer draws a new curve, three hundred students switch colors at the same time. A little clicking sound for each one. It’s like a symphony of clicks in the lecture hall.”

Bengt grinned.

Margareta laughed.

Contact.

They kept talking. JW asked about his old school friends from Robertsfors. Six of the girls were moms. One of the guys was a dad. JW knew that Margareta was wondering if he had a girlfriend. He didn’t bother to share. The truth was, he didn’t even know the answer.

A sort of calm washed over him. Warm, safe grief.

After dinner, Bengt asked JW if he wanted to watch sports with him. JW knew that was his attempt at intimacy. Even so, he declined. Preferred to talk to Mom. Bengt went into the living room by himself. Settled into the La-Z-Boy. JW could see him from the kitchen. He stayed where he was and talked to Margareta.

Camilla’d still not been mentioned. JW didn’t care if the topic was taboo. For him, his parents were the only people with whom he’d ever consider really talking about her.

“Have you heard anything?”

Margareta understood what he was talking about.

“No, nothing new. Do you think the case is still open?”

JW knew that it should be now at least. But he hadn’t heard anything, either.

“I don’t know, Mom. Have you changed anything in Camilla’s room?”

“No, everything is just like it was. We don’t go in there. Dad says he thinks it gives Camilla peace that we don’t intrude.” Margareta smiled.

Bengt and Camilla’d fought furiously the year before Camilla moved to Stockholm. Now JW looked back on it with nostalgia: doors slamming, crying from the bathroom, screaming from Camilla’s room, Bengt on the porch with a cigarette between his fingers-those were the only times he smoked. Maybe Margareta felt the same way. The ominous fights were their last memories of Camilla.

JW helped himself to another slice of blueberry pie. Gazed out at his father in the living room.

“Should we join Dad?”

They watched a movie on TV together: Much Ado About Nothing. Modern interpretation of Shakespeare, using the original language. Difficult to understand. JW almost fell asleep during the first half. During the second half, he calculated the kind of money he was missing out on making this weekend. Shit, the alternative costs for spending time with his parents were high.

Bengt fell asleep.

Margareta woke him up.

They bid JW good night. Went to their room.

JW remained seated, alone. Prepared himself mentally. Soon he’d go up to the room. Her room.

He flipped through the channels. Lingered on MTV for five minutes. A Snoop Doggy Dogg video was playing. Asses shook in time to the song.

He turned it off.

Climbed into the La-Z-Boy.

Settled in.

He felt empty. Scared. But, strangely, not restless.

He turned out the lights.

Sat back down.

The silence was so much deeper than by Tessin Park.

He got up.

Tried to walk silently up the stairs. Remembered almost step by step which stairs creaked and what strategies to employ to avoid them. Foot on the thick inner edge, foot in the middle, step over an entire stair, step on the edge, on the narrow section, and so on-all the way up.

Another two steps’d become creaky since he’d moved away from home.

Maybe he wasn’t waking Bengt. He was definitely waking Margareta.

The door to Camilla’s room was closed.

He waited. Thought Mom might fall back asleep. Pulled the door while simultaneously pushing slowly down on the handle. It didn’t make a sound.

When he flipped the light on, the first thing he saw were the three baseball hats Camilla’d hung on the opposite wall: a dark blue Yankees hat, a Red Sox hat, and a hat from her junior high graduation. The text on it: We rocked and rolled in black lettering on a white background. Camilla liked baseball hats like a fat kid likes cake. Uncomplicated. If there was one, she wanted it.

The untouched room of a seventeen-year-old. To JW, it was almost more childish than that.

There was a window in the middle of one of the room’s short ends. The bed was opposite the window. Camilla’d begged for a whole year to get a double bed to replace her twin. Pink coverlet with flouncy edges. Different-colored throw pillows, some with hearts on them, were spread at the foot of the bed. Margareta’d sewn them. Camilla used to kick the pillows to the floor before going to bed.

A young girl’s room.

Every object was a memory.

Every item a chip in JW’s armor.

More baseball hats were arranged in a bookcase. On top of the bookcase were framed photographs: the family on a ski vacation, JW as a baby, three friends from school-wearking makeup, smiling, full of expectation.

The rest of the shelves were filled with baseball hats.

Above the bed was pinned a poster of Madonna. A strong, successful woman with a mind of her own. Camilla’d been given it by a guy she’d dated in eighth grade. He was four years older, a secret she kept from Mom and Dad.

JW’d thought about how after the disappearance, when he was still living at home, he’d never gone into the room. It’d been empty for so many years, and the effect of the stored and reinforced memories hit him like a punch in the face.

Camilla at her junior high graduation. Hair in an up do. White dress. Later that night: wearing a camo-colored baseball hat. The stories JW’d heard about her behavior at the graduation party. Next memory: Camilla and JW in a fight over the last glob of Nutella. JW: pulled into the room and beaten up, smeared with his own sandwich-with an extra-thick layer of Nutella. Later: Camilla next to JW on the bed, when they were friends again. She showed him her CDs: Madonna, Alanis Morissette, Robyn.

Read the text on the inserts. Said she was definitely going to leave, go to Stockholm.

Enjoyed hanging out together.

There was a built-in bookshelf and two mirrored closet doors on the left wall.

Unread YA books and CDs were lined up on the shelves, but only the ones she hadn’t taken with her to Stockholm. A Sony stereo-a gift on the day of her confirmation. Camilla liked music better than reading.

JW opened the closet doors.

Clothes: skinny jeans, miniskirts, pastel-colored midriff baring tops, a jean jacket. A black corduroy coat. JW remembered when Camilla’d brought it home. She’d bought it herself at H amp;M in Robertsfors for 490 kronor. Too expensive, Mom thought.

Next to the folded tops was a storage box with reinforced metal corners. JW’d never seen it before. Stiff gray cardboard. JW recognized the type; he’d seen similar ones at container stores in Stockholm.

He pulled the box out and set it down on the bed. It was filled with postcards.

A half hour later, the postcards were all read. Seventeen in total. Camilla’d been living in Stockholm for a little over three years before she disappeared. During that time, she’d been home three times. It made Margareta sad; Bengt angry.

But apparently she’d at least been writing postcards. Cards that JW’d never seen, and that Margareta’d saved and put in Camilla’s room. Maybe she thought they belonged there, as though no other place was sufficiently holy to store the fragments of her daughter’s abridged life.

Most of it was stuff he already knew. Camilla wrote thin descriptions of life in Stockholm. She worked at a cafe. She hung out with the other waitresses. She lived in a studio in Sodermalm-the south side-that she rented through the owner of the cafe. She studied at Komvux. She quit the cafe job and started working at a restaurant. Once, it said that she’d ridden in a Ferrari.

Not a word about Jan Bruneus.

She mentioned her boyfriend in some of the letters. He wasn’t referred to by name, but it was clear the boyfriend owned the car.

One postcard, the last one, contained information JW didn’t already know.

Hi Mom,

I’m good. Things are going well for me and I quit the restaurant. I work as a bartender instead. Make good money. Have pretty much decided to forget about Komvux. Next week I’m going to Belgrade with my boyfriend.

Say hi to Dad and Johan!

Love, Camilla

That was news to JW. That Camilla’d been planning to go to Belgrade. With the boyfriend.

He made the rapid calculation: Why go to Belgrade? Because you were from there.

Who was from there? The man with the Ferrari.

He was a Yugo.