The Drowning

8

Finally the holiday was over. Father had packed up all their things, stowing them away inside the car and the caravan. Mother was lying in bed, as usual. She was even thinner, even paler. Now she said that all she wanted was to go home.

At last Father had told him why she looked so ill. It turned out that she wasn’t really sick. She had a baby inside her stomach. A little brother or little sister. He didn’t understand why that should make her feel so bad. But Father said that it did.

At first he was happy. A brother or sister to play with. But then he heard them talking, Mother and Father, and he understood. He now knew why he was not his mother’s handsome little boy any more, why she no longer stroked his hair, and why she looked at him the way she did. He knew who had taken her away from him.

Yesterday he had returned to the caravan, moving like an Indian brave. He sneaked up without making a sound, tiptoeing in his moccasins with a feather stuck in his hair. He was Angry Cloud, and Mother and Father were the palefaces. He could see them moving around inside the caravan behind the curtains. Mother was not in bed. She was up, talking, and Angry Cloud was glad, because maybe now she was feeling better, maybe the baby wasn’t making her sick any more. And she sounded happy, tired but happy. Angry Cloud crept closer, wanting to hear more of the paleface’s joyful voice. One step at a time, he moved closer until he was right under the open window. With his back pressed against the caravan, he shut his eyes and listened.

But he opened his eyes when they started talking about him. Then all of the blackness came pouring over him full force. He was back with her again, he had the horrid smell in his nostrils, he heard the silence echoing in his head.

Mother’s voice pierced through the silence, pierced through the darkness. As young as he was, he understood exactly what she was saying. She regretted becoming his mother, now they were going to have a child of their own. If only she’d known ahead of time, she would never have brought him home. And Father, with his grey and tired-sounding voice, said: ‘But the boy is here now, so we’ll just have to make the best of things.’

Angry Cloud didn’t move as he sat there, and at that moment his hatred was born. He couldn’t have put the feeling into words, but he knew that it felt both wonderful and terribly painful.

So while Father packed the car with the camp stove and their clothes and the tins of food and all sorts of other stuff, he packed his hatred. It filled up the entire seat where he was sitting in back. But he didn’t hate Mother. How could he? He loved her.

He hated the one who had taken her away from him.

Erica had driven over to the Fjällbacka library. She knew that Christian wasn’t at work. He’d done a good job on the Morning show, at least up until the end. When they started asking him about the threats, his nervousness became all too obvious. In fact, it was so painful to watch him turning bright red and starting to sweat that Erica had turned off the TV even before the interview was over.

And now here she was, pretending to scan the titles of the books on the shelves while she worked out how she was going to broach the real purpose of her visit: talking to Christian’s colleague, May. Because the more Erica thought about the letters, the more convinced she was that it couldn’t be a stranger who was threatening Christian. No, it felt too personal; the culprit had to be found among people who were part of Christian’s life, now or in the past.

The problem was that he’d always been extremely reluctant to talk about himself. This morning she’d decided to write down everything she’d ever heard about Christian and his background. She ended up sitting in front of a blank piece of paper, holding her pen in her hand. She realized that she really knew nothing about him. Even though she and Christian had spent a lot of time together editing his manuscript, and even though, in her opinion, they had become good friends, he had never told her anything about his private life. He never mentioned where he was from or the names of his parents or what sort of work they did. He hadn’t said where he’d gone to school, or whether he’d played any sports in his younger days. He never talked about friends he’d had or mentioned whether he was still in contact with any of them. She knew nothing about him.

That in itself set off the alarm bells. Because people always reveal little titbits about themselves in conversation, scraps of information that show what they were once like and what had made them who they’d become. The fact that Christian was so guarded about what he said made Erica even more certain that he was hiding something. The question was whether he’d been equally successful in keeping up his guard with everybody else. Maybe a colleague who worked with him every day might have learned something.

Erica cast a sidelong glance at May, who was typing at her computer. Fortunately they were the only two people in the library at the moment, so they could talk un disturbed. Finally she decided on a possible tactic. She couldn’t very well just come right out and ask May about Christian; she needed to take a more circuitous approach.

She pressed her hand to the small of her back, sighed heavily, and sank on to one of the chairs in front of the counter where May was sitting.

‘It must be hard for you. I heard you’re having twins,’ said May, giving Erica a look of maternal sympathy.

‘That’s right. I’ve got two of them inside here.’ Erica patted her stomach, trying to look as though she really needed to rest for a while. It didn’t take much acting on her part. Whenever she sat down, her whole back would relax in gratitude.

‘Just sit there and rest for a while.’

‘Thanks, I will,’ said Erica with a smile. After a moment she added, ‘Did you see Christian on TV this morning?’

‘No, I missed it, unfortunately. I was here at work. But I set up my DVD player to record the programme. At least I think it will. I’ll never be comfortable with all these modern machines. Did he do a good job?’

‘He certainly did. It’s great that his book is getting so much attention.’

‘Yes, I’m really proud of him,’ said May, her face lighting up. ‘I had no idea that he was a writer until I heard about his book being published. And what a book! The reviews have been fantastic.’

‘It’s really amazing, isn’t it?’ Erica fell silent for a moment. ‘Everybody who knows Christian must be so happy for him. I hope his former colleagues are too. Where was it he worked before he came to Fjällbacka?’ She tried to look as if she knew but just couldn’t remember.

‘Hmm…’ Unlike Erica, May seemed to be actually searching her memory. ‘You know what? Now that I think of it, I’ve actually never heard where he used to work. How strange. But Christian was already working here at the library by the time I was hired, and we’ve never talked about what he did before.’

‘So you don’t know where he’s from, or where he lived before moving to Fjällbacka?’ Erica could tell that she sounded a bit too interested, so she fought to maintain a more neutral tone. ‘I just happened to think about it today as I was watching the interview. I’ve always thought that he speaks with a Småland accent, but I suddenly seemed to hear traces of a different dialect, and I couldn’t really place it.’ Not a very good lie, but it would have to do.

May seemed to accept her explanation. ‘Well, he’s not from Småland, that much I can say with certainty. But otherwise I have no idea. Of course we talk to each other here at work, and Christian is so pleasant and amiable.’ She looked as if she were considering how to put her next thought into words. ‘Yet he always seems to put up a barrier with other people. As if he’s saying: “It’s okay to come this close, but no closer.” Maybe I’m being silly, but I’ve never asked him about personal matters because he has somehow signalled that those types of questions wouldn’t be welcome.’

‘I know what you mean,’ replied Erica. ‘So he’s never mentioned anything in passing?’

May paused to think. ‘No, I can’t recall… Wait a minute…’

‘Yes?’ said Erica, silently cursing her own impatience.

‘It was just a little thing. But I got the feeling that… One time we were talking about Trollhättan because I’d gone to visit my sister, who lives there. And he seemed to know the town. Then he looked as if he’d been caught off guard, and he started talking about something else. I specifically remember noticing that. The fact that he changed the subject so abruptly.’

‘Did you have the feeling that he might have lived there?’

‘I think so. Although, as I said, I can’t be sure.’

It wasn’t much to go on. But at least it gave her somewhere to start. In Trollhättan.

‘Come in, Christian!’ Gaby met him at the door, and he cautiously entered the white landscape that was the publishing company’s domicile. Even though Gaby, who was head of the company, preferred strong colours and an extravagant personal style, the office was spartanly furnished and tended towards pale pastel hues. But maybe that was intentional, because it provided the perfect backdrop for her to shine.

‘Would you like some coffee?’ She pointed to a coat rack with hangers and a shelf for hats. He hung up his jacket.

‘Yes, thanks. That would be nice.’ He followed Gaby as she led the way, her high heels clacking down the long corridor. The kitchen was decorated in colours as pale as the rest of the place, but the cups she took from the cupboard were a shocking pink, and there didn’t seem to be any others to choose from.

‘Latte? Cappuccino? Espresso?’ Gaby pointed at a gigantic coffee machine that dominated the counter. Christian paused to consider.

‘I’ll have a latte, please.’

‘Coming right up.’ She reached for his cup and began pressing buttons. When the coffee machine had stopped huffing and puffing, she motioned for Christian to follow her.

‘We’ll go to my office. There are too many people running around here.’ She nodded pointedly at a young woman in her thirties who had come into the kitchen. Judging by the woman’s alarmed expression, Christian thought Gaby must keep a tight rein on her employees.

‘Have a seat.’ Gaby’s office was right next door to the kitchen. It was neat and pleasant but impersonal. No photographs of family members, no odd little knickknacks. Nothing that would give any hint as to who Gaby really was, and Christian suspected that was exactly the way she wanted it.

‘You were great this morning!’ She sat down behind the desk, beaming at him.

He nodded, fully aware that she’d noticed his nervousness. He wondered if she had any pangs of conscience about the way she’d thrown him to the media, leaving him defenceless for what was to come.

‘You have such a presence.’ Her teeth flashed a dazzling white as she smiled at him. Too white, an unnatural white.

He clutched the pink coffee cup in his sweaty hands.

‘We’re going to try to get you a few more TV spots,’ Gaby prattled on. ‘Carin, at nine thirty in the evening, Malou on Channel 4, maybe some kind of game show. I think you -’

‘I’m not doing any more TV shows.’

Gaby stared at him. ‘Sorry? I must have heard wrong. Did you just say that you’re not doing any more TV?’

‘That’s right. You saw what happened this morning. I’m not going to subject myself to that again.’

‘But TV sells books.’ Gaby’s nostrils flared. ‘Just that one short interview this morning is going to really spark sales of your book.’ She was impatiently tapping her long fingernails on the desktop.

‘I’m sure that’s true, but it doesn’t matter. I’m not doing anything like that again.’ And he really meant what he said. He didn’t want to appear in the spotlight any more. He couldn’t. Even that one interview was too much; it had been enough to provoke a reaction. Maybe he could still keep fate at bay if he put a stop to it. But he had to do it now.

‘I must say, you’re not being very cooperative. I can’t sell your book or get readers to notice it if you won’t help me. And that means taking part in the promotional efforts.’ Gaby’s voice was ice cold.

Christian felt a buzzing start up inside his head. He stared at Gaby’s pink nails against the light-coloured desktop, and he tried to stop the roar that kept getting louder and louder. He began scratching the palm of his left hand. He felt a prickling under his skin. Like an in visible eczema that got worse the more he touched it.

‘I’m not doing anything like that again,’ he repeated. He didn’t dare meet her eye. The slight nervousness he’d felt before coming to this meeting had now turned to panic. She couldn’t force him. Or could she? What exactly did it say in the contract that he’d signed? He hadn’t really read it, he’d been so thrilled about getting his book accepted for publication.

Gaby’s voice cut through the roaring sound. ‘We expect you to show up, Christian. I expect you to show up.’ Her annoyance provided more impetus for the prickling and itching sensation inside of him. He scratched even harder at the palm of his hand, until he felt it sting. When he glanced down, he saw bloody streaks left by his fingernails. He looked up.

‘I need to go home now.’

Gaby studied him with a frown on her face. ‘How are you doing, actually?’ The furrow on her brow deepened when she saw the blood on the palm of his hand. ‘Christian…’ She seemed at a loss for what to say, and he couldn’t take it any longer. The thoughts were buzzing louder and louder, saying things that he didn’t want to hear. All the question marks, all the connections, everything merged together until the itching under his skin was the only thing he noticed.

He jumped up and ran out of the room.

Patrik stared at the phone. It would take quite a while to get a complete report on the body that they’d found under the ice, but he was counting on receiving confirmation very soon that it really was Magnus Kjellner. Rumours were no doubt already flying through Fjällbacka, and he didn’t want Cia to hear about it from anyone other than the police.

But so far his phone had remained silent.

‘Nothing yet?’ Annika stuck her head in the door, giving him an enquiring look.

Patrik shook his head. ‘Nope. But I’m expecting to hear from Pedersen any minute.’

‘Let’s hope you do,’ said Annika. The second she turned to go back to the reception area, the phone rang. Patrik grabbed the receiver.

‘Hedström.’ He listened, motioning for Annika to wait. It was Tord Pedersen from the forensics lab on the line. ‘Yes… Okay… I understand… Thanks.’ He put down the phone and exhaled loudly. ‘Pedersen confirmed that it’s Magnus Kjellner. He won’t be able to give us a time of death until after the post-mortem, but he can say with certainty that Kjellner was the victim of a violent assault. His body has a number of stab wounds on it.’

‘Poor Cia.’

Patrik nodded. His heart felt heavy as he thought about the task ahead of him. Even so, he wanted to tell her himself. He owed it to her after all the times she’d come to the police station, each time looking a little sadder, a little more haggard, but still holding out hope. Now there was no longer any hope, and the only thing he could offer her was the certain knowledge that her husband was dead.

‘I’d better go over there and have a talk with Cia right away,’ he said, standing up. ‘Before somebody else tells her.’

‘Are you going alone?’

‘No, I’ll take Paula with me.’

He went to his colleague’s office and knocked on the open door.

‘Is it him?’ As usual, Paula got right to the point.

‘Yes. I’m going to have a talk with his wife. Could you come along?’

‘Sure. Of course,’ she said, pulling on her jacket and following Patrik, who was already moving towards the front door.

In the reception area they were stopped by Mellberg.

‘Have you heard anything?’ he wanted to know.

‘Yes. Pedersen has confirmed that the victim is Magnus Kjellner.’ Patrik turned away to head for the police car parked outside the station, but Mellberg wasn’t ready to let him go.

‘So he drowned, right? I knew he killed himself. Probably some sort of woman trouble, or maybe he lost a bundle playing poker on the Internet. I just knew it.’

‘It doesn’t appear to be a suicide.’ Patrik weighed his words carefully. From bitter experience he knew that Mellberg did whatever he liked with information he obtained, and it could easily lead to disastrous results.

‘Bloody hell! You mean it was murder?’

‘We don’t really know very much at this point.’ Patrik’s voice had taken on an admonitory tone. ‘The only thing Pedersen could tell me was that Magnus Kjellner had suffered extensive wounds.’

‘Bloody hell,’ Mellberg said again. ‘That means this investigation is going to get a lot of attention. We need to pick up the pace. We need to put everything that has already been done, or not done, under the microscope. I haven’t really been involved very much so far, but now we need to focus all of the station’s resources on the case.’

Patrik and Paula exchanged glances. As usual, Mellberg was oblivious to their lack of confidence in his leadership abilities. He went on enthusiastically:

‘We need to call a meeting and go through all the material we have on hand. I’ll expect everyone to be present and accounted for at three p.m., eager to get to work. We’ve wasted too much time already. Good Lord, should it really take three months to find a man? It makes me downright ashamed.’ He cast a stern look at Patrik, who fought to control a childish impulse to give his boss a good kick in the shin.

‘Three o’clock,’ said Patrik. ‘Understood. But if you don’t mind, we need to get going now. Paula and I are on our way over to see Kjellner’s wife.’

‘Go, go,’ said Mellberg impatiently, waving them out. He seemed to be already lost in thought, deciding how to delegate the work in what had now turned out to be a murder investigation.

All his life, Erik had been in control. He was the one who decided. He was the hunter. Now somebody was hunting him, some unknown person that he couldn’t see. And that frightened him more than anything else. Everything would have been easier if he knew who was after him. But he honestly didn’t know.

He had devoted a lot of time to pondering the situation, even taking an inventory of his life. In his mind he’d listed all the women he’d known, his business contacts, his friends, and his enemies. He couldn’t deny that he’d left a trail of bitterness and anger in his wake. But hatred? He wasn’t so sure about that. The letters he’d received practically smouldered with hatred and a resolve to do harm. There was no question about that.

For the first time Erik felt alone in the world. For the first time he realized how thin a protective veneer he possessed, and just how little all the success and pats on the back meant in the long run. He had even considered confiding in Louise. Or Kenneth. But he never seemed to find a moment when his wife wasn’t looking at him with scorn. And Kenneth was always so submissive. Neither seemed fertile ground for confiding his concerns. Or for sharing the uneasiness that he’d felt ever since the first letters had arrived.

There was no one he could turn to. He realized that he alone was to blame for his isolation, but he had enough self-awareness to know that he wouldn’t have acted differently even if he could. The taste of success was too sweet. The feeling of being superior and idolized was too intoxicating. He had no regrets, but he still wished that he could talk to someone.

For lack of anything else, he decided to seek out the second-best thing. Sex. Nothing else made him feel so invincible yet at the same time allowed him to relinquish control in a way that was otherwise foreign to him. It had nothing to do with whoever his partner happened to be. They had changed so often over the years that he could no longer put names and faces together. He could remember that one woman had perfect breasts, but no matter how hard he searched his memory, he couldn’t recall the face that went with the breasts. Another woman had tasted incredibly delicious, making him want to use his tongue, breathe in her scent. But her name? He had no idea.

At the moment Cecilia was his lover, but he didn’t think that he’d remember anything special about her either. She was merely expedient. In every way. Completely acceptable in bed, but nothing that would make the angels sing. A body that was sufficiently well-shaped to give him a hard-on, but it wasn’t her body that he pictured in his mind when he was home in bed with his eyes closed, jerking off. She was here, she was available and willing. That was the extent of her attraction, and he knew that he would soon grow tired of her.

But at the moment that was certainly good enough. Impatiently he rang her doorbell, hoping he wouldn’t have to put up with much small talk before he could get inside her and feel all his tension released.

The minute she opened the door, he saw that his hopes would be dashed. He’d sent her a text message, asking if he could drop by, and received a ‘yes’ in reply. Now he realized that he should have phoned instead to see what sort of mood she was in. Because she had a determined air about her. Not angry or annoyed. That wasn’t it. Just determined and calm – which was far more worrisome than if she had been furious.

‘Come in, Erik,’ she said, stepping aside to let him in.

Erik. It was never a good sign when someone said his name in that way. It meant that she wanted to put special emphasis on what she was going to say. That she wanted his full attention. He considered turning on his heel, saying that he suddenly had to take off, anything to avoid entering into this resolute scheming of hers.

But the door stood wide open, and Cecilia was on her way to the kitchen. He had no choice. Reluctantly he closed the front door behind him, hung up his coat, and went to join her.

‘It’s good you came. I was just thinking of phoning you,’ she said.

He stood leaning against the counter, his arms crossed. Waiting. Now it would come. Just like always. The waltz. When the woman wanted to start leading, taking charge and moving forward; when she stated terms and demanded promises that he could never keep. Sometimes these kinds of moments gave him a sense of satisfaction. He enjoyed slowly and meticulously crushing the woman’s pathetic hopes. But not today. Today he wanted to feel naked skin and inhale sweet scents; he needed to climb to the top and experience an exhausted release. He needed this to keep at bay whoever it was who was hunting him. Why did this stupid woman have to choose this particular day to have her dreams dashed?

Erik stood still, glaring coldly at Cecilia, who stared back with great composure. That was something new. He was used to seeing nervous eyes and flushed cheeks in anticipation of the leap about to be made, combined with elation because the woman had found her ‘inner courage’ to demand what she thought was her right. But Cecilia just stood there, facing him, her eyes steady.

She opened her mouth to speak just as the mobile in his trouser pocket began vibrating. He clicked on the message and read what it said. A single sentence. A sentence that almost made his knees buckle. At the same time, from far away, he heard Cecilia’s voice. She was talking to him, saying something. It was impossible to take in her words. But he forced himself to listen, forced his brain to give meaning to the syllables she was saying.

‘I’m pregnant, Erik.’

Not a word was spoken as they drove to Fjällbacka. Before they left Paula had asked Patrik if he wanted her to deliver the news, but he merely shook his head. They had picked up Lena Appelgren, the pastor, who was now sitting in the back seat. She too had remained silent after she heard what she needed to know about the circumstances.

As they turned into the driveway in front of the Kjellner home, Patrik regretted having taken a police vehicle instead of his own Volvo. There was only one way that Cia would interpret seeing a police car driving up to her house.

Patrik rang the doorbell, and in less than five seconds Cia opened the door. He could tell from her expression that she’d seen the car and had already come to a conclusion.

‘You found him, didn’t you?’ she said drawing her cardigan tighter around her as the cold winter wind blew in the open doorway.

‘Yes,’ Patrik told her. ‘We found him.’

For a moment Cia retained her composure, but then her legs seemed to give way beneath her, and she collapsed on to the floor. Patrik and Paula lifted her up. Leaning on them, she headed for the kitchen, where they set her down on a chair.

‘Would you like us to call anyone?’ Patrik sat down next to Cia and took her hand in his.

She seemed to consider the question. Her eyes were glassy, and Patrik surmised that she was having a hard time collecting her thoughts.

‘Would you like us to bring Magnus’s parents over here?’ he said kindly, and she nodded.

‘Do they know yet?’ she asked, her voice quavering.

‘No,’ said Patrik. ‘But two police officers have also gone over to their place, so I can phone and ask them if they’d like to come here.’

It turned out that wasn’t necessary. Just then another police car pulled up next to Patrik’s, and he realized that Gösta and Martin had already informed Magnus’s parents, who climbed out of the vehicle. They came into the house without stopping to ring the bell. Paula went out to the hall to have a whispered conversation with her colleagues. Through the kitchen window, Patrik saw Gösta and Martin go back out into the cold and drive off.

Paula came back to the kitchen, accompanied by Margareta and Torsten Kjellner.

‘I thought having four officers here would be too much, so I sent them back to the station,’ Paula told Patrik. ‘I hope that’s okay.’ He nodded.

Margareta went straight over to Cia and put her arms around her. As soon as her mother-in-law did that, Cia began to cry, and then the dam burst and the tears flowed freely in awful, wrenching sobs. Torsten looked pale and upset. The pastor went over to him and introduced herself.

‘Why don’t you sit down, and I’ll make all of us some coffee,’ said Lena. They knew each other only by name, and the pastor was aware that her job at the moment was to stay in the background, stepping forward only if necessary. Everyone reacted differently to the news of a death, and sometimes all she had to do was to provide something hot and soothing to drink. She began rummaging around in the cupboards, soon finding everything she needed to make the coffee.

‘Hush now, Cia,’ said Margareta, stroking her daughter-in-law’s back. Over Cia’s head she met Patrik’s gaze, and it took a great effort for him not to look away from the deep sorrow he saw in the eyes of a mother who had just learned that she’d lost a son. Yet Margareta was strong enough to offer comfort to her son’s wife. Some women possessed such fortitude that nothing could break them. Bend them perhaps, yes. But they didn’t break.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Patrik turned to Magnus’s father, who was staring blankly straight ahead as he sat at the kitchen table. Torsten didn’t respond.

‘Here’s some coffee for you.’ Lena set the cup in front of Torsten and then placed her hand on his shoulder for a moment. At first he didn’t react, but then he said faintly, ‘Sugar?’

‘I’ll get it.’ Lena again looked through the cupboards until she found a box of sugar.

‘I don’t understand…’ said Torsten, closing his eyes. Then he opened them. ‘I don’t understand. Who would want to hurt Magnus? Who would want to harm our boy?’ He looked at his wife, but she didn’t hear him. She still had her arms around Cia, while a wet patch was growing bigger on her grey jumper.

‘We don’t know, Torsten,’ said Patrik. He nodded gratefully to the pastor, who handed him a cup of coffee before she sat down at the table with them.

‘So what do we know?’ The words seemed to stick in Torsten’s throat from anger and grief.

Margareta gave him a warning look. As if to say: Not now. This isn’t the proper time or place.

He bowed to his wife’s stern gaze and instead reached for the sugar, pouring some into his coffee and stirring it with a spoon.

Silence descended over the room. Cia’s sobs had diminished, but Margareta still held her close, putting her own sorrow aside for the moment.

Cia raised her head. Her cheeks were streaked with tears and her words were barely audible as she said:

‘The children. They don’t know yet. They’re in school. They have to come home.’

Patrik nodded. He stood up, and then he and Paula headed back outside to the car.