The Drowning

17

All that mattered was to survive. But it required more effort with each year that passed. The move had been good for everyone but him. Father had found a job he enjoyed, and Mother liked living in the Old Bitch’s house, remodelling it until the place was no longer recognizable, since she had erased all trace of the woman. Alice seemed to be doing well in the calm and peaceful atmosphere in Fjällbacka, at least for nine months of the year.

Mother was teaching her at home. At first Father had been against the idea, saying that Alice needed to get out and meet children her own age. She needed to be around other people. But Mother had merely looked at him and said in a cold voice:

‘I’m the only one Alice needs.’

That was the end of the discussion.

In the meantime, he kept getting fatter, and he was constantly eating. It was as if his craving for food had taken on a life of its own. He stuffed into his mouth everything he could get his hands on. But it no longer drew any attention from Mother. Occasionally she would cast a disgusted glance in his direction, but she mostly ignored him. It had a been a long time since he’d thought of her as his beautiful mother and yearned for her love. He had given up, accepting the fact that he was someone that nobody could love; he didn’t deserve to be loved.

The only person who loved him was Alice. And she was a monstrosity, just like him. She lurched about, slurring her words, and she couldn’t manage even the most basic tasks. She was eight years old and couldn’t even tie her shoes. She was always following him like a shadow. In the morning when he left to catch the school bus, she would sit in the window to watch him, the palms of her hands pressed against the glass and a wistful expression on her face. He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t try to make her stop.

School was a torment. Every morning when he got off the school bus, it felt like he was on his way to prison. He looked forward to the classes, but the rest filled him with terror. They were always after him, teasing and punching him, vandalizing his locker and yelling taunts at him in the schoolyard. He wasn’t stupid; he knew that he was the perfect scapegoat. His fat body made him guilty of the worst sin of all: he was different. He understood it, but that didn’t make things any easier.

‘Can you find your dick when you have to piss, or does your stomach get in the way?’

Erik. Perched on one of the tables out in the schoolyard, where he was surrounded by a bunch of eager hangers-on, as usual. He was the worst of the lot. The most popular boy, handsome and self-confident. He talked back to the teachers and had ready access to cigarettes, which he smoked and also handed out to his followers. He didn’t know who he detested most. Erik, who seemed driven by sheer wickedness and was always looking for new ways to hurt him. Or the sneering idiots who sat next to Erik, filled with admiration for their popular classmate and basking in his glory.

At the same time, he knew that he’d give anything to be one of them. To be allowed to sit on the table with Erik, accept the cigarette he offered, and comment on the girls going past, who would respond with delighted giggles and flushed cheeks.

‘Hey! I’m talking to you. Answer me when I ask you a question!’ Erik got down from the table, and the two others watched him with excitement. The athletic one, Magnus, actually met his eyes. Sometimes he thought he saw a glimpse of sympathy in the boy’s expression, but if so, it wasn’t enough to make Magnus risk falling out of favour with Erik. Kenneth was simply a coward and always avoided looking him in the eye. Right now he was staring at Erik, as if waiting to follow orders. But today Erik didn’t seem to have the energy to cause any trouble, because he sat down again and said with a laugh:

‘Get out of here, you disgusting fatso! If you hurry up and take off now, you won’t get a beating today.’

He wanted nothing more than to stand his ground and tell Erik to go to hell. With precise and powerful movements, he would give Erik such a thrashing that everyone standing around would realize that their hero was heading for a fall. Then with great effort Erik would lift his head up from the ground, with blood running from his nose, and look at him with new respect. After that he would have a place in the group. He would belong.

Instead, he turned tail and ran. As fast as he could, he lumbered across the schoolyard. His chest hurt, and the rolls of fat on his body jiggled up and down. Behind him he could hear them laughing.

Erica drove past the roundabout at Korsvägen, with her heart in her throat. The traffic in Göteborg always made her nervous, and this particular junction was the worst. But she got through it without a problem and then drove slowly up Eklandagatan, looking for the street where she needed to turn.

Rosenhillsgatan. The block of flats stood at the end of the street, facing Korsvägen and Liseberg. She checked the address and then parked her car right in front. She glanced at her watch. The plan was to ring the doorbell and hope that someone was at home. If not, she and Göran had agreed that she’d spend a couple of hours visiting with him and his mother before trying again. If that proved necessary, she wasn’t going to get home until late in the evening, so she crossed her fingers that she’d be lucky enough to find the current tenant at home. She had memorized the name from the phone calls she’d made on her way to Göteborg, and she found it at once on the building intercom. Janos Kovács.

She pushed the button. No answer. She tried again, and then she heard a crackling sound and a voice with a strong accent said: ‘Who is there?’

‘My name is Erica Falck. I’d like to ask you a few questions about someone who used to live in your flat. Christian Thydell.’ She waited tensely. Her explanation sounded a bit fishy, even to her own ears, but she hoped the man would be curious enough to let her in. A buzzing sound from the door showed that she was in luck.

The lift stopped at the second floor, and she got out. One of the three doors was ajar, and peering at her through the gap was a short and slightly overweight man in his sixties. When he caught sight of her enormous belly, he lifted off the safety chain and opened the door wide.

‘Come in, come in,’ he said earnestly.

‘Thank you,’ said Erica and stepped inside. A heavy aroma from many years of cooking spicy food reached her nostrils, and she felt her stomach turn over. The smell wasn’t really unpleasant, but her pregnancy had made her nose sensitive to particularly pungent odours.

‘I have coffee. Good strong coffee.’ He pointed towards a small kitchen right across the hall. She followed him, casting a glance inside what appeared to be the only other room in the flat, functioning as both living room and bedroom.

So it was here that Christian lived before he moved to Fjällbacka. Erica felt her heart beating faster with anticipation.

‘Sit.’ Janos Kovács more or less pushed her down on to a straight-backed chair and then served her coffee. With a triumphant whoop he set a big plate of cakes in front of her.

‘Poppy-seed cakes. Hungarian speciality! My mother often sends me packages of poppy-seed cakes because she knows that I love them. Have one.’ He motioned for her to help herself, so she took a cake from the plate and tentatively bit into it. Definitely a new taste, but good. She suddenly realized that she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, and her stomach rumbled gratefully as she swallowed the first bite of cake.

‘You’re eating for two. Take another, take two, take as many as you want!’ Janos Kovács pushed the plate closer to her, his eyes sparkling. ‘Big baby,’ he said with a smile as he pointed at her belly.

Erica smiled back. His good humour was infectious.

‘Well, I’m actually carrying two, you see.’

‘Ah, twins.’ He clapped his hands with delight. ‘What a blessing.’

‘Do you have children?’ asked Erica, her mouth full of cake.

Janos Kovács lifted his chin and said proudly, ‘I have two fine sons. Grown up now. Both have good jobs. At Volvo. And I have five grandchildren.’

‘And your wife?’ said Erica cautiously, glancing around. It didn’t look as if any woman lived in the flat. Kovács was still smiling, but his smile was not as bright.

‘About seven years ago she came home one day and said, “I’m moving out.” And then she was gone.’ He threw out his hands. ‘That’s when I moved here. We lived in this building, in a three-room flat downstairs.’ He pointed to the floor. ‘But when I had to take early retirement, and my wife left me, I couldn’t stay there any more. And since Christian met a girl at the same time and was going to move, well, I moved in here. Everything turned out for the best,’ he exclaimed, looking as if he truly meant it.

‘So you knew Christian before he moved?’ asked Erica, sipping her coffee, which was delicious.

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that I really knew him. But we often ran into each other here in the building. I’m very handy.’ Kovács held up his hands. ‘So I help out when I can. And Christian couldn’t even change a light bulb.’

‘I can imagine,’ said Erica, smiling.

‘Do you know Christian? Why are you asking me questions about him? It was many years ago that he lived here. I hope nothing has happened to him.’

‘I’m a journalist,’ said Erica, assuming the role that she’d decided on during the drive to the city. ‘Christian is an author now, and I’m writing a big article about him, so I’m trying to find out a little about his background.’

‘Christian is an author? How about that! He always did have a book in his hand. And one whole wall in the flat was covered with books.’

‘Do you know what he did when he lived here? Where he worked?’

Janos Kovács shook his head. ‘No, I don’t know. And I never asked. It’s important to respect a neighbour’s privacy. Not get too nosy. If someone wants to talk about himself, he will.’

That sounded like a healthy philosophy, and Erica wished that more people in Fjällbacka shared his attitude.

‘Did he have a lot of visitors?’

‘Never. I actually felt a little sorry for him. He was always alone. That’s not good for people. We all need company.’

He’s certainly right about that, thought Erica, hoping that Janos Kovács himself had someone who came to visit now and then.

‘Did he leave anything behind when he moved? Maybe in the storage room?’

‘No, the flat was empty when I moved in. There was nothing.’

Erica decided to give up. Janos Kovács didn’t seem to have any more information about Christian’s life. She thanked him and then politely but firmly refused his offer to take a sack of cakes home with her.

She was just stepping out the door when Kovács stopped her.

‘Wait! I don’t know how I could have forgotten. Maybe I’m starting to get a little senile.’ He tapped his finger on his temple, then turned around and went into the main room of the flat. After a moment he came back, holding something in his hand.

‘When you see Christian, could you give these to him? Tell him that I did as he said and threw out all the post that came for him. But these… Well, I thought it seemed a bit odd to toss them in the bin. Considering that one or two have arrived every year since he moved out, it seems clear that someone is really trying to get hold of him. I never did get Christian’s new address, so I just put them aside. So if you wouldn’t mind giving them to him with my greetings.’ He smiled cheerfully and handed her a bundle of white envelopes.

Erica felt her hands start to shake as she took them from Janos.

There was suddenly an echoing silence in the house. Christian sat down at the kitchen table and rested his head in his hands. His temples were throbbing, and the itching had started up again. His whole body was burning, and he felt a stinging sensation when he began rubbing the cuts on the palm of his hand. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, laying his cheek against the tabletop. He tried to sink into the silence and push away the feeling that something was trying to crawl out of his skin.

A blue dress. It fluttered past under his eyelids. Disappeared and then came back. The child in her arms. Why didn’t he ever see the child’s face? It was blank and featureless. Had he ever been able to picture it properly? Or had the child always been overshadowed by his enormous love for her? He couldn’t remember. It was so long ago.

He began to weep quietly, his tears slowly making a little puddle on the table. Then the sobs came, rising up from his chest and pouring out until his whole body was shaking. Christian raised his head. He had to make the images go away, make her go away. Otherwise he would burst and fall apart. He let his head sink heavily back on to the table, letting his cheek strike the surface full force. He felt the wood against his skin, and he raised his head again and again, pounding it against the hard tabletop. Compared with the itching and the burning inside his body, the pain almost felt good. But it did nothing to get rid of the images. She stood there just as clearly, large as life, right in front of him. She smiled and held out her hand towards him, so close that she could have touched him if only she reached a bit further.

Was that a sound from upstairs? Abruptly he stopped moving, with his head only centimetres from the table, as if someone had suddenly pressed the pause button on the film of his life. He listened, not moving a muscle. Yes, he did hear something overhead. It sounded like faint footsteps.

Christian slowly sat up. His entire body was tensed, on high alert. Then he got up from his chair and as quietly as possible made his way to the stairs. Holding on to the banister, he started up, keeping close to the wall where the creaking would be less. Out of the corner of his eye he saw something fluttering, quickly slipping past upstairs in the hall. Or was he imagining things? It was gone now, and the house was again silent.

A step creaked underfoot, and he held his breath. If she was up there, she would know that he was coming. Was she waiting for him? He felt a strange calm settle over him. His family was gone now. She couldn’t harm them any more. He was the only one here; it was between the two of them, just as it had been from the beginning.

A child whimpered. Was it really a child? He heard it again, but now it was more like one of the many sounds that an old house makes. Christian slowly climbed a few more steps to reach the next floor. The hallway was empty. The only sound was his own breathing.

The door to the boys’ room stood open. It was a mess inside. The techs from the police had made things even worse, with black spots from the fingerprint powder now covering the whole room. He sat down in the middle of the floor, facing the words written on the wall. At first glance, the paint still looked like blood. You don’t deserve them.

He knew that she was right. He didn’t deserve them. Christian kept on staring at the words, letting the message sink into his consciousness. He needed to put everything right. Only he could make everything right. In silence he read the words again. He was the one she was after. And he knew where she wanted him to go. He would give her what she wanted.

‘This is going to be a short meeting.’ Patrik reached for a paper towel from the kitchen roll on the counter to wipe his forehead. He was sweating like crazy. He must be in much worse shape than he thought. ‘Here’s the situation: Kenneth Bengtsson is in the hospital. Gösta and Martin will tell us more about that in a minute.’ He gave them a nod. ‘And someone broke into Christian Thydell’s house last night. Whoever it was didn’t physically harm anyone, but they wrote a message in red paint on the wall in the children’s room. Obviously, the whole family is in shock. We have to assume that we’re dealing with someone who has a screw loose, and that means they’re dangerous.’

‘Of course I would have liked to come along this morning when you were called out.’ Mellberg cleared his throat. ‘Unfortunately, I was not informed about what was happening.’

Patrik chose to ignore him and went on, turning to look at Annika.

‘Have you found out anything more about Christian’s background?’

Annika hesitated. ‘Possibly, but I’d like to double-check a few things first.’

‘Do that,’ said Patrik, and then turned to Gösta and Martin. ‘What did you find out when you talked to Kenneth? And how is he, by the way?’

Martin glanced at Gösta, who motioned for him to start.

‘His injuries aren’t life-threatening, but according to his doctors, it’s pure luck that he’s still alive. The pieces of glass really cut up his arms and legs badly. If any of the glass had punctured a major artery, he would have died out there on the jogging trail.’

‘The question is: what did the perpetrator intend? Did he, or she, merely want to injure Kenneth? Or was it attempted murder?’

No one even tried to answer Patrik’s question, so Martin continued:

‘Kenneth said that it was generally known that he took the same route every morning, and at exactly the same time. So in that sense, we can treat everyone in Fjällbacka as suspects.’

‘But we shouldn’t assume that whoever did this is from here. It could be someone who happens to be visiting,’ Gösta interjected.

‘How would a visitor to the area know about Kenneth’s morning routines? Doesn’t it seem more likely that the perpetrator lives here?’ asked Martin.

Patrik thought for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t think we can rule out someone who doesn’t live here. They may have been here just long enough to watch Kenneth for a few days and confirm that he’s a creature of habit.’ Then he added, ‘What did Kenneth have to say about it? Does he have any idea what might be behind the attack?’

Gösta and Martin exchanged glances again, but this time Gösta did the talking.

‘He says that he doesn’t have a clue, but both Martin and I got the impression that he’s lying. He knows something, but for some reason he’s keeping it to himself. He did use the word “she” about the perpetrator.’

‘He did?’ A deep furrow appeared between Patrik’s eyebrows. ‘I got the same feeling when I talked to Christian – that he’s hiding something. In Christian’s case, his entire family seems to be in danger. And Kenneth is convinced that his wife was murdered, even though we haven’t yet determined whether that’s true or not. So why aren’t they cooperating with us?’

‘Christian didn’t say anything either?’ Gösta carefully pulled apart the two sections of a Ballerina biscuit and licked off the filling. He slipped the vanilla half to Ernst, who lay at his feet under the table.

‘No, I couldn’t get anything out of him,’ said Patrik. ‘He was clearly in a state of shock. But he steadfastly maintains that he doesn’t know who is doing these things, or why, and so far there’s nothing to contradict him. Only a gut feeling I have, just like you had with Kenneth. And he stubbornly insists on staying in the house. Thankfully, he sent Sanna and the kids to stay with her sister Agneta in Hamburgsund. Hopefully they’ll be safe there.’

‘Did the techs find anything of interest? You told them about the rag, didn’t you? And the bottle?’ asked Gösta.

‘They were there quite a long time, at any rate. And yes, they took the items you found in the basement. Torbjörn said to tell you “good job”, by the way. But as usual it’s going to take a while before we have any concrete results. I plan to ring Pedersen again and ask him to hurry things up a bit. I couldn’t get hold of him this morning. Hopefully they can get a move on with this investigation so that we’ll have the post-mortem reports very soon. Considering how things are starting to escalate, we can’t afford to waste any more time.’

‘Let me know if you want me to phone him instead. Just to give the request a little more weight,’ said Mellberg.

‘Thanks, but I’ll try and do it myself. It’ll be difficult, but I’ll do my best.’

‘All right. Just so you know that I’m here to help. In any way I can,’ said Mellberg.

‘Paula, what did Christian’s wife say?’ Patrik asked, turning to his colleague. They had driven back together from Fjällbacka, but he hadn’t had time to ask about Sanna. His mobile had been ringing non-stop.

‘I don’t think she knows anything,’ said Paula. ‘She’s very confused and upset. And scared. She doesn’t think that Christian knows who it was, but she hesitated a bit when she said that – which makes me suspect that she’s not quite sure. It might be good to talk to her again under calmer circumstances, after the worst of the shock has worn off. By the way, I recorded our conversation, so you can listen to it yourself, if you like. The recording is on my desk. Maybe you might pick up something I missed.’

‘Thanks,’ said Patrik again, but this time he meant it. Paula was always reliable, and it was great to have her on the investigative team.

He looked at the small group gathered in the kitchen. ‘All right then, we’re finished here. Annika, keep working on the background material and we’ll check with you again in a couple of hours. I think I’ll take Paula along and go to see Cia. We haven’t made it out to her house yet today, and now it seems even more urgent, after what happened this morning. Magnus’s death is somehow linked to all of this. That’s one thing I know for certain.’

Erica went to a café and ordered a coffee so she could sit in peace and quiet as she read the letters. She had no scruples about opening somebody else’s post. If Christian had been anxious to have those letters, he would have given Janos Kovács his new address, or had the post office forward them.

Her hands shook a bit as she set about slitting open the first envelope. She had put on a pair of thin leather gloves, which she always kept in her car. She had trouble getting the envelope open all the way, and when she tried using a table knife, she almost spilled her big latte over the rest of the letters. She quickly moved the glass a safe distance away.

She didn’t recognize the handwriting on the envelope. It wasn’t the same as the threatening letters she’d seen, and she thought it looked more like a man’s script than a woman’s. She pulled out the sheet of paper and unfolded it. She was surprised. She’d been expecting a letter, but instead she found herself looking at a child’s drawing. She was holding it upside down, so now she turned it around to look at it properly. Two people, two stick figures. One big and one little. The big one was holding the smaller one’s hand, and both of them looked happy. There were flowers around them, and the sun was shining from the upper right-hand corner. They were standing on a green line, that was apparently supposed to be grass. Above the big figure someone had printed ‘Christian’ in scraggly letters. Over the smaller figure it said ‘Me.’

Erica reached for her latte glass and took a sip. She could tell that the thick froth had left a milk moustache above her lip, and she absentmindedly wiped it off on the sleeve of her sweater. Who was ‘Me’? Who was the shorter person next to Christian?

She set down her glass and reached for the other envelopes, which she quickly slit open. She ended up with a small stack of drawings on the table in front of her. As far as she could tell, they had all been done by the same person. Each picture showed two figures: the tall Christian and the short ‘Me.’ Otherwise the scene was different in each drawing. In one of them the larger figure was standing on what looked like a beach, with the smaller figure’s head and arms sticking out of the water. Another had buildings in the background, including a church. Only in the last picture were there more figures. But it was hard to tell exactly how many there were, because the scene was a hodgepodge of legs and arms. That drawing was also darker than the others, with no flowers or sun. The bigger figure had been banished to the left-hand corner. He no longer had a smiling mouth, and the little figure didn’t look happy either. Another corner was covered with black lines. Erica squinted, trying to work out what they could be, but they were clumsily drawn, and it was impossible to know what they represented.

She glanced at her watch, suddenly realizing that she wanted to go home. There was something about the last drawing that made her feel sick to her stomach. She couldn’t put her finger on why, but that particular picture had a deep effect on her.

With an effort, Erica got to her feet. She decided to skip paying a visit to Göran today. He would undoubtedly be disappointed, but they would just have to get together another time.

On the drive back to Fjällbacka, she couldn’t help thinking about everything. The drawings kept flitting through her mind. The big figure of Christian and the smaller ‘Me’. She knew instinctively that this ‘Me’ was the key to everything. And there was only one person who could tell her who it was. First thing tomorrow she would go and have a talk with Christian. This time he would have to answer her questions.

‘What a coincidence. I was just about to give you a call.’ Pedersen’s voice was as dry and correct as always. But Patrik knew that under the laconic facade there was a sense of humour. He’d actually heard Pedersen make a joke on a few occasions, although it didn’t happen often.

‘Is that so? Well, I was just wondering whether I could hurry you up a bit. We need information. Anything you can give us might help us to move forward with the investigation.’

‘I’m not sure how helpful I can be. But I did take it upon myself to put a rush on the post-mortems pertaining to your case. We completed our report on Magnus Kjellner late last night, and I just finished with Lisbet Bengtsson.’

Patrik suddenly pictured Pedersen talking to him on the phone while clad in bloodstained scrubs and wearing surgical gloves.

‘So what’s the verdict?’

‘Let’s start with the obvious: Kjellner was definitely murdered. I could have reached that conclusion just from a cursory visual examination, but you never know. Over the years I’ve encountered a number of cases where the individual died from perfectly natural causes, and then ended up getting injured after death.’

‘But that’s not the case in this instance?’

‘No, absolutely not. The victim had a number of stab wounds on the chest and stomach, which were made by a sharp instrument, probably a knife. That was without a doubt what killed him. The attack came from the front, and he also had classic defence wounds on his hands and forearms.’

‘Are you able to tell what sort of knife was used?’

‘I’d prefer not to speculate, but, judging by the injuries, I can say that it had to be a knife with a smooth blade. And…’ He paused for effect. ‘I’d guess that it was some kind of fish knife,’ Pedersen said with satisfaction.

‘How can you tell?’ asked Patrik. ‘There must be a million different kinds of knives.’

‘You’re right. And I can’t prove that it was an actual fish knife. But I do know that it was a knife that had been used to clean fish.’

‘Okay, but how do you know that?’ Patrik was feeling impatient, and he wished that Pedersen wasn’t so fond of injecting drama into his report. The medical examiner already had his full attention.

‘I found fish scales,’ said Pedersen.

‘You did? But how could they still be inside the body after it was in the water so long?’ Patrik could feel his pulse quicken. He wanted so badly to hear something, anything at all, that would give them a lead so they’d know what direction to take.

‘Probably a lot did disappear in the water. But I found several scales embedded deep in the wounds. I’ve sent them to the lab to see if the type of fish can be determined. I hope that might be useful to you.’

‘It’s possible,’ said Patrik, although he thought the information was basically unimportant. This was Fjällbacka, after all. A community in which fish scales were a regular part of daily life.

‘Anything more about Kjellner?’

‘Not really.’ Pedersen sounded a bit disappointed that Patrik wasn’t more enthusiastic about his find. ‘He was stabbed to death and presumably died instantly. He seems to have bled a great deal. The crime scene must have looked like a slaughterhouse.’

‘Was his body tossed into the water right afterwards?’

‘Impossible to know,’ replied Pedersen. ‘The only thing I can tell you is that he’d been in the water a long time, and it seems most likely that his body was dumped there soon after he died. But that’s based more on how the killer would most likely react, and not on any scientific evidence. So it’ll be hard to prove. I’ll fax over my report, as usual.’

‘What about Lisbet? What did you decide about her?’

‘She died of natural causes.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I performed a very meticulous post-mortem on her body.’ Now Pedersen sounded insulted.

‘So you’re saying that she wasn’t murdered?’

‘That’s correct,’ replied Pedersen, still a bit miffed. ‘To be quite honest, it was a small miracle that she lived as long as she did. The cancer had spread to all the vital organs in her body. Lisbet Bengtsson was a very sick woman. She simply passed away in her sleep.’

‘So Kenneth was wrong,’ Patrik murmured to himself.

‘What did you say?’

‘It’s nothing. I was just thinking out loud. Thanks for giving our case priority. We need all the help we can get at the moment.’

‘It’s that bad?’ asked Pedersen.

‘Yes, it really is that bad.’