The Living and the Dead in Winsford

56

We go for an hour’s walk before breakfast. It’s a grey morning with light rain showers that come and go. We can occasionally see a helicopter out over the sea: I assume it’s searching for Martin’s dead body.

We walk along deserted streets and eventually come down to the water, and a stretch of sandy beach: I take out of my pocket the plastic bag containing our cut-up passports. I have spent quite a while before we set off, tearing them into small pieces, none of them bigger than a couple of square centimetres — and now I spread out the confetti in about ten different places. Dig it all down and remove all traces as far as possible. I throw his mobile telephone and wallet into the sea — I should probably have done that from the ferry, but I simply didn’t have the nerve.

When we get back to the Danhotel, Lene is sitting waiting for us in the breakfast room. She has an elderly colleague by her side. Knud has been working throughout the night and is now at home, catching up on sleep, she explains.

Her colleague greets us and introduces himself as Palle — I wonder if Danish police officers only have first names. He explains that he and Lene need to speak to me for a while, but that of course I can have breakfast first.

Morgenmad — he uses the Danish word for breakfast, which reminds me that the Danish word that sounds like the Swedish word for breakfast actually means lunch. .

‘That’s a lovely dog you’ve got,’ he says. ‘Rhodesian ridge-back. A neighbour of mine has two of them.’

He strokes Caspar in the right way, and I immediately decide that I trust him.

We spend the whole of the morning in the Danhotel in Rødbyhavn. Palle tells me that the sea searches last night and this morning have been fruitless, and he asks me to repeat yet again exactly what happened on the ferry crossing. They also want some more background, and I tell them about our stay in Morocco and about Martin’s depression.

‘Did he talk about committing suicide?’ Palle asks.

‘No,’ I say somewhat hesitantly. ‘I don’t recall him mentioning it openly.’

‘Are you surprised? Or can you see that the situation we now find ourselves in has to do with his state of mind?’

I say that I don’t know. I mention that his sister took her own life. Palle nods and Lene notes that down.

‘Is it possible that he considered it a defeat to have to come home early without having achieved what he set out to do? His writing, I mean.’

‘Yes, I assume so.’

I burst into tears on several occasions — the attacks just come and I don’t need to fake them. As usual when I cry, Gudrun Ewerts comes into my mind again. I am bombarded with so many confused thoughts and impulses as I sit talking to the two Danish police officers. For instance, I get the feeling that I have been swimming for ages under water, and that what has now happened is that I have at last managed to raise my head above the surface. It is a strange image, of course, in view of the fact that we are talking about Martin’s body which went the opposite way. Or so the police think, at least.

When they have run out of questions to ask about what happened, they wonder what I am going to do next. Do I want to stay on in Rødbyhavn a bit longer — in case a miracle happens — or do I want to go back home to Stockholm?

I say I want to go home.

‘Have you been in contact with relations and friends?’

I shake my head.

‘Who would you like to get in touch with?’

I say I would like to contact our children, and shortly afterwards I compose an e-mail message I send to both of them. Only a few lines, but it’s not easy to find the right words. I tell them I’m on my way up to Stockholm, and that I’ll have my mobile switched on all afternoon.

‘Do you think you’ll be able to drive all the way to Stockholm?’ Lene asks.

I say I do. I’m used to driving, and it’s better than sitting still.

‘Do you have somebody to look after you when you get there?’

‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘That’s not a problem.’

‘And you’re sure you’ll be able to drive?’

‘Yes, I’ll be okay.’

At noon I take my leave of the two police officers. They tell me they’ve been in touch with their Swedish colleagues, and they also say that they don’t intend to inform the media about what has happened — neither the Danish nor the Swedish hacks. It’s up to me to decide how to make the accident public knowledge.

It seems they have been told by the police on the other side of the Sound that Martin and I are not exactly unknown in Sweden.

‘Look after yourself,’ says Lena. ‘Feel able to ring me when you like.’

I thank her. I have her business card in my purse.

And so we get into the car and set off on our journey northwards through Denmark. When we reach the Öresund Bridge an hour and a half later, it starts snowing.

It’s Gunvald who rings first. I’ve stopped at a petrol station just outside Helsingborg, and am about to get out of the car and fill up when I see the call is from him, so I drive over to a parking bay instead.

‘Hi,’ he says, ‘Is it true?’

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘I’m afraid it’s true.’

‘Good God!’

‘Yes indeed.’

‘Where are you?’

‘On the E4 north of Helsingborg. I’m on the way home.’

‘When did it happen?’

‘Last night. We came on the ferry from Puttgarden.’

‘And he. .?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see it?’

‘No. But he didn’t come to the car when we were instructed to drive ashore.’

‘I didn’t know. . I mean, he did write. . And so did you.’

‘I had no idea, Gunvald. I didn’t realize it was that bad. I thought going home was the right thing to do, but. .’

‘You can’t know things like that.’

‘No.’

‘But they haven’t found him, have they?’

‘No.’

‘Is there any chance that-’

‘No. It’s too cold.’

‘Good God.’

Then we have nothing else to add, neither I nor Gunvald. But we don’t close down the call. I sit staring out at the swirling snowflakes for a while, listening to Gunvald’s breathing. I recall lying awake at night when he was newly born, listening to his breathing. Now I’m sitting at a petrol station and his dad is dead.

‘I’ll try to get up to Stockholm tomorrow,’ he says. ‘Does Synn know about it?’

I say that I’ve e-mailed her as well, but of course they are several hours behind us in New York.

‘You don’t need to come tomorrow,’ I add. ‘Wait a few days, let me come to terms with it all first. We can keep in touch by telephone.’

‘Okay,’ says Gunvald. ‘Let’s do that. Mum. .?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m so sorry. .’

‘So am I, Gunvald. We’ll just have to try and get over it.’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘We’ll have to try.’

Then we hang up. I drive back to the pumps and start filling up.

The snow persists. I buy an evening newspaper which says that it will continue all evening and all night as well. Drivers are warned to be careful.

When we are somewhere in the Småland hills Synn rings. She has just got back from a jog in Central Park and is crying loudly. That surprises me.

‘I’m so sorry that I wrote what I did, Mum,’ she sobs. ‘I didn’t realize he was that bad.’

‘No, but he did,’ I say. ‘I never told him what you wrote, so you don’t need to worry about that.’

Then we say more or less the same things as Gunvald and I had said an hour earlier, and suddenly the connection is lost without warning. Perhaps it’s the snow, perhaps it’s something else. She doesn’t ring back until after we have passed Gränna, and she announces that she is looking for flights home.

I tell her to wait for a bit. It’s better to take things easy for a few days and try to come to terms with what has happened. And there’s no body — without one there’s no hurry when it comes to the funeral.

‘I didn’t realize,’ says Synn, and starts crying again. We finish the call just as I’m passing the slip road to Ödeshög.

It’s half past nine in the evening when I park outside our house in Nynäshamn. It’s minus eight degrees according to the thermometer in the car, and the snowfall has eased off a little. Judging by the snow in our street the snow ploughs have passed through not long ago.

I remain sitting in the car for a while before I feel up to opening the door and getting out of the car. Castor remains on the passenger seat, and doesn’t move a muscle.