Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (12 page)

Lena slumps back in her chair. “There’s no reason to shout,” she mumbles while Agnes tries to calm Nils down.

“Can I go now?” Nils wipes away tears from his face. “I’ve got a headache. I want to make sure my son’s all right.”

“Absolutely.” Gren rises but motions for Lena to stay seated. “I’ll get the nurse. He’ll be here in a moment.”

A minute passes while Lena stares at visions far beyond the room’s walls. Tools. Threats. Torture. John on his way to the devil knows where, carrying a picture, a knife and whatever else he has in his bag.

The nurse arrives and leads Nils away. Gren waits outside until they are out of sight, then goes back into the room, closes the door, and sits down next to Lena. He crosses his arms and looks at her.

Lena meets his eyes and wonders if it is her turn to be debriefed.

“How are you holding up?” Gren asks.

Lena sighs. “Good,” she lies. “Tired and worried, but otherwise fine.”

Gren puts his fingertips on the edge of the table and nods. “I’m glad you’re doing all right. I’ve got my eyes on you.” He chuckles and shakes his head. “That came out wrong.”

Studying her commander, Lena wonders if his words had not been exactly what he meant. “You meant to say you’re looking after me?” she says. “I appreciate it.”

“You know I am.” He pauses. “This is a strange case.”

“Agreed.” Lena picks at a callus in her palm. She could kill for a session in the gym. “I should get back to my desk.”

Gren waves away her concern. “There’s nothing you can do right now.”

“There’s always something. You know that.”

“You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

“Look who’s talking–” Lena catches Gren’s look, breathes deep, and refocuses. “Sure. I’ll get some rest soon. I promise.”

“When?”

Lena scratches her nose. No other path is open to her except honesty. “When John is brought in,” she says. “We can only guess what he’ll do next.”

Their eyes meet in a moment’s silence.

“Will you be upset,” Gren asks, “if I tell you the department’s psychologist has advised me to make sure you don’t get too involved?”

Even though Lena is not surprised, she cannot resist making a disgusted face. She pictures them discussing her mental health. “No.” Lena sighs. “I won’t be upset.”

“We care about you. It’s that simple. Your accident wasn’t that long ago.” He clears his throat and pokes at some invisible dent in the table. This is why Lena respects Gren, at least most of the time: He knows when to shut up. It is a rare quality in anyone.

Lena decides to end the silence with a question. “Does she know?” She looks closely at Gren for any sign of a lie. She has wanted to ask this for a long time.

“Does who know what?” Gren asks and stops prodding at the table.

Lena lowers her voice. “Does Agnes know why we’re having this chat? Is she aware of why the psychologist is breathing down my neck?”

“Of course not. It’s classified.”

“I know, but Agnes’s a rookie. I thought maybe she’d been warned unofficially. I know there are rumours.”

Gren shrugs. “I certainly haven’t said anything, and I’d give anyone who did a hard time. Trust me on that.”

“Can I tell her?”

Gren looks troubled. “I can’t order you not to. Even if I thought that’d help.” He pauses. “Do you want to?”

“I’m not sure. Are we done here?”

Gren nods. “Take a break,” he says. “Get some rest. We’ll find the men. But not tonight.”

“You’re right.” Lena lowers her eyes. “I’m running on empty. We got no leads until a patrol comes up with one or we get the footage. Right?”

Gren nods again.

“Right,” she says. “I’ll be back at eight tomorrow. It’s only eleven thirty now. That’ll give me enough sleep.”

Gren smiles and stands up. “I’m glad you see my point.”

“It’s a shiny point. Hard to miss in the gloom.”

He rubs his back. “Two officers are at the victim’s flat to go over it thoroughly. If there’s anything that gives us a new lead, I’ll let you know straight away. It’s your case. But you must sleep. That’s an order.”

“I got it.”

“That’s all for now. The roads are getting worse by the minute. If this keeps up, you won’t be able to drive home.”

“I can sleep here.” In the corner of her eye, Lena sees Agnes outside the door, looking away.

Gren shakes his head. “All rest rooms are full. The few trains that are running are hours behind their schedules. We’re hosting officers from the whole city.”

“Ah.”

“So you better hurry while the roads are still open,” Gren says. “By the way, can Agnes ride with you? Her train’s delayed, and there’s no knowing if it’ll leave the Central Station at all. She lives not too far from your place, but I suppose you know that.”

Lena wants to slam her fist down on the table. There goes her last chance to dodge Gren’s request and get back to the suburb for another look at the flat. “Of course,” she says.

“Thank you.” Gren shuffles his papers into a neat stack. “See you tomorrow morning.”

When Lena walks out of the room, Agnes straightens up and brushes a stray hair from her face.

“Hi,” Agnes says. “Can I–”

“Let’s go,” Lena says.

“Oh. That’s great. Thanks.”

Agnes follows Lena towards the elevators. “I’ve heard back from our helpful intern at the Ministry of Education,” she says. “A car has picked up a boxful of paper for us. A removal box. Their office is nearby, so the papers will be here soon, despite this weather. Do you want me to wait here and have a look?”

“Absolutely not,” Lena says. “Call Gren and tell him to instruct someone here to start browsing. We want to know more about what kind of trouble John caused. And the names of the teachers who filed complaints about John.”

They arrive at the steel doors of the elevator. The scents of cold coffee and damp carpets fill the air. Agnes reads something on her phone while Lena watches the reflection of them both in the metal doors.

“I appreciate this, Lena. I just checked, and my train is still stuck.”

“Not a problem.” Lena stifles a yawn
.
“Gren said you live near me.”

Agnes nods and tells Lena her address. It is minutes from Lena’s flat, though tonight, that distance could be an hour. The elevator doors open, and a minute later they are walking through the freezing underground garage.

“I’m parked over here,” Lena says. “Before I forget, I’m going back tomorrow at seven. Do you want a ride?”

“If it isn’t inconvenient,” Agnes says.

“Of course not.” Lena pauses with her hand on the car door handle. “Wait. You’re not on duty tomorrow.”

“I know, but I want – I’d like to come in anyway. Is that all right? This case is–” Agnes’s eyes meet Lena’s over the car roof.

Lena knows what Agnes thinks: This chase has its claws in her. It is her first bad case, and it doesn’t look to improve anytime soon.

“It’s fine with me. I’ll talk to Gren.”

“Thank you. I mean it.”

To Lena’s amazement, the roads are less crowded than she feared. She turns on the radio to listen to the news, but interference makes the report sound like a broken transmission from a war front. Agnes is silent, apparently lost in thought, her eyes on the road ahead. Lena feels sorry for her; Agnes is keen, bright, and precise, always doing things by the book and the numbers. This mess must be agonizing for her too.

Agnes’s phone chimes. She looks down, reads, and turns to Lena. “I just received an email from the office about the files,” she says.

“That was quick. We’ve been gone only forty-five minutes.”

“Gren put five officers on going through the documents. I didn’t think he would do that.”

“He’s bright,” Lena says. “And the poor man trusts me. What’s the verdict?”

Agnes scrolls through the email. “This is interesting,” she says.

“Talk to me, or I swear I will confiscate your phone.”

“All complaints were filed by John’s art teacher.”

“Maybe they didn’t get along,” Lena suggests. “Hell knows I wasn’t best friends with many of my tutors. Anything more on what John actually did?”

“Nothing, I’m afraid. But as we thought, no files were forwarded from the school. John’s troubles were kept completely quiet.”

“Wonderful.” Lena sighs. “Leave it for now.”

Glancing at Agnes’s intent eyes and perfect uniform, Lena realises she knows nothing about the woman’s background. Agnes’s accent suggests she is from northern Sweden, but she cannot tell from where.

What she does know is that choosing Lena as a mentor had been a moronic decision. Someone among the brass must hate Agnes. Teaming up an officer just out of the academy with a senior detective whom many thought should go into mandatory retirement was strange, not to mention cruel. Perhaps they had thought Lena and Agnes would balance each other out.

Lena hopes she will not ruin the woman’s career; sometimes Agnes looks up at her with an eagerness that makes her want to scream. A medicated squirrel with insomnia would lead by better example. If Agnes knew about Lena’s history, she would agree. Instead, the woman depends on Lena for guidance and protection. And, worse, for advice. It is pure madness.

She wants to talk to Agnes, only that may spook her, perhaps so much that Agnes will want a different partner. That would be a disaster. Agnes is crucial to the case; bringing someone else up to speed will take too long. And even if Agnes says she did not care, she would see Lena in a new light. Every slight slip would be seen as a sign of going off the rails. Eventually, Agnes’s voice will join the choir of crows that caw behind Lena’s back.

The alternative is to keep quiet and let Agnes continue to see Lena as a pillar. A charade that will work for a time. But Lena’s mask will pale, perhaps crumble altogether at the wrong time, and that could get Agnes in trouble. It may get her killed.

Lena glares at the road while the crux burns in her mind. Coming clean to Agnes can cost Lena her job, and not warning her can cost the woman more than that.

“Have you eaten?” Lena asks.

“What?” Agnes says, startled out of her reverie. “Not dinner, no. Never had time this evening. But I’ve got food at home.”

“I’m sure you do.” Lena brakes and veers into another lane.

“The exit to where I live is–”

“I know where you live. We’re not going there.”

“Oh.” Agnes smiles nervously. “Then where are we going?”

“My flat,” Lena says. “We’ll eat there.” She can tell Agnes is anxious, but there is no going back.

“Why?”

“We need to talk.”

*

John

John tries to focus on the pen, but it quivers so fast it becomes a blur, threatening to morph into some different, more menacing item. Goosebumps rise on his arm as the cool draft from the canvas touches him. He stumbles backwards from the rising need to act, but he does not know what is happening.

Lennart reaches John and stops, his pen held high. “Wrists, please. Let’s make this smooth. Two small lines are all it takes.”

“Keep that thing away from me,” John shouts and stumbles behind his easel. The other students watch from the corner of their eyes while feigning interest in their paintings.

“Come, now,” Lennart says. “There’s no need to make a fuss. Just a small cut. There’s so much left of you. You’ve been lucky to not have been marked down before, but eventually, it happens to everyone. This is preparation for the world.”

“No.” John circles the easel and bumps into the stand, spilling flasks and brushes onto the floor. Lennart follows with the patience of someone who has all the time in the world.

John feels as if his mind is trying to straddle two places at once: a corrupt memory and a distorted now. The pen wavers in front of him. Its tip narrows down to a sliver of nothing, sharp enough to puncture the fabric of past and present.

Lennart sighs and stops behind the easel. “This is very unlike you. What happened to my obedient John? The gifted lad who followed my instructions? The boy who used the colours and patterns I presented to him? The rosy red, the sky blue, the sunny yellow? When did you become whimsical?”

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” John breathes. “I’m getting out of here.”

Lennart’s laugh sounds like a series of coughs. “There is no ‘out of here’,” he says. “Haven’t you understood that yet? What I teach is for life.”

Lennart steps around the easel and lashes out with the pen, and John darts in the other direction. Eventually, Lennart will corner him; the classroom is too confined, too crowded with people, easels and canvases for him to stay out of the teacher’s reach.

He looks over at the window through which he climbed in. Even if the school yard outside ends in an opaque mist, it is somewhere else, some place not here. He would rather run blind into the unknown than face this.

Lennart follows John’s gaze. “You are not ready to go there yet. All you’d find is another classroom. Larger and different, but still a classroom. And how would you fare there if you didn’t know the rules?”