Authors: Hakan Ostlundh
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
Ellen shook her head.
These everyday practicalities felt good. Eating. Sleeping. Taking off your shoes in the hall. Brushing your teeth. That was the sort of thing that held life together.
For a long time he had done his best to think the opposite. The everyday routines, trivial details, were the sort of thing that drained life of joy. For that reason it was important to always keep yourself in motion, always think creatively, always be open to adventure. Anything at all so that you wouldn’t be standing there with the dental floss and the yogurt and feel … ordinary.
And the thought was not completely wrong, keeping the drive forward, but he had stopped being afraid of the everyday, of those practical trivial things. Right now that was all he had. If he could build up a kind of everyday existence of sandwiches and sorting laundry he would be the world’s happiest person. No, that was not true. Not the world’s. Not even happy. Happy was a foreign word. But he could be a functioning person. Feel that he was alive, that he had the right to live and that he could look ahead. He tried to convince himself that it was okay. As a person it was right to want to survive.
It was already five o’clock. They had gathered in the smaller conference room: Fredrik, Sara, Göran Eide, and the prosecutor.
Fredrik had contacted the doctor who put Katja Nyberg on sick leave when she was a student.
“The doctor had no recollection of her, but that’s not so strange,” he said. “It was more than six years ago. He found the medical record anyway. ‘Depression in connection with separation.’”
“Interesting combination,” said Sara.
Peter Klint nodded silently. Fredrik continued.
“‘According to the patient’s description, with a tendency to manic periods. Prescribe Zoloft. Return visit in four weeks.’ Katja Nyberg came to the return visit. Apparently it was mostly to fine-tune the dosing of medication. Then she had no more contact with the doctor.”
“So she herself broke off the treatment?” said Göran.
“That’s probably how it has to be interpreted.”
“I checked with the staffing agency in Malmö that was on her CV,” Sara continued. “Nyberg quit there when she got the temporary job at
Sydsvenskan
. Then she got in touch again last spring. Because almost a year had passed since she last worked for them they decided that she should come in for an interview on the fourteenth of April. But Nyberg never showed up.”
“It sounds like something happened during the spring,” said Göran. “First she loses interest in her job, misses the extension of the temporary position, plans to go back to the staffing agency, but never shows up at the interview.”
“She decides to make contact with Henrik Kjellander, but instead it ends with her renting his house,” Sara filled in.
“How did it go with Kjellander?” Klint asked. “What did he say about Nyberg?”
“He confirmed that he met her at the hotel on the fourth of October, but we haven’t managed to have a real interview.”
“But he confirmed that they had a relationship?” said Klint.
“Only that they had met. He was in the car with his daughter. They’ve gone back to Fårö.”
“He has to be questioned properly.”
“Sure, but he never called back and I’ve tried to reach him.”
“No, no, I understand,” said Klint.
“Do you have anything else?” asked Göran. “Have you checked her phone?”
“The cell phone number in her personal information for
Sydsvenskan
hasn’t been used since February.”
“Has she called Kjellander?”
“No, but Kjellander has called her. One time, on the twenty-third of October.”
“Three days before Henrik makes the second trip to Copenhagen,” Fredrik pointed out.
“Yes, and according to the connections she has also been in Copenhagen on the twenty-sixth of October, besides the fourth of October and sixteenth of November that we already know about.”
They looked at Klint.
“Doesn’t seem like there’s that much to discuss,” he said. “We’ll have to ask Malmö to bring her in.”
September 11
And who is she, grinning in
Aftonbladet?
An old whore who sucked you off fifteen years ago.
The long hair that she should trim. The puffy cheeks that say she should diet. The silly smile with her head at an angle. The neck that ought to be snapped.
Why her? How could you let her into your life for a whole year, but turn your back on me after a couple of nights?
Do you understand what I’ve done for you? Do you understand how you fulfilled me? No, you don’t understand, you don’t know. If you did you would be here. It can’t be this strong, this intense, without it meaning something. Meaning everything. It must be there in you, too. It can’t just be me. That’s what I think.
Then I think that I’ve misunderstood everything. That you aren’t worth it. That you are an evil damned egotist who never cared about anyone other than yourself. Then I want to kill you. Erase you from this fucking earth. And I could do it. You know I can.
But then I calm down and then I love you again. I wish I could let it go. I’ve tried to kill myself for your sake. I’ve taken pills for your sake. I’ve killed for your sake. I’ve tried to stop loving you. But it doesn’t work. Not more than a minute or two. When I want to kill you.
And then her. Why not me, may I ask? Why a mediocre woman with her head at an angle? Sometimes I wish they would come here and take my picture and tell my story. Not because I care about those newspapers, not because I want my picture there, but so that everyone would know. I want the world to know how much I love you. How much you love me.
You can’t have forgotten how you moaned out my name as if your life depended on it. I haven’t forgotten. Oh my God, you are so beautiful … you are so beautiful. Don’t those words ring in your ears, too? They ring in mine. Every morning when I wake up. Every night when I go to bed. Every hour, every minute.
If you hear them you must know that it’s true. It’s not the kind of thing you just say. It’s not possible to just say. Not like that.
“Hi, this is Alma Vogler, your sister.”
Henrik turned completely cold. At the same time he felt the cell phone getting damp in his hand.
“Yes?” was all he could force out.
He went over to one of the windows, looked toward the barn and the pile of timber that was visible behind it. It was calm and quiet.
“I am truly sorry about what happened,” said Alma.
It was like a bolt of lightning in Henrik’s head. For a moment he thought Alma was apologizing. But of course it wasn’t like that. She was expressing sympathy.
“The whole thing is just terrible. You truly have my condolences,” she said, confirming his thought.
“Thank you,” he managed to say.
He moved the cell phone over to his left hand and wiped the other against his pants leg.
He noticed how Alma braced herself on the other end, by breathing in.
“I want you to know that I am thinking about you and Ellen. And that I think it’s sad that it’s been the way it has between you and us.”
Alma paused. Henrik did not know what to say. Was she expecting him to say something?
“I truly understand that it’s hard for you to accept that. Truly. But I want you to know it.”
She paused again. He heard her swallow.
“I speak for myself, I guess I have to say. This is not something I’ve talked about with Elisabet and Dad.”
A small, careful point of warmth sprang up in Henrik’s belly. What affected him was not so much the words but the nervous flutter in Alma’s voice. It must have been a big step for her to make this call.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
“We are siblings after all,” she said.
Anger flared up in him. Siblings. Bring that up now after half a lifetime. He felt the edges of the cell phone as his grasp hardened. He never should have come back. He had turned his back on them, just as they had turned their backs on him. He didn’t need them. He didn’t need Gotland. The whole world had been at his feet. Yet he had come back. Like some kind of wretched beggar.
But the fury subsided. The little word “sibling” drilled through the bitterness. A hand was being extended toward him. It was tempting to take it. But should they really get off so easy?
“Yes,” he said quietly, “I accept that.”
“Perhaps this sounds strange to you, but I would like for us to meet. Right now perhaps is not the right moment, or maybe it is. I don’t know. But … well, you can think about it.”
He had spoken with Alma at the funeral. He could not say that he liked her, far too much bitterness and anger had stood in the way, but even so she had seemed … okay.
“Yes, of course,” he said without being sure exactly what that meant.
“There is so much I would like to ask you about,” said Alma with a kind of uncertain tenderness.
Alma Vogler, your sister.
“Why not,” he said. “When I’ve got things a little more organized. I don’t really know when we can move back to the house.”
He didn’t know why he lied, it just came out. He didn’t want to reveal that they were back.
“No, I understand that.”
“But then, sure.”
They exchanged a few fumbling words about Fårö, if he would be able to do his work from there now when he was alone. He didn’t know. True, he was thinking a lot about how he could survive, but in a much more immediate way. Day to day, hour to hour.
They said good-bye and he ended the call.
Alma Vogler, your sister.
The little point of warmth suddenly grew to a claw that tore in his chest. His heart stood still. He could almost not breathe. Would he always be a little boy in Fårösund?
Henrik fought back the pain, took a couple of deep breaths. He had to manage this for Ellen’s sake. That had become a mantra without substance, but he continued to repeat it to himself. He had to manage this for Ellen’s sake.
He turned toward the room, thought about how it would be to have a family. A sibling who came to Sunday dinner.
Then he got scared. How did it happen that she called right now? Did she already know he was there?
It had rained during the night. The streets in Visby were still wet. When Fredrik got out of the car he had to make detours around big puddles that reflected the blue, cloud-strewn sky. There was a damp spray from the tires on the traffic driving past on Norra Hansegatan.
As he came up to the department, he caught sight of Göran’s back en route to the conference room and hurried to catch up with him.
“Has Malmö gotten hold of her?”
“No,” said Göran, shaking his head. “But they have questioned the woman she rents a room from. I’ll cover the rest in there.”
Fredrik followed Göran into the meeting. He was last to arrive and slid down on a vacant chair next to Gustav. Ove and Sara did not notice him. Ove was in the middle of a story and both of them were concentrating on Ove’s hands, which he was holding out in front of him with the fingertips against the table. Like a chubby little fence.
Göran set his cell phone on the table.
“Malmö has questioned Sonja Krstic, from whom Katja Nyberg rents a room,” he began. “Nyberg came back from a trip last Monday, with a new haircut and new hair color.”
For a moment there was total silence in the room. They looked at each other.
“She took off again the day before yesterday without saying where she was going,” Göran continued.
“Sounds like she’s run off,” said Ove.
“A search warrant for her was put out yesterday evening. We’ll have to check credit card and bank accounts. If she’s bought tickets, made any major withdrawals, et cetera. Will you do that?”
Ove held up his right hand as confirmation.
“Krstic also reported that Nyberg does not seem to have been feeling very well recently and that she’s been worried about her,” Göran continued. “One night not long ago she found her almost unconscious in the bathroom. Nyberg apologized afterward and said that she had been out at a bar and was treated to drinks and got way too drunk. Nyberg also hinted that she suspected that someone had spiked the drinks in some way, but Krstic had a feeling the whole story with the drinks was made up and that Nyberg herself had taken something. Drugs or some medicine. Was there anything else?”
Göran stroked his wrist across his forehead while he searched his memory.
“No, I guess that was all,” he said. “Besides the incident in the bathroom, Krstic has not had any problems with her tenant. She says that she and Nyberg have gone out together a couple of times, but that they still stayed more as superficial acquaintances. The past few months Nyberg has kept more and more to herself.”
Göran had a few questions that he could not answer and it was noticeable that he wanted to get the meeting over with.
“Malmö will provide technicians, but we’ll go there and question Krstic and look more closely at the apartment itself. Fredrik, Sara: you have the whole picture, you’ll take the next available flight.”
Sara seized her notepad as if she intended to dash off to the airport before the meeting was over.
“We know that Nyberg does not have her own car, she must have borrowed or rented one. Maybe Krstic knows. We’ll check the car rental agencies in the meantime.”
Göran looked at the watch with the yellowed watch face that he wore on his left wrist.
“Gustav, you can take the mother, Hillevi Nyberg,” he continued. “If Katja Nyberg is already in flight we have more to gain than to lose. Malmö got Nyberg’s current cell phone number from Sonja Krstic. Maybe we can locate her that way.”
* * *
Sara and Fredrik sat squeezed into the little coffee bar between the store and the departure hall at Bromma Airport. Sara took the opportunity to send a text. The barista set a double espresso down in front of Fredrik, who looked up and said thanks before again being absorbed by the tabloid. They had scrutinized the coverage of the “Fårö murders” on the way up to Bromma, traded newspapers halfway, so there must be something else that caught his interest.