Black Ice Page 17

  Might it be to do with all that money? Had he run off at the mouth? Bragged? No. He had pinned his future—their future—on the six million. He wouldn’t risk it all—not to mention his freedom—by being indiscreet . . .

  Over these four years, Jeanette hadn’t thought about the fact that Peter might not be alive. She knew he had left her and legged it with the cash. She had thought so many evil things about him, she had ascribed so many unpleasant qualities to him. Oh, how she had hated him, wishing all the pain in the world on him.

  That tormented her now. The worst possible thing had happened to him, and instead of being grateful for all the joy and pleasure he had brought her, and remembering him with the respect and sorrow that he deserved as the upstanding person he had been, she had felt sorry for herself and thrown her life away.

  It was when that insight hit her that the grief washed over her. The pure, unadulterated emotion, that reminded her of joy, despite the tears streaming down her cheeks. And it had been a long time since Jeanette had been happy. She was thinking that to herself as she got out of bed and went to the bathroom cabinet.

  42

  Sandra

  THE REST OF Midsummer’s Eve passed without incident, and Sandra and Erik spent the night at her parents’ once again. Erik was going to spend the whole weekend there while Sandra was working. That was the excuse she had used. She blamed the fact that lots of her colleagues were on holiday over the Midsummer weekend, which was partially true but not the whole truth. Granted, she had accepted a temporary management position until the end of July at the expense of some holiday, but that didn’t mean she had to work night and day for another five weeks. Sandra had other things to fill her time with, but her parents didn’t need to know about that.

  Hallin wasn’t going to get away with his clumsy attempts to scare her into silence. Eventually, he would be forced to pay the child support that enraged him so much—there was no doubt about that—but first she wanted to give him a chance to admit his crime by doing the right thing without getting the authorities involved. In other words, she wanted to frighten Hallin into obedience at the same time that he was trying to scare her into silence. It was certainly an interesting form of limbo they had ended up in. And the provocative spate of veiled threats merely spurred her on.

  Now she had the phone in her hand and was going to exchange a few words with Mrs. Hallin for the first time. Sandra was utterly convinced that a move like that would be frightening enough—she wouldn’t need to go any further than that in her first step. If Hallin picked up then she would fake a wrong number. It turned out not to be necessary.

  “Gunilla Hallin,” said the voice on the other end of the line.

  “Hi, my name is Sandra. I’m currently in discussions with your husband about child support payments for a little boy who is living in very modest circumstances.”

  “That’s interesting,” Gunilla Hallin said. “And pretty typical of Jan, as well!”

  Really, Sandra thought to herself. For Jan Hallin, charity work was as typical as the craze for gender equality was for Captain Dress—the county chief of police who had been on the barricades when he was on the clock and had raped little girls when he was off.

  “Yes, I’ve understood that he’s very committed to charity work of various kinds,” said Sandra. “Especially when it comes to children in need.”

  “That’s right. Do you want me to give him a shout?”

  “Yes please,” said Sandra, thinking to herself that it was pretty obvious.

  She caught herself letting her contempt for Jan Hallin stain his wife, and there was no justice in that. The woman sounded pleasant, and actually a little bit proud of her husband, a great quality to have in a life partner. And she was after all a victim herself, even if she didn’t know it. Who wanted to be married to a rapist? Or even a womaniser? Because it was surely not the only time he had been unfaithful, even if one hoped and presumed that he didn’t usually compel others into sex through the use of violence.

  Now she heard soft voices in the background and a door closing. Before long, she heard Hallin’s hissing voice.

  “It’s high time you put a stop to this. I’m not going to have this conversation.”

  “I just wanted to give you one final chance to come to your senses,” said Sandra coolly. “You don’t scare me.”

  “You’re scaring the living daylights out of me, I have to say.”

  “You know how a lioness is with her cub.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you avoided bringing my wife into this.”

  Hallin spoke in a low voice, almost a whisper, but he sounded quite tired. More resigned than angry.

  “All you have to do is pay what you owe,” Sandra said matter-of-factly.

  “You don’t just blow six hundred whatever-the-fuck-you-said thousand out of your nose.”

  “Just as I said, I’m fine to take it in instalments.”

  “You’re a stubborn cow.”

  “You’ve already got the account number, and you can double the amount for the first transfer since you missed May, unless I’m mistaken.”

  Hallin sighed audibly.

  “Okay, I’ll pay,” he said eventually.

  “I’ll take that as a confession,” said Sandra, the sweet taste of triumph spreading through her body.

  “Never contact me again,” said Hallin.

  “Not if you manage your financial obligations properly.”

  But Hallin had already hung up. Sandra glanced at the time and noted that the conversation had taken just a minute or so.

  A little too quick, perhaps? What if he just wanted to protract the entire thing?

  But Sandra shook that feeling off—she was satisfied with her efforts thus far and wanted to believe that she had exhausted him. That she had got her confession, even if it didn’t exactly contain an apology. It seemed as if she were going to get her rightful support after all—that was admission enough.

  She decided she would give him a week. If the money wasn’t in her account by then she would take further steps, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to. She had other, more important things to do.

  43

  Jeanette

  WHEN SHE OPENED her eyes, she was in hospital. It was a sober observation, and Jeanette didn’t want to be sober. She didn’t want to be awake either, or in hospital. She had planned to be somewhere else by now, so she shut her eyes and took her leave again.

  The next time she woke up, her gaze fell on Lubbi and Nanna who were each sitting in a chair by the bed, talking in low voices. As soon as he spotted that she was conscious, Lubbi leaned forward and took her hand.

  “We’re here, sweetheart,” he said softly. “No need to be afraid.”

  Jeanette sighed and switched her gaze to an undefined spot up on the ceiling. She had nothing to say. Why couldn’t everything just stop? That would have been an adequate end to the whole thing.

  “Do you believe in God and heaven and all that?” Lubbi asked.

  Jeanette shook her head without looking at him.

  “Then I suggest you stay down here with us. We’re here for you—you know that. And we’re not going to let go of you that easily.”

  “How . . .?” Jeanette whispered.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to finish her sentence—she wasn’t really that interested in the answer.

  “How did we know?” said Lubbi. “We probably saw the same thing you did, I guess. It was Nanna who . . . We tried to call, but you weren’t picking up. So we went round to yours. Knocked on the street door, shouted and made a fuss until the neighbours came out and asked what was going on. But you still weren’t answering. It felt bad.”

  “I’m a deep sleeper,” Jeanette said quietly.

  She thought to herself that it was a real spectacle she had caused, given that she had tried to be anonymous in that block of flats where suspicious looks followed her whenever she came and went. Couldn’t a person be left in peace?

  “The bottle was
empty, Jeanette. Don’t lie—not to us. I thought you’d quit that shit?”

  “I just needed . . . to calm down a bit.”

  Lubbi shook his head, let go of her hand, and leaned back in his chair. He looked horrified, and Nanna was next to him watching her with an inscrutable expression. Jeanette didn’t even have it in her to cry. She felt like everyone was staring at her, and all she wanted was to disappear from here.

  “How exactly did you get inside?” she asked, trying to summon something else in those watchful eyes except pity.

  “We broke in,” said Lubbi. “After some persuading, we got one of your neighbours to give us a crowbar, so we forced the door. We were almost done when the police showed up, so they actually let us finish the job. Can you picture that . . . the police standing there cheering me on as I break into a flat? Fuck me, there’s a first time for everything.”

  Jeanette’s lips twitched into a smile. It seemed to infect her two observers, who both perked up a little. Lubbi bent over her and brushed his lips against her forehead before sitting back down on his chair.

  “Come on, girl,” he said, gently punching her bicep. “Don’t do this to us again. You’re hurting us, don’t you understand that?”

  No, perhaps she didn’t. As usual, she was mostly thinking about herself. She hadn’t realised that her actions affected others. Or that there were people to whom she actually meant something. Despite the fact that they didn’t really mean much to her. Other than providing her with daily distraction.

  The people who were important to Jeanette were all gone.

  44

  Sandra

  WHEN THE MIDSUMMER weekend reached its end, Sandra picked up Erik from her parents’ place ahead of the last normal week before the summer holidays. Sandra wouldn’t have any holidays for a while, but Erik’s summer would initially be spent with his grandparents. They would be on holiday as of the next weekend, and when they went back to work four weeks later, it would be Sandra’s turn to take time off. There was a lot of piecing things together to make sure life worked for Sandra and her little boy, and even though she felt a little ashamed, she was grateful to her parents. Glad that their spending time with their grandchild was just as much for their own enjoyment as it was about making things easier for her by taking over some of her responsibilities.

  Despite her current heavy commitments elsewhere, Sandra hadn’t taken any time off from Friends-on-call. Ellen was still calling almost every weekday, and she was the highlight now that Kerstin had pulled back. Otherwise it was just the usual calls about fears and loneliness, anxiety about the future and worries about the past. Rewarding and interesting for both parties, she hoped. For her own part, Sandra felt satisfied that she was able to offer some small assistance to people who needed someone to talk to.

  The evenings passed by quickly these days. The time when she had lain on the sofa idly watching TV between the infrequent calls was gone. Now she filled her time in other ways, and jumped every time the phone vibrated next to her on the kitchen table. It was the same now, and when she glanced at the clock on the wall she realised it was just gone midnight, which meant she ought to have gone to bed if she was to deal with the challenges of the next day. In other words, it was downright lucky that the call got through.

  “Kerstin! I’m so glad you’ve called! I’ve been really worried.”

  “Worried?” said Kerstin. “Why?”

  “Oh, you know. You’ve got your troubles, and I don’t know how well you deal with them on a day-to-day basis.”

  “You mean whether I’m predisposed to suicide?” said Kerstin, getting straight to the point. “I’m not, so no need to worry on that account. On the other hand . . .”

  She interrupted herself, which made Sandra curious.

  “On the other hand what?”

  “Oh, I’m getting there. Something has happened that I’d like to discuss with you.”

  “Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “In a way,” said Kerstin. “But not in the way that you think.”

  Sandra didn’t know what she was supposed to think, so she was presumably going to be surprised by whatever followed. She often was during her conversations with Kerstin.

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m listening.”

  “I’ve met someone I hate,” Kerstin said gloomily. “That’s why I haven’t called in a while. I had to think about how to deal with it.”

  The target of Kerstin’s hatred was something that Sandra was more than familiar with. The only thing was that since their last call, Sandra had discovered that the hit-and-run-driver-slash-photographer was no longer alive. Kerstin couldn’t have met him.

  “Met?” Sandra said, uncomprehending.

  “Or . . . Not met. That’s the wrong word,” Kerstin corrected herself.

  Good. Hatred was a big thing, not to be used recklessly.

  “I’ve known her for several years. Socialised with her.”

  “Her?” said Sandra in confusion, thinking that Kerstin must be on the wrong track.

  “It’s a pretty long story,” Kerstin said apologetically with a sigh. “I think I have to start from the beginning. If you’ve got time?”

  “We’ve got all night,” said Sandra, who suddenly felt no need at all to regain her strength ahead of work the next day.

  And then Kerstin told her the tale.

  Of her past life of crime and her lover the bank robber who had been caught. About the departure from the destructive setting in Stockholm and the move to the countryside in Gotland, about the release and the laundered cash. Kerstin skipped the details about the crash, but described the days she spent waiting for her husband who never turned up and the time after she found out about the death: the grief, the loneliness, and how she was received when she moved to Visby. She explained how hard it had been to find a job, to find meaning in life, how she had come down in the world and eventually ended up with the social outcasts by the East Gate. Just to get out, to satisfy her need for people around her. How her name and personality had resulted in her nickname: Barbamama. She had chosen not to see it as a taunt, but thought it was meant with affection. Before long, it had been shortened to Nanna—as everyone in her surroundings now called her. A shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen.

  Kerstin painted the picture of the whole thing with tenderness and unobtrusive suffering. Sandra couldn’t hold back her tears. But it wasn’t over yet, because what Sandra had heard thus far was merely the framework for a story that was far more important to Kerstin. That much Sandra grasped, but she also knew that Kerstin didn’t yet know how important the story about the fatal accident was to Sandra too.

  “I’m sorry,” said Sandra, when Kerstin paused to light a cigarette. “I’m very sorry for everything you’ve had to go through. But I’m glad you’ve got friends.”

  “Jeanette,” Kerstin said, resuming the conversation. “One of the girls on the bench. She tried to commit suicide on Midsummer’s Eve. They found a body down in Garde a while ago, but it was only on Friday that the papers reported who it was.”

  “Peter Norling?” said Sandra, who realised they were approaching something important—something she might have missed.

  “Yes,” Kerstin confirmed. “I knew that Jeanette wouldn’t take it very well. You see, Peter Norling was her lover.”

  “At the time of the disappearance?”

  “At the time of the disappearance.”

  Sandra still wasn’t entirely clear what significance this held, but she had a strong feeling that it was important.

  “His car was at the scene of the accident,” she felt compelled to say.

  Now it was Kerstin’s turn to be surprised.

  “How can you know that?” she asked.

  “I passed the ravine just before it happened,” said Sandra. “I’ve realised that with your help. And when I read about the body being found, when I saw the picture of Norling’s car, I remembered that I happened to see that very car in the trees that afternoon. It might ha
ve been him who caused the accident. And took the photos.”

  “No,” said Kerstin. “It was Jan Hallin who forced Karl-Erik off the road. And then did a runner.”

  Sandra stopped breathing. Had it been the rapist who had thundered round the bend on the wrong side of the road while pissed after all? And met another car without giving an inch? Just like they had first believed, just like she had truly, truly wanted to believe. Before those photographs had messed it up for them, and got them to see a conspiracy instead of the obvious.

  “It was Jeanette who took the photos and sent them to me,” Kerstin said. “Both she and Peter Norling were in that car. They didn’t cause the accident, but they left without telling anyone too. Without lifting a finger to save Karl-Erik’s life.”

  “The shadow,” Sandra thought aloud. “It’s the shadow of Peter Norling that you can see in that photo. Not Hallin or anyone else.”

  “Exactly,” said Kerstin.

  “But why?” Sandra asked in agitation. “What drives a person—two people—to do something like that?”

  “Greed,” Kerstin said with emphasis.

  And then she repeated the part of the story about forbidden love and avarice, remorse, anxiety and longing, betrayal, hatred, and a death wish.

  Jeanette’s story, in short. And she presented it without any subjectivity whatsoever. Honestly, plainly, and with the same feeling that she had told her own story.

  “Does Jeanette know who you are?” Sandra asked carefully.

  “No, she doesn’t know my real name—to her I’m just Nanna. And I haven’t revealed my identity. Not sure I’m going to, either. It depends.”

  “On how you should approach this? And Jeanette?”

  “Among other things,” Kerstin said thoughtfully. “I’m still thinking about it.”

  “I’m not going to give you any advice,” said Sandra. “You’ll find the answer inside yourself somewhere.”

  Kerstin said nothing in response to that, instead pointing out something that had already been occupying Sandra’s thoughts for some time.