Black Ice Page 19

  “Get pissed?” Jeanette said, with the smallest grain of humour.

  At least Kerstin thought so, but Jeanette didn’t move her lips.

  “Always,” Kerstin said with a smile. “But I had something else in mind. Are you up for listening?”

  “Why not?”

  “I was thinking about the money you mentioned—the six million. Now that Peter is gone, it casts a somewhat different light on the matter, doesn’t it?”

  “How do you mean?” Jeanette asked, not seeming to respond with any surprise to the choice of subject, despite it being about Peter.

  “You always thought that Peter had done a runner with the cash, but now it turns out that can’t have been the case.”

  “And . . .?”

  “I just mean it has to be somewhere,” Kerstin explained. “You said he took care of it. Where do you think he might have hidden it?”

  “I don’t know, and I don’t care.”

  “It’s six million kronor,” Kerstin emphasised. “It might be very useful.”

  “I didn’t care about the money then, and I care even less now,” Jeanette said. “It’s caused nothing but misery.”

  “That may be so, but an amount like that could be useful and a source of happiness. It seems unnecessary to leave it lying wherever it is. And it’ll soon be worthless anyway.”

  “It probably already is.”

  “Why would that be?”

  “Because we stole it from some goddamn bank robber.”

  Jeanette had no idea how right she was.

  “Bank robber?” said Kerstin. “Where did you get that idea from?”

  “Who else do you think drives around with six million in cash in their boot?”

  “You think the notes are traceable? That you and Peter sacrificed it all for a pile of useless cash?”

  “Pretty much that,” Jeanette said laconically.

  Kerstin thought for a while about how to tackle this. Jeanette wasn’t thick, and she’d had plenty of time to reach this conclusion after the event. It just so happened that Kerstin knew her to be wrong, but this was something she naturally couldn’t divulge.

  “It may well be,” she said. “But it seems unnecessary to assume the worst. We might as well start by locating it. Then we can figure out what to do next if we find it. I suggest you have a think about where he might have hidden the money, and then we can join forces to find it. It might be really good to get away a bit—just you and me. It’s only the two of us who know about the money.”

  The last bit was a lie, but a white lie—Kerstin convinced herself of that much. She saw no reason to get Sandra mixed up in this.

  “Sure,” said Jeanette. “If you think it might lead somewhere.”

  48

  Sandra

  THERE WASN’T a single scratch to the car, nor to Erik either. He seemed to have found the incident most entertaining. The taxi ride to kindergarten alone was an adventure in itself. He didn’t get a chance to see the tow truck, but the thought that it had come and fetched the car and towed it to the garage was fascinating in itself. The fact that his mother had driven into a ditch was something he repeated over and over again to anyone who would listen—largely children and some of the staff at the kindergarten, and naturally his grandparents, whom they were moving in with until further notice.

  It didn’t feel safe for the two of them to live alone in the countryside in a house with no intruder alarm or burglarproof doors and windows. They were usually more than welcome to stay with her parents, and it seemed unlikely that a solitary man would try to get into a house containing three adults.

  Just as Sandra feared, it transpired that the car had been sabotaged. Someone had cut the brake lines under the car—a simple intervention for anyone with the requisite knowledge and the right tools—and it was perfectly clear that it wasn’t to make her drive gently into a ditch with no injury to life or limb. The sabotage must have taken place under cover of night—between midnight and a couple of hours later—when Sandra had been on the phone with Kerstin just a few metres away.

  The thought of that panicky journey ending with going into the ditch made her feel dizzy. The ravine—what if she had been going faster when she had driven round the bend? The long downhill after that when the speedometer had been moving up at an alarming pace that she couldn’t influence, and the busy crossroads that had come towards her at a rapid pace . . . They had been lucky beyond comprehension, and that wasn’t something she could count on in future.

  Sandra said nothing to her parents about the true reason behind the accident. They would only get worked up about it, and that wouldn’t help the situation in the slightest. On the other hand, she did report the entire thing to the police, somewhat against her better judgment. She reluctantly acknowledged to herself that everything was going off the rails and that couldn’t be allowed to go on without the police being made aware that something was off from the beginning. At the same time, she also notified them that she had felt under threat for some time: that on several occasions she had received funeral flowers sent to her anonymously.

  On the other hand, informing the police who was behind the threats and the malicious tampering with her car would be moronic. Not to mention pointless, given that he would deny the accusations, and it would be impossible to find any evidence. Plus it would make Hallin furious, which might drive him to do even worse things. The fact that he was definitely going to punish her was the only thing she was certain of.

  At least the police now knew that something was going on, and that might give her a slight advantage in what was to come.

  She now needed to seek out Hallin’s wife. It wasn’t something Sandra wanted to do—most of all, she wanted to pull out of it all and have nothing more to do with him. But the more she thought about it, the more viable she saw that route was. It was no longer intended as a threat or designed to harm Hallin. It was a plea to the only person who—in the best-case scenario—could put a stop to this harassment.

  Thanks to a phone call made to Hallin’s place of work, she had made sure he wasn’t at home because she definitely didn’t want to see the guy again, and above all she lacked the courage to confront him. Discounting a future trial, of course—when she would probably be in the witness box.

  And now here she was, standing outside Hallin’s front door ringing the bell, her mouth bone dry with nerves and her hands trembling so much that she had to put them in her trouser pockets in order to disguise it. She knew that Gunilla Hallin was at home because she had glimpsed her inside, passing the windows several times.

  The door opened and there was a woman in her fifties standing there smiling at her. She had an open face with laughter lines at the corners of her eyes, and she didn’t look too dangerous.

  Sandra cleared her throat and swallowed.

  “Hello,” she said. “I’m Sandra.”

  “I recognise that name—wasn’t it you who called the other day? About some kid that Jan had promised to sponsor?”

  “Yes,” Sandra acknowledged. “That was me.”

  “I’m afraid he’s not at home, but . . .”

  “I was actually looking to speak to you,” Sandra interrupted her.

  The woman took on an expression of confusion that seemed to demand an explanation.

  “You won’t like what I have to say,” said Sandra. “But I’m doing it because I don’t see any other way out.”

  “That sounds worrying,” said Mrs. Hallin, frowning.

  “I wasn’t entirely truthful the last time we spoke. I tried to show you some consideration, and I hoped it would be resolved without involving you.”

  “What is it you’re trying to say?”

  The initial friendliness was dissipating; the woman was preparing herself for bad news and didn’t want to string out the torment for any longer than was necessary. What Sandra had to say was provocative in itself, but the way she said it might soften the blow. She had already made up her mind to wrap up her words so that th
ey didn’t seem too aggressive.

  “I’ve got nothing to do with your relationship whatsoever, which is why . . .”

  “That’s something we can agree on,” the woman interrupted. She had begun to look irritated. “Get to the point.”

  “Jan is the father of my child,” Sandra stated.

  Gunilla Hallin looked at her wide-eyed—she seemed to have stopped breathing. Sandra waited for the message to sink in, predicting a torrent of accusations in return. But when the woman finally managed to control her breathing, she gave a deep sigh, crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself from some outer danger, and stared down at her feet. She sighed again and gave Sandra a teary-eyed look.

  “And now you want money?” she said, swallowing.

  “It was a one-time thing,” Sandra explained, still just as compassionately. “It was only recently that I found out that it was your husband who is the father. The boy is three and a half now.”

  Gunilla Hallin looked crushed, but Sandra needed to get out what she had come to say, and with empathy and tenderness at that.

  “Jan is the father of the child whether he likes it or not,” she said. “He doesn’t want anything to do with the boy, and that suits me just fine. So in order to avoid involving social services, I suggested a private arrangement—which isn’t unreasonable anyway. On the contrary, I think my demands are more reasonable for him than if we got the authorities involved.”

  “But . . .” the woman said, unable to grasp it. “Why involve Jan? It must have been your decision to keep the child?”

  She didn’t level it as an accusation, she said it more as a reasoned thought. She was tempted to put up an opposition and explain what had actually happened, but Sandra preferred not to start a war around this. She wanted to end one.

  “I’m not here for the money,” she said truthfully. “I’ve been threatened several times. To begin with, it didn’t really scare me, but my car was sabotaged today—and it’s not fun anymore. Both my son and I could have been hurt. Naturally, I could have gone to the police and told them what your husband was up to, but I don’t want to rile him up anymore. And since I can’t communicate with him, I’ve come to you instead. I thought you, as a woman, might have some understanding for my situation as a single parent. But, as I just said, I’m not here for the money—I’m here to plead with you for help. The harassment needs to stop. Otherwise I’ll be forced to report it to the police—for the sake of my own safety and my little boy’s.”

  Mrs. Hallin looked caught off her guard. She shook her head several times without saying anything, but her eyes were fixed on Sandra’s. Sandra felt incredibly sorry for the woman, who had done nothing to deserve what she was suffering now.

  “Jan . . .” Mrs. Hallin stuttered. “He would never . . . I’ve known him for almost thirty years, and he’s not capable of . . . How could he possibly stage a car crash to hurt you? He can’t even clip someone around the ear. The whole thing sounds preposterous.”

  Sandra was ashamed and almost regretted involving the innocent wife in this feud. At once she felt both selfish and inconsiderate, and shrunk a little inside herself. She hoped it wasn’t visible on the outside—she needed all the presence she could summon to lead the conversation where she wanted it to go.

  “I understand this is far from good news for you, but I’m just presenting the facts,” Sandra said apologetically.

  Not that she needed to apologise for being raped, threatened, and subjected to something that was suspiciously like attempted murder. But at the same time, she understood Hallin’s wife too. It was clear that she had difficulty reconciling herself with such grave allegations against the man she had chosen to spend her life with.

  “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “I find it very hard to believe . . . A police report would break him.”

  “I don’t want to report him to the police,” Sandra explained. “And I’m not going to report him to the police. So long as he stops these awful threats and the danger he’s putting me and my son in. That’s all I ask.”

  “And the money?”

  “I just wanted to engage in sensible dialogue about the support payments for my child that I’m legally entitled to from the father. That was my sole intention before the whole thing degenerated like this. And I’m truly sorry that I’ve had to put you through this—I fully understand how you must feel about me right now. But I would ask you one more time: please make sure he stops harassing me.”

  The woman gave her an incredulous look, letting it wander from her head to her feet and back again. She said nothing, but Sandra reckoned she could read her thoughts.

  Was it really likely that her husband had been with this creature?

  Gunilla Hallin looked like she was about to say something, but she stopped herself. Instead, she shook her head sadly, took a step back into the hallway, and shut the door.

  49

  Jan

  GUNILLA WAS IN a state of utter misery when he got home. She was sitting at the dining room table quietly crying, and she didn’t even look up when he came through the door. She rarely cried—almost never—but when she did it was serious. Jan was overcome with dread.

  Why wasn’t she looking at him, why wasn’t she seeking comfort in his eyes like she usually did?

  He pulled out the chair next to her and sat down, taking her hand. It was slack and unresponsive in his, and she didn’t react to his caresses.

  “What’s happened, sweetheart?” he asked softly.

  He had to, but he could tell where it was going to lead. It was he who had made her upset—otherwise she would have met him at the door, burrowed herself into his embrace, and cried against his chest.

  She didn’t answer and carried on staring down at the table while crying her ominously quiet tears. How long would they have to sit there like that until it all kicked off? He felt powerless in a way he rarely experienced. He was usually the one who had solutions to everything. But this time he wouldn’t be able to help her—he could feel it.

  “She’s just a kid, Jan,” Gunilla said quietly, without looking up.

  She? Did she mean Sandra? So Sandra had been here, marching into his territory and upsetting his wife. Rage welled up inside him. That greedy fucking slut certainly wasn’t afraid to make good on her threats. Now she had dragged Gunilla into the mess—and that was disgraceful. Gunilla had nothing to do with it—this was a struggle between the two of them, between Jan and Sandra. But Sandra didn’t understand the rules of the game. She was setting herself on innocent parties and meting out punishments.

  Jan didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing and simply squeezed Gunilla’s hand a little more tightly to show that he was there for her. That he was upset too. What an idiot he was—how could he carry on in a situation like this?

  “What were you thinking?” said Gunilla, still without looking at him.

  He had asked himself the same thing and he had no answer.

  “I wasn’t thinking at all,” he said, looking down despite the fact that she wasn’t looking at him. “I’d have to blame the booze.”

  That hardly merited comment—he knew what she thought. And he essentially agreed with her. If he couldn’t handle his alcohol then he shouldn’t be drinking. Or at least he should be drinking less.

  “How do you think it would look if we suddenly had a little boy in the house every other weekend?” said Gunilla. “What do you think people would say about that? And the kids especially?”

  Where had she got that from? Sandra would never suggest anything like that—that was the only thing he was certain of.

  “That’s not in the cards,” he said truthfully. “She is absolutely certain that she doesn’t want me involved in raising that youngster.”

  “And you believe that?” said Gunilla, looking him in the eye for the first time. “She’s a young girl and probably has a job to go to. Of course she needs some respite.”

  “Gunilla, I don’t know anything about that pers
on, but . . .”

  “Don’t call her that. She has a name and she’s the mother of your child. Show her some respect.”

  Gunilla was in tears, but she was talking to him now—in a low voice, with reasoned arguments. Anything was better than that suffocating silence.

  “What I wanted to say,” said Jan, “was that I barely know anything about . . . Sandra. However, what I do know is that she doesn’t want me around while the lad grows up. But money—that’s something she does want.”

  Gunilla shook her head with a look of regret in her eyes and came to Sandra’s defence, using the same deadly quiet tone of voice.

  “Of course she needs money, Jan. She can’t be more than thirty, and whatever line of work she’s in, she won’t have reached a salary that’s worth mentioning. She’s the sole carer for a little boy—kids aren’t cheap to look after. Of course she wants the child’s father to pay child support.”

  “There’s nothing to say that I’m the child’s father,” Jan blurted out.

  “Yes, Jan. There is,” said Gunilla.

  And of course there was. Gunilla was right, and that made him even angrier at Sandra.

  “So you actually think that I should pay support to that little whore?” he exclaimed.

  He regretted it the very same moment. The tone of voice was inappropriate for the situation. Gunilla shuddered and looked at him with an expression of distaste.

  “Why are you talking about her like that?” she asked. “Surely that makes you a lech? She’s just a young girl who was unlucky.”

  That one hit home. He probably deserved it. But it was hard to strike the right balance when comforting one’s distraught wife while also boiling with internalised rage.

  “Unlucky?” he said. “She had every opportunity to get an abortion, but chose not to. I’ve no wish to pay the bill for a financially unsound decision that I wasn’t involved in.”

  Gunilla was silent. But she had calmed down now and was no longer crying.

  “What did you say to her?” Jan asked.