Black Ice Read online

  Gunilla wiped the end of her nose and her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief that had been concealed in her hand.

  “She caught me by surprise, and my spontaneous response was to defend you. She seemed like such a kind and sweet girl, but I shut the door in her face. I wish I had dealt with the situation differently.”

  Sweet? That was just about the last thing she was. Sandra was inconsiderate in her approach, and now she had managed to dupe his wife too. Were the police next? Jan could feel the sweat forming on his brow.

  “Surely you don’t think I should go along with her demands?” he repeated.

  “I don’t think anything,” said Gunilla. “This has actually nothing to do with me.”

  “You’re involved with the family’s finances, surely?” Jan muttered.

  “Your child, your decision,” Gunilla sighed.

  “Then I guess I’ll put six hundred and eighty-four thousand in that . . . in Sandra’s account,” said Jan.

  He was well aware that this wouldn’t fall on fertile ground with his wife. But he wanted them to make the decision together, so that he wouldn’t end up dealing with the backlash later on. After all, he had no plans whatsoever to pay a penny of bloody support for a child he didn’t know with any certainty was his. Considering there were several compelling reasons why he didn’t want to be the father of it. Agreeing to pay child support would be the same as admitting something that could lead to further and more serious allegations, and that couldn’t be allowed to happen.

  “It’ll be at the expense of the kids’ inheritance then,” said Gunilla sadly.

  Jan smiled to himself. That was exactly where he wanted her.

  “Yes, and that doesn’t feel right,” he said. “I think we should let the matter rest. I think it’ll probably come to nothing.”

  Gunilla pursed her lips and shook her head in resignation, an introspective look on her face. But she wouldn’t be able to complain later.

  50

  Kerstin

  SHE DIDN’T WANT to seem too eager, so she didn’t mention the prospective stash of money again—instead she waited patiently for Jeanette to take the initiative herself. She had almost given up hope when on Thursday Jeanette came and sat next to her on the bench, and said she was willing to head out on a treasure hunt.

  “There’s a summer house,” she said. “There might be something?”

  Jeanette had been in a slightly better mood over the last few days, and hopefully that boded well. At the same time, she was shit-faced most of the time, so it was hard to know exactly where she was. Including now, as she sat there swaying back and forth in a way that obliged Kerstin to grab hold of her on several occasions so that she wouldn’t tumble off the bench. Jeanette didn’t even notice, or she didn’t care. It was hard to tell which.

  “Absolutely,” said Kerstin. “Do you know where it is?”

  “Tofta beach,” Jeanette said. “Or somewhere nearby.”

  She was slurring so much it was barely possible to hear what she was saying.

  “Tofta beach?” Kerstin replied, wanting to be sure.

  Jeanette nodded.

  “Do you know where?”

  “No idea,” said Jeanette. “But he used to call it Meadow Hill.”

  “Good work,” said Kerstin. “How about we take an outing there tomorrow?”

  “Sure. We going to nick a car or what?”

  “We’ll bike there,” Kerstin said with a smile. “There’s a bike lane all the way. Do you have a bike?”

  “Yes, but I’m not sure there’s any air in the tires.”

  “We’ll sort that. I’ll make a packed lunch and come to yours around eight o’clock. You make sure you’re sober, otherwise I’ll go without you. Okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” said Jeanette, trying to roll her eyes—but it mostly looked like she was gazing up at the sky.

  THE NEXT DAY it was cloudy and quite windy, but the weather was meant to stay dry. Jeanette had shaken off the last few days of misery and was sober, or at least she seemed to be. She was able to cycle at any rate, despite the occasionally strong headwinds.

  The plan—which hadn’t been that well thought through, Kerstin acknowledged that—was to ask around. There must be hundreds of houses in Tofta, but perhaps not that many that were next to something that might be considered a meadow. She had hung a couple of buckets over the handlebars, containing some clothes and cleaning fluid, rubber gloves, and some black bin liners. Her idea was that they could pretend to be cleaners and ask around. She hadn’t got any further than that in her thoughts, but the project still had an air of adventure to it. Jeanette seemed to be in a good mood and some fresh sea air never did anyone any harm.

  The ride there took around an hour, after which they spent two hours and twenty minutes asking people for directions to Meadow Hill and the Norling family summer house before they got a bite. It took another half hour for them to get into the house, and, disregarding the forty-five-minute lunch break in the garden, it took them five hours to turn the place upside down and inside out before putting it all back the way they had found it. Then they cycled the twelve or thirteen miles back to Visby, a job well done.

  Not completely, if they were going to be picky, because they now knew at any rate that the money wasn’t there. But they’d had a pleasant if somewhat strenuous day. And Kerstin had been able to spend time alone with the object of her darkest fantasies. She had studied Jeanette in a different setting than her usual one, weighing her good and bad qualities against each other. Only to realise that she was none the wiser as a result.

  Jeanette was a complex being, and if she was in a good mood then she was easy to like. If she wasn’t, then she awakened other emotions, but it was hard to build up a grudge against someone who was suicidal. It was in the middle ground of her emotions that one found Jeanette’s most unsympathetic characteristics: her insatiable need for affirmation, her self-absorption and indifference towards other people, and her inability to take command of the situation and put her back into anything. In other words, she was someone who could easily be described as both unenterprising and lazy, and perhaps it was these rather ordinary qualities that made her weak in circumstances that required a bit of fighting spirit.

  Guilty or innocent? Kerstin still hadn’t the foggiest, but sooner or later she was likely to beat her to a pulp if the chance arose and the stars aligned. But no matter how strange it seemed, the memory of Karl-Erik and what had happened to him had become more distant as she had got closer to the truth of the disaster. Perhaps talking about it was healing in itself—the constant presence of such terrible, life-changing events made them less devastating. The conversation had the effect of taking the edge off. Just like alcohol, but its impact was less pernicious.

  They had, however, learned a few things during the course of the day. In particular, that Jeanette—with her unspoilt exterior—found it easier to make contact with people. Kerstin, with her deeply furrowed face, hoarse voice, and tattoos, scared people away. Jeanette had to handle the chat, while Kerstin hovered in the background and pretended she didn’t speak Swedish. If they were going to make any more outings, then Kerstin needed to make sure she wore sunglasses and long sleeves. A toolkit wouldn’t do any harm either, and a towel so that they could jump in the sea afterwards.

  51

  Sandra

  IT WAS FRIDAY and she had almost reached the deadline that she had mentally set for Hallin to start paying the bloody support. It had been on Midsummer’s Day that he had unexpectedly given in when she had called him, but just as she had suspected, this had simply been a delaying tactic. He had needed time to prepare the next phase of his vendetta: sabotaging her car. That had clearly shown her who she was up against. The only thing she had been able to do was plead with his wife to ask him to stop his persecution, and perhaps it had worked. Four days had passed without any threats, and Sandra could only hope that it was over.

  Personally, she had absolutely no intention of taking the
matter any further—not in light of what she now considered to be a death threat hanging over her. Sandra had explained clearly to his wife that she didn’t care about the money—all she wanted was to get out of this with her health intact. If they communicated with each other at all, then the news had surely reached Hallin.

  That was why she was hopeful, but she also regretted not being warier back when the bunch of flowers had turned up on her porch. Then she would have avoided the fear, as well as the logistical hassle involved in having her life in one place and living in another.

  Despite all the negativity, the thought of the bollocking that Hallin must have got from his wife after Sandra’s visit was very entertaining. Even if the intention at the time hadn’t been to cause trouble for Hallin, she had still given him a real kick in the balls, metaphorically.

  Despite her budding optimism, the fear wouldn’t go away entirely. It wasn’t just any old person she was dealing with—she occasionally had to remind herself that the guy was literally capable of murder. Peter Norling had been lured to a secluded spot before being brutally beaten to death. Despite his presumed innocence. After all, he hadn’t taken those photographs, let alone sent them to Hallin. Hallin was ruthless, stopping at nothing to conceal his mistakes. Which were only mounting up.

  And he was the father of Sandra’s child.

  But she refused to see it like that. Erik was her son. He had no father, and if he were ever to get one in future, it wouldn’t be Hallin. He was more than welcome to pay child support—in fact, he was going to—but she didn’t view it as child support. Thus far, she had managed just fine to cover the expense of food, clothing, toys, housing, and childcare. Erik got what he needed. This was money for Sandra—damages. For the pain and suffering, the sick leave, the anxiety, and all the harrowing memories. An unwanted pregnancy that she had initially been uncertain how to deal with. And a tenacious fear of men in general, and intimate relationships as a whole.

  THE FIRST TIME it rang, she was at work standing in a circle with her colleagues issuing instructions to them on how to structure the rest of the afternoon and evening. She glanced at the display while continuing to talk, noting that it was the kindergarten calling. She rejected the call, meaning to call them back straight after the meeting. Less than a minute later, she had another call from the same number and realised that something might have happened. Maybe Erik had come down with a fever or started throwing up; in that sort of situation the staff were usually keener than the parents were to have the child picked up quickly. So she rejected that call too, although her anxiety was rising. When they rang again immediately afterwards, she excused herself and went into an adjacent room where she could shut the door.

  “Erik is missing,” said the head.

  “Missing?” Sandra said, dumbfounded.

  “We were in the woods at Furulundsskogen on an outing and suddenly he was gone.”

  Sandra pulled out a chair and sat down while thoughts whirled around her head. She concluded that if the head of school was compelled to contact a parent on such a sensitive matter, then it had presumably been a while since the child had gone missing.

  “When did this happen?” she asked.

  “Around two o’clock. We’ve looked everywhere, but we can’t find him. I’m sorry—I never thought I’d have to impart news like this.”

  Sandra looked at the time and noted that it was ten past three. “Hasn’t he just gone home?” Sandra suggested. “To his grandparents, that is.” She didn’t want to believe that it was anything worse than Erik falling out with someone and deciding to leave. Little Igor, she thought to herself. That little bully had probably done something bad to Erik—made him angry and upset, made him feel unfairly treated so that he ran away, offended.

  “One of the staff has driven over, and he wasn’t there or anywhere on the way.”

  “He’s three years old, he probably doesn’t know the way,” Sandra said.

  Then she realised that this was not an exchange of words that either of them had to win. She couldn’t stand the head of school, but this wasn’t about their personal chemistry—it was about collaborating.

  “Have you called the police?” she inquired.

  “I’m going to do that now, if you’ll let me.”

  “Do it,” said Sandra. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Furulundsskogen, did you say?”

  “We’ll keep searching. See you at Gråbo.”

  “Whereabouts?”

  “In the free car park behind Träffpunkt Gråbo. Outside the youth club.”

  Only now did the penny really drop. Erik was missing and the situation was serious enough that Sandra had been called and the police were going to be brought in. The picture of the future being painted before her eyes looked extremely ominous—a life without Erik was unbearable, unthinkable, and couldn’t be allowed to become reality. This was a warning shot that was shaking her into action, a hint about how things might go if she didn’t take good enough care of what gave her life meaning.

  It was in a state of rising panic that she got into the car and drove over to the woods at Furulundsskogen.

  TEN MINUTES LATER, she arrived on the scene. A couple of her colleagues from work had come with her, and her father also appeared. Her mother was waiting at home in case Erik—in spite of everything—managed to find his way there, somehow. There was an ambulance in the car park, and Sandra got it into her head that it was for Erik. Had he climbed into a tree, fallen out, and lost consciousness? Broken his arms, legs, neck? Had he cut himself on something sharp or been bitten by a dog? A snake? Had he had a bad reaction to a wasp sting?

  The Furulundsskogen woods comprised a charming but compact area consisting of delightful beech trees with dense canopies in places, while elsewhere there were a variety of trees including a sprinkling of pine. The chirping of birds and the dancing sunlight filled the treetops, while the ivy struggled to make its way up towards the sky. The ground was covered in goutweed and moss, soft and bewitching. There were a thousand shades of green, each one the source of a unique scent. A great place to take kindergarten kids on an outing. No water, no obvious dangers. On the other hand, it was surrounded on all sides by houses and roads. Houses with people living in them who might take it into their heads to take a kid home, roads that led to bigger roads, bigger forests, and the sea, which was everywhere.

  The world grew around Sandra, while at the same time her field of vision shrank.

  Children and grown-ups were tugging at her—they had things to tell her and questions to ask. That made the gravity of the situation even more palpable. Maybe this wasn’t a warning sign—maybe Erik was gone for real? Forever? The police had a thousand questions, were talking about mobilising search parties and inquiring about Erik’s habits and things he didn’t do, his appearance, his build, medical issues, clothing, and interests. Did the child have a father? Any threats?

  Were there? What was she supposed to say? If there was no child then there was no father—that was the nature of the threat. But yes, she had already reported threats to the police. And yes, there was a father—not a nice one. Concentrate on him, do it now, but be discreet, and don’t make yourselves known. Follow his every movement and sooner or later you’ll find Erik. Unless he’s dead already—then we won’t find him for a long time.

  Over and over, she had tried to get the policeman to understand this vital point. It was only when he pointed out that he had got the message long ago that she fell silent. He promised that they wouldn’t prioritise police procedure over Erik’s health and well-being. And that they would immediately put Hallin under surveillance.

  She had irrevocably taken matters to the extreme, created desperation of a calibre that had put her own child in mortal peril. Had she really not grasped until now that she was facing something that might already be fact? But—she had to remind herself—it might not be.

  Contacting Hallin was out of the question—terrified as she was of riling him up. Driving by his house to look f
or traces of Erik would be both futile and dangerous. An approach from the police would be even worse. If Erik was unharmed, Sandra’s and the police’s actions couldn’t be allowed to change that.

  All she really wanted to do was set off and search, but there were more important things to do and others were doing the searching. It ended with her being sent home—not to her parents’ house but back to her own. Since Erik knew his own address, perhaps he might have asked someone for a lift home? It was just for the night, then she could be reunited with her parents, enveloped in the warmth, share her despair with them.

  So Sandra spent the night alone in her desolate house. She had rejected all offers of company from friends and family. Her father was roving through the woods with hundreds of others, searching, while her mother watched over her house and Sandra over hers.

  She worked. With raging ferocity. But when her thoughts began to wander, she allowed herself to be distracted by the summer night outside. Then she crept out of the open door, taking in the dew-heavy scents and wandering around the garden. Searching for sounds and shadows, shouting and crying.

  She sat down at the computer again. Now things were urgent. More urgent than ever before. She thought and pondered, turning everything that had happened inside out. Her brain was overflowing with thoughts, but that kept her going and on her toes.

  Hadn’t she expressed herself clearly enough—was there any doubt when it came to the financial demands? Hadn’t she said that yes, she wanted to withdraw her claims, but that the threats had to stop? Please, I don’t care about the money—just make sure he doesn’t hurt us. Surely that had gotten through?

  Or was the problem that she had done just that—pleaded? Was the kidnapping retribution for humiliating herself in front of his wife? Because she had got his wife involved?

  Or, to go one step further—had the visited been misinterpreted as Sandra putting her threats into action? Might it have been seen as the first step being taken—his wife had been informed that something had happened that afternoon, that forbidden and immoral relations had occurred? Had he interpreted it as meaning that she was about to take the next step—the one that could not be taken at any cost—informing the police about the rape?