Black Ice Page 23

  KERSTIN WAS WOKEN by the sound of a text message arriving on her phone, which was lying on the nightstand. And she found to her delight that it was Sandra, who had pulled up the address of what had to be Peter Norling’s hunting cabin. Other than his home and the summer house, it was the only property he owned—while he had been alive. Now it was probably considered Mrs. Norling’s property.

  She examined a couple of different maps and satellite images on her mobile and noted that the location was in the woods over towards Slite. It was some distance away, but there were buses going there. If they took their bikes with them on the bus, it looked like they’d be able to get pretty close to their target without having to trek an inordinate distance through the forest. She couldn’t see any neighbouring properties, so it seemed in every regard the optimal place for housebreakers to work undisturbed. And they could leave their cleaning gear at home.

  She called Jeanette and got her out of bed. She seemed to have scant interest, but that would sort itself out. They’d had a really nice time on the last occasion, even though Jeanette had taken it very badly in the few instances where something had reminded her too much of Peter. And although they’d had to put their backs into it at times, Jeanette had largely remained in good spirits.

  Kerstin guessed that there would be less work this time. Fewer knick-knacks, fewer household items—less stuff in general, given that the cabin was for hunters. She was picturing the odd hunting trophy on the walls, stuffed animals and birds, some majestic roebuck horns. Meagre supplies in the fridge and larder—just enough for hungry hunters to cook a bite to eat in a convivial setting. She imagined that beer tankards and schnapps glasses might have their own dedicated shelf.

  It was probably a retreat just for men, it now occurred to her. That wasn’t necessarily true, but she was pretty certain that efforts to achieve equality for women hadn’t yet reached the point where they were represented to the same extent as men in hunting clubs around the country. And if looked at through cynical eyes, that might mean that Mrs. Norling rarely or never set foot there. This in turn led to the conclusion that it was a suitable location for a man needing to stash away six million stolen kronor intended for use by himself and his lover.

  The odds were thus pretty good, although she would have to disregard the clouds heavy with rain that hung low over Gotland and had been there for several days.

  THEY GOT OFF the bus just before ten o’clock and then used their bikes and Kerstin’s mapping apps to make their way along increasingly narrow tracks in the forest. It transpired that they could have driven all the way up to the cabin—at least if they had had a car. They abandoned their bikes a little way into the woods, where the overgrown forest track leading to the cabin began. In order to be on the safe side, they left them behind the roots of a fallen tree and covered them in pine branches. In the unlikely event that anyone passed by, at least the bikes wouldn’t give them away.

  The fact that it was a hunting cabin and nothing else was unmistakable. It was a proper log cabin and at the gable end above the door there were half a dozen or so roebuck horns on shields made from a very dark wood. The house was set on a wild plot where just enough brush had been cleared to ensure that trees and bushes didn’t completely take over, and to enable free access to the two smaller buildings also standing there. But it had to be years since anyone had done anything—probably more than four, at a guess.

  After searching for barely a minute, they found the door key on top of a ledge and entered the house. The cabin itself was bigger than Kerstin had expected, including a small kitchen, a large common area with a dining table and chairs for eight, and a sofa suite around an open fireplace. On either side of the fire there was a door, behind each of which there was a bedroom with bunk beds for four people. Apart from the size, there wasn’t much that differed from how Kerstin had pictured a hunting cabin. The hunting trophies were there, and there were a few candleholders—the decorative approach was otherwise not especially impressive.

  It was dark and drab, and there was little in the way of natural light. The house appeared to be connected to the power grid, but Kerstin was wary about turning on the electricity. Against the odds, someone might catch sight of the light and wonder what was going on, and neither of them was in a position to deal with the consequences of being discovered. However, what they were searching for was so large in volume that they could hardly miss it due to poor lighting.

  Even though they were in Peter’s house, it didn’t really contain anything that could be associated with him. No photos, no clothing, no handwritten notes, no nothing. In short, the house was impersonal, and that was probably a contributing factor to Jeanette’s buoyant mood. The entire enterprise seemed exciting, and the rain pattering on the roof enhanced the thrilling sensation and created a new sense of relaxed intimacy between them.

  They talked. About this and that and nothing in particular. Not like social misfits and addicts. Not like deadly enemies or people with suicidal tendencies. Just like two completely normal people. It was liberating.

  Kerstin looked in the fridge, just to confirm her suspicions. No one had stayed here for several years—all that was to be found in the fridge was beer with a best before date more than three years ago. While Kerstin turned the kitchen upside down, Jeanette worked on the common space. Neither of them found what they were looking for, or anything else of interest. Not even in the chimney.

  Then they tackled the bedrooms, the halls, the porch, and the veranda, and they even put a ladder up outside in the pouring rain so that they could check the loft in the roof, which had to be accessed from the outside. But nowhere did they find what they were looking for.

  At around two o’clock they stopped for lunch and sat on the covered decking, shivering as the heavy rain drenched the forest around them.

  57

  Sandra

  SANDRA WAS SITTING in her old childhood bedroom under the eaves, with her gaze fixed on a faded Spice Girls poster with greasy stains left by Blu Tack in the corners. It was three o’clock, and in a few hours’ time the afternoon would turn to evening and then night. The fourth day would soon be at an end, and what would happen then? How much time had been assigned to the major police operation, how long would the volunteers keep up the search before their motivation began to falter?

  Sandra realised that within the not-too-distant future, there would be no one searching any longer, and the investigation would end up in a box under someone’s desk, awaiting new leads that would never emerge.

  But they hadn’t reached that point yet, she had to remind herself. It was the middle of summer and light practically 24/7, not counting the almost-black clouds darkening the sky and the persistent rain threatening to drown the whole island. To date, the conditions hadn’t deterred the hundreds of remarkable people who had still gone out into the woods and countryside to search for Sandra’s son. If they hadn’t given up yet, then Sandra couldn’t either—that went without saying.

  And she had caught up. She had spent six weeks slaving over the book, writing in all her spare time, and now she had reached the present day. All that remained was to write what hadn’t happened yet. Or hadn’t become clear. The work she faced would demand less effort—a normal, fully achievable level of work—which she would pursue during her free time.

  Tomorrow she would return to the office. She made that decision on the spur of the moment—she could no longer sit here doing nothing. She was needed at the newspaper, and she needed distraction from the never-ending wait for something that might never come. In the event that something happened during the day, she could note it in the evening—the book project would proceed as a diary project. For her own sake, and for Erik’s.

  The serial, however, would need to be drawn to a close before the summer ended. She needed to tie up the story somehow, so that any followers weren’t disappointed. But there was plenty of time to work out how—the readers had only just passed midsummer in the story.

  Sandra f
ell to thinking about Kerstin. Despite the fact that four days had passed since Erik’s disappearance, Sandra hadn’t informed her about what had happened. Partly because she didn’t feel up to talking about it, but mostly because she felt in two minds about it all. On the one hand, they barely knew each other. She and Kerstin had never met. On the other hand, Kerstin knew more about Sandra—in some regards—than anyone else. Kerstin had been initiated into the project, and was helping with the fact-checking and other elements. Like finding the cash from the robbery.

  Sandra was in a situation where she didn’t need to take anyone else into account, but she still had pangs of guilt when it came to Kerstin. She felt disloyal. Kerstin had nudged the door to her innermost self ajar, and was now letting Sandra write about it in the newspaper—possibly with legal consequences for Kerstin. During their calls, Sandra had been driven to explain that she had been raped and by whom. But that was it.

  Their original relationship was built on unilateral trust, but it had developed into so much more. They were pursuing a project together, working towards the same goal. And Kerstin’s contribution was so great. If anyone had earned the right to her trust, it was Kerstin—Sandra owed her the full story, not just the crime report.

  While Sandra was at home feeling depressed, Kerstin was out and about—together with her worst enemy—on the hunt for evidence for the investigation that would hopefully follow this entire episode. Completely ignorant of why Sandra hadn’t gotten in touch or why she was dismissive and curt when she had.

  Sandra felt that she could no longer keep Kerstin in the dark about this. It hadn’t been a conscious choice from the beginning, and there was no particular reason to tell her now either, other than it being the right thing to do. And rather than sending a simplistic and unnuanced text message, she opted for the more personal approach: a phone call.

  “How’s it going?” she asked. “Have you found anything?”

  “No,” said Kerstin. “Not yet. But I have a good feeling about this place.”

  “There’s something I ought to have told you,” said Sandra. “A long time ago, actually. But it . . . I never did.”

  “Okay . . .” Kerstin said encouragingly.

  “My son,” said Sandra. “He’s the result of the rape.”

  “I know that,” Kerstin replied. “I read the papers just like everyone else.”

  Naturally. Kerstin didn’t just read the parts of the text that Sandra had passed to her—she was reading all of it.

  “Then you also know that when I found out who the rapist was thanks to your help, I made a less sensible decision,” Sandra continued. “I contacted him and demanded he pay child support. On the quiet—I figured no one needed to know.”

  “Yes,” said Kerstin. “But that was before we truly understood what he was capable of.”

  “Yes. And by then it was too late. He had already begun to threaten me, and now he’s taken Erik.”

  “Erik?” Kerstin said with horror in her voice. “You mean it’s your boy that . . .?”

  “Exactly,” said Sandra. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but things have been pretty turbulent. Obviously I should have told you at once.”

  “I’m so sorry, Sandra. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You don’t have to say anything—I just wanted you to know. Good luck with the search.”

  “We’re just about to . . .” Kerstin said, but she didn’t finish her sentence.

  She was silent for a few seconds while collecting her thoughts.

  “I was out searching for him over the weekend. Your Erik. Saturday and half of Sunday. I just thought you’d want to know that. Take care.”

  “Thanks,” Sandra said, at a loss. But Kerstin was already gone.

  The volunteers had a face now. Or a voice at least, Sandra thought to herself as tears formed in her eyes. Kerstin was there for her, even when she didn’t know about it. Together with hundreds of other faceless people.

  The world wasn’t entirely ugly.

  58

  Jan

  DURING THE SUMMER holidays, people were free to come and go from work more or less as they pleased without it causing any trouble, and Jan made sure that he took advantage of this on the odd occasion. Today was just such a day, since Sweden’s knockout match against Switzerland was due to kick off at four o’clock. He didn’t want to miss the prematch studio buildup, which was scheduled to start two hours before the game. And given there was barely anything to do at work there was little point in him sitting there twiddling his thumbs between lunch and the match. He stopped for his lunch break at half past eleven and headed home.

  Gunilla was at the hospital, so he was able to settle down in peace and quiet at the computer and continue reading the summer serial while eating his sandwich. To begin with, he read without concentrating while his thoughts drifted off in all sorts of directions, but after just a few minutes he snapped to attention. There was something very familiar about the events being described. Jan decided to read it all again from the beginning.

  This time he paid greater attention, and his sandwich lay untouched. Jan sweated profusely. It couldn’t be true. Someone had written a book that was being serialised in Gotlands Allehanda, in which a person who bore a distinct resemblance to Jan Hallin was depicted as a rapist. What was more, it was done with such credibility that as he read it he instinctively took the side of the other party.

  But that was just the beginning.

  It transpired that immediately after the rape, the car crash, which he had read about the day before, had happened. The serious accident in which the driver in one car died after great and prolonged suffering. And the other car, which had avoided any harm, was being driven by the rapist. Who—given the fact he had just raped a woman nearby—decided to leave the scene.

  All these similarities with Jan’s own experience had to be coincidence. Yet his mouth was completely dry. Someone had woven together a believable and exciting story based on equal parts fact and fiction. There had been some details about the car accident in the local press, and the rape . . . Surely rapes took place on an almost daily basis? It didn’t take much in the way of imagination to cook up a tale like that.

  This was a story, he persuaded himself. With certain themes that happened to have things in common with something he himself had experienced. There was a lot that was wrong about the character that was reminiscent of him: name, places, car make, profession, to name but a few. That was probably true of all the other characters too, so what was there to say that anything at all was really factual in this account?

  Nothing, of course. It was nothing but pure fiction. A socio-realistic figment of the imagination. But he still had to admit that some parts of this serial were awfully close to the truth.

  He had to go into the kitchen and drink a glass of water. And another. He splashed some water on his face too—it was so bloody hot in here. Then he went back into the study and sat down at the computer again. He took a deep breath and continued reading.

  Large swathes of the text—including the passages about the alky scum on the benches—didn’t especially interest him, so he hastily skimmed through those. But there were other parts that engaged him far more, which he read with his heart in his mouth. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t stop reading. Jan downloaded issue after issue of the paper as he saw the story unfold on the screen in front of him with a rising sense of horror.

  It turned out she was pregnant—the woman who had been raped. And she kept the child. Very soon, the man—the rapist, the hit-and-run driver—received a blackmail threat. A demand for the astonishing sum of six million kronor by way of support payments. How many people had received a letter like that? It didn’t exactly feel like the amount had been plucked out of thin air.

  A knot formed in his stomach and it felt as though the air in the room had run out. He had to go to the window and open it wide. Breathe air into his lungs. Convince himself that any correlations between that bloody s
erial and real life were just coincidence. After a few minutes, he felt strong enough to withdraw from the window and sit back down at the desk.

  He didn’t remain there for long—when he reached the bit about the hit-and-run driver realising that it was a passing acquaintance, a mechanic from his hunting club, who had witnessed the accident and therefore had to be the person who was blackmailing him for money, he was forced to rush into the kitchen and splash more water on his face.

  And when shortly afterwards the hit-and-run driver cheerfully noted that the witness-slash-blackmailer had vanished from the face of the earth, it all got too much for Jan. He didn’t need to read any more to realise that the book was a crucifixion of himself. He was not only being identified as a rapist, a drunk driver, and guilty of a hit-and-run, which was bad enough, but also as a murderer.

  The writer had even got inside his head and knew his reasoning. It seemed so improbable, but there was no room for doubt that someone out there had knowledge of all these details pertaining to Jan and his actions that day and in the period afterwards. How on earth that was possible was a mystery, but there was no doubt as to who she was. The mere thought of her left him furious.

  Judging by his colleagues’ enthusiasm, this story had a lot of readers, and it would soon have even more. Because sooner or later someone was going to pick out Jan as the guilty man, and it was pretty likely the police would be brought in at the same time. But that hadn’t happened yet, and the serial hadn’t reached its conclusion.

  He still had some time to get out of this. The football would have to wait.

  59

  Kerstin

  SHE FELT PARALYSED after the call. Jeanette looked at her anxiously, hesitating whether to ask her what was wrong. But Kerstin forestalled her and explained with a sob in her throat that the missing boy everyone had been talking about was the son of a friend. Jeanette looked even more dumbfounded—she probably wondered what friends Kerstin had that she, Jeanette, wasn’t aware of.