Black Ice Read online

  Just as she had feared, she had scared Kerstin off with all her curious questions and her eagerness to understand the ins and outs of the terrible fatal accident. The questions would remain unanswered, so Sandra tried to fill in the gaps herself for her own peace of mind. But no matter which angle she looked at it from, she couldn’t come up with a plausible explanation for why Kerstin had chosen not to show the incriminating pictures to the police so they could arrest the hit-and-run driver.

  Did she have something to hide? Did her husband? Surely that would have come out when the body was found—so what did it matter?

  Could it have been a police officer who had forced Kerstin’s husband off the road? And if so, did it make any difference? One police officer could hardly hide all the evidence in order to get an investigation closed, and it seemed even less likely he would have the force behind him if he did so.

  The so-called photo evidence also demanded an explanation. If there was a speed camera adjacent to the crime scene—for it surely was a crime if the other driver had left the scene—then the police must have examined the images from it, even if there was no suspicion that a crime had taken place. But why would there have been a camera just there? You didn’t generally catch people speeding on sharp bends.

  It followed that someone else must have taken the photos at the scene of the accident and sent them to Kerstin. The clichéd dog walker, who seemingly didn’t have a mobile phone or any other form of contact with the outside world, since they hadn’t called the police or ambulance when the accident happened or later? The perpetrator themselves, after being struck down by a guilty conscience? A passing motorist who had initially misunderstood the situation and continued on their way?

  Nevertheless, all these theories about this photographic evidence pointed to the same conclusion: Kerstin had chosen not to inform the police of its existence.

  The thought crossed her mind that Kerstin might have been there herself taking the photos. A completely implausible theory since she would have been able to call the ambulance herself, if the police, for some reason, struck terror into her. That hypothesis was rapidly brushed aside by Sandra, just like the others. The whole thing was and would remain a mystery.

  She noted that the grass already needed cutting, but it would have to keep for tomorrow. Erik was asleep, and she didn’t want to disturb the peace. It felt like only yesterday that it had been dark when she was collecting him from preschool, but now he was going to bed while it was still practically daylight.

  Sandra splashed some water on the bulbs in the pots on the porch, put down the watering can, and went inside. She switched on the kettle, and while waiting for it to boil she sat down on the sofa in the living room to check her mobile.

  That was when Kerstin called. After six days of silence.

  “How are you?” Sandra asked. “Do you feel better now? You were very upset last time.”

  “I’m always upset,” Kerstin said without beating about the bush.

  “I’m glad you’ve called anyway. I’ve been worried about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ll be all right.”

  “I was afraid you wouldn’t call me again,” Sandra said truthfully. “That I was too forward and asked too many personal questions. That I talk about things that are too sensitive.”

  Kerstin was quiet for a while and then said, “I suppose I do think that.”

  “You know that it’s all on your own terms . . .”

  “But I’ve decided that I need to talk about this stuff,” Kerstin interrupted. “That it’s good for me.”

  Sandra sighed with relief.

  “It’s up to you what you want to tell me,” she said. “If I ask questions that you don’t like, just say so. Okay?”

  “That works,” said Kerstin, before falling silent for a while.

  Sandra tried waiting her out, but nothing happened. She didn’t want to seem too pushy and decided to take a wide path around the subject that had been burning inside her for six long days.

  “Can I ask what you do with your time, Kerstin?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “You don’t work?”

  “I was on sick leave for a long time after I lost my husband, totally lost my spark of life. Then I took early retirement. But I sometimes step in and do supply work in various preschools.”

  “Was that what you used to do?”

  “Yes, but it’s more fun now that I don’t have to spend every week doing it.”

  “And when you’re not at work, what do you do?”

  “I read a lot.”

  “That makes me happy,” said Sandra, and it really did.

  “Why?”

  “Because people who read have richer lives. Are never idle. And are generally more empathetic.”

  “I don’t feel especially empathetic,” said Kerstin.

  “How do you mean?”

  “There are people I hate.”

  When Kerstin had been talking about her daily life, her voice had sounded a little dull and powerless. Now there was an edge that was new—they were getting close.

  “Hate is a heavy burden to carry,” Sandra said. “It drains you.”

  “And I’m very tired,” Kerstin admitted.

  “Hate usually dissipates with time,” Sandra said tentatively. “I think you would feel better if you let it go.”

  “I have no intention of doing that. Quite the opposite—I’m nurturing it. Out of respect for my late husband.”

  “Are you brooding over some kind of revenge?” It suddenly struck Sandra. “Are you planning to take the law into your own hands?”

  Kerstin laughed, a joyless laugh that was so sharp it sliced into Sandra’s ear.

  “Even if that was the case, I wouldn’t admit it to you, would I Sandra? If anything I say makes you suspect that I’m planning to commit a serious crime you’ll contact the police.”

  “You know, I’m not sure I would in this case,” Sandra said softly.

  This was mostly for herself and in some sort of half-hearted hope that Kerstin wouldn’t hear it. Or perhaps, on consideration, it was the other way around. Once again she was deviating from the few guidelines she had to follow as part of Friends-on-call. Once again it was Kerstin who had conjured up this disobedience. And for some peculiar reason, this insight disturbed Sandra—she didn’t let anyone else control her, no one had to do anything. It also gave her the courage to ask one of the questions that she had wanted an answer to for so long.

  “Photo evidence, you said. Tell me about this so-called photo evidence.”

  “I heard what you said,” said Kerstin with a smile in her voice.

  Sandra pretended to be nonchalant about Kerstin’s comment, but a smile crossed her lips too. Tempting a smile out of gloomy Kerstin was a victory in itself.

  “How is that you know more about this accident than the police?” Sandra said, developing her question.

  Straight away, the natural seriousness in Kerstin’s voice became palpable.

  “I received a letter,” she said. “A few days after they found him, I got a letter. Well, actually, just an envelope with a few photographs inside. Without any comment.”

  “And what did the photographs show . . .?”

  “The wrecked car seen from a couple of angles from above. On one of the photos you can see his upper torso through the side window. Awful photos.”

  “Including the head?” Sandra dared to ask. “The face?”

  “Yes, unfortunately,” said Kerstin mournfully. “At a distance, so it’s a little fuzzy, but when I looked with a magnifying glass I could see well enough. I can’t erase that picture from my memory.”

  “I understand how you feel,” said Sandra. “At the same time, you don’t have to speculate. You know what state he was in, what circumstances. Sometimes it’s better knowing, even if the knowledge is almost unbearable.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Was he dead when the photo was taken? Your husband?�
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  “It’s hard to say, but presumably not.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The third photo,” Kerstin replied. “There was another photo in that envelope.”

  “That showed . . .?”

  “The other car leaving the scene. A blue Audi.”

  “Of course,” said Sandra, who was beginning to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “But how do you know that it was a hit-and-run? How do you know that your husband was forced off the road?”

  “I think the person who sent those photographs thought I deserved to see the full picture. The other car was standing still on the road above the ravine—on the left-hand side of the road, but not in the ditch, not at an angle, and seemingly undamaged. The driver was down by the wreckage, saw that there was a seriously injured person in the car, but he chose not to call the emergency services.”

  “How do you know that he went down into the ravine?” Sandra asked.

  “On one of the pictures of the wreck there’s a shadow visible beside the car. A shadow that wasn’t there in the other picture, so it must therefore have moved. I’m pretty certain that the shadow is of a person.”

  “You think the photographer took the opportunity to photograph the hit-and-run driver’s car while he was down in the ravine?” Sandra said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly.”

  “It could simply be a fellow passenger. Someone else in the car?”

  “Precisely,” said Kerstin. “Or someone who happened to be passing.”

  “But who still didn’t take the time to call emergency services?”

  “Naturally, it suggests a fellow passenger,” Kerstin agreed. “For that reason.”

  Sandra thought for a while, digesting the information.

  “That letter,” she said. “Was it postmarked?”

  “Yes, in Visby.”

  “That’s not much of a clue,” Sandra remarked. “But the photographer was there when it happened and was sufficiently clearheaded to document the accident. The person in question felt obliged to inform you about what had happened.”

  “But not to call an ambulance,” Kerstin added, her voice bitter.

  “Someone with a conscience but no backbone?” Sandra reasoned.

  “Their conscience only seems to have come to life when it was too late,” said Kerstin.

  “When did you receive that letter?”

  “The day after the death notice had been in the paper. I think the photographer saw that I was the next of kin and thought I had a right to know.”

  Sandra considered this for a while. That was probably what had happened. But both the photographer and the victim’s wife, who had each had crucial evidence against the hit-and-run driver in their possession, had neglected to contact the police, and that was a mystery in itself. The photographer’s behaviour perhaps less so, if he or she was closely related to the driver, but Kerstin’s passiveness was and remained a riddle.

  “Why did it take so long for them to find your husband?” Sandra dared to ask. “I get the impression that the police didn’t take your report very . . .”

  “The police weren’t informed,” Kerstin interrupted.

  “What did you say?” said Sandra, who thought she must have been mistaken.

  “I never reported him as missing.”

  Sandra checked her impulses and swallowed the questions that were rising to her lips. Kerstin’s unwillingness to involve the police had become even more apparent, but her motives were shrouded in darkness. She sat quietly at the other end of the line and Sandra didn’t want to push too hard.

  “As you may have noticed, I’m avoiding asking the natural follow-up questions,” Sandra said.

  “I’ve noticed,” Kerstin replied. “But there are several, more important follow-up questions to ask.”

  “Help me out.”

  “The perpetrator’s registration number was visible in the picture. With a little enlargement I managed to read the number, so I tracked down the owner of the Audi.”

  “And . . .?”

  “Hallin, he’s called. Works as an expert in environmental issues at an international company with an office in Visby. He’s also on the local board for a human rights organisation.”

  Sandra didn’t recognise the name, but there was something about the environment and human rights that touched on something in her consciousness.

  “When and where exactly did this accident happen?” she forced herself to ask, despite something telling her that she didn’t want to hear the answer.

  “At Madvar, in January 2014,” Kerstin replied. “On the twenty-third, to be exact. Between half past three and four in the afternoon.”

  Sandra instinctively grabbed hold of the armrest on the sofa as it swam before her eyes. A violent wave of emotions flooded through her, beginning in her stomach and welling upwards until her heart was pounding at double speed and her cheeks were flaming red. She was sweating uncontrollably, desperate to end the call and lie down, to wait for the feeling to die down.

  “The hit-and-run driver didn’t have any passengers who took the photos,” she heard herself say. “They must have been taken by someone else.”

  “How can you know that?” Kerstin asked in bafflement.

  “It doesn’t matter, Kerstin—but that’s how it is. Take care, I have to go now.”

  Then she ended the call and lay down on the sofa. The sweat poured down her face and blood pulsed through her at a rate that seemed hazardous. She tried taking long, deep breaths, but it didn’t work. Over and over, her lips formed the name of the hit-and-run driver, but her brain was working on just one question:

  What should she do with the knowledge?

  CAR ACCIDENT AT MADVAR: MALE VICTIM FOUND AFTER FOUR DAYS

  A motorist driving along route 145 close to Vejdhem spotted a car deep in the ravine beside the road just before eleven o’clock on Monday morning. The fire brigade, police, and ambulance service responded on site and found a deceased person stuck in the driver’s seat.

  The victim was a male in his late forties, and the accident is thought to have happened on Thursday last week. Heavy snowfall is thought to have prevented the car from being found sooner.

  There are no witnesses, and it remains unclear what happened, but the roads in the area were treacherously icy at the time in question.

  The deceased’s next of kin have been informed.

  GOTLANDS ALLEHANDA

  JANUARY–FEBRUARY

  2014

  16

  Jan

  HE HAD BEEN in a meeting with a customer all morning, and there was nothing new under the sun. They went over same questions again and again, concerning financial and environmental sustainability and green resource efficient finance. Subjects that were certainly close to his heart, but which—despite seeming like buzzwords of the year to the customer’s ear—were frankly hackneyed to him. In his role as an adviser and mentor to the still-fairly-unknowledgeable public, he was always a step ahead.

  But you had to take the good with the bad, and the good thing was the long lunch afterwards at the elegant Lindgården Inn. Today lunch was on him, since you could hardly expect the customer to pay, even if the customer was called PayEx and was as rich as Croesus. What was more, there weren’t many people like him who reckoned that if Wednesday was Little Saturday then Thursday was Little Sunday, and what was Sunday without a long, leisurely lunch?

  It was over now, but after three courses, a couple of cold beers, and a digestif he felt sleepy. This could have been easily resolved with a nap in the break room at the office, but since Britt-Inger from HR was ninety percent certain to be lying there in the throes of a migraine, he considered it more resource efficient to swing by the house and close his eyes for twenty minutes before heading back to work.

  So he took the car from Stora Torget and eased his way through the narrow streets without scratching his paintwork or rims. Granted, this had never happened before, but it could happen at any moment given h
e was unfortunately not the only motorist in this town. Then he realised that he might as well stop by the branch of XL-Bygg up at Skarphäll retail park. He could pick up the fittings he had ordered as part of the project to give the family room at home a facelift.

  He did that. Just as he had chucked the bag of fixtures into the back seat he noticed a woman in distress standing nearby. A young girl who had—as women do—bought too much, her face wearing an expression of semi-desperation as she tried to call for a taxi. Clearly without success.

  He heard where she was going, and it was some distance. But it was cold as hell and she had been waiting for a long time. He felt sorry for her, and also thought that a chat with a young lady would probably have the same energising effect as a siesta at home.

  She was delighted by his offer. Happy people made Jan happy, so he had made the right decision, despite it being enormously out of his way and costing him a fair bit in petrol, wear to the car, and loss of income. She was a bit dull and didn’t have much to say. Jan talked about the kinds of things that might interest a girl of twenty-five to thirty, which seemed to be nothing much. Then he switched to talking about what interested him, of which there was a lot.

  Occasionally, he would try to make eye contact to get some sort of confirmation that he wasn’t alone in the car, but she was shy and was mostly watching the road. She was probably a little timid too, because despite her quiet and compliant manner she was playing the role of backseat driver. Not that she commented on his driving, but he could see how she was mentally slamming on the brakes and leaning into corners. On a couple of occasions, she pointed out that it was icy, or that someone was emerging from the right that he might not be able to see.

  Jan wasn’t easily annoyed, so he was indulgent towards the girl. He studied her discreetly and noted that she didn’t look so bad despite her horsey mouth and the fact that she was overweight. All young people were these days—the American epidemic had made it to Sweden. But the freshness of youth forgave most things.