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  Granted, it was unlikely that a call like this would end up as part of a TV appeal, but if the police had any sense they would think it a bit odd that someone had called anonymously to raise the alarm about what was meant to be a one-car accident.

  And then there was the other thing too, he thought as he miraculously avoided making mincemeat of a rabbit that had hopped into the path of his headlights. There was a minimal chance that that chick—whom he had almost forgotten in the rush of this more shocking incident—hadn’t been completely on board. And that she might have contacted the fuzz, or at least called a relative who might have done it for her. She would be able to claim that Jan had drunk a load of booze and that he had left her at this or that time and had passed the scene of the accident at the exact same bloody time as the accident had happened. That wouldn’t look at all good to the police.

  He had to admit he had been a shade intemperate this afternoon, having put himself at risk of being charged with no fewer than three fairly serious crimes. In the eyes of the law, of course—not his own. The first was no crime at all—just a bit of mutual fun. And the second was no crime either—just an accident, given that Jan was driving with so much care and hadn’t been affected by the small amount of alcohol he had drunk. The other madman had been driving too fast and had made bad choices on a treacherous road.

  What really bothered him was that the crime he had not committed in relation to the accident by the ravine suddenly became a crime simply because he didn’t want to stick around to see the results of the whole mess. It made him so angry that now that he came to think about it he thumped his fists on the wheel, sending shockwaves all the way up to his elbow.

  He began to head for work. So that he could say he had been at work that afternoon to anyone who might want to know. He felt so bad and he was anxious too, as he knew full well that he would be unable to produce much during what little remained of the working day. But it was enough for him to show his face a few times to give his colleagues the impression he had been there. The rest of the time he could stay in his office with the door shut.

  It would have to be that way. He parked the car in a space on Stora Torget and walked on shaky legs to his office. It was snowing heavily, and he pulled up his hood to avoid getting wet hair.

  He told the receptionist he had been for lunch with PayEx and then walked over to XL-Bygg and back to pick up a few things. Then he snuck into his office without anyone else noticing. He sat there, staring into space for the rest of the day—apart from a few interruptions to fetch coffee when voices were audible in the kitchenette. He took care to keep his distance and not breathe in a way that would suggest associations with alcohol to anyone. He coughed into the crook of his arm and encouraged the suggestion that he might have caught a cold.

  IT WAS ALMOST a week after that fateful day that he sat at the breakfast table reading about the accident in the newspaper. It said there had only been one car, which was a big relief. If the police had suspected anything else, it wouldn’t have said there was only one car. And the poor devil driving had, as expected, died. But who would have thought otherwise? Apparently he had been there for four days, which was a little tragic, even if he had been dead at the time. He must have been, given the long flight through the air and how the wreck had looked.

  That reflection in particular put him ill at ease. The fact that the driver in the other car hadn’t with one hundred percent certainty died at the moment of impact. Jan had been struggling with that uncertainty for a week now. But he would still couldn’t have acted differently, he just couldn’t. And it must have gone without saying that the bloke had departed this life in the same moment the car hit the ground and was crushed like that. Jan playing mountain climber in his loafers wouldn’t have changed a thing.

  His liver pâté sandwich tasted of nothing. He swallowed what was left in his mouth, but put the remaining sandwich to one side under a paper napkin. Perhaps the jar of pickled gherkins had been open in the fridge for too long, even if his wife ate from it perfectly happily. Gunilla, who had no idea how close she had come to being a widow just a few days earlier.

  Jan had to make an effort not to be gloomy about everything. He thought that what was really positive was that the victim had been alone in the car: there hadn’t been a baby or a wife in the back seat or anything like that. That would have been really difficult. Only the driver had left this earth, and that could happen to anyone who was a little careless while driving.

  On the other hand, that wife who had been lucky not to be in the car had the misfortune of losing her husband, according to the local paper. But that was a forgone conclusion from the very start, really. Her old man wasn’t exactly a rally car champion.

  23

  Sandra

  THE DAYS PASSED and got lighter. Sandra didn’t know where she found the strength, but despite the nightmare she had been thrown into, and her new fears, she was on the road to recovery.

  During the first weeks after the catastrophe, she had craved solitude and hadn’t received any visitors. In the time after that—after she returned to work—she had refused to be alone and had spent every night at her parents’. As part of her recovery from flu, supposedly. There was nothing they liked better, so they happily let her stay with them for several weeks, just like in the good old days.

  Five weeks to the day after the attack, she moved back home, standing on the porch with her bag, putting the key into the lock while a strong breeze whistled around the corners of the house. She felt like she had been away on a long journey, which in a way she had. When she crossed the threshold, she was overcome by a feeling of happiness to be home again, of having a place on earth that was hers alone and where she could be herself without any outside demands.

  I need to have this attitude, she told herself—I need to preserve this feeling. I need to take possession of my home and regain mastery of my own life and push the destructive thoughts to one side as best I can.

  Once she had unpacked, she prepared a meal, ate, washed the dishes, and put everything away. Then she lit candles and snuggled up under a blanket on the sofa and relaxed—admittedly with the curtains drawn, but she was able to cope with being alone. Then she began to catch up on what she had missed in her distance learning course, working more frenetically than before; she would pass this course and get an intellectually challenging job—that was just how it was. Even if . . . no, thoughts about that would have to wait for tomorrow. The big challenge for the evening was to fall asleep without other adults in the house.

  It took several hours, and that was when that dreadful afternoon was at its most prominent place in her thoughts. She lay listening for sounds in the darkness, and heard a multitude. The floorboards creaked, snow tumbled from the roof, and animals ambled around the paddock to the rear of the house. She was waiting for the sound of breaking glass, a lock being broken, or a door forced open. But she didn’t turn on the lights, refusing to give in to the irrational fear that that hateful man had forced upon her. Letting him win would be surrender, and she had no intention of doing that.

  WHEN SANDRA WOKE the morning after, it was with satisfaction and a purposefulness that was unusual for her. She hadn’t given way; she had managed to live her daily life on her own and sleep too. She had taken the first step to establishing routines that were a blend of the old and new, and she was surprised at how quickly she had pulled herself out of her wretched situation. She was scarred, upset and anxious, but she had unforeseen strength. She had glimpsed this side of herself a few times before. When she was four years old and alone at home with Dad, who had collapsed unconscious with a ruptured appendix, and she had called for an ambulance. When she had been in the Lucia procession during high school and Lucia’s hair had caught fire; Sandra had been the only one not to take fright and had pulled off her gown and stood there on the stage in front of the whole school in her bra and pants while she extinguished the fire. She was usually mild-mannered—phlegmatic—but when it really mattered, i
t seemed she had an extra gear, a completely separate superego that stepped in and took command. Something like that was happening now.

  Or so she hoped. Because there was something other than fear of a vague external threat to deal with right now. Certain bodily symptoms required her attention, and she was no longer sure she could just dismiss them as irregularity on the grounds of stress and misery.

  Sandra took a deep breath as she sat down on the toilet. She was so nervous that her hand shook, although she was surprisingly relaxed given the situation. Things were the way they were, she reasoned, and the important thing was to find out what was going on. Only then could she could think over the possible consequences.

  She stopped shaking at the very moment that the blue line appeared in the window on the piece of white plastic. She sighed as she threw the life-changing gadget into the bin, but that was all. She had to keep her head on, be objective and honest with herself and not act rashly.

  She made a cup of tea, sat down at the kitchen table, and reviewed all the possible options. She soberly noted that she was almost thirty and wanted a child, that she had never had a long-term relationship and wasn’t becoming a hotter commodity on the market with the passing of time. She noted that the father of the tiny life growing inside her looked good and was self-confident. He was socially able and unafraid, and seemed intelligent, educated, and curious. But he also lacked a sense of what was right and wrong, which was no doubt to do with his upbringing. As a result of that, he committed criminal acts, which was his own choice. He lacked empathy and might even be a psychopath, but those qualities weren’t hereditary.

  Sandra questioned what life would be like for a child born as the result of rape and concluded that the things you don’t know don’t hurt you. If the truth ever did come out, then her decision to keep the child in spite of the manner of its conception was proof of how welcome and loved the child was.

  Sandra had made up her mind. Amongst the overwhelming joy that flooded through her once the decision was made there was also a dash of schadenfreude. That man was going to be the father of her child: a completely wonderful little person who would take on everything he or she encountered. And he wouldn’t have a clue about it. He would miss out on this wonderful thing, stuck staring at his reflection in the water lily pond until his pathetic, loveless life came to an end, without ever getting to meet his child.

  That was how she intended to thank him for the lift.

  My beloved

  husband and friend.

  Karl-Erik

  Barbenius

  Born 14 August 1965

  has left me with

  great sorrow and longing

  Gotland

  23 January 2014

  KERSTIN

  ———

  Memory tends to what in life

  was possessed,

  Loss tends to what was taken

  by death

  ———

  Private funeral.

  Donations to

  Läkarmissionen

  appreciated

  MAY

  2018

  24

  Sandra

  “IF ANYTHING YOU SAY makes me suspect that you or someone else has committed or is planning to commit a serious crime, I will contact the police.” The phrase echoed in her head and had more meaning for her than ever before. Suddenly, she was in possession of information that might put her rapist behind bars. A man she had hated for more than four years.

  Granted, he had given her the most beautiful gift: Erik, who in many respects reminded her, in a positive way, of his unmentionable father. But that was unintentional, and the man had also caused her physical pain, grief, insomnia, anxiety, and a vigilance she was not comfortable with.

  She had confirmed the fact that it was Hallin through a quick search online. And Hallin wasn’t just a rapist, he was also a drunk driver and a hit-and-run driver. Guilty of manslaughter. Of course he had to be punished in some way—the question was how.

  If Sandra went to the police now, her credibility wouldn’t have improved over the years. Paternity could be easily determined but proving that a rape had occurred four years earlier was practically impossible. It would be his word against hers and that would be the end of it—with the outcome that Erik would be labelled in the eyes of the world as the result of rape, while the perpetrator would be able to thoughtlessly dismiss it all without any legal or social consequences.

  On the other hand, if evidence was presented that he had been at the scene of the accident—suggesting he was involved but that he had failed to contact emergency services—the case would take on a different light. Sandra’s account of the rape and drinking just minutes earlier and a few hundred meters away would be taken more seriously.

  The catch was that Kerstin refused to involve the police, and that Sandra had promised her silence. While this had been with certain reservations, her loyalty lay primarily with Kerstin, and when it came to the punch Kerstin was the victim here.

  One of them. This required consideration.

  “SORRY ABOUT THE abrupt end to our call last time,” Sandra apologised when Kerstin called the next time. “I didn’t feel well.”

  It was true, but her conscience was not altogether clear, since Kerstin was unaware that as of now Sandra was just as interested—or perhaps more so—in Kerstin’s case for her own sake. On the other hand, Sandra didn’t have to share anything about herself—that wasn’t how it worked. Their nightly relationship had grown stronger, their conversations had moved from uncertainty and fumbling about to being frank. And with great engagement she had pushed Kerstin in the right direction, helped her to at least dare to talk about her concerns, which had been the whole idea in the first place.

  “Don’t worry,” said Kerstin.

  She really ought to have been wondering how Sandra knew that Hallin hadn’t had any passengers.

  “Can we pick up where we left off?” Sandra said to her.

  This seemed to be exactly what Kerstin had been hoping for.

  “You didn’t go to the police with the photographs—that much I know,” said Sandra. “Was it enough for you to know who had caused the accident? Did that make you feel better?”

  “No,” said Kerstin.

  “You didn’t feel better?”

  “No. And it wasn’t enough, either.”

  “It sounds like there’s more to tell here . . .”

  “I’m gathering my thoughts,” said Kerstin. “You’re not going to report me?”

  Sandra wondered what was coming next, and deliberated for a moment.

  “No,” she then said. “I’m not going to. Whatever you did, I won’t instigate any legal proceedings against you. You have my word.”

  “Thank you,” said Kerstin.

  “Tell me what you did with the information.”

  Kerstin lit a cigarette in the background and took a long drag.

  “I blackmailed him,” she said eventually.

  “You blackmailed him?” Sandra said in surprise.

  She would never have guessed. Blackmail felt like a crime that rarely happened, and which—for whatever reasons—had passed its best-before date.

  “I actually did,” said Kerstin, unmoved. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  “But how? What did you threaten him with?”

  “I sent the photos to him.”

  “I understand that—but what did you want in return? You wanted him to hand himself in, I suppose?”

  “No,” said Kerstin, audibly blowing out a cloud of smoke. “Well, he was obviously welcome to. But I didn’t demand it. I also enclosed a key to a locker down at the ferry terminal with a brief instruction.”

  “You wanted money?” Sandra said doubtfully.

  She had difficulty seeing this grieving person as an old-school blackmailer.

  “Yes,” said Kerstin, breathing in.

  “How much?”

  “Six million.”

  “Six million? What m
ade you think he would be able to pay?”

  Kerstin took a while to answer—perhaps thinking Sandra naïve.

  “He has an expensive car and a beautiful house,” she said. “A well-paid job and a well-dressed wife with diamond earrings. I reckoned he’d find a way.”

  “Or what?”

  “It was implied I would go to the police with the photographs if he didn’t do as I said.”

  “Did he?”

  “No,” Kerstin sighed. “He didn’t.”

  “And you didn’t follow through on your threat either, I take it?”

  “No,” Kerstin admitted, taking another drag on her cigarette. “And I didn’t have it in me to blackmail him anymore.”

  “But why didn’t you go to the police?” Sandra persevered.

  “I had blown my chance—don’t you get that? If I had gone to the police, they would have done me for blackmail. I might have ended up in prison while he got off due to lack of evidence. I couldn’t be sure, and still don’t know, how good those photos are as evidence. But I do know one thing—and that is that I have no wish to go to prison.”

  “I understand,” said Sandra. “But you must realise how dangerous it is to go up against people like this? To threaten them? He could have watched the locker, waiting for you, before . . . Well, use your imagination. We know he doesn’t put much value on human life.”

  “Yes, I realised that soon enough. But the damage was already done. I didn’t dare or have it in me to keep on trying. And perhaps that was fortunate—the first time I got away with it.”