Black Ice Page 9

  “Status quo,” said Sandra thoughtfully.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Kerstin asked.

  “Of course, but I’m not sure I’ll answer,” said Sandra, who thought she might have an idea of what the question was going to be.

  “The thing you said about there being no passengers in Hallin’s car—how can you be so sure?”

  “I might tell you the day you explain to me why you didn’t report your husband missing,” Sandra replied slyly.

  In reality she had no plans to ever induct Kerstin into her own secrets. To date, no one had been granted access to that dark room, and Kerstin, who was weighed down by her own troubles, was hardly going to be the exception.

  25

  Jeanette

  LUBBI HAD MADE an effort and it had paid dividends. He had plucked up the courage—and stayed sober enough—to explain the situation to both the police and the social services employee, not to mention the woman in her late middle age who had been struck in the face by Jeanette’s hand. Jeanette had been present, but was in no shape to do anything other than shake or nod her head. After Lubbi’s account of her long-term depression following the loss of her daughter and subsequent divorce, everyone involved had become more understanding. It had already been noted that no real injuries had been caused, and when Jeanette became remorseful and apologised the matter had been resolved amicably, the investigation discontinued and Jeanette released.

  Since then, Jeanette had stopped taking tablets and settled for the intoxication provided by alcohol. If she knew herself at all, it was probably only temporary, but right now it was enough. She noted with some ambivalence how the others kept an eye on her, ready to step in at any moment and protect her from herself. She liked their caring attitudes, but at the same time she felt constantly under surveillance and thus captive.

  To make sure she didn’t worry anyone, she maintained a low profile and only spoke in a low voice with whomever happened to be closest. With that approach to the generally high-spirited crowd outside the East Gate, she often ended up on one of the outermost benches together with Nanna.

  Nanna was certainly no ray of sunshine, but she was good. She didn’t run off at the mouth like most of the others, including Jeanette, although what she did say was generally irrelevant. Jeanette liked her company, even though big-hearted Lubbi was the one for whom she had made the most space in her life.

  “Tell me about your lover,” Nanna said one day.

  If Lubbi had initiated the same conversation, he would have done so apologetically, while offering Jeanette a free pass to change the subject if she preferred. But Nanna was issuing a challenge—although it included all the other elements too. It was in her tone, her eyes, and her body language. Jeanette knew that she was free to decline the invitation, that Nanna didn’t want to hurt her or open up old wounds, that she was offering a shoulder to cry on even if Jeanette would never do the same.

  After some consideration she decided to talk about him, even though it hurt. She had to try and normalise the memories of her former life, her life experience, even if it brought up old emotions that she had done her best to numb. And the moment felt right. The hubbub was some way off and they were alone on the bench.

  Jeanette remembered how close they had been to the most forbidden topic when the police had come and hammered on the door. She didn’t intend to go that far again—it must have been a higher power that had saved her that time. But there were other things she could talk about.

  “We met at the Lucia celebrations at work,” she began. “It was early in the morning before the store opened. The kids from the local primary school came and sang to us. We were sitting on temporary benches in the shop and watching. I got teary-eyed—I always do during any festivities where there’s singing that you associate with your childhood. And Charlotte’s. I suppose it was thoughts about Charlotte that made the tears start flowing.”

  Nanna didn’t say anything, instead taking her hand and squeezing it.

  “He was next to me on the bench,” Jeanette continued. “He didn’t work for us but in a workshop next door—but he and his colleagues were also invited. He did exactly what you’re doing now—held my hand. I’m sure plenty of people were dewy-eyed, but he must have noticed that it was more than that for me. We didn’t really know each other—at most we might have greeted each other a few times and exchanged a few words. But it felt good somehow—natural. A stranger just being there and catching you when you fell. When the kids started to file out, he let go. And when the lights came on we nodded at each other and said hi. Then went our separate ways.”

  Jeanette paused and pulled two beers out of her backpack. She handed one to Nanna and opened the other for herself. Nanna offered her a cigarette by way of thanks.

  “And then?”

  “Two days passed. I hadn’t been able to get him out of my head—I thought about him when I went to sleep, when I woke up, when I was at work, when I was eating dinner with my husband. The gesture affected me deeply—I wanted to hold that hand again. Then we bumped into each other in the car park. He brightened up when he spotted me and asked whether he could give me a lift anywhere. And I said yes even though I had my own car and had been planning to go straight home. Then we drove off together. We talked—about everything in heaven and earth. Apart from my reaction during the Lucia celebrations. Or his. He was tactful.”

  Both women drank and smoked for a while in silence. The usual hubbub continued around them, Lubbi’s laugh drowning out everyone else’s. The sun shone in a clear blue sky, the breeze was strong but warm and the many flags on the city wall fluttered in the west wind. People were dressed for the warmth and feeling hopeful—a long and wonderful summer lay ahead of them.

  “We had so much to talk about, so much we wanted to know about each other. I barely noticed that we were going the long way around, that we were miles outside of town. Finally he pulled over and turned off the engine. At first we just looked at each other without saying anything, then we both burst into laughter. I was suddenly self-conscious and couldn’t think of anything to say. He touched me the same way again, and I let him do it. I wanted to feel his safe, warm hand one more time. I remember wondering where it would lead. But it didn’t scare me—it was as if I was watching myself from outside. All my defence mechanisms were down and I let it happen—what happened next.”

  A young mother with an empty stroller stopped on the path in front of them. A little girl wandered around on the asphalt path before falling over and getting up. She then came toddling at full tilt towards Jeanette, who received her with open arms to stop her from falling over. The child laughed, as did Jeanette, but the mother didn’t look happy. She brusquely picked up the girl, put her in the stroller and hurried off. The child protested loudly, and Jeanette followed the stroller with her gaze. Once they reached Skolportsgatan the wet wipes came out—that was how low she had sunk: people had to wash once they had touched her.

  She took a swig of beer and lit a new cigarette using the last one, before continuing.

  “We continued seeing each other two or three times a week. The time between our encounters felt unbearable. For both of us—at least he had me believe that. The Christmas holidays got in the way, but I worked as many of the days in between as I could in order to have the chance to see him. He did the same.”

  Jeanette took a long drag from the cigarette and looked at Nanna discreetly to see whether she had lost interest. Nanna caught her looking and gave her one of her rare smiles.

  “I’m listening,” she said, draining what was left in the can.

  “Okay,” said Jeanette, drawing breath. “Then it was back to normal—grey and sad and January. I started thinking about what I wanted from the relationship. But there wasn’t much to ponder over—I was prepared to leave my husband and all of the worn-out, done to death conversations that our life had become after Charlotte. But I didn’t dare take the first step, I wanted to hear him—Peter—say it. He did too, but not strai
ght out. It was wrapped up in questions and assumptions about how our life together might look. I was on my guard: he had a wife and children, and I could imagine how hard and trying it would be, to break away from a life like that. But not how it would reflect on our life together. Would our love overcome all those obstacles, spiteful ex-spouses and sad and perhaps angry children? Neither of us earned much—would we be able to afford to live in acceptable conditions? Especially with two shared kids on top, which required at least one extra room and costs that went up every year. Was the thing that had emerged between us merely the result of curiosity or would it last the course through all the setbacks and disappointments that the future was guaranteed to bring? But we were pushing in the same direction—I was convinced of it. Despite having only known him for a little more than a month, I was prepared to give up everything I had for him. If only he said the right words—first.”

  Jeanette paused in her account, assessing how to navigate the upcoming rocks. But it didn’t matter, not this time. Kat and Roffi, one of the older men, appeared with a couple of disposable barbecues and a clutch of supermarket shopping bags.

  “It’s Lubbi’s birthday!” Kat shouted in her customary manner, making complete strangers standing by the hot dog van in Östertorg turn around and look at them.

  “We’re celebrating with a barbecue down at Gustavsvik! Bring your own bottle . . .”

  A nice idea. It stung a little that it hadn’t been Jeanette’s. She had completely forgotten about Lubbi’s birthday. She had been completely self-absorbed, as usual, forgetting that there were other people who also had needs and deserved attention.

  She smiled in a forced manner while the two companions, guilt and shame, took hold of her.

  26

  Sandra

  ERIK FELL ASLEEP in the middle of his bedtime story, completely exhausted by a day of outdoor play in the beautiful but windy weather. Sandra remained sitting on the edge of his bed for a while, stroking his cheek and smelling his newly washed hair. Sometimes she couldn’t get enough of this small person who played such a big role in her life.

  But everything grew so uncontrollably at this time of year, and it was due to rain tomorrow. The grass needed cutting before it got soaked, because by the time it dried out again it would be more meadow than lawn, and she didn’t want that. In other words, it needed doing now because soon the Friends-on-call calls would start coming in on her mobile. She ran her hand through her son’s shock of hair, straightened the duvet one last time and left the room, closing the door behind her.

  She put on her boots and stepped outside into the unusually balmy spring evening. Apart from the singing of the birds, the garden was silent—not many cars passed here. It was a shame to break the silence with the sound of the petrol lawn mower, but that was how it had to be. In recompense, she could draw comfort from the smell of freshly cut grass and the satisfaction of working with her body while her thoughts kept turning in her head.

  The newly discovered knowledge of who the rapist was brought her no peace. Despite the fact that she didn’t believe in any higher powers, it felt like the information had landed in her lap for a reason. She had been given an opportunity to influence that man’s future—hopefully for the worse—and she truly wanted to take that opportunity.

  Gossip was a tried and tested way of destroying a person’s reputation, but the question was whether talking crap about Hallin would have any impact on him, given the type of person he was. Sandra’s network was limited; his was probably enormous. It would likely come back to bite her with double the force and he would be unaffected by any of it.

  In terms of the other crimes he had committed, she couldn’t do anything. Sandra didn’t have any photographs and as far as the police were concerned no crime had taken place. It would be impossible to prove there had been any alcohol in his bloodstream, nor that Hallin’s car had been in the accident, since it didn’t bear any trace of it. The photographs were the only thing that existed, and she didn’t have access to those.

  Today she bitterly regretted that she hadn’t immediately reported the rape. If only she had brought herself to pick up the phone, everything would have been different. An investigation of the crime scene would have proven that Hallin had been there, that he had drunk whisky from one of her mugs and that his car had been parked on the gravel outside the house. A medical examination of Sandra’s body would have uncovered signs of violence, traces of nonconsensual sexual intercourse. They would also have been able to prove that Hallin was the father of the child born nine months later, and forced him to take financial responsibility.

  And even if Sandra, in her self-determined isolation following the rape, hadn’t had a clue that a serious car accident had happened just a few hundred metres away, the police would almost certainly have made the connection. They might not have been able to prove his involvement, but Hallin would have compromised himself. They would have tracked his movements that day and probably found out when and what he had drunk before driving to the DIY store. Perhaps that would have been enough to put him behind bars for drunk driving, and there was always the possibility that he would have eaten humble pie and confessed to everything.

  Those were Sandra’s thoughts as the sun sank below the treetops in the west, while the cut grass spread its sweet scent. Once the job was done, she put the mower in the shed, checked the pot plants and the other plants farther from the house. She decided nature would have to deal with watering them the next day and went inside to take off her boots. She quickly checked on Erik and then padded outside barefoot to the terrace and put her feet up on the table. She continued to blame herself for what had happened as she waited for the first call of the evening.

  If only she had shown a little drive when it had been called for, life might have taken a different path. Sandra cursed her weakness at that moment. Not only for her own sake but also Kerstin’s. They had to struggle on with their burdens while that swine—who against all odds now had a name—carried on as if nothing had happened. All things considered, it might have been better not to find out who he was.

  Sandra was dwelling on that thought when Kerstin called—the first caller of the evening.

  “Something occurred to me after our last call,” said Kerstin. “You said you were sure that Hallin was alone in the car.”

  Sandra waited.

  “Didn’t you?” said Kerstin. “Do you stand by that?”

  “I do,” said Sandra, without any further comment.

  “Okay,” said Kerstin with a smile in her voice. “I know you’re trying to squeeze me, but that’s just silly.”

  “I don’t think you would think so if you knew the reason why,” said Sandra seriously. “But I maintain that he didn’t have any passengers in the car.”

  Kerstin evaluated what Sandra had said—perhaps the tone of it frightened her. But soon enough she collected her thoughts.

  “If the photographer didn’t have anything to do with Hallin, he or she was probably just as much to blame for my husband’s prolonged suffering. And even his death. It might have been possible to save him if he had received medical attention in time. The photographer documented the scene of the accident but didn’t call emergency services.”

  “Another person to hate then,” Sandra noted quietly.

  “But it might be worse than that,” said Kerstin. “As you’ve noticed, I’ve thought a lot about this since we last spoke. There’s another possibility. What if the photographer was involved in the accident?”

  “Then why document the fallout?” Sandra responded.

  “To direct suspicion elsewhere? Hallin might just have been passing. Stopped and taken in the situation, but concluded there was nothing he could do, that the situation appeared to be under control. He may have assumed that someone—the photographer—had already raised the alarm. The photographer took a photo of the Audi above the ravine, and then implied that it was the car that had caused the accident and then left the scene.”

  “S
houldn’t Hallin have contacted the police later on then, when the newspapers reported it as a single-car crash that was only discovered after four days?” Sandra queried.

  She wanted Hallin to be guilty. At the same time, the scenario set out by Kerstin was completely plausible. And the fact that Hallin hadn’t contacted the police immediately was hardly surprising: he had been driving while drunk and had just raped a woman. The fact that he didn’t contact them later on was because he didn’t want to admit to having been in the area at that time if the woman—Sandra—had unexpectedly reported the rape.

  “Perhaps he doesn’t read the papers,” Kerstin speculated without conviction.

  “That may be the case,” said Sandra, whose thoughts were heading in a different direction.

  “It would explain why he didn’t take the blackmail attempt seriously,” said Kerstin. “He wasn’t involved in the car accident, so he ignored the whole thing.”

  “That’s true,” said Sandra, who really didn’t want it to be that way. “But then surely he would have reported the blackmail attempt to the police?”

  “He probably thought it was just a joke,” said Kerstin, with a laugh. “When you think about it, six million is a pretty daft sum to demand.”

  Sandra grinned too. They had come so far in their conversation that they could laugh at it all. It was a big step forward for Kerstin—for both of them. Even if Kerstin wasn’t aware that this therapy was operating in both directions.

  When the call was over, Sandra lost herself in her thoughts once again. Hallin could be innocent in relation to the tragic accident. It bothered her very badly, but the possibility was there. But what other reasonable explanation could there be for the photographer handing over their evidence—which implicitly implicated Hallin as the guilty party—to the widow without calling 112?