Bad Intentions (6 page)

"You're a prick," he said, "and you'll shut up now! Jon was worth much more than you!"

Axel grunted by way of reply. They packed Jon's belongings in silence: sweaters, trousers, underwear, CDs and a couple of books, socks. Axel thought they could pair the socks at random, but Reilly protested.

"Jon was very neat," he said.

When everything was packed up, they looked around the bare room.

"Look at the mirror," Reilly said. "It's plastic."

"This is a desolate place," Axel said. "How do people stand it?"

"They have no choice," Reilly argued.

They carried Jon's possessions down to reception. Axel went down the stairs first. Reilly followed him, a little anxious about tripping in his long coat. He was carrying the heaviest box with books and CDs. Hanna Wigert was waiting for them. She gave them another long, critical look.

"There was just one more thing," Axel said. He put down the box on the floor. "Could we meet Molly, please?"

"Meet Molly?" she said.

"After all, they were friends," Axel said. "Jon spoke so much about her and she would probably like to go to his funeral. It's on Friday. One o'clock. I thought we could have a little chat."

Hanna Wigert frowned.

"Molly has enough on her plate as it is," she said.

"I'll understand if she says no," Axel said, "but please, would you give her the choice? It's about Jon. She'll probably want to know."

Hanna Wigert looked defeated.

"I don't even know where she is."

"But you could check her room, please?" Axel asked. "We understand that you have to protect your patients, but some decisions they have to make for themselves."

Axel's impertinence made Hanna Wigert feel dizzy. She gestured toward a small waiting room and went to find Molly Gram, walking off this time with a touch of indignation so that her otherwise noiseless shoes could be heard against the floor. Axel and Reilly sat looking out of the large windows. The sound of a lawnmower cut through the silence.

"What do you want with her?" Reilly whispered.

"I just need to check something," Axel said. "Find out if she knows anything."

Reilly shook his head, despairing. "And if she knows something, what are you going to do?"

Axel grabbed a magazine and started flicking through it.

"We need to know where we stand," he said. "I need to be in control. I'll be able to tell immediately if she knows something."

Reilly stuffed his big hands in his coat pockets.

"If Jon confided in Molly, there's nothing we can do about it. Or what did you have in mind?"

Axel did not reply. They listened toward the corridor. The big building was strangely quiet; no shouting, no laughter, no footsteps. But they could hear a distant drone as from a big engine far away, or perhaps it was located underneath them, in the basement.

A young woman entered the room. The light from one of the tall windows glowed behind her. She was slender as a reed, with wispy blonde hair and harshly made-up eyes. She wore a ballerina's tutu with tights underneath and ballet pumps on her feet. In her arms she was cradling a small white dog.

Good heavens, Reilly thought. Molly Gram is an angel.

She looked at them with black eyes. Suddenly the dog freed itself, leapt down to the floor and ran to greet Axel. However, Axel ignored the small, shaggy animal, and after several failed attempts at getting his attention, it ran over to Reilly instead. Here it received a warmer welcome. Reilly stroked its head and the dog began nipping at the legs of his corduroy trousers. Reilly waited patiently. He could not make himself shoo it away and he did not move his leg. He saw that the dog had got its teeth into a torn flap of worn fabric and was pulling at it. After a while it started growling as though it were playing with another dog and Reilly decided to withdraw his foot. No good. The dog was fixed to his trouser leg. It had no intention of giving up its prey, even if it was only a scrap of corduroy. He looked toward Molly for help.

"Melis," she said. "Drop it."

The command was barely audible, but the dog instantly let go, spun around and ran back to her.

Axel stepped forward to greet her.

"My name's Axel," he said, "and the giant here is Philip Reilly. It's kind of you to see us, we really appreciate it. We're friends of Jon."

He took both of her hands in his and Reilly knew that Axel's hands were warm, and that the warmth would spread to her whole body. You might even think he had hands like a healer. Reilly had seen many girls go weak at the knees, but Axel Frimann had no effect on Molly. She stood very still and looked at him with her black eyes.

"We thought you might want to go to the funeral," Axel said. "It's on Friday, in Brodal Church. One o'clock."

She measured him from his head down to his Italian leather shoes.

"We used to walk together," she said. "In the evening. After dinner."

"Where did you go?" Axel asked. "Tell us, please."

"Through the park," she said, "and down the path. It runs in a figure of eight through the forest and it's just the right distance. It took us an hour. And we would stop on the way back and drink water from the fish fountain up there. There is a carp which spews water."

Axel smiled. "If you want to go to the funeral, we could come and pick you up," he offered.

"I'll be getting a lift with Hanna," she said.

A pause followed.

She looked as if she was about to leave.

"Melis!" she called out. "Come here."

"Jon was really into you," Axel said.

She took one step forward.

"What happened?" she asked.

"At the cabin, you mean?"

"Yes."

"We don't know," Axel said. "He went out during the night while we were sleeping. He was gone when we got up."

She shook her head.

"No," she said. "We had an agreement. Jon would not have broken our agreement."

"Everybody does sooner or later," Axel said. "If they don't, they're not human. Please don't judge Jon even though he might have disappointed you."

She fixed her kohl-black eyes on him again.

"Judge Jon? Are you even listening to me?"

She headed for the door. Her narrow back disappeared. Melis ran after her.

The men left. They turned around and looked back at the yellow façade. Reilly got the feeling that Molly was watching them from a window.

"That girl's still having toddler tantrums," Axel said. "You know the way they stamp their feet."

"She's ill," Reilly reminded him.

"It's not that she's ill," Axel said. "More that she's a wildcat. If you want to catch one of those, you need to wear protective gloves."

I
N HER OFFICE
Hanna Wigert had a blue sofa with a high back. It was a two-seater and had come from her childhood home in Kragera. When she was a little girl she used to jump up and down on it. She had climbed its tall back and watched the shimmering sea through the windows. Sometimes, in the evenings, she had fallen asleep on it and her father had carried her off to bed without her noticing. When her parents had died she had collected the sofa and put it in her office. It reminded her of goodness. Not everyone had grown up in such fortunate circumstances, and some of those people came to this office. Now the sofa was covered with rag dolls and cuddly toys. They were piled in a big heap, and they took up a lot of room.

She shook Sejer's hand and asked him to sit down. He moved dolls and animals and she noticed that he handled them with the utmost care. They were not tossed aside, but were gently placed against the armrests of the sofa.

"What do you want to know?" Hanna Wigert asked.

Sejer moved a sheep with a curly fleece.

"What did you think when you heard about Jon's suicide?" he said.

"I was surprised," she said.

"Why?"

She considered this for a long time. Her hair, it struck him, looked like wool. Like the sheep's.

"Because it was unexpected," she said. "Everyone gives off light. You can see it in their eyes or their bodies or in the way they move. You can tell that something drives them. It's a form of energy. Jon Moreno's light was still safe and sound."

His light was safe and sound, Sejer thought. What a lovely way of putting it.

"He was getting help," she said, "and he was grateful for that. He kept so much deep inside him, but he was opening up. To some extent it's also a matter of intuition," she said. "I've been here a long time. I've seen many fall by the wayside. But when you called and told me that Jon was dead, I nearly fell off my chair. That shouldn't happen to a psychiatrist."

Sejer held up one of the rag dolls. It had short yellow hair made from yarn, blue eyes and it wore a red dress decorated with white beads.

"Did he ever talk about death?"

"He never mentioned death at all," Hanna Wigert said. "But that in itself isn't necessarily significant, suicide can happen without warning. Sometimes the strain builds and we don't notice. And then lightning strikes."

Sejer looked at all the dolls that surrounded him.

"What are they for?" he asked.

"Oh," she said. "They're here to make it cozy. And they serve a practical purpose, too. Opening up and exposing yourself isn't easy. Your hands have nothing to do. So I give the patients something to handle."

Sejer looked at the rag doll in his lap.

"They pick very different ones," she said. "Some are attracted to one in particular, which they always go to fetch when they come here. Others take a new one every time. Others think the whole thing is ridiculous. The doll in your lap is called Lady Di."

"They've got names?"

"Nearly all of them."

Sejer put down Lady Di and picked up a pink velvet pig with a curly tail.

"Let me guess," he said. "Girls pick this one."

"Yes." Hanna Wigert smiled. "The pig."

"What did Jon Moreno do?"

She got up from her chair, dug through the pile and pulled out a rag doll with short black hair.

"He used to hold this one," she said. "It's a boy rag doll and Jon spotted it immediately."

She held it up to him. It was obviously made by someone who knew their craft. Its eyes and brows were neatly embroidered with shiny black thread. Its hair was short and stuck out, and the doll was wearing blue denim dungarees.

"Who makes them?" Sejer asked.

"The patients," Hanna Wigert said. "In the workshop. New ones arrive every year and some take their favorite dolls home. Others want to leave something behind when they go, so that we will remember them. The teddy is called Barney," she said, "and the one with the gap between its teeth is called Kurt."

"What about Jon's doll? Does it have a name?"

"It's called Kim."

"Kim. Why is that?"

"He told me it reminded him of someone he met once. He wouldn't say anything more and I don't know if it was important, but the doll is called Kim."

Sejer squeezed the doll's tummy as though he expected it to squeak.

"Some people have a negative reaction," Hanna Wigert said. "They think my office is childish. But in time they get used to the rag dolls. It's important to be a little childish," she added and flashed a smile at the inspector. He's quite attractive, she thought, and she enjoyed playing a little on her femininity, of which she had a great deal when it suited her.

Sejer examined Kim the rag doll with renewed interest. It was roughly thirty centimeters long, made from golden brown canvas and wore tiny socks on its feet.

"There's something I need to tell you," Hanna Wigert said. "Jon didn't want to go on the trip to the cabin."

"Did he say as much?"

She picked up a doll from the pile. Now she needed something to fidget with.

"He practically begged me not to make him go. But I was so keen to get him out among other people, that I talked him into it. I explained how important it was to keep in touch with the world outside. And he was going with his friends. They would take good care of him. I didn't take my cue from him. That was unforgivable, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life."

She slumped a little in her chair. She raised a hand to her eyes.

"Did he say why he didn't want to go?"

"I tried to press him, but he was evasive. And I'm breaking my duty of confidentiality here, but you represent an authority which allows me to do so," she said. "Jon suffered badly from anxiety. He believed that his anxiety would worsen if he left the ward, that it would overcome him in the forest. And it clearly did."

"And yet you're surprised at what happened," he said. "What makes someone commit suicide out of the blue?"

She tossed her doll back on the sofa.

"It's called a psychological accident," she said. "Several factors present themselves simultaneously and lead to a fatal outcome."

"Such as?"

She thought again.

"I'm trying to find a story," she said, "which can illustrate what I mean. I should have quite a few to choose from because I've seen this before. Oh, yes, I recall a story from Sweden that's a good example."

She leaned forward eagerly.

"A man spends the weekend at a cabin with some good friends," she began. "They go elk hunting. After a long time he returns home to his wife with fresh elk meat. Monday morning he gets into his car and drives to work. He has a well-paid job with a renowned firm. Then his boss comes into his office and tells him that the company has to cut costs, and that sadly he will have to let him go. In a few seconds he loses everything. His financial independence, his sense of belonging and his status. He gets into his car to drive home, overwhelmed by despondency. His entire world has collapsed. He pulls over at a bus stop, where he sits in despair. Then he remembers that his rifle is still in the trunk of his car after the hunting trip. He fetches the weapon, loads it and shoots himself through the head."

Sejer listened to her story.

"He didn't have time to think of another solution," he said.

"Precisely," Hanna Wigert said. "Two things happened simultaneously. A crisis and access to a weapon."

"What do you think might have happened to Jon?"