Dark Secrets (11 page)

Vanja opened her notebook. She had just apologized for asking Fredrik to repeat everything he had already said. She was annoyed. Vanja wanted to be the first to interview witnesses and anyone else who was involved. There was a risk that they might unconsciously become careless the second time. That they would leave out information because they thought they’d already said it. That they might have assessed the information and decided it wasn’t interesting. It struck her that this was the second time the person she was talking to in this
investigation had lost a bit of their edge because they had already told Haraldsson everything. Two out of two. There wouldn’t be a third, she promised herself. She rested her pen on the paper.

“So you saw Roger Eriksson?”

“Yes, last Friday.”

“And you’re sure it was him?”

“Yes, we were at Vikinga School at the same time. And then he went to Runebergs at the beginning of last term.”

“Were you in the same class?”

“No, I’m a year older.”

“And where did you see Roger?”

“It’s called Gustavsborgsgatan, by the parking lot at the high school. I don’t know if you know where that is?”

“We’ll find out.”

Billy made a note. When Vanja said “we” in these situations she meant him. It would be added to the map.

“Which direction was he going in?”

“He was heading into town. I mean, I don’t know what direction that is or anything.”

“We’ll find that out too.”

Billy made another note.

“What time on Friday did you see him?”

“Just after nine.”

Vanja stopped dead for the first time during the interview. She looked at Fredrik with a hint of skepticism. Had she misunderstood something? She looked down at her notes again.

“Nine o’clock in the evening?”

“Just after.”

“And this was last Friday?”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure of that? And the time?”

“Yes, I finished training at half past eight and I was on my way into
town. We were going to the movies, and I remember looking at my watch and seeing that I had twenty-five minutes. The movie started at nine thirty.”

Vanja didn’t speak. Billy knew why. He had just finished the timeline for Roger’s disappearance on the whiteboard in their office. Roger had left his girlfriend at 10:00 p.m. According to that same girlfriend, he hadn’t left her room—let alone her house—all evening. So what was he doing on this Gustavsborgsgatan an hour earlier? Vanja was thinking exactly the same thing. So Lisa had been lying, just as she had thought. The young man sitting in front of Vanja seemed very reliable. Mature, in spite of the fact that he was comparatively young. Nothing in his behavior suggested that he was here for the attention, for the thrill, or because he was a compulsive liar.

“Okay, so you saw Roger. Why did you notice him? There must have been plenty of people out and about at nine o’clock on a Friday evening?”

“I noticed him because he was walking along on his own, and there was this moped circling around and around him, kind of having a go at him, if you know what I mean.”

Vanja and Billy both leaned forward. The time issue was important, but so far the information they had received had concerned only the victim’s movements the evening before he went missing. Now all of a sudden there was someone else in the frame. Someone who was messing with Roger. This was getting good. Vanja swore to herself once again, cursing the fact that she was getting the second bite at this.

“A moped?” Billy took over from Vanja. She didn’t just let him do it, she actively welcomed it.

“Yes.”

“Can you remember anything about it? The color, for example?”

“Well, yes, but I know—”

“What color was it?” Billy interrupted him. This was his field.

“Red, but I know—”

“Do you know what make it might have been?” Billy broke in again, eager to piece the puzzle together. “Do you know what type of moped it was? Can you remember if it had license plates?”

“Yes—I mean, no, I don’t remember.” Fredrik turned to Vanja. “But I know whose it is—I mean, I know who was riding it. Leo Lundin.” Vanja and Billy looked at each other. Vanja got up eagerly.

“Wait here, I need to go and fetch my boss.”

T
HE MAN
who was not a murderer was proud of himself. Even though he shouldn’t have been. The emotional reports, the school in mourning, and the frequent press conferences with grim-faced police officers told a different story. Tragic, dark, and sorrowful. But he couldn’t help it. However hard he tried, he couldn’t avoid ending up in the company of that self-affirming feeling. He alone felt like this. No one would ever understand.

However close they were.

Whatever they said.

His pride was uplifting and liberating, almost joyous. He had acted powerfully. Like a real man. Protected what had to be protected. He had not given way, had not failed when it really mattered. The strong, sweet smell of blood and internal organs had penetrated deep into his senses, and his whole body had fought against the rising nausea. But he had carried on. The knife in his hand had not trembled. His legs had not let him down when he moved the body. He had performed at the very peak of his ability in a situation in which most people would not be able to cope. Or would never encounter. This was what he was proud of.

Yesterday he had been so tense that he had found it difficult to sit still. He had gone for a long walk lasting several hours. Through the town that was talking about just one thing: his secret. After a while he passed the police station. His instinct was to turn back when he saw
the familiar building. He had been so lost in thought that he hadn’t considered where he was going, but since he was there he realized he might as well walk past. He was just someone out for a stroll, someone who happened to be passing. The men and women inside would suspect nothing. Wouldn’t know that the person they were looking for was so close. He kept on going. Eyes front. In spite of everything he dared not glance in through the big windows. A patrol car emerged from the garage and braked. He nodded to the uniformed officers in the car as if he knew them. Which he did, of course. They were his opponents. He was the man they were looking for, even though they didn’t know it. There was something incredibly exciting and satisfying about being in possession of that knowledge, holding the truth in his hand. The truth they were so frantically seeking. He stopped and allowed the patrol car to pass in front of him. He could permit his opponents that courtesy.

He knew where this strength came from. Not from God. God gave guidance and consolation. His father gave him the strength. His father, who had challenged him, tempered him, and made him understand what was required. It had been anything but easy. Somehow the secret he now held as an adult reminded him of the secret he had carried as a child. No one had been able to understand that either.

However close they were.

Whatever they said.

Once, when he had been feeling sad and weak, he had told a blond school nurse who smelled of flowers. There was uproar. Chaos. The school and social services intervened. Talked, telephoned, visited. Educational psychologists and social workers. His mother wept and he, the young boy, suddenly knew what he was about to lose. Everything. Because he had been weak. Because he hadn’t had the strength to keep quiet. He knew his father loved him. It was just that he was the kind of man who showed his love through discipline and order. A man who would rather put across his message with his fists, his belt, and the carpet beater than with words. A man who was preparing his boy with
obedience. Getting him ready for reality. Where it was necessary to be strong.

He had solved the problem by taking back what he had said. Denying the whole thing. Saying that he had been misunderstood. He restored order. He did not want to lose his father. His family. He could bear the blows. But not the thought of losing him. They had moved to a different place. His father had appreciated his denial. His lies. They had grown closer to each other, he could feel it. The blows did not diminish—rather, the opposite—but to the boy it felt easier. And he kept quiet. Grew stronger. Nobody understood what a gift his father had given him. He himself had barely understood it at the time. But now he could see it: the ability to rise above chaos and act. The man who was not a murderer smiled. He felt closer to his father than ever.

Sebastian had woken just before 4:00 a.m. in one of the hard, narrow single beds upstairs. His mother’s, he assumed, judging by the rest of the room. His parents had not been sleeping in separate bedrooms when Sebastian had left home, but he wasn’t surprised at the new arrangement. Voluntarily climbing into bed next to his father night after night couldn’t reasonably be described as sane behavior. Clearly his mother had reached the same conclusion.

Sebastian usually got up when he was woken by the dream, regardless of the time. Usually, but not always. Sometimes he stayed where he was. Closed his eyes. Felt the cramp in his right hand slowly ease as he invited the dream back into his consciousness.

Sometimes he longed for these mornings. Longed for and feared them. When he allowed the dream to gain a foothold again, when he milked the pure, unadulterated feeling of love from it, then his return to reality afterward was significantly more difficult and suffused with fear than when he simply let go, got up, and moved on. Generally it wasn’t worth it. Because after the love came the pain.

The loss.

Unerring, every time.

It was like a form of addiction. He knew the consequences. He knew that afterward he would feel so bad he could hardly function.

Hardly manage to breathe.

Hardly manage to live.

But he needed it from time to time. The pure core. The stronger, truer feeling that his memories could no longer give him. His memories were, after all, only memories. Compared to the emotions he felt in the dreams they were pale, almost lifeless. Nor were they all real—he was certain of that. He had taken away here, added there. Consciously and unconsciously. Improved and strengthened certain parts, toned down and pared away others. The memories were subjective. His dream was objective. Implacable.

Unsentimental.

Unbearably painful.

But alive.

This morning in his parents’ home he stayed in bed and allowed himself to embrace the dream again. He wanted it. Needed it. It was easy; it was still there within him like an invisible entity, and all he needed to do was give it a little renewed strength.

And when he did, he could feel her. Not remember her. Actually feel her. He could feel her small hand in his. He could hear her voice. He could hear other voices, other sounds. But, most of all, her. He could even smell her. Baby soap and sunscreen. She was there with him in his half sleep. Properly. Again. His big thumb moved unconsciously over the cheap little ring on her index finger. A butterfly. He had found it in a pile of cheap trash at a crowded market. She had loved it at once. Never wanted to take it off.

The day had begun in slow motion. It was late by the time they got outside. The plan was to stay at the hotel and relax by the pool all day. Lily had gone for a run. A belated, truncated run. Once they got outside Sabine didn’t want to spend all day lying around by the pool. No—her
legs were full of energy, so he decided they would go down to the beach for a while. Sabine loved the beach. She loved it when he held her in his arms and played in the waves. She screamed with joy when he swung her little body between sea and air, wet and dry. On the way down they passed several other children. It was the day after Christmas and the children were trying out their new toys. He carried her on his shoulders. A little girl was playing with an inflatable dolphin, pale blue and beautiful, and Sabine reached out toward it. “Daddy, I want one of those.”

That was to be the last thing she ever said to him. The beach was a bit beyond a large sand dune, and he headed there quickly so that she would have something other than pale blue dolphins to think about. It worked, and Sabine laughed as he trudged through the warm sand. Her soft hands on his stubbly cheek. Her laughter when he stumbled and almost fell.

It had been Lily’s idea to go away for Christmas. He hadn’t put up much of a fight. Big occasions weren’t Sebastian’s specialty, besides which he found her family quite difficult, so when she suggested a trip he had agreed immediately. Not because he actually liked sun, sea, and sand, but because he realized that Lily, as always, was trying to make life a little easier for him. Besides, Sabine loved the sun and the sea, and everything Sabine loved, he loved. It was a relatively new sensation for Sebastian. Doing things for other people. It had arrived with Sabine. A good feeling, he had thought as he stood there on the beach, gazing out over the Indian Ocean. He put Sabine down and she immediately ran toward the water on her little legs. It was considerably shallower than it had been on previous days, and the shoreline was farther out than usual. He assumed it was the tide that had pulled the water so far back. He ran to the water with her. It was slightly overcast, but the temperature of the air and water was perfect. Without a care in the world he kissed her one last time before lowering her into the warm water up to her tummy. She screamed out loud and then laughed, because to her the water was both frightening and wonderful, and for a second
Sebastian thought about the psychological term for their game. “Trust exercises.” Daddy doesn’t let go. The child becomes more and more daring. A simple term whose true meaning he had never really put into practice before. Trust. Sabine screamed with a mixture of fear and joy, and at first Sebastian didn’t hear the roar. He was completely absorbed by the trust between the two of them. When he did hear the noise, it was too late.