Dark Secrets (29 page)

She headed off to the left toward the little park by the castle. There was a gentle breeze blowing off Lake Mälaren, making the fresh green shoots and the newly unfurled leaves rustle and sway. The smell of spring was in the air. Vanja cut across the soft ground without any real idea of where she was going.

The picture came back to her. The hospital. Eight months ago, when they got the news. Her mother had wept. The doctor standing
beside her father, looking professional. It had made Vanja think of all the times she had adopted that role. Calm and focused in the face of the victims and the grieving. This time the roles were reversed. She had stood there and simply allowed the emotions to wash over her. It was a simple enough diagnosis to understand.

Cell changes in the lungs.

Lung cancer.

Vanja had sunk down on the chair next to her father, her lips trembling, her voice finding it hard to strike its normal balanced tone. From his hospital bed her father tried to appear calm, as always. He was the only member of the family who was still capable of playing his normal role.

Vanja had gone back to work that day eight months ago with the doctor’s assurances about the possibilities offered by modern science ringing in her ears.
Chemotherapy and radiotherapy. There was a strong chance that her father would make a full recovery. Beat the cancer.
She had sat down opposite Billy and listened to his review of the previous day’s gig by some band she’d never even heard of; she would probably switch off the radio if they came on. For a second he had looked at her and stopped. As if he could see that something had happened. His kind eyes met hers steadily, just for a second. Then she had heard herself saying something sarcastic about his taste in music, pointing out that he would be thirty-two next month and not twenty-two, in case he’d forgotten. They had exchanged banter for a little while, just as they always did. Vanja decided then and there that things would stay that way. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust him. Billy wasn’t just her colleague: he was her best friend. But at that moment she needed him to be as normal as he could possibly be. It made everything slightly less painful. One part of her life might end, but another part would carry on. As usual. She needed to feel that.

That day her banter with Billy had had an extra energy.

She followed the river down to the shore; the afternoon sun sparkled on the water. A few daring boats were battling in the cold wind. She
took out her phone, pushed away the idea that she ought to get back to her colleagues, and pressed her parents’ number on speed dial. Her mother had taken Valdemar’s illness very badly. Vanja had wanted to sob, scream, and feel like a little girl at the thought that she might lose Valdemar. But that role was already taken. Normally that was the way she wanted things. The dynamic had been worked out over the years: the mother was sensitive, the daughter more controlled, like her father. This last year was the first time Vanja had realized there were times when she actually wished they could swap roles, if only for a second. She had suddenly felt as if she were teetering on the edge of an abyss, with no idea how deep it might be. And the person who had always been there making sure she didn’t fall was suddenly leaving her.

Forever.

But maybe not.

Medical science had tossed hope into the equation. He was probably going to be all right. Vanja smiled to herself. Gazed out across the sparkling water and allowed the feeling of happiness to sweep over her.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Have you heard?” Too eager even to say hello.

“Yes, he just called me. It’s fantastic.”

“I can’t believe it’s true. He’s coming home!” Vanja could hear in her mother’s voice that she was only just holding back the tears. Tears of joy. It had been a long time.

“Give him a hug from me. A great big hug, and tell him I’ll come over as soon as I can.”

“When?”

“This weekend at the latest, I hope.”

They decided to have dinner the following week, all three of them. It was difficult to get her mother to hang up. Vanja, who usually hated protracted good-byes, loved it. Both she and her mother babbled on, the anxiety they had carried spilling out in a plethora of words. As if they both needed to confirm that everything was back to normal again.

Her cell beeped. A text message.

“I love you, Vanja.”

“And I love you. But I have to go.”

“Do you?”

“You know I do, Mom, but I’ll see you soon.”

Vanja ended the call and opened the incoming message. From Torkel. Her other world was demanding her attention.

Where have you gone? Ursula on her way in.

A quick reply.

On my way.

She wondered about a smiley face, but decided against it.

B
EATRICE
S
TRAND
had caught the bus home as usual. She got off one stop earlier. She needed some air. At school it was impossible. And at home. Roger’s death had gotten into everything; it was as if a dam had burst, taking everyone with it. Her student, in whom she had invested so much. Johan’s friend. The person he had spent so much time with. That kind of thing just didn’t happen.

Friends didn’t die.

Students weren’t found murdered in the forest.

It usually took her eight minutes from leaving the bus stop to stepping onto the gravel path leading up to the pale yellow two-story house. Today it took her thirty-five. Not that Ulf would notice. It had been a long time since he cared what time she got home.

The house was silent when she walked in.

“Hello?”

No response.

“Johan?”

“We’re up here,” came the reply.

But that was all. No “I’ll come down” or “How are you?” Just silence.

We’re up here.

We.

Ulf and Johan.

Always. More and more infrequently all three of them.

Who was she trying to fool?

Never all three of them.

“I’m making some tea,” she shouted, but once again there was no response.

Beatrice put the kettle on, then stood there gazing at the little red light, lost in thought. For the first few days she had tried so hard to get them to spend time together as a family, to talk, support one another. After all, that was what families did. At difficult times. Supported one another. But Johan didn’t want that. He withdrew from her. In this family he did everything with his father, and that included grieving. Leaving her on the outside. But she had no intention of giving up. She took out the big teacups with the French fruit pattern and placed them on a tray with honey and sugar cubes. Looked out the window at the quiet residential street. Soon the shades of pale pink that she loved would greet her. Their cherry tree had just come into bud. It was early this year. The family had planted it together a long time ago; it felt like an eternity. Johan, only five years old, had insisted on helping to dig the hole, and they had giggled together and let him. She remembered what she had said.

A proper family has fruit trees.

A proper family. The kettle switched itself off and she poured the steaming water into the cups. Three teabags. Then she went upstairs. To what was left of her proper family.

Johan was sitting at the computer playing some violent game that involved shooting as many people as possible. She had learned the name: First Person Shooter. Ulf was sitting comfortably on the edge of his son’s bed, watching the game. When she opened the door and walked in, at least Ulf looked up at her. Which was something.

“Are you two hungry?”

“No, we’ve just eaten.”

Beatrice put down the tray on the cupboard that housed her son’s manga books.

“Have the police been here today?”

“Yes.”

Silence once more.

Beatrice moved over to her son and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. Let it lie there, feeling the warm skin beneath his T-shirt. For a second she hoped he wouldn’t mind.

“Mom…” A shrug that clearly indicated “Get off!”

Beatrice reluctantly removed her hand, but she wasn’t about to give up. Not yet. She sat on the bed a short distance from Ulf.

“We have to talk about this. There’s nothing to be gained by just shutting everything in,” she began.

“I talk to Dad,” came from the direction of the desk; Johan didn’t even turn around.

“Well, I need to talk as well,” she said, her voice breaking slightly. It wasn’t just that she needed to talk. She needed her family. Above all, her son. She had hoped that Johan would come back to her when Ulf had come back.

Erase and rewind.

Forgive, forget, move on.

She had hoped that everything would get back to normal. Like before. Before it all happened. When she was someone Johan would come to with his problems in the evenings, when they had shared the trials and joys of life in long, close conversations and she was the person she needed to be: a mother, a woman, a part of something. But now those times seemed as distant as that day long ago when a family proudly planted its cherry tree. Ulf turned to her.

“Later. Everything went well with the police. Johan told them what he knew.”

“Good.”

“Listen, we’re going off soon, Johan and I. Camping somewhere. Get away from it all.”

Away from her, Beatrice couldn’t help thinking, but she merely nodded.

“Good idea.”

Silence again. What else was there to say?

Johan’s computer game carried on.

Ursula walked into the room. She was smiling.

“Oh, please tell me that means you’ve got good news,” Torkel begged.

“I’ve got the autopsy report. It’s full of surprises. Just like a Kinder egg!”

Vanja, Sebastian, and Torkel sat up in their seats. Ursula opened the folder she was carrying and started pinning up a handful of photographs that showed Roger’s torso and arms from every possible angle and from various distances.

“Twenty-two knife wounds to the back, torso, arms, and legs. Those are the ones we can count. In addition there are the wounds sustained when the heart was removed.” She pointed to one picture, which showed a deep, asymmetrical opening in the back between the shoulder blades.

Sebastian looked away. He had always found stab wounds difficult. There was something about the grotesque combination of pale, smooth skin and the deep lacerations exposing what the skin was meant to conceal.

“No defensive wounds on the palms of the hands or the forearms,” Ursula went on. “And do you know why?” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Because all the stab wounds were inflicted postmortem.”

Torkel looked up from his notepad and took off his glasses.

Ursula looked at them all with a grave expression, as if to emphasize her discovery.

“So what did he die of, then?”

Once again Ursula pointed at the close-up of the open wound in Roger’s back. Approximately three inches at the widest point. Pieces of broken ribs were visible here and there. It had taken a considerable amount of strength to inflict these injuries. Strength and determination.

“Most of the heart is missing, but it has nothing to do with any kind of ritual or weird sacrifice. Someone has dug out a bullet. That’s all.”

Ursula put up another picture. No one around the table said a word.

“He was shot in the back. The bullet is missing, but we found traces of it on one of the ribs.” Ursula pointed to the extreme enlargement of Roger’s wound that she had just pinned up. On one of the ribs it was just possible to see a small half-moon-shaped mark left by a bullet.

“We’re talking about a relatively fine-caliber weapon. A twenty-two, judging by the mark.”

The information galvanized everyone. They immediately started talking about the guns they knew that were the same caliber. Torkel started to extract a list from the database. Sebastian had nothing to contribute, so he got up and went over to the wall. He forced himself to take a closer look at the photographs. Behind him the discussion died out. The printer whirred to life and started to spit out Torkel’s list. Torkel looked over at his former colleague.

“Found anything?”

Sebastian continued to stare at the gaping wound in Roger’s back.

“I don’t think Roger was meant to die.”

“If you shoot someone and then stab him twenty-two times, I think you probably have to bear in mind that it’s a possibility,” Vanja said drily.

“Okay, bad choice of words. I don’t think someone had planned to kill Roger Eriksson.”

“Because?”

“Digging out that bullet wasn’t an easy task. It would have been gory. It took time. It increased the risk of being caught in the act. But the murderer had to do it. Because he knew it would identify him.”

Vanja immediately understood what he meant. For a moment she cursed herself—why hadn’t she thought of that? She should have. She spoke up, keen not to let Sebastian take all the credit.

“And if he had planned the murder, he would have used a different gun. One that couldn’t be traced.”

Sebastian nodded approvingly. She was quick.

“So what happened?” Torkel wondered out loud. “Roger was ambling along in a fairly central area in Västerås, met someone with a twenty-two, walked past, got shot in the back. The person who shot him realized, ‘Oh dear, the bullet could give me away,’ and decided to get it back, put the body in his car, and dumped it in Listakärr.” Torkel looked at the others. “Does that sound likely to you?”