Dark Secrets (3 page)

However, just to be on the safe side, he thought he might swing by Lisa’s house and knock on a few doors. The plan was to be noticed, to make sure a few people would recognize him just in case anyone started wondering how the investigation was going. Someone might
even have seen Roger heading for the town center and the station, with a bit of luck. Then he would go and see the mother, put a bit of pressure on to find out how much they really did quarrel.
Good plan
, he thought, and started the car.

His cell phone rang. A quick look at the display screen sent a slight chill down his spine.
Hanser.

“What the fuck does she want now?” Haraldsson muttered, switching off the engine. Should he ignore the call? Tempting, but maybe the boy had come back. Perhaps that was what Hanser wanted to tell him. That Haraldsson had been right all along. He answered the phone.

The conversation lasted only eighteen seconds and consisted of six words on Hanser’s part.

“Where are you?” were the first three.

“In the car,” Haraldsson replied truthfully. “I’ve just spoken to some of the teachers and the girlfriend at the boy’s school.”

To his immense chagrin, Haraldsson realized he was adopting a defensive position. His voice had become slightly submissive. A little higher than usual. For God’s sake, he’d done absolutely everything he was supposed to do.

“Get here now.”

Haraldsson was about to explain where he was going and to ask what was so important, but he didn’t have time to say anything before Hanser ended the call. Fucking Hanser. He started the car, turned it around, and headed back to the station.

Hanser met him there. Those chilly eyes. That slightly too-perfect fall of blond hair. That beautifully fitting, doubtless expensive suit. She had just had a call from an agitated Lena Eriksson, wanting to know what was going on, and now she was asking the same question:
What, exactly, was going on?

Haraldsson quickly ran through the afternoon’s activities and managed
to mention no less than four times that he had been given the case only after lunch that day. If she wanted to have a go at someone, she ought to start on the weekend duty team.

“I will,” Hanser said calmly. “Why didn’t you inform me if you knew that this hadn’t been dealt with? This is exactly the kind of thing I need to know.”

Haraldsson was aware that things weren’t working out the way he wanted. He stood there defending himself.

“This kind of thing happens. For God’s sake, I can’t come running to you every time there’s a bit of a hitch. I mean, you’ve got more important things to think about.”

“More important than making sure we start searching for a missing child straightaway?” She looked at him with an inquiring expression. Haraldsson stood there in silence. This wasn’t going according to plan. Not even a little bit.

That had been on Monday. Now he was standing in Listakärr in soaking wet socks. Hanser had gone in with all guns blazing, with door-to-door inquiries and search teams that were being expanded every day. So far without success. Yesterday Haraldsson had bumped into the local chief superintendent at the station and casually pointed out that this wasn’t going to be cheap. A significant number of officers working long hours, searching for a kid who was having fun in the big city. Haraldsson couldn’t quite interpret the reaction of his superior officer, but when Roger came back from his little excursion, the chief would remember what Haraldsson had said. He would see how much money Hanser had wasted. Haraldsson smiled when he thought about that. Procedure was one thing; a detective’s intuition was something else entirely. That was something that couldn’t be taught.

Haraldsson stopped. Halfway to the hill. One foot had sunk again. Right down this time. He pulled it out. No shoe. He just had time to see
the mud hungrily closing around his size 9 as the sock on his left foot sucked up a good deal more cold water.

Enough.

That was it.

The final straw.

Down on his knees, hand into the mud, out with his shoe. And then he was going home. The rest of them could carry on running around in their bloody search teams. He had a wife to impregnate.

A cab ride and 380 kronor later, Sebastian was standing outside his apartment on Grev Magnigatan in Östermalm. He had been intending to get rid of it for a long time—the place was expensive and luxurious, perfectly suited to a successful author and lecturer with an academic background and a wide social network. All the things he no longer was and no longer had. But the very thought of clearing out the place, packing and sorting through all the stuff he’d collected over the years, was just too much for him, so instead he had chosen to shut off large areas of the apartment, using only the kitchen, the guest bedroom, and the smaller bathroom. The rest could remain unused. Waiting for… well, something or other.

Sebastian glanced at his permanently unmade bed but decided to have a shower instead. A long, hot shower. The intimacy of last night was gone. Had he been wrong to rush away like that? Could she have given him anything if he’d stayed a few more hours? There would have been more sex, no doubt. And breakfast. Toast and juice. But then? The definitive farewell was unavoidable. It could never have ended any other way. So it was best to not spin things out. Still. He missed that interlude of togetherness that had lifted his spirits for a little while. He already felt heavy and empty again.

How much sleep had he had last night? Two hours? Two and a half? He looked in the mirror. His eyes seemed more tired than usual,
and he realized he ought to do something about his hair fairly soon. Maybe get it cut really short this time. No, that would remind him too much of how he had been before. And before was not now. No, but he could trim his beard, tidy up his hair, maybe even get a few streaks put in. He smiled at himself, his most charming smile.
Unbelievable, but it still works
, he thought.

Suddenly Sebastian felt immensely weary. The U-turn was complete. The emptiness was back. He looked at the clock. Perhaps he should go and lie down for a while, after all. He knew that the dream would come back, but right now he was too tired to care. He knew his companion so well that sometimes, on the few occasions he slept without being woken by it, he actually missed it.

It hadn’t been like that at first. When the dream tormented him for months, Sebastian grew so tired of the constant waking, tired of the nonstop dance around fear and the difficulty in breathing. He started having a strong nightcap before going to bed. The number one problem solver for white middle-aged men with academic backgrounds and complicated emotional lives. For a while he managed to avoid the dream-sleep completely, but all too soon his subconscious found a way past the barrier of alcohol, so the nightcaps got bigger and were consumed earlier and earlier in the afternoon in order to achieve the effect. Eventually Sebastian realized that he had lost the battle. He gave up immediately.

He thought he would live through the pain instead.

Let it take its time.

Heal.

That didn’t work either. After another period of waking up over and over again, he began to self-medicate. Something he had promised himself he would never do. But it wasn’t always possible to keep your promises—Sebastian knew this better than most from his own experience—particularly when you are faced with the really big questions. When that happens, you have to be more flexible. He phoned a few less-than-scrupulous former patients and dusted off his prescription pad. The deal was simple: a fifty-fifty split.

The authorities got in touch, of course, wondering about the quantity of drugs he was suddenly prescribing. Sebastian managed to explain it away with a few well-fabricated lies about “restarting his practice,” and an “intensive introductory phase” with “patients in a state of flux,” although he did increase the number of patients so what he was up to wouldn’t be quite so obvious.

To begin with he stuck mostly to Propavan, Prozac, and Di-Gesic, but the effects were annoyingly short-lived, and instead he began to investigate Dolcontin and other morphine-based substances.

The medical authority was the least of his problems, as it turned out. He could deal with that. The effects of his experimentation were another matter. The dream disappeared, admittedly. But so did his appetite, most of his lectures, and his libido—an entirely new and terrifying experience for Sebastian.

The worst thing of all, though, was the chronic drowsiness. It was as if he could no longer manage complete thoughts: they were snipped off halfway through. It was possible to conduct a simple everyday conversation, with a certain amount of effort, but a discussion or a longer argument were completely out of reach. As for analysis and conclusions—no chance.

For Sebastian, whose whole existence was predicated on the awareness of his intellect, the very basis of his self-image the illusion of his own razor-sharp mind, it was terrible. Living an anesthetized life—yes, it numbed the pain, but it deadened so much more: life itself, until he could no longer feel the edge. That was where he drew the line. He knew he had to make a choice: to live with the fear but retain the ability to think, or to choose a dull, blunted life with half-formed thoughts. He realized he would probably hate his existence whatever he did, so he chose the fear and stopped the self-medication immediately.

Since then he had touched neither alcohol nor drugs.

He didn’t even take a painkiller if he had a headache.

But he dreamed.

Every night.

Why was he thinking about this, he wondered as he contemplated himself in the bathroom mirror. Why now? The dream had been a part of his life for many years. He had studied it, analyzed it. Discussed it with his therapist. He had accepted it. Learned to live with it.

So why now?

It’s Västerås
, he thought as he hung up the towel and left the bathroom, completely naked. It’s all because of Västerås.

Västerås and his mother. But today he would close that chapter of his life.

Forever.

Today might just be a good day.

This was the best day Joakim had had in ages, as he stood in the forest outside Listakärr, and it had gotten even better when he was one of the three chosen to receive direct orders from the police officer who had come to tell them where to go and what to do. Being in the Scouts was usually pretty boring, but all of a sudden it had turned into a real adventure. Joakim stole a glance at the officer standing in front of him, particularly at his gun, and decided he was going to be a cop one day. A uniform and a gun. Like the Scouts, but with a serious upgrade. And God knows it was needed. To be honest, Joakim didn’t think being in the Scouts was the most interesting thing in the world. Not anymore. He had just turned fourteen, and the extracurricular activity that had been his hobby since he was six was beginning to lose its hold on him. The spell had been broken. The outdoor life, survival, animals, nature. It wasn’t that he thought it was uncool, even if all the other boys in his class thought so. No—he just felt that he was so over it now. Thanks, it was cool while it lasted, but now it was time for something else. Something real.