Dark Secrets (31 page)

Interest?

Involvement?

Lena tapped the ash off her cigarette and shrugged.

“I have no idea where he is. We were never together. It was a one-night stand. He doesn’t even know Roger exists.”

Sebastian leaned forward. Definitely more interested now. He met Lena’s eyes with an open expression on his face.

“So how did you deal with that? I mean, surely Roger must have asked about his father at some point?”

“When he was little.”

“And what did you say?”

“I said he was dead.”

Sebastian nodded to himself. Was that what Anna Eriksson had said to her son or daughter? That Daddy was dead? In which case, what would happen if Daddy suddenly turned up? After thirty years? Disbelief, of course. It might require some proof that he really was the person he claimed to be. Presumably the man or woman would be angry with the mother, or possibly disappointed in her. She had lied. Robbed her child of its father. Perhaps Sebastian’s appearance would wreck their relationship. Cause more harm than good. However he looked at things, he came to the conclusion that it would be best simply to carry on living as if he had never come across those letters. Never found out.

“Why did you say he was dead? If Roger had known the truth he could have gone looking for him.”

“I thought of that, but it felt better saying that he was dead than that he didn’t want Roger. For the boy’s self-esteem, I mean.”

“But you can’t know that! You don’t know what he wanted! He never got the chance!” Vanja stole a sideways glance at Sebastian. He
was getting caught up in this. His voice had grown both louder and higher. He had shifted to the edge of the sofa and looked as if he was about to get to his feet at any second.

“What if he’d have wanted Roger! If he’d only known!”

Lena seemed fairly unmoved by Sebastian’s outburst. She stubbed out her cigarette and expelled the last of the smoke from her lungs.

“He was already married. He had other kids. Kids of his own.”

“What was his name?”

“Roger’s father?”

“Yes.”

“Jerry.”

“If Jerry had come looking for Roger when he was older, how do you think Roger would have reacted?”

Vanja leaned forward. What on earth was Sebastian doing? This was getting them nowhere.

“How could he have done that? He didn’t even know the boy existed.”

“But if he had?”

Vanja gently laid her hand on Sebastian’s arm to attract his attention.

“This is a hypothetical discussion that doesn’t really belong here, wouldn’t you say?”

Sebastian pulled himself up short. He could feel Vanja looking at him quizzically from the side.

“True… I…” For the first time since he couldn’t remember when, Sebastian didn’t know what to say, so he simply repeated: “That’s true.”

Silence. They stood up, decided they’d finished. Sebastian headed for the hallway and Vanja followed him. Lena showed no sign of either getting up or accompanying them out. Just as they reached the door leading into the hallway, she spoke.

“Roger’s watch.”

Sebastian and Vanja both turned back to face Lena. Vanja couldn’t help feeling that there was something not quite right about the woman in the shabby armchair. Something she couldn’t quite put her finger on.

“What about it?”

“The journalist I spoke to said Lundin stole a watch from Roger before he murdered him. A valuable watch. I presume it belongs to me now?”

Vanja took a step back into the room. She was surprised that Lena didn’t know; Torkel was usually very scrupulous about informing the relatives.

“All the indications at the moment are that Leonard Lundin had nothing to do with the murder of your son.” Lena received this information with the same level of reaction as if Vanja had just told her what she’d had for lunch.

“Okay, but the watch still belongs to me, doesn’t it?”

“I presume so.”

“I’d like to have it.”

Sebastian and Vanja were on their way back to the station to finish off the day. Vanja was driving fast. Too fast. She had a clump of irritation somewhere around her midriff. Lena had provoked her. Vanja rarely allowed herself to be provoked. It was one of her strengths. The ability to remain cool, keep her distance. But Lena had gotten under her skin.

Sebastian had his cell clamped to his ear. Vanja listened to his side of the conversation. He was talking to Lisa. After a final question about how things were at home and what was evidently a very short answer, Sebastian ended the call and slipped the phone into his pocket.

“Lisa was paying Roger to pretend to be her boyfriend.”

“So I gathered.”

“Not a huge amount of money, not enough to cover the things he bought, but there could be something there. He was enterprising.”

“Or greedy. Thinking about money and nothing else seems to run in the family. I mean, her son has been murdered, and all she can think about is cashing in.”

“Making the best of the situation you’ve ended up in is a way of dealing with the pain.”

“It’s a sick way.”

“Maybe it’s all she has.”

Typical psychologist. So understanding. All reactions are natural. Everything can be explained.
But Vanja had no intention of letting Sebastian get off so easily. She was furious, and had no qualms about taking it out on him.

“Come on, seriously. Her eyes were red from all that bloody smoke. I’d put money on the fact that she hasn’t even cried, not once. I’ve seen people in shock, but that’s not what this is. She’s just at rock bottom.”

“I got the impression she has no contact with the feelings we’re expecting. Grief. Despair. Maybe not even empathy.”

“So why not?’

“How the fuck should I know? I’ve only spent forty-five minutes with the woman. I suppose she’s shut them down.”

“You can’t just ‘shut down’ your feelings.”

“No?”

“No.”

“You’ve never heard of people who have been hurt so badly by someone that they choose never to grow attached to anyone again?”

“There’s a difference. Her child has died. Why would you choose not to react to that?”

“So that you can manage to go on living.”

Vanja drove on in silence. There was something.

Something about Sebastian.

Something different.

First of all he had seized on the issue of Roger’s father like a terrier, even though that particular topic had turned out to be of no interest to the investigation after just two questions, and now Vanja thought she could hear a new tone in his voice. More subdued. Less confrontational. Not so keen to be quick, witty, or condescending. No, there was something else. Grief, perhaps.

“I don’t buy it. It’s just sick, not grieving for her son.”

“She is grieving, as best she can.”

“Like hell she is.”

“How the fuck do you know?” Vanja jumped at the sudden sharpness in Sebastian’s voice. “What the hell do you know about grief? Have you lost someone who means everything to you?”

“No.”

“So how do you know what a normal reaction is?”

“Well, I don’t, but—”

“No, exactly,” Sebastian broke in. “You have no fucking idea what you’re talking about, so maybe it’s best if you keep your mouth shut from now on.”

Vanja glanced sideways at Sebastian, surprised by his outburst, but he kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Vanja drove on in silence.
We know so little about each other
, she thought.
You’re hiding something. I know how that feels. Better than you think.

The open-plan office at the station was more or less in darkness. Here and there a computer screen or a forgotten desk lamp illuminated a small area of the room; otherwise it was dark, empty, and silent. Torkel slowly made his way between the desks toward the staff room. He hadn’t expected Västerås police station to be humming with activity around the clock, but it still came as something of a surprise that large parts of the building were completely dead after 5:00 p.m.

He reached the staff room, which was fairly impersonal. Three round tables, eight chairs at each. A fridge and freezer, three microwaves, a coffee machine, a sink, a draining board, and a dishwasher along one wall. A plastic flower on a round purple mat in the middle of each table. Scratched linoleum on the floor, easy to clean. No curtains at the three windows. A single telephone on the windowsill. Sebastian was sitting at the table farthest away from the door with a paper cup of coffee in front of him. He was reading
Aftonbladet
. Torkel had also flicked through it; they’d given Lena Eriksson four pages.

Well written.

Exposing her vulnerability.

According to the article, Lena still believed it was Leonard Lundin who had murdered her son. Torkel wondered how she had taken the news that they had released him today. He had tried calling her several times, but she had never picked up. Perhaps she didn’t know yet.

Sebastian didn’t look up from the paper, even though he must have heard Torkel’s approach. Only when Torkel pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down did he glance up before resuming his reading. Torkel linked his hands on the table and leaned toward Sebastian.

“How did it go today?”

Sebastian turned a page.

“How did what go?”

“Everything. The job. You were out with Vanja for some time.”

“Yes.”

Torkel sighed. Obviously he wasn’t going to get anything for nothing. He probably wasn’t going to get anything at all.

“So how did it go?”

“Fine.”

Torkel watched Sebastian turn another page and reach the pink supplement. Sports. Torkel knew that Sebastian had no interest in any kind of sport, whether it involved active participation, being a spectator, or reading about it. And yet he seemed to be examining the pages with great interest. As clear a sign as any. Torkel leaned back and watched Sebastian in silence for a few seconds before moving over to the coffee machine for a cappuccino.

“Do you fancy having dinner somewhere?”

Sebastian stiffened slightly. There it was. As expected. Not “We must meet up one evening” or “Let’s have a beer sometime.” Dinner.

Same shit. Different name.

“No, thanks.”

“Why not?”

“I have other plans.”

A lie. Just like his sudden interest in the sports supplement. Torkel knew it, but decided not to push things. He would only get more lies in response. He took his cup out of the machine, but instead of leaving the room, as Sebastian had expected, he came back to the table and sat down again. Sebastian gave him a brief, quizzical glance then turned his undivided attention to the newspaper once more.

“Tell me about your wife.”

He hadn’t expected that. Sebastian looked at Torkel with genuine surprise as his former colleague raised the cup to his lips, completely relaxed, as if he had merely asked what time it was.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Torkel put down the cup and wiped the corners of his mouth with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand before he met Sebastian’s gaze across the table and held it. Sebastian quickly ran through his options.

Get up and leave.

Carry on pretending to read.

Tell Torkel to go to hell.

Or.

Tell him about Lily.

His instinct was to go for one of the first three, but what harm would it do if Torkel knew a little more? No doubt he was asking out of some genuine concern, rather than curiosity. Another outstretched hand. An attempt to revive a friendship that, if not actually dead, was certainly in a deep sleep. You had to admire his persistence. Time for Sebastian to give something back? After all, he could set the boundaries, decide how much. Better that than have Torkel decide to search on the Internet and find out more than Sebastian wanted him to know.

Sebastian pushed away the newspaper.

“Her name was Lily. She was German; we met in Germany when I was working there and got married in ’98. Unfortunately I’m not the type who carries a photo around in his wallet.”

“What did she do?”

“She was a sociologist. At the university in Cologne. That’s where we lived.”

“Older than you? Younger? Same age?”

“Five years younger.”

Torkel nodded. Three quick questions, three apparently straight answers. Now things were going to get a bit more tricky.