Dark Secrets (59 page)

He got up, feeling that he needed some fresh air to clear his head and get some perspective on things. He knew how his thought process worked. Sometimes it took a while before he got the idea that turned some pieces of the puzzle the right way around. Sometimes it never came. As with all processes, there was no guarantee.

The agent arrived at eight thirty. By that time Sebastian had packed his bag in frustration and been out for another walk. Still nothing. His thought process just kept sliding around in the same old pattern. Perhaps Roger’s secret was impenetrable, at least with the information that Sebastian had.

The agent drove a big, shiny Mercedes, and wore a broad, far too cheerful smile and an impeccable jacket. Sebastian hated him on sight. He didn’t even shake the outstretched hand.

“So you want to sell?”

“I want to get away from here as soon as possible. Just give me the contract and I’ll sign. As I said on the phone.”

“Well, yes, but perhaps we should go through the details of the agreement anyway?”

“There’s no need. You take a percentage of the final amount, I presume?”

“Yes…”

“So the higher the price, the more you get?”

“Exactly.”

“That’s all I need to know. There’s your incentive to get the best possible price. That’s enough for me.” Sebastian nodded to the agent and picked up his pen, ready to sign on the dotted line. The agent looked at him with a degree of skepticism.

“I think I ought to take a look around first.”

“In that case I’ll call someone else. Do you want me to sign, or not?”

The agent hesitated.

“What made you choose us?”

“You were the first agency in the phone book that had an answering machine that took messages. Okay? I’d like to sign now, please.”

The agent smiled smugly.

“I’m very happy to hear you say that. The thing is, these answering machines that just reel off the opening hours and ask the customer to call back are becoming more and more common. But I worked out that the customer just rings somebody else, in that case. Clever, eh?”

Sebastian assumed that the question was rhetorical. He certainly had no intention of confirming the agent’s theory by telling him that was exactly what he had done.

“I mean, it’s incredibly important to be accessible to the client. My phone number will be in your folder,” the agent went on, without waiting for the answer that was never going to come. “And you’re welcome to call me at any time if you have any questions—evenings, weekends, any time at all. That’s how I work.”

As if to prove how accessible he always was, the agent’s phone rang before he had the chance to continue. Sebastian looked wearily at the man, wishing he’d never called him in the first place.

“Hi, darling. Well, yes, it is a little inconvenient… but don’t worry.” He moved away to speak with more privacy.

“Darling, you’ll be fine. You can do it. Promise. I have to go now. Love you.”

He ended the call and turned to Sebastian with an apologetic smile.

“Sorry, that was my girlfriend. She’s just on her way to a job interview, and she always gets so nervous beforehand.”

Sebastian stared at the man standing in front of him, the man about whom he already knew far too much. He started trying to think of some crushing remark that would shut him up. Preferably so vicious that the agent would never speak again. Then it came to him. The thing he had been waiting for.

The thought process.

The connection.

Who do you call?

Vasilios Koukouvinos thought it was a very strange trip. He had picked up the man with the bag outside his house. The man’s conversation was strained. He wanted to go to Palmlövska High first, then off again right away. He didn’t even want to get out of the cab. He just wanted to drive there. As quickly as possible.

Once they got there, the man asked Vasilios to set the trip odometer to zero, turn the car around, and drive to the motel down by the E18, taking the shortest possible route. The man took out a map to show him where the motel was, but Vasilios reassured him; he knew Västerås well. They drove in silence after that, but when Vasilios glanced across at the man from time to time, he noticed that he could hardly sit still. He seemed extremely agitated.

As they approached the motel the man changed his mind. He gave Vasilios the name of a street and wanted to go there instead. Spränggränd. Not only that, the man wanted Vasilios to drive in, reverse, and park. When Vasilios had done this the man checked the trip odometer. It was showing just under six miles. The man gave Vasilios his credit card and asked him to wait for a few moments. Then he got out of the car and ran off in the direction of the motel.

Vasilios switched off the engine and got out for a smoke. He shook his head. If the man had wanted to go to the motel after all, Vasilios could have driven him there. He had taken only a few drags when the man came back, looking even more stressed, if that was possible. Almost pale. In his hand he had something that looked like a school brochure. The cab driver recognized the picture. It was that snooty school they’d just left. Palmlövska High.

Vasilios got back in the car. This time the man wanted to drive out to the soccer field by the apartment complex, then back to the school again.

He sat there staring at the odometer the whole time.

It was definitely a very strange ride.

A very strange eleven-mile ride.

Sebastian should have realized. He, more than anyone, should have known. He had experienced it himself firsthand. The change, the strength, and the power within her when you got to know her. The way you were swept along, wanting to see her again.

As Roger had been.

Roger had needed someone. Someone who was there for him. Someone who supported him when he changed schools. Someone he could call when he was nervous. When he’d been beaten up. Someone he loved. Roger had made a phone call.

But not to Johan.

To Beatrice.

When Sebastian ran to the motel, it was just a hunch. A feeling he got when the cab reversed and parked. A feeling that the motel was more important than he had thought. That Roger hadn’t gone there by chance. He’d been there before. But not with Ragnar Groth. When Sebastian showed the woman at reception the school brochure, his suspicions had been confirmed.

Oh yes, she’d been there.

Several times.

She wasn’t just a grower.

She was so much more than that.

V
ANJA AND
Torkel were sitting in the interview room, with Beatrice Strand opposite them. She was wearing the same dark green blouse and long skirt as the first time Vanja and Sebastian met her at Palmlövska High. But now she looked tired. Tired and pale. Her freckles stood out even more on her pale skin. Perhaps it was his imagination, but Sebastian, watching from the room next door, thought that even her thick red hair seemed to have lost some of its shine. Beatrice was clutching a tissue in one hand, although she made no effort to wipe away the tears slowly coursing down her cheeks.

“I should have told you.”

“It would certainly have made things easier.” Vanja sounded curt, annoyed, almost accusing. Beatrice looked at her as if struck by a terrible realization.

“Would they still be alive? Lena and Ragnar? If I’d told you?”

The room fell silent. Torkel seemed to realize that Vanja was about to say yes; he gently placed one hand on her forearm. Vanja stopped herself.

“It’s impossible to say, and there’s no point in brooding about it.” Torkel’s voice was steady, reassuring. “Tell us about your relationship with Roger.”

Beatrice inhaled and held her breath for a moment, as if she were steeling herself against what was about to come out.

“I know you think it’s highly inappropriate. I’m married and he
was only sixteen, but he was very mature for his age, and… it just happened.”

“When did it happen?”

“A few months after he started at the school. He needed someone, he didn’t get much encouragement at home. And I… I needed to feel needed. Loved. Does that sound terrible?”

“He was sixteen years old, and you were in a position of trust. How do you think it sounds?” Vanja again. Harsh.

Unnecessarily harsh.

Beatrice lowered her eyes, ashamed. She sat there with her hands on the table, clutching her tissue. They would lose her if Vanja didn’t calm down. Beatrice would break down, and that would get them nowhere. Once again Torkel’s hand rested lightly on Vanja’s forearm. Sebastian decided to join in via the earpiece.

“Ask her why she needed to feel loved. She’s married, after all.”

Vanja glanced at the mirror, her expression asking what that had to do with anything. Sebastian pressed the button and spoke to her again.

“Don’t break her. Just ask. She wants to tell you.”

Vanja shrugged her shoulders and turned her attention back to Beatrice.

“What’s the state of your marriage?”

“It’s…” Beatrice looked up. Hesitated. Seemed to be searching for the word or words that would best describe her home situation. Her life. Eventually she found it.

“Loveless.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know whether you’re aware of this, but Ulf and I were divorced six years ago. We remarried about eighteen months ago.”

“Why did you get divorced?”

“I had a relationship with another man.”

“You were unfaithful?”

Beatrice nodded and looked down again. Embarrassed. It was obvious what the younger woman thought of her. She could hear it in her
voice, see it in her eyes. Beatrice didn’t blame her. Now that what she had done was spoken out loud, exposed in this bare room, it came across as deeply immoral. But at the time, caught in the middle of it all, she had experienced a love bordering on adoration. There was nothing else she could do. She had always known that it was wrong. In so many ways.

In every way.

But how could she reject the love she so badly needed, the love she couldn’t get anywhere else?

“Ulf left you?”

“Yes. Me and Johan. He just walked out the door, more or less. It must have been a year before we spoke to each other again.”

“But now he’s forgiven you?”

Beatrice looked up at Vanja with an unusual clarity in her eyes. This was important. The young woman had to understand this.

“No. Ulf came back for Johan’s sake. Our separation and the following year had a devastating effect on Johan. He was angry and confused. He stayed with me, and I was the one who had smashed the family to pieces. It was open warfare. We couldn’t find a resolution. Most children cope when their parents split up; it can take time, but eventually things work out for the majority of them. Not for Johan. Not even when he was staying with Ulf every other week, or more often. He got the idea that nothing was any good unless the family was together. It grew into a kind of obsession. He got ill. Depressed. He had suicidal thoughts for a while. He started seeing a counselor, but it didn’t help. It was all about the family. The three of us, together. Just the way it used to be. The way it had always been.”

“So Ulf came back.”

“For Johan’s sake. I’m grateful for that, but Ulf and I… It’s not a marriage in the sense that you mean.”