Siren Song: A Different Scandinavian Crime Novel (11 page)

When Agnes received the call about the depot, Lena and a dozen other officers raced the short distance from the headquarters to the location, a ten-minute journey that seemed to take hours. Police cars or not, drivers are slow to give way when the roads are coated in slick ice, but she had zipped past the crawling traffic and hoped oncoming cars would spot her in time.

Once they arrived, six patrol cars surrounded the depot to cut off all escape routes. Guns drawn, Lena and the officers left the cars and advanced up the streets, past windows full of open-mouthed people. Her mouth was dry and sour by the time she turned a corner and saw the closed metal door.

She had hoped John would be inside. She had pictured him giving up peacefully. No drama, no blood, no fight. But something, perhaps the complete stillness of the scene, told her they were too late again.

To her surprise, the door had been unlocked, and when the officers stormed in, their torches found Nils gagged and tied to an office chair. A strip of duct tape covered his eyes and mouth. Given how frantic Nils had been at that point, it was just as well he could not see the guns aimed at him.

They rushed Nils back to the headquarters and to the nurse in residence, a calm, elderly man who had dealt with the most unnerved people. Once Nils was deemed fit to be interviewed, Gren brought him to a small conference room near Lena’s office, where they wait for her to join them.

Lena hisses and snatches her hand back as the coffee machine spits its brew in all directions. The human race can build smart phones, perfect brain surgery and launch satellites, but it cannot create a machine that makes decent coffee, let alone one that aims the substitute straight into a cup.

She waits for the brown trickle to stop and takes the plastic cup. When she turns around, she sees Agnes walking quickly down the corridor.

“I just received a call from the national agency for education,” Agnes says. “They’ve found John’s school’s counselling files.”

“That fast?” Lena is surprised. “On a Friday night?”

“It seems they have a diligent intern doing serious overtime. He’s sorting through old archives and was happy to chase down the files we wanted. I think he appreciated the distraction.”

“Sum it up for me.” Lena knows it might be important. Rank bubbles of teenage sins often surface years later as darker acts.

“We got the contents of John’s folder by fax,” Agnes says. “I’ve only skimmed the files, so I may have missed details, but I think I’ve got the gist of John’s problems.”

“Uncontrollable behaviour?” Lena guesses.

Agnes shakes her head. “A teacher.”

“Did John abuse one of the staff?”

“Possibly,” Agnes replies. “John certainly wasn’t happy with him. But the counsellor’s documents included copies of more than three dozen complaints filed against John. Stubborn disobedience, upsetting the classroom, and so on.”

“Those records must have shown up in our registry?” Lena says. Having to dig up important information that should have been on her desk long ago was a perfect waste of time. She wonders what other secrets hide in John’s past.

“They would have,” Agnes says, “if the school had sent the reports on, but they sat on them. The agency for education had the files only because the school’s board was restructured years ago. It seems the school decided to hush the affair up.”

“They hid every report?” Lena asks. “That’s ridiculous, and also criminal. Which teachers complained?”

“I’ll get back to the man in the archives,” Agnes says. “Perhaps he’s willing to do some more research. There are more records from John’s school years. The head teacher’s journal, the school nurse, and so on.”

“He better be interested,” Lena says. “If he doesn’t comply, I’ll talk to him.”

“The information will be on paper and also confidential. Do you want him to send it over by courier?”

“As fast as he can.”

Agnes nods. “I’ll get to it as soon as I’ve checked up on the patrols.”

Lena nods, says goodbye to Agnes, and continues to the cramped, airless debriefing room where Gren and Nils, John Andersson’s colleague, sit around a small square table. The light is turned down to a gloom that is meant to be soothing, but it is also unnerving; the shadows are much deeper than they have any right to be in a room this small.

Stifling a yawn, she places the drink on the table in front of Nils, who nods in thanks and sips before Lena can warn him the coffee is hot. Nils winces, gingerly puts the cup down, and gives in to a coughing fit. Gren steadies the cup while Nils regains his composure.

Lena sits down on a chair next to Nils. “Are you all right?”

Nils nods and wipes his mouth. “I’m fine. Really. It’s just – no, I’m okay.”

Lena looks at Gren, who raises his eyebrows at her. Nils is anything but okay.

Sitting shivering under an orange blanket, the man is almost physically unharmed. His only visible wounds are the bruises where cable ties have dug into his arms and legs, and the sore rectangle the duct tape over his mouth has left. But the unseen damage is much worse: shock has left Nils bewildered on a deep, primitive level. His face has a sickly, yellowish tint, and his eyes flicker around the room.

“There’s no rush,” Lena lies; John is already an ongoing disaster. She wants to be in her car, out on the streets and looking for him, no matter how futile her chances of finding him. Four cars – as many as the force can spare – are scouting for John, and another four patrols track the other man. It is all they have, and it is nowhere near enough.

Nils tells them what happened up until his manager called and then dwindles off. Lena knows why; Nils wants to say more, but the words will raise the spectre of what happened at the depot. He needs time to brace himself. Time they do not have.

Lena runs her hand through her hair and pulls it back from her face. All this guessing. What is John doing right now? Will she sleep tonight, and if she does, what will she dream?

When, and how, will this hunt end?

Gren smiles. “We understand that you’re ill at ease, but we need only a few more answers.”

“Can I go home once we’re done?” Nils asks.

“If you want to,” Gren says. “Otherwise, there’s a room here. The nurse will check up on you again as soon as we’re done. If you decide to leave, we’ll need your contact details.”

Lena clears her throat, pushes a button on the panel on the table, and adjusts the angle of a small microphone next to the panel.

“Please tell us what happened after your boss called?” she asks. “Try to recall things John did or said that were out of character.”

“Such as tying me to a chair?” Nils says. “That’s pretty strange, isn’t it?” His laugh comes out as a broken stutter.

“I mean more specific details,” Lena says. “Especially anything that points to where John went next.”

“I get it.” Nils reaches for the coffee cup again but bangs his hand on the edge of the table. He grimaces, shifts in his chair, and rubs at his left hand.

“Well,” he says, “when I was on the phone, I couldn’t tell my boss that John was there, so I tried to stall. I planned to say the reception was bad and head outside. My boss was kind of cagey about why he wanted to know if I’d seen John, but I could tell from his tone that it was bad.”

“Just as I was about to rise from the chair,” Nils continues, “John slapped the phone from my hand down on the floor and stamped on it. Then he turned around and held a big damn knife to my face.”

“Go on,” Lena says.

“He told me to be quiet, or he’d cut one of my eyes out. I still can’t believe he said that. We’ve worked together for five bloody years, and I never once thought he was a bloody psychopath.”

“How did you respond?” Lena asks.

“I didn’t say anything. I just gaped like an idiot.”

“Do you think he would have hurt you?”

Nils stares at the coffee cup and nods. “John’s voice was, I don’t know. Not hoarse, but level. Completely flat. I should’ve known something was wrong, the way he acted when I first got there.”

“This isn’t something you expect to happen,” Gren says. “What happened next?”

“John tied me to the chair with cable ties, tight as hell. I thought my arms would fall off. Then he slapped that tape over my eyes and mouth. I don’t know for sure what happened after that,” Nils says.

Lena looks at Nils’s bruised arms. If Nils had been tied for a while longer, his arms would have been lost. John had almost turned his friend into an amputee. She wonders if John had pulled the ties so tight by accident or design.

“You must have heard sounds,” Lena says.

“I was in a panic,” Nils says. “But I heard him use the computer. There were a couple of printed papers on the desk when I got there.”

Lena leans closer. “What was on them?” she asks. “This might be very important.”

“A man’s face,” Nils answers. “Pale, kind of gaunt. That’s all I saw. I had no reason to take a closer look.”

“Hair colour?” Lena urges. “Eyes? His age?”

Gren raises his hands a fraction, and Lena presses her lips together.

Nils shakes his head. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” Gren says. “Please continue.”

Nils takes a deep breath. “A minute or so later, I heard him pull a cable from the socket in the wall. He shuffled his bag around on the floor. Then I heard him search the toolbox. It took forever. I almost pissed myself; I thought he was going to torture me. You know, like in those movies.”

“Do you think John took any tools with him?” Lena asks.

Nils shrugs. “He might have put some of them in his bag.”

Lena studies the microphone on the table and wonders why John needs tools.

“And I heard the clink of bottles,” Nils continues. “Did you find my bag? There were two bottles of Lord Calvert in it. Whiskey.”

Nils and Gren look at Lena, who shakes her head. “John must have taken them,” she says.

“Oh,” Nils says. “Bastard.”

Lena taps her fingers on the table. If John gets drunk, he would be careless and easier to find, but that does not fit with her idea of his behaviour. He had taken the alcohol for some other reason. Perhaps for sterilizing a wound or to set something on fire.

“Did John sound or act stressed?” she asks.

Nils shakes his head. “Just disinterested. Bored, almost. But he never talked to me after he taped my eyes, except to say–” Nils falls silent and closes his eyes.

Lena and Gren look at each other. “What?” Lena urges.

“I can’t tell. Sorry. I just can’t.” Tears work their way out from behind Nils’s closed eyes.

Lena rephrases her question. “Was it about where he was going?” If it was, she has to know. There are no alternatives.

Nils shakes his head and rubs at his eyes. “He told me what he’d do if I called the police. But he won’t, right? I never called you.”

“We know you didn’t,” Gren assures him. “Did he threaten you?”

“Not me.” Nils pauses. “I have a son. He lives with his mother. My ex-wife.”

“He threatened your son?” Lena asks.

“Please,” Nils begs and looks at Lena. “You must protect him. Send police to the house, make sure John doesn’t get to him.”

“Of course,” Gren says, “but–”

Nils’s voice climbs to a hoarse scream. “John can’t harm him. He has no bloody reason now. You have to tell him. You have to let him know I
never called
.”

*

John

As John sees the teacher up close, the door to more memories opens a little wider.

Lennart had been his art teacher. Stooped and prematurely aged, always with stubble and a frown etched into his high forehead. His head was shaved with the level of perfection he demanded but never received from his students. Pale restless eyes, always moving but at the same time distant and withdrawn, never taking in a sight for longer than a moment.

But not everything is right: Lennart’s wrists end in rounded stumps covered with scars. The man’s hands should be there, but are not.

His breath is caught in his chest. John scans the room and realises that everyone is missing one or more parts of their bodies. Some lack a finger, some two, a few have only one hand while others, like Lennart, have no hands at all. The girl next to John holds her brush tight between her fingerless wrists as she dabs at her painting. She pokes her tongue out of the corner of her mouth in concentration.

The teacher steps up to John’s easel and looks down at the painting.

John reels and turns back to the canvas, expecting a mass of nonsensical criss-crossing lines; while he painted, his thoughts had drifted back to Miriam, the school yard, the iced-over lake and the unseen horror that had resided there.

To his surprise, the lines, while smudged and blurred, form a distinct shape: An upright rectangle framed by shadows. Along its left side, near the edge of the canvas, is a narrow, vertical stretch of black. In the brown are hints of patterns. He makes out swirls in the hues, restless strokes that seem to shift as he watches them.

Underneath the colours, something else hovers, a feature detached from oil and shapes. A physical sensation, tangible and within reach but at the same time formless. He raises his right hand to the painting and feels a weak breeze waft from the colours.

“Can you explain this?” Lennart’s tone is gentle, but a hush falls over the class.

“I’m not sure,” John says, his voice trembling. “Is it a box?”

“No, John. That is not a box.”

John looks for an exit, but there are still no doors, and the window is too far away. Being in Lennart’s presence makes John feel as if he is smoking a cigarette close to a barrel of petrol.

The girl next to John makes a startled sound. “I know what John has painted,” she says. “It’s a–”

Lennart turns slowly and looks at the girl.

She bites her lip and cowers. “I’m sorry.”

Lennart nods and turns back to John. “Well?”

“I have no idea,” John says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “A tree? A cube? A square cup? You tell me.”

But he knows this is not the answer. He wants to raise his hand again to see if the wind is still there, but he can tell that Lennart will disapprove.

What does it matter?
John asks himself.
Lennart is a shard of a dream. As real as fog, or at least as harmless. Out there, in the real world, I’m probably in a coma or bleeding to death under a car.

“No, John.” Lennart shakes his head and scratches at his nose with the scarred skin of his stump. “It’s filth
.
”

“Filth?” John looks at the canvas. The silence in the room is absolute. “It’s a brown square and a bit of black. Doesn’t look like anything.”

“Perhaps it does not mean anything to someone else,” Lennart says softly but menacingly, “but it does to you. There’s an idea in there, simmering beneath the colours, hiding just under the surface. And it’s waiting to become clearer. Am I right?”

“I’m not sure about that,” John says, his voice breaking. While Lennart talks, John sees what he has painted, as if the teacher’s words bring the lines and angles into focus.

It is a door.

The perspective is skewed, the image flat and at the same time ajar. Beyond the illusion of a crack, he glimpses an empty, featureless space. No, not empty; the wind he felt comes from that dark place. He hopes Lennart does not notice the sweat breaking out on his brow.

Lennart purses his mouth. “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault. Your young mind leads you astray. It happens to all children.” He motions at the students behind him, who are doing their best to pretend they are not listening.

John nods, not sure what Lennart is hinting at. He wishes Miriam was here. Not the Miriam whom he has seen in the schoolyard, but the Miriam he left behind. The other students continue to look away, their mouths tight and their shoulder stiff.

“I have to fail this painting,” Lennart spits in disgust. “But you have plenty of time to work on another. After all, you’re not leaving any time soon.” He smiles. “I’ll be right back.” The teacher turns away and shuffles towards the podium.

“Lennart and his fucking pen,” a one-handed boy murmurs.

John looks at the girl next to him. “What’s going on?” he whispers.

The girl makes an apologetic face. “I hope Lennart won’t be nasty, but your painting’s good, John. He’ll mark it down real bad.”

John looks at the teacher, who rummages in a wooden box on the stand. “I wish I could go home,” John says.

“Home?” the girl asks.

“Wherever it is, it must be better than this. And it has to be warmer. Perhaps there are doors there, too.”

The girl says something in reply, but John does not hear it; the teacher is moving towards him again, step by slow step. Held between Lennart’s two stumped arms is a red-tipped marker pen.

“Don’t struggle,” the girl next to John whispers. “If you do, it’ll hurt more. There’s nothing you can do.”

“Hurt?” John asks. “It’s a pen. Right?” A chill covers his body as he watches Lennart advance.

“Hey,” the girl whispers. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t matter in the long run.” She makes a remorseful grimace while she continues to draw circles with her brush held between the stumps of her arms. “We all end up the same.”

*