The Drowning (46 page)

The most striking thing was that there were no personal possessions in the room. No photographs, no drawings from grandchildren, no postcards with greetings from family members or friends.

He cautiously sat down on the sofa, and Paula sat down
next to him. They could hear voices upstairs, a heated exchange, although they weren’t able to make out any of the words. After a few more minutes they heard footsteps on the stairs, this time from two people.

Ragnar Lissander appeared in the doorway. He truly personifies the term ‘little old man’, thought Patrik. Grey, stooped, and invisible. The woman behind him was a whole different story. She didn’t merely walk towards them – she strode forward, wearing a dressing gown that seemed to consist of a plethora of apricot-coloured flounces. She emitted a deep sigh as she shook hands with Patrik.

‘I certainly hope this is important, since you’re interrupting my nap.’

Patrik felt as if he’d landed in a silent film from the nineteen twenties.

‘We just have a few questions,’ he said, sitting down again.

Iréne Lissander took a seat on the armchair across from him. She hadn’t bothered to say hello to Paula.

‘So, Ragnar says that you’re from …’ She turned to her husband. ‘Was it Tanumshede, you said?’

He mumbled affirmatively, sitting down at the far end of the sofa. His hands hung between his knees, and he fixed his eyes on the shiny glass table.

‘I don’t understand what you could possibly want with us,’ the woman said haughtily.

Patrik couldn’t help casting a glance in Paula’s direction. She discreetly rolled her eyes.

‘We’re investigating a murder,’ he said. ‘And we’ve found some information that points back in time, to an event that occurred here in Trollhättan thirty-seven years ago.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Patrik saw Ragnar give a start.

‘You took in a foster child at that time, is that right?’

‘Christian,’ said Iréne, bobbing one foot up and down. She was wearing high-heeled slippers with open toes. Her toenails were exquisitely painted a fiery red that clashed with the colour of her dressing gown.

‘Exactly. Christian Thydell, who was then given your surname. Lissander.’

‘He changed his name back later on,’ said Ragnar quietly, receiving a murderous look from his wife. He fell silent, his whole body slumping forward again.

‘Did you adopt him?’ asked Paula.

‘No, absolutely not.’ Iréne pushed a lock of her dark hair, obviously dyed, out of her face. ‘He just lived with us. He was allowed to use our last name for … the sake of convenience.’

Patrik was dumbfounded. How many years had Christian spent in this home, treated like some lowly lodger, judging by the coldness with which his foster mother spoke of him?

‘I see. And precisely how long did Christian live with you?’ He could hear the disapproval in his own voice, but Iréne Lissander didn’t seem to notice.

‘Hmm, how long was it, Ragnar? How long was the boy here?’ Her husband didn’t reply, so she turned back to Patrik. She still hadn’t deigned to give Paula a single glance. Patrik had the feeling that other women didn’t exist in Iréne’s world.

‘It should be easy to work out. He was about three when he came to us. And how old was he when he left, Ragnar? He must have been eighteen.’ She smiled apologetically. ‘He wanted to seek his fortune elsewhere. And since then we’ve never heard a word from him. Isn’t that right, Ragnar?’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Ragnar Lissander quietly. ‘He simply … disappeared.’

Patrik felt sorry for the little man. Had he always been like this? Browbeaten and cowed? Or was it the years that he’d spent with Iréne that had stripped him of all virility?

‘So you don’t know where he went?’

‘No idea. We have absolutely no idea.’ Iréne’s foot was bobbing up and down again.

‘Why are you asking us these questions?’ said Ragnar. ‘How is Christian involved in a murder investigation?’

Patrik hesitated. ‘Unfortunately, I have to tell you that he was found dead this morning.’

Ragnar couldn’t hide his shock. He at least had cared about Christian and hadn’t just thought of him as a lodger.

‘How did he die?’ Ragnar asked, his voice unsteady.

‘He was found hanged. That’s all we know at the moment.’

‘Did he have a family?’

‘Yes, two fine sons and a wife named Sanna. He’s been living in Fjällbacka, working as a librarian. Last week his first novel was published. It’s called
The Mermaid
. And it’s been getting great reviews.’

‘So that was him,’ said Ragnar. ‘I read about the book in the newspaper because the title caught my attention. But the picture of him was nothing like the Christian who used to live with us.’

‘Who would have thought it possible? That a boy like that could make something of himself,’ said Iréne, her expression as hard as stone.

Patrik bit his tongue so as not to say something negative to her. He needed to be professional and keep his eye on the objective. He could feel that he had started to sweat again, and he tugged at his shirt to get some air.

‘Christian had a rough start. Was that something you could see in his behaviour?’

‘He was so young. Children forget those sorts of things very quickly,’ said Iréne, waving her hand dismissively.

‘Sometimes he had nightmares,’ said Ragnar.

‘But all children do. No, we didn’t notice anything. He was rather an odd child, but with his background, well …’

‘What do you know about his biological mother?’

‘A slut. Lower class. And not quite right in the head.’ Iréne tapped her finger against her temple and sighed. ‘But I really don’t understand what you think we might be able to tell you. So if there’s nothing more, I’d like to go back upstairs and lie down. I’m not feeling well.’

‘Just a few more questions,’ said Patrik. ‘Is there anything else about his childhood that you’d like to mention? We’re looking for a person, most likely a woman, who issued threats towards Christian, and others.’

‘Well, back then the girls weren’t exactly swarming around him,’ said Iréne, indifferently.

‘I’m not just thinking of love affairs. Were there any other women who were close to him?’

‘No. Who would that be? We were all he had.’

Patrik was just about to end the conversation when Paula interjected a question:

‘One last thing. Another man was found dead in Fjällbacka. Magnus Kjellner, one of Christian’s friends. And two other friends seem to have been subjected to the same sort of threats that Christian had received. Erik Lind and Kenneth Bengtsson. Do you recognize those names?’

‘As I said, we haven’t heard a peep from him since he moved,’ said Iréne, abruptly getting to her feet. ‘And now you really must excuse me. I have a weak heart, and this has been such a shock that I simply must go and lie down.’ She left the room, and they heard her climbing the stairs.

‘Do you have any idea who it could be?’ asked Ragnar,
with a glance towards the doorway where his wife had just left.

‘No, not at the moment,’ said Patrik. ‘But I think that Christian is the central figure in this whole thing. And I have no intention of giving up until I know how and why. Earlier today it was my job to deliver the bad news to his wife.’

‘I understand,’ said Ragnar softly. He opened his mouth again, as if to say something more, but then pressed his lips together. He stood up and looked at Paula and Patrik. ‘I’ll see you out.’

When they reached the front door, Patrik had a feeling that he shouldn’t leave. He wanted to stay and give the man a good shake until he told them what he had been on the verge of saying. Instead, Patrik merely pressed his business card into Ragnar’s hand, and then he and Paula left.

21

A week later, the food ran out. He’d eaten all the bread a couple of days earlier, and then resorted to cornflakes out of the big package. Without milk. Both the milk and the juice were gone, but there was water, and he had pushed a chair over to the sink so he could drink straight from the tap.

But now there was nothing more to eat. There hadn’t been much in the fridge to start with, and in the pantry he found only tinned goods, which he couldn’t open. He’d thought of going out to shop for groceries himself. He knew where Mamma kept her money, in the purse that was always in the front hall. But he couldn’t open the door. It was impossible for him to turn the lock, no matter how hard he tried. Otherwise Mamma would have been even prouder of him. He could have shown her that not only could he make his own sandwiches, but he could also do the shopping all by himself while she slept.

The past few days he’d started to wonder if she might be sick. But he knew that when a person was sick, they got a fever and felt hot. Mamma was very cold. And she smelled strange. He had to hold his nose at night when he crept into bed to sleep close to her. There was also something sticky about her. He didn’t know what it was, but if she’d got sticky, then she must have been out of bed when he wasn’t watching. Maybe she would wake up soon.

He spent every day playing by himself. He would sit in his room with his toys spread out around him. He also knew how to turn on the TV by touching the big button. Sometimes a children’s programme would be on, and it was fun to watch them after he’d been playing alone all day.

But Mamma would probably be angry when she saw how dirty things were in the flat. He needed to clean up. But he was so hungry. So incredibly hungry.

A few times he’d glanced at the telephone and even picked up the receiver, listening to the signal say ‘beep, beep, beep’. But who should he call? He didn’t know anyone’s number. And nobody ever rang the flat.

And Mamma would be waking up soon. She would get out of bed and take a bath and make the bad smell go away, the smell that made him feel sick. Then she would smell like Mamma again.

His stomach was screaming with hunger as he crawled into bed and moved close to her. He didn’t like the smell in his nose, but he always slept next to Mamma. Otherwise he couldn’t fall asleep.

He pulled the covers over them. Outside the window, darkness fell.

Gösta got up as soon as he heard Patrik and Paula come in. An oppressive mood had settled over the police station. Everyone was feeling frustrated. They needed some sort of concrete lead in order to move forward with the investigation.

‘Let’s meet in the kitchen in five minutes,’ said Patrik, and then he disappeared into his office.

Gösta went into the kitchen and sat down in his favourite place next to the window. Five minutes later the others showed up, one after the other. Patrik was the last to arrive. He took up position in front of the counter, leaning his back against it with his arms crossed.

‘As you all know, Christian Thydell was found dead this morning. At the present time, we can’t say whether his death was murder or suicide. We’ll have to wait for the results from the post-mortem. I’ve talked to Torbjörn, and unfortunately he had very little to add. But based on the preliminary examination, there doesn’t seem to be any sign of a struggle at the site.’

Martin raised his hand. ‘What about footprints? Anything to indicate that Christian wasn’t alone when he died? If there was snow on the steps, maybe they could be lifted for analysis.’

‘I asked Torbjörn about that,’ said Patrik. ‘But it would be impossible to say when any shoe prints were actually made, and besides, all of the snow had blown off the steps. But the techs did manage to lift a number of fingerprints, mostly from the railing, and they’ll be carefully analysed, of course. It’ll be a few days before we have a report.’ He turned around to fill a glass with water from the tap and took a few sips. ‘Any new developments from knocking on doors?’

‘No,’ said Martin. ‘We’ve pretty much knocked on every door in the lower part of town. But no one seems to have seen anything.’

‘Okay. We need to go over to Christian’s house and carry out a proper search. See if we can find anything that shows he might have met the murderer there first.’

‘Murderer?’ said Gösta. ‘So you think it was murder and not suicide?’

‘I don’t know what I think at the moment,’ replied Patrik, wearily rubbing his forehead. ‘But I suggest that we assume Christian was also murdered, until we find out more.’ He turned to Mellberg. ‘What do you think, Bertil?’

It was always wise at least to pretend to involve the boss.

‘I agree,’ said Mellberg.

‘We’re also going to have to wrestle with the press. As soon as they get wind of what happened, there’s going to be huge interest from the media. I recommend that nobody talk to any reporters; just refer them all to me.’

‘On that point I have to object,’ said Mellberg. ‘As the police chief here, I should be the one to handle such an important task as liaison with the media.’

Patrik weighed his options. It would be a nightmare to give Mellberg free rein to talk with journalists. On the other hand, it might take too much energy to try to dissuade him.

‘Okay, let’s say that you’ll be the one to keep in contact with the media. But if I might offer a word of advice, it would be best if we say as little as possible, under the circumstances.’