The Gallows Bird (8 page)

She wondered whether Mamma and Pappa would be sitting on the sofa watching the TV on Monday. Probably not. They never had time for such trivial pastimes as watching TV. They were doctors, so their time was more valuable than everyone else’s. The time that they spent watching
Survivor
, or being with her for that matter, was time that could otherwise be spent doing a bypass operation or a kidney transplant. Jonna was just being selfish for not understanding that. Pappa had even taken her along to the hospital so she could watch open-heart surgery on a ten-year-old child. He wanted her to understand why their jobs were so important, he said; why they couldn’t spend as much time with her as they would like. He and Mamma had a gift, the gift of being able to help other people, and it was their obligation to put it to good use.

What a fucking load of crap. Why did they even have kids if they didn’t have time for them? Why didn’t they say to hell with kids, so that they could spend twenty-four hours a day with their hands inside somebody else’s chest?

The day after the visit to the hospital she had started cutting herself. It had been so fucking cool. As soon as the knife made the first cut in her skin, she had felt the anxiety recede. It felt like it ran out of the wound on her arm. Disappeared along with the blood that slowly trickled out, red and hot. She loved the sight of her own blood. Loved the feeling of the knife, or a razor blade or whatever the fuck else she could find within reach that would cut away the anxiety that sat so firmly anchored in her chest.

She also discovered that this was the only time they noticed her. The blood made them turn their attention to her and really
see
her. But the kick had proven to be less intense each time. With each wound, each scar, the effect on her anxiety diminished. And instead of looking at her with concern, as they had done at first, now her parents just looked at her with resignation. They had lost their grip on her, and decided to help those they could save instead. People with damaged hearts and internal organs that had stopped functioning and needed to be replaced. She had nothing of the sort to offer. It was her soul that was broken, and that was not something they could fix with a scalpel. So they stopped trying.

The only love now available to her was from the cameras, and the people who sat night after night in front of their television sets watching her. Seeing the
real
Jonna.

Behind her she heard a guy asking Barbie if he could touch her silicone implants. The viewers would love it. Jonna deliberately raised her arms so the scars were visible. It was the only way she could compete.

‘Martin, can I come in for a minute? We have to talk.’

‘Of course, come on in, I’m just finishing up some reports.’ He waved Patrik inside. ‘What is it? You look worried.’

‘Well, I’m not quite sure what to think about this. We received the autopsy report on Marit Kaspersen this morning, and I must say there’s something that seems very odd.’

‘What’s that?’ Martin leaned forward with interest. He remembered that Patrik had muttered something along those lines on the day the accident occurred, but then he’d honestly forgotten about it. Patrik hadn’t mentioned it since then either.

‘Well, Pedersen wrote down everything he found, and I talked with him on the phone too, but there’s something we simply can’t explain.’

‘Tell me.’ Martin’s curiosity was mounting by the second. ‘First of all, Marit didn’t die in the car crash. She was already dead when it happened.’

‘Already dead? How? What was it, a heart attack or something?’

‘No, not exactly.’ Patrik scratched his head as he studied the report. ‘She died of alcohol poisoning. She had a point six-one blood alcohol level.’

‘You’ve got to be kidding. Point six-one is enough to kill a horse!’

‘Exactly. According to Pedersen she must have drunk a whole bottle of vodka. In a very short time.’

‘And those who knew her said that she never drank.’

‘Precisely. There was no sign of alcohol abuse in her body either, which probably means that she had built up absolutely no tolerance. According to Pedersen she would have reacted very rapidly.’

‘So she got herself plastered for some reason. It’s tragic, of course, but unfortunately something that happens from time to time,’ Martin said, puzzled by Patrik’s obvious concern.

‘Yes, that’s what it looks like. But Pedersen found something else that makes the whole thing a bit more complicated.’ Patrik crossed his legs and skimmed through the report to find the place. ‘Here it is. I’ll try to translate it into layman’s terms. Everything Pedersen writes is so cryptic. It seems she had an odd bruise around her mouth. There are also signs of trauma inside her mouth and throat.’

‘So, what are you getting at?’

‘I don’t know.’ Patrik sighed. ‘There wasn’t enough for Pedersen to make any definitive conclusions. He can’t say
for sure
that she didn’t guzzle a whole bottle of booze in the car, die of alcohol poisoning, and then veer off the road.’

‘But she must have been totally pissed before the accident happened. Do we have any reports of anyone driving erratically last Sunday evening?’

‘Not that I can find. Which just adds to the fact that the whole thing seems rather strange. On the other hand, there’s not much traffic at that time of night, so maybe the other drivers were simply lucky not to get in her way,’ Patrik said pensively. ‘But Pedersen could find no reason for the trauma in and around her mouth, so I think there’s sufficient reason for us to take a closer look at the whole thing. It might be an ordinary case of driving drunk, but maybe not. What do you think?’

Martin paused for a moment. ‘You said from the start that you had a funny feeling about this one. You think Mellberg will go along with it?’

Patrik gave him a look, and Martin laughed.

‘It all depends on how I present it, don’t you think?’ Patrik said.

‘Too right. It all depends on the presentation.’

Patrik laughed along with him and stood up. Then he turned serious again.

‘Do you think I’m making a mountain out of a molehill? Pedersen didn’t actually find anything concrete to indicate that it wasn’t an accident. But . . .’ he said, waving the faxed autopsy report, ‘at the same time there’s something about this that rings a bell. For the life of me I can’t . . .’ Patrik ran his hand through his hair again.

‘Let’s do this,’ said Martin. ‘We’ll start asking around and gather some more details to see where it leads. Maybe that will trigger your memory of whatever it is that’s bugging you.’

‘Okay, good. I’ll talk to Mellberg first though. Why don’t we drive out and have another chat with Marit’s partner later?’

‘Fine by me,’ said Martin, returning to the reports he was writing. ‘Come and get me when you’re ready.’

‘Okay.’ Patrik was already on his way out the door when Martin stopped him.

‘Wait a sec,’ he said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you how it’s going at home. With your sister-in-law and everything.’

Patrik smiled as he stood in the doorway. ‘We’re starting to be a bit more hopeful, actually. Anna seems to have begun to climb out of the abyss. Thanks to Dan.’

‘Dan?’ Martin said in surprise. ‘Erica’s Dan?’

‘Excuse me, what do you mean by “Erica’s Dan”? He’s
our
Dan now.’

‘All right, all right,’ Martin said with a laugh. ‘
Your
Dan. But what’s he got to do with it?’

‘Well, on Monday Erica had the bright idea to ask him to come over and talk to Anna. And it worked. They’ve started taking long walks together, just to talk, and that seems to be exactly what Anna needed. She’s turned into a whole different woman in just a couple of days. The kids are delighted.’

‘That’s fantastic,’ Martin said sincerely.

‘Yeah, you can say that again,’ said Patrik with a slap on the door jamb. ‘Look, I’ll go in and see Mellberg now to get it over with. We can talk more later.’

‘Okay,’ said Martin, returning to his paperwork; another aspect of the profession he could have done without.

The days dragged by. It felt as if Friday and his date for dinner would never come. It was strange to be thinking in these terms at his age. But even if it wasn’t a real date, it was still a dinner invitation. When Mellberg rang Rose-Marie he hadn’t had any plan worked out, so he surprised himself by suggesting they have dinner at the Gestgifveri. His wallet was going to be even more surprised. He simply couldn’t understand what was happening to him. Previously, the thought of going out to eat at such an expensive restaurant as Gestgifveri would never have crossed his mind. The fact that he was now prepared to pay for two – no, that was not at all like him. And yet he wasn’t bothered by it. To tell the truth, he was looking forward to gazing at Rose-Marie’s face in the candlelight as delicious dishes were set before them.

Mellberg shook his head in bewilderment, and his nest of hair slipped down over one ear. What had got into him? Could he be sick? He folded his hair back up on his pate and felt his forehead, but no, it was cool and showed no sign of fever. But something was going on. Maybe a little sugar would help.

His hand was already reaching for one of the coconut balls in his bottom desk drawer when he heard a knock on the door.

‘Yes?’ he called, annoyed.

Patrik stepped into his office. ‘Pardon me, am I interrupting anything?’

‘Not at all,’ said Mellberg with a sigh, taking one last look at the desk drawer. ‘Come on in.’

Mellberg had mixed emotions about this detective, who was much too young in his view, for all that he was pushing forty. True, he had conducted himself well during the recent homicide investigations, and he never showed any lack of respect for his boss, Mellberg couldn’t shake off the sense that Hedström considered himself superior.

‘We got the report from Monday’s accident.’

‘Yes?’ Mellberg said, sounding bored. Traffic accidents were part of the routine.

‘Well, there seem to be some things that need clarifying.’

‘Clarifying?’ Now Mellberg’s interest was aroused.

‘Yes,’ said Patrik, again casting a glance at the papers he was holding. ‘The victim has some injuries that cannot be traced to the accident itself. In addition, Marit was actually dead before the crash. Alcohol poisoning. She had a level of point six-one in her blood.’

‘Point six-one – are you joking?’

‘No, I’m afraid not.’

‘And the injuries?’ said Mellberg, leaning forward.

Patrik paused. ‘There are signs of trauma in and around her mouth.’

‘Around her mouth?’ Mellberg said sceptically.

‘I know it’s not much to go on, but taken together with the fact that everyone said she never drank, and that she had an abnormally high blood alcohol level, it seems fishy.’

‘Fishy? Are you asking me to start an investigation because you think something seems “fishy”?’ Mellberg raised an eyebrow. This was all much too vague for his liking. On the other hand, Patrik’s hunches had panned out before, so he couldn’t afford not to pay attention. He thought about it for a whole minute as Patrik watched him tensely.

‘Okay,’ he said at last. ‘Spend a couple of hours on it. If the two of you – I assume you’ll take Molin with you – find anything to indicate that things are not as they should be, then keep going. But if you don’t find anything, then I don’t want you wasting anymore time on it. Understood?’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Patrik with obvious relief.

‘Okay, get to work,’ Mellberg said with a wave of his right hand. His left was already on its way to the bottom drawer of his desk.

Sofie stepped cautiously inside. ‘Hello? Kerstin, are you home?’

The flat was quiet. She had checked, and Kerstin wasn’t at her job at Extra Film; she had called in sick. Not surprisingly, given the circumstances, Sofie had been allowed time off from school. But where could Kerstin be? Sofie walked through the flat. She was suddenly overwhelmed by tears. She dropped her rucksack on the floor and sat down in the middle of the living-room rug. She closed her eyes to lock out all the sensory impressions that had flooded over her. There were reminders of Marit everywhere. The curtains she had sewn, the painting they’d bought when Marit moved into the flat, the cushions that Sofie never fluffed up after lying on them, something that Marit always complained about. All those trivial, everyday, sad things that now echoed with emptiness. Sofie had always been so annoyed by her mother and yelled at her because Marit made demands and laid down rules. But she had secretly been pleased. The constant arguing and squabbling at home had made Sofie long for stability and clear rules. And despite all her teenage rebelliousness, she had always felt secure in the knowledge that her mother was there. Mamma. Marit. Now only Pappa was left.

A hand on her shoulder made Sofie jump. She turned her head and looked up.

‘Kerstin. Were you home?’

‘Yes, I was taking a nap,’ Kerstin said, squatting down next to Sofie. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Oh, Kerstin,’ was all Sofie could say, burying her face in her shoulder. Kerstin embraced her awkwardly. They weren’t used to having much physical contact; Sofie had passed the hugging stage by the time Marit moved in with Kerstin. But this time the awkwardness quickly disappeared. Sofie hungrily inhaled the smell of Kerstin’s jumper, which was one of her mother’s favourites. The scent of her perfume still lingered in the wool. The familiar smell made her sob even harder, and she felt her nose running all over Kerstin’s shoulder. She pulled away.

‘Sorry, I’m getting snot all over you.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Kerstin, wiping away Sofie’s tears with her thumbs. ‘Cry as much as you like. It . . . it’s your mamma’s jumper.’

‘I know,’ said Sofie with a laugh. ‘And she would have murdered me if she saw I’d got mascara on it.’

‘Lamb’s wool can’t be washed in water hotter than thirty degrees C,’ they both blurted out at once, which made them both laugh.

‘Come on, let’s sit at the kitchen table,’ said Kerstin, helping Sofie up. Only now did Sofie see that Kerstin’s face looked all caved in and was several shades paler than usual.