Vanished (37 page)

‘What about miscarriages?’ she asked as she turned to face the counter again. ‘Are miscarriages common?’

‘Fairly common,’ the midwife replied. ‘You’re most vulnerable during the first twelve weeks. We can discuss all those details at your first appointment if you choose to keep the baby. Give us a call and tell us what you plan to do.’

Annika went out into the stairwell and headed down the beautiful broad staircase at the old hospital,
Serafimerlasarettet.
This was the designated health-care centre for the residents of Kungsholmen, the offices of her family doctor, the place to go for the paediatric care of her children.

Her children.

Every step she took down the stairs resulted in a tugging sensation in her stomach.

Don’t let me miscarry. Don’t let anything happen to my child.

She sobbed.
Oh my God, I’m going to have a baby, Thomas and I are going to have a baby.
Joy welled up inside her and spread throughout her body.
A baby! A little baby, a reason to live!

Annika walked up to a wall and leaned against it and cried, tears of relief, soothing and pure.

A child, her little child.

She walked out into the twilight; there hadn’t been much light all day. Clouds like dark grey barrels rolled across the heavens. It would start snowing again soon. She walked home carefully: she mustn’t trip and fall, she mustn’t hurt her baby.

Her apartment was fairly cold. She switched on all the lamps and sat down on the couch with the phone in her lap.

She really ought to call Thomas right away, before he left work. She didn’t want to get Eleonor on the line again. Her pulse pounded, what on earth was she going to say?

I’m pregnant.

We are going to have a baby.

You are going to be a father.

Annika closed her eyes, took three deep breaths, tried to calm her heart down and dialled the number.

Her voice was thick when she asked the receptionist to put her through. The buzzing sensation in her head intensified, her hands were shaking.

‘Thomas Samuelsson speaking.’

She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak.

‘Hello?’ he said, his voice tinged with irritation.

She swallowed.

‘Hi,’ she said in the tiniest voice around. ‘It’s me.’

Her heart started racing out of control, her breathing grew ragged, there was no response at the other end.

‘It’s Annika Bengtzon,’ she said. ‘It’s me, Annika.’

A muffled curt voice said: ‘Don’t call me here.’

She gasped.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Please,’ he said, ‘leave me alone. Don’t call me.’

The click as he hung up echoed in her mind. The line went dead. Emptiness resounded instead, filling everything with its void.

Annika replaced the receiver, her hands shaking so badly that it was difficult to put it back. Her hands were dripping with sweat. The tears came.
Oh God,
he didn’t want her, he didn’t want their child,
help me, please . . .

The telephone jangled in her lap, the shock making her jump.
He’s calling back, he’s calling back.

She grabbed the receiver.

‘Annika? Hi, it’s Berit, from the paper. I just wanted to tell you that we’re going to start running your articles on the Paradise Foundation tomorrow . . . What’s wrong?’

Annika was sobbing into the phone, tears gushing.

‘Oh, honey!’ Berit exclaimed in a concerned voice. ‘What’s wrong?’

Annika took a deep breath, forcing herself to get her emotions in check.

‘Nothing,’ she said, swiping at her runny nose with the back of her hand. ‘I’m just sad, that’s all. I’m sorry.’

She covered her nose and mouth with her hand, muffling her grief before she responded to Berit’s news: ‘Well, that’s great. I’m glad.’

‘The worst part is what happened to Aida. It’s her funeral tomorrow. That poor woman. She didn’t have any relatives, no one has requested to have the body released, the funeral will be a simple ceremony over at the cemetery on the north side . . .’

‘I’m really sorry, Berit, but I’ve got to go.’

‘Hey,’ her colleague said, ‘how are you doing? Could you use a hand in any way?’

‘No,’ Annika whispered, ‘everything’s fine.’

‘Promise me you’ll tell me if there’s anything I can do.’

‘Sure,’ she said faintly.

Once more, the hot, heavy receiver was replaced.

He doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want our child.

There wasn’t a single parking space to be found on all of the island of Kungsholmen. Thomas had been driving around for twenty minutes now without finding one. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t actually going to do anything here, he was just driving around around: Scheelegatan, a right on Hantverkargatan, a slow glide past number 32, up the hill, turn in on Bergsgatan, pass the police station, drive down Kungsholmsgatan and do the whole thing over again.

He had done the right thing, the only decent thing. Eleonor was his wife, he stuck to his promises, he honoured his commitments, he was a responsible person.

Still, when he’d heard Annika’s voice over the phone today . . . He’d lost it. He’d reacted in a way he hadn’t expected, so physically, so harshly. There was no way he could get any more work done that day. He fled the building, practically running down to the shore. It was windy, snowing, he heard her voice, remembered her body, oh God, what had he done? Why was the memory of her so relentless, so lingering?

He had stood there in the wind until his hair and his coat were drenched by the sea air and the snow, his mind filled by a tiny sad voice. After a while he had slowly made his way to his big, empty house. Eleonor had her leadership course that night, so he took his car and drove to Stockholm. He didn’t reflect on what he was doing, didn’t want to think, just drove.

Have some food,
Thomas told himself,
stop at a restaurant, have a beer and read the papers.

A restaurant on Kungsholmen.

He wasn’t going to contact her. He would hold his ground. He just wanted to see what it could be like, what that life might have been like, what kind of people he would see, what kind of food he would eat.

What he had done to Eleonor was unforgivable. Shame had made his face burn all that first week; he had forced himself to sound normal, act normal, and make love in a normal fashion. Eleonor hadn’t noticed anything amiss – or had she?

At first he had dreamed about Annika, but the memory of her had receded, until today. Thomas slapped the steering wheel with one hand: damn it, why did she have to call? Why couldn’t she leave him alone? Things were hard enough as they were.

Suddenly he felt close to tears. He clenched his teeth and stepped on the gas, he had to find somewhere to eat. He turned in on Agnegatan and parked in a turning zone – who cared?

He locked the car,
blip-blip.
This was Annika’s neighbourhood. He looked up at the deteriorating buildings: they should have been repaired twenty years ago.

She might be home. She might be upstairs in her third-floor apartment, those dreamlike white rooms, reading a book or watching TV.

The thought made his mouth dry and his pulse quicken.

In the passage leading to the courtyard a lamp shone wanly. The gate was open, he could walk right in, it would be so easy. Slowly he was pulled towards her apartment building, saw what she saw every day, the graffiti on the walls, the chunks of plaster falling down.

What if Annika appeared? Thomas stopped – she mustn’t see him. For a long time he remained in the passage, looking up.

Two windows: the lights were on, the upper pane of the window on the right covered with a grocery bag, her apartment. She was home.

Then he saw her. She walked past the window and picked up something on the windowsill, the one on the left. For a moment he saw her dark silhouette against the bright room: her hair, her thin body, her graceful hands. Then she turned away and the lights went out.

Maybe she was on her way out.

Thomas spun around and ran back to his car, jumped in and drove off without releasing the handbrake. Became aware that his pulse was racing.

He would never see Annika again.

TUESDAY 4 DECEMBER

A
nnika avoided the headlines. The news-bill was yellower than ever: it howled out its message, the size of the print suggesting that a world war was imminent. ‘A
Kvällspressen
exclusive: Perilous Paradise!’

She hurried past, not having the strength to take in the bill’s message, pulled her jacket closer, squeezed her wallet and shivered with the cold. She jogged up the stairs to Rosetten: the guy at the checkout counter hadn’t finished putting the papers on display yet and she yanked a copy from the pile.

The picture on the front page showed a photo of a woman, probably Rebecka, taken on the sly, the hair and the face checkered to hide her identity. Annika squinted, a classic trick to enhance the image, but it was still impossible to identify the woman.

Annika weighed the paper in her hand. It was so light, her efforts were of such little consequence after all. She folded it and put it in her basket; she would have to read more at home. She headed for the food department, picked up some yogurt, a loaf of sliced white bread, a slab of cheese and some hot dogs, paid for her groceries, tucked the paper under her arm and went outside. The weather was clear and cold; the sun was heading for the horizon. Hurriedly, she went back down Hantverkargatan, slipping a little, her heart racing – she couldn’t help it, Paradise was her story.

She put the bag of groceries down on the floor in the hall, brought the paper over to the couch in the living room and read the headline puff again. The story continued on pages 6, 7, 8, 9, 10 and 11. The little hairs on her arms stood on end: talk about coverage!

Quickly flipping past the editorials and the fine-arts pages, Annika reached the first piece, the one describing the set-up, Rebecka’s description of how Paradise operated. There were more covert pictures of Rebecka and of some other people, probably her relatives. Annika thought that she could make out the house in Olovslund in the background, but the pictures could have been taken anywhere. She read the pieces carefully: Berit had written them, but they were based on Annika’s research. The articles had a double byline, featuring both her name and Berit’s.

For quite some time, Annika studied her name, trying to define what she felt. Pride, perhaps. A twinge of fear – this story would have repercussions. A certain detachment. She couldn’t quite take it all in.

She sighed, turned the page and gasped.

Thomas Samuelsson gazed at her from a black and white picture on page eight. It had been taken at his office in Vaxholm: she recognized the bookcase in the background. The headline described him as ‘The Whistleblower’. Berit’s article made mincemeat out of Rebecka’s statements: it revealed the lies, detailed the woman’s debts and name changes. Thomas Samuelsson emerged as the hero cracking down on this shady organization. There was a wound on his forehead and the caption explained that the accountant had been assaulted when he had tried to put a stop to the scam. Several other representatives from different authorities issued anonymous statements as well, attesting to the fact that Paradise was a sham. They had paid Rebecka astronomical amounts: the grand total was over two million kronor.

It was impossible to keep on reading. Annika just wanted to look at the picture, at the man. He looked serious and resolute. His hair had fallen forward, his suit jacket was buttoned, his tie was knotted to perfection, and his hand rested on his desk – his warm, strong hand.

She felt a pang.
Dear God
, he was so very attractive, she had almost forgotten what he looked like. Tears spilled from her eyes and dripped down on the paper.

‘We’re going to have a baby,’ she whispered to the image. ‘A little boy. I know it’s a boy, and you don’t want us. You want your perfectly knotted tie, your bank executive and your fancy house.’

Annika traced the picture with a finger, following the line of Thomas’s jaw, stroking his hair.

I can’t have him if you don’t want him.

She put down the paper and cried uncontrollably. When she couldn’t go on any longer, when she’d run out of tears, she picked up the phone and called the hospital. They could accommodate her straight away.

Ratko had plenty of time. He had scouted the place out thoroughly yesterday, carrying a rake and pretending to tend the graves. No one had taken any notice of him in his dark, nondescript clothing. His Fiat Uno was parked on Banvaktsvägen, right next to a hole in the fence. He figured that cyclists had cut an opening in the chain link fence to be able to cut across the cemetery. In the compartment behind the back seat of the Uno there was a sports bag, the contours of a tennis racket visible among the sports clothes. The money and his weapons were concealed underneath the clothes. He was nervous, apprehensive – he even felt a little stupid. Was he losing his touch?

Ratko went over to the main entrance, by Linvävargatan. Here, the headstones were large and old, most of them dated back to the first decades of the twentieth century, well-to-do gentlemen surrounded by their families. The environment aimed at projecting a sense of peace – not an easy feat considering the roaring highway some fifty metres away. He leaned on the rake and surveyed the quiet grounds: shaped cypresses, enormous oak trees with denuded crowns, twisted pines, and black ironwork fences. Quite a contrast to the war cemetreies of Bosnia. He leaned against the fence, sighed and remembered the days back in the 1970s when he had belonged to the Yugoslav secret police: all the political opponents they had silenced, Germany, Italy, Spain, the bank robberies, the years spent in prison.

Never again,
he thought. He sighed and shivered.

Slowly, Ratko headed for the chapel,
Norra Kapellet
, which was as big as a church. Recently repaired, its brown glazed roof tiles gleamed in the sun. This shrine was situated at the top of a hill at the far end of the cemetery against a backdrop of pale blue high-rise apartment complexes catering to low-income households – Hagalundsgatan, also known to as ‘The Blues’. He walked around a small grove and came out on the west side, the flat corner of the cemetery, section 14 E. He stopped at the edge of the grove and contemplated the hole in the ground: Aida’s final resting place. A denuded hedge stood between her grave and the street. On the other side there was a service station and a McDonald’s. He turned away, picked up the rake and slowly walked over to the Jewish section.