Before the Frost (22 page)

“What is the name of your organization?”

“We don't use names. Our community comes from within, through the air we share and breathe.”

“That sounds very deep.”

“The self-evident is always the most mysterious. The smallest crack in a musical instrument alters its timbre completely. If a whole panel falls out, the music ceases. It is the same with human beings. We cannot fully live without a higher purpose.”

Linda did not understand the answers she was getting, and didn't like this feeling. She stopped asking questions.

“I think I'll leave now.”

She walked away quickly without turning around, nor did she stop until she reached the car. Instead of leaving right away, she sat and looked out at the trees. The sun was shining through the leaves and into her eyes. Just as she was about to start the engine she saw a man cross the gravel yard in front of the church.

At first she only saw his outline, but when he crossed into the shade of the high trees she felt as if she had just taken a gulp of frigid air. She recognized his neck, and not just that. During the seconds before he walked back out into the blinding sun she heard
Anna's voice reverberate inside her head. The voice was very clear, telling her about the man she had seen through the hotel window.
I am also sitting by a window
, Linda thought.
A car window. And suddenly I'm convinced I've just seen Anna's father. It is completely unreasonable. But that's what I think.

24

Is it completely ridiculous to think you can identify a person by his neck?
Linda wondered. What had convinced her so completely about something she had no grounds for knowing?
You can't recognize someone you've never met, let alone someone you've only ever seen in a few snapshots and heard brief descriptions of from a person who in turn hasn't seen him in twenty-four years.

She shook off the thought and drove back to Lund. It was early afternoon. The sun was still strong, and the heat hung oppressively over the surroundings. She parked outside the house she had visited just a few hours earlier and prepared herself for another meeting with Zacharias the chess-player. But the door was opened by a girl a few years younger than Linda with blue streaks in her hair and a chain suspended from her nostril to her ear. She was wearing black clothes in a combination of leather and vinyl. One of her shoes was black, the other white.

“There are no available rooms,” she said brusquely. “If there's still a notice up at the student union it's a mistake.”

“I don't need a room. I'm looking for Anna Westin. I'm a friend of hers—my name's Linda.”

“I don't think she's here, but you can take a look.”

She stepped aside and let Linda pass her. Linda cast a quick glance into the living room. The chess set was still there, but not the player.

“I was here a few hours ago,” Linda said. “I talked to the guy who plays chess.”

“You can talk to whomever you like.”

“Are you Margareta Olsson?”

“That's my assumed name.”

Linda was taken aback. Margareta looked amused.

“My real name is Johanna von Lööf, but I prefer a simpler name. That's why I call myself Margareta Olsson. There's only one Johanna von Lööf in this country, but a couple of thousand Margareta Olssons. Who wants to be unique?”

“Beats me. You study law, right?”

“No. Economics.”

Margareta pointed to the kitchen.

“Are you going to see if she's in or not?”

“You know she isn't here, don't you?”

“Of course I know. But there's nothing stopping you from checking it out yourself.”

“Do you have some time to chat?”

“I have all the time in the world—don't you?”

They sat in the kitchen. Margareta was drinking tea but she didn't offer Linda any.

“Economics. That sounds hard.”

Margareta tossed her head with irritation.

“It is hard. Life should be hard. What did you want to know?”

“I'm looking for Anna. She's my friend, and I want to make sure nothing has happened to her. I haven't heard from her for a while, and that's not like her.”

“And what can I do for you?”

“You can tell me when you last saw her.”

Margareta's answer was caustic.

“I don't like her. I try to have as little to do with her as possible.”

Linda had never heard that before—someone not liking Anna. She thought back to their school days. Linda had often fought with her fellow students, but she couldn't remember Anna doing so.

“Why?”

“I think she's stuck-up. I can generally tolerate that in others since I'm just as bad. But not in her case. There's something about her that drives me up the wall.”

She got up and rinsed her teacup.

“It probably bothers you to hear me say this about your friend.”

“Everyone has a right to their opinion.”

Margareta sat down again.

“Then there's another thing. Or two, more precisely. She's stingy and she doesn't tell the truth. You can't trust her. Either what she says or that she won't use all your milk.”

“That doesn't sound like Anna.”

“Maybe the Anna who lives here is a different person. All I'm saying is I don't like her, she doesn't like me. We cope. I don't eat when she's eating and there are two bathrooms. We rarely bump into each other.”

Margareta's cell phone rang. She answered and then left the kitchen. Linda thought about what she had just been told. More and more she was starting to realize that the Anna she had become reacquainted with was not the same Anna she had grown up with. Even though Margareta—or Johanna—didn't make the best impression, Linda instinctively felt that she had been telling the truth.
I have nothing more to do here,
she thought.
Anna is choosing to stay away. She has some reason for it, just as there will turn out to be a reason why she and Birgitta Medberg were in contact.

Linda got up to leave as Margareta came back into the kitchen.

“Are you angry?”

“Why would I be angry?”

“Because I've told you unflattering things about your friend.”

“I'm not angry.”

“Then maybe you'd like to hear more?”

They sat down at the table again. Linda felt tense.

“Do you know what she studies?”

“Medicine.”

“That's what I thought too; we all did. But then someone told me she had been expelled from the medical school. There were rumors about plagiarism—I don't know if that was true or not. Maybe she simply gave up. But she never said anything to us about it. She pretends that she's still studying medicine, but she's not.”

“What does she do?”

“She prays.”

“Prays?”

“You heard me,” Margareta said. “Prays. What you do when you go to church.”

Linda lost her temper.

“Of course I know what it is. Anna prays, you say. But where? When? How? Why?”

Margareta did not react to her outburst. Linda was grudgingly impressed by this display of self-control of a kind that she herself lacked.

“I think it's genuine. She's searching for something. I can understand her in a way. Personally, I'm on a quest for material wealth; other people are looking for the spiritual equivalent.”

“How do you know all of this if you don't even talk to her?”

Margareta leaned over the table.

“I snoop, and I eavesdrop. I'm the person who hides behind curtains and hears and sees everything that goes on. I'm not kidding.”

“So she has a confidante?”

“That's a strange word, isn't it? ‘Confidante'—what does it really mean? I don't have one, and I doubt if Anna Westin does either. To be completely honest, I think she's unusually dim-witted. God forbid I would ever be diagnosed and treated by a physician like her. Anna Westin talks to anyone who will listen. I think all of us here find her conversation a series of naïve and worthless sermons. She's always lecturing us on moral topics. It's enough to drive anyone insane, except perhaps our dear chess-player. He cherishes vain hopes about getting her into bed.”

“Any chance?”

“Zilch.”

“What do her lectures consist of?”

“She talks about the poverty of our daily existence. That we don't nurture our inner selves. I don't know exactly what she believes in, other than that she's Christian. I tried to discuss Islam with her one time and she went ballistic. She's a conservative Christian. More than that I don't know. But there's something genuine about her when she talks about her religious views. And sometimes I hear her when she's in her room. It sounds real. That's the only time she isn't lying or stealing. She's being herself. Beyond that, I can't say.”

Margareta looked at her.

“Has something happened?”

Linda shook her head.

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“But you're worried?”

“Yes.”

Margareta got up.

“Anna Westin's God will protect her. At least that's what she always brags about. Her God and some earthly angel named Gabriel. I think it was an angel. I can't remember exactly. But with that kind of protection she should be fine.”

She stretched out her hand.

“I have to go now. Are you also a student?”

“I'm a police officer. Or will be soon, that is.”

Margareta took a closer look at her.

“I'm sure you will, as many questions as you've been asking.”

Linda realized she had one more.

“Do you know anyone called Mirre? She left a message on Anna's answering machine.”

“No. But I can ask the others.”

Linda gave her her phone number and left the house. She was still vaguely envious of Margareta Olsson's poise, her self-confidence. What did she have that Linda didn't?

 

The following morning, Monday, Linda was awakened by the sound of the front door slamming shut. She sat up in bed. It was six o'clock. She lay down and tried to fall back asleep. Raindrops were spattering against the windowsill. It was a sound she remembered from childhood. Raindrops, Mona's shuffling slippered gait, and her father's firm footsteps. Once upon a time these sounds had been her greatest source of security. She shook off her thoughts and got up. Her father had forgotten to turn the stove off, and he hadn't finished his coffee.
He's nervous and he left in a hurry,
she thought.

She pulled the paper toward her and leafed through it until she saw an article about the latest developments in the Rannesholm case. There was a short interview with her dad. It was early, he had said, and although there were almost no clues, they thought they had some leads, but he was not free to comment further for the time being. She put the paper away and thought about Anna. If Margareta Olsson was right—and she had no reason to doubt she
was telling the truth—Anna had turned into a very different person. But why was she staying away, and why did she claim to have seen her father? Why wasn't Henrietta telling the truth? And that man that Linda had seen walk past the front of the church—why was she convinced it was Anna's father?

And the other crucial question: what was the connection between Anna and Birgitta Medberg?

Linda had trouble separating all these thoughts. She heated up the coffee and wrote everything down on a piece of paper. Then she crumpled it up and threw it away.
I have to talk to Zeba,
she thought.
I'll tell her everything. She's smart. She never loses touch with reality. She'll give me some good ideas
. Linda showered, put her clothes on, and then called Zeba. Her answering machine picked up. Linda tried her cell phone but it was out of range. Since it was raining, she could hardly have taken her boy out for a walk. Maybe she was with her cousin.

Linda was impatient and irritated. She thought about calling her father, possibly even her mother, just to have someone to talk to. She decided she didn't want to interrupt her father. And a conversation with Mona could drag on forever. She didn't need that. She pulled on her boots and a rain jacket and walked down to the car. She was getting used to having a car. That was dangerous. When Anna came back, Linda would have to start walking places again. When she couldn't borrow her dad's car. She drove out of the city and stopped at a gas station. A man at the next pump nodded to her. She recognized his face without being able to place him until she was standing in line at the cashier's window. It was Sten Widén, her father's friend who had cancer.

“It's Linda, isn't it?”

His voice was hoarse and weak.

“Yes. Sten, right?”

He laughed, something that seemed to cost him an effort.

“I remember you as a little girl. And suddenly you're all grown. A police officer no less.”

“How are the horses?”

He didn't answer until she had finished paying and they were walking back to their cars.

“Your dad has probably told you what's going on,” Widén said. “I have cancer and I'm going to die soon. I'm selling the last of the horses next week. That's how it is. Good luck with your life.”

He didn't wait for an answer, just got into his muddy Volvo and drove away. Linda watched him leave and could only think one thing: how grateful she was that she wasn't the one selling her last horse.

 

She drove to Lestarp and parked by the church.
Someone must know,
she thought.
If Anna isn't here, where is she?
Linda pulled up the hood of her yellow rain jacket and hurried down the road behind the church. The yard to the house was deserted. The old tractor was wet and shiny from the rain. She banged on the front door and it swung open. But no one had opened it; it hadn't been properly closed. She called out, but no one answered. The house was empty, abandoned. Nothing was left. She saw that they had taken the black cross on the wall. It felt as if the house had been empty for a long time.