Sail of Stone (22 page)

“Dare to visit Anette again? If you can call it that. Is that what you think? What the police think? That it’s enough to write up some papers that say he can’t see her, and that somehow you’ll scare him by talking to him? You don’t know him.”

She was expressing genuine frustration, there was no doubt about that.

But there was also something else.

In the background there was something else. It wasn’t just about the man, about Hans Forsblad. Aneta could feel that, see that.

“That’s exactly why,” she answered. “To see what he’s like.”

“I can tell you that here and now,” said Signe. “He is dangerous. He doesn’t give up. He is obsessed, or whatever you call it. He doesn’t want to accept that Anette doesn’t want to live with him. Doesn’t want to accept it. Do you understand? He can’t get it into his head!” She turned out toward the sea again, as though to gather her strength; she made a motion. “It’s like he’s completely crazy.”

“Why haven’t you contacted the police?” asked Aneta.

Signe didn’t seem to be listening, and Aneta repeated the question.

“I don’t know.”

She hasn’t mentioned that her husband called me, thought Aneta. Maybe she doesn’t know. Maybe that’s not what this is about.

“Were you afraid to?”

“No.”

“Did he threaten you?”

“Yes.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t want … it doesn’t matter … it could …”

Aneta tried to put together the pieces of what Signe Lindsten said. It was her job, a part of it, these broken sentences that people spoke out of fear, panic, sometimes with ulterior motives, sometimes out of sorrow, out of schadenfreude, in the effort to come up with the most believable lie. Splintered words that were barely coherent, and she had to unite those words, make them coherent so that she understood, so that someone understood.

Most of the time it was like this. Ragged words spoken by a frightened person.

I
t was so good at first,” said Signe Lindsten.

Something happened to her face when she said it. As though the memory lifted her features, as though happy memories could smooth out faces. First comes the sun and then comes the rain and all that crap. Every cloud has a silver lining. All of that. Aneta couldn’t see any of those clouds outside because everything was clouds over the bay and the cliffs and the sand and the shore; no silver linings anywhere, only a flash of light here and there in the middle of the mass of stone.

“He seemed so nice,” said Signe.

I hate that word, thought Aneta. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s a false word. Look what happened here.

“It usually starts like that,” said Aneta.

“I have a wedding picture,” said Signe. “I don’t have it here.”

“Does Anette have any siblings?”

“No.”

She thought of the man who had claimed to be Anette’s brother. One of the thieves. Who was he? And his “dad”? I haven’t asked Anette’s mom.

She described what they looked like to Signe, who said, “What on earth?”

“Didn’t your husband tell you about this?”

“No …”

“Doesn’t that surprise you?”

“It does, yes, but he probably didn’t want to worry me.”

“Has he told Anette?”

“How should I know? If he had, I would have known about it too, right?”

Good. She gets it.

“Have you seen any injuries on Anette?”

Signe didn’t answer.
This
is going to be really difficult, thought Aneta. It’s going to be vague. She can talk about threats in a vague way, but not about the concrete details, not yet. It’s almost always like this. It almost doesn’t surprise me anymore. The woman’s fear is transferred to the family. Suddenly they start to stick together about the fear. Won’t let anyone in.

The only one who can be let in is the one who causes the fear. It’s a paradox. There’s always hope that it will get better and that all the fear will go away, and the only one who can make it stop is him, the one who was so damn nice at first, if only he has this one last chance one more time, and sometimes he gets it, and after that it might all be over.

Death might be the only thing left. She had seen it. I’ve seen what that last chance can lead to. Sometimes there doesn’t even need to be a last chance. She saw Signe Lindsten’s tormented face. It told her that this would end but that it would not end well.

Away with that thought. This case will be solved. I’m standing here, right?

“You don’t need to be afraid, Mrs. Lindsten.”

“You can call me Signe.”

“You don’t need to be afraid to tell me how it is, Signe, or how it was.”

May the Lord bless you and keep you. May the Lord let his face shine over you. May the Lord have mercy on you. Did she need mercy, the woman before her? What kind of mercy? The Lord’s mercy? Aneta suddenly thought of her father. The man of many gods, at least sometimes. Had she asked him about the concept of mercy in his world? She would call him and try to talk on the hopeless telephone lines to inner Africa. Soon satellite telephones would be the only solution, the only thing that worked in the interior. Swipe one from the storeroom, Fredrik had said.

Signe Lindsten was just about to say something when they heard a car outside. Aneta saw that the woman recognized the sound. Her face didn’t change much. Her expression was the same when they heard a man’s voice in the hall.

She didn’t light up. His face doesn’t shine over her, thought Aneta.

He came into the kitchen.

“Oh, here you are!”

Aneta nodded.

“We must have passed each other,” said Sigge Lindsten.

“You called, but you weren’t there when I arrived,” said Aneta.

“No, that’s how it goes,” said Lindsten, perhaps by way of apology.

“Did Anette come down with you?” asked Aneta.

“No.”

“You said earlier that she was here, but she’s not.”

“Yes, I did say that, yes. In the end she decided to stay home.”

“Home? Home in the house in Gothenburg?”

“That’s her home now.”

“I would like to talk to her,” said Aneta.

“Let her decide for herself,” said Lindsten.

“That’s why I would at least like to contact her.”

“You can try to call,” said Lindsten.

Aneta saw that his wife was trying to say something again, but she stopped and began to walk away, out toward the hall. Her husband nodded toward her. Neither of them said anything.

It’s some kind of act.

“I don’t think we’ll have any more problems now,” said Lindsten.

“You can file a report,” said Aneta.

“It’s not necessary.”

“We can do a crime-scene investigation,” said Aneta.

“Where?”

Preferably not in the house in Fredriksdal, she thought. That would mean that another crime had been committed.

“In the apartment in Kortedala,” she said.

“There’s not really anything to investigate there. Not anymore.”

“I got the impression before that you wanted to cooperate on this,” said Aneta.

“I don’t think we’ll have any more problems now,” repeated Sigge Lindsten.

Moa Ringmar dropped one boot in the hall, and then one more. Her father got bread and butter and cheese out of the fridge, smoked sausage, cucumber.

“It’s possible to arrange boots nicely,” he said.

“Come on, Dad.”

“When you hear the sound of one boot fall on the floor, there’s no peace until you hear the other one too,” he said.

“Well then, you got your peace right away just now,” she said.

“I was thinking more of when you’re sitting in a hotel room and you can hear the people in the room above,” he said.

“And how often does that happen?”

“As yet it hasn’t happened,” he said.

She laughed and asked if he’d been home for long. She cut a slice of cheese and put it in her mouth.

“I’ve been home long enough to have time to admire our neighbor’s yard art,” he said.

“You have to let it go, Dad.”

“He’s alive, isn’t he?”

She sat down.

“I may have found an apartment.”

“Hallelujah.”

“I knew you’d be sad.”

“Yes. But I’m thinking of your happiness.”

“It’s serious when kids live at home when they’re twenty-five,” said Moa.

“It’s only been temporary,” said Ringmar. “We actually wrote you off four years ago.”

“Good thing Mom can’t hear this.”

“You’re not bugged?” said Ringmar.

“Do you do that at work?”

“No,” Ringmar lied. “It’s illegal.”

“Are you telling the truth?”

“Yes,” Ringmar lied. He spooned the tea leaves into the filter of the teapot and poured in the water and placed the pot on the table. “What apartment?”

“Two and a half rooms. Really nice but maybe not the best location.”

“What is the best location?”

“I would say … Vasastan.”

“Vasastan? That’s where the worst and loudest crowds are on the weekends. And all summer. Hell, no.”

“Erik lives there. Has he complained about loud crowds outside?”

“Only every day.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Erik Winter lives so high up among the clouds that he isn’t bothered by the damage below,” said Ringmar.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” said Moa. “Up in the clouds, the seventh floor.”

“Where is this apartment, then?”

“Kortedala.”

“Kortedala!”

“Better than Vasastan, isn’t it?”

“I’m speechless,” said Ringmar.

“You don’t have to say more than hallelujah,” said Moa.

“Kortedala,” repeated Ringmar, shaking his head.

“I’m not moving to the South Bronx or anything.”

“Martin was on his way to the Bronx,” said Ringmar.

“But he went with the Lower East Side.”

Ringmar nodded.

“Which used to be the worst neighborhood in Manhattan,” said Moa.

“Used to be, sure. Now only designers live there.”

“Like his neighbor?”

“I could sponsor a move for him,” said Ringmar.

“Maybe you could sponsor mine,” said Moa.

“Are you serious about this Kortedala thing, Moa?”

“Do you know how hard it is to find an apartment in Gothenburg? Do you know how long I’ve tried?”

“The answer to both questions is yes.”

“Then you’ve also answered your own.”

“Where is this nest? Kortedala is pretty big.”

She told him the address. It didn’t mean anything to him.

“How did you get wind of it?” asked Ringmar.

“Some girl in my class knew someone. I guess there was a guest lecturer who talked about how there might be something free and I got a phone number from this classmate and called, and, well, I might be able to rent it.”

“Secondhand?”

“I don’t actually know. Maybe at first. It was a little vague, I think. He sounded a little surprised when I called. They hadn’t taken out an ad or anything. Like I said, a little vague.”

“Doesn’t sound too promising.”

“Come on. It was a nice old guy who answered. His daughter’s the one who moved out of there. At least for now.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t actually ask.”

“What was the nice old man’s name, then? Would he give it out, or was that a little vague too?”

“Do you always have to be so suspicious, Dad? Either you seem to hate people or else you’re suspicious of them.”

She took out a little red notebook.

“Yes, unfortunately. I don’t want to say it’s an occupational hazard, but …,” said Ringmar.

“Sigge Lindsten,” she said, reading from the notebook. “The nice old man’s name is Sigge Lindsten.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Ringmar.

Aneta Djanali was given concise directions, and she walked around the hill to the car. Sigge Lindsten had offered to drive her there, but it was only a few hundred yards. Climbing back up the way she came was not something she wanted to do. It was dusk now. She didn’t want to get a twig through her eye.

She drove back on the narrow road. It was simpler with the powerful headlights. She didn’t meet anyone. She went by the pullout sign, which wasn’t any color at all now. She could hear the sea to her right.

Sigge Lindsten hadn’t revealed anything more. There’s something I don’t understand here. But it’s my job. You don’t understand and when everything is over you understand even less. No. It’s possible to understand. The problem is that it just gets worse then.

She had colleagues who refused to understand in order to avoid being neurotic. Neurosis was a concept that lived on within the force. Time could stand still in the force. Old values.

That wasn’t always wrong.

When she reached the paved route north, it was with the sense of returning to civilization. At the moment she welcomed it.

She turned after the stop sign and switched on her cell phone. She had wanted it to be turned off when she spoke to Sigge Lindsten. Something had told her that she would learn something important from that conversation. That something had been wrong. Or else she hadn’t understood.

Her voice mail beeped in irritation. She listened to the three messages, all of which were from Fredrik, and she saw that he’d also sent a text.

“It’s nice to call before you go off into the blue,” he had written by way of summary in his message to her.

And that was completely true. What if something had happened? Fredrik knew, and he had never practiced what he preached, and that had become dangerous.

But this is how she had wanted it to be this time.

She called.

“What the hell,” said Halders in greeting, since he had seen her number on his screen.

“Same to you,” she said.

“You’ve never done this before,” said Halders.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

“That’s what I should ask you.”

“I went down to the Lindstens’ beach house. Or cottage, rather.”

“For God’s sake, Aneta.”

“She wasn’t there. Anette.”

“You couldn’t know that.
He
could have been there.”

“He’s probably at his sister’s house now.”

“He has a sister?”

“Susanne Marke.”

“The Volvo broad?”

“She is a fanatic supporter of Hans Forsblad,” said Aneta.