The Dangerous Game (27 page)

In a little antique shop, she’d found an old advertising sign for Göta chocolate. She had decided that was the perfect present. She didn’t want to go overboard this first Christmas. She needed to proceed cautiously. The situation was still so fragile.

She walked south across the bridge at Slussen and continued up Katarinavägen. Across the water to the east was Djurgården and the frozen ground of Gröna Lund with its roller-coaster, now motionless. It would be months before the ride was once again filled with people. From there, it was easy to see how narrow the lanes were in Gamla Stan, spreading out like octopus arms from Stortorget in the centre and down towards the wide avenue of Skeppsbron. The rooftops and ground were blanketed with snow, and all the church towers reached for the sky.

She took a detour through Vitaberg Park, which was bustling with life. Children were sledging down the steep slopes, laughing and shouting, and their parents seemed to be having as much fun as the kids. Some youngsters had launched themselves headlong down an ice slide, and she was alarmed to see them bouncing over a rock at the bottom.

Karin continued through the pleasant neighbourhood locally known as Sofo, meaning south of Folkungagatan. Quiet streets with hardly any traffic but plenty of small shops, cafés, bakeries and restaurants.

She finally found the café she was looking for. It was on a corner, only a stone’s throw from Katarina Church. In spite of the sign, which read ‘Closed on Christmas Eve’, the door was unlocked and a bell chimed as she stepped inside. Hanna popped up from behind the counter.

‘Hi, Karin!’

‘Hi! Merry Christmas!’

Hanna put down what she was holding.

‘I see you found the place all right.’

‘Sure. No problem. It’s amazing how beautiful Stockholm is. I’m more impressed every time I come here. I walked through Vitaberg Park.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Hanna with a laugh. ‘A big crowd over there, right? We went sledging in the park yesterday. It was great!’

They gave each other a hug. A quick and slightly awkward embrace.

‘So, have a seat. Would you like coffee?’

‘Please.’

Karin took off her cap, gloves and scarf, then removed her big anorak, looking around. The room had an intimate feel to it. The walls were painted warm colours, and the café was furnished with old, worn sofas and easy chairs. The lamps all had interesting shades from the fifties and sixties. And there were candles everywhere. Against one wall stood a long table where stacks of plates, glasses and cutlery had been placed. A copiously decorated Christmas tree stood in the corner with a big pile of presents underneath.

‘Looks like everything is ready for Christmas in here,’ she called to Hanna, who had disappeared into the kitchen.

‘You better believe it.’

‘Why aren’t you celebrating Christmas with your family?’

‘Mamma and Pappa are spending the holiday in Brazil. They invited me and Alex to come with them, but neither of us wanted to go. He has a new girlfriend, and so do I.’

Hanna came back from the kitchen carrying a coffee mug, but she wasn’t alone. She was holding hands with a young woman who Karin immediately recognized as Hanna’s friend from the restaurant on Mariaberget.

‘This is Kim,’ said Hanna, and Karin instantly understood. She stood up to shake hands.

‘Hi. I’m Karin. Hanna’s biological mother.’

This was the first time she’d introduced herself as Hanna’s mother. It felt good. Hanna handed her the coffee mug.

‘So tell me,’ said Karin, ‘what’s going to happen here in the café?’

‘Well, the thing is,’ Hanna began, ‘Kim and I had this idea to arrange a Christmas for the homeless instead of just sitting in the flat and enjoying ourselves in our nice, cosy, safe bubble. So we rang up Situation Stockholm and various shelters. But they told us that if there’s one day when the homeless don’t need more meatballs and ham sandwiches, it’s on Christmas Eve. Because so many of the churches in town organize a Christmas meal for them. So we asked ourselves: Who are the most needy in this society? Who are the ones that nobody ever thinks about? And we decided that it has to be women with children staying in residential shelters and LGBT refugees. There are a lot of gay young people from other countries in Stockholm, and they can’t go back home because of their sexual orientation. They’ve been disowned by their families. And then there are also all the illegal workers who are invisible in society and hounded by the police. So we’ve invited them here for a Christmas celebration. Could you possibly forget that you’re a cop for one night?’

‘That’s fine. Don’t worry,’ said Karin, smiling.

This wouldn’t be the first time she had broken the rules.

They went into the cramped kitchen, which was overflowing with food. Ovenproof dishes held potatoes
au gratin
, as well as the traditional casserole Jansson’s Temptation – sliced herring, potatoes and onions baked in cream. Next to them were multiple platters of pickled herring, salmon and boiled eggs. On the two hobs Karin saw meatballs frying in big pans and potatoes simmering in enormous pots. The kitchen benches were piled high with boxes of chocolates, cartons of table napkins and candles, tins of ginger biscuits, and loaves of sourdough and rye bread, along with packages of saffron buns.

‘How did you manage to collect all this food?’ asked Karin, impressed.

‘We asked for donations. You wouldn’t believe how generous people can be. We went around to the local supermarkets, bakeries, restaurants and shops. They showered us with food, and they also gave us a lot of really nice toys for the kids.’

‘And how did you find the people that you’ve invited?’

‘We have our contacts,’ said Hanna slyly.

They started setting out the food. It was just about time for the party to begin. A short time later, a red-bearded man with a shaved head and tattoos covering both arms appeared in the kitchen doorway.

‘Merry Christmas, girls. Anything to eat for a guy before we get started?’

Hanna gave him a hug and introduced him to Karin.

‘This is Mats. He’s going to be our doorman for tonight. You never know who might try to barge their way in. A lot of the women are scared to go out because their husbands may come after them. And there’s always a risk that some drunk might turn up. Since there are going to be children here, we can’t have any heavy drinking going on.’

She filled a plate with meatballs, beetroot salad and potatoes and handed Mats a Christmas beer.

‘Here you are, Mats. But you’ll need to sit out there in the café. As much as we love your company, you’ll just be in the way here in the kitchen.’

An hour later, the first guests arrived. A short, dark-haired woman with four children of varying ages stopped outside the big café window that faced the street. She paused to glance in both directions before stepping inside. She had a frightened look in her eyes, and she seemed nervous. The children were well-dressed but silent, their expressions solemn. Much to Karin’s surprise, Hanna began speaking fluent Spanish with the family. The woman’s face lit up, and for a moment she seemed to forget her fear. It turned out that they were from Chile, and the woman had been abused and harassed by her ex-husband. After he threatened to kill both her and the children, they’d gone to stay at the shelter for battered women a few blocks away. Now, she’d mustered enough courage to venture out to attend this Christmas party, for the sake of her kids, who ranged in age from five to fifteen. Their eyes opened wide when they saw all the food and the big pile of presents under the tree.

Hanna pointed at the various dishes arranged on the buffet, and Karin assumed that she was explaining what they were. The woman held the hand of her youngest child. She murmured and nodded, constantly casting wary glances out of the window. After a while she seemed to relax, and they helped themselves to the food. Karin sat down at a table with them. The woman spoke only broken Swedish, but the kids were fluent in the language and had almost no accent, even though they gave only brief answers to Karin’s questions.

People dropped in all evening. A few men, but mostly women and children living under assumed names. Three gay guys who looked to be no more than eighteen or nineteen sat down next to Karin. They wore elegant trousers and neatly pressed shirts. They told her that they were from Iraq and had been forced to flee; their lives had been threatened because of their sexual orientation. It wasn’t immediately obvious that they’d been disowned by their families and were all alone in the world. But it was impossible to miss the sorrow in their eyes.

There were refugees from Eritrea, Pakistan, Iran and Afghanistan – all of them now stateless and unable to return home. And several Swedish women who were victims of domestic violence and who now lived in shelters in the city. Several Finnish women turned up with a big group of kids who were excited about the Christmas tree and all the treats, happy to be with adults who were kind to them.

Hanna was a big hit as Santa, handing out presents, to the delight of the children. Karin watched her as she sat with two kids on her lap, chatting with them in incomprehensible Spanish.

And she’s my daughter, thought Karin.

THE DANCE FLOOR
was crowded in the venerable restaurant Munkkällaren, which was located on Stora Torget in Visby. There were no traces of a peaceful Christmas celebration. The bar was filled with youths who’d been drinking heavily and had a great need to party with their friends after spending so much time with all their relatives during the holiday. The loudspeakers were reverberating with throbbing rock music that was as far from tranquil Christmas carols as you could get. Christmas Day was a big party day for all the Gotland young people – both those who had left the island to work or study on the mainland and had now returned to celebrate Christmas, and those who still lived here. It was an opportunity to get together and catch up on what everyone had been doing since summer. To hang out with friends they seldom saw any more.

Of course, most of them were familiar with what had been happening in Jenny Levin’s life. She had enjoyed remarkable success, and the island was a small place; everyone talked about it whenever someone from Gotland became nationally known. And the shocking incident on Furillen, in which Jenny had played a key role, had naturally led to an explosion of magazine and newspaper articles over the past month. Her name and photo had figured in countless tabloids, and rumours were rampant on the internet. The attention only escalated after Robert Ek was murdered. The press devoted endless column space to speculation in which her name constantly appeared. Even though Jenny was afraid of running into reporters, she wasn’t about to break with tradition and decline to go out with her friends on Christmas Day. She refused to allow her evening to be ruined. It was one of the high points of the year. Besides, the journalists probably didn’t frequent Munkkällaren, which was the sacrosanct rendezvous for young people on Christmas Day.

Although, this year, things seemed different. It was noticeable the moment Jenny walked in the door. She had been careful to dress simply and with very little make-up so as not to give the impression of a diva. Yet everyone knew who she was, and she was aware that they were all staring at her. Her old friends tried to treat her the same way they always had, but she could still see what they were thinking. Had all the success and celebrity gone to her head? Was she really the same old Jenny? She realized that this was only natural, and she would have reacted the same way in their place, so she tried to relax and have fun. She recognized a lot of people, but most were merely acquaintances or friends of friends. The guys seemed even shyer than the girls and hardly dared come near her, though she could see the admiring look in their eyes. As if she were some sort of unapproachable icon. No doubt that would change with the increased alcohol intake.

Several times during the evening a girl that Jenny remembered from school looked in her direction, as if she wanted to talk to her but didn’t dare. She was attractive and petite, with long blonde hair. She was standing at the bar with a glass of white wine, talking to some friends, but she kept glancing at Jenny. Finally, it became so obvious that Jenny went over to her.

‘Hi. Do we know each other?’

The girl looked both surprised and embarrassed.

‘No, we don’t. We both went to the same secondary school, but I was a year behind you, so …’

‘Oh, okay.’ Then Jenny introduced herself and they shook hands.

‘My name’s Malin,’ said the girl, smiling uncertainly.

‘I had a feeling that you wanted to talk to me, but maybe I was mistaken.’

‘No, you’re right. I do want to. Talk to you, that is. Is that all right?’

‘Of course.’ Jenny felt both curious and uneasy.

‘Could we sit down over there?’

Malin pointed to another room that wasn’t as noisy.

‘Sure.’

They sat down on a sofa. Malin’s expression was completely different now as she turned towards Jenny.

‘Do you know Agnes? Agnes Karlström?’

AGNES IS EXAMINING
her hands and arms as she waits for the first therapy session after Christmas. Her veins are big and very noticeable. They swell up if a person doesn’t eat. And her whole body is covered with downy hair. Like a little monkey. When a person is starving, hair grows out of their pores. It’s probably some sort of protective mechanism. She has started fretting about her appearance. At home, she had a shock when she saw herself in the mirror, since there are no mirrors on the ward. Her face wasn’t so bad, but her body looked awful. The sunken chest, jutting bones and vertebrae; her gaunt shoulders, which made her think of starving children in Africa; her hips and the swollen little belly that she knows in her heart is not a result of fat but because the musculature of her body can no longer hold up her intestines, so they’ve sunk down into a heap at the bottom of her abdomen. She doesn’t want to look like this.

Her reverie is interrupted as Per opens the door to invite her into his new office, which is at the very end of the corridor and much bigger than the one he had before. She feels warmth sweep through her at the sight of him.