The Double Silence (26 page)

But she was both of those things. She had long, shiny dark hair, very straight. A pale, heart-shaped face with freckles, and a dimple in her chin. Brown eyes with thick lashes. Nice teeth, although they were seldom seen because she almost never smiled or laughed.

The only time I remember her ever being truly happy was when she petted animals, especially the puppy that she received on her sixteenth birthday. She loved that dog with all her heart. More than she loved any people. Definitely more than Pappa, but me and Mamma too. I’m very sure about that. She said that deep inside people were evil. I didn’t like it when she talked that way. Emilia often talked about death. She claimed not to be afraid of dying; she said she viewed death as a friend that could set her free whenever she chose. Her words scared me. I didn’t understand. She noticed and would always try to reassure me. It made me happy when she showed that she cared about me, but that rarely happened. Yet in her heart I’m sure that she was fond of me. At least it makes me feel good to think so. Now. After the fact.

She was four years older than me. The age difference was probably
the reason why we were never really close. I looked up to her, the way a little sister usually does. Emilia could do everything better than I could. Skating, riding, cycling. She could bake sponge cakes and blow-dry her hair. She did better at school too; she was more diligent. Emilia loved school. She almost always got all the answers right in exams. She used to sit in the kitchen and do her homework while Mamma cooked dinner. She often asked me to test her, and she could answer all the questions. Sometimes it felt as if she just wanted to show off in front of me, to let me know how much she knew. Sometimes I wonder why she felt the need to do that. Maybe she was trying to prove something to herself. Emilia never stayed home from school, no matter how sick she might be. Even when she had a fever and Mamma said she should stay in bed, she would refuse. I really didn’t understand what attracted her to school. She was four years ahead of me, but when we were still going to the same school, I would sometimes see her at break, and she was usually alone. Occasionally I would go to the cafeteria when she was there, and she would be sitting on her own at a table. I pretended not to see her so as not to embarrass her or myself. I was always surrounded by friends; you might even say that I was terribly popular, but nobody ever sought out my sister. I don’t recall that ever happening the entire time she was in school. So I felt sorry for her, but also powerless to do anything. I wanted to help her, invite her to come with me and my friends. But it was hard for me to do anything, since I was so much younger. I didn’t want to upset her. And now, when I think back on it, I sometimes wonder whether her loneliness was of her own making. She deliberately withdrew. She seemed to have no interest in being with other people. And after Mamma gave her that puppy as a birthday present, it seemed as if she didn’t need anyone else. The dog followed her everywhere she went and slept in her bed every night.

That was probably the only period when I saw my sister really happy.

ON THE FOLLOWING
Sunday morning Karin awoke with a jolt. She’d been dreaming that she’d met Hanna, but when she told her daughter who she was, Hanna had run off. Karin tried to follow, but never managed to catch up with her.

She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and unable to go back to sleep. She was thinking about all those lost years.

She wondered what sort of upbringing her daughter’s adoptive parents had given her. At least it seemed likely that they’d had plenty of money, considering their upper-class surname, so Hanna probably hadn’t wanted for anything in that sense. Karin hoped that she’d received as much love as she had material things. She wondered whether Hanna knew that she was adopted and, if so, why she hadn’t made an effort to look for her biological parents. Was it because she was afraid of what she might find? That they might be drug addicts or criminals? That she was the produce of incest or some form of sexual assault? And the latter assumption was actually the truth of the matter.

Karin was terrified by the idea of telling her what happened, and she’d been considering other options in order to spare her daughter the truth. Would it be possible to lessen the trauma of the event in some way?

She still broke out in a cold sweat whenever she thought back on that moment. How long did the rape actually last? Ten minutes? Maybe fifteen? Fifteen minutes out of a whole lifetime.

The riding teacher’s assault had caused suffering that had lasted all her life. First the nine months of her pregnancy. The nausea in the mornings.
The shame, the humiliation. This was the riding teacher who had taught her the half-pass and collected gaits with military precision at the riding school. He had tackled her to the floor of his living room with all the happy family photographs hanging on the walls above them. Then he had forced his way into her next to the TV and coffee table where his family gathered in the evening. There he had robbed her of her virginity. And a significant portion of her life. Sometimes the hatred would surge inside her so strongly that the world turned black. It was lucky that the riding teacher had died before she turned twenty. Otherwise she might have murdered him.

In some ways it felt as if she were living her life in a straitjacket, and she could never be rid of it. A corset tied tight with strings from the past. At long last she had decided that there was only one means of escape. She had to contact her daughter and find out who she was.

Finally she gave up any attempt to go back to sleep. She got out of bed, made a pot of strong coffee, and took a shower. After breakfast she decided to go out. It was a beautiful day, and she was restless with impatience. She thought about the circle of friends from Terra Nova. What was it about those people? Bergman seemed to be somehow connected everywhere she looked, but it was among the group itself that she’d find the answer. Two of them were dead, and none of the others seemed able to contribute any concrete information that might carry the investigation forward.

Jacobsson had been to Terra Nova only once after Dahlberg was murdered. She glanced at her watch. Eleven fifteen. The perfect time to take a bike ride out there.

Quickly she tied her shoelaces and left the flat.

When she reached the other side of the wall, she realized that she’d left her mobile back home on charge, but she resisted an impulse to turn around. People used to get along just fine without mobile phones, and she wouldn’t be gone long.

She passed Lindh’s big nursery and turned on to Norra Glasmästargatan. She pedalled slowly along the road, looking at the houses and gardens, each one more beautifully tended than the last. She stopped in the middle of the development, in the small car park. There she got off her bike,
locked it, and looked around. The Dahlberg family home looked empty and dreary. Jacobsson walked around the cul-de-sac and then continued along the deserted street. Anyone who hadn’t left on holiday was probably spending the hot day at the seaside.

The police had done several interviews with the four people in the Terra Nova group who had survived the holiday trip, but without any significant results. For once the police had taken the unusual step of questioning the older children, too, asking them both about their parents’ activities and what they thought of the apparent harmony among neighbours in the area. Unfortunately, this hadn’t produced anything of interest. The colleagues, grandparents and siblings of those involved had also been interviewed. The more time that passed, the wider the investigative circle had been expanded from the core group. Maybe it’s time to broaden our approach beyond Terra Nova, thought Jacobsson. Maybe we should talk to people outside the inner circle. Maybe there’s somebody who wanted to become a member but was pushed aside. Somebody who was so upset by this that he or she wanted revenge.

It wasn’t unreasonable to think that those who remained might be threatened, but so far no one other than Andrea seemed to need police protection.

Jacobsson reached the end of Norra Glasmästargatan. The three couples involved in the case lived ridiculously close to each other in their houses on the small cul-de-sac. Andrea and Sam owned a large wooden house in the early-twentieth-century style; then came Beata and John’s house, which was the biggest and most ostentatious, built of white sand-lime brick; and finally the home belonging to Håkan and Stina, painted a pale lavender with blue trim around the doors and windows. The outbuilding was the same lavender colour. Jacobsson looked at the house, feeling great sympathy for Håkan. He had completely fallen apart after Stina’s body had been found, and he was still in the psychiatric ward of the hospital. He was willing to talk only to his children and his first wife, Ingrid. No one else seemed able to get through to him. The police interview would have to wait until his condition improved.

Next she thought about Beata and John. He was American, and she
was a red-haired, long-legged Barbie doll who seemed absurdly naive. Jacobsson had met them before since they belonged to Emma Winarve’s social circle. Five years ago she had questioned them in connection with the murder of Emma’s best friend, Helena Hillerström, who had fallen victim to a killer. They had also been friends with Helena. What a strange coincidence, mused Jacobsson, but her thoughts were interrupted by someone tapping her on the shoulder. She gave a start and turned around to see a man in his forties with a Dalmatian puppy on a lead. The man looked friendly and agreeable.

‘Can I help you with anything?’

His hair was cut short and smoothed down with gel. He had a gentle yet manly face with high cheekbones, a distinctive jawline with the trace of stubble, and widely spaced eyes that were slightly slanted, which gave his face character. He had a sensitive mouth, which looked both resolute and tender in a way that made him seem unusually attractive to Jacobsson. His voice was dry and a bit gruff. She was surprised by her own reaction, feeling almost weak at the knees as she stood there. The puppy leaped around her, wagging its little tail. She squatted down and let the dog jump up and lick her face.

‘Oh, what a sweet little guy,’ she exclaimed. ‘How old is he?’

‘Nine weeks. I just got him.’

‘He’s fantastic. He really is. What’s his name?’

‘Baloo. Like the bear in
The Jungle Book
.’

Jacobsson stood up and looked at the man.

‘Do you live around here?’

‘Yes. Over there, in the last house. The yellow one.’

She saw a lovely wooden house with white trim set slightly back from the street. The property was surrounded by a tall lilac hedge.

Jacobsson showed him her police ID and introduced herself.

‘Karin Jacobsson. Police detective.’

‘Janne Widén. Photographer. I know who you are. I recognized you.’

Jacobsson noticed to her chagrin that her cheeks were hot. A grown-up woman, standing here and blushing.

‘Is that right? Well, I’m here with regard to the murders, you know.
I was thinking of talking to some of the neighbours. Do you have a moment?’

‘Absolutely. I just need to give Baloo some water. He’s dying of thirst in this heat. Would you like to come over and have a cup of coffee?’

Jacobsson hesitated for a few seconds. But why not? She might find out something important. And that’s why she was here, after all. To meet people in the area who weren’t connected to the group of friends.

‘OK.’

They went through an iron gate between the lilacs. A grey sports car was parked in the drive. The man led the way around the side of the house. At the back was a wooden deck and a lawn facing the woods. There the lilac hedge continued, shielding the garden from view.

‘How lovely,’ said Jacobsson, and she meant it.

‘Thanks. Have a seat. Would you like coffee or something cold to drink, or both?’

‘I’d like something cold. Water would be fine.’

Jacobsson sat down in one of the armchairs on the terrace. A large umbrella provided shade from the sun. The puppy was trying hard to jump on to her lap. Janne Widén quickly returned with a tray holding a carafe of iced water and two glasses. He set down a bowl for the dog, who eagerly began lapping up the water.

‘How long have you lived here?’ asked Jacobsson as she raised the frosty glass to her lips.

‘Over ten years.’ He gave her a crooked smile. ‘Just like everybody else, I moved here when the development was newly built. Back then I had a wife and kids, and we thought this place was perfect. Unfortunately, the marriage didn’t last. We got divorced five years ago. The children moved with my wife to the mainland.’

‘But you chose to stay here?’

‘I have my business here, and I love this house, in fact the whole neighbourhood, even though it might not seem like anything special to an outsider. But it has a particular atmosphere that makes it hard to move away.’

‘Atmosphere?’

‘Yes, a sort of community spirit, or whatever you want to call it. Everyone helps everyone else, and we all care about each other. You’re never alone unless you want to be. I thought that was especially nice after I got divorced. I was used to having a house full of kids and their friends, and suddenly it was empty. The children wanted to live with my wife when she moved in with her sister, who runs a kennel. The kids love dogs; they always have. Baloo is from there too. I try to see them as often as possible, of course. I’m a freelance photographer, so I can set my own schedule.’

Jacobsson was surprised by the man’s candour. She hadn’t asked about his personal life. She took a couple more sips of her iced water.

‘This sense of community spirit that you mentioned seems to work well around here.’

The man sitting across from her laughed.

‘Well, some people show more community spirit than others.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I’m referring to that group over there in the cul-de-sac – because I assume that they’re the ones you’re interested in. And they’ve always been rather extreme.’

‘In what way?’

‘A lot of us think that they’ve gone a bit overboard. They do everything together and always check with each other before making a decision. Almost as if they have to apologize if they want to have dinner with someone outside the gang, or if one family books a trip without consulting the others first. They just really seem to go too far.’