The Farm (15 page)

‘What could he say? He caught me in the barn beside the motor. It was in his interest not to draw attention to the boat.’

My point was a wider one:

‘It sounds like the two of you just stopped talking.’

I was about to push my question further when my mum raised her hand, silencing me and saying:

‘You’re asking about our relationship?’

‘Forty years together can’t fall apart in a few months.’

‘It can take far less time than that. You crave security, Daniel. You always have. Let me tell you. There is none. A great friendship can be swept aside in an evening, a lover changed into an enemy with a single admission.’

It was, on one level, a warning – this would happen to us if I didn’t believe her account. She said:

‘Your father and I were both pretending. I was pretending to be ignorant of Teardrop Island. He was pretending not to have noticed how serious my investigation had become.’

My mum picked up her journal, looking for a specific entry:

‘Let me give you an example.’

Glancing at the pages, I saw the notes were becoming considerably more detailed.

On 10 June I woke early, skipped breakfast, and cycled to the station, catching the first train into the city of Gothenburg. I was going on a journey and I had no intention of telling Chris. Normally we’d discuss everything, but it was necessary to keep this a secret since my plan was to visit Cecilia and ask about Teardrop Island in person, not speak over a phone line, scared that Chris might hear, but to put to her these questions directly – why had she left me the boat, what were her suspicions, what was she not telling me?

Cecilia had moved into a care home in Gothenburg, a city with many difficult memories for me. I’d lived there for a few months as a teenager, scratching together enough money to buy a boat passage to Germany. During those months I’d worked as a waitress in a hotel café on Kungsportsavenyn – the main promenade. I pictured the police searching for me, having decided to charge me with Freja’s murder. I lived like a fugitive. I cut my hair short, changed my clothes, and created a false name. I remember once serving a customer coffee on the terrace and seeing a pair of police officers on patrol. My arm trembled so much that I spilled coffee over the customer and was reprimanded by my manager, saved only because men liked to flirt with me and they’d leave large tips, which the manager always pocketed for himself.

Arriving in the city that morning, I decided to walk to the care home. It saved me some money, the sun was on my side, and I wanted to pass the café on Kungsportsavenyn because I wasn’t a scared young woman any more. The home was on the outskirts, across the bridge, a great distance from the centre. I walked all the way, wondering what Cecilia was going to say. The building was welcoming. There were well-tended gardens, an ornamental pond surrounded by benches where people sat and chatted. Inside, the communal areas were clean, the reception was tidy, and the woman at the desk friendly. When I introduced myself I asked if Cecilia had many visitors. The woman confided in me that she’d had none, not one, not a single visitor in her entire time at the home. I was angry at this news. We’d been made to swallow a story about community and togetherness. How could no one have visited this woman? It was a cruel exile. Håkan was punishing her for not selling him the farm. He’d decreed she should be left without the smallest gesture of kindness.

Cecilia was seated in her room, her knees up against the radiator, looking out into the garden. She wasn’t reading or watching the television. She was just sitting there. She might have been like that for hours. There’s something heartbreaking about a person indoors staring out into a sunny garden. As for the room, it was anonymous. With two hours’ work it could be made ready for someone new. This wasn’t a home. It was a place of transit – a waiting room between life and death. We couldn’t speak here. I had to remind her of the outside world. We’d talk in the garden. As I crouched beside her, I was struck by the changes in her body. When we’d met on her farm she was physically frail but strong in spirit. Her eyes were bright and her mind was sharp. Now when she looked at me her eyes were watery as if her character had been diluted with a thousand parts of nothing. But she recognised me, which was a relief, and she agreed to sit with me by the pond.

A court might query the credibility of Cecilia’s testimony. I accept that her level of awareness varied – at times she could engage directly, at other times her thoughts were elsewhere and questioning required patience. I allowed for diversions and tangents, coaxing her towards the mystery of why she’d sold me that farm. Without prompting, she asked if I’d discovered the truth about Anne-Marie, the wife of the hermit in the field. It was a subject I hadn’t even mentioned! I summarised all that I knew – she’d been religious, she stitched biblical quotes, she’d died and her husband seemed devastated by the loss. Cecilia was greatly irritated with my ignorance, as though I’d failed her. She said: ‘Anne-Marie killed herself.’

Caught by a wave of lucidity, Cecilia told me the story. Anne-Marie had been aged forty-nine with no medical history of depression. Cecilia loved her as a friend, a woman she’d known for many years. This good-natured friend had woken one morning, showered, changed into her work clothes, walked out of the farmhouse, into the pig barn, ready for a day’s work. Either something awful was discovered or something awful took shape in her mind, because she tied a rope from the beams. She hanged herself at first light while her husband was sleeping. Ulf had come downstairs for breakfast, seen the open barn door, and was sure the pigs must have escaped. He’d rushed out of the house, across the yard, into the barn to save the pigs, only to discover all the animals in the far corner, bunched together. It was at this point, so the official version goes, that he turned around and saw his wife. There was no note, no explanation, no warning, and no financial worries.

According to Cecilia the response was typical of the community, swallowing bad news in the same way an ocean might swallow a sinking ship. They’d slaughtered the pigs as if they were witnesses to a crime. They’d dismantled the barn beam by beam. At Anne-Marie’s funeral Cecilia had touched Håkan’s arm and asked him why, not as an accusation but as a melancholy question that only God could answer. Håkan had angrily shaken her off, saying he had no idea. Maybe he didn’t have any idea, but he also had few qualms about profiting from her death. Håkan expanded his kingdom, taking over Ulf’s land. He’d presented it as an act of charity, helping a grief-stricken man.

Cecilia had been speaking for some time. Her lips were dry and cracked. Concerned that I was tiring her, I instructed her to remain on the bench while I fetched some refreshments. It was a decision I will always regret. I should never have interrupted her flow. When I returned with a coffee she was gone. The bench was empty. I saw a crowd forming around the pond. Cecilia was standing in the middle of the water. The level was up to her waist. She seemed quite calm. Her arms were crossed across her breasts. Her wet, white care-home dress had turned translucent, reminding me of a river baptism, waiting for the priest to lower her under the water. Instead, a male nurse rushed in, putting an arm around Cecilia and scooping her up. She can’t have weighed very much. I followed them into the nursing home, where they hurried her off for a medical examination. Making the most of the distraction, I returned to her room, searching it from top to bottom, amazed at how few items she possessed. Her belongings must have been sold. In the drawers there were books, but only children’s stories, no Bible and no novels that I could see. In her wardrobe I found this leather satchel. Cecilia was once a schoolteacher and I supposed she used it for carrying textbooks. I stole it because I needed a bag, not an impractical handbag, but a decent-sized bag that could accommodate my notes and any evidence—

• • •

M
UM AND I STOOD UP
at the same time, reacting to the noise of someone trying to enter the apartment. The front door had been opened. We heard it catch against the chain, loudly at first, then softly as a more cautious second attempt was made. I’d seen my mum take the security chain off at my request, but she must have reattached it when my back was turned, convinced that my dad would make an unannounced return. Downstairs a hand could be heard fumbling at the chain, reaching around the door, trying to unbolt it. My mum cried out:

‘He’s here!’

In a scramble she began packing up the evidence. Working fast, she returned each piece of evidence to its place in the satchel. She slotted the smaller items into the front pockets, the larger items, including the rusted steel box, into the rear, highly ordered with no wasted space. It was clear that she’d done this before, keeping her evidence mobile and ready to move at a moment’s notice. My mum glanced at the access door to the roof garden:

‘We need another way out!’

My dad had tricked us. He’d lied, flying direct, arriving sooner, catching us by surprise just as my mum had claimed – these were my initial thoughts, affected by the intensity of my mum’s reaction. However, I discounted this explanation. My dad didn’t have keys. The only person it could be was Mark.

With the satchel packed, my mum was ready to throw it over her shoulder. I put my hand on top of it, stopping her escape:

‘It’s not Dad.’

‘It’s him!’

‘Mum, it’s not. It’s not him. Please, wait here.’

I snapped at her, unable to remain calm, gesturing for my mum to remain where she was, doubtful she’d obey. I hurried downstairs and into the hallway. Mark was no longer struggling with the door but wedging it open with his foot while holding his phone, about to ring me. I’d failed to keep him informed, completely caught up in my mum’s account. I should’ve guessed his reaction – he’d already expressed his concern that I was on my own. In a hushed voice, I said:

‘I’m sorry I didn’t call, but this is a bad time.’

I hadn’t intended to sound aggressive. It took Mark by surprise. I was panicking; after years of my carefully constructed deceit, the entire rotten structure was set to collapse before I’d had a chance to carefully stage-manage its demise. No longer in control, I waved him back, pushing the door shut, taking the chain off, opening it fully. Mark was about to speak when he paused, looking over my shoulder.

My mum was standing at the far end of the hallway, clasping her satchel. In the front pocket of her jeans I could see the outline of the wooden knife. The three of us stood motionless, with no one speaking. In the end, my mum took a small step closer, observing Mark’s expensive suit and shoes, asking:

‘Are you a doctor?’

Mark shook his head:

‘No.’

Normally polite and chatty, Mark could offer no more than a monosyllabic response, unsure what I wanted him to say.

‘Did Chris send you?’

‘I live here.’

I added:

‘This is Mark. It’s his apartment.’

I realised, too late, what a meagre introduction it was after years of waiting to introduce him to my parents. My choice of words made him sound more like a landlord than a lover. My mum’s attention had moved from his clothes to his face. She said:

‘My name is Tilde. I’m Daniel’s mum.’

Mark smiled, about to move forward, but he checked himself, sensing the precarious balance of emotions.

‘It’s good to meet you, Tilde.’

For some reason my mum didn’t like the way he used her name. She took a small step back. Controlling her nervousness, she said:

‘Would you like us to go somewhere else?’

‘You’re welcome to stay as long as you like.’

‘Are you staying?’

Mark shook his head:

‘No, give me a minute and I’ll be gone.’

My mum stared at him. In any other circumstances it would’ve been impolite. Mark held her stare with a placid smile. My mum dropped her gaze to the floor, adding:

‘I’ll wait upstairs.’

Before leaving the hallway, my mum gave Mark a final look, ever so slightly tilting her head to the side, as if correcting her view of the world.

We waited in silence as my mum slowly climbed the stairs, listening to her heavy steps. Alone, I turned to Mark. The encounter I’d dreaded for so long had taken place in a way I could never have imagined – my mum had met my partner and yet, not really, they’d exchanged names and looks. I’d offered more deceit, unable to say the words, ‘This is the man I live with,’ opting instead for ‘This man lives here.’ It wasn’t a lie but it was as weak as one. Mark was mournful about the exchange – he’d wanted so much more from the occasion. Speaking in a low voice, he brushed aside his own emotions and asked:

‘How is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

I saw no point in summarising my conversation so far. He said:

‘Dan, I needed to be sure you were okay.’

He would never have come here merely to be involved, or because he felt left out. He was here as a precaution against the possibility of disaster, hedging against the chance that I’d lost control of the situation. He and my mum would’ve agreed that I was untested in difficult waters. I nodded:

‘You were right to come back. But I can manage.’

Mark was unconvinced:

‘What’s your plan?’

‘I’m going to finish listening, then make a decision about whether she needs treatment. Or whether we need to talk to the police.’