The Farm (17 page)

I’d taken the decision to dress up in traditional Swedish folk dress, clasping a home-picked bunch of flowers, my hair tied into plaits. The use of my middle name had made me anxious. My outfit was an attempt to make myself a harmless figure of fun. If there were any suspicions that I was too close to the truth, this outfit would surely dispel them. They’d snigger at the woman wearing a blue dress and yellow apron. Chris protested that I was making a fool of myself. He couldn’t see how it would bring us closer to the community. He didn’t realise I’d given up on that ambition; it was a futile one and we’d never be considered one of them. More to the point, I didn’t want to be part of that group. Unable to articulate these reasons for my silly appearance, I was forced to rebuff Chris’s protests with unconvincing claims about how this was my first midsommar in Sweden for many years and I wanted to make the most of it. He was so frustrated he left our farm without me, catching a ride with Håkan. He said if I wanted to behave like a child he wanted nothing to do with me. As I watched him go, I wished we could’ve partnered on the investigation as we’d partnered on almost everything important in our lives. The reality was that I mistrusted him. So I set off on my own, in the folk dress, partnered instead with my cracked old leather satchel.

Arriving at the party, I tolerated condescending looks from a few of the wives. They spoke to me in gentle tones as if I were a simpleton, congratulating me on being so brave. As expected, the community rolled its eyes and dropped its guard. There was no denying that the location was picturesque. The party was held on a strip of land alongside Elk River, downstream from the salmon ladder, not far from the outdoor theatre where touring farces played to summer crowds. The land had been prepared with great care. There were luxury toilets and boutique food marquees. There were bouquets of summer flowers. Even more striking was the maypole, the exact same structure used the day before but with the number of flowers doubled or trebled. It was so beautiful I was briefly blinded to the unfairness it represented. They could easily have used the same beautiful maypole for both midsommar parties. This celebration of life and summer was tainted with a meanness of spirit.

Elise was there, disdain in her eyes. Although I told you earlier that I wouldn’t be blind like Elise, on some days, at my lowest ebb, I understood her choice and shamefully confess that wilful blindness appealed to me. What a relief it would be to close down my suspicious mind and divert my energies into worshipping this community. I wouldn’t lose any more sleep, I wouldn’t worry – I wouldn’t spend a second longer asking what was happening up the river in the depths of the forests. Had I chosen blindness, I’m quite sure Håkan would’ve celebrated my choice, delighting in my surrender and rewarding me with a host of friendships. But blindness is not an easy path. It requires commitment and dedication. The price was too high: I would become an imitation of Elise. Perhaps she was imitating a woman before her, perhaps this pattern of blindness was generations old, women forced to empty their heads of questions or criticisms, playing a part that was as old as these farms – the part of loyal devotion – a role that would bring me acceptance, maybe even happiness of a kind. Except when I was alone. I’d hate myself. It’s how we feel about ourselves when we’re alone that must guide our decisions.

Like me, Mia arrived independently. Far more surprising was that also, like me, she was dressed up, wearing bridal whites with flowers in her hair and clutching flowers in her hands. They were the exact same clothes she’d worn on the beach except they were no longer pristine. The fabric was dirty and ripped. The flowers were shedding petals. She’d made no effort to conceal the scuffs on her clothes. It was as if on her walk back from the lighthouse she’d been attacked in the forest. At first, Mia ignored everyone, standing by the river, her back to the party, staring at the water. I let her be, not wishing to publicly break formation. Later, I noticed something wrong about the way she was moving. Her steps were too careful. She was overcompensating. Sure enough, my instinct was spot on, because when I eventually said hello to Mia her eyes were bloodshot. She was drunk! She must have brought her own supply, because they wouldn’t have served her at this party. Of course, teenagers occasionally get drunk, there’s no need to sensationalise it, but to be silent-drunk in the middle of the afternoon at an event like this wasn’t frivolous or fun: it was the drinking of a troubled mind.

By the time we were set to dance around the maypole Mia was no longer able to hide her intoxication, or no longer wanted to. Other people less finely tuned to the nuances of her behaviour had begun to notice something was wrong. I could see Håkan making preparations to take her home. Such drastic action would cause a stir. He must have calculated that it was better to have a short controlled disruption rather than permit her to create a scene. I couldn’t allow him to remove her from the party. There was a reason Mia was drinking. I had a clear sense that she was becoming drunk in order to confront someone, to give herself courage. It was imperative I buy her enough time in order that she could carry out her plan.

I gently took hold of Mia’s arm and guided her centre stage, calling everyone together. Improvising, I began talking about the history of the midsommar festival. With the entire party gathered around me, including Håkan, I explained how this was the night of the year when magic was strongest in Sweden, how our great-grandparents would dance as a fertility ritual to impregnate the earth and bring full harvests to the farms. At this point I handed each of the children a flower from my hand-bound bouquet and told them that, according to tradition, these flowers should be placed under their pillows and when they slept that night they’d dream of their future lovers, husbands and wives. There was giggling as the children accepted their flowers. To them I must have seemed like a harmless witch, but there was a motive behind my eccentricity. I reached Mia, handing her the remains of my bouquet. Now that I had spoken about lovers and husbands, how would she react? Mia held her flowers aloft. I was right! She was on the brink, ready to denounce this community and whatever secrets it was hiding. Everyone was staring at her, waiting to see what she’d do next. She threw the flowers high over her head as a bride might on her wedding day. We followed them as they arced into the air, the string around the stems loosening, flowers coming apart, breaking free, a comet of summer petals.

Håkan pushed forward, grabbing Mia by the arm, apologising to everyone. He was careful not to drag her or appear to manhandle her. She didn’t resist, retreating towards his gleaming silver Saab. He put her in the front seat. She lowered the window and looked back. ‘Tell us!’ I wanted to shout to her – ‘Tell us now!’ As the car accelerated, her long dark beautiful hair blew into her face, concealing it entirely.

That was the last time I saw Mia alive.

• • •

T
HERE WAS NO EXCUSE NOT
to test my mum’s claim. Using my phone it would be simple to enter the name ‘Mia Greggson’ into a search engine. If the girl had been murdered there’d be newspaper articles and widespread public attention. I weighed up whether to be open with my mum. Announcing my intentions would only work if my mum knew articles existed. She might even produce hard copies from her journal. If there weren’t newspaper articles she might panic, deducing that I couldn’t believe her without them. She might run. Straightforward honesty, in this instance, wasn’t noble – it was risky. I said:

‘I want to check to see if Dad’s plane has landed.’

Since Mark’s interruption my mum had become unsettled. The apartment was no longer a safe place. She’d refused to sit down or take off her satchel. She paced the room. Her tempo was faster. As I picked up the phone she said:

‘His plane will have landed by now.’

I opened a new page on a separate browsing window so that it was possible to flick back to Heathrow arrival information if my mum suddenly demanded to see my phone. With my precautions in place I typed Mia’s name, my hands fumbling at the keys, doing a bad job of concealing my anxiety. My mum had so far proved perceptive.

‘What does it say?’

‘I’m still typing.’

I added the location of the alleged murder and pressed ‘search’. The screen went blank. The connection was slow. My mum edged closer. She raised her hand, wanting the phone:

‘Let me see.’

With an imperceptible flick of my thumb I switched the window to the airport’s website and passed it to her. She stared at the screen intently:

‘The plane landed twenty minutes ago.’

I could only hope she wouldn’t notice or care about the icon at the bottom indicating that a second browsing window was open. She didn’t own a smart phone. But her mind was so alert to trickery of any kind that she might figure it out or accidentally drag the other screen into view. She raised a finger, touching the screen. From my angle I couldn’t tell if she was merely studying the list of inbound flights from Sweden. I was tempted to step forward, to ask for the phone back, but fearing this would give me away, I decided to hold my nerve and wait. My mum handed the phone back. She hadn’t discovered the other page. By now the search on Mia would be complete. The information would be on my screen. But I couldn’t look since my mum was speaking directly to me:

Chris will rush through the airport, hailing a taxi. He’ll race across the city. His aim will be to take us by surprise. He won’t call until he’s outside the building. Once he’s here it will be impossible to get away, not without a fight. Unlike last time I won’t go quietly.

• • •

T
HE IDEA OF MY MUM AND DAD
caught up in a scene of domestic violence was incomprehensible to me. Yet I now believed the inevitability of them coming to blows if they came face to face.

‘Mum, we’re leaving now.’

My mum double-checked to see if she’d left any evidence behind. The temptation to glance at my phone was powerful, but her movements were so erratic I was worried about being caught. I waited until she descended the stairs, following behind. I couldn’t hold off any longer. I looked down at the screen.

The phone displayed a list of possible search results. They were from Swedish newspapers. I was shocked. I must have expected to see no results, no newspaper articles – a blank page. Though I’d promised to be objective and open-minded, deep down I must have believed that nothing had really happened and that Mia wasn’t dead. I clicked on the top link. The page began to load. A fragment of image trickled down. I couldn’t chance it any longer. I lowered the phone, sinking it into my pocket, just in time, as my mum turned around at the bottom of the stairs. I reached out and touched her shoulder, with no idea where we were going:

‘Mum, where shall we go? You don’t feel comfortable talking in public.’

‘We can decide where later. We have to leave now.’

‘And just stand on the street?’

My mum snapped:

‘Are you trying to delay me? Is that your plan? Are you stalling so Chris can catch me?’

‘No.’

‘You’re lying!’

The allegation was sharp.

‘I don’t want to see you fight with Dad. I want to hear the end of your account. That’s the truth.’

My mum opened the front door. We left, walking out into the corridor. As though she were being pursued, my mum repeatedly pressed the call button for the lift. When she saw that it was rising up from the ground floor she stepped back:

‘He might be in the lift! Let’s take the stairs.’

I didn’t argue, following her into the emergency stairway, where she hurried down, almost running. I called out, my voice echoing around the concrete space:

‘Mum, I’m calling Mark. He has an office. Maybe he’ll know somewhere we can talk. We need somewhere private.’

My mum replied:

‘Hurry!’

I took out my phone and studied the screen. The local Swedish newspaper article was about Mia. There was a picture of her, just as my mum had described. The article declared that she was a missing person. I scrolled down. There was a reward for information. The article wasn’t conclusive. It hadn’t talked about a murder. But a missing person often preceded a murder. Nothing in the article contradicted my mum’s account.

I dialled Mark. He picked up immediately. I said:

‘My dad’s on his way. His plane has landed. My mum won’t stay in the apartment. We need another place to talk. Somewhere private. Somewhere my dad can’t find us.’

‘Are you sure you don’t want to wait for him?’

‘It would be a disaster.’

Mark found the solution immediately:

‘I’ll book you a hotel room. Order a cab. I’ll call you back with the details. Are you okay? Is your mum okay?’

‘We’re okay.’

‘Leave the hotel to me. I’ll call you back.’

He hung up.

In contrast to my mum’s speed, I moved like a man who’d had one too many drinks. Was I making the right decision or should I delay and allow my dad to catch up with us? After speaking to Mark my doubts resurfaced that I was the person to be in charge. I hadn’t come up with the idea of a hotel room, an obvious solution to our problem. Even if I had, I didn’t have the money to pay for it. My dad could be useful. If my mum was ill he knew more about her illness than anyone. On the other hand, a fleeting glance at the article offered no conclusive proof that my mum was delusional. Furthermore, it was hard to understand why my dad hadn’t phoned when he arrived at the airport. The prospect of a violent confrontation was only minutes away. Allowing Dad to catch up with us would be an act of betrayal, a rejection of everything I’d been told. Whether I wanted the responsibility or not, it was mine. Without any evidence that her account was untrue, I’d take my mum’s word on faith. Earlier she’d said that we have a duty to believe the people we love. In this case, she was asking for the space and time to finish telling me what had happened to Mia. I couldn’t refuse her that.