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‘All I’m saying is that you’re not doing him any favours by spoiling him like that.’
‘Are you implying that I don’t know how to raise our son?’ Mother’s eyes turned dark, bottomless. As if she wanted to obliterate Father by simply looking at him. And, as usual, her anger seemed to make Father’s own wrath melt away. He seemed to shrink and shrivel up. Becoming a little grey father.
‘You know best,’ he muttered and left, his eyes on the floor. Then they heard the sound of his footsteps fading and the front door quietly closing. Father was going out for a walk again.
‘We won’t pay him any mind,’ whispered Mother, pressing her lips close to his ear hidden under the green terry-cloth. ‘Because you and I love each other. It’s just you and me.’
He pressed close to her like a little animal and allowed her to comfort him.
‘Just you and me,’ he whispered.
‘I won’t! I don’t wanna!’ cried Maja, using up most of her scant vocabulary when Patrik desperately tried to leave her with Ewa, the day-care teacher, on Friday morning. His daughter clung to his trouser legs, howling, until finally he managed to prise her fingers loose, one after the other. His heart ached when she was carried off, still holding her arms out to him. Her tearful ‘Pappa!’ echoed in his head as he walked back to the car. For a long moment he just sat there, staring out the windscreen, holding the car keys in his hand. This had been going on for two months now, and it was no doubt Maja’s way of reacting to Erika’s pregnancy.
Patrik was the one who had to bear the brunt of this struggle every morning. He had actually volunteered for the job. It was just too hard for Erika to get Maja dressed and undressed. And squatting down to help the toddler tie her shoelaces was unthinkable. So there was really no other option. But the daily tussle was beginning to wear on Patrik’s nerves, since it started well before they even reached the day-care centre. As soon as it was time to get dressed in the morning, Maja would refuse to cooperate. Patrik was ashamed to admit that sometimes he got so frustrated that he would grab her a bit brusquely, making her scream at the top of her lungs. Afterwards he felt like the world’s worst parent.
Tiredly he rubbed his eyes, took a deep breath, and turned the key in the ignition. But instead of driving toward Tanumshede, he impulsively turned off and headed for the residential area beyond Kullen. He parked in front of the house belonging to the Kjellner family and, feeling a bit unsure of himself, walked up to the front door. He really should have notified them that he was coming, but it was too late now, since he was already here. He raised his hand and gave a sharp rap with his knuckles on the white-painted wooden door. A Christmas wreath was still hanging there; apparently no one had thought to take it down.
Not a sound came from inside the house, so Patrik knocked again. Maybe no one was home. But then he heard footsteps, and Cia opened the door. Her whole body froze when she saw him, and he hurried to shake his head.
‘No, that’s not why I’m here,’ he told her, and they both knew what he meant. Her shoulders slumped and she stepped aside to allow him to come in.
Patrik took off his shoes and hung his jacket on one of the few hooks that wasn’t already in use, holding coats and jackets belonging to the Kjellner kids.
‘I just thought I’d drop by for a chat,’ he said, suddenly uncertain as to how to present what amounted to little more than vague speculations.
Cia nodded and led the way to the kitchen, which was to the right of the entry. Patrik followed. He’d been here before on a couple of occasions. After Magnus disappeared, they had sat at the kitchen table and gone over everything again and again. He had asked Cia questions about things that should never have been disclosed, but such things had ceased to be private matters the minute Magnus Kjellner walked out the front door and didn’t return.
The house looked unchanged. Pleasant and ordinary, a bit untidy, with traces of messy kids everywhere. But the last time Patrik and Cia had sat here together, there had still been a sense of hope. Now resignation had settled over the entire house. Also over Cia.
‘There’s some cake left. It was Ludvig’s birthday yesterday,’ said Cia listlessly. She got up to take out a quarter of layer cake from the fridge. Patrik tried to protest, but Cia was already setting plates and forks on the table, and he realized that he would have to have cake for lunch today.
‘How old is he now?’ asked Patrik as he cut himself as thin a piece as seemed polite.
‘Thirteen,’ said Cia, with a hint of a smile on her face as she too served herself a small piece of cake. Patrik wished he could get her to eat more, considering how thin she’d become over the past few months.
‘That’s a great age. Or maybe not,’ he said, hearing how strained he sounded. The whipped cream from the cake seemed to swell in his mouth.
‘He’s so much like his father,’ said Cia, her fork clanging against her plate. She set it down and looked at Patrik. ‘What is it you want?’
He cleared his throat. ‘I may be really off base, but I know that you want us to do everything possible, so you’ll have to forgive me if –’
‘Just say what you need to say,’ Cia interrupted him.
‘All right. Well, there’s something that I’ve been wondering about. Magnus was friends with Christian Thydell, wasn’t he? How did they happen to meet?’
Cia looked at him in surprise, but she didn’t counter with any questions of her own. Instead she paused to think about what he’d asked.
‘I don’t really know. I think they met right after Christian moved here with Sanna. She’s a Fjällbacka girl, you know. That must be about seven years ago. Yes, that’s right, because Sanna got pregnant with Melker soon afterwards, and he’s five now. I remember we thought that happened rather fast.’
‘Was it through you and Sanna that they met?’
‘No, Sanna is ten years younger than me, so we were never really friends before. To be honest, I can’t actually recall how they ended up meeting. I just remember that Magnus suggested we should invite Christian and Sanna to dinner, and after that we all saw a lot of each other. Sanna and I don’t have much in common, but she’s a nice girl, and both Elin and Ludvig think it’s fun to play with the little boys. And I have a much better opinion of Christian than of Magnus’s other pals.’
‘And who might they be?’
‘His old childhood friends: Erik Lind and Kenneth Bengtsson. I’ve socialized with them and their wives, but only because Magnus wanted me to. They seem to be a very different sort of people, in my opinion.’
‘What about Magnus and Christian? Were they close friends?’
Cia smiled. ‘I don’t think Christian has any close friends. He’s a rather gloomy person, and it’s not easy to get to know him. But he was completely different around Magnus. My husband had that kind of effect on people. Everybody liked him. He made people relax.’ She swallowed hard, and Patrik realized that she had spoken of her husband in the past tense.
‘But why are you asking me about Christian? Don’t tell me something has happened to him,’ Cia added, sounding worried.
‘No, no. Nothing serious.’
‘I heard about what went on at his book launch. I was invited, but I would have felt strange going without Magnus. I hope Christian wasn’t offended because I didn’t show up.’
‘I can’t imagine that he’d feel that way,’ said Patrik. ‘But it seems that someone has been sending him threatening letters for more than a year now. I may be grabbing at straws, but I wanted to find out if Magnus had received anything similar. They knew each other, so there might be some kind of connection.’
‘Threatening letters?’ said Cia. ‘Don’t you think I would have told you about something like that? Why would I keep back any information that might help you find out what happened to Magnus?’ Her voice rose, taking on a shrill note.
‘I’m sure that you would have told us about it if you had known,’ Patrik hastened to interject. ‘But maybe Magnus didn’t say anything because he didn’t want to worry you.’
‘Then why would I be able to tell you anything about it?’
‘In my experience, wives can sense things even if their husbands don’t specifically talk about what’s bothering them. My wife can do that, at any rate.’
Cia smiled again. ‘You have a point there. And it’s true. I would have known if something was weighing on Magnus. But he was his usual carefree self. He was the world’s most stable and reliable person, almost always cheerful and upbeat. Sometimes I’ve found that annoying, and I have to admit to occasionally trying to provoke a negative reaction from him if I was feeling angry and upset. But I never succeeded. Magnus was the way he was. If something was bothering him, he would have told me about it. If for some reason he decided not to do that, I still would have noticed that something was wrong. He knew everything about me, and I knew everything about him. We had no secrets from each other.’ She spoke with great confidence, and Patrik could tell that she meant what she said. But he still had his doubts. It was impossible to know everything about another person. Even someone you loved and had chosen to share your life with.
He looked at Cia. ‘Please forgive me if I’m asking too much, but would you mind if I took a look around the house? Just to get a clearer picture of the kind of person Magnus was.’ Even though they had already been talking about Magnus as if he were dead, Patrik regretted the way he had formulated his last remark. But Cia didn’t comment. Instead, she motioned towards the doorway and said:
‘Look around as much as you like. I mean it. Do whatever you want, ask me any questions you can think of, as long as you find him.’ With an almost aggressive motion she wiped away a tear with the back of her hand.
Patrik sensed that she needed to be alone for a moment, so he seized the opportunity to get up and leave the room. He started his search in the living room. It looked much like the living room in thousands of other Swedish homes. A big, dark blue sofa from IKEA. Billy bookshelves with built-in lighting. A flat-screen TV on a stand made of the same light-coloured wood as the coffee table. Little knick-knacks and travel souvenirs; on the wall, photographs of the children. Patrik went over to a big, framed wedding picture hanging over the sofa. It was not a traditional, formal portrait. Magnus, wearing a morning coat, was lying on his side in the grass with his head propped on his hand. Cia stood behind him, wearing a frilly wedding dress. She had a big smile on her face, and one foot was planted solidly on top of Magnus.
‘Our parents just about died of fright when they saw that wedding picture,’ said Cia, and Patrik turned around to look at her.
‘It’s certainly rather … different.’ He glanced again at the photo. He’d met Magnus a few times since he’d moved to Fjällbacka, but had never exchanged more than the usual polite words of greeting with him. Now, as he stood here looking at the man’s open and happy expression, Patrik knew at once that he would have liked Magnus.
‘Is it okay if I go upstairs?’ asked Patrik. Cia nodded from where she stood in the doorway.
The wall of the stairwell was also covered with photographs, and Patrik paused to study them. They bore witness to a rich life that was focused on family and the ordinary joys. And it was obvious that Magnus Kjellner had been tremendously proud of his children. One picture, in particular, made Patrik’s stomach knot up. A holiday photo, showing a smiling Magnus standing between Elin and Ludvig, with his arms around both of them. His face was aglow with such happiness that Patrik couldn’t bear to look at it any longer. He turned away and continued up the stairs.
The first two rooms belonged to the kids. Ludvig’s was surprisingly neat, without any clothes tossed on the floor. The bed was made, and the pen holder and everything else on the desk had been meticulously arranged. The boy was clearly a big sports fan. Pinned up over the bed in the place of honour was a football jersey from the Swedish national team, autographed by Zlatan. Otherwise, photos of the IFK team from Göteborg dominated.
‘Ludvig and Magnus used to go to the games as often as they could.’
Patrik gave a start. Once again Cia’s voice had caught him by surprise. She seemed able to walk about without making a sound, because he hadn’t heard her come up the stairs.
‘Quite a tidy young boy.’
‘Yes, just like his father. Magnus did most of the picking up and cleaning here at home. I’m the messier one. If you have a look in the next room, you’ll see which of our children takes after me.’
Patrik opened the door to the next bedroom, in spite of the warning posted in big letters: KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING!
‘Yikes!’ said Patrik, taking a step back.
‘Yes, that’s the right word for it,’ sighed Cia, crossing her arms so as to stop herself from trying to clean up the mess. Because Elin’s room was indescribably messy. And pink.
‘I thought she’d grow out of her pink phase sooner or later, but instead it just seems to have escalated. Now it ranges from pale princess pink to a shocking neon.’
Patrik blinked his eyes. Was this how Maja’s room was going to look in a few years? And what if the twins turned out to be girls? He was going to drown in pink.
‘I’ve given up. I just ask that she keep the door closed so I don’t have to look at the chaos. I do a “sniff check” once in a while, to make sure that it doesn’t begin to smell like dead bodies in here.’ She was obviously startled by her own choice of words, but she kept on going. ‘Magnus couldn’t stand knowing what a mess things were in, but I persuaded him to leave her be. I was the same way as a kid, so I knew it would just lead to nothing but nagging and quarrels. In my case, I got neater as soon as I had my own flat, and I think the same thing will happen with Elin.’ She closed the door and pointed to the room at the end of the hall.
‘That’s our bedroom. I haven’t touched any of Magnus’s things.’
The first thing that Patrik noticed was that they had the same bed linen as he and Erica did. Blue-and-white check, bought at IKEA. Somehow that made him very uncomfortable. It made him feel vulnerable.
‘Magnus sleeps on the side next to the window.’
Patrik went over to his side of the bed. He would have preferred to look things over alone, in peace and quiet. Instead, it felt as if he were snooping around in things that were not his concern, and the feeling grew worse the longer Cia stood in the room staring at him. He had no idea what he was looking for. He just felt he needed to get closer to Magnus Kjellner, to see him as a real person, as flesh and blood, not merely a photograph on the wall in the police station. Patrik could still feel Cia’s eyes on his back, and finally he turned around to face her.
‘I hope you won’t be offended, but would you mind leaving while I have a look around?’ He sincerely hoped that she would understand.
‘I’m sorry. Of course,’ she said, smiling apologetically. ‘I realize it must be difficult to have me looking over your shoulder. I’ll go downstairs and take care of a few things, so you’ll have the place to yourself.’
‘Thanks,’ said Patrik. As soon as she left, he sat down on the edge of the bed and started with the bedside table. A pair of glasses, a stack of papers that turned out to be a copy of the manuscript of The Mermaid, an empty water glass, and a blister pack of paracetamol. That was all. Patrik pulled out the drawer and carefully studied what he found inside. Nothing of real interest. A paperback copy of Åsa Larsson’s detective novel Sun Storm, a little box containing ear plugs, and a package of cough drops.
Patrik got up and went over to the wardrobes that lined one entire wall of the bedroom. He laughed when he slid open the doors and instantly saw a clear example of what Cia had said about how her attitude towards neatness differed from that of her husband. The half of the wardrobe next to the window was a miracle of organization. Everything was carefully folded and arranged in wire baskets: socks, underwear, ties and belts. Above hung neatly pressed shirts and jackets along with polo shirts and T-shirts. T-shirts on hangers – the mere thought boggled Patrik’s mind. The most he ever did was to stuff his T-shirts into a drawer, only to curse the fact that they ended up looking so wrinkled when he put them on.
In that sense, Cia’s half of the wardrobe was more like his own method. Everything was haphazardly jumbled together, as if someone had simply opened the door and tossed everything inside before quickly shutting it again.
He closed the sliding doors and turned to look at the bed. There was something so heartbreaking and sad about a bed that had obviously only been slept in on one side. He wondered if anyone ever got used to sleeping in a double bed that was half empty. The thought of sleeping alone without Erica seemed impossible to him.
When Patrik went back down to the kitchen, Cia was putting away the plates they had used. She gave him an inquisitive look, and he said in a friendly tone of voice:
‘Thanks for letting me take a look around. I don’t know whether it will make any difference, but at least now I feel as if I know a little more about Magnus and who he was … is.’
‘That does make a difference. To me, anyway.’
Patrik said goodbye and left. He paused on the porch to look at the withered Christmas wreath hanging on the front door. After a moment’s hesitation, he lifted it off. Considering what an orderly person Magnus was, he probably wouldn’t have wanted to see that old wreath still there.
Both kids were screaming at the top of their lungs. The sound bounced off the walls in the kitchen, and Christian thought his head was going to explode. He hadn’t slept well for several nights in a row. Thoughts kept whirling through his mind, round and round, as if he needed to analyse every single thought before he could move on to the next one.
He had even been thinking of retreating to the boathouse to sit down and write. But the silence of the night and the darkness outside would have given his phantoms free rein, and he didn’t have the strength to drown them out with the sentences he constructed. So he’d stayed where he was, staring up at the ceiling while hopelessness descended on him from all directions.
‘Stop that right now!’ Sanna pulled the boys apart as they fought over a packet of O’Boy which had somehow ended up a little too close to them. Then she turned to Christian, who was sitting at the table and staring into space, his sandwich uneaten on the plate, and his coffee untouched in the cup.
‘It would be nice if you could help me out a little!’
‘I didn’t sleep well,’ he replied, taking a sip of the cold coffee. He got up and dumped the rest in the sink before pouring himself a fresh cup and adding a dash of milk.
‘I’m fully aware that you’ve got a lot on your mind right now, and you know that I’ve supported you the whole time when you were working on your book. But there’s a limit, even for me.’ Sanna pulled the spoon out of Nils’s hand just as he was about to use it to bang his older brother on the forehead. She tossed it with a clatter into the sink. Then she took a deep breath, as if mustering her courage before pouring out everything that she’d been holding inside. Christian wished that he could press a pause button to stop her before she spoke. He simply couldn’t take any more right now.
‘I never said a word whenever you went straight from work to the boathouse and sat there writing all evening. I picked up the kids from day-care, cooked dinner, made sure they were fed, tidied up in the house, got them to brush their teeth, read them a story, and then put them to bed. I did all of that without complaint while you devoted yourself to your fucking creative efforts!’
Sanna’s last words dripped with a sarcasm that Christian had never heard from her before. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out the criticism. But she went on relentlessly:
‘I think it’s fantastic that everything is going so well. That you got the book published, and that you seem to be a new star on the literary horizon. I think it’s great, and I don’t begrudge you any of it. But what about me? Where’s my place in all of this? Nobody sings my praises, nobody looks at me and says: “By God, Sanna, you’re amazing. Christian is a lucky man to have you.” That’s not something that even you say to me. You just take it for granted that I’ll slave away here at home, taking care of the kids and the house while you do what you “have to do”.’ She sketched two quotation marks in the air. ‘And it’s true. I do handle everything. And I gladly carry the load. You know how much I love taking care of the children, but that doesn’t make the burden any easier to bear. I’d at least like to receive a few words of thanks from you! Is that too much to ask?’
‘Sanna, I don’t think we should let the kids hear …’ Christian began, but he realized at once that it was the wrong thing to say.
‘Right. You always have some excuse for not talking to me, and not taking me seriously! You’re too tired, or you don’t have time because you need to work on your book, or you don’t want to discuss things in front of the kids, or, or, or …’
The boys didn’t make a peep as they stared with frightened eyes at their parents. Christian felt his weariness giving way to anger. This was one thing he detested about Sanna, and they’d discussed it many times before. She never hesitated to draw the children into their arguments. He knew that she was trying to make the boys her allies in the battle that had become more and more vociferous between them. But what could he do? He knew that all their problems were caused by the fact that he didn’t love her, and never had. And the fact that she knew this, even though she refused to admit it to herself. He had actually chosen her for that very reason – that she was someone he could never love. Not in the same way as …
He slammed his fist down on the table. Both Sanna and the boys jumped in surprise. His hand stung from the blow, which was exactly what he’d intended. Pain forced out everything else that he couldn’t allow himself to think about, and he felt that he was starting to regain control.
‘We’re not having this conversation right now,’ he said brusquely. Though he avoided looking Sanna in the eye, he could feel her gaze on his back as he headed for the front hall, put on his jacket and shoes, and went out the door. The last thing he heard before the door slammed shut was Sanna telling the boys that their father was an idiot.
The dreariness of it all was the worst part. Trying to fill the hours while the girls were in school with something that at least seemed to have an iota of meaning. It wasn’t that Louise had nothing to do. Ensuring that Erik’s life ran smoothly left no room for laziness. His shirts had to be hung up properly, laundered and pressed; dinners for his business associates had to be planned and successfully hosted; and the whole house had to shine. Of course they had someone who came in to clean once a week – and who was paid under the table – but there were still things that she needed to tend to herself. Millions of minor matters that needed to be handled impeccably so that Erik wouldn’t notice that any kind of effort had gone into making everything work as it should. But the problem was that it was all so boring. She had loved being home when the girls were little. Loved taking care of her young daughters. She didn’t even mind changing nappies, although Erik had never devoted a single second to that chore. But she hadn’t minded, because she had felt needed. She had a purpose. She had been at the centre of her children’s world, the person who got up in the morning before they did to make the sun shine.
But those days were long gone. The girls were in school. They spent their free time with friends and doing extracurricular activities. Nowadays they regarded her mostly as someone who was at their beck and call. Erik thought of her that way too. And to her sorrow, she was beginning to realize that they were all becoming insufferable. Erik compensated for his lack of involvement in his daughters’ lives by buying them everything they wanted, and his contempt for his wife was beginning to rub off on the girls.
Louise ran her hand over the kitchen counter. Italian marble, specially imported. Erik had chosen it himself, during one of his business trips. She didn’t really like it. Too cold and too hard. If she’d been allowed to choose, she would have selected something made of wood, perhaps a dark oak. She opened one of the shiny, smooth cupboard doors, which also had a cold appearance. More fashion than feeling. To go with the dark oak countertop that she would have preferred, she would have chosen white cupboard doors in a rustic style, hand-painted so that the brush strokes were visible and gave a certain life to the surface.
She cupped her hand around one of the big wine glasses. A wedding gift from Erik’s parents. Hand-blown, of course. At their wedding dinner, she’d been subjected to a lengthy lecture by Erik’s mother about the small but exclusive glass-blowing workshop in Denmark where they had specially ordered the expensive glasses.
Something snapped inside her, and her hand opened as if of its own accord. The glass shattered into a thousand pieces on the black pebble-tile floor. The floor was also from Italy, of course. That was one of many things that Erik had in common with his parents: anything Swedish was never good enough. The farther away the origin of something, the better. Just as long as it didn’t come from Taiwan. Louise sniggered, reached for another glass, and stepped over the shards on the floor, her feet clad in house slippers. Then she made a beeline for the boxed wine on the counter. Erik always ridiculed her boxed wine. For him, the only acceptable wine came in a bottle and cost hundreds of kronor. He would never dream of sullying his taste buds with wine that cost two hundred kronor per box. Sometimes, out of sheer spite, she would fill his glass with her wine instead of the snooty French or South African variety that was always accompanied by long-winded discourses on their particular characteristics. Strangely enough, it seemed that her cheap wine possessed the exact same qualities, since Erik never noticed the difference.
It was those sorts of minor acts of revenge that made her life bearable – the only way she was able to ignore the fact that he kept trying to turn the girls against her, treated her like shit, and was fucking a bloody hairdresser.
Louise held the glass under the tap of the wine box and filled it to the brim. Then she raised her glass in a toast to her own reflection, visible in the stainless steel door of the fridge.
Erica couldn’t stop thinking about the letters. She wandered through the house for a while, until a dull pain started up in the small of her back, forcing her to sit down at the kitchen table. She reached for a notepad and a pen that were lying on the table and began hastily jotting down what she could remember from the letters she’d seen at Christian’s house. She had a good memory for text, so she was almost positive that she’d managed to recreate what the letters had said.
She read through what she’d written over and over again, and with each reading the short sentences seemed to sound more and more threatening. Who would have cause to feel such anger towards Christian? Erica shook her head as she sat there at the table. It was impossible to tell whether a woman or a man had written those letters. But there was something about the tone and the way in which the views were expressed that made her think she was reading a woman’s hatred. Not a man’s.
Hesitantly she reached for the cordless phone, then drew back her hand. Maybe she was just being silly. But after re-reading the words she’d jotted down on the notepad, she grabbed the phone and punched in the mobile number she knew by heart.
‘This is Gaby,’ said the publishing director, picking up the phone on the first ring.
‘Hi, it’s Erica.’
‘Erica!’ Gaby’s shrill voice went up another octave, prompting Erica to move the receiver away from her ear. ‘How’s it going, dearie? No babies yet? You do know that twins usually arrive early, don’t you?’ It sounded as if Gaby were running.
‘No, the babies aren’t here yet,’ said Erica, trying to restrain her annoyance. She didn’t understand why everybody was always telling her that twins were usually born early. If that was the case, she’d find out soon enough. ‘I’m actually calling you about Christian.’
