Inertia, page 26
‘Read this handwritten text underneath,’ the trainee with the red cheeks says.
And we read:
Can we meet at the petrol station at 10 p.m., some really weird shit happened, so I had to fix some stuff. Love, S.
‘OK,’ I say. ‘There can’t be that many people named Rachel in the area who also have a disabled son named Jonas?’
Malin nods and stands up.
‘And this poem,’ I continue. ‘Can you check where it comes from?’
‘I will look into that,’ says Malin, who has stopped in the doorway. ‘What are our thoughts on this Samuel guy – is he in danger?’
‘I don’t know,’ I say honestly. ‘But we need to get hold of him bloody fast.’
None of us say anything. We don’t need to.
Then I look down, read the poem again.
and in his giant maw he held
an untarnished dove
‘I think we should visit our friend in Ormberg,’ I say.
‘Ormberg?’ Letit says.
‘Hanne Lagerlind-Schön lives there,’ Malin says quietly.
‘The witch?’ Letit snorts.
‘Call her whatever you like,’ I say. ‘Without her we would never have solved the murders in Ormberg. She is special, I don’t think I have ever met a person with that ability to get into the minds of criminals. I actually understand why they call her the Witch, because she is by far the best profiler I have ever come across.’
I pause, adding: ‘Or at least she was before.’
Letit wrinkles his eyebrows and strokes his large nose with his pointer finger and his thumb.
‘Before what?’ he asks.
‘Before she developed dementia,’ Malin says quietly.
Pernilla
I
sit on a rock looking out over the sea. Follow the undulating movements with my eyes and listen to the peaceful shushing when the little waves wash over the granite tongue that stretches out into the water.
The afternoon sun burns my bare shoulders and the soft breeze feels hot against my skin.
I have spent the day walking around Stuvskär showing pictures of Samuel from my phone to the people who work at the supermarket, the petrol station and the harbour pub. Passers-by didn’t escape my attentions either.
But nobody recognised him.
I can’t help but think that’s pretty strange. He had to have been to the harbour several times.
Do we not see each other anymore? Are we so busy tapping at our phones and taking selfies that we aren’t even interested in our neighbour?
I think of the boys fishing at the steamboat landing, only to photograph the fish and throw them back into the sea, like rubbish.
I bury my face in my hands and inhale deeply.
The pastor was probably right the time he said there is something wrong with the times we are living in, that we are headed toward replacing the true faith with narcissism and materialism. Although I’m not sure I agree with him that this means we are living in the end times. That credit cards, the internet and the United States recognising Jerusalem as the capital of Israel are signs that the second coming is nigh. That the antichrist is lurking behind every corner and that we are well on our way to building the tower of Babel.
I’m actually not sure I trust anything he said anymore.
He has sent me several text messages since I insulted him in front of the children outside the congregation hall.
The last one arrived this morning, as I was on my way back to Stuvskär from the police. It said that he was worried for my ‘immortal soul’.
I was so angry I almost threw the phone out the window of my car.
Seriously?
My immortal soul?
The only part of me that Karl-Johan is interested in is the part that is between my thighs. And from what I gather that is not my soul.
I consider texting him that and the thought makes me laugh out loud, despite everything being so miserable.
I lie down on my back on the rock and close my eyes. Feel the rough heat of the stone against my back, like a barren but reliable embrace.
Like Father.
Oh, how I miss him!
It makes my chest ache, my entire body aches, when I think of his thin, daffodil-yellow body, at once fragile and irrepressible. Even my skin hurts. As if the grief and fear is on the outside of my body, like an invisible costume of pain.
‘Samuel.’
I say his name out loud, into the summer.
But of course nobody answers.
There has to be something I have seen or heard but not understood the importance of. Something that can help me find him.
I say a brief prayer as I take the suncream out of my bag and rub it into my sweaty face.
Yes, I am able to multitask like that – pray and apply cream, pray and drive, or for instance pray and mark down bread that’s past its sell-by date with neon-orange sale tags while smiling politely at everybody who passes by.
Prayer is good like that.
Prayer is like casual exercise – one can fit it in here and there during the day; it does not demand any specially designated time.
I open my eyes and look straight up at the blue sky. See the seagulls float on the breeze like tiny, tiny dots. So free, so unaware of all the human struggle. I put the suncream back in my bag and look at the rock, rounded by the millennia. It is shot through with cracks and lines, reminiscent of a very old person’s skin.
Stina’s wrinkled, sun-damaged face appears in my mind and at once her words echo through my ears, drowning out my own thoughts.
So how did Samuel get the job?
I freeze mid-movement just as I am about to close the bag and hit my elbow hard against the stone.
Why didn’t I think of that earlier?
‘Thanks,’ I murmur, as I glance quickly up at the sky.
Manfred
‘S
hould we drive via Nyköping or Gnesta?’
Malin gives me a quick look.
‘Gnesta,’ I answer, and look out through the window where fields are glowing yellow with blooming rapeseed.
‘This feels really strange,’ Malin says, squeezing the steering wheel so that her knuckles go white. ‘What if I run into Mum?’
‘If that happens, we’ll deal with it,’ I answer.
Malin curses quietly and brakes for a tractor pulling onto the road.
‘Do you know how Hanne is doing now?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I say. ‘But last time I saw her she was doing pretty well.’
Malin changes gear, accelerates suddenly and veers slightly left to overtake the tractor. As the car speeds up I am pushed back, instinctively grabbing onto my seat. A few seconds later we smoothly glide in front of the tractor and I let go, drawing a deep breath.
Malin shifts up again, glancing at me.
‘And her memory?’
‘So far it’s mainly her short-term memory that is giving her trouble,’ I say. ‘When we meet her I will explain where we are in our investigation, show her the poem and so on. Then she can give us her immediate thoughts, because her cognitive capacity is basically intact. And she remembers everything that happened up until about a year ago. So she can still make use of her entire professional experience. But if we were to return to Ormberg tomorrow or next week, she will likely have forgotten all about it. I would have to explain the whole thing all over again.’
‘What hell it must be to live like that,’ Malin murmurs.
I don’t reply but think that she is only partially right about that, that there are probably advantages too.
Hanne isn’t plagued by memories of what happened in Ormberg, for one.
I look out across the fields that undulate towards the horizon like a green and yellow sea, where slow, mighty swells roll in. The wooded areas, towering here and there, throw long, ghostly shadows across the fields.
‘By the way, I couldn’t find that poem online,’ Malin says. ‘So it was probably written by an enthusiastic amateur.’
‘Mhm.’
‘That woman, the trainee,’ Malin begins, biting into a plum.
‘Anna Andersson?’
‘Exactly,’ Malin says, popping what’s left of the plum into her mouth. ‘She said something about Olle, who we can probably assume to be Olle Berg, being a writer.’
‘He is as bloody far from being a writer as it is possible to be,’ I say. ‘But what do I know, every Tom, Dick and Harry calls himself a writer these days.’
Malin cracks the window open, fishes the plum stone out of her mouth and flicks it away with her thumb and her index finger.
A smell of cow manure and grass spreads through the car.
‘Thanks,’ she says. ‘I too have read the file. All I am saying is that maybe he did some writing, that poem for instance.’
‘Sure, that’s possible. I also do some writing. Most of it is shit, frankly.’
‘Speaking of writing,’ Malin says slowly. ‘I spoke to a colleague who worked on the street-dealing unit on Södermalm. Well, before it disappeared in the restructuring, that is. She knows all the addicts and they know all the dealers and they . . . well, you get it. Anyway. Igor Ivanov has written two books. Poetry collections.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘No. They’re sold on Amazon and it seems he makes pretty good money from them. I ordered one. We’ll have to take a look at it. We can’t rule out that the poem is from Igor’s book.’
‘I wouldn’t bet money on it,’ I say, roll down the window and pull out a cigarette. I light it and inhale deeply.
Malin looks at me with wide eyes but doesn’t say anything. Then she turns off towards Ormberg.
The road is worse here – there are large gashes in the asphalt and the patchwork of repairs covering the roadway is reminiscent of those ghastly patched jeans my friends used to wear in high school.
As for me, I would never have worn such a thing, not even as a teenager.
A deer dashes across the road, maybe fifty yards ahead of us. Malin brakes suddenly. I crush the butt against the paintwork, let it fall to the ground and wait for Malin to accelerate again. Instead she slows down and stops on the hard shoulder. Her fingers are desperately gripping the wheel and her gaze is pinned on a tall fir tree.
‘I’m not sure I can do this,’ she mumbles.
‘It’ll be fine,’ I say and think about the murder investigation in Ormberg last winter that changed Malin’s life forever. She said she would never go back there, and now I’m forcing her to do just that.
She shakes her head slowly.
‘Nothing will be fine.’
‘Shall I drive?’ I say and immediately feel bad about making her come along.
Malin shakes her head and begins to drive again.
We continue slowly towards Ormberg. The forest around us is denser now and the road narrower and darker. It cuts through the tall firs, like a ravine through a mountain pass.
I glance at my phone but Afsaneh hasn’t texted.
When I told her I had to work tonight she wasn’t even angry. She just sort of hummed. As if she was busy doing something else and not really listening to what I said.
She is so changed and I’m not sure whether to be concerned or glad.
When we roll into Ormberg it is almost eight in the evening. The sun has set behind Orm mountain, but the sky is still light teal with golden streaks, like a Rococo painting.
But that is where the similarities to sixteenth-century art end.
To be fair, the community is embedded in deep greenery. But the few houses that are popularly called the centre are just as ugly as I recall.
When we pass the old shop – the one that we used as our temporary office during the murder investigation – I note that the space is being renovated. Outside there is a cement mixer and a couple of large bags of construction debris. Above the window somebody has put up a sign.
‘Hassan’s Grocery,’ I say. ‘Well, I’ll be damned.’
This sleepy industrial town was now starting to prosper after years of decline.
Malin doesn’t answer.
We pass the church. It sits ominous and dark in the field, a monolith and a reminder of better times, when the community and the congregation flourished. Tall grass is growing around the building and bushes obstruct the entrance. The rendering has fallen off the façade, revealing large, brick-coloured wounds.
For the last bit of the way to Berit Sund’s house our drive slows to a crawl.
The giant, watchful figures of the firs close in around us again. Winter has been unkind to the old gravel road which is covered in potholes. In several places the shoulder appears to have collapsed into the ditch, as if the soil under it is marshy.
And then the forest thins out and Berit’s little cabin appears.
There is a welcoming light from the windows and smoke is rising up towards the light summer sky.
We park outside and get out of the car.
‘So Berit Sund is still going strong,’ Malin notes quietly.
Berit is an older lady who has lived in the area since forever. She has worked for the council and for social services and now she is helping take care of Hanne. I assume she is some combination of friend, caretaker and domestic help.
‘It looks like it,’ I say.
‘There are worse ways to end one’s days,’ Malin says and lets her eyes travel across the small red cabin with white trim.
The colour has returned to her face and she seems relieved to have made it through the little community without running into anyone she knows.
Fruit trees grow on the well-kept lawn and there is a lush flower bed all the way around the house where catnip is vying for space with tall hollyhocks poised to burst into bloom. In the damp evening air the scent of smoke mixes with the sweet, heavy scent from the large mock-orange bush that is spreading out from the left of the front door.
Berit opens almost immediately when we knock.
She is wearing a shapeless floral dress of the kind that my grandmother used to call a house dress and a pair of wool socks on her feet. Her fringe is combed to one side and pinned down with a childish hairpin with a star that gleams and glistens from the light inside. Her wrinkles have deepened into sharp furrows. In the light of the ceiling lamp they look like axe cuts running this way and that across her skin, making her face look like an old chopping block.
Behind her Joppe stands with his head lowered, cautiously waving his tail.
Berit smiles when she sees me and gives me a surprisingly hard hug.
‘Manfred, it’s been a while.’
Her body feels smaller and thinner than I remember it, as if parts of her have melted away along with the thick snow cover.
Then she embraces Malin.
‘My dear child, it’s so nice to see you.’
She puts her hand on Malin’s belly.
‘And congratulations, what a blessing! Well, you can’t stand around here all night. Come in, come in!’
Inside the cabin everything looks like it used to; clothes hang neatly on their hooks, shoes stand just as neatly on the shelf underneath and the geraniums in the window look exactly as sad as they did last winter.
A fire is crackling in the kitchen.
We take our shoes off and follow Berit inside. Hanne is sitting by the table.
As soon as I enter the room she stands up and smiles.
She looks radiant.
Her red hair is longer and has more grey streaks, her arms might be a bit thinner, but other than that she is her old self when she takes my hands and fixes me with her gaze.
‘You I have missed,’ she says, giving my hands a hard squeeze.
‘It is mutual,’ I answer.
Then she takes me into her arms and holds me for so long that I almost feel embarrassed.
Finally she lets go and turns to Malin.
‘Hanne,’ she says reaching her hand out.
Malin gives me a quick look.
‘Malin Brundin,’ she says, taking Hanne’s hand. ‘We’ve met before, actually. We worked together for a bit on the murder investigation here in Ormberg.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Hanne says, looking embarrassed. ‘I must have forgotten.’
‘No worries,’ Malin says.
We sit down at the kitchen table.
‘How are you?’ I ask.
‘I can’t complain,’ Hanne says, smiling. ‘How about you? How are Afsaneh and Nadja?’
My heart skips a beat and I have to catch my breath. I have told Hanne what happened to Nadja, but she has obviously forgotten.
Berit looks noticeably nervous.
‘We talked about that, Hanne,’ she mumbles. ‘Nadja was in an accident and is in the hospital.’
‘Oh,’ Hanne says bringing her hand to her mouth as if she wanted to stuff the words back in. ‘Oh. I am so sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ I say and force a smile.
‘Is it serious?’ Hanne asks, with her hand still over her mouth.
I hesitate, and then answer:
‘Hopefully not.’
Hanne remains sitting with her gaze fixed to her lap for a long while.
Berit does her best to lighten the mood by waiting on us. She serves coffee out of her old floral china pot, offers us home-baked biscuits and talks about the weather while Hanne slowly but surely recovers.
‘I’m going to take Joppe out for a bit,’ Berit says over her shoulder as she fixes the hair clip in her fringe.
Then she limps out of her kitchen followed by her limping dog.
We talk to Hanne about Ormberg for a while. About the old shop that is going to open back up.
And we talk about the long winter, the one that almost killed an elderly couple a few miles away – apparently they were snowed in for weeks and had to use some of their furniture for kindling because they couldn’t get to their woodshed.
Hanne becomes noticeably more assured when we approach the reason we’re here.
She looks at us, gazes first at me and then at Malin.
There is a calm about her, a sort of dignity, but at the same time I sense a smile on her face and get the distinct feeling she is very pleased that we have come all the way to Ormberg to consult her.
‘But you didn’t come here to gossip about Ormberg?’ she asks.
