End of Summer Page 3

  Månsson was still trying to remember the names of the two children up there in the window, but no matter how hard he tried they wouldn’t come. Without really knowing why, he raised one hand in a wave, but neither of the children showed any sign of responding. They just stood perfectly still in the window, watching him. Waiting for him to find their little brother. Make everything right again.

  Chapter 3

  V

  eronica generally regards herself as a good person. She sorts her recycling, pays her bills on time and gives money to deserving causes now and then.

  She hasn’t been to church for many years, though. She doesn’t like the memories that religious buildings summon up. The same memories that mean she only calls her dad once or twice a month. She keeps putting off phoning, until her guilty conscience gets the better of her. It always takes at least eight rings before he answers. Then comes the click as he lifts the receiver and the seconds of silence when they both, against all reason, hope to hear a different voice at the other end. Then the disappointment as reality sinks in, a disappointment that neither of them quite manages to hide and which no amount of small talk in the world can dissipate.

  She hasn’t been home to Reftinge for years, not for any birthdays, christenings or funerals, even though she really ought to have gone. She knows that the people there pay attention to that sort of thing. Talk about it.

  That irritates her, just like it irritates her that she still thinks of Reftinge as home, even though more than fifteen years have passed since she left.

  *

  She and Ruud are standing on the broad flight of steps in front of the grey, 1960s bulk of the Civic Centre. It’s stopped raining, and the heat stored in the tarmac, metal and concrete around them has already dried out most of the moisture. The fresh smell earlier on has vanished, replaced by the stench of rubbish, food and exhaust fumes. Normal summer air in the city. She closes her eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the feeling of wellbeing that is only slowly ebbing away.

  ‘Thanks for today. See you next week?’ The grey-haired woman’s farewell is a statement that somehow manages to sound like a question. As if the woman isn’t altogether sure if there are going to be any more meetings.

  Veronica nods, squeezes the woman’s hand. It’s as fragile and bony as a baby bird.

  ‘See you next week.’

  The grey-haired woman goes down the four steps, half turns and gives a noncommittal wave. Then she clutches the handbag containing her pearls of grief tightly to her chest before setting off along the pavement.

  They stand and watch as the woman walks towards the metro station.

  ‘How do you think it went?’ Ruud says, without looking at her.

  She shrugs. ‘OK.’ Her answer is almost as true as it is a lie.

  ‘Hmm.’ He pulls out a tub of chewing tobacco and tucks a portion behind his top lip. Nudges it into place with the tip of his tongue. ‘You didn’t ask many questions.’

  She shrugs her shoulders again.

  ‘I didn’t want to break the flow.’ She glances at him, regretting her slightly abrupt tone. A bit of self-awareness is probably in order. She’s the one under evaluation, after all. ‘But obviously I’d appreciate any feedback,’ she adds.

  He pulls a face, unless he’s merely adjusting the chewing tobacco.

  ‘If you ask questions, then the others usually dare to do the same,’ he says. ‘It’s important to get a conversation going within the group, not just a series of monologues. So that everyone can participate. That’s the whole point of group therapy.’ He turns towards her with a slightly wry smile. ‘But you know that already, of course. You’re just a bit out of practice. After a couple more sessions everything will run smoothly.’

  She nods, and stops herself from meeting his gaze so he won’t see how relieved she feels. The grey-haired woman has disappeared from view, slipping away between the buildings like a frightened mouse.

  ‘What you said about your mum,’ he says in a low voice. ‘I didn’t know anyone saw when she . . .’

  ‘One of the workers was out looking for her.’ Veronica is still surprised by how steady her voice is. That she manages to reply to his question and simultaneously make it clear that she’d rather not be asked any more.

  Ruud doesn’t let himself be put off. ‘Terrible story . . .’

  He obviously wants her to say more, confide in him even though they’ve only known each other a week or so. But she has no inclination to challenge herself any further today, not for Ruud’s or anyone else’s sake. She carries on looking along the street instead. After a while he gets the hint and turns away to spit through his teeth.

  They stand in silence for a while as the shadows cast by the buildings grow longer. The afternoon traffic is rumbling on the motorway a couple of blocks back.

  ‘You’re going to get through this, Veronica,’ Ruud says quietly. ‘What happened in the spring was an unavoidable bump in the road that you just had to get past. Just take it calmly and focus on the job and everything will soon be back to normal again.’

  She still doesn’t respond. In some ways she’s relieved that the charade they’ve been acting out for the past week is over. That he’s finally stopped pretending he doesn’t know the reason why she was transferred. But that doesn’t mean she wants to talk to him about it. She’s already turned herself inside out a hundred times in the past few months.

  Why do you think you reacted the way you did, Veronica? What can you do to avoid this sort of situation arising again? What emotions do you associate with what you did?

  A motorbike turns into the street in front of them. The sound of the engine is a subdued hacking. The biker is wearing jeans and a brown leather jacket. His helmet is matt black, the dark visor impenetrable. The bike glides slowly past them, barely moving enough to stay upright. Just as it passes them the rider turns his head. Looks straight at her.

  She’s no model, whatever that might mean. But she keeps herself in shape, has long legs, and a look about her eyes and mouth that she inherited from her mum, and which becomes more pronounced when she wears make-up and has her hair down. A sort of vulnerability, a hint that there might be something wrong with her. A surprising number of men think that kind of thing is attractive. When she was younger she used to exploit it. But that’s all in the past now, in a different place, a different country. These days she keeps her mouth straight and her head high. Speaks softly but firmly, and looks people in the eye. Even so, it still takes surprisingly little to get men going. A gesture, a tilt of the head. Sometimes just a glance.

  The man on the motorbike goes on looking at her as he rides past, seems to nod slightly, as if they know each other. Ruud evidently seems to think so.

  ‘Someone you know?’ His tone is meant to sound amused, but she detects a note of irritation.

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head to convince both him and herself, but for some reason her heart has started to beat faster.

  She watches the man as he rides off, staring as he heads down the street. Suddenly he accelerates. The roar of the engine makes her start. It echoes between the buildings, sounding like the roar of a wild animal.

  The noise fades as the motorbike quickly disappears from view.

  ‘Perhaps it’s someone trying to pluck up courage? Wanted to see how dangerous you look before daring to join the group?’ Ruud nudges her in the side with his elbow and grins.

  She nudges him back, feels the tension ease and smiles at him gratefully.

  ‘If you help me lock up, I’ll give you a lift home,’ he says. ‘Deal?’

  ‘Deal.’

  He turns and starts to walk back towards the door. She stands where she is for a couple of seconds, looking off in the direction where the motorbike disappeared. The sound is still just about audible as a distant growl.

  Chapter 4

  Summer 1983

  M

  ånsson had set up his command post on the raised terrace at the back of the house. From ther
e he had a view of what little that could be seen of the garden in the darkness, and could hear the occasional cry from the search parties out in the fields around Backagården.

  Bi-lly

  Biii-llyy

  He had spread a large map out across the garden table and had got hold of a paraffin lamp that he’d hung from the awning above his head. His police radio was tuned to the designated channel, and as the search teams passed the reference points they had agreed on he marked them off on the map. Just as he had predicted, the tall maize, darkness and rain were making it difficult for the teams to orientate themselves, and the police officers who were leading the search had to keep stopping to change course or gather in lost members of their teams.

  The terrace door behind him opened quietly and Ebbe Nilsson came out. He was carrying a tray containing a flask, some mugs and a plate of sandwiches that he put down on the part of the table that wasn’t covered by the map.

  ‘I thought you might need something to warm you up.’

  Månsson gratefully accepted a cup of coffee, then felt a pang of guilt. Ebbe Nilsson’s little boy was missing, the whole family was in shock, but the man had still taken the time to make coffee for him. And had even thought to bring him something to eat. He studied Nilsson discreetly as he bit into one of the sausage sandwiches.

  The man’s eyes were wet, his face white and deeply lined. The shadows and weak light from the lamp emphasised his harrowed appearance. But he was standing tall and seemed fairly composed.

  ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

  Månsson gestured towards the garden and maize field.

  ‘We’re doing what we can. The darkness and rain aren’t helping. But we’re going to find him, you’ll see.’ That last sentence slipped out before he managed to stop it. He knew better than that. He’d been in the police long enough to know that you didn’t make any promises about things that were beyond your control. Yet that was pretty much what he had done. Out of sympathy, he told himself, but he suspected that wasn’t the whole truth.

  His radio suddenly crackled and he turned round. No message, just a burst of static that stopped almost as soon as it had started. Månsson swallowed the last of the sandwich.

  ‘How’s Magdalena?’ He nodded towards the upper floor.

  ‘She’s sleeping,’ Nilsson said curtly. He must have realised, because he quickly changed his tone. ‘She was so upset she took a tranquiliser. In her confusion she took a double dose, so now she’s fast asleep. Maybe it’s just as well for her to get a break from everything. Billy means the world to her—’ Nilsson’s voice broke and the rest of the sentence was swallowed by the drumming of the rain on the awning.

  ‘And the other children?’ Månsson said, then realised that the question could be taken several ways. But Månsson picked the right one.

  ‘Mattias and Vera have gone to bed, but to be honest I doubt they’re asleep. If it weren’t for them I’d be out there too.’ He pointed towards the maize field where the light from the torches occasionally flickered.

  One of the search parties must have turned back towards the farm. Månsson consulted the map and let out a sigh when he realised that team B was searching an area beside the fence that had already been searched earlier in the night. He picked up his radio, but stopped with it in his hand. Nilsson’s shoulders had slumped, his eyes were staring at the ground and his mouth was half open as if he was about to say something. But no sound came out. The man suddenly looked completely crushed, ready to collapse at any moment.

  Månsson cleared his throat. Tried to think of something to say.

  ‘You’re more use here, Ebbe,’ he said. Then, after hesitating for a few seconds, he patted the man rather feebly on the shoulder.

  ‘Any of us can go out and search, but you need to take care of Magdalena and the children. Besides, someone has to be here when we find Billy.’

  Again, he had promised more than he should, but at least his words and gesture seemed to have some effect. Ebbe Nilsson closed his mouth, then slowly nodded his head.

  The police radio crackled again.

  ‘Are you there, Månsson?’

  ‘Listening!’ he said.

  ‘Berglund here, search team B. The dog-handler’s found something out in the field, approximately twenty metres away from the gap under the fence.’

  ‘What?’ Månsson held his breath. He looked at Ebbe Nilsson. The man straightened up and seemed to regain some of his energy.

  The radio stuttered a couple of times, cutting off Berglund’s voice.

  ‘—hoe,’ was all they could make out.

  ‘Say again!’ Månsson said, leaning over the map and trying to identify the location. ‘What have you found, Berglund?’

  The radio crackled again.

  ‘A small blue and white shoe.’

  Chapter 5

  R

  uud stops his Volvo outside her building. The smell of the pine air-freshener hanging from the rear-view mirror is so pungent that it makes her nose itch. He unfastens his seatbelt and for a moment she wonders if he’s trying to invite himself in for coffee.

  She’s on the point of stammering a feeble excuse when he digs about in his trouser pocket and with some effort pulls out his tub of chewing tobacco before fastening the belt again.

  ‘See you on Monday,’ he says. ‘Breakfast meeting, nine o’clock.’

  ‘See you then.’

  She’s out of the car before he has time to put the tobacco in his mouth. She stops with her hand on the car door.

  ‘Thanks,’ she says.

  ‘No problem, it’s not far out of my way.’

  She’s about to say something else, then sees him wink at her.

  ‘It will be easier next week, Veronica. I promise.’

  *

  Her flat could belong to anyone. Forty square metres furnished with a mixture of flea-market finds and IKEA. Kitchen and living room to the right, bedroom on the left. Practical, clean, unfussy. No family photographs, pictures or posters. No scented candles, no rashly purchased Buddha statues, dried flowers or fridge magnets with inspirational slogans like ‘Carpe diem’ or ‘Today is the first day of the rest of your life’.

  Surprisingly impersonal, as an idiot with tattoos on his neck whom she had dated a long time ago, way before Leon, called the flat. He was one of those you-just-have-to-take-me-as-I-am people. The sort of people who think they’re more genuine than everyone else simply because they lack something as fundamental as basic manners. And his way of fucking was pretty much what you’d expect. Selfish and unimaginative, as she pointed out when she dumped him.

  He didn’t take the criticism terribly well. Her battered old car ended up with long scratches along the driver’s door from his keys, but by now the rust had almost made them blend into the paint. An indistinct souvenir of an old mistake.

  The air in the flat is warm and stuffy. She undoes the top button of her blouse, opens one of the living-room windows and leans out. Through the leaves of the trees outside she sees Ruud’s Volvo slowly drive away.

  It’s only a couple of degrees cooler outside than inside the room, and the air is just as stagnant. She opens the other window as well, then the narrow window in the bedroom facing the courtyard at the rear, in a vain attempt to get some sort of through-draught.

  The fridge light flickers in a disconcerting way. Probably about to give out. Something else to add to the to-do list. The fridge contains half a bottle of Ramlösa, a few sachets of soy sauce and an old ready meal with an unpromising best-before date. She stands in front of the open fridge door for a while, enjoying the cool before she takes out the bottle of Ramlösa. The mineral water has gone flat, and tastes almost salty.

  An unavoidable bump in the road.

  Ruud means well. He and the HR department think they know exactly who she is and what’s best for her. Whereas in fact they have no idea.

  So why has she submitted to their authority? Why didn’t she accept the terms the union managed to negotia
te and just leave?

  Good questions, and all the more relevant after today, but the answers remain the same. Because she made up her mind to stop running away the moment anything gets difficult. That sounds good – mature and responsible – but the main reason she’s stayed and has agreed to all their demands is considerably less noble.

  She glances at the phone on the kitchen worktop. The red light isn’t flashing. No messages. She wasn’t expecting anything different, but there’s still something about that unflinching red light that depresses her. The buzz from the therapy session has faded now and her body feels weak and sad. She briefly considers picking up the receiver. Letting her fingers dial the forbidden number just to hear Leon’s voice when he answers. But of course she doesn’t. She’s not an idiot, and she gets annoyed with herself when she thinks about the fact that she daren’t get a mobile phone, seeing as text messages almost write and send themselves.

  She goes into the bathroom. Clothes in a heap on the floor: the long-sleeved white shirt that makes her look like a nun, the black trousers, cotton underpants she buys in packs of five from H&M. Cheap, plain garments, pretty much as impersonal as her home.

  The water is tepid even at the coldest setting. She lets it run down her body, down the jagged red scar that runs almost all the way down her lower right arm. Within a few years that too will have faded, blended in, like the scratches on her car. An indistinct souvenir of an old mistake.

  Afterwards she feels better, as if the water has washed her gloomy thoughts away. She wraps herself in the white towelling dressing-gown she and Leon stole from the cosy little hotel in Trosa where he told her he loved for the first time, then takes her cigarettes and an ashtray and goes and sits in the alcove by the open window facing the street. She’s supposed to have stopped smoking. That’s part of the treatment plan she’s worked out for herself. No stimulants, no tobacco or alcohol. Especially not the latter.