Dark Secrets (30 page)

“We don’t know what happened.” Sebastian looked at his boss with a hint of weary irritation. He had merely delivered a small piece of the puzzle, not completed the whole thing.

“We don’t even know where he died. I’m only saying it probably wasn’t planned.”

“So there’s the possibility that we’re talking about manslaughter rather than murder, but it doesn’t get us any closer to who killed the boy, does it?”

Silence. Sebastian knew there was no point in responding when Torkel got grumpy like this. Evidently the others felt the same. Torkel turned to Ursula.

“Those marks on the rib—will it be possible to match them with a bullet if we do find the gun?”

“No. Unfortunately.”

Torkel slumped in his chair and spread his arms wide.

“So we have a new cause of death, but fuck-all else.”

“Not quite.” Sebastian pointed to another of the photographs on the wall. “We have the watch.”

“What about the watch?”

“It’s expensive.”

He gently touched the shiny pictures showing Roger’s clothes.

“Acne jeans. Quiksilver jacket. Nike sneakers. All designer labels.”

“He was a teenager.”

“Yes, but where did he get the money from? His mother doesn’t seem to be very well off. And after all, he was Palmlövska High’s little charity experiment.”

Lena Eriksson was sitting in her armchair in the living room, tapping the ash from her cigarette into an ashtray by her side. She had opened a fresh pack that morning, and another just an hour ago. This was the third cigarette from the second pack. Which meant it was the twenty-third of the day. Too many. Particularly as she had eaten next to nothing all day. She was feeling slightly dizzy as she cleared her throat and looked over at the police officers sitting on the sofa on the other side of the coffee table. New ones. Both of them. All three of them, if you counted the woman who was in Roger’s room. The one Lena had met at the mortuary wasn’t there. Nor were any of those who had come to see her earlier on. These officers were in plain clothes and came from something called Riksmord. They had asked where Roger got his money from.

“He had a grant to support his studies.”

She took another drag of her cigarette. The movement was so familiar, so much a part of her everyday life, almost a reflex action. What else had she done today, apart from sitting in the armchair smoking? Nothing. She couldn’t summon up the energy. This morning she had woken up after about an hour’s sleep and thought she might go out for a while. Get some fresh air. Do a bit of shopping. Perhaps tidy the apartment. Take the first small step toward getting back to some kind of normal life. Without Roger.

She had to go out to buy
Aftonbladet
, the evening paper, in any case. They were the ones who had offered the most money in the end. Fifteen thousand kronor for talking to a young woman for a couple of hours. Cash in hand. A photographer had been there for the first half hour, then he had left. The young woman whose name Lena had forgotten had placed a tape recorder on the table and asked about Roger—what he was like, his childhood, what he enjoyed doing, how she felt now he was gone. To her surprise, Lena hadn’t cried during the interview. She had thought she would; it was the first time she had talked to anyone
other than the police about Roger since he disappeared. Really talked, that is. Maarit, a work colleague, had phoned and awkwardly offered her condolences, sounding most uncomfortable, and Lena had quickly ended the call. Lena’s boss had been in touch, but that was mainly to say that he understood if Lena couldn’t come into work according to the roster and that they would divide her shifts between the rest of the staff, but that it would be helpful if she could call a day or so before she was coming back. The police who had been to see her had only wanted to know more about Roger’s disappearance—had he run away from home before, did he have problems, had anyone threatened him? They didn’t want to know anything about him as a person. As a son.

Anything about who he had been.

How much he had meant to her.

That was exactly what the journalist
had
wanted to know. They had looked at photo albums, and she had let Lena tell her about Roger at her own pace, just asking the odd question for clarification here and there. When Lena had finished telling her everything she thought she could say and wanted to say about her son, the woman started to ask more specific questions. Was Roger the kind of person his friends turned to for help? Was he involved in any voluntary work? Did he help train a youth team, did he mentor a younger child? Anything along those lines? Lena had told the truth and answered no to every question. The only friends he had brought home were Johan Strand and a boy from the new school. Once. Erik something. Lena had thought she detected a hint of disappointment on the journalist’s face. Could Lena tell her a little more about the bullying, in that case? How she felt when she heard that her son’s former tormentor was being held on suspicion of murder? Even if that was old news by now, the journalist—whose name was Katarina—thought they could give it another whirl. With a picture of two cuddly toys sitting on Roger’s bed, it might just work.

So Lena had talked. About the bullying. The violence. The move to a new school. But mostly she had talked about how convinced she was that Leo Lundin had murdered her son and that she would never forgive
him. Katarina had switched off the tape recorder, asked if she could borrow a few pictures from the family albums, handed over the money, and left. That had been yesterday. Lena had put the cash in her pocket. So much money. She had wondered whether to go out for a meal. She could really do with getting out of the apartment. And she would need to eat. But she stayed where she was. In the armchair. With her cigarettes, and the money in her pocket. She could feel it against her leg every time she changed position. Every time that little voice woke up.

This money didn’t kill him, anyway.

In the end she had got up and put the bundle of notes in a drawer. She didn’t go out. She didn’t eat. She sat in the armchair and smoked. Just as she had done all day today as well. And now there were two different police officers here, wanting to talk about money.

“The child benefit and the study allowance were enough before he moved to that damn posh school. Once he got there he had to have new stuff all the time.” Vanja gave a start of surprise. She had assumed Lena would have nothing but good things to say about Palmlövska High, which took her son away from his tormentors and offered him a place at what Vanja was convinced was a good and attractive school, regardless of her opinion of the principal.

“Weren’t you pleased when he changed schools?”

Lena wouldn’t meet her gaze. She looked over at the big window. On the windowsill stood a lamp with a blue shade and two shriveled dieffenbachia plants. When had she last watered them? A long time ago. The peace lilies had fared better, but they too were wilting. In the fading sunlight from the window she could see that the apartment could, in fact, be classed as smoke filled.

“She took him away from me,” she said as she stubbed out her cigarette, got up from the armchair, walked over to the balcony door, and opened it.

“Who took him away from you?”

“Beatrice. Everyone in that stuck-up place.”

“In what way did they take Roger away from you?”

Lena didn’t answer straightaway. She closed her eyes and breathed in the oxygen-rich air. Sebastian and Vanja felt a welcome gust of cold, fresh air swirl around their feet. In the silence they could all hear Ursula going through the boy’s room. She had insisted on coming with them, partly to avoid being left alone with a grumpy Torkel—with whom she was still furious—and partly because the room had been searched only by the local police. Ursula’s faith in the local police was almost nonexistent. They’d missed the report of the boy’s disappearance for two days, for God’s sake. If she wanted to be sure it had been done properly, she would do it herself. And that was what she was doing now.

Lena could hear the wardrobe being opened, drawers being pulled out, pictures and posters taken down from the walls, as she stood there gazing blankly at a tree by the parking lot. It was the only bit of greenery visible from the window. The rest of the view was taken up by the gray exterior of the building complex next door.

In what way did they take Roger away from her? Could she even explain it?

“It had to be the Maldives during the Christmas holiday and the Alps in February and the Riviera in summer. He didn’t want to be at home. The apartment wasn’t good enough anymore. Nothing we did or had was good enough anymore. I didn’t have a chance.”

“But Roger was happier at Palmlövksa, wasn’t he?”

Oh yes, of course he was. He wasn’t being bullied any longer. Or beaten up. But in her darkest hours Lena had thought that might almost have been preferable. At least he had been at home back then. When he wasn’t training or at Johan’s, he had been at home. With her. He had needed her just as much as she had needed him. Now the unpalatable truth was that no one needed her.

This last year she hadn’t been alone.

She had been abandoned.

That was worse.

Lena became aware of the silence in the room. They were waiting for an answer.

“I suppose so.” Lena nodded. “I suppose he was happier there.”

“Do you have a job?” Vanja asked when she realized she wasn’t going to get a more comprehensive answer about Roger’s new school.

“Part time. At Lidl. Why?”

“I just wondered if he perhaps stole money. Without your knowing about it.”

“He might have done, if there had been any money to steal.”

“Did he ever talk about it? Did he ever say it was important for him to have money? Did he seem desperate? Could he have borrowed money from someone?”

Lena pushed the balcony door closed, without shutting it entirely. She returned to the armchair. Resisted the urge to light yet another cigarette. She felt so tired now. Her head was spinning. Couldn’t they just leave her in peace?

“I don’t know. Why is it so important to know where he got money from?”

“If he borrowed or stole it from the wrong person, it could provide a motive.”

Lena shrugged her shoulders. She didn’t know where Roger had gotten his money from. Was she supposed to have known that?

“Did he ever mention Axel Johansson?” Vanja said, trying a new tack. Nobody could accuse Roger’s mother of being unduly cooperative. They had to drag every bloody answer out of her.

“No, who’s he?”

“The janitor at Palmlövska. Former janitor.”

Lena shook her head.

“When you spoke to my colleagues, you said…” Vanja flicked back a couple of pages in her notebook and read, “… that Roger didn’t feel threatened, and hadn’t quarreled with anyone. Is that still the case?”

Lena nodded.

“If he had been threatened or gotten into a scrap with anyone, would you have known about it?”

It was the man who asked the question. He hadn’t said anything
up to now. He had introduced himself when they arrived, then sat in silence—no, that was wrong, he hadn’t even done that. The woman had introduced both of them when she showed her ID. The man hadn’t shown his.
Sebastian
, Lena remembered. Sebastian and Vanja. Lena looked into Sebastian’s calm blue eyes and realized that he already knew the answer. He could see right through her.

He knew this wasn’t just about the rented three-room apartment in a dull neighborhood, that the DVD player should have been a Blu-ray, and that you had to get a new cell every six months. He knew she hadn’t been good enough—the way she looked, her weight problem, her badly paid job. He knew Roger had been ashamed of her. That he had no longer wanted her to be a part of his life, that he had thrown her out. What this man didn’t know was that she had found an opening. A way back to Roger. Back to each other.

But then he died,
said the little voice.
So much for your way back.

With trembling hands Lena lit up number twenty-four before she gave the answer Sebastian already knew.

“Probably not.”

Lena fell silent and shook her head, as if she had just realized what a terrible relationship she had had with her son. Her gaze was lost somewhere in the distance.

The conversation was interrupted as Ursula emerged from Roger’s room with two bags, the camera around her neck.

“I’m done. See you back at the station.” She turned to Lena. “Once again, my condolences on your loss.”

Lena nodded absently. Ursula looked meaningfully at Vanja, ignored Sebastian, and left the apartment. Vanja waited until they heard the outside door close.

“Would it be possible for us to speak to Roger’s father?” Vanja again. Fresh attempt. New tack. See if it was possible to get more than three words in a row out of Roger’s mother at any point about anything.

“There is no father.”

“Wow, it’s two thousand years since that last occurred!”

Lena gazed steadily at Vanja through the smoke.

“Are you judging me? You’d fit in perfectly at Roger’s new school.”

“Nobody’s judging you, but there has to be a father somewhere,” Sebastian said bluntly. Was it Vanja’s imagination, or was there a different tone in his voice?