Dark Secrets (35 page)

“That’s Mikael. He said he’d call.”

“Okay.” Torkel realized the conversation was over. “Say hello from me.”

“You can do it yourself, he’ll be here tomorrow.” Ursula closed the door. Torkel remained where he was for a second, letting it sink in. Mikael hadn’t come to visit Ursula during an investigation since… well, never, as far as Torkel could recall. He couldn’t even begin to start contemplating what that meant. With a heavy tread he headed back toward the staircase that would take him to his own room. His life was considerably more complicated now than it had been twenty-four hours earlier.

But what did he expect?

He had let in Sebastian again.

Sebastian woke up lying on his back on the sofa. He must have nodded off. The television was on. Low volume. The news. His right hand
was so tightly clenched that the pain was shooting right up his forearm. He closed his eyes and began to straighten his fingers slowly from their cramped position. The wind had got up; it was blowing hard, roaring down the chimney of the open fire, but in his half-awake state the sound blended with the dream that had just left him.

The roar.

The power.

The superhuman power in that wall of water.

He held on to her. Held on tight. Through all the screams, all those people screaming. The water. The swirling sand. The power. That was the only thing he knew in the midst of all the madness. That he was holding on to her. He could even see their hands. Of course it was impossible but, no, he really could see their hands. He could still see them. Her little hand. With the ring on it. Clutched in his right hand. He was holding on to her tighter than he had ever held on to anything before. There was no time to think about anything, but yet he knew that he was thinking. Just one thought. More important than any other.
He must never, ever let go.

That was what he thought.

The only thing he thought.

He must never, ever let go.

But he did.

Her hand slipped out of his.

Suddenly she wasn’t there. Something in the huge volume of water must have hit her. Hit him? Or had her small body got stuck on something? Had his? He didn’t know. He only knew that when he came to several hundred yards from what had been the beach—bruised, battered, and in shock—she wasn’t there.

She wasn’t nearby.

She wasn’t anywhere.

His right hand was empty.

Sabine was gone.

He never found her.

Lily had left them that morning to go for a run along the beach. She did the same thing every morning. She used to bore him with her preaching about all the beneficial effects of exercise. Digging her fingers into the softness that had once been his waistline. He had promised to go for a run. At some point during their holiday. But he hadn’t said when. Not today, Boxing Day. He was going to spend today with his daughter. Lily was late going out. She usually ran before it got too hot, but this morning they had had breakfast together in the big double bed, then just stayed there giggling and having fun. The whole family. Eventually Lily got up, kissed him, gave Sabine one last kiss, and left the hotel room with a cheerful wave. She wasn’t going to run very far today.

Too hot already.

Back in half an hour.

He never found her either.

Sebastian got up off the sofa. Shuddered. It was chilly in the silent room. What time was it? Just after ten. He picked up his plate from the coffee table and went into the kitchen. When he’d arrived home last night he had microwaved something from the freezer that purported to be restaurant-quality food and sat down in front of the TV with his plate and a bottle of low-alcohol beer. It had struck him that the restaurant that served the kind of food he had just shoveled down had probably closed its doors for good fairly quickly. “Depressing” didn’t even begin to describe it. But the meal matched the programming on TV: watery and lacking in imagination and texture. Whichever channel he turned to, there seemed to be some young presenter staring straight into the camera, trying to persuade him to call in and cast his vote. Sebastian had eaten half his meal, leaned back, and evidently fallen asleep.

Fallen asleep and dreamed.

Now he was back in the kitchen, with no idea what to do. He put the plate and the bottle on the draining board. Stood there. He had been unprepared. He didn’t usually allow himself to fall asleep. He never took a nap after dinner, or slept through a flight or a train ride. It usually
destroyed whatever was left of the day. For some reason he had relaxed. It had been a different kind of day.

He had worked.

Been a part of a wider context, which hadn’t happened since 2004. He wouldn’t go so far as to say it had been a good day, but it had been different. He had obviously thought that would continue, that the dream wouldn’t creep up on him. How wrong could he have been. So now he was standing here. In his parents’ kitchen.

Restless.

Irritable.

He was unconsciously opening and closing his right hand. If he wasn’t going to have a sleepless night, there was only one possible course of action.

First he would have a quick shower.

Then he would go and fuck someone.

The house really did look appalling. Everywhere. Piles of clothes. Dirty laundry. Dust. Dirty dishes. The beds needed changing, the wardrobes needed airing, and during the day the spring sunshine made it painfully clear that the windows needed cleaning. Beatrice didn’t even know where to start, so instead she did nothing, just as she had done every evening, every weekend lately. She didn’t even dare to think how much time was encompassed by the word “lately.” A year? Two? She didn’t know. She just knew she didn’t have the strength. To do anything. All her energy went into keeping up the appearance of the popular, conscientious teacher and colleague at school. Keeping the facade intact so that no one would notice how tired she was.

How lonely.

How unhappy.

She pushed aside a pile of clean underwear that had failed to get any further and sat down on the sofa with her second glass of wine. If anyone looked in through the window—and ignored the mess in the
room—they could easily get the impression that she was a professional woman, wife, and mother relaxing on the sofa after a hard day. Feet tucked underneath her, a glass of wine on the coffee table, a good book waiting, relaxing music in the background from the hidden speakers. The only thing missing was a crackling fire. A middle-aged woman enjoying some time alone. Time to herself.

Nothing could be further from the truth. Beatrice was alone. That was the problem. She was alone even when Ulf and Johan were at home. Johan, at sixteen, was right in the middle of the process of breaking free, and Daddy’s boy. Always had been. It had intensified ever since Johan had started at Palmlövska High. To a certain extent Beatrice could understand him: it couldn’t be much fun to have your mother as your class teacher; but she felt more shut out than she thought she deserved to be. She had spoken—or tried to speak—to Ulf about it. Without getting anywhere, of course.

Ulf.

Her husband, who left the house in the morning, came back in the evening. Her husband, with whom she ate, watched TV, and went to bed. The man with whom she was alone. He was in the house, but he was never at home with her. Not since he came back. Not before that either.

The doorbell rang. Beatrice glanced at the clock. Who could that be? At this time of night? She went into the hallway, pushed a pair of sneakers to one side in a reflex action, and opened the door. It took a few seconds before she was able to place the face with which she had only a fleeting acquaintance. The police officer who had been to the school. Sebastian something-or-other.

“Hi, sorry to disturb you so late but I just happened to be passing.” Beatrice nodded and glanced over her visitor’s shoulder. No car parked on the drive or out on the street. Sebastian realized immediately what she was looking for.

“The thing is, I was out for a walk and I just thought you might need someone to talk to.”

“Why would I need someone to talk to?”

This was the critical point. On his way over, Sebastian had worked out a strategy based on what he thought he knew about Beatrice Strand and her husband. The fact that they had both introduced themselves as the parent of their son and not as each other’s husband or wife told him that the relationship probably wasn’t all that good. He had seen and heard it before. It was an unconscious way of punishing the other person within a couple: “I do not principally think of myself as your partner.” The father and son had gone away to work through the events of the last few days instead of the three of them doing so as a family; this gave Sebastian a clear signal that things weren’t going too well between Mom and Dad right now. He had, therefore, decided on the role of the good listener. It didn’t matter what he had to listen to. It could be about Roger’s death, Beatrice’s crap marriage, or a lecture on quantum physics. He was convinced that a listener was exactly what Beatrice needed at the moment. Apart from a cleaner.

“When we met in school today I got the feeling that you had to be strong, to be there for your students while all this is going on. And at home too, I presume, since your son was Roger’s best friend. You have to hold back your own feelings.” Beatrice nodded without even being aware that she was doing so, confirming his diagnosis. Sebastian went on:

“But Roger was your student. A young boy. You need to be able to go over it all. You need someone who will listen.” Sebastian ended by tilting his head slightly to one side and firing off his most sympathetic smile, a combination that made him look like someone who had only the other person’s interests at heart, with no ulterior motive whatsoever. He could see that Beatrice was taking in what he had said, but that she still couldn’t quite make sense of it.

“But I don’t understand—I mean, you’re a police officer. Part of the investigation.”

“I’m a psychologist. I work with the police occasionally as a profiler, but that’s not why I’m here. I knew you were on your own tonight, and
I thought perhaps that was when the thoughts would come crowding in.”

Sebastian considered whether to underline his words with a light touch. A hand on her upper arm. But he stopped himself. Beatrice nodded again. Wasn’t that a hint of a tear in her eyes? He had struck exactly the right note. Damn he was good! He had to fight to suppress a smile as Beatrice stepped to one side and let him in.

The man who was not a murderer plumped up the pillow. He was tired. It had been a long and, in many ways, exhausting day. He caught himself thinking constantly that he must behave naturally, which in turn meant he was afraid that he was making too much effort, and therefore behaving strangely. Then he tried to stop thinking about behaving naturally, but after a while that led to a feeling that he was behaving strangely, and so he started thinking about it again. It was tiring. Besides which, the police had let Leonard Lundin go. That meant they were searching more actively again.

For someone else.

For him.

The man who was not a murderer settled down on his back and joined his hands together. A short evening prayer. Then sleep. A thank-you for enabling him to find the strength to get through another day. A wish that life would get back to normal as soon as possible. Back to the everyday routine. He had read somewhere that the first twenty-four hours after a murder were the most important when it came to catching the perpetrator. In this case, nobody had even started looking for the boy until three days had passed. The delay could only mean that his actions were justified. Finally a request that he might sleep all night, without dreams. Not like last night.