She's Never Coming Back (20 page)

‘Well?’ he said, as soon as Mike came into the room. ‘Who is she, the woman you were holding hands with?’

Mike felt almost bashful.

‘Nour,’ he said. ‘One of Ylva’s old workmates. We ran into each other by accident, had a coffee. Then she came to dinner, and, well …’

‘And, well …’ Gösta prompted, with arched eyebrows.

Mike smiled in response.

‘Congratulations,’ Gösta said. ‘You deserve it. You see: life returns.’

‘Yes, it does,’ Mike said.

Gösta moved a piece of paper on his desk, put it on top of some other papers.

‘So,’ he said, with a friendly smile, folding his hands. ‘What do you want to talk about today? Butterflies in your tummy?’

Mike laughed.

‘Is it that obvious?’

‘It’s that obvious.’

‘I never thought I’d feel like this again.’

‘Life is strange.’

‘I’m almost scared that it will pass,’ Mike said. ‘And it always does.’

‘It can pass on into something else.’

‘Yes, of course. And that’s how it feels.’

‘Well, there you go then. Nothing to talk about.’

‘I don’t think I felt like this even with Ylva.’

‘Really?’

‘Not this natural high, being in love.’

‘What does Sanna think about it?’

Mike laughed and then looked at Gösta, serious again.

‘You’re amazing,’ he said. ‘You always put your finger on it. She was a bit wary at first. But that’s so often the way with
change. I think that’s a very human trait, to be wary of change. Things are better now, though. The other night she even came in and lay between us in the bed. Almost like a family again.’

Gösta and Marianne were sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and looking out of the window. They had both read the newspaper that lay on the table between them.

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘It seems … I don’t know.’

He looked at his wife.

‘You think that we should carry on living like this?’ she said.

Now it was Gösta’s turn not to say anything. Not for tactical reasons, but because he couldn’t. He couldn’t live up to his wife’s expectations.

‘You like it,’ she said, full of reproach.

‘I don’t.’

‘Yes, you like it. And what’s worse, she likes it. The little cunt thinks you’re a couple, you and her. I don’t think she’s ever going to commit suicide. You should rape her, not satisfy your own needs.’

Gösta shook his head.

‘Stop it,’ he said.

‘Stop it?’

She glared at him. ‘She’s going the same way as Annika. Have you forgotten that? She’ll take her own life. And if she doesn’t do it of her own accord, then we’ll have to help her fit the noose.’

Gösta sat in silence. Marianne looked up at the ceiling and breathed deeply until she was calm again.

‘How long do you intend to keep this up?’ she asked, eventually. ‘It won’t work, you must realise that. It’s a miracle that it’s worked until now. You can’t blame me for thinking that you’re drawing it out for your own sake.’

‘Stop!’

Gösta slapped his hand on the table, but it was a feeble gesture. Marianne chose not to remark on it, and instead waited for him to speak.

‘I want the same as you,’ he said. ‘I just don’t see how. Practically, I mean.’

Marianne shrugged.

‘A tiled bathroom,’ she said.

Gösta took a deep breath and stared out of the window. Marianne studied him. He looked out of sorts.

‘Good God,’ she said. ‘This is hardly the time to be lily-livered.’

She stood up, and took the coffee cups over to the sink.

Ylva was so close to the screen that the picture was fuzzy. She took half a step back and refocused.

Nour was at home with Mike. She was playing badminton with Sanna, without a net. Their enthusiasm was greater than their skill.

Nour was wearing shorts and a bikini top, not the clothes she’d had on when she arrived. Sanna was relaxed and happy, Nour playful and lively. At home, and yet not.

The relationship with Mike was blossoming. Nour was starting to take her place.

There was a knock at the door.

Ylva hurried over to where she had to stand, put her hands on her head, pouted and pulled back her elbows to push out her bust, like he said she should.

She was made up and ready, in her underwear and high heels. It was an arranged visit and Gösta Lundin had told her what he wanted.

He closed the door behind him, placed a bag of food on the worktop, then came over to her. He gestured for her to get down on her knees and she instantly obeyed.

She moaned in anticipation as if she wanted him to fill her. He undid his belt and unzipped the fly.

She took his penis and put it in her mouth, then splayed her painted nails like a porn star. He was quick to harden. She looked up and saw his disdainful expression. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back and forth.

‘Play with your pussy, I want you wet.’

She put her hand down her knickers, touched herself, felt the lubricant she had rubbed on and moaned as she had learned.

Afterwards, he noticed she was interested in what was going on on the screen. He wondered whether she still imagined, hoped, planned.

‘Your husband has been coming to see me,’ he said.

Ylva stared at him.

‘For several months now. Some crazy woman at a party accused him of being responsible for your disappearance. Claimed that everyone else thought the same, that he was involved.’

Gösta laughed.

‘Funny. He could cope with you disappearing, but not with innocent accusations and gossip.’

The new information made Ylva’s head spin. It was the same horrid feeling she’d had when Marianne told her that she’d bought May flowers from Sanna. Mike was Gösta’s patient, he discussed his innermost feelings with him, opened himself to the man who was holding her prisoner and who had raped her systematically and ritually for over a year. Ylva was not the only victim. Gösta and Marianne’s abuse had spilled over on to her family.

She felt his hand on her stomach. Stroking her, moving up to her breasts. Ylva hated him touching her afterwards more than anything. When it should be over, but carried on all the same.

This time it was worse than ever.

And yet she still did exactly what was expected of her, lowered her eyelids and moaned with pleasure.

He moved his hand down between her legs, felt the wetness. Lubricant and sperm.

‘We talk a lot, your husband and I. He’s full of admiration for me. He asked if I’d lost anyone, so I told him about Annika. For obvious reasons, I didn’t go into details. Your husband said that my loss was greater than his, that he couldn’t imagine losing his daughter.’

Gösta lay quietly for a while.

‘And I have to agree with him,’ he said, and rapped Ylva on the hip. ‘Turn round, I want to take you from behind.’

Family Journal
was interested. They were happy with Calle Collin’s last job, and had already talked about inviting him down to Helsingborg for a meeting with the editors to discuss more regular work. When he presented his idea for
Then the Game Was Over
, the matter was clinched. Calle’s flight to Ängelholm was paid for and he took a taxi to the big, silvery grey publishing house on the southside of Helsingborg.

The managing editor showed him round and gave him lunch in the staff canteen. Because the subject matter for his proposed series would be highly sensitive, she wanted more details.

Calle suggested that, following a couple of introductory articles, they should, as far as possible, let the readers approach them, and not chase anything or go looking for names in old death notices. As the person who had died was to be portrayed by a family member or friend, the perspective would vary. It might be about the grief of losing a spouse, or a child, a parent, a sibling, a friend. They should try to keep the tone as objective as possible, as the contrast with the heartbreaking story would maximise the impact. Each article would include a brief biography of the deceased, a detailed account of events leading up to their death, the interviewee’s favourite memory of their lost loved one, and a few interesting details from the life that had ended. The sort of thing that was never given space in or was deemed unsuitable for more traditional reports.

‘When the readers put down the magazine, I want them to understand that this great tragedy could strike any one of our family or friends at any moment,’ Calle explained. ‘I want them to feel the need to give their nearest and dearest a good long hug.’

The managing editor studied his face, as if she was trying to gauge whether he was being ironic or not. When she was convinced of his sincerity, she gave a decisive nod.

‘How did you get the idea?’ she asked.

Calle told her about the Gang of Four, the tyrants from his past, who had fallen, one by one, until now there was only one left.

‘In fact, she and her husband live here in Helsingborg. I thought I could look her up and see what she knows.’

Calle had got her married name from the tax register. Then he’d found the address and her husband’s name on the Internet.

‘For the series?’ the managing editor asked, horrified.

Calle realised that bullies and nasty sudden deaths were not high on the list of dream articles. She looked at him again with renewed suspicion.

‘No, no,’ Calle assured her. ‘It just struck me as odd. Three out of four. Did they lead harder lives? Did they court death? It’s not really directly related to my idea, I just thought it would be interesting to meet her again. After all these years. It’s a long time since we last met.’

He put on a bright smile, but the managing editor was still sceptical. Who wanted to meet bullies from their past?

‘She lives just outside town,’ Calle carried on, to fill the awkward silence. ‘Hittarp, or thereabouts.’

‘Oh, I live there,’ the managing editor said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Ylva,’ Calle replied. ‘She’s married to someone called Michael Zetterberg.’

The managing editor stared at him, aghast, her eyes wide open.

Something was wrong, Calle realised that much. Something was very wrong.

Calle was sitting on a yellow bus on his way into the centre of Helsingborg. He was finding it hard to swallow, his face was flushed and he thought about his wealthy friend, Jörgen Petersson. Who was he, really? He could obviously be tough and cold when it came to business. Rich people were their money, their bank balance was their identity. That’s how they defined themselves. But it was quite a leap from there to believing that you could play with life and death …

Calle went to the front to speak to the bus driver.

‘Excuse me, a quick question. How do I get to Hittarp?’

‘Well, you take the 219,’ the driver said with a thick Skåne dialect.

‘And where does that go from?’

‘Well, you’re on it.’

‘So this bus goes to Hittarp?’

‘Well, either that or it’s not the 219.’

Calle didn’t understand. Was the bus driver taking the piss?

‘So you go to Hittarp?’ Calle insisted.

‘Well …’

‘I don’t understand,’ Calle said. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

‘Well, I’m joking with you a wee bit. But you can take a joke up there in Stockholm, can’t you?’

‘Can you just let me know when we get to Hittarp, please?’

Calle sat down again. He could never live outside the capital.

‘We should talk to the bastard,’ Gerda said.

‘Why?’ Karlsson wanted to know.

Gerda shrugged.

‘He might be ready to tell us what actually happened.’

‘Big risk,’ Karlsson said. ‘He’s fallen in love and has a daughter to look after. Why are there never any pastries? Only those God-awful biscuits that are so dry that you have to drink something just to be able to swallow them.’

‘Maybe he didn’t do it,’ Gerda suggested.

‘Who? What?’

‘That upper class twat. He could be innocent.’

Karlsson laughed.

‘Yeah, right. A regular Snow White. What was it she said?’

‘Who?’

‘That actress?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You know,’ Karlsson continued. ‘The blonde one who sounded like a transvestite. Old black-and-white films.’

‘Rita Hayworth?’

‘She didn’t sound like a tranny. Before that. Hands on her hips, crude as hell.’

‘Marilyn Monroe?’

‘No, not Marilyn Monroe. I said earlier. The first talkies, around then.’

‘No idea.’

‘Mae West.’

‘What about her?’

‘She said it.’

‘Said what?’

‘“I used to be Snow White, but I drifted.” Bloody brilliant.’

‘I don’t get it,’ Gerda ventured.

‘I used to be Snow White, but … okay, she’s not any more.’

‘I used to …?’

‘… be Snow White, but I drifted.’

‘What does she mean, “drifted”?’

‘I know what it means, I just don’t know how else to put it.’

Gerda nodded. ‘Okay.’

Calle got off the bus. The first thing he saw was two girls, early teens, riding slowly past on their ponies. Then a single car crept up the hill. He could see Öresund and the Danish coastline through the gaps between the houses.

Calle read the road names: Sperlingsvägen, Sundsliden. He took out the map he had printed off from the Internet and tried to work out where he was. An elderly woman was raking the gravel in her driveway. Calle nodded to her.

‘Do you need any help?’ she asked, in a Stockholm dialect.

‘No, thank you. I think I know where I’m going.’

Calle raised a hand in thanks. Stockholmers were good people, he thought to himself. The woman smiled at him again, and it seemed to Calle that she was familiar in some way. But friendly faces often are.

‘Where are you going?’ she asked.

‘Gröntevägen,’ Calle told her.

‘It’s just over there, on the other side of the grass. Are you looking for someone in particular?’

‘Michael Zetterberg,’ Calle said.

‘He lives in the big white house with a black roof.’

The woman pointed in the general direction.

‘Thank you,’ Calle said, and started to walk.