The Intruder (37 page)

Henrik and Maria had not talked about it, but when she said that it felt completely obvious. This was not her place. She had a life somewhere else, only happened to still be here.

“I see, yes, of course,” said Ewy.

Henrik did not understand what she meant by that and didn’t intend to try to understand, either.

Staffan mumbled something about the flight, occupied with Ellen. Staffan’s niece climbed steadily up his legs while he held firmly onto her hands. She made a backward somersault and landed with a dull thud on the soft hotel room carpet. That was something she always wanted to do with just Staffan. Because she was so small for her age it still went well.

Henrik lost himself for a moment in their play. What would he do without Ellen? What if she and Maria had not gone down to swim? Think if both Axel and Ellen … He closed his eyes hard.

“But it must be monotonous for the girl, don’t you think?” said Ewy.

Henrik opened his eyes and turned toward his mother-in-law.

“I’ll try to arrange an apartment,” he said. “Or else the police can arrange that. And bring a few of Ellen’s things here.”

“Have they said anything about the house?”

When he heard Ewy gather her fragile, joyless voice and ask the practical questions he thought that she shouldn’t have to go through that. That she ought to be able to lie down and close her eyes and keep silent, which presumably is what she wanted to do most of all. Plucky, thought Henrik. A word you seldom use.

“I’m sure they’ll be done with the house soon. But perhaps you don’t even want to—”

She made a little movement with her mouth as if she wanted to take back the question.

“I don’t know,” said Henrik heavily. “I really don’t know. But you’re right of course. We can’t go on living here.”

Ewy reached for the purse and took out a tin of throat lozenges. She put a lozenge in her mouth and then extended the tin in the direction of Ellen. After a slight hesitation Ellen went up to her grandmother and started fishing for a lozenge.

“You can take the whole tin,” said Ewy.

She smiled tenderly at Ellen and then looked at Henrik again.

“There are a lot of things we ought to talk about, but I don’t know where to start.”

She turned the lozenge in her mouth with a faint smacking. Staffan suggested that they should go with them over to their hotel so they could drop off their bags and then they could have lunch at the hotel. If the policeman outside had no objections?

Henrik had a hard time imagining that he could consume more than a glass of water in the company of Maria, Ewy, and Staffan.

He would be forced to tighten his inner straitjacket to the bursting point not to scream all the secrets right out.

No, that was not true. He would not say a word. Ever. They would have to torture him first. But it felt as if he was about to fall apart. That something could leak out, against his will. The policeman who was assigned to protect them had no objection, but to be on the safe side made a call to his superior at the police station.

They took the upper street. Henrik did not know whether that was because it was closer or because it should somehow be better. Safer. Did they really need to be protected? The police no doubt knew what they were doing, he assumed, but he had a hard time feeling threatened. The picture of Malin and Axel, battered and bloody, overshadowed all else. There was no room for dark fantasies about what could happen to them. The worst had already happened.

The wheels on Staffan’s carry-on bag rattled across the cobblestones as they passed through Skansporten’s rugged gray limestone arch. Ewy looked quickly up toward the tower ruin alongside the gate opening. Henrik took a couple of deep breaths and fixed his gaze somewhere at the end of the street. He felt dizzy. Apart from climbing into a car and being driven to the police station, this was the first time in five days he had left the hotel. They had walked around in the Harbor Hotel’s back courtyard. Like prisoners. Perhaps they could have taken a walk outside if they wanted. He had not thought to ask.

Ellen was holding his hand. Staffan, Ewy, and Maria walked in a row ahead of them. Order was restored. The Andersson family by themselves and then his own semi-family. The police officer came last.

When they came into the dark, stone-paved lobby of Wisby Hotel and Henrik saw the walkway that connected the hotel with Friheten it was as if he lost all control of his legs.

They got so close. The restaurant. He and Malin. The key card in his pocket, which would be a surprise. Maria at home with the kids.

On sheer will he took three swaying steps up to the nearest couch and sat down with a clumsy motion.

“What is it?” asked Staffan with a worried frown.

“I can’t eat lunch here,” he whispered. “I—”

His mouth was dry; he had a hard time saying the words.

“Malin and I…” he said, trying to turn around with a gesture toward the restaurant.

“We’ll go somewhere else,” said Staffan, leaning over and placing a hand on Henrik’s shoulder. “Or would you rather go back?”

“No. Not back,” Henrik mumbled and felt how the hand burned against his shoulder.

“We’ll just quickly check in, then we’ll go,” said Staffan.

He rolled away with the bag to reception, leaving a cold hollow in Henrik’s shoulder. Maria went with Ewy up to the reception counter and Ellen sat down beside him on the couch. He heard their voices. Their names. The scraping of a pen against paper.

After an eternity they were done. Staffan and Ewy could, of course, not suggest any place to eat. That became Henrik’s task. Why should they eat? It seemed absurd that they should sit together and eat food. But even grieving people have to eat. Perhaps it was the only thing grieving families could do together. Cling to the practical things. Survival. Sleep. Food.

He took them to Bakfickan, the little fish restaurant by the church ruin on the main square. Henrik used to eat there when he was in Visby. The staff recognized him. He noticed how the waiter looked startled as they came in, uncertain how to greet them.

They were early. The little restaurant was empty and they got a table by the window to the left. There were only a small number of tables in the tiled former butcher shop.

“You’re welcome to eat with us,” said Staffan to the policeman.

“Thanks, but it’s better if I wait outside,” he answered.

After a quick glance around the place he went back out.

Strangely enough, Henrik could eat when they got their food. All of the grilled salmon and some potatoes. Over coffee, Ewy started talking about the funeral. She would prefer for Malin and Axel to be buried on the mainland. That was her personal wish. But she thought that Henrik should decide. If he preferred Gotland she would not object.

“But that depends, of course, on what you intend to do now.”

Henrik looked at her perplexed.

“If you intend to stay here. It would feel wrong if…”

She stole a glance at Ellen and searched for a suitable formulation.

“If they’re buried here and you and Ellen move home later … or, I mean … back to Stockholm. Then they’ll be alone here.”

“No, it’s true. That would be strange.”

He promised to think it over carefully. Staffan had no opinion. He left the whole decision to Henrik. Maria simply mumbled a “no, no, sure,” and nodded at him.

Henrik had actually not given it a thought before. Fantasies about the burial itself had forced themselves on him, but they had played out in an unknown church that he had not connected to any particular place.

He visualized Fårö, the church in the middle of the island. The sea that would soon be cold. The barren beaches with knotted prickly pines. Did he want Malin and Axel to rest there? Was it better if she got to return to the mainland? Return? She was already there. He lost himself in images of Malin at the coroner’s office, of Malin being conveyed back in a coffin on the car deck of the Gotland ferry. How she would be left alone between the echoing metal bulkheads while all the other passengers walked away up the stairs and settled down in heated lounges.

72.

Once Klint had said yes it did not take Fredrik long to make his way from Visby to Södermalm in Stockholm. He had arranged a time with Thomas Bark in his studio in Hammarbyhamnen, but first he wanted to question Janna Drake.

The agency was housed in a typical fin-de-siècle apartment two flights up on Hornsgatan. The color scheme of the walls and woodwork was white and looked as if it had been painted yesterday. Judging by the many signs on the door, the Drake Agency shared the office with several other businesses.

Two sober, gray couches met them in the unstaffed reception area. Above the couches two poster-sized black-and-white photographs were hanging. One depicted a naked young woman on a horse, the other some laughing children in a shabby backyard in an unknown country. Two worlds. Which one was it that enticed Joakim? Fredrik didn’t know.

A woman roughly the same age as Henrik Kjellander entered the room, walked quickly up to Fredrik, and extended her hand. He recognized Janna Drake’s slightly hoarse voice at once.

She showed him into the room she had just come out of. Two large desks stood across from each other, edge to edge.

“You can sit there,” she said, pointing to the one seat.

Fredrik pulled out the chair.

“Oops,” he said when he realized he was sitting very low.

Janna Drake giggled. “There’s a lever there at the side,” she said.

He found a black plastic lever and managed to adjust the height.

Janna Drake did not look at all as he had expected. She was about five foot five, and her medium blond, straight hair was cut short. Her face had friendly, soft forms. Fredrik had expected a stately woman with definite features. Probably it was the name that called forth an upper-class pattern.

“How many work here?” he said, looking around the room.

“Do you mean in the whole office, or at the agency?” said Janna Drake, sitting down across from him.

“At the agency.”

“Right now there are three of us. Helena, my partner, and then we have one employee, Andreas.”

He already knew the names.

“But you’re the one who is Henrik’s agent? I mean, who has contact with his clients, manages negotiations and such?”

“Yes,” she said. “We divide our photographers up between us. That’s a source of security for them, but it is also good for the clients that they know, for example, who I represent. That it’s not different from one time to the next. Then sometimes we fill in for one another if someone is sick or there’s a lot going on with certain photographers.”

“Good,” Fredrik said firmly.

He did not really know what it was that was good, but was eager to interrupt. The tone suggested that a longer presentation of the Drake Agency was on its way. A sales pitch that Janna Drake presumably could supply with a sparklingly intense gaze while she thought about something else.

“You said before, when we talked on the phone, that you did not really socialize with Henrik privately,” he said.

“That’s correct,” said Janna.

“But you have nonetheless been his agent for a really long time.”

She nodded. “Over ten years.”

“That’s a long time. Almost as long as he’s been together with Malin.”

“Yes?”

Her eyes narrowed a touch and her forehead got a wrinkle, as if she did not really appreciate the parallel.

“But you didn’t know him before you became his agent?”

“Yes, we were acquainted before that.”

Fredrik looked at her with surprise.

“So you have socialized privately, even if you no longer do?”

“No, or…”

She interrupted herself with an embarrassed sigh.

“It was different then. We were younger. You went out a lot. We socialized in the same circles, met at the bar.”

“Okay, I think I understand the difference.”

“We were acquaintances, but not friends. It’s no more difficult than that.”

“Do you know if he saw other women? Other than Malin?”

“Other women?”

Janna Drake leaned slowly back and looked at him with her head at a slight angle. “What exactly do you mean?”

“I mean if he had any relationships on the side, short-term or longer.”

The guarded expression on Janna Drake’s face was replaced by a smile.

“You shouldn’t confuse the image of the fashion photographer with the private person,” she said. “If you’re constantly surrounded by beautiful young women in provocative clothing it’s easy for people to get a certain impression. But it’s crucial to distinguish between apples and oranges.”

Fredrik hated that silly fruit metaphor that people hid behind when they really wanted to say you seemed a little dense.

“You don’t need to defend him,” he said. “I’m out to find a murderer, not to root in Henrik Kjellander’s private life. But if the way to the perpetrator goes via his private life, then I have to do that.”

“And you know that?” she said in a somewhat flat voice.

“No, but that’s how it usually is.”

Janna Drake got up and went over to a low cabinet to the right of the door. She reached for a glass and filled it with water from a carafe. She raised the glass, but stopped.

“Excuse me,” she said, turning to Fredrik. “Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, thanks, I’m fine.”

She took a couple of sips and came back and sat down, holding the glass with both hands and letting it rotate slowly.

“If you’re looking for something concrete I probably can’t contribute. But this much I can say: that when I started working with Henrik he had a reputation for being pretty wild. As I said, that’s fairly common in our industry.”

“What does wild entail?” asked Fredrik.

“Well, you know, women, going out a lot. But my understanding was that this was before he met Malin. To me, Henrik has always been a decent, open person. Flirtatious perhaps, but not creepy in any way, if I may say so.”

“With you as well?” Fredrik asked.

“Flirtatious? Yes, but in a social way.”

“What do you mean?”