Dark Angel (13 page)

‘She was furious when Viktor told her that he wanted a divorce. She went berserk and starting throwing things around the house. She even hit him. She was rabid, and refused to accept the situation. She did everything she could to stop him from leaving her. She even booked a holiday in Italy for the whole family this summer after he said he wanted a divorce. She tried to force him to stay, the poor man. She acted like a crazy woman, without an ounce of shame.’

Abruptly she fell silent and looked down at her hands. Then she asked faintly: ‘How did he die?’

The question echoed in the small, cold room.

‘He was poisoned.’

‘But how …?’

‘That’s all we can tell you right now. I’m sorry.’

* * *

Jacobsson glanced at her watch and saw that it was very late. She leaned towards the tape recorder on the table.

‘The time is one fourteen a.m. That concludes the interview with Veronika Hammar.’

IT WAS TUESDAY
morning, and the first thing Knutas thought of when he woke was that he hadn’t managed to talk to Nils the previous night. He turned on to his side and looked at Lina’s freckled back. Cautiously he ran his fingertips over her smooth skin. He didn’t want to wake her. She had worked the night shift at the hospital and had probably fallen asleep only a short while ago. As usual, she was sprawled across the bed so that there was hardly any room for him. When he moved her over so that he could get up, she grunted and then put her arms around him.

‘Hugs,’ she whispered.

‘Sorry. Did I wake you?’

‘Not at all. I’m sound asleep.’

She burrowed her head against his chest. Her hair spilled out across the covers.

‘How was Nils feeling last night?’ he asked.

‘Good. Fine. His stomach ache was gone. We had lasagne for dinner before I left for work. It’s Nils’s favourite, as you know. We had a nice time together.’

Lina had a much better relationship with their son. Towards her Nils was as sweet as could be, and he almost never snapped at her. Knutas felt a pang of jealousy.

‘I was planning to have a talk with him last night, but then I got home too late.’

‘Do it tonight instead. I have the night shift again and start work at
nine
. Maybe it would be better if I’m not home. Then the two of you can talk in peace.’

Knutas looked in on the children before he went downstairs to the kitchen. It was only six o’clock. Too early to wake them. Petra was tangled up in the duvet with only her hair showing. Her room was crowded with so many things, but it still had a certain sense of order. Her desk and the shelves above were cluttered with hairspray, perfume, various containers and bottles in garish colours. There were dozens of little notebooks, stacks of notepads and scraps of paper covered with handwriting. He wondered what it said. Heaps of clothes, belts, various small purses and shoes were scattered about. The walls were covered with pictures of different pop stars, but he didn’t know the names of any of them.

What did he really know about his daughter and the thoughts that whirled about in her head? How many genuine conversations had they had lately? When did they ever talk to each other, and what did they say? Feeling dejected, he realized that they mostly discussed practical matters: what they should cook for dinner, whether she had to go to practice or not on a specific evening, and how things had gone at school.

And then there was Nils. He was lying in bed with his back turned to the door, and he’d forgotten to turn off his desk lamp. Nils had inherited his mother’s thick red hair. The room seemed naked, stripped bare. Nothing on the walls, a few schoolbooks on the desk, otherwise just the computer, which he spent far too much time staring at, in his father’s opinion. Nils was sleeping calmly.

How well do I really know my own children? thought Knutas. He felt an uneasy churning in his stomach, out of fear that they were slipping away from him. If he didn’t do something about it soon, it might be too late. We should take a trip somewhere, he thought. Just me and the kids. Lina often spent time alone with them at their summer house out in the country when he had to work at the weekend. Why shouldn’t he spend time with them too?

Quietly he closed the door to Nils’s room. He needed to think of something: maybe a week’s holiday on the Canary Islands or a long weekend
in
a big city. London, Paris, New York? The kids could choose where they wanted to go, within reason, of course.

Maybe sharing some experiences with them away from home would help.

I WANDER THROUGH
room after room and pull down the blinds on all the windows. It takes a while. The flat may be a free zone for me just now, but I’m actually trapped in here, like a prisoner in a cell with too much space. Taking the lift four floors down seems, as usual, practically insurmountable, even though I need to buy groceries. I have no desire to go out in the street, among all those people who are always racing along in every direction yet going nowhere. I’m no longer part of any of that. I feel as if I’m looking down on a gigantic anthill. People and cars rush aimlessly through their daily lives, like hamsters in a wheel. To what purpose?

In the bathroom I take my medicine, though with some hesitation. I shake out two capsules and a little round tablet. Then wash them down with several gulps of water, shuddering. I’ve always had trouble swallowing. I avoid looking at myself in the mirror, fully aware of what an unpleasant sight it would be. My stomach is empty, but I’m not hungry even though I’ve hardly eaten a thing in days.

I go back to the sofa and curl up in a foetal position with my back to the room. My eyes are dry and open wide, staring without seeing at the white upholstery of the sofa cushion. I know that I won’t be able to sleep. I just lie there, mute and motionless. Like part of the furnishings. That’s precisely what I am.

Again I start thinking back.

To one of those Sundays. We were going to visit Aunt Margareta and Uncle Ulf, who lived inside the ring wall, very close to the church. Their eldest son, Marcel, was the same age as me. We went to the same high
school
but pretended not to know each other. I always looked away whenever I saw him in the corridor. I suspected Marcel of making jokes about the fact that we were cousins.

He was named Marcel because his mother loved the Italian actor Marcello Mastroianni. We might have been friends, if only circumstances had been different. If it weren’t for the fact that I was regarded as a wimp. And the fact that we were always being compared to each other. By our mothers.

Marcel was already six foot one, with hair under his arms and a moustache. He had dark hair and doe eyes. He was well built, with attractively muscular arms, which he was happy to show off, evoking delighted giggles from both his mother and aunt.

The living room smelled like a shoe shop, maybe because of the white leather sofa in the corner. A pair of porcelain dogs six feet tall guarded the front door. The obligatory coffee was served at the obligatory time – always two o’clock. The leather sofa creaked as I sank on to it. The biscuit crunched between my teeth, the juice I was offered was a tad too strong. Aunt Margareta and Mamma chatted about one thing or another – the weather and other meaningless small talk. Paying no attention to any of us children, as usual, as if we didn’t exist. We were their audience. Uncle Ulf mostly sat in silence, slurping his coffee and casting resigned glances at the two gabbing women. Marcel stuffed his mouth with the biscuits piled on his plate and then left to visit a friend. As soon as he disappeared through the door, the boasting began.

‘Marcel is so popular, you know. He’s always surrounded by friends. We hardly even see him these days,’ Aunt Margareta clucked, looking immeasurably pleased. ‘The girls just keep phoning and phoning him, one after the other. He went steady with a girl for almost two months. Helena, so nice and sweet, a real gem, but he broke up with her, and I can’t tell you how much time I’ve spent on the phone talking to that girl. She’s completely devastated, the poor thing. But now he’s met someone else. Isabelle. And to top it all, she’s two years older than him. That worries me a bit. She’s not content just to hug and kiss, if you know what I mean. I’ve talked to him about contraception, of course, but it still makes me
nervous
. We don’t want him to get anyone pregnant. That would be terrible. And he’s out every weekend, every Friday and Saturday. Going to parties and dances and God only knows what else. But as long as he tends to his schoolwork, we let him be. He’s so smart, gets top marks in almost everything. He talks about wanting to be a doctor. Can you imagine that? But I’m sure he’d be good at the job, he’s so warm and open and outgoing. I think he really should work in a profession dealing with people. Although I don’t know how he does it, what with ice hockey taking up so much of his time. They practise three times a week, and then there are matches at the weekend. By the way, did you know that he was chosen as the best player of the year by his hockey team? Yes, he’s really incredible. I have no idea who he gets it from. Ha, ha, ha. Ulf has never been interested in sports, have you, dear?’

She stopped talking only to take a sip of coffee. Mamma smiled appreciatively and nodded encouragement as she stirred her coffee and murmured an occasional admiring remark. Aunt Margareta chattered on and on, talking only about Marcel, as if he were God’s gift to humanity.

The biscuit seemed to swell inside my mouth. With every word I felt smaller and smaller. Suddenly my aunt turned to look at me, as if she’d just discovered that I was in the room.

‘And what about you? Do you have a girlfriend?’

The question was so unexpected that it took a moment for me to respond, shaking my head.

I wanted to sink into the green carpet. Allow myself to be swallowed up.

In the car on the way home, Mamma kept on raving about how great Marcel was.

‘And just think – Margareta told me that he has already started shaving,’ she exclaimed. ‘He even has to do it every day!’

I didn’t say a word.

My siblings didn’t either.

THE RAIN WAS
pouring down, so Knutas drove his beat-up old Merc to work. He still couldn’t get himself to part with the car, despite pressure from Lina to sell it. He let her take the new car, since he assumed she wouldn’t want to walk either, if the bad weather continued. He remembered her saying that they’d had lasagne for dinner the night before. Was that really part of a low-glycaemic diet? He smiled to himself. It was always the same thing with Lina. She would start out so enthusiastic and with lots of big plans whenever she decided to lose some weight. She would collect a whole bunch of information, buy exercise equipment and fill the refrigerator with the proper food. The diet usually lasted no more than two weeks.

When Knutas entered the conference room for the meeting of the investigative team, he was eager to get going.

‘Good morning, everyone,’ he began.

He raised his hand to quiet the usual morning buzz of conversation. Sometimes he felt like a schoolteacher in a classroom. Right now he wanted to tell his colleagues about what he’d discovered the previous evening. He briefly described how he happened to find Veronika Hammar’s studio at the same address as Viktor Algård’s flat.

‘But isn’t she at least sixty?’ Wittberg interjected. ‘I thought he’d go for a young hottie.’

‘Not every man shares your preferences,’ Jacobsson teased him.

Thomas Wittberg’s numerous love affairs were legend among his
colleagues
. They often involved twenty-year-olds who were infatuated with Wittberg because of his status as a police detective and his windsurfer good looks. Jacobsson regarded his style as hopelessly out of date and usually made some remark about him being stuck in the eighties. But that sort of criticism rolled right off Wittberg’s back. He continued to show off his biceps in tight T-shirts, regularly went to the tanning salon close to his home, and stubbornly refused to cut his long blond hair.

‘She’s actually fifty-six,’ said Knutas. ‘Viktor was fifty-three. So there was only a three-year age difference. We got hold of her last night and during the interview she confirmed that she’d had a relationship with Algård. She told us that she was at the party at the conference centre, but she couldn’t find Viktor when she was about to leave, so she went home alone. At one point during the evening, they had intended to withdraw to the room downstairs where the victim’s body was eventually found. Viktor went on ahead, while Veronika made a detour to the ladies’ room. She ended up being delayed because she ran into some friends. When she finally went downstairs, Viktor wasn’t there. She assumed that he’d grown tired of waiting for her.’

‘What time was that?’

‘Just after midnight, sometime between twelve and twelve thirty.’

‘So she went down to the closed-off lounge area, with the bar and the sofas?’ asked Wittberg.

Knutas nodded.

‘Did she see anything?’

‘No. Apparently she didn’t actually enter the room because the lights were off. On the other hand, she did notice that a bar stool had toppled over on to the floor.’

Prosecutor Smittenberg looked puzzled as he pensively tugged at his earlobe.

‘That means the murder must have been committed while Veronika was in the loo.’

‘Provided that she didn’t do the killing herself,’ Jacobsson countered sagely.

‘It does seem strange that she made no attempt to contact us. It’s frankly incomprehensible,’ said Wittberg. ‘What was her explanation?’

‘She said that she was overcome with panic.’

‘That’s not really credible. What was she afraid of? But I assume that’s not enough to arrest her, is it, Birger?’ Wittberg turned to the prosecutor.

‘No, it’s not. She was shocked and upset. They were conducting a secret love affair, and she didn’t want to get involved. We also need to consider that she’s actually quite a well-known artist. Maybe not famous, but certainly well known,’ he added dryly. ‘That made the situation more sensitive, of course. The circumstances aren’t sufficiently compelling to warrant an arrest.’