Frozen Moment (16 page)

    So
she probably was seen as closed in on herself at work.
Integrity
was an
epithet she had often heard said about
herself
. And
she liked hearing it - it sounded dignified. But it wasn't a question of
character; she had simply never thought that her private life corresponded with
the professional person she regarded herself to be, the person she knew others
perceived her to be. And the facade rarely cracked.

    Once,
before she had the children. Renée Gunnarsson had come into work at the crack
of dawn and found Beckman in the staffroom, her eyes red from weeping. Goran
had been gone for a couple of weeks following a heart-rending quarrel, and in
order to avoid being alone in the house Beckman had been coming into work every
morning before dawn. She had sat there in the office in the darkest hour,
staring at divorce papers.

    When
Renée turned up with a hug and words of consolation, she had broken down
completely. They went to a nearby cafe before the rest of their colleagues
arrived, and Beckman had wept for hours. She explained how lonely she had felt
during the years she had lived with Goran, how she had grown less and less like
the person she believed herself to be, and turned into someone she neither knew
nor particularly liked.

    Afterwards
she was embarrassed, not because she had shown weakness, nor because she had
wept. She was embarrassed because Goran had moved back home again after a few
weeks. Because life had gone on just the way it had been before he moved out.
And because it was neither the first nor the last time.

    No,
she would never be able to entrust someone with her private life, except in
very small chunks. At least not someone she wanted to go on respecting her. A
woman with inner strength - because that was how she wanted to be regarded -
was not a reed, bending in the wind, nor a magnet for another person's mood. A
person with integrity came to a firm decision and then stuck to it, however
lonely she might feel. However much it hurt to have a shared history that
suddenly exists only in the past.

    Her
mobile rang in her handbag. She ran into the hallway and swore as she missed
the call. It was high time to wake the children, according to the plastic
kitchen clock. The antique wall clock she had inherited from her grandfather
had remained packed in a box in the cellar for most of the time she and Goran
had been together, because Goran insisted it was ugly. The clock was the first
thing she turned to during those periods when he wasn't living at home. As soon
as he left the house in a rage with his suitcase, burning rubber as he
screeched away in the car, and while she was still more angry than upset, while
the feeling of freedom was still more powerful than loneliness, she would hang
up her grandfather's clock.

    When
she thought about it, this silent victory seemed ridiculously sad. Many times
she had considered throwing the clock away, just to break the pattern, but she
had never done it. The pathetic aspect was not the clock in itself, but the
role it played in her inhibited emotional life. She had once screamed so loudly
at Goran that the neighbours had called the police, and she had to run and hide
in the cellar, terrified that the officers in the patrol car would recognise
her.

    Evidently
these unspoken truths had welded the length of her spine into aching knots.

    On
the way upstairs she heard loud snores coming from the spare room. He wouldn't
be able to take the kids to nursery today either. She would have to take them,
and be late for work.

    Standing
outside Julia and Sigrid's room, she saw that the missed call was from Andreas
Karlberg. She rang him back.

    'I'm
on the way out to Björsared to interview the neighbours,' he said over a
crackling connection.

    'OK,
I'll be a bit late.'

    She
closed her eyes. From the children's room Sigrid, the two-year- old, let out a
scream of rage. She hated the transition from dreams to reality.

    'I'll
meet you there,' Beckman managed to call out before the connection was broken.

    She
pushed open the door and was dazzled by the warm golden light of the Advent
star. The room smelled of small children.

    When
they came in out of the cold, the heat hit them like a wall. As they sat on the
well-used moss-green sofa, both ailing police officers enjoyed the warmth from
the open fire. The Molins' home was just the way the homes of the elderly tend
to be: tidy but over-furnished. Full of ornaments that perhaps had sentimental
value or just happened to be there.
Furniture in varying styles
and from different periods.
Standard lamps with
low-watt bulbs and faded shades.
Christmas decorations
and a thin layer of dust covering everything.
As if
the memories of an entire lifetime had been gathered together in three rooms,
plus the kitchen and the upper floor.
And that's just how it was, in all
probability.

    The
early hour did not deter fru Molin from ceremoniously producing a three-tier
cake stand, laden with ginger biscuits, Lucia saffron buns and pastries. She
had baked the marble cake herself. Karlberg accepted a slice out of politeness
and was just about to take a bite when he detected the faint but unmistakable
smell of mould. He put the cake back on his plate and thought it wouldn't be
the first time he had spirited away some inedible delicacy while the
hostess
excused herself on some errand in the kitchen.

    Dagny
Molin drew her knitted cardigan more tightly around her shoulders as she
lowered herself into the armchair opposite Beckman.

    'It's
cold in here, isn't it? I'll ask Bertil to turn up the heating.'

    'No,
there's no need,' said Karlberg, feeling the sweat break out on his upper lip.
The fire, which had seemed so wonderfully welcoming at first, was now beginning
to eat up the last of the oxygen in the room.

    Bertil
Molin shuffled forward out of the shadows. He turned up an electric radiator,
strategically placed next to the sofa where Karlberg was sitting. Karlberg
removed his jacket.

    'I
didn't think for a minute Lars would be dead,' said Dagny Molin when her husband
had settled himself in a wicker chair right next to the door, as if he needed
an escape route. 'When you were here the last time, I mean.'

    'Well,
the picture has become somewhat clearer to us as well since I was last here.
But there are still a number of question marks. You already know that Lars
Waltz was murdered. We know that the perpetrator arrived by car, which means he
must have travelled along this road at some point during the evening or night
of the nineteenth. You can actually see the Edell farm from your veranda so we
just want to be sure that you didn't see or hear anything you didn't remember
the last time I was here.'

    He
spoke slowly and clearly to emphasise the significance of his words. Dagny
Molin shook her head.

    'As
I told you, we were asleep. Our bedroom upstairs is at the back of the house,
so we don't hear or see cars on the road. And even if we had, Waltz ran a car
repair workshop. We wouldn't notice every single car.'

    Karlberg
had to accept this, of course. He tried another tack.

    'Last
time you said you knew Edell well.
Lise-Lott's first
husband.'

    'Thomas,
oh yes! He often spent time down in our basement in years gone by. Sven, our
son, had his den down there, next to the boiler room. That's where they used to
go. You know how it is: youngsters want to be left in peace.
At
least when they're growing up.
It's the first step away from you - you
know you're starting to lose them. And we don't see him often enough these
days. Do you have children, officer?'

    
'Er, no.
So you're saying that your son used to go around
with Thomas Edell? When was this?'

    Dagny
Molin smiled, as if she found the question ridiculous.

    'Well,
they were neighbours. They were the same age, so it was only natural for them
to spend time together. When they were little they didn't have much choice,
really. It was a long way to the nearest house, and in the old days we didn't
drive kids here and there so they could play with somebody else. No, in those
days you had to play with what was to hand. In Sven's case that was Thomas, and
it was probably no bad thing. They used to love playing out in the fresh air.
On their bikes.
Making go-karts.
You know the sort of thing.'

    'What
about later on?' Karin Beckman interjected.
'When they were
teenagers.'

    Dagny
Molin seemed put out.

    'Well,
I don't really know what to say. What mother knows exactly what her teenagers
get up to? They had
mopeds,
they used to go around on
those. There were more lads hanging around by that time, from different
villages, and God knows I can't remember all their names. When you get to my
age you're pleased if you can remember the important things.'

    She
fell silent and glanced at her husband. He had switched on the television, with
the sound off. A parliamentary debate filled the screen, and the leader of the
moderate party was reflected in the tinted glass of the mahogany bookcase.
Dagny Molin's hands moved restlessly for a moment,
then
she leaned over and made sure the radiator was on. She turned it up to maximum
then sat back in her armchair with a sigh of relief.

    'He
was a bit difficult, was Thomas. I won't pretend otherwise. Sven was always a
sweet boy, but easily led. Sometimes I worried that Sven would get into trouble
with Thomas, I don't mind admitting that now. Not that there was any bad in
him, absolutely not.
Nor in Reino.
But boys will be
boys and they got a bit carried away sometimes. They wanted to experience
everything, try everything. I'm sure you know what I mean, officer. You're not
too old to have forgotten that sort of thing?'

    The
heated dust was spreading a suffocating smell of burning. Karlberg felt panic
creeping up on him as he discovered that he had lost the ability to blink. His
eyelids appeared to have dried on to his eyeballs.

    Beckman
was quick to take over the reins.

    'Exactly
what do you
mean,
fru Molin? Drinking? Fighting? Could
you be more specific?'

    Dagny
Molin squirmed, pursing her mouth.

    'Well,
there might have been drinking and a certain amount of violence, but they were
only young. And Thomas is dead,' she said censoriously. 'He inherited the farm
and he got married before bad luck caught up with him. He turned into a really
good man.
Sven too.'

    She
brightened up.

    'Sven
has made a fresh start: he's met someone, and he's bought a business. A mink
farm, up Dalsland way. And he's got two children into the bargain, a boy and a
girl.'

    She
pointed over towards the piano, which was visible through the doorway of the next
room. Between mother and father in a porcelain family of Christmas goblins
stood a framed photograph of a boy and a girl. They looked Asian.

    'She's
from Thailand, apparently, this woman Sven's met. I can't remember her name.
We've never met, but Sven sent that photo last winter. I'm glad Sven's found a
woman. He needs someone to look after him and he isn't getting any younger.
He's a good boy. They were good boys, all of them.'

    A
mantra, thought Beckman.
Good boys.
She
kept having
to rub her hand across her forehead to stop her fringe sticking to the skin.
Without any idea of what was waiting for them, she had put on a cashmere
sweater over a much too revealing camisole, and now she could neither take it
off nor stand the heat any longer. She got the idea that Dagny Molin was well
aware of her torment and was secretly smiling to herself. Every breath she took
hurt, as if she were sitting in a sauna, and she could barely keep her thoughts
in order.

    'What
do you know about Reino Edell's relationship with Lise-Lott?' she asked.

    Without
taking her eyes off Molin she could sense Karlberg's muted surprise. Perhaps he
had been thinking of a different approach, but right now she couldn't have
cared less. Just as long as she could get out of this suffocating heat, out
into the damp December morning and the fresh air before she expired.

    Bertil
Molin took his eyes off the TV screen for a second and met Beckman's gaze over
the cake stand.

    'He
couldn't stand the woman.'