More Bitter Than Death (20 page)

“Just fucking stop right there,” Henrik orders.

There it is again, the feeling that time has ceased to exist, that we’re all prisoners of this moment, unable to influence the course of events.

Hillevi moves closer to Henrik and everything inside me goes cold.

Henrik is drunk, possibly crazy. He is probably scared, has paranoid delusions
about Kattis. If he feels threated by Hillevi, anything could happen. She shouldn’t get so close. She should back away.

Kattis is standing still, her eyes closed. Sofie is alone, now that she can’t lean on Hillevi anymore. Malin and Sirkka are frozen in their seats.

Suddenly I see Elin, forgotten in one corner of the room. She’s holding a cell phone in her hand. The screen glows faintly. She looks at me and nods slowly and I understand. Somehow she has sent a message. Help is on the way. She quickly hides the cell phone somewhere in her clothes.

Hillevi holds up her hands as if to signal that she isn’t dangerous, doesn’t mean to do any harm. Little Hillevi against that pumped-up behemoth, Henrik, who stands motionless and astonished, staring at her with the gun gleaming in his hand.

And then.

The second hand keeps ticking. Somewhere a car honks. The dishwasher beeps, indicating that it’s done. Someone takes a deep breath. Hillevi takes a step forward; it’s not a big step, not a rapid movement, just a small but definite advancement. But Henrik jumps and a shot rings out.

Hillevi’s delicate, black-clad body tumbles backward over the table, knocking the plate of cinnamon buns and the Kleenex box onto the floor. From the corner of my eye, I see the buns scatter across the brown carpet, slowly soaking up the blood.

Henrik looks at his own hand in surprise, as if he can’t understand what’s happened, doesn’t realize what he’s just done.

Then silence.

*   *   *

I would never have believed how loud a gunshot is.

Deafening.

And how the silence that comes afterward is somehow even louder.

*   *   *

Later: Sound, motion, people running in and out of the room, blue lights blinking across the walls from the ambulances and police cars that have arrived. Elin in a Lamino armchair staring straight ahead with a blanket wrapped around her. A friendly woman kneeling down next to Elin asking her how she’s doing, if she needs to go to the hospital.

Sirkka, Sofie, and Malin sitting in a corner, looking small and abandoned. Kattis standing in another corner talking to the police. Her face is white and there’s something stiff and robotic about her movements. I’m guessing she’s in shock.

Suddenly someone puts a hand on my shoulder. I jump. I’m still really worked up. I turn around and there’s Markus, in jeans and a baggy hooded sweatshirt.

“I heard. I heard about a gunshot at a psychology clinic on Medborgarplatsen. I got here as fast as I could. I thought you’d been—” He pauses and turns his face away, as if to hide his emotions. “Damn it, Siri, I thought you’d been—”

I don’t say anything, just let him hold me in his arms, rock me like a little kid as I finger his sweatshirt, feeling the pilled cotton.

“Markus, boy, am I glad to see you!” Aina is next to us. Her face is red and smeared with mascara. She’s crying but doesn’t seem to notice.

“Do you know anything? Anything about Hillevi?” She is watching Markus tensely and I release him. I don’t want to let go, but I realize I have to. I take a few steps back and look at him. Look for clues.

“I don’t know anything, or I just know what I heard over the radio. A woman was shot. The shooter is at large, fled from the scene on foot.”

I remember Henrik’s face right after the shot was fired. He looked like a child who just woke up: vulnerable, tired, and expressionless. The way he was looking at the gun, almost amazed, as if it were a new toy and he’d just figured out how it works.

And Hillevi.

How she was lying on her back on the table like an animal on a butcher’s block. Her rugged but very diminutive men’s shoes were dangling over the edge, way above the floor, and her black dress was awkwardly hitched up so her small, slender hips showed.

Sirkka was hovering over her body, trying to stop the bleeding with her wrinkled, blood-soaked hands.

Blood.

There was blood everywhere, running down onto the floor, dyeing the sisal carpet a dark red.

“We haven’t found him yet, but it’s just a matter of time. We’ll get him,” Markus says.

Aina looks at Markus, trying to convey to him what we saw, explain what can’t be explained.

“We have to check on them,” I say, pointing to Sirkka, Malin, and Sofie, who are still sitting in their chairs, frozen, forgotten.

“The EMTs and the police will do that. They’re witnesses, they’ll be taken care of. And you too, someone will come and take care of you,” Markus says, looking calmer now. He’s on his home turf. He sees crime scenes and catastrophes all the time.

“Hillevi. You have to find out what happened to Hillevi,” Aina pleads, turning to face Markus.

Markus nods and walks over to a man who looks like he’s in charge. They talk for a bit and I see Markus turning toward us. Maybe he’s explaining to the guy which ones Aina and I are. The man talks and nods. His gestures give nothing away. I can’t tell what he’s saying or what happened to Hillevi. Markus comes back again. I study his eyes and they give away nothing. Just that neutral, professional look. I don’t know, can’t tell, can’t even guess.

Markus leads us out of the room and into the kitchen, which is empty. We sit down on the chairs. My hands are shaking. I can’t stand the sight of them. I don’t know what’s going on, but suddenly I’m exhausted. I can’t take these shaking hands, a reminder of what we’ve been through, of what I can’t process.

“Hillevi was hit in the abdomen.” Markus looks at us as if to confirm that what he’s saying is true, that it matches what we saw.

Aina nods weakly.

“She was bleeding from the abdomen, very heavily. No one can lose so much blood without . . .”

“She lost a lot of blood from the gunshot wound. That’s true,” Aina confirms.

Markus clears his throat, looks pained, and I suddenly feel a lump in my throat. I know what he’s going to say. I know that no one can lose so much blood and survive.

“Hillevi was taken to Söder Hospital, where she was pronounced dead. She probably died in the ambulance, but she wasn’t pronounced dead until the hospital. It has to be done that way. We can’t just pronounce a death . . .”

He stops, as if he realizes that we’re tuning out, not interested in the procedural details. Aina and I look at each other and it slowly sinks in.

Hillevi is dead.

I’m curled up on the couch with my blanket wrapped around me. I’m still cold. Will the shivering never end? There’s a mug of tea that Markus made me sitting on the coffee table. Maybe he hopes that the warmth from the hot drink will calm me down.

Outside, I can hear the wind whipping through the tops of the pine trees. It’s blowing hard and rain beats against the windows.

I want a glass of wine. I know there’s a box in the cupboard above the fridge—there’s always a box in the cupboard above the fridge—but I think about the baby and I know that I need to refrain. I can’t let myself drink anymore, even though the fear is paralyzing my body, eating at me. My craving for a drink is so much stronger than I want to admit, have ever allowed myself to see. But I also know how dangerous it is to drink alcohol when you’re pregnant. I think of the unborn baby inside me and the baby that I once lost, and I know that I can’t take any risks. The wine will have to wait, despite the burning sensation in my stomach, the mild nausea, and my racing pulse. Markus wanted me to accept the Valium from the doctor, but even antianxiety drugs can cause birth defects. No alcohol, no medications.

Just unabated fear.

Markus is walking around the living room with restless energy, and I know that he’s torn between staying home with me and wanting to get away, throw himself into his work. Even if Hillevi’s murder doesn’t wind up on Markus’s desk, Markus’s colleague at the Nacka Precinct is still investigating Henrik’s girlfriend’s death. And of course they’ll look into whether the two crimes are connected.

“Why didn’t you arrest him?” My voice sounds weird, the words are hard to enunciate. They sit like heavy stones in my dry mouth.

“You mean Henrik?” Markus stops, his restless pacing temporarily interrupted.

“Of course I mean Henrik. Why didn’t you arrest him? I mean, he’d already killed his girlfriend. If you’d arrested him, then Hillevi would still . . . And now he’s disappeared. What if you never catch him?”

I pause. I see the same scene played out in my head over and over again. Hillevi standing in front of Henrik, trying to get to him, the shot being fired, Hillevi falling backward onto the table. And the blood. The blood running down onto the carpet, staining the shards of broken porcelain and the cinnamon buns. The scene is surreal but impossible to forget.

“Siri, everything isn’t always what it seems,” Markus says, trying to get me to look at him, holding out his hand, cautiously touching my shoulder. “We brought him in for questioning. I consulted with my colleagues. He couldn’t have killed that girl. He has an alibi, a really good alibi too. He was at dinner with his boss from the construction company. Ten people swore they saw him sitting there, downing drinks and singing karaoke. The restaurant staff also confirmed this. They remember him, that he was drunk and a little difficult, that he touched the female servers inappropriately.”

“How can you be so sure?” I hear how hostile I sound, almost aggressive. “He has a history of abusing women. Kattis told us . . .” I pause, realizing that I’m giving away confidential information.

“Kattis, is that his ex? His ex is in your support group too?”

I nod. I know this is going to come out anyway. The police are going to piece together who was in the group and what was said there. They will do everything it takes to find connections, to create some sort of cohesive picture that explains what Henrik did.

“Well, Henrik’s version doesn’t totally match Kattis’s,” Markus says. “He denies everything, says he never touched her, that she’s making things up.”

“But that’s always how it is. How many abusers admit that they’re guilty or turn themselves in? How common do you think that is? I don’t even understand how you can defend him. You’ve made a terrible mistake and now you’re trying to cover it up by claiming that he’s innocent.” I feel the crying coming on. Salty tears run down my cheeks and neck. I feel hurt, powerless, full of despair.

“Siri, don’t you hear what I’m saying? Henrik has an alibi. In all likelihood he didn’t murder his girlfriend. And the police can’t predict the future; we can’t prevent crimes that we don’t know are going to happen. And besides—” Markus hesitates. He is also bound by confidentiality rules and I’m aware that he can’t tell me everything he knows, that he may already have said more than he should. “The police officer who informed Henrik of Susanne’s death said he was heartbroken, that he totally broke down. And she said that if he was just acting, then it was the best performance she’d ever seen. They had to call an orderly in to give him a sedative.”

“He could still have done it,” I insist. “He could have hired someone. I mean, he’s completely crazy. What kind of person walks around Sweden with a gun in this day and age? And sneaks up on people in the dark? Besides, Kattis is the one he actually wanted to hurt, not Hillevi.”

“Siri, the first thing we do with a female homicide is look into the victim’s living situation. We know immediately that the most likely perpetrator is her husband or boyfriend. It’s terrible, but that’s the way it is. We checked out Henrik, looked into his relationship with Susanne Olsson. Everything we found out suggests that Henrik is a really normal guy. Aside from the allegation of domestic violence from his ex-girlfriend, we don’t have anything on him, just a couple of speeding tickets. He has no criminal record, looks after his affairs, is a popular boss. No one we’ve talked to has noticed any violent tendencies. Everyone seems to like him, except for one neighbor who thinks his BMW is too big and is convinced that he has some unreported income from somewhere, which he certainly does. He’s gambled away a shitload of money on horses, but otherwise he seems to be a totally ordinary guy. There’s nothing on him, Siri, nothing concrete. Apart from Kattis’s accusations. We had no way of knowing.” Markus throws up his hands in a conciliatory gesture and then squats down next to me and takes my hand, strokes my hair.

“And the gun? Why did he have a gun? What innocent Swede keeps a gun at home in their dresser? Normal Swedes just don’t own guns. Come on, Markus, he’s disturbed and you know it.”

I sit up on the couch and shake off the blanket. Suddenly I realize I’m not cold anymore. It’s as if the sadness and the anger I feel have gotten my blood pumping again. Outside the storm is picking up. The rain beats against the window and the wind tears at the tree branches. Even nature seems pissed off about what happened.

“I don’t know for sure,” Markus says, “but he does belong to a shooting club. He has a license and everything. He probably competed in shooting matches when he was younger. We think he used the weapon that’s licensed to him. If you want to know what I think, Siri, here it is. Henrik didn’t kill Susanne, but something happened to his psyche when he found out about her death. Don’t ask me what. You know that stuff better than I do. He broke down, crashed, went crazy. He saw Kattis as a scapegoat for all the misery he has suffered.”