She's Never Coming Back (24 page)

‘I’m going to phone him,’ Jörgen said.

‘You’re not,’ Calle retorted.

‘Just try stopping me.’

‘Jörgen, for fuck’s sake, come on. I’ll lose my job, I will, I’m not joking.’

‘Karlsson speaking.’

The chief inspector answered without his eyes leaving the page. The local newspaper was a must for a man in his position.

‘Yes, hello, my name is Jörgen Petersson.’

Stockholmer, Karlsson thought to himself.

‘I’m trying to get hold of whoever is dealing with the disappearance of Ylva Zetterberg,’ Jörgen continued. ‘She went missing about a year and a half ago, if I’ve understood correctly.’

The missing away-player, Karlsson thought, who was
killed by her jealous husband, the one with the crocodile tears. Who’s still a free man. Without a body, they couldn’t link him to the murder.

‘That’ll be me,’ Karlsson said.

‘I’ve got some information that I think might be of interest.’

‘Let’s hear it then,’ Karlsson said, and returned to his reading.

Anyone who had information that was of interest had to be pumped for it; anyone who had information that was of interest didn’t say,
I’ve got some information that might be of interest.
That was a given, just like anyone who said they had a good sense of humour or claimed they were intelligent usually didn’t or wasn’t.

‘Right,’ Jörgen started. ‘I went to school with Ylva. Brevik School on Lidingö, here in Stockholm.’

‘Okay.’

I’m from Liiiiiidingö, so what I’m saying is important, Karlsson mimicked to himself, and turned the page of his newspaper. He noticed that Kallbadhuset would be opening again soon. About bloody time. How long does it take to renovate a swimming pool?

‘Ylva was part of a gang. There was her and three guys. Real tough nuts. We called them the Gang of Four.’

‘Goodness.’

‘I know it sounds stupid, but please hear me out.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The guys are all dead,’ Jörgen said.

Karlsson studied the cinema listings. He’d got it into his head that a film he wanted to see was showing, but none of the titles rang any bells. He’d just have to rent a DVD as usual.

‘That’s not good,’ he said.

‘No,’ Jörgen said, ‘and now Ylva’s missing as well. It seems like too much of a coincidence.’

‘Mm.’

Karlsson had got to the TV page. He skimmed over it. Nothing that was very exciting.

‘It can’t just be coincidence,’ Jörgen insisted.

‘These tough guys,’ Karlsson said. ‘How did they die?’

‘One died from cancer about three years ago. Another was murdered and the third was killed in a motorbike accident in Africa about a year ago.’

‘Doesn’t sound good,’ Karlsson said. ‘But I don’t quite see the connection. Other than that they were friends when they were younger.’

‘Well,’ Jörgen said, ‘there was a girl.’

‘Ylva?’

‘No, another one.’

‘I see.’

A complete tosser here, Karlsson thought to himself.

‘Annika Lundin,’ Jorgen told him.

‘Annika, right.’

‘And she committed suicide.’

Karlsson tutted and folded his newspaper. He leaned back in his chair and looked out the window.

‘After that, the Gang of Four all went their own ways.’

‘After what?’

‘After she committed suicide. Aren’t you listening?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Good. Because what’s really interesting is that Annika’s parents, Gösta and Marianne Lundin, moved to a house opposite Ylva.’

‘Gösta and Marianne …?’

‘Lundin,’ Jörgen repeated. ‘I don’t think it’s a coincidence.’

‘No, that doesn’t sound likely.’ Karlsson yawned.

‘You should talk to them,’ Jörgen said.

‘Absolutely,’ Karlsson replied. ‘Do you have a number I can reach you on?’

Jörgen gave him his mobile number and his home numbers. Karlsson pretended to write them down.

‘I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything more,’ Karlsson assured him. ‘Thank you for calling.’

He replaced the receiver. Cinema, he thought. What was that film I wanted to see?

Gerda knocked gingerly on the door and interrupted his musing.

‘Lunch?’ his colleague asked.

Karlsson got up and put on his jacket.

‘Not a bad idea.’

Jörgen Petersson knew how far-fetched it all sounded. In his mind it was absolutely crystal clear, it was only when he put it into words that it sounded crazy. The chief inspector had promised to talk to the Lundins, but Jörgen doubted he would even pick up the phone.

He wondered if the policeman would have treated him differently if he’d known who he was and what he represented. The answer was without a doubt yes. But he couldn’t exactly fax over a copy of his bank balance. Did he know anyone who could pitch his case? Anyone in the police? Nope. The closest thing to a legal acquaintance he
could think of was the commercial lawyer he used to write contracts.

If Calle Collin’s Facebook theory was true, and these lawyers knew other perverters of the law, who in turn were mates with the public prosecutor, who hung out with the police, he might just get through after sitting on the phone for a few hours. And any credibility he had would by then be jaded, as his conspiracy had been passed from one person to the next like Chinese whispers.

If Jörgen Petersson wanted to get any further, he had to talk directly to Ylva’s husband. No matter that he’d promised Calle he wouldn’t. Ylva’s husband was the only one who might listen.

It was possible that Jörgen was barking up the wrong tree, that his thoughts were as mad as they sounded, but there remained one question that had to be answered. And that question could only be put directly to Ylva’s husband.

Ylva looked at the screen. She saw Mike and Nour and Sanna get in the car. Sanna was in the back seat again, but seemed happy with her lot. Their routine seemed as pain-free as a morning routine could be with a daughter who took an eternity to spread the butter, ate slower than a snail and wasn’t happy until her laces were done up in a perfect bow and both ends were the same length.

This was possibly the last time she would see them. Certainly the last time she would see them on the screen. She wasn’t sad. It was fine now. More than enough.

She turned off the screen, lay down on the bed and
closed her eyes. She went through the plan again. If it was actually a plan; she wasn’t sure. She intended to do what she’d decided, then what would be would be, she had no control over the result.

The glass of water, the flex, the fork under the mattress.

She had never hit anyone, didn’t know what to do. She took out the fork and felt the points. It wasn’t particularly sharp. She pulled back the sheet and stabbed the mattress. It didn’t even make a hole.

The eyes, she thought, she had to get his eyes.

She replaced the fork under the mattress, tucked in the sheet and went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. She was someone else now, not the same person who had been dragged down into the cellar eighteen months ago. She wondered whether Mike would recognise her.

Ylva went back out to the kitchen, looked in the fridge. She had to eat something and rest.

No matter what happened, this would be her last day in captivity.

Mike leaned towards Nour and kissed her on the mouth.

‘See you this evening.’

‘Yes. Bye.’

Nour jumped out, closed the car door and waved again from the pavement. Mike slipped into gear and drove off, watching in the rear-view mirror as Nour disappeared into the office.

He felt warm and happy inside.

The euphoria stayed with him until lunch. And was then replaced by melancholy.

Nothing in particular had drowned out the rush. No bad news, unfavourable forecasts or complaining employees to dampen his joy. His mood hadn’t been caused by a sudden drop in his blood sugar levels, troublesome flashbacks or a difficult task. It was just a normal mood swing and Mike welcomed the change. If he went around in the euphoric state he’d been in all morning, he’d soon make himself unpopular. Either that or he’d be forced to move to Norway, where that kind of hearty behaviour was not seen as suspect.

He opened a new report and started to read. Three-quarters of an hour later he put down the tome, rubbed the base of his nose under his glasses and realised that he was none the wiser. It was just another of those long-winded volumes that managed to say nothing while costing the company a small fortune, their only merit being that they
provided cowardly middle managers with something to blame when things went wrong.

Mike looked at the clock and saw that he could go home with a clear conscience. He called Nour from the car, but she still had some unfinished business at work, so she’d get the bus.

‘See you later then,’ he said. ‘I’ll make supper.’

Mike went to the supermarket and wandered aimlessly around looking for inspiration. Meat, hmm. Fish, nah. Chicken, not again. Vegetarian, was there anything other than broccoli quiche?

Gösta was also in the supermarket and they exchanged a few words about how difficult it was to get variety.

It was going to have to be spaghetti with blue cheese sauce and fried bacon. And a salad. Mike picked out what he needed and added a few things for breakfast.

He drove over to the school and went into the after-school club. He couldn’t see Sanna and the staff looked at him in surprise. His heart started to pound and for a fraction of a second Mike was launched into an abyss, until he remembered that Sanna had started music lessons. He smiled and walked towards a door, through which out-of-tune music could be heard.

He knocked gently on the door and went in.

Three … blind … mice. La-la-la. See … how …

Mike didn’t need to book Berwaldhallen concert hall quite yet.

‘Bravo.’ He applauded. ‘Sounds good.’

‘I can do it better,’ Sanna told him.

‘I thought it sounded great. Are you done?’

He looked at the music teacher, who nodded gallantly.

‘Well, then we’ll say thank you and goodbye.’

‘Thank you,’ Sanna said.

‘You’re welcome,’ the teacher replied. ‘See you next week.’

Sanna bounded out of the room and ran towards the car.

‘Can I sit in the front?’

‘Sweetie, it’s only a couple of hundred metres. It’s not worth moving the booster.’

‘Okay.’

What? Mike thought. No protest? Sanna got into the back without any grumbles and carried on playing her recorder. He wanted to say something encouraging. He just didn’t know what.

‘Is it fun, playing the recorder?’

‘Yes,’ she said breathlessly and carried on blowing.

Three … blind … mice.

Ylva was made up, dressed and ready. Hair in a ponytail. Gösta liked to pull it when he came. A kind of show of animal ecstasy.

She looked the way he wanted her to look. But this time she hadn’t used any lubricant. He wasn’t going to penetrate her, not today, not ever again.

Hearing his knock, she took a deep breath and checked that everything was in place. The glass of water next to the wall.

She stood in her designated spot, put her hands on her head, pulled back her elbows to push out her chest, and pouted.

He opened the door. He was holding a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

He looked automatically to the right, to check that the knife, scissors, kettle and iron were visible on the worktop, that she had no weapons and wouldn’t try anything stupid.

‘Thought we could celebrate,’ he said, and held up the bottle.

Ylva went down on her knees, hands behind her back.

She had planned it all, practised it again and again. She daren’t risk deviating from the plan.

He put the bottle down by the sink, locked the door and looked at her.

‘Can’t you wait?’

Ylva shook her head slowly, still with her eyes lowered and mouth open.

‘Well, you’ll have to restrain yourself,’ he said, and pulled the golden foil from the top of the bottle and started to unwind the metal thread.

Ylva stayed on her knees, watched him pull out the cork with a bang and fill the glasses.

He came over to her, looked down.

‘You’re a horny little bitch, aren’t you? Here.’

He held out a glass.

‘You’ve earned it,’ he said.

Ylva took the glass and filled her mouth, without swallowing. She put the glass down beside her on the floor and started to unbutton his trousers. She put his cock in her mouth, let the bubbles tickle his glans and the champagne spill slowly down his balls.

She filled her mouth with what was left in the glass and pulled his chinos down. He let her because he didn’t want to
get them wet. He stepped out of his trousers and underpants and even let her take off his socks.

She put the clothes in a pile on the bed and took him in her mouth again. The bubbles ran out of her mouth and down the inside of his thigh as she eagerly held up her glass for more, without taking him out of her mouth. He filled the glass, and then continued to pour directly from the bottle, over her face and the base of his cock.

The floor was starting to get wet and Gösta was standing in a puddle. Ylva’s plan was working. Champagne was as good as water. The important thing was that it was wet.

Ylva looked up at him and saw that he was looking at her as if she was a whore he had paid for and could do what he liked with. It was an expression she knew only too well and it was always a precursor to sexual violence.

Ylva filled her mouth again. She put down the glass and clasped her hands behind her back. He grabbed hold of her ponytail and pushed himself in even further. Ylva felt a gagging reflex but pretended to be loving it.

She had the flex in her hands behind her back. As soon as he let go of the ponytail, as soon as he let go …

The ringing of the phone was a welcome distraction. The off-key notes of the recorder were playing on a loop in the sitting room and Mike didn’t have the heart to tell his daughter to stop.

The display read
unknown number
. Mike assumed it was Nour, ringing from work. He closed the door to the sitting room and picked it up.