The Spring Tide (5 page)

The two boys sat quietly in the sand under a wind-ripped palm, with their backs facing the Pacific Ocean. Some way from them sat a man with a closed laptop on his lap. He sat on a simple bamboo chair in front of a low building with a peeling façade of blues and greens, a sort of restaurant which sold
home-caught
fish and booze at irregular hours.

For the moment it was closed.

The boys knew the man. One of their neighbours in the village. He had always been kind to them, played and dived for shells. Now they understood that they must sit quietly. The man was only wearing a pair of thin shorts, nothing on top. Barefoot. His blond hair was thinning and tears ran down his heavily tanned cheeks.

‘The big Swede is crying,’ one of the boys whispered, in a voice that disappeared in the warm wind. The other boy nodded. The man with the laptop was crying. He had now been crying for many hours. At first up in his house in the village, in the last hours of the night, then he had needed some air and gone down to the beach. Now he was sitting here facing the Pacific.

And still crying.

Some years earlier, he had ended up here in Mal Pais, on the Nicoya peninsula in Costa Rica. A few houses along a dusty coast road. The sea on one side and the rainforest on the other. Nothing to the south; to the north lay Playa Carmen and Santa Teresa and some other villages. Backpackers flocked to them. Long fantastic surfing beaches, cheap lodgings and even cheaper food.

And nobody who asked who you were.

Ideal, he had thought at the time. For hiding. For starting afresh.

Unknown.

Going by the name of Dan Nilsson.

His reserve capital had hardly kept him afloat until he was offered a job as a guide in a nearby nature reserve, Cabo Blanco. That suited him perfectly. With his quad he could be up there in half an hour, and with his fairly decent knowledge of languages he could deal with most of the tourists who found their way to the reserve. There weren’t that many at first, more in the last year, and now enough to keep him busy four days a week. The other three days he mixed with the locals. Never with tourists or surfers. He wasn’t a water person, and wasn’t interested in getting high. He lived a very modest life, in most respects, people hardly noticed him, a man with a past that was going to remain in the past.

He could have turned up in any one of Graham Greene’s books.

Now he was sitting on a bamboo chair with his laptop on his knees and crying. With two small boys sitting worried some way away and not having a clue as to why the big Swede was so sad.

‘Shall we ask him what’s wrong?’

‘No.’

‘Perhaps he’s lost something that we can find?’

But he hadn’t.

He had, however, reached a decision. At last. Through the tears, a decision he had never thought he would need to make. Now he had done it.

He got up.

There are houses, and houses, and then there is Bosques’ house. And there is only one of those. It had originally been a fishing shack, knocked together by Bosques’ dad, an eternity ago. Two small rooms. Then the Rodriguez family had grown, indeed grown considerably, and with the arrival of each new baby Daddy Rodriguez had insisted on building a little extension. Eventually the supply of legally acquired timber dried up, and then he had to improvise, as he called it. Built with whatever he could lay his hands on. Sheets of metal and laminates and
various sorts of netting, driftwood sometimes, and bits from a wrecked fishing boat. Daddy Rodriguez had reserved the bow for himself. A projection on the south side where he (with some difficulty) could just squeeze in and lose himself in bad liquor of one sort or another and read Castaneda.

But that was Old Man Rodriguez.

Rodriguez Junior, Bosques, had been left on his own in the house in the end. His sexual orientation had not given him any children and his latest lover had died a couple of years earlier.

Bosques was now seventy-two and he hadn’t been able to hear the cicadas for many a year.

But he was a good friend.

‘What is it you want me to do? With the bag?’ he said.

‘You should give it to Gilberto Lluvisio.’

‘But isn’t he a policeman?’

‘Yes, that’s why,’ said Dan Nilsson. ‘I trust him. He trusts me. Sometimes. If I’m not back here by the first of July, then you should give it to Lluvisio.’

‘And what should he do with it?’

‘He should make sure it gets to the Swedish police.’

‘How?’

‘There’s a piece of paper in there which says how.’

‘OK.’

Bosques poured some rum into Nilsson’s glass. They sat at the front of the remarkable house on what you could only call a veranda – for want of a better term. Nilsson had washed down the worst of the road dust with tepid water. Now he brushed away a swarm of insects and lifted the rum to his mouth. As already mentioned, he was moderate in his habits, and Bosques had been rather surprised when Nilsson had asked if there was any rum in the house. Now he looked at the big Swede with a degree of curiosity. This was an unusual situation. Not only on account of the rum; there was something about the Swede’s entire attitude. He had known him since the very first
day he came to the area. Nilsson had rented his sister’s house in Mal Pais and eventually bought it off her. That had been the beginning of a long and close relationship. Bosques’ sexual orientation had never rubbed off onto Nilsson, it wasn’t that. But something about the Swede’s way of going about things had appealed to Bosques.

A lot.

Nilsson didn’t take anything for granted.

And nor did Bosques. Various circumstances had taught him to take care of what you had. Suddenly it might be gone. It’s fine as long as you’ve got it, but then there is nothing.

Like Nilsson.

He was there. Things were fine. Soon he might not be around any more, Bosques suddenly thought.

‘Has something happened?’

‘Yes.’

‘Something you want to talk about?’

‘No.’

Dan Nilsson got up and looked at Bosques.

‘Thanks for the rum.’

‘
De nada
.’

Nilsson remained standing in front of Bosques. Long enough for Bosques to feel that he too must get up, and once he was on his feet Nilsson put his arms around him. It was a very brief hug, the sort that many men quickly exchange when they part. What was special about it was that they had never hugged each other before.

And would never do so again.

One-eyed Vera had a radio. A little transistor radio she had found among the rubbish in a house on Döbelnsgatan, with an aerial and everything. The casing was broken, but it worked. Now a gang of them were sitting in Glasblåsar Park listening to Radio Shadow, a radio programme made by and for the homeless and broadcast one hour a week. The programme was about the recent attacks. The sound was a bit rasping, but everyone knew what it was about. Benseman. Trashkick. And about the fact that some sadists were going around looking for new victims.

Among them.

To beat them up and post the film on the Net.

They were being targeted.

‘We must stick together!’

Muriel shouted that out. She had taken something that took away her inhibitions and she thought she could say her bit. Pärt and the four others sitting on the benches looked at Muriel. Stick together? What did she mean?

‘You what? Stick together?’

‘Be together! So that they can’t, so that you’re not alone and giving them the chance to beat you up… when you’re by yourself… alone…’

Muriel quickly turned down her voice when they all looked at her. She directed her gaze at the gravel. Vera came up and stroked her striped hair.

‘That’s good thinking, Muriel, we shouldn’t be alone. If we’re alone, we’re afraid, and they’ll scent that straight off. They’re like dogs. They sniff out them that’s afraid, and beat them up.’

‘Exactly.’

Muriel raised her head slightly. In another time she would have liked to have had Vera as her mum. A mum who stroked
her hair and who came to her defence when people looked at her. She had never had a mother like that.

Now it was too late.

Now it was too late for most things, Muriel thought.

‘Did you hear that the cops have created a new group to hunt down those bastards?’

Vera looked around her and saw that a couple of the others nodded. But with little enthusiasm. All of them on the benches had their own private experiences of the cops, from old times and recent times, and none of those experiences gave them cause to feel any great degree of enthusiasm. Would the cops devote any more time to protecting the homeless than the minimum necessary to satisfy the media? No, none of them thought that for a nanosecond. They knew their place on the scale of priorities, and it wasn’t at the top.

It wasn’t even at the bottom.

It was on the back of a kebab serviette that Rune Forss had wiped his mouth with.

They knew that much.

The lecture hall at the Police College was almost full. It was the last day of the spring term and they had some visitors from SKL, the National Laboratory of Forensic Science in Linköping. A lecture about specialist techniques and methodology.

A long lecture. With pauses for questions.

‘There have been demands that we should take more DNA swabs, what do you think about that?’

‘We think it is positive. In England they swab perpetrators even of break-ins, which means they have an enormous national DNA database at their disposal.’

‘And why don’t we do that here?’

The question came from Ulf, as usual.

‘The problem, if we want to see it as a problem, is our privacy laws. We are not allowed to create that type of
database
.’

‘Because?’

‘Personal integrity.’

They went on like that for a couple of hours. When the subject turned to the latest developments with regard to DNA analysis, Olivia became especially attentive. She even asked a question, which Ulf noted with a little smile.

‘Can you establish paternity from the DNA of an unborn fetus?’

‘Yes.’

It was a simple answer and it came from one of the lecturers, a redhead in a simply cut bluish-grey dress. A woman who had attracted Olivia’s attention as soon as she was introduced.

Her name was Marianne Boglund, forensic generalist at SKL.

It hadn’t taken many seconds for the penny to drop, but when it did Olivia found herself thinking ‘wow’. This was the woman who had been married to Tom Stilton.

Now she was standing up there beside the podium.

Olivia wondered whether she should take a gamble. Only the day before, she had checked out the address that had been given for the Stiltons. There was no Stilton there now.

She decided to take a gamble.

At a quarter past two the session was over. Olivia had seen Marianne Boglund following her tutor, Åke Gustafsson, into his office after the lecture. Now Olivia stood outside in the corridor and waited.

And waited.

Ought she to knock on the door? Was that being a bit too pushy? What if they were having sex in there?

She knocked on the door.

‘Yes.’

Olivia opened the door, apologised for disturbing, and asked if she could possibly have a minute or two with Marianne Boglund.

‘Just a moment,’ said Åke.

Olivia nodded and closed the door again. They hadn’t had sex. Where had she got that idea from? Too many films? Or because Boglund was a decidedly attractive woman and Åke Gustafsson had his eyebrows?

Marianne Boglund came out and stretched out her hand.

‘What can I help you with?’

Her handshake was firm and dry, her eyes very formal, she was hardly a woman in close contact with her emotions. Olivia was already regretting this.

‘I’m trying to get hold of Tom Stilton,’ she said.

Not a sound. Definitely not close contact.

‘I can’t find any address for him, nobody knows where he is, I just wanted to ask if you might happen to know where I can get hold of him.’

‘No.’

‘Could he have moved abroad?’

‘No idea.’

Olivia gave a little nod, thanked her briefly, turned round and went off along the corridor. Marianne remained standing where she was. Her gaze followed the young woman. Suddenly she took a couple of strides after her, then stopped.

Marianne Boglund’s answer tumbled around inside Olivia’s head. She had heard that answer several times now from different people. Obviously practical. At least when it was about Stilton. She was feeling rather disheartened.

And that she had behaved rather badly.

She had trespassed into people’s private sphere, she was aware of that. Boglund had definitely got that proverbial speck in her eye at the mention of Stilton’s name. And that was a speck that was absolutely none of Olivia’s business.

What on Earth was she playing at?

‘What are you playing at?’

It wasn’t her inner voice that acquired life. It was, of course, Ulf. He caught up with her on her way to the car and smiled.

‘Err, what?’

‘DNA of an unborn baby? Why did you want to know that?’

‘Curious.’

‘Is it about the Nordkoster case?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s it about?’

‘A murder.’

‘Olivia, I’ve twigged that.’

And now she won’t say any more, Ulf thought, as usual.

‘Why are you always so damned secretive?’ he said.

‘Am I?’

‘Yes.’

Olivia was taken by surprise. Both by the personal nature of the question and the whole awkard situation. What did he mean, secretive?

‘What do you mean?’

‘That you always slip away, in some way, have an excuse or a…’

‘You mean with the beers?’

‘Yeah, that too, but you never follow up. You ask questions and get answers and then you’re on your way.’

‘Oh, am I?’

What was he after? Ask and answer, and on her way?

‘Well, I suppose that’s what I’m like,’ she said.

‘Apparently.’

Now Olivia could have gone on auto-pilot and driven off, but suddenly she came to think of Molin senior. Ulf was the son of one of the top people in the national crime squad, Oskar Molin. Which was hardly his fault. At first, it had irked Olivia a little. She didn’t really know why. Perhaps a suspicion that Ulf had a bit of an advantage over the rest of the class. Which was silly of course. He would have to do the same, and get the same grades as all the others. Besides, he probably had more pressure on him from home. But of course he would probably have greater possibilities to move up. With a dad who could help him over the highest
thresholds
.

But what the hell.

‘Do you have any contact with your dad?’ she asked.

‘Yeah, of course. Why do you ask that?’

‘I’m looking for an old detective who’s no longer in the force and nobody seems to have any idea where he might be. Tom Stilton. Thought your dad might know something.’

‘Stilton, you said?’

‘Yes, Tom.’

‘I’ll ask.’

‘Thanks.’

Olivia climbed into her car and drove off.

Ulf remained where he was and shook his head a little. A difficult lady. Not stuck-up, but difficult. Always kept her distance. He had tried to get her to join him in a pub crawl with some others from the class, but no, she always had an excuse. She’d be studying, she’d be going to the gym, she’d be doing stuff that everybody else did but still had time to have a beer. A bit secretive, Ulf thought. But pretty, a bit of a squint, lovely full lips, always straight shoulders, no make-up.

He wasn’t going to give up.

Nor was Olivia. Not on the beach case, nor on the vanished detective. Perhaps there was a connection there? He might have found something out and was stopped and pushed off abroad? And why would he do that? He left for personal reasons, didn’t he? Was that the speck in Boglund’s eye?

Olivia noticed she was getting carried away. That was the downside of having been born with imagination and growing up with parents who solved intrigues at the kitchen table. She was always looking for a conspiracy. A connection.

An enigma she could ponder while she fell asleep.

The white car drove out onto the Klarastrand road. The music in her earphones was muffled and suggestive, this time it was the Deportees. Olivia liked lyrics that said something.

When she passed the slope with all the rabbit warrens she smiled to herself. Here was where dad always used to slow down and glance at his daughter in the rear mirror.

‘How many are there today?’

And little Olivia would count them as fast as she could.

‘Seventeen! I can see seventeen!’

Olivia suppressed the memory and pressed the accelerator. There was surprisingly little traffic. The holidays had begun of course, she thought. People will have started going off to the countryside. This led her to think about their old holiday house out on Tynningö Island. The family place, where she had spent her summers while she grew up, with Maria and Arne and a decidedly protected idyll. A little inland lake, crayfish, a swimming school and wasps.

Now Arne was no more, and the same applied to the
crayfish
. Now there was only her and her mum left. And the family place. Which was so strongly associated with Arne, the way he would busy himself repairing the house, his fishing and the endless things he would always think up for the evenings. He was a different sort of dad out there. A daughter’s dad, one who had time and room for everything that never found a place
in their professional home, which she called the house in Rotebro, where she grew up. A house where everything was done in a planned and orderly manner and ‘Not just now, Olivia, we’ll discuss that later’. At their summer place it was always the opposite.

But now Arne was no longer there. Just her mum, Maria, and that wasn’t really the same. For Maria the place seemed to almost be a liability. Something they must take care of all the time so that Arne wouldn’t be ashamed if he had seen it. But how could he see it? He’s dead, right. He never bothered if the paint on the façade started to peel off. But Maria did. Sometimes Olivia got the impression that there was something neurotic about it. That Maria felt obliged to work away out there to keep something else at bay. Perhaps she should try to talk about it? Perhaps she should…

‘Yes?’

Her mobile had rung.

‘Hi, it’s Ulf.’

‘Hi.’

‘I’ve spoken to my dad. About that Stilton guy.’

‘Already? Great. Thanks! What did he say.’

‘No idea… he said.’

‘OK. So he didn’t have any idea where Stilton can be found?’

‘No, but he was familiar with that case on Nordkoster.’

‘Oh, right.’

Then there was silence. Olivia was now leaving the Klaraberg road and driving up the ramp towards Centralbron. What more could she say? Thanks? For what? ‘No idea’ again?

‘But thanks anyway.’

‘You’re welcome. If you need help with anything you only have to phone.’

Olivia hung up.

Bosques’ sister had given Dan Nilsson a lift to Paquera, on the other side of the island. He had taken the ferry across to Puntaneras and then proceeded to San José by taxi. Expensive, but he didn’t want to risk missing the plane.

He stepped out of the taxi at Juan Santamaria, the
international
airport at San José. He didn’t have any baggage. It was hot and humid. His thin shirt had sweat rings almost down to his midriff. A bit further away, newly arrived tourists poured out and were enchanted by the heat. Costa Rica! They were here at last.

Nilsson went into the departure hall.

‘Which gate is it?’

‘Six.’

‘Where is the security check?’

‘Over there.’

‘Thanks.’

He walked towards the security check. He had never travelled this direction before, only come into the country. A long time ago. Now he was on his way out. He tried to stay inside his own bell jar. He simply must. He must not allow himself to think. Not think about more than one phase at a time. Now it was the security phase, then came the gate phase, and after that he would be on board. Once he was there, that was it. Then it wouldn’t particularly matter if he started to crack a little, he could cope with that. Upon his arrival, the next phase would start.

The Sweden phase.

He twisted and turned in his seat on the aircraft.

Just as he had suspected he would, he felt like a deflating balloon on the plane. Hidden corners had become visible and the past was oozing out.