A Death in Sweden (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

Approaching through the woods, little more than a five-minute walk, the deserted property looked even more forlorn. Apart from being in good order, it was as if it had been empty for years, not just a couple of weeks. It somehow looked both aesthetically perfect and yet totally devoid of personality. Even their little cabin seemed to have more to say for itself than this house.

They stopped at the top of the wooden steps and turned to look out at the small clearing in which the house was set, the woods beyond already gathering up the darkness of the evening ahead. The stillness had an intensity about it that was unsettling, as if it was unsustainable, as if something dramatic or violent would surely have to happen here before long.

“I guess he didn’t get lonely,” said Inger as she looked up at the bleached-out blue of the sky.

“I hope not,” said Dan, knowing he’d go insane himself living in a place like this, no matter how strong the motive for running away from everyone.

Inger opened the door and they stepped into the even more profound silence of the house. Dan looked around, then opened a door down into the cellar.

“Okay, I guess we need to do our own search. How about I start in the cellar, you start upstairs, meet back on this floor?”

“It’s a good idea.”

He looked into the room that doubled as a library and said, “You think Per and his colleagues looked through all of those books?”

“I guarantee it. They should have looked inside any paintings as well, but it doesn’t hurt for us to look again.” Dan nodded and she said, “We’re looking for a passport, right?”

“That would be a break. Let’s just hope he hasn’t left it in a safe-deposit box somewhere.”

He smiled and set off down the steps into the cellar, but it only reinforced his existing conclusions—that this house had not been lived in, not in the way normal people lived. There was no junk, nothing that had once been useful or cherished but had now been discarded into storage limbo.

The cellar had been kept clean and tidy, but there was hardly anything in there. He moved around the walls, checking high or low for hollows or suggestions that there might be a hidden room or even a cubbyhole, but there was nothing. Once he’d finished, he stood looking at the half-lit gloom that surrounded him—it made him want to visit the morgue, just to see proof that there really had been a man calling himself Jacques Fillon.

He could hear the faint and indistinct sounds of Inger going through the upstairs rooms, and that spurred him on. He left the cellar and went into the room with the books. Before starting his search, he took in the room, imagining the places he might think of hiding something.

But as he stood there, he sensed a shadow or a change in the light beyond the window, and a second later a girl appeared, looking in. She was dressed in black, but was startlingly pale and blonde—spiked hair, leather jacket.

Dan felt himself jump slightly, but that was as nothing compared to her reaction on seeing him. She almost fell backwards, and was immediately on the move, turning, disappearing again.

“No, wait!”

The house was so desolate that any clue to its former inhabitant seemed worth holding onto, even if it was just a local kid being nosy. He ran back out into the hall, out of the front door. The girl was already walking quickly away, not running, but determined.

“Please, wait a minute!”

Dan heard a window open above him and then Inger’s voice calling out in Swedish, loud, authoritative, but not unfriendly. Whatever she’d said, it did the trick. The girl stopped and turned, then took a few steps back towards them, looking up at Inger and asking something.

Inger replied and the girl laughed, embarrassed, but she was walking towards the house now. The window shut again above and Dan could hear Inger crossing the floor and out onto the landing.

At the same time, the girl’s gaze came back to him and once she was closer, she said, “Sorry, you scared me.”

“Then I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

“There was no car, so I thought no one was here.” Her tone amused him, the perhaps unintentional suggestion that he was somehow at fault for not having a car, as if he’d deliberately set out to trick her.

“We’re staying just through the woods there, with the Eklunds, so we walked.” She nodded. Closer now, he could see traces of acne through the chalky-white concealer on her cheeks, but also that she would be a real beauty in time, the mixture of paleness and bone structure giving her an otherworldly quality. Inger came through the door behind him and he said, “I’m Dan, this is Inger.”

Inger spoke in Swedish again and the girl responded, then said, “I’m Siri.”

Dan made the connection easily, trying to remember now if the girl in front of him resembled the picture he’d seen in the paper, but Inger explained anyway, saying, “Siri is the girl he saved.”

“Yeah, I know. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions, Siri?”

“No.”

Quickly, Inger said, “We can come to your home sometime if it’s better. Maybe it is better, for your grandparents to be there.”

She smiled, old enough to find it funny that an adult might need to chaperone her in such situations.

“It’s okay, but I can’t tell much. The police spoke to me too.”

“I should show you this.” Inger showed Siri her ID. “You want to sit inside?”

The girl looked beyond Dan and Inger, into the house, a mixture of unease and anticipation playing out across her features. Still distracted, she nodded, and all three of them walked in and sat in the room with the books. Siri looked around, taking in the shelves.

Dan said, “Why did you come here today?”

Her gaze came back to him and she said, “I was curious. It’s the first time I’ve been. I nearly came before but the police were here.”

He could understand her being intrigued, not only because the guy had saved her life but because the rumor had surely spread locally; that he wasn’t who he’d claimed to be all these years. Her survival had been miraculous and now, inadvertently, she was part of a mystery—what teenager wouldn’t be curious about the man at the center of it?

Inger said, “You never spoke to the man who lived here?” Siri shook her head, as if baffled that Inger should even ask the question. “In the weeks since the accident, have you remembered any of the things he said to you when he pulled you from your seat?”

She shook her head again, but said, “I didn’t forget. I wasn’t hurt at all in the accident, not even a scratch. But my music—I couldn’t hear him.”

“You saw him every school day on the bus. You never saw him other times?”

Once more, Siri simply shook her head, nonplussed.

“Did he ever speak to you, say hello, smile? Did you ever notice him looking at you?”

Siri frowned, as if slightly freaked out by the implication. Dan understood Inger’s line of thought completely though, because there was something undeniably captivating about the girl’s appearance, and he could easily imagine a lonely middle-aged man becoming slightly fixated with her. Was that why he’d saved her?

The girl, in her own way, answered both Inger’s question and Dan’s unspoken one when she said, “I don’t think he ever noticed me. We all sat in the same places every day. He saved me because I was closest. He couldn’t reach the others, but I think if someone else was closer he would have saved them. I think that’s just the kind of person he was. I was lucky.”

Dan smiled, once again thinking how only someone so young could be so blasé about the fickle intricacies of fate. In the years to come, he was sure, the memories of that day would develop their own gravitational pull. Whether she knew it or not, surviving that accident, surviving it in that way, would become one of the defining moments of her life.

Inger said, “I know you answered this before, but you never saw him on the bus coming home?” Siri shook her head. “I thought so. And there’s nothing else you’ve thought of or remembered?”

Siri looked blank for a moment, then said, “People are saying he might have been a criminal, because he was hiding.”

“And what do you think?”

“I think he was a spy. Isn’t that why you’re here?”

Inger smiled, acknowledging the point. Dan smiled too. Did she want to have been rescued by a former spy rather than by a former criminal? Having known plenty of both, Dan wasn’t sure which of them he’d bank on to save him in a crisis.

He also liked to think he would have acted the same way as Fillon if he’d been on that bus, but he had a nagging doubt that it wouldn’t have been so. It just wasn’t in his nature, to choose death, and he wasn’t sure it ever would be, no matter how noble the motive.

“I still take the bus,” Siri said now, unprompted. “But it’s strange because it’s just me. Even the two women who used to get off at the next stop, they don’t come anymore, so for the first twenty minutes, it’s just me on my own.”

Dan looked at her. That had to be tough, twenty minutes each morning, alone with the thoughts and memories of that day, seeing the empty seats where the same people had always sat, people who were now gone.

Inger said, “Were they your friends?”

Siri shook her head, saying, “I was friends with Pia when we were little, but we drifted apart. I didn’t really know the two boys.” She looked around the room, as if taking in the book spines. “I thought a couple of times, if he’d survived, would I have visited him in the hospital, or maybe he would’ve become a friend of my family. You think that’s weird?”

Inger said, “Not at all. I think I would be the same.”

Siri shrugged, and said, “It’s just strange, because until I saw the picture, I could hardly remember what he looked like, but now I’m curious and it’s too late.”

She looked at the bookshelves again, perhaps wondering what they might tell her about the man who’d saved her life. It was understandable that she was curious, and that she thought his books and this house might yield clues but, in truth, Dan suspected they’d tell her no more than she already knew—there was nothing of Jacques Fillon here.

Chapter Twelve

They said goodbye to Siri, then resumed their search. Inger went back upstairs, but joined him again after a little while and the two of them went methodically through the bookshelves, talking sporadically, their backs to each other.

Dan said, “Siri seemed to be handling things pretty well.”

“Incredibly so.” He was aware of her turning, and also turned to look across at her. She smiled a little as she said, “She reminds me of the way I was at that age.”

Dan smiled and said, “I don’t see you all in black, somehow, not even as a teenager.”

She shook her head, dismissing that, saying, “I mean, that wanting to escape. I’m sure that’s even part of her curiosity about Fillon.”

He thought back to the way Inger had mentioned the quietness of Råneå and wondered if she’d been speaking from experience.

“Did you grow up somewhere like this?”

“Not quite. A small town, yes, but maybe only an hour from Stockholm. It was great actually, but you know, when you’re young . . . Didn’t you want to escape?”

“Kind of, but the opposite way. I always wished I’d grown up in one place, knowing the same kids all the way from kindergarten. That’s being a teenager, I guess, always wanting what you haven’t got.” She nodded, but with a look that suggested he’d just given her a glimpse into who he was. She turned back to the shelves then and so did Dan. “You mentioned her grandparents?”

“She’s an orphan. I think her parents died when she was still very small. So she lives with her grandparents.”

“Jesus. They probably want to wrap her in cotton wool after this.”

She didn’t respond and they worked on, but then she said, “Is your mother still alive?”

“Yeah, but I don’t see her as much as I’d like. She lives in Bermuda. My sister lives there too, with her terrible husband and three kids. So they’re all busy—they get along okay without me.”

“Why is her husband terrible?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. He’s a good husband and father, good son-in-law too. I just don’t like him very much. I think it’s mutual.”

“You’re just not compatible?”

“That’s it.”

“And he’s a good father, husband, son-in-law . . .?”

He laughed, liking the fact that she was comfortable enough to tease him, then said, “What about you, your parents still alive?”

“Of course. And I also have one sister, but I like her husband and children.”

“Point taken.” He’d reached the end of his shelf, and said, “I’m done.”

“Me too, very soon.”

He turned, looking out of the window. Beyond the reflection from the lights it already looked dark outside. He looked at Inger then, the snug beige jeans, the equally fitted sweater, the gentle flexing of her body as she reached up for a book, inspected it, put it back, took another, repeated the process.

She finished and turned, and when she realized he’d been watching her she raised her eyebrows and said, “If you spent more time with your mother she’d tell you it’s rude to stare.”

He smiled and said, “I wasn’t staring, I was watching, and I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, a truce, but looked around the room with a sigh and said, “What next? We must be missing something.”

“I noticed a small cabin at the back.”

“It’s a sauna, I think.”

“Okay, so I guess if he used it, not the best environment for hiding anything, but we’ll take a look in there, check the garage.”

“Good, but in the morning, I think. The Eklunds should be bringing dinner soon.” Dan nodded but didn’t move, and then Inger said, “Can I ask you something?” He looked expectantly. “I was thinking about the kind of person he must have been, and you told me people are trying to kill you now, that they’ve killed people you know, so I wonder, could you live like this, the way Jacques Fillon did? Could you disappear?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question since I got here. I’m one of life’s optimists, so I still believe I’ll find a way out of this current situation, quite possibly with this guy’s help.”

“But if you don’t?”

“Yeah, I guess I could disappear. It’s what I’ve done my whole life, but I always disappear
to
somewhere, you know, I keep moving. What this guy had here, no, I don’t think so.”

“Nor me. I like all of this.” She gestured toward the room, as if summing up the whole property. “But to leave everyone behind, no connections, I couldn’t do that.”

It summed up the difference between them, between Dan and most people. The difficulty of Fillon’s life in Dan’s mind was the boredom, the lack of color, the claustrophobia, whereas for Inger it was the thought of leaving behind friends and family.

It reminded him of the conversation with Charlie. What were they doing with their lives, what did they even hope to do with them? At least Charlie was fixed on the idea of getting back with Darija, as fanciful as that dream might prove to be.

Dan had nothing to aim for, only a continuation of the transient lifestyle he should have grown out of ten years ago. It wasn’t enough, he knew that, but at least it meant he had nothing to lose, that he would never lose anything ever again.

“I guess we can’t say what we’d do, not until we know his reason for coming up here. Maybe the guy was a natural loner, or maybe he just didn’t have much choice.”

She nodded, looked around the room one more time and said, “We should go.”

They walked back in total silence, only the rough sound of their footfalls and the distant indistinct sounds of birds. Insects hovered around them as they walked too, probably the last of the year, before the cold encroached and added a new layer of peace to these woods.

They got back just as Mr. Eklund reached the cabin carrying a large tray. He was elderly, but Dan could see now that he was strong, that he’d labored in his life, either for his work or in the everyday chores of living out here, and he carried the tray effortlessly.

He left them alone to eat and they got beers from the fridge. It was meatballs in a sauce and some sort of dumplings, which amused Inger in some way, though she seemed to enjoy it.

And they talked casually enough, about the small town south of Stockholm where she’d grown up, about the global village in which he’d lived his formative years. They talked more about family, too. And elliptically, they talked about their work.

They washed up afterwards, stacking the plates and cutlery back on the tray, and then sat with another couple of beers in the lounge area. He’d been unsure how he’d get on with her, but now that he was with her it felt as though they’d been around each other a long time; a sense of familiarity that was out of step with the few hours they’d spent together.

He felt comfortable with her, even though he sensed she still had reservations about him, about his work and his past. Then he made a mistake. She swigged from her beer and hiccupped, then looked in danger of having a full-on attack, but held her breath until it had passed, and it was such an insignificant thing, but she looked so beautiful as she sat there, patient, her lips pressed together in concentration.

Before he realized what he was saying, the words had come out, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

She let the breath go, the resultant sigh like a response in itself, as if asking why he had to go and ruin things.

She looked at him for a moment or two, apparently unsure whether to even answer him or not, then she said, “I don’t think it’s any of your business, but I’m gay.”

He tried not to let his reaction show in his expression, not only the disappointment but the fact he would have put money against her being a lesbian. Even now that she’d told him he probably would have bet against it, though that was probably just a mixture of wishful thinking and him knowing nothing.

He smiled, and said, “Girlfriend?”

“That’s also none of your business.” She gave way a little, though, and said, “I’m single right now.”

“I didn’t mean to pry. And I wasn’t coming on to you.” She raised her eyebrows. “Seriously. Look, I’ll admit, I find you very attractive—who wouldn’t?—and I was curious, that’s all, but I still wasn’t coming on to you.”

“I believe you,” she said, though clearly she didn’t. “And it doesn’t matter anyway, now that you know.”

“Yeah, I guess it makes life easier anyway.”

“Oh, we’re here to work. I think maybe I could have resisted jumping into bed with you even if I was straight.” Her delivery was deadpan, but she smiled, giving away that she was teasing him, and said, “And what about you, Dan, does your lifestyle allow you a girlfriend?”

“Never for very long. Sometimes I wish it weren’t so, but that’s how it is.”

She seemed to take in what he’d said, and for a moment she looked on the verge of saying something in response, but then she changed her mind and said, “I have some work to do, on my laptop, but I think first I’ll make some coffee. You want some?”

Her tone was friendly, but business-like, and he knew she’d changed course in some way.

He checked the time, and said, “Actually, I’m pretty wrecked. I think I might turn in early. And we’ve got a big day tomorrow.”

She looked puzzled and said, “A big day how?”

“A big day because if we don’t find any leads, I have to move on. I’m not just doing this for me. I have a friend, the guy they tried to kill the other night, and I may be safe up here for the time being, but I can’t be sure he’s safe wherever he is.”

She looked shocked by the reminder that this was about a lot more for Dan than the identity of Jacques Fillon. And he’d needed that reminder himself. Even after a few hours, he could imagine being seduced by the peace of this place, one day slipping unnoticed into three or four. But all the time, even as he’d searched shelves of books or toyed with the now unattainable Inger Bengtsson, they were looking for him, and for Charlie, relentlessly narrowing the field, and unless something changed, they’d keep looking till they’d closed them down for good.