Frozen Moment (46 page)

    He
looked around discreetly. The office had been the same for as long as he could
remember: the only furnishings were the desk, the easy chairs and a small round
table, apart from the obligatory wall covered in bookshelves packed with files
and books relating to the law. No pot plants, no personal items such as
photographs of children or grandchildren. He realised he didn't even know
whether Ostergren had children or grandchildren. What she would be going home
to in a couple of years.

    For
some reason he got the idea that she too stayed at work until late in the
evening, postponing the moment when she opened the door to an empty apartment
which the occupant had tried to make at least habitable, if not cosy, all
alone. It struck him with powerful clarity that this was exactly how he
perceived his existence since he had made sure that Seja had disappeared out of
his life just as quickly as she had come into it. The keenness of her absence
was just as intense as his former enjoyment of the single life: the opportunity
to do what he wanted whenever he wanted, the option to choose company when he
felt like it and to avoid all kinds of forced social contact.

    It
was possible that he had felt the same way about Carina. When their
relationship was still at the stage when the words lay unspoken between them
and he was, typically, struggling with his fear of commitment, Carina had
waited patiently. He
had
been in love with her - he couldn't deny that -
enough to throw his fears and his cynicism overboard in the end, and to have
the courage to go all the way, with an engagement ring and promises of eternal
fidelity. And still it hadn't lasted. So what was to say that this relationship
wouldn't end the same way, with hurt feelings and bitter accusations?

    When
Ostergren half-heartedly turned her head towards the open door to blow the
smoke outside, he took the chance to look at her properly. She had never seemed
so distant before. In fact, he had always appreciated her clarity, her
presence, the energy that spread to everyone around her. Today the black polo
neck that usually contrasted so elegantly with her pale skin and white hair
merely highlighted the greyness of her face and the dark rings beneath her
eyes. Her pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and surrounded by a network of deep wrinkles.

    Tell
suddenly got the strong feeling that what she wanted to tell him had nothing to
do with the fact that his love life had briefly coincided with his professional
life.
Such self-obsession.
Why had he never
asked Ostergren if she was married? Why had he never even wondered about it?

    He
was desperate for a cigarette and regretted not bringing his own. On cue,
Ostergren pushed the cigarettes over to him. 'Sorry. I was in a world of my
own.' She stubbed out the cigarette even though she had smoked only half of it,
and pulled a face.

    Tell
wondered if he ought to stub out the cigarette he had just lit.

    'My
doctor's name is Björnberg,' she said, leaning back in her chair. 'He's the
same age as me, and both my husband and I have been seeing him for years. He
said the other day that these things are killing me.
Which I
knew, of course.
Just not that it was so close, or so literal.'

    She
pointed at the cigarettes.

    'The
fact that I've changed to these low-tar ones won't make much difference. My
first thought was to change to a different doctor.'

    She
took off her glasses and rubbed the skin below her eyes.

    '•Do
you understand? He's always given me nothing but good news, so I thought he was
a good doctor. I've hardly even had so much as a cold. It's been nice to have a
chat in his surgery now and again. My children go to him too, so he always asks
how they are.
Remembers the grandchildren's names and so on.
And then he comes up with this! I was furious.'

    Her
voice gave way and she cleared her throat.

    'I
thought you ought to know.'

    Slowly
Tell grasped what his boss was trying to tell him. Without her glasses
Ostergren seemed strangely defenceless, and for a second he thought he could
see fear in her eyes. It was so unaccustomed that he was glad he was sitting
down. He wanted to say something to ease the situation - ask lots of questions
or say there was always hope - but he thought he knew Ostergren well enough to
know it was best to remain silent and wait for her to carry on.
She would
never mention this unless she was certain.
He felt he could read between
the lines: she knew when it was worth fighting, and when it was time to accept
the situation.

    She
pointed at the glowing cigarette in his hand.

    
'On the subject of smoking.
For the first ten years both my
husband and I smoked. Then he gave up, and for the next decade he lectured me
in that irritating born-again way only ex-smokers do. For the last twenty years
he's just given me a resigned look every time I've gone to stand by the
extractor fan, with just a little dig every now and again: "You know this
will be the death of you one fine day, Anki." God, he's so bloody
annoying. And now, on top of everything else, he's right.'

    She
smiled sadly.

    'All
the way home from the doctor's I could hear him saying, "I told you
so." It was four days before I could bring myself to tell him.'

    'And
what did he say?' Tell was relieved to be able to shift the focus to someone
else's inadequacy.

    'He
cried and got very angry.
With me, for not telling him
straight away.
And because I'd had the nerve to think he would have a go
at me. But above all, I think, because he had spent so much time planning what
we would do when we retired at long last. At long last - that's his view,
anyway.'

    
'And what about you?'

    She
shrugged her shoulders,
then
shook her head.

    'I
don't know. In one way it seems ironic.
Or obvious.
I've never really been able to relate to all the plans Gustav has been making
for us: those trips to all the places in the world we've never visited, the
interests we were going to develop. All those courses we were going to do, all
that time we would suddenly have for one another. You know… Somehow I've always
felt… that I wasn't really a part of it all. As if I always knew I wasn't going
to get there.
As if I were only pretending to be involved in
order to avoid upsetting him.'

    She
got up and closed the balcony door without taking her eyes off Tell.

    
'As if I owed it to him to pretend, after making him wait all these
years.
My job always came first, you see.
Before him.
Before the children.
He reached a point many years ago
when he realised it wasn't worth shouting and complaining, and since then it has
always been about the future.
Then
we'll have time. Then we'll have
peace and quiet. Then we'll have a normal life. And now he finds out that
then
no longer exists. Only now exists.
Then nothing.'

    'Is
it cancer?' Tell asked quietly.

    Ostergren
nodded. 'It's very advanced. Björnberg did talk about chemotherapy but was
honest enough to admit that the chances of success are minimal.'

    Tell
was painfully aware of his breathing.

    'I'm
so sorry.'

    She
nodded almost imperceptibly. He could feel the empty phrases in his throat and
hated himself because nothing he could say would change anything.

    'If
there's anything I can do…' came out involuntarily. However much he wished that
he could actually do something, Tell couldn't bear the banality of the phrase.

    'It's
strange.'

    She
turned to look out of the window. Dark clouds hovered over the roofs, as if
they were just waiting for the opportunity to burst and spill their entrails
over the town.

    'For
all these years I've… not ignored Gustav's feelings, perhaps, but certainly I
haven't bothered about them enough to change my priorities. I have been
incredibly selfish. And now his feelings are the only thing I can think about,
now I… And yet I still can't behave any differently from the way I've always
behaved. Somehow I still have to follow my old patterns.'

    She
was silent for so long that Tell got the feeling she'd forgotten he was there,
until she took a deep breath and went on: 'I feel as if I've let him down. How
could it turn out this way, Christian? With love, I mean. That you choose to
live your life with someone - someone you love - but their perceptions always
seem to be the direct opposite of your own?'

    Her
cheeks were flushed.

    'Maybe
it's just what you said,' mumbled Tell, even if he had realised the question
was rhetorical.
'Love.'
Not that I know much more
about it.

    She
shook her head.

    'Now,
of course, he thinks it's obvious - well, I suppose it
is
obvious - that
I should give up work on the grounds of ill health and spend my… my remaining
time at home. Gustav and Björnberg have ganged up on me, and it hasn't even
occurred to them that I would choose to do anything different. And the worst
thing is that I can't do it. Do you understand? I ought to be taking the chance
to pay him back, to show Gustav that I really do want to get to know him all
over again, and that I do value him and everything we've somehow managed to
build together over the years, but now more than ever I feel I have to be
selfish. I'm finding it harder than ever to imagine giving up my job and just
sitting at home waiting for death. I think I have to hang on here until they
cart me off.'

    They
jumped at the sound of a knock on the door. Karin Beckman poked her head
around. She was clearly sensitive enough to pick up on the muted atmosphere
because she apologised and was about to close the door when Ostergren waved her
in.

    'It's
fine. I've got time.'

    'It
was actually Tell I wanted a word with.' She took a step into the room. 'We've
heard from forensics on the Jeep from Ulricehamn. The wear on the tyre
corresponds to the tracks at the scene of the murder, and there are six
different fingerprints inside the car which are pretty clear. They've also
found traces of blood.'

    With
a supreme effort of will, Tell forced himself back to rational thought.

    'OK.
Check the database to see if the fingerprints belong to anyone we know. And
contact the rental company for the names of the other people who've hired the
car so that we can eliminate them. Bring them in and take their fingerprints.'

    Beckman
nodded impatiently. Tell guessed that she didn't appreciate being instructed in
basic police work in front of Ostergren but it couldn't be helped. Tell needed
to hear
his own
voice regaining some measure of
control.

    'Try
to put a face to every print, or at least those who hopefully reserved in their
own name,' he droned on. 'And don't forget that one of the prints probably
belongs to Berit Johansson herself - she cleaned the cars, after all. Check her
husband too, or whoever the other Johansson is.'

    Beckman
gave an irritated snort. She disappeared when the mobile phone on Ostergren's
belt rang, and she indicated that she had to take the call. Tell nodded and got
up to leave. His legs were so heavy he could barely lift them.

    It
was exactly four steps to the door.

    1995

    The
carefully maintained facade stood him in good stead with the pretty girl who
had been detailed to help him. According to the social worker, he was entitled
to support in the home as long as his mother was in the funny farm, which was
where she had been ever since Maya's inexplicable death. Of course, it was
inexplicable only to an imbecile. The doctor with the well-practised expression
of empathy ought to have got an Oscar for his performance when it turned out
that the equipment keeping Maya alive had for some reason been turned off for a
period of time - after the nurse on the night shift had done her final rounds, and
before the morning shift came on duty.

    Deep
in those eyes Sebastian could see that Dr Snell knew exactly what had caused
the 'temporary and extremely regrettable, inexplicable and totally unacceptable
failure of the technical equipment'. He almost felt sorry for the doctor, who
had muttered something about how technology can never be one hundred per cent
reliable, and how Maya's body had made its own decision to put an end to its
artificial existence. As if he really believed that Maya was in any condition
to make a choice. It was stupid, particularly in view of the fact that had been
Dr Snell's main argument for letting Maya die: she would never be able to
think, feel or know anything again. He had said the decision rested with the
relatives, but all the time it had been obvious where he stood on the issue.