Some Kind of Peace (22 page)

I am sitting with Aina at Jerusalem Kebab on Götgatan. It’s dark outside and Södermalm is swarmed with people on their way home from work. Young, trendy types are mixed with stressed-out parents pushing three-wheeled strollers and old folks leaning on dangerous-looking walkers. A group of young women in head scarves is laughing as they head toward Medborgarplatsen; perhaps they are on their way to the mosque.

As always, Aina stuffs an entire falafel into her mouth and I don’t comment on her lousy table manners. Red sauce dribbles down her chin.

She leans toward me and whispers, “I think Sven may be involved.”

“Oh, cut it out.”

Even though my mouth is full of hummus and salad, I can’t help but smile.

“No, I’m serious. Listen to me. He has access to the records. He knows where you live. He chases every single skirt and could very well be that guy Sara told you about. The one who
listened
to her so well, the one who
saw
her.”

“And so why would Sven start strangling women, write hate letters, and trick me into a DUI?” I ask, shoveling more hummus onto my fork.

“Because he
hates
women!” Aina says triumphantly.

I raise my eyebrows, but she continues without paying attention to my reaction.

“His life has been full of personal failures caused by women. He was chased out of the university because he was seeing that girl. His wife is infinitely more successful than he is. And what is her main focus of work? Gender research! You can just imagine the lectures he is subjected to over dinner. Besides, his office is dominated by two little girls,
one of whom has rejected his sexual advances on a number of occasions
. Talk about feeling castrated.”

“Aina, are you serious?” I am laughing out loud.

“Why not?” She acts offended and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. In the corner of my eye I can see her wiping off the sauce on her worn jeans.

“Okay, it’s a
theoretical
possibility,” I admit.

For a brief moment, my thoughts turn to Peter Carlsson. He knew Charlotte Mimer from before, and he recently discovered that she was a patient of mine. Plus, his compulsive thoughts revolve around violence and sex. I’ve been thinking about Peter a lot over the past few weeks, tormenting myself by going over the three conversations I had with him, word by word. Could Peter be dangerous? For real? Could he be the one who killed Sara? Should I say anything to Aina, Sven, or the police? At the same time, I am well aware of the therapist-client privilege. And I can’t go to the police and talk about Peter just because he has strange thoughts. That would be highly unethical. I have nothing more substantial than my paranoid fantasies and relentless concern to go on. Why would he want to kill Sara? Why would he want to harm me? As far as I know, he has no motive. I decide not to bring up my suspicions with Aina. It just seems unnecessary. After all, I’m the one who needs to keep her paranoia in check.

Not noticing my silence, Aina continues on a different track.

“Maybe it’s Birgitta, I mean, maybe it’s because she can’t stand it when other women flirt with her husband.”

I can tell Aina is very excited by this new idea.

“And she always acts so damn special. You saw how she reacted at the crayfish party when Robert talked back at her. And then she saw Sven pawing you.”

“But why would she kill Sara? An iconic feminist on a murder spree? Oh, cut it out.”

My patience is starting to wear thin. This game isn’t fun anymore, and I don’t want to speculate about who might have killed Sara. Sara is gone. Dead. Murdered. Sitting here, guessing who might be her murderer, feels shameful.

“Okay, then, maybe it’s not very likely, but it’s certainly possible.”

Aina licks hummus from her fingers and continues.

“Or maybe Marianne. Maybe she’s bitter and jealous of you… because you…”

Aina pauses and seems to be thinking.

“Because… I don’t know. She was also a little sore at that crayfish party, when I tried to be nice to Christer.”

“Sore? When you were only
trying to be nice
to Christer? Aina, sometimes you are just too much. You practically thrust your tits in his face. You think it’s strange that she would get upset? And if so, then, damn it,
you’re
the one she ought to be mad at. Not me. And certainly not Sara.”

“He was strange, too,” Aina continues, ignoring me. “Christer, that is. It’s like he didn’t seem…” Aina searches for words.

“I realize this may sound boastful, but most men usually react to me. In some way. Even if I don’t rub my tits in their face. Okay, I know how narcissistic and superficial that sounds, but he was… cold in some way. There was no way to get through to him.”

Now I’m about to explode.

“Aina,
for Christ’s sake
! Stop it. Sara is dead! I don’t like this conversation. We don’t know whether her murder even has anything to do with me, and you’re sitting here… making it into a party game. This isn’t Clue. You just turned everyone around me into a suspect. Sven, Birgitta, Marianne, Christer… because
you
think they are strange. Don’t you get it that none of these people have a reason to hate me? Sure, maybe they dislike me, but not hate. And what about you, then? You’re strange, too.”

I realize I’ve gone too far and fall silent.

“Forgive me,” I mumble.

Aina is serious now, the giggly silliness is gone. I sigh heavily as I look down at my sticky, empty plate. After sitting in silence for a long time, Aina locks eyes with me before speaking.

“Forgive me. I was thoughtless. I was only trying to… I don’t know.”

She runs her hand through her hair before continuing.

“They’ve questioned everyone at the practice now, and made copies of all the videotapes with Sara. What else are the police doing? They don’t seem to be getting anywhere.”

“I went over it all with that police officer, Sonja, the one who is leading the investigation. There’s also a prosecutor, someone she reports to, whom I haven’t met yet. At any rate, there is a law about secrecy in preliminary investigations. You know, they can’t talk about what they’re doing. Not even to me. But she did mention that they had called all the contacts in Sara’s cell phone and visited all her previous employers. Talked with all her neighbors. Her boyfriends. Her mother. Made a careful forensic investigation. I don’t remember, but there were several things. I actually think they’re doing a thorough job.”

“But they don’t seem to have any suspects. Just think if that person is still sneaking around in the bushes on Värmdö, watching you!”

Aina can tell from my face that this wasn’t the right thing to say.

“Do you want me to stay with you?” she asks gently, placing a sticky hand on mine.

“I don’t know how to say this,” she continues, hesitantly, “but you mean so much to me. I can’t stand the thought that anyone would want to hurt you. This whole thing is crazy. I’d be happy to come and live with you for a while again.”

We go quiet. Her hand lies on mine, and she caresses my wrist lightly with her damp fingertips. Suddenly her closeness is too much for me to bear, as if she wants something I can’t give her, and I worry that I am going to disappoint her as usual.

“That’s not necessary,” I say and gesture that I don’t need company this evening.

I explain that I have lots to do. It’s a lie, of course, and Aina knows it, but she simply nods silently and looks out into the night that has now settled over the throngs of people on Götgatan.

That night I dream about Stefan. He is sitting close to me on the edge of the bed and rests his damp head—his hair is full of seaweed and kelp—lightly against my belly.

“I miss you,” I say, stroking him carefully over his cold back, but he does not answer. Instead he gets up and searches for something. He looks under the bed, in the closets, on the bookshelf, even under the rag rug on the floor.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

“That’s what’s so weird,” he answers, annoyed. “I’ve forgotten what I’m looking for.” His light hair is sun bleached under the greenish-brown algae and his skin is tanned brown, but under his eyes are those dark rings he had at the end. When he could neither sleep nor eat and restlessly wandered around the house at night.

“I need something.” He runs his hand through his hair with a confused expression on his face.

“Siri,” he says quietly, looking desperate. “Can you help me look?”

“I will help you look,” I reply.

Outside my window, Medborgarplatsen is deserted. The sky has taken on a saturated, deep blue color with turquoise undertones. Prussian blue, I think. Though I haven’t painted in a long time, I still remember the names of colors. The façades of the buildings around Björn’s Park are dark brown—red with a tinge of violet—
caput mortuum
, which means “dead head”—a color I love. In front of the Greek food cart I can see a few shivering Stockholmers lining up in the clear, chilly fall evening.

In my little green consultation room, everything is calm. From the CD player on the shelf above the desk Pink Floyd calls out: “
So, so you think you can tell, Heaven from Hell…”
I am not so sure I would be able to see the difference. Know that it was him, if one day he was standing in front of me.

I am the only one left at the office, even though it’s just five o’clock. Everyone has gone home to their families, dogs, and TV shows. Aina has a date as usual. I simply have not been able to collect myself sufficiently enough to declare the day over, though I probably ought to go home, like a
normal
person.

I start packing my things absentmindedly, turn on my cell phone, which I had turned off during office hours, and grab my notepad and some old thumbed-through magazines I want to borrow from the reception desk. My cell phone beeps. I have three missed calls: all from Marianne. That’s unusual; it’s her day off. She never calls when she’s out. I walk to the kitchen to get some coffee and call Marianne. She answers after a few rings.

“Siri, how nice of you to call back. Sorry for disturbing you, but we need to talk.”

Typical Marianne: always apologizing, even when I’m the one calling her.

“Shoot,” I say while I pour cold coffee into a cup and put it in the
microwave. Silently, I curse Sven for never putting the coffeepot back on the hot plate.

“Siri, I need to see you.”

“Well, I’m coming in at ten tomorrow, I’ll—”

“This evening. I would much rather see you this evening.”

She sounds out of breath and hoarser than usual. I can see her in front of me, as if she had just rushed up a stairway or run across a street and is now leaning forward from fatigue, resting her left hand on her curvy hip as she talks to me on her cell.

“I see, but couldn’t we do it on the phone? I was actually about to go home. I’m the last one here.”

Marianne clears her throat, and I hear voices in the background.

“It’s… it’s not such a good time to talk right now. My son is here. And his girlfriend. They’ve just come back from India. We’re looking at pictures right now. Couldn’t you stop by a little later? There’s something I want to show you.”

This is an unusual request. Marianne and I don’t typically socialize privately.

“This is important. I wouldn’t ask you otherwise,” she adds in a low, urgent voice.

“Marianne,” I say, and part of me wants to laugh.

Orderly, lucid, wonderful Marianne who always has a solution to every problem, who always is the calmest and most collected of all, the last to leave the office. Suddenly I don’t recognize her. The hoarse, urgent voice, the impetuous manner, it’s not like her.

“Is it a matter of life and death?”

I don’t mean to sound flippant, it just comes out that way.

Marianne sighs. “Please, Siri, can you just stop by here?”

I hesitate for a moment. Marianne lives on Karlbergsvägen. However I look at it, it will be a detour.

“What time do you want me to come?”

“Come around seven. I’ll run out and buy a few pastries so we can have coffee. And could you bring Sven’s records that are on his desk? I didn’t get everything done yesterday, I can try to get them done a little later this evening.”