The Asylum (41 page)

He carries on filling up the car and looks around. The ranks of shiny petrol pumps are standing to attention in the neon light, and a short distance away a lorry is moving off with a muted hissing sound.

The pump clicks. The tank is full, and Jan replaces the nozzle.

Another quick glance into the car – but the back seat is empty.

Rössel is gone, along with the razor and the tear gas.

Jan looks around. The parking area is deserted. There isn’t a soul in sight, but there are plenty of HGVs ten or twelve metres away, parked so close together that they form a labyrinth on the tarmac.

Has Rössel sneaked in between them?

Jan leaves the car and moves cautiously towards the trucks. He crouches down and tries to look underneath them, but he can’t see any grey trousers moving on the other side.

He has a bad feeling in his stomach as he slowly walks back to the car.

‘Here I am,’ a voice says behind him.

Jan stops dead and turns around.

‘Did you think I’d done a runner?’

Jan shakes his head. He and Rössel understand one another. They are going to the grave now, and neither of them is about to pull out. Whatever happens afterwards.

‘Where were you?’

Rössel is holding a couple of spades with sharp edges under one arm, and something shiny in his other hand. A bottle. ‘I was doing a bit of shopping,’ he says. ‘I bought the spades, then I went over to the trucks. They’ve come from all over Europe … and sometimes the drivers are carrying booze. So I bought a bottle.’

He holds it up, and Jan sees that it is vodka.

‘And what did you use for money?’

‘I used yours.’ Rössel is offering Jan a small object – his own wallet. ‘You left this in the car.’

Jan takes the wallet. ‘I don’t need alcohol.’

Rössel opens the bottle and takes a swig. He isn’t smiling. ‘Yes, you do. Tonight we need both spades and spirits.’

They drive on through the night. Rössel is more subdued now, but he is still giving directions from the back seat. He points: ‘Left here.’

A roundabout, then a narrower road. Gothenburg is a big place and this is a part of the city Jan is not familiar with, but he can see a chain of jagged hills in the distance and thinks they are somewhere north-east of the centre, around Utby.

‘Turn right here,’ Rössel says, taking a swig of vodka. ‘Then right again.’

Jan obeys. He finds himself driving along a long, straight road where both the lights and the houses become more and more sparse. A white road sign flashes past: TRASTVÄGEN.

The sign is the last indication of their proximity to the city; after that there are no more buildings, only the road. It turns into a forest track leading upwards, climbing steep slopes covered with dark bushes and trees.

‘Here,’ Rössel says quietly. ‘We can’t drive any further … park here.’

Jan stops the car. He switches off the engine and turns on the interior light.

In the rear-view mirror he sees Rössel drinking deeply from the bottle, closing his eyes as he swallows.

‘Medicine,’ he says, passing the bottle to Jan.

Jan takes a small sip, no more. He looks down at the side pocket on the car door and sees pens and a few sheets of paper. He has an idea, and reaches for a pen and a sheet of paper. He shows them to Rössel. ‘Draw a map,’ he says.

‘A map?’

Jan nods. ‘We can leave it here … just in case we get lost in the forest.’ He remembers how he memorized the area around the Nordbro lake nine years ago, and says, ‘You do remember the way to the grave, don’t you?’

This is the first time he has asked Rössel to do something. He waits in silence.

But Rössel shakes his head. ‘I can’t … I can’t draw.’

‘I can,’ Jan says. He draws two parallel lines on the paper and writes
Trastvägen
. ‘This is where we are now … So where are we going?’

Rössel hesitates. ‘Draw a path,’ he says eventually. ‘Up to the left.’

Jan begins to draw. The line winds its way onwards, and Rössel explains about the differences in level, streams and large rocky areas. Jan was right – the entire landscape is preserved inside Rössel’s head. He has thought about this place a great deal.

‘There, put a cross there on that ledge.’ Rössel seems more eager now as he points at the map. ‘And write that … I just happened to meet the boy on a park bench, and I took him into the forest and buried the body up in the hills.’

The confession
, Jan thinks. A written confession for Lilian and her family, at long last.

Jan finishes writing and shows the map to Rössel, who looks at the piece of paper and nods.

‘Good,’ Jan says quietly, and places the map on the passenger seat.

‘Let’s go,’ Rössel says. He climbs out of the car and Jan does the same. Their night’s work is waiting.

The spades are waiting too. Jan opens the boot and takes out an old blanket. He also has the Angel with him; it will be their only source of light in the darkness.

Rössel straightens up; he seems resolute now. He leads them over a ditch, away from the track and up through the undergrowth, between rocky outcrops and towering firs.

The last of the light is left behind. The wilderness begins.

After perhaps three hundred metres of moving between the trees
they
reach a chaotic mass of angular shadows. Jan holds up the Angel and sees shining blocks of granite, polished by glaciation thousands of years ago and piled up at the bottom of a sheer rock face. Somewhere in the darkness he can hear the sound of rushing water.

‘Are we climbing up there?’

‘No, it’s impossible.’ Rössel shakes his head. ‘We have to go round … It’s not as steep.’

They find a small path that snakes around the blocks and heads upwards at an angle. Rössel leads the way; he appears to be moving through his memory map, and shows no hesitation as he leans forward to climb the steep slope.

Jan follows a few metres behind him. The image of Carl’s dead body is in his mind, and he prefers to have Rössel in front of him while the razor is still around.

After twenty metres Rössel stops to catch his breath. ‘I carried the boy all the way up here,’ he says. ‘That was hard work.’

‘Was John Daniel still alive then?’ Jan asks. ‘Did you kill him here?’

‘I didn’t kill him.’ Rössel turns to face him; he sounds tired now. ‘He died in my car, because of all the booze he’d knocked back during the evening. He threw up and choked on his own vomit in the boot. It wasn’t my fault.’

Jan looks at him. ‘He would have lived if you’d left him alone. Like the others.’

Rössel shrugs his shoulders. ‘He could have stayed sober.’

He doesn’t say any more, but as they continue their ascent Rössel’s head is constantly moving to and fro in the darkness, as if he is searching for enemies.

There is a ledge a few metres higher up and Rössel disappears behind it. Jan makes a final effort and follows him. The ground levels out here. They have reached a broad plateau high above the forest, part of a longer chain of hills.

Rössel is standing there waiting for him, with a spade in his hand. He looks over at a solitary pine tree growing on the plateau. ‘This is where I came that night,’ he says. ‘I’d done some walking
around
here … I knew the area. The last time was after a terrible winter storm, and I noticed that a small pine tree had been blown over up on the top of the hill. It had been torn out by the roots, leaving a gaping hole underneath.’

Jan holds up the Angel and sees that the hilltop is some fifteen or twenty metres wide. On the far side it falls away sharply, down to the spot where the granite blocks are piled up at the bottom.

There is plenty of undergrowth and low bushes up here, and the pine tree. Its roots have somehow managed to re-establish themselves. The pine is growing tall and straight, although the needles at the top don’t look very healthy. But there is no hole where the roots were originally torn out.

‘Where is he?’ Jan asks.

‘Here.’ Rössel walks over to the tree, his voice flat and mechanical now. ‘I carried the body up here and dumped it in the hole underneath the roots. Then I managed to push the tree back upright, and the body was nowhere to be seen.’

Jan shines the beam of the Angel at the top of the tree. ‘It’s dying.’

‘It is now.’

Jan doesn’t say any more; he merely watches as Rössel takes a step away from the pine and opens out the blanket.

‘Start digging there … Right next to the trunk.’

Jan looks at the uneven ground. He is thinking about roots and secrets and different choices.

Then he picks up the spade, drives it into the ground and begins to dig. His body is full of energy now; he needs energy, because the ground is so hard. There aren’t many stones, but the spade must hack its way through tightly packed earth and tough root systems.

Rössel is still holding the other spade, but he is staring at the ground on the far side of the tree.

Jan keeps on digging, building up a pile of earth next to the trunk; a wide hole is opening up in front of him. From time to time he picks up the Angel and directs its beam at the hole, but he can see nothing yet.

‘Keep going,’ Rössel says.

Some of the roots are so thick that Jan can’t chop through them, so he digs out the earth around them and carries on downwards.

When he finally stops for a rest and looks at his watch, it is quarter to one. His arms are aching, but he keeps on digging.

Another slender root is sticking out of the earth – at least that’s what he thinks, until he sees that it is something else.

A yellowish bone.

The spade stops in mid-air as Jan stares down. He picks up the Angel again, and in the light he sees more bones. Bones and scraps of frayed material.

Rössel also sees the find, and nods. ‘Good … keep going.’

Jan hesitates. ‘I might damage him.’

‘
It
,’ says Rössel. ‘It’s only a body.’

Jan doesn’t answer; he bends his back and carries on. As carefully as possible he clears away the earth from around the bones; more and more pale fragments begin to appear. Slowly he reveals the shape of a skeleton, but the roots of the tree have grown during the passing years, and many bones have been broken or are missing.

After perhaps half an hour a large grey stone comes away from the damp wall of earth and rolls down into the bottom of the hole.

No, not a stone, Jan realizes – it’s a skull. He doesn’t want to look any closer, but he can see that bits of skin are still attached, like old paper.

Rössel says nothing; he simply climbs down and begins to gather up all the loose bones. He passes them up one by one, and Jan carefully lays them on the blanket. The round skull is placed there too.

Eventually there are no more bits to hand over.

‘Is that it?’ Jan asks.

‘That’s it,’ Rössel replies, taking a last swig from the bottle. ‘We just need to finish this off now.’ He clambers out of the grave, leans on the spade and smiles at Jan.

‘Finish this off?’

There is no answer to Jan’s question, but suddenly he hears the sound of rustling in the undergrowth behind him.

Boots.

Rössel glances in the direction of the noise. ‘Welcome,’ he says.

‘Hi, Ivan,’ a subdued voice replies in the darkness. It’s a woman’s voice; she sounds tired and out of breath.

Jan turns his head, holds up the Angel and sees someone he recognizes coming up the slope.

‘Hi, Jan.’

It is Hanna Aronsson, and she is moving slowly. She is carrying something: she has a small, limp body in her arms. With a blindfold around its eyes.

A sleeping child, or perhaps a child who has been drugged.

A boy.

55

FIFTEEN SECONDS LATER
Jan is lying slumped on the ground.

Rössel has knocked him down, and it happened very quickly. One whirling blow with the spade in the darkness as Jan was staring at Hanna Aronsson, trying to understand why she was here. And who is the boy?

Rössel stepped forward and aimed at Jan’s right leg. The steel spade hit him just below the knee, the leg gave way and Jan went down in a flash of pain and nausea.

He loses consciousness.

Seconds pass, perhaps minutes.

‘Did everything go OK up there?’ He can hear Rössel’s voice.

And Hanna’s reply: ‘Yes, but I had to wait a while until he was outside on his own.’

‘Good,’ Rössel says.

The voices and the cold slowly bring Jan round, and when he looks up he can see a faint light. The Angel is lying in front of him, switched on, and in its glow he can just make out Rössel and Hanna like two shadows, a few metres away.

‘And he didn’t see you?’ Rössel asks.

‘No. Nobody saw me.’

Rössel has lowered the spade; he seems to be relaxing. He takes three steps towards Hanna and kisses her on the cheek, touches her blonde hair. ‘I’ve wanted to do that for so long,’ he says.

But his movements look stiff. His hands are unused to intimacy.

Jan has also recognized the boy: it is Leo. Leo Lundberg. Five years old, missing and the focus of a police search – Jan remembers Marie-Louise’s call, telling him that the boy had disappeared from his foster parents’ garden.

The blindfold covering Leo’s eyes is wide and black. He is breathing, but doesn’t appear to be awake; his body is heavy and inert in Hanna’s arms.

Jan watches as Rössel takes Leo and lays him down next to the hollow by the pine tree. ‘This is where he will lie,’ Rössel says. ‘Down here.’

It is like watching a shadow play. Jan feels dazed and somehow distant, but the pain in his leg is beginning to ease. He tries to sit up.

Rössel notices and turns to him. ‘Don’t move.’

Jan slowly shakes his head and sits up anyway. He tries to get Hanna to meet his gaze. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks. ‘Why have you brought Leo here?’

‘We didn’t bring him,’ Rössel says. ‘
You
did.’

Jan stares at him. ‘Me?’

‘This is the scene of the crime, this is where it all ends,’ Rössel says. ‘You even drew a map … A map with a confession, admitting what you’d done. It’s in the car, waiting for the police.’