The Crow Girl (28 page)

‘Why do you think he ran away from home?’

‘When he disappeared, he and his family had just been informed that he was going to be taken into local authority care. I think that was why he decided to take off.’ Sofia stood up. ‘Well, I don’t know about you, but I could do with a cup of coffee now. Can I get you one as well?’

‘Please.’

Sofia went out to reception, and Jeanette heard the whirr of the coffee machine.

Jeanette thought about how peculiar the situation was.

Two fully functional, intelligent adult women discussing the murder of a violent and dysfunctional young man.

They had absolutely nothing in common with his world, yet here they sat.

What was it that was expected of them? That they should find a truth that didn’t exist? Understand something that couldn’t be understood?

Sofia came back with two cups of steaming black coffee and put them down on the desk.

‘I’m sorry I can’t be of more help, but if you give me a few days to look through my files, maybe we could meet again?’

Strange woman, Jeanette thought. It was as if Sofia could read her thoughts. It was both fascinating and – although Jeanette couldn’t quite understand why – frightening.

‘Would you like to? I’d be extremely grateful.’ She smiled and felt how her faith in Sofia just kept growing. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, maybe we could combine business with pleasure and go out for dinner together?’

Jeanette listened to her own words in surprise. Where did the idea of dinner come from? It could easily be misinterpreted as an invitation to intimacy, and that wasn’t the point. Was it?

What am I doing? she thought.

She didn’t usually get this personal. She’d never even asked the girls from her football team to her house, even though she’d known them for ages.

But instead of declining, Sofia leaned forward and looked her in the eye. ‘I think that sounds like an excellent idea. It’s been ages since I had dinner with anyone but myself.’ Sofia paused before going on, still without taking her eyes from Jeanette. ‘Mind you, I am in the middle of renovating the kitchen. But if you haven’t got anything against having a takeaway, I’d be happy for you to come round to my place.’

Jeanette nodded. ‘Shall we say Friday?’

AFTER SHOWING JEANETTE
Kihlberg to the lift Sofia went back into her office. She felt excited, almost happy, and reflected on the fact that she had actually invited Jeanette over to her place for dinner. Was that really such a smart move?

Just because she had felt something for Jeanette didn’t mean that her feelings were reciprocated. And what exactly had she felt? It had been some sort of connection, that much was obvious. A sense of affinity.

But was she actually longing for physical contact with Jeanette?

Sofia thought for a while before concluding that she was. Although she wasn’t sure that that meant anything more than a hug.

Either way, at least she and Jeanette were going to meet in private, and only the future knew if anything was likely to happen. Sofia’s experience of intimacy with women, or men, for that matter, told her it was best to wait and see. Let it happen if it happened.

Like when she was in New York with Lasse.

Enough of that, she thought. Back to work.

She took out her cassettes of Victoria Bergman, put one of them into the tape player and pressed play. As she heard Victoria’s voice she put her notepad in her lap, leaned back and closed her eyes.

… so the cowardly bitch must have known all along, even though she pretended there was nothing funny about waking up alone and finding him in my room with his pants on the floor and yellow stains that smelled.

Sofia tried to harden herself against the intrusive images conveyed by Victoria’s voice. I have to be professional, she thought, I mustn’t let it become personal. Even so, she had a mental image of a father creeping into his daughter’s room.

Getting into her bed.

Sofia could imagine the smell of sex, had trouble breathing and started to feel sick.

Everywhere, the smell of defilement, the sort that could never be washed off.

… and of course I couldn’t shout out because then I’d get a beating and end up crying. The pickled gherkins on the liver pâté were already salty enough without my tears so it was better to keep quiet and go along with it and answer the questions. And it was nice to get through and say hello to my cousin who lived in Östersund, or Borgholm, or anywhere at all. Dad said there were more than enough stupid people to go round, and I always agreed. I went along with it and sat there with skin on my chocolate milk and his hand was there again when Mum wasn’t looking …

Sofia felt that she wasn’t up to hearing any more, but something was stopping her from switching off the tape player.

…
and you could run even further and faster but never enough to get a prize to put on the bookshelf next to the picture of the boy who didn’t want to swim once he’d seen the view …

The voice was getting more intense, louder, but it was still just as monotonous.

The frequency and colour changed.

Bass to begin with.

… and only wanted to have a hug but he’d already found someone new to go on holiday with …

Then alto.

… and making a fuss of him when she was going to be allowed to go all the way up to Padjelanta …

Mezzo-soprano, soprano, lighter and lighter.

… and walking twenty kilometres a day and smelling the roseroot which was the only thing that felt exciting because there was something underneath that wasn’t ugly …

Still with her eyes closed she felt across the desk, found the tape player and knocked it to the floor.

Silence.

She opened her eyes and looked down at her notepad.

Two words.

PADJELANTA, ROSEROOT.

What was Victoria talking about?

About the violation of being wrenched from her life when she was least expecting it?

About seeking solace in integrity, becoming untouchable?

Sofia could feel herself fumbling in the dark. She wanted to understand, but it was as if Victoria were in a state of complete disintegration. No matter where Victoria looked, she kept coming eye-to-eye with herself, and if she tried to find herself, she found only a stranger.

Sofia closed her notebook and got ready to go home. She looked at the time. It was twenty to ten, so she must have slept for almost five hours. That would explain why she had a headache.

AFTER HER MEETING
with Sofia Zetterlund, Jeanette had trouble concentrating on work. She felt shaken, but couldn’t put her finger on why. But she was looking forward to seeing her again. In fact, she was almost longing for Friday to come.

As she turned off the Nynäshamn road she nearly collided with a little red sports car pulling out from the right, and which ought to have given way. Just as she hit the horn angrily she realised it was Alexandra Kowalska.

Fucking moron, she thought as she gave a cheery wave. Alexandra waved back and shook her head apologetically.

She parked the car in the drive and went in, where she found Åke standing in the kitchen frying meatballs. He was in an exuberant mood.

Jeanette sat down at the table, which was already set.

‘Do you know what this means?’ he said out of the blue. ‘Alex was here to say that the Copenhagen exhibition has been hung and that I’ve already sold two pictures. Look!’ He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and slapped it down on the table. She could see it was a cheque for eighty thousand Swedish kronor.

‘This is only the beginning,’ he said in delight, as he stirred the frying pan and got two beers from the fridge.

Jeanette sat there silently. So this is how it feels when things change fundamentally, she thought. That morning she had been worried whether they had enough money to get through to the end of the month, and now, just a few hours later, she was sitting here with a cheque worth more than two months’ salary.

‘OK, what’s wrong now, then?’ Åke was standing in front of her, holding out an opened can of beer. ‘Don’t you think it’s good that I’m finally earning a bit of money from something you thought was a hobby for all these years?’ She could hear the disappointment in his voice.

‘Oh, Åke, why are you saying that? You know I’ve always believed in you.’ She was about to put her hand on his arm, but he pulled away and went back to the stove.

‘Yeah, you say that now. But just a couple of weeks ago you were moaning at me and saying I was irresponsible.’

He turned and smiled at her. But it wasn’t his usual smile, more like an arrogant one.

She could feel herself getting angry as she noticed how smug he was. Hadn’t they made this journey together? Was he totally blind to the fact that throughout their time together she had been the one making sure there was food on the table and paint on his palette?

Åke came over and gave her a hug.

‘Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say,’ he said, but she thought it sounded hollow. ‘Alex says there’s going to be a review in
Dagens Nyheter
on Sunday, and they want to do an interview for the Saturday supplement. God, I so deserve this.’

He held his arms up in the air as if he’d scored a goal.

‘
LIKE I SAID
, the kitchen’s uninhabitable for the time being, so we’ll have to stick to the living room,’ Sofia said as she opened the door.

Jeanette went in and detected an unfamiliar smell. At home there was always a smell of turpentine and old sports clothes, but here the air was tainted by something sharp, almost chemically pure, mixed with a faint scent of Sofia’s perfume.

‘All right for some,’ Jeanette said, looking around the large, sparsely furnished living room. ‘I mean living in the middle of the city like this, and on your own.’ She sat down on the sofa with a deep sigh of relief. ‘Sometimes I’d give anything to get home and be able to just sit.’ She leaned her head back against the cushion and looked through the door at Sofia. ‘How wonderful to escape all the obligations, all the running around, all the meal plans, all the excruciating conversations in front of the television.’

‘Maybe,’ Sofia said with a pointed smile. ‘But it can get quite lonely too.’ She came into the room. ‘There are times when I just want to sell the apartment and move.’ She got two wine glasses from the glass-fronted cupboard and poured the wine before sitting down next to Jeanette.

‘Are you very hungry, or shall we wait a while? It’s going to be Italian.’

‘I can certainly wait.’

They looked at each other.

‘So where would you like to move?’ Jeanette went on.

‘Good question! If I knew that, I’d sell it tomorrow, but I’ve got absolutely no idea. Abroad, maybe.’

Sofia raised her glass in a toast.

‘That sounds exciting,’ Jeanette said, raising her glass towards Sofia. ‘But I’m not sure it sounds any less lonely.’

Sofia laughed. ‘I’ve probably fallen for the myth of the reserved Swede, who imagines everything will be nice and lively the minute I reach the Continent.’

Jeanette laughed back, but picked up the serious tone behind the airy words. The coolness. As if she herself hadn’t felt the same. ‘I’m more tempted by the thought of avoiding understanding what people are saying.’

Sofia’s smile faded. ‘Really? Do you mean that?’

‘No, not really, but sometimes it would nice to be able to blame language when you don’t want to listen to all the chatter …’ Jeanette paused and took a fresh breath. ‘OK, you and I don’t really know each other that well yet.’ She looked deep into Sofia’s eyes and took a sip of her wine. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

She immediately regretted the dramatic tension caused by her choice of words. Like they were sitting in a teenage bedroom and were exploring the world together, as if words were the only guarantee you needed to feel safe.

She might just as well have asked if they could be best friends. The same naive desire to control a chaotic reality with words, instead of letting actual circumstances dictate what was said.

Words in place of action.

Words instead of security.

‘That depends on whether it’s anything criminal. But at the same time, you know I’m under an oath of confidentiality.’ Sofia smiled.

Jeanette was grateful for the way Sofia handled the adolescent question.

Sofia looked at her as if she wanted to see. Listened to her as if she wanted to understand.

‘If you were a Christian Democrat, you’d probably think it was criminal.’

Sofia threw her head back and laughed. Her neck was long and sinuous, simultaneously vulnerable and strong.

Jeanette giggled as well, moved a bit closer and pulled her knees up onto the sofa. She felt at home. She wondered if it could really be as straightforward as she had thought: that her friends had disappeared over the years because she had always prioritised work.

This was something else.

Something obvious.

‘I’ve been married to Åke for twenty years, and I’m starting to get the hang of it.’ She turned so she was facing Sofia again. ‘And sometimes I’m so damn tired of knowing in advance exactly what he’s going to say.’

‘Some people would call that security,’ Sofia said, with an undertone of professional curiosity.

‘Of course it feels secure having someone so close, but even so … It’s like living with your own brother. Oh, I don’t know what closeness is … It can’t just be purely a question of geography. God, I feel like I’m being really mean.’ Jeanette shrugged helplessly, even though she knew Sofia wasn’t likely to judge her.

‘It’s OK.’ Sofia smiled gently, and Jeanette smiled back. ‘I’m happy to listen, as long as you’d like me to do so as a friend.’

‘OK, so I love Åke, but I don’t think I want to live with him. Actually, I know I don’t want to. The only thing keeping me there is Johan, my son. He’s thirteen. I don’t know if he could cope with a divorce. Well, maybe “cope” is the wrong word. He’s probably big enough to realise that things like that happen.’