The Sandman (12 page)

‘Yes,’ he replies.

‘Can we go inside?’

‘Here will do,’ he says.

‘Would you like to sit in the car?’

‘Does it look like it?’

‘We’ve found your son,’ the woman says, taking a couple of steps towards him.

‘I see,’ he sighs, holding up a hand to silence the police officer.

He is breathing, feeling the smell of the snow, of water that has frozen to ice high up in the sky. Reidar composes himself, then slowly lowers his hand.

‘So where did you find Mikael?’ he says in a voice that has become strangely calm.

‘He was walking over a bridge—’

‘What?! What the hell are you saying, woman?’ Reidar roars.

The woman flinches. She’s tall, and has a long ponytail down her back.

‘I’m trying to tell you that he’s alive,’ she says.

‘What is this?’ Reidar asks uncomprehendingly.

‘He’s been taken into Södermalm Hospital for observation.’

‘Not my son, he died many years—’

‘There’s no doubt whatsoever that it’s him.’

Reidar is staring at her with eyes that have turned completely black.

‘Mikael’s alive?’

‘He’s come back.’

‘My son?’

‘I appreciate that it’s strange, but—’

‘I thought …’

Reidar’s chin trembles as the policewoman explains that his DNA is a one hundred per cent match. The ground beneath him feels soft, rolling like a wave, and he fumbles in the air for support.

‘Sweet God in heaven,’ he whispers. ‘Dear God, thank you …’

His face cracks into a broad smile and he looks completely broken, and he stares up at the falling snow as his legs give way beneath him. The policewoman tries to catch him, but one of his knees hits the ground and he falls to the side, putting his hand out to break his fall.

The police officer helps him to his feet, and he is holding her arm as he sees Veronica come running down the steps barefoot, wrapped in his thick winter coat.

‘You’re sure it’s him?’ he says, staring into the policewoman’s eyes.

She nods.

‘We’ve just had a hundred per cent match,’ she repeats. ‘It’s Mikael Kohler-Frost, and he’s alive.’

Veronica has reached him. He takes her arm as he follows the policewoman back to the car.

‘What’s going on, Reidar?’ she asks, sounding worried.

He looks at her. His face is confused and he suddenly seems much older.

‘My little boy,’ he says simply.

From a distance the white blocks of Södermalm Hospital look like gravestones looming out of the thick snow.

Moving like a sleepwalker, Reidar Frost buttoned his shirt on the way to Stockholm and tucked it into his trousers. He’s heard the police say that the patient who has been identified as Mikael Kohler-Frost has been moved from intensive care to a private room, but it all feels as if it’s happening in a parallel reality.

In Sweden, when there are grounds to believe someone is dead, the relatives can apply for a death certificate after one year even though there is no body. Reidar had waited six years for his children’s bodies to be found before he applied for death certificates. The Tax Office authorised his request, the decision was taken, and the declarations became legally binding six months later.

Now Reidar is walking beside the plain-clothed officer down a long corridor. He doesn’t remember which ward they’re on their way towards, he just follows her, staring at the floor and interwoven tracks left by the wheels of countless beds.

Reidar tries to tell himself not to hope too much, that the police might have made a mistake.

Thirteen years ago his children disappeared, Felicia and Mikael, when they were out playing late one evening.

Divers searched the waters, and the whole of the Lilla Värtan inlet
was dragged, from Lindskär to Björndalen. Search parties had been organised and a helicopter spent several days searching the area.

Reidar provided photographs, fingerprints, dental records and DNA samples of both children to assist in the search.

Known offenders were questioned, but the conclusion of the police investigation was that one of the siblings had fallen into the cold March water, and the other had been dragged in while trying to help the first one out.

Reidar secretly commissioned a private detective agency to investigate other possible leads, primarily everyone in the children’s vicinity: all their teachers, football coaches, neighbours, postmen, bus drivers, gardeners, shop assistants, café staff, and anyone the children had come into contact with by phone or on the internet. Their classmates’ parents were checked, and even Reidar’s own relatives.

Long after the police had stopped looking, and when everyone with even the faintest connection to the children had been investigated, Reidar began to realise that it was over. But for several years after that he carried on walking along the shore every day, expecting his children to be washed ashore.

Reidar and the plain-clothes officer with the blonde ponytail down her back wait while a bed containing an old woman is wheeled into the lift. They head over to the doors to the ward and pull on pale blue shoe-covers.

Reidar staggers and leans against the wall. He has wondered several times if he’s dreaming, and daren’t let his thoughts get carried away.

They carry on into the ward, passing nurses in white uniforms. Reidar feels composed, he’s clenched tight inside, but he can’t help walking faster.

Somewhere he can hear the noise of other people, but inside him there is nothing but an immense silence.

At the far end of the corridor, on the right, is room number four. He bumps into a food trolley, sending a pile of cups to the floor.

It’s as if he’s become detached from reality as he enters the room and sees the young man lying in bed. He has a drip attached to the crook of his arm, and oxygen is being fed into his nose. An infusion
bag is hanging from the drip-stand, next to a white pulse-monitor attached to his left index finger.

Reidar stops and wipes his mouth with his hand, and feels himself lose control of his face. Reality returns like a deafening torrent of emotions.

‘Mikael,’ Reidar says gently.

The young man slowly opens his eyes and Reidar can see how much he resembles his mother. He carefully puts his hand against Mikael’s cheek, and his own mouth is trembling so much that he can hardly speak.

‘Where have you been?’ Reidar asks, and realises that he’s crying.

‘Dad,’ Mikael whispers.

His face is frighteningly pale and his eyes incredibly tired. Thirteen years have passed, and the child’s face that Reidar has hidden in his memory has become a man’s face, but he’s so skinny that he looks like he did when he was newborn, wrapped in a blanket.

‘Now I can be happy again,’ Reidar whispers, stroking his son’s head.

Disa is finally back in Stockholm again. She’s waiting in his flat, on the top floor of number 31 Wallingatan. Joona is on his way home from buying some turbot that he’s planning to fry and serve with remoulade sauce.

Alongside the railings the snow is piled about twenty centimetres deep. All the lights of the city look like misty lanterns.

As he passes Kammakargatan he hears agitated voices up ahead. This is a dark part of the city. Heaps of snow and rows of parked cars throw shadows. Dull buildings, streaked with melt-water.

‘I want my money,’ a man with a gruff voice is shouting.

There are two figures in the distance. They’re moving slowly along the railings towards the Dala steps. Joona carries on walking.

Two panting men are staring at each other, hunched, drunk and angry. One is wearing a chequered coat and a fur hat. In his hand is a small, shiny knife.

‘Fucking bastard,’ he rattles. ‘Fucking little—’

The other one has a full beard and a black overcoat with a tear on one shoulder, and is waving an empty wine-bottle in front of him.

‘I want my money back, with interest,’ the bearded man repeats.

‘Kiskoa korkoa,’
the other man replies, spitting blood on the snow.

A thickset woman in her sixties is leaning against a blue box of sand for the steps. The tip of her cigarette glows, lighting up her puffy face.

The man with the bottle backs in beneath the snow-covered branches of the big tree. The other man stumbles after him. The knife blade flashes as he stabs with it. The bearded man moves backwards, waving the bottle and hitting the other man in the head. The bottle breaks and green glass flies around the fur hat. Joona has an impulse to reach for his pistol, even though he knows it’s locked away in the gun cabinet.

The man with the knife stumbles but manages to stay on his feet. The other is holding the jagged remains of the bottle.

There’s a scream. Joona jumps over the piled-up snow and ice from the gutters.

The bearded man slips on something and falls flat on his back. He’s fumbling with his hand on the railings at the top of the steps.

‘My money,’ he repeats with a cough.

Joona sweeps some snow off a parked car and presses it to make a snowball.

The man in the chequered coat sways as he approaches the prone man with the knife.

‘I’ll cut you open and stuff you with your money—’

Joona throws the snowball and hits the man holding the knife in the back of the neck. There’s a dull thud as the snow breaks up and flies in all directions.

‘Perkele,’
the man says, confused, as he turns round.

‘Snowball fight, lads!’ Joona shouts, forming a new ball.

The man with the knife looks at him and a spark appears in his clouded eyes.

Joona throws again and hits the man on the ground in the middle of the chest, spraying snow in his bearded face.

The man with the knife looks down at him, then laughs unkindly:

‘Lumiukko.’

The man on the ground throws some loose snow up at him. He backs off, putting the knife away and forming a snowball. The bearded man rises unsteadily, clinging to the railing.

‘I’m good at this,’ he mutters as he forms a snowball.

The man in the chequered jacket takes aim at the other man, but abruptly turns round instead and throws a ball that hits Joona on the shoulder.

For several minutes snowballs fly in all directions. Joona slips and
falls. The bearded man loses his hat and the other man rushes over and fills it with snow.

The woman claps her hands, and is rewarded with a snowball to her forehead which sits there like a white bump. The bearded man bursts out laughing and falls backwards into a pile of old Christmas trees. The man in the chequered jacket kicks some snow over him, but gives up. He’s panting as he turns to look at Joona.

‘And where the hell did you come from?’ he asks.

‘National Criminal Police,’ Joona replies, brushing the snow from his clothes.

‘The police?’

‘You took my child,’ the woman mutters.

Joona picks up the fur hat and shakes the snow off it before handing it to the man in the jacket.

‘Thanks.’

‘I saw the wishing star,’ the drunken woman goes on, looking Joona in the eye. ‘I saw it when I was seven … and I wish you’d burn in the fires of hell and scream like—’

‘You shut your mouth,’ the man in the chequered jacket shouts. ‘I’m glad I didn’t stab you, little brother, and—’

‘I want my money,’ the other man calls with a smile.

There’s a light on in the bathroom when Joona gets home. He opens the door slightly and sees Disa lying in the bath with her eyes closed. She’s surrounded by bubbles and is humming to herself. Her muddy clothes are in a big heap on the bathroom floor.

‘I thought they’d locked you up in prison,’ Disa says. ‘I was all prepared to take over your flat.’

Over the winter Joona has been under investigation by the Prosecution Authority’s national unit for internal investigations, accused of wrecking a long-term surveillance operation and exposing the Security Police rapid-response unit to danger.

‘Apparently I’m guilty,’ he replies, picking her clothes up and putting them in the washing machine.

‘I said that right at the start.’

‘Yes, well …’

Joona’s eyes are suddenly grey as a rainy sky.

‘Is it something else?’

‘A long day,’ he replies, and goes out into the kitchen.

‘Don’t go.’

When he doesn’t come back she climbs out of the bath, dries herself and puts on a thin dressing gown. The beige silk clings to her warm body.

Joona is standing in the kitchen, frying some baby potatoes golden brown when she comes in.

‘What’s happened?’

Joona glances at her.

‘One of Jurek Walter’s victims has come back … he’s been held captive all this time.’

‘So you were right – there was an accomplice.’

‘Yes,’ he sighs.

Disa takes a few steps towards him, then gently rests her palm flat against the small of his back.

‘Can you catch him?’

‘I hope so,’ Joona says seriously. ‘I haven’t had the chance to question the boy properly, he’s in a bad way. But he should be able to lead us there.’

Joona takes the frying pan off the heat, then turns and looks at her.

‘What is it?’ she asks, suddenly looking worried.

‘Disa, you have to say yes to the research project in Brazil.’

‘I’ve told you, I don’t want to go,’ she says quickly, then realises what he means. ‘You can’t think like that. I don’t give a damn about Jurek Walter. I’m not scared, I won’t be governed by fear.’

He gently brushes aside the wet hair that has fallen over her face.

‘Only for a little while,’ he says. ‘Until I get this sorted out.’

She leans against his chest and hears the muffled double beat of his heart.

‘There’s never been anyone but you,’ she says simply. ‘When you stayed with me after your family’s accident, well, that was … you know, that was when I … lost my heart, as they say … but it’s true.’

‘I’m just worried about you.’

She strokes his arm and whispers that she doesn’t want to go. When her voice breaks, he pulls her to him and kisses her.