Vanished (29 page)

Her heart started pounding, her breath steaming clouds in the cold air. She looked around; there were no lights on in the surrounding houses and no one in sight.

Suburban Swedish neighbourhoods on a weekday afternoon reminded her of life after the big bomb, she mused, weighing the keys in her hand.

Mia Eriksson was renting a room in this house. She had paid rent for the entire month. Mia had given Annika the address and the keys. It practically amounted to an invitation.

Annika took a deep breath and went into the garden. Traces of footprints and inadequate shovelling had left the path leading up to the house icy and uneven. She glanced quickly over her shoulder: no one was watching her, no one was questioning her presence there. Swiftly she climbed the steps, the keys ready in her pocket, her hand perspiring. There was no sound when she listened at the door. She rang the bell; it jangled and reverberated inside the house. If someone came to the door she would dream something up, ask for directions or say that she was selling a paper for some charity like Situation Stockholm. She rang the bell again. No response. She studied the front door – solid, from the 1940s, two bolt locks – pulled out the keys, weighed them in her hand and tried a key in the lock at the top. It didn’t work. Her upper lip broke out in beads of perspiration; what if this was a trap? With shaking fingers she tried another key:
click.
She exhaled, tried another key, put it in the lower lock –
clickity-clack –
then on to the Assa lock.
Swish.
The door slid open with a squeak. She went inside, her pulse roaring in her ears, and closed the door behind her. The hall was dark. She blinked to get used to the gloom, not daring to turn on the lights.

Annika stood in the hall for a long time, waiting until the darkness lightened as her eyes adjusted and her heart stopped racing. The place smelled a bit unpleasant, damp and stale, and it was pretty cold. She wiped her feet on a threadbare little mat, not wanting to leave tracks.

The hall was barren, unfurnished. There were several doors. She opened the first one on the left, revealing a staircase leading up to the next floor. Faint daylight trickled in from an upstairs window. She closed the door silently and opened the next one. It revealed a junk-filled closet space fitted under the stairs.

A car rumbled past outside. Her whole body stiffened and her heart stopped beating.

The locks
, she thought.
I’ve got to lock the door or they’ll know at once that someone is here.

Annika tiptoed quickly back to the door, her hands suddenly clumsy, twisted the Assa lock shut and used the keys on the other two. A relieved sigh escaped her. Her armpits were damp with perspiration. She listened for more sounds from the outside, nothing. Then she stole back to the closet. When she opened the door this time a key fell to the floor with a clatter, the noise echoing through the empty house.
Shit, shit.
Hurriedly she inserted the key back in the lock, listened: nothing. Then she moved on to the next door, the one that led straight ahead. The kitchen, which hadn’t been remodelled since the house was built, had low work surfaces with a rusty counter top and sink. Two windows: one facing north, the other west. An old laminate-topped table and four chairs that didn’t match. A coffee maker. She went over to the sideboard and pulled out the top drawer: a few pieces of cutlery, a carving knife. Nothing in the next drawer, and nothing in the next. She checked the cabinets: a few pots and pans, a cast-iron skillet, a colander. The pantry held a box of macaroni and two cans of chopped tomatoes. She paused and looked around. The kitchen was fairly clean, something that Mia could probably take credit for.

To the east there was another door, a sliding one, which was closed. Annika walked over to it and pulled on the shiny recessed handle. Locked. She gave it another yank, using both hands this time, but it didn’t budge. She picked at the lock; this one required a tiny key and none of the ones on her chain would do. She went back into the hall and tried the last remaining door. It led to a pale room containing a couch and a small low coffee table and a fireplace in the corner. The floor was covered with brown linoleum in a parquet pattern. On the left there was another door that ought to have led to the room behind the kitchen. She went over and tried to open it. Locked. Tried her keys, but none of them worked.

The office,
Annika thought.
This is the room that Mia didn’t have access to.

She was on her way back to the kitchen to see if she could find a key to the locked room when she heard the top bolt on the front door rattle.

The blood drained from her head and went straight to her feet. She couldn’t move – it was as if she was nailed to the floor when the first bolt clicked open. When the next bolt was released she suddenly had wings and flew to the door leading to the staircase, opened it, slipped inside, closed the door behind her and zoomed upstairs without making a sound, came to a landing covered in the same parquet-patterned linoleum, yanked open one of four doors and flung herself under the bed furthest away.
Dear God, please help me, forgive me for all the stupid things I’ve done . . .

The floor under the bed was extremely dusty, so Annika covered her nose and mouth with her hands to keep the worst out and tried not to sneeze. Someone was moving around in the room below; water was running, so it had to be the kitchen. Her breathing became heavy, rapid and deep.

No
, she thought.
Not an anxiety attack, not now.

Her breathing wouldn’t obey her and she started hyperventilating. She turned over on her back, checked her pockets for something to breathe into, found her gloves and covered her nose and mouth with one. Breathed in and out over and over again until the attack subsided and she was exhausted. She stared up at the underside of a sixty-year-old bed: tan webbing supporting a dusty box-spring mattress.

Annika turned her head back towards the wall, putting her ear to the floor. Excited voices, a man and a woman. The man belligerent, the woman a touch hysterical. She recognized one of the voices: Rebecka Agneta Charlotta Evita.

‘It was my case,’ the woman said. ‘My case! What a rat! Social Services was just about to pay up and that bitch runs away!’

She must be referring to Mia
, Annika thought. Something broke downstairs; she guessed it was the coffee maker. The man mumbled something she couldn’t catch and then there was a loud buzz in her ear. She jumped, banging her head on the box spring.
Oh, hell.
The buzzing stopped. She lay down again and gingerly touched her forehead: she was bleeding a little. Then the buzzer went off again – it was the doorbell. It was attached high on a wall near the kitchen ceiling.

In the silence that followed Annika heard the voices murmur, now more surprised than upset, more frightened than aggressive.

‘No, I’m not expecting anyone . . .’

‘. . . Might be coming back . . .’

Annika heard the sound of footsteps downstairs as some blood trickled down into her eyes. She listened even more closely.

It was a man – another man had come. There was a discussion, voices were being raised. The front door closed and they returned to the kitchen.

‘If you think I’m going to pay this invoice you’ve got another think coming!’ one of the men said and Annika gasped.

Thomas Samuelsson.

The woman’s voice filtered up through the ceiling, lukewarm and contemptuous.

‘We have a contract, and you have to honour it.’

‘For Christ’s sake, the woman is dead!’

The civil servant was incensed.

‘She ran away,’ Rebecka Evita said. ‘She chose to leave, that doesn’t exempt you from payment.’

Thomas Samuelsson lowered his voice, making it difficult for Annika to make out what he said.

She thought she heard him say: ‘I’m going to go to the police, you phoney bitch! I know all about your debts and your bankruptcies, and you certainly aren’t going to defraud the city of Vaxholm!’

A scuffle ensued. The other man started shouting, Thomas Samuelsson responded in kind, the woman hollered and then there was a thud and the sound of wood splintering. Shouting and screaming followed and the house rocked.

‘Lock him up!’ Rebecka screamed.

A thumping sound further away, muffled shouts, fists thudding rhythmically.

‘What the hell do we do now?’ the man said.

‘Shut him up,’ the woman hollered.

Fists pounding – thud, thud, thud – shouts of rage: ‘Let me out, you goddamned impostors.’ Then footsteps, followed by another dull thump. Then silence.

‘Is he dead?’ the woman asked.

Annika held her breath.

‘No,’ the man replied. ‘He’ll be fine.’

Annika closed her eyes and exhaled.

‘Why did you hit him so hard? You fool, we can’t have him lying here on the floor.’

‘We’ve got to go and get the car,’ the man said.

‘I’m not going to carry him!’

‘Stop whining, for Christ’s sake. I’m telling you that—’

The front door slammed shut, cutting off their voices.

In the silence that followed, Annika remained where she was, dusty and hot. A feather floated down between the bed springs and landed under her nose. Time stood still as she took shallow quiet breaths.

They’ll be back. Soon they’ll be back and they have a car. Then they’ll take Thomas Samuelsson away and it will be too late.

The last thought echoed in her mind:
too late, too late.
Too late for Aida from Bijelina, too late for Thomas Samuelsson from Vaxholm.

Annika blew away the feather and crawled out from under the bed. She sneezed, coated with dust from head to toe, then crawled over to the window on her hands and knees and looked out. Rebecka and a man were headed downhill; they passed a car that Annika recognized as Thomas Samuelsson’s green Toyota Corolla.

She sat down on the floor, her brain at a standstill: what was she going to do? She had no idea how long it would take before Rebecka and the man returned. Maybe the best thing would be to just sit tight, wait and let them pick up the accountant. Then she could sneak out of the house after dark.

Annika looked out the window again. It was almost dusk. No Rebecka. If she was going to do anything apart from waiting, she had better do it soon.

She sat down again and closed her eyes in hesitation.

If only she wasn’t such a coward. If only she wasn’t so weak. If only she had more time.

What a chicken you are
, Annika told herself.
You don’t even know how much time you have. You might be able to get him out of here if you get moving.

She got up, stole out to the upper landing and crept down the stairs, breathless with anxiety, She looked around and saw the skillet on the floor. Where had they put him?

A faint groan from the closet under the stairs caused Annika to spin around. The key was still in the door. She walked over and turned it in the lock.

The man tumbled out on top of her and she caught him in her arms and fell to her knees. His head rested in the crook of her elbow. He was bleeding from a substantial wound at his hairline, the pale hair now tinged brown by blood. She loosened his tie and he moaned again.

Rage brought tears to her eyes.
Goddamned murderers! First Aida, now Thomas.
Would it never end?

‘Hey,’ Annika said, patting the accountant’s cheek firmly. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

She tried to get Thomas to stand up, but she lost her hold and he slumped to the floor.

‘Thomas! Thomas Samuelsson from Vaxholm, where are your car keys?’

He groaned, rolled over on his back and rested his head on the threadbare mat in the hallway.

She delved in his pockets, soft cloth, clumsy hands, there they were. She went into the room that contained the couch to check if Rebecka was on her way back to the house. There was no one in sight.

When Annika was about to leave the room, she noticed that the door to the locked room was now ajar. She hesitated for a second – she ought to be getting the hell out of there. But she ought to check out that room, too.

‘Christ, what happened?’

A choked and dazed voice came from the hall. She went over to Thomas.

‘They whacked you on the head with a frying pan,’ she said. ‘We’re going to get out of here, there’s just something I want to check out first.’

Thomas Samuelsson tried to get up, only to collapse again.

‘Sit here for a minute, I’ll be right back,’ Annika told him.

Then she raced over to the now unlocked door, flung it open wide and surveyed the contents of the room.

Disappointing.

Annika didn’t know what she’d expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. A desk. A telephone. A fax. A bookcase full of loose-leaf binders and a stack of papers. Since she didn’t hear anything, she rushed in and grabbed the notebook marked
Off the record.

It was empty.

The next one was marked
Follow-up.

Empty.

The next one:
Invoices, social services.
Some twenty slips: City of Österåker, your reference, Helga Axelsson, our reference, Rebecka Björkstig; City of Nacka, your reference, Martin Huselius . . . Every single invoice specified a substantial amount, at the very least one hundred thousand kronor. Then Annika swiftly checked the notebooks on the top shelf, all bearing titles such as
Client Rehab, Safe Houses, Relocation Abroad.

All empty.

The stack of papers contained personal data, court rulings, certificates and forms from
Försäkringskassan,
the Social Insurance Office. Confidential data about the people whose lives were in danger.

Turning her back on the bookcase, Annika surveyed the rest of the room. She really had to go; had she missed anything?

The desk.
She hurried over to it and yanked at the drawers. They were all locked.

Okay, forget it, that’s it
, she thought.