Frozen Moment Page 2

  'No, I'd rather not do that,' he heard himself say.

  'No?' said the woman, surprised, as if he'd had THE GUY WHO ALWAYS HELPS OUT tattooed on his forehead.

  'No,' he said firmly, running a hand nervously through his light blonde hair. The woman's face turned dark red. Now he suddenly saw with painful clarity the checkout assistant's embarrassed smile, the woman's crushed expression; in the end she had managed to pack away all her Christmas food shopping and had lumbered off with her bags. To catch the tram, no doubt - she wouldn't have a car. She was probably a single mother with several children.

  He ought to ring Marie and boast about what he'd achieved. And he might have done if he hadn't heard on the grapevine that she'd started dating again. A market analyst, whatever the hell that was.

  He was brought back to reality when Inspector Christian Tell stuck his head round the office door.

  'You're here, great. We've got a body in the Gunnilse area. He's been run over, but the old guy who rang in thought he'd been shot as well. In the head.'

  A short while later they had passed the county governor's pastel- coloured house in the old town and put the grey concrete buildings of the northern suburbs behind them. One outlying district of semidetached houses and rows of terraces had given way to the next, finally tapering out into the smaller communities: Knipared, Bingared, Linnarhult. Between these lay undulating grazing land. It always surprised Tell that the city was actually so small - it only took half an hour to get out into the countryside.

  After a drive at breakneck speed along a bumpy gravel track they finally pulled into a farmyard. A police van was parked by the entrance, and representatives from the local force seemed to have already made themselves at home. Tell growled something inaudible.

  Karlberg took a deep breath and cleared his throat.

  'So where's the old guy who called in?'

  'I suppose he's on his way back.'

  Tell lit a cigarette and opened the car door.

  'Apparently he panicked and took off, not surprisingly. Then his car packed up and he got stuck on the main road. He knows we want to talk to him.'

  Karlberg took several deep breaths to slow down his pulse after their high-speed drive. The feeling was always the same when you went out on a case: you wanted to get on with it, and yet you also didn't. Open that door, walk round the corner of that house. Violent deaths were not unusual in his job but outright executions like this one, at least according to the emergency call, were not exactly something they came across every day. They had discussed in the car whether it might be the result of some kind of gang warfare, but it didn't fit the context. Not here, on a farm, in the middle of nowhere. A drunken brawl perhaps, one neighbour losing it with another. Although there was no sign of any neighbours out here, just fields and forest.

  'They're certainly not living on top of one another,' he muttered as he heard the sound of a car in the distance.

  'OK, let's get started.'

  Tell had already taken a few rapid drags of his cigarette, stubbed it out in an empty McDonald's paper cup and set off towards one of the uniformed officers. The police surgeon's car turned in and drove up on to the grass, followed by the crime scene team. The investigation was under way.

  * * *

  Chapter 3

  Nine minutes before the telephone rang Seja had switched the alarm clock to snooze in case she fell asleep again. One foot in reality, her gaze fixed on the cracks in the painted ceiling, one foot still in her dreams. She jumped when the clock emitted its vaguely encouraging beep, followed swiftly by the shrill sound of the telephone. The noise drilled into her skull, and for a moment it startled her. The meagre daylight seeped in through the gaps between the curtains, but the cottage was still in darkness.

  The old copy of Rekordmagasinet fell on the floor as she rolled out of bed and dashed across the cold wooden floor.

  'Hello?'

  'Hello. Were you asleep?'

  'Who is this?'

  'Your neighbour. Are you up and about?'

  'Åke, is that you?'

  She sighed to herself. Since Martin left she had been grateful for some contact with her next-door neighbours. It gave her the feeling that she wasn't entirely alone with her fears during all those dark nights; she could peep through the curtains, and even if the only thing she could see was the fir trees silhouetted against the night sky, she knew that behind those fir trees there was a peat bog and another little house where Åke and Kristina Melkersson lived.

  It was true that Åke could be a bit too chatty in his old man's way, and annoyingly flirty, but they had developed a comfortable relationship; it was quite pleasant to meet someone by the mailboxes in the mornings. She had also enjoyed being around to help Kristina during the day while Åke was at work. It was often something small, such as bringing an item back from the shops or posting a letter. Seja suspected that Åke was grateful for the sense of security this gave him, despite the fact that her involvement with his wife was comparatively limited. On a couple of occasions he had even, with a certain amount of embarrassment, offered to pay her for coming round. Which, of course, she had declined, equally embarrassed. She was on her own after all, and despite the fact that she was halfway through a training course to become a journalist after several years of aimless study, she had oceans of time at her disposal. However, being woken up in the morning by Melkersson was definitely a step in the wrong direction.

  'What do you want, Åke?'

  'I need your help. I've got into a bit of a… well… an odd situation. To say the least.'

  He sounded stressed.

  'What do you want me to do? Where are you?'

  'Pick me up outside the ICA supermarket in Gunnilse. My car has broken down, but that's not all. I'll tell you about it when you get here. I don't really want to talk over the phone. I'm hanging up now.'

  'Åke!' she yelled down the phone. 'I'm going nowhere unless you tell me what this is about. What's going on? Has the car packed up? Why don't you just ring for a breakdown truck?'

  He lowered his voice.

  'Listen… A man has been murdered. At a garage not far from here. I found him. He's been executed, shot in the head, that's what must have happened, there was so much blood. But that wasn't all, Seja, he'd been run over. He was completely squashed. Someone has… You have to drive me there, I promised the police and my car's completely-'

  'Åke! The police? What-'

  'I'm hanging up now.'

  Click.

  He was very pale, standing there in front of his old Opel. Seja pulled in next to him and pushed open the passenger door.

  'Jump in. And explain yourself.'

  An acrid smell surrounded Åke as he slumped down on the seat.

  'I only wanted to ask him to take a look at the car.'

  He seemed to be concentrating on his breathing.

  'For God's sake, you tell me there's a body in a garage, and for some unknown reason I'm on my way there. I just don't understand why - you could have called a breakdown truck. Or a taxi.'

  'Left here. Don't you understand, Seja? I'm too old for this kind of thing. I need a bit of support.'

  She didn't say anything. The first rays of the sun hit the wing mirrors and dazzled her as she took the bend a little too fast. Åke grabbed hold of the handle on the roof and gave her an inscrutable look. She swallowed and thought about how she had rushed off without taking the time to feed her horse or let him out into the field. She couldn't be away for too long.

  She often got annoyed when she was afraid. It seemed easier to be afraid and angry than afraid and merely weak. Easier to be driven by an idea than to allow chance to make a fool of you. The sense of excitement, because it was there too, came from her nightly reading of fifty-year-old crime reports in Rekordmagasinet. She had found the pile down in the cellar, left behind by the former owner of the cottage. She had intended using them for the fire, but instead had become caught up in a wealth of old-fashioned and innocently formulated articl
es about long-forgotten crimes. They interested her, giving a picture of how society had changed or perhaps of the general fascination for the darker side of mankind. Recently she had started to think about using them as a basis for her undergraduate dissertation: a historical overview of crime journalism. Or perhaps this was just an excuse to avoid getting down to the reading she should be doing for her next exam. Right now the thought of the grainy black and white pictures and the sensational headlines gave her a reassuring sense of distance from the current situation.

  She was thirty years old, and had only recently decided what she wanted to do with her life - or perhaps the realisation that it was actually possible was something new, for the writing had always been there, so much a part of her that she had hardly even considered that it could become her profession. So far she had only managed to get published in insignificant contexts: she had sold a short story to a

  monthly magazine; done a brisk report in the local paper about a long-distance ski club that was celebrating an anniversary; carried out an investigation into local procedures for clearing snow. She was happy just to be paid for her writing.

  At that moment she caught sight of the place. There was no doubt that this was where the crime had been committed. A collection of cars was already blocking the entrance to the yard, and she had to park by the side of the road a short distance away.

  It was an old farm, the paint flaking. A sign was swinging in the bitter wind: THOMAS EDELL - VEHICLE REPAIRS AND SCRAPYARD.

  An electric shock ran through her body. Her heart beat so fast it felt as if her chest was actually vibrating. Her hands started to shake and she had to take a deep breath in order to regain control of her body.

  Åke didn't seem to take any notice; he was completely taken up with his own anxiety. He got out of the car and, with as much composure as he could muster, walked over to a group of what she presumed were plain-clothes police officers. Her mind was racing feverishly. She couldn't hear what was being said, but Åke was directed towards a man who was over at the side of the yard, staring down at the ground like a tracker dog.

  She opened the car door and stepped out. All around her was a hive of activity, but she could see no sign of the body. Her heart turned a few more somersaults in her chest. Driven by a strength she neither understood nor could analyse, she walked towards Åke and the man in the coat. Her neighbour didn't turn around when she stared at his back. Help me now, Åke. Help me be allowed to stay here and see the body. I can't explain why, it's too complicated; I just have to do it.

  The police officer caught sight of her and she took a tentative step in his direction.

  'Excuse me, but I assume you'll be wanting to question me. I was with Åke when he found the body.'

  She pretended not to notice Åke's surprised expression.

  And you are?'

  'I think there's been some kind of misunderst-'

  'Seja Lundberg,' she interrupted, her voice sounding reasonably steady as she met the officer's gaze. He had a finely chiselled face: with its straight slender nose and thick eyelashes it could have been regarded as feminine had it not been for his bushy eyebrows. Seja thought she caught a hint of his breath: coffee and cigarettes, a trace of mint.

  He extended his hand towards her.

  'Inspector Christian Tell. Right. Melkersson here told me that you found the body just after seven, then drove up to the main road to telephone us. Hmm…'

  He's wondering why Åke gave the impression he was alone. Seja was already regretting her stupid lie.

  'That seems about right,' Tell went on after a brief pause. 'The emergency call was logged at seven thirty.'

  He seemed a little distracted, raising his shoulders up towards his ears and shivering as if he had just noticed that the temperature had fallen well below zero overnight. It was hardly surprising that he was frozen. His coat was much too thin for the weather, a typical city coat, perfect for someone who only moved between his apartment and the car, the car and work.

  'I'll see if I can find somewhere inside where we can talk. It's too bloody cold out here. If you'll excuse me.'

  Seja nodded mutely after he had turned on his heel. She got the idea that she had met the man before, in a completely different context. There's something ludicrously familiar about him. The thick black eyebrows that met in the middle and didn't seem to match the ash- coloured hair, which fell below his ears. The deep voice and the accent: broad Gothenburg to start with, but a real effort had been made to tame it. She recognised the voice and thought she knew from which evening the memory came.

  They had just moved into the cottage. She was due to pick up Martin from the pub at the central station; he had been bowling and had gone for a few beers afterwards with a friend from Stockholm who was Maying over. Both the guys were pretty drunk, very drunk in fact, loud and not at all interested in going home with her. She had grown tired of nagging them and had considered driving back on her own and leaving them to their fate, but instead she had sat down crossly on one of the bar stools while they ordered another beer and a shot each. The man who resembled Christian Tell had been sitting next to her, and had made a comment on her unfortunate situation, half amused and half sympathetic. She remembered that she had found him attractive and had been embarrassed at being so feeble. At just sitting there, sweaty and furious with her jacket on, waiting, like a dog, once again placed in the box labelled nagging old bag, while Martin was the one who was such fun, so ready to embrace life. The one who was absolved of responsibility because there was always someone else to shoulder it, the martyr who yet again would come tiptoeing along with the Alka-Seltzer the next day, doggedly tidying up, cleaning up, picking up the pieces of something that had been fun but wasn't any longer.

  She was brought back to reality as Åke grabbed hold of her arm. She pre-empted him by whispering, 'I thought if I said I was in the car with you I'd be allowed to stay. Otherwise I would have had to leave.'

  He seemed to have regained the power of speech.

  'Do you realise what you've done? You've lied to the police in a murder case, and dragged me along with you. Now we'll have to carry on lying and-'

  'Please, Åke… I can't explain.'

  It was hopeless. Åke's expression made it clear that he had no intention of listening to her. Instead he bent down to pick up some rubbish as if he too were part of the police operation.

  'Excuse me, but could you identify yourselves?'

  A uniformed officer placed his hand on Åke's shoulder. Seja realised that her options were limited at this point: she could either keep digging herself into a hole, or she could hold up her hands, apologise and be told off and sent away. A part of her wanted to disappear before she was found out. It must be breaking some kind of law, surely, poking around a crime scene like this? But another part of her wanted to stay, wanted to see before it was too late. See the dead man before they carted him off.

  It was like the morbid fascination that affects people driving past the scene of an accident, but it wasn't only that. She came closer without actually making a conscious decision to do so, her legs moving of their own volition, taking her round the side of the barn. A group of men and a woman were crowding round a figure dressed in dark clothing who was lying in an odd position on the gravel.

  Her camera phone was burning a hole in her pocket. Seja forced herself not to look away. She took a few steps closer. Somewhere behind her she could hear Åke being told off for having destroyed evidence by picking up a chewing-gum wrapper. She heard the words murder investigation uttered in a stern female voice. It didn't concern Seja. Only this body concerned her.

  A moment of confusion arose when she finally saw the man's face. She ransacked her memory, her mind racing. He didn't look the way she remembered him. She felt both relieved and disappointed at the same time.

  She wouldn't have dared to sneak out her mobile if it hadn't been for the fact that she was even more afraid to encounter the dead body without some form of protection. She sh
ot from the hip, and each time she pressed the button she expected one of the uniformed officers to come rushing over and grab the phone. But it didn't happen, and as long as the button was clicking between her and the glassy eyes, half-covered by a milky film, she could cope.

  Close his eyes, for fuck's sake. The words leapt into her mind and the thought surprised her.

  The navy-blue Helly Hansen sweater was similar to the one her father had often worn under his jacket during the winter. The blonde hair was drenched in blood; it had stiffened and darkened. 'Close his eyes,' she repeated in a whisper, and she could no longer hold back the tears.

  Tell reappeared. For a second he met her tear-filled eyes with an intense questioning expression before waving Åke into a police van parked by the side of the road. She ran across the grass, feeling that she had been caught out.

  In the van there was a Thermos flask on a folded-down table, along with a stack of plastic cups and some broken ginger biscuits in a tin with no lid.

  'Coffee?'

  Seja nodded mutely, although her stomach was churning. Christian Tell busied himself serving the coffee. His hands had a calming effect on her; they were broad, and in the light from the steamed-up window she could see the fair hairs on the back of them. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring.

  'So… you made the call, Åke. Is it OK if I call you Åke?'

  Åke nodded. He still looked pale.

  'Did you know the victim? Who he was? His name?'

  'No, no idea. Edell, I mean that's what it says on the sign.'

  Tell turned to Seja. She shook her head.

  'O K, so your call came in at 07.49, Åke. By that time you had found the body and driven up to the main road.'

  Seja couldn't bring herself to look Tell in the eye. She left her steaming cup of coffee where it was - her hands wouldn't do as they were told, they were shaking and would have given her away immediately. And yet she couldn't do the obvious thing and tell him what had really happened, that she hadn't been there when the body was found. She was painfully aware of the shapeless black heap just a few metres away. The corpse. She carried on staring down at her red chapped hands.