‘The psychologist who was involved in the Karl Lundstr?m case with you has the same name.’
‘Yes, now you come to mention it.’ Mikkelsen rubs his chin. ‘Strange … But I only spoke to her over the phone a couple of times, and I’m not good at remembering names.’
‘That’s only one of many coincidences in this case.’ Jeanette gestures towards all the folders and bundles of documents on her desk. ‘If only you knew how tangled this is starting to get. But I know it’s all connected somehow. And Victoria Bergman’s name keeps cropping up everywhere. What exactly happened?’
He thinks. ‘Well, I was contacted by Sofia Zetterlund because she’d had a lot of conversations with the girl and had come to the conclusion that her situation needed to be dramatically changed. That drastic measures were called for.’
‘Such as protecting her identity? But who was she being protected from?’
‘Her dad.’ Mikkelsen takes a deep breath and goes on. ‘Remember that the abuse started when she was small, in the mid-seventies, and the legislation was very different then. In those days it was called sexual indecency with a descendant, and the law wasn’t changed until 1984.’
‘There’s nothing about a conviction in any of my documents. Why didn’t she report her dad?’
‘She refused to, simple as that. I had plenty of conversations with the psychologist about it, but it didn’t help. Victoria said she’d deny everything if we filed charges. All we had was the documentation of her injuries. Everything else was circumstantial, and in those days that wasn’t good enough. Today he would have got between four and five years. And would have had to pay damages, somewhere in the region of half a million.’
‘It needs to be pricey.’ It might sound a bit crass, but Jeanette can’t be bothered to explain. She presumes Mikkelsen understands what she means. ‘So what did you do?’
‘The psychologist, Sofia Zetterberg –’
‘Zetterlund,’ Jeanette corrects him, appreciating that Mikkelsen wasn’t exaggerating when he said he had trouble with names.
‘Yes, that’s right. She believed it was vital that Victoria be separated from her father and get the chance to begin again, under a new name.’
‘So you arranged that?’
‘Yes, with the help of a medical officer, Hasse Sj?quist.’
‘I saw that in my files. What was Victoria like to talk to?’
‘We got fairly close, and as time went by I think she started to trust me.’
Jeanette looks at Mikkelsen and can see why Victoria would have felt safe with him. Like a big brother coming to the rescue when the other children are being mean. Sometimes she feels something similar herself. A desire to make life a bit better, if only in her little corner of the world.
‘So you arranged for Victoria Bergman to get a new identity?’
‘Yes, Nacka District Court agreed with our recommendation and decided to make the whole thing confidential. That’s the way it works, so I’ve got absolutely no idea what she’s called these days, or where she lives, but I hope she’s OK. Even if I have to say that I have my doubts.’ Mikkelsen looks sombre.
‘That’s going to cause me problems, because I have a feeling that Victoria Bergman is the person I’m looking for.’
Mikkelsen stares at Jeanette uncomprehendingly.
She gives him a brief summary of what she and Hurtig have found out, emphasising how vital it is that they find Victoria. If for no other reason than to rule her out of the investigation.
Jeanette notices that it’s almost five o’clock, and concludes that Sofia Zetterlund the elder will have to wait till tomorrow. First she wants to talk to her own Sofia.
She gets her bag and goes down to the car to drive home. She dials the number, then holds the phone against her shoulder as she reverses out of her parking space.
The call goes through, but there’s no answer.
Victoria Bergman, Vita Bergen
IT COULD HAVE been different. It could have been good.
Could have been fine.
If only he’d been different. If only he’d been good.
Sofia is sitting on the kitchen floor.
She’s muttering to herself, rocking back and forth.
‘I am the way, I am the truth and I am the life. No one comes to the father except through me.’
When she looks up at the fridge door and sees the mass of notes, scraps of paper and newspaper cuttings she bursts out laughing, spraying saliva everywhere.
She’s familiar with the psychological phenomenon l’homme du petit papier. The man with scraps of paper.
The obsessive need to make constant notes everywhere about your observations.
Filling your pockets with tiny dog-eared notes and interesting newspaper articles.
Always having a pen and paper handy.
Antisocial friend.
Unsocial mate.
Solace Manuti.
In Sierra Leone she acquired a new friend. An antisocial friend she gave the name Solace Manuti.
An anagram of unsocial mate.
It had been a play on words, but a desperately serious one. One survival strategy was to create fantasy characters who could take over when Dad’s demands on Victoria got too much to bear.
She had emptied her guilt into her personalities.
Every glance, every whistle, every pointed gesture – she has interpreted everything as proof of her unworthiness.
She has always been dirty.
‘If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just. Cleanse us from all unrighteousness.’
Lost in her own internal labyrinth, she spills some wine on the table.
‘For I have satiated the weary soul, and I have replenished every sorrowful soul.’
She pours a second glass of wine and drains it before going into the bathroom.
‘Ye who prepare a table for Gad, and fill up mixed wine unto Meni, I will even assign you to the sword, and ye shall all bow down in the slaughter.’
The hunger fire, she thinks.
If the hunger fire goes out, you die.
She listens to the roaring inside her, and to the blood burning in her veins.
Eventually the fire will die down and then her heart will be charred and end up as a large black stain.
She pours more wine, rinses her face, drinks and retches, but forces herself to finish the glass, sits down on the toilet, wipes herself with a towel, gets up – and puts her make-up on.
When she’s finished she looks at herself. She looks good. Good enough for her purpose.
She knows that when she stands at the bar and appears bored, she never has to wait long.
She’s done it so many times before.
Almost every night.
For several years.
The feelings of guilt have been a comfort, because she feels secure in guilt. She has anaesthetised herself and sought acknowledgement among men who only see themselves and therefore can’t acknowledge her. Shame becomes a liberation.
But she doesn’t want them to see anything but the surface. Never to look inside her.