LIGHTNING STRIKES THE earth one hundred times per second, which means about eight million times per day. The worst storm of the year sweeps in over Stockholm, and at twenty-two minutes past ten lightning strikes at two places simultaneously. In Bandhagen, to the south of the city, and in the vicinity of Karolinska Hospital in Solna.
Detective Sergeant Jens Hurtig is standing in the hospital car park, about to drive home, when his mobile rings. He opens the car door and gets in before answering. He sees that it’s Police Commissioner Dennis Billing, and assumes he’s calling to find out what’s been going on.
‘I heard you found Jeanette’s boy. How is he?’ He sounds worried.
‘He’s sleeping at the moment, and she’s with him.’ Hurtig puts the key in the ignition and starts the engine. ‘It doesn’t seem to be life-threatening, thank God.’
‘Good, good. So she should be back in a few days, then.’ The police chief smacks his lips. ‘And how about you?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are you tired, or do you feel up to taking a look at something out in Bandhagen?’
‘Like what?’
‘They’ve found a woman’s body, probable rape.’
‘OK, I’m on my way.’
‘That’s the kind of thing I like. You’re a good guy, Jens. And you …’ Commissioner Dennis Billing swallows. ‘Tell Jan Kihlberg I think it’s perfectly in order for her to stay at home for a while to take care of her son. To be honest, I think she ought to take better care of her family. I’ve heard rumours that ?ke’s left her.’
‘How do you mean?’ Hurtig is starting to get tired of the commissioner’s insinuations. ‘Do you want me to tell her to stay at home because you don’t think women should have careers and ought to look after their husbands and children instead?’
‘Damn it, Jens, stop that. I thought we understood each other, and –’
‘Just because we’re both men,’ Hurtig interrupts, ‘doesn’t mean we share the same opinions.’
‘No, of course not.’ The commissioner sighs. ‘I thought that perhaps –’
‘Well, I don’t know. Bye for now.’ Hurtig ends the call before Dennis Billing has time to say anything else clumsy or just plain stupid.
At the Solna intersection he looks out across the Pampas Marina and the rows of sailing boats.
A boat, he thinks. I’m going to get myself a boat.
The rain is pouring down on the Bandhagen High School’s sports fields. Hurtig pulls up the hood of his jacket as he slams the car door. He looks around, and it all feels very familiar.
He’s been here several times as a spectator when Jeanette Kihlberg has been playing in matches for the mixed police team. He remembers being surprised at how good she was, better than most of the male players, and in her role as offensive midfielder she had been the most creative of them all, the one who made the penetrative passes, saw spaces no one else saw.
In a strange way he had been able to see how her personality as a police officer was reflected in her actions on the pitch. She had influence, but without being too dominant.
He can’t help wondering how she is. Although he doesn’t have children of his own, nor any desire to have any, he realises that she must be having a hard time right now. Who’s taking care of her now that ?ke has walked out?
He knows the cases of the murdered boys have hit her hard.
And now something’s happened to her own son, making Jens wish he could be something more to her than just her sergeant. A friend.
He thinks about the nameless boys. If there’s a missing person, then there has to be someone who misses them.
Jens Hurtig feels dejected as he hurries over to the buildings beside the fields.
As Ivo Andri? pulls into the car park at Bandhagen High School, he catches sight of Hurtig, Schwarz and ?hlund. They’re sitting in a police car and are about to leave. When Jens Hurtig raises his hand in greeting he responds before parking next to the large brick building.
Andri? stays in his car, staring out across the dark, waterlogged football pitch. At one end the little forensics tent, and at the other a forlorn, abandoned goal with a damaged net. Rain is pouring down and shows no signs of easing, and he’s planning to sit in the car as long as possible. He’s full of an aching tiredness, and his eyes feel gritty. He thinks about recent events and the cases of the dead boys.
For a few hot weeks of summer they had taken all his time, and Ivo Andri? is still convinced they were dealing with a single perpetrator.
Jeanette Kihlberg had done a good job, but there was one police commissioner and one prosecutor who hadn’t done their jobs, and the whole business had left him feeling utterly disillusioned. His confidence in the criminal justice system had always been low, but now it had been wiped out completely.
When the prosecutor had shut down the investigation all the air had gone out of him.
Ivo Andri? pulls his jacket tighter and puts on his baseball cap. He opens the car door, gets out in the pouring rain and jogs over towards the crime scene.
Vita Bergen – Sofia Zetterlund’s Apartment
SOFIA ZETTERLUND HAS big gaps in her memory. Black holes that she drifts past in her dreams or on her endless walks. Sometimes the holes get bigger when she notices a smell, or when someone looks at her in a particular way. Images are recreated when she hears the sound of wooden shoes on gravel, or when she sees the back of someone in the street. On occasions like this, it’s as if a whirlwind sweeps through what Sofia calls ‘I’.
She knows she’s experienced something that won’t let itself be described.
Once upon a time there was a little girl called Victoria, and when she was three her dad built a room inside her. A deserted room where there was only pain and suffering. Over the years it became a room with sturdy walls made of sorrow, with a floor made of the desire for revenge and, lastly, a solid roof of hate.
It became a room so enclosed that Victoria hadn’t been able to get out.
And she’s in there now.
It wasn’t me, Sofia thinks. It wasn’t my fault. Her first emotion when she wakes up is guilt. All her body’s systems are getting ready for flight, to defend itself.
She reaches for the box of paroxetine and uses her saliva to swallow two pills. She leans back and waits for Victoria’s voice to fall silent. Not completely, it never does that, but enough for her to hear herself.
Hear Sofia’s will.
What had actually happened?
A memory of smells. Popcorn, rain-wet paths. Earth.
Someone had wanted to take her to hospital, but she had refused.
Then nothing. Utterly black. She doesn’t remember the stairs up to the apartment, let alone how she managed to get home from Gr?na Lund.
What time is it? she wonders.