The telephone system at the tax authority makes no allowances for who’s calling, and Detective Superintendent Jeanette Kihlberg waits patiently in the line.
A metallic computerised voice informs her in a friendly but intractable way that there are thirty-seven advisers dealing with calls, and that she is number twenty-nine in the queue. The waiting time is estimated to be fourteen minutes.
Jeanette presses the button to put the call on speakerphone, then uses the time to water the plants and empty the bin while the monotonous voice slowly counts down.
You are number twenty-two in the line. Waiting time is eleven minutes.
Someone must once have recorded every possible combination of numbers, she thinks.
There’s a click from the phone, followed by a crackle. ‘Tax authority, how can I help?’
Jeanette introduces herself and the adviser apologises for the delay, then asks why she didn’t use the direct line. Jeanette explains that she wasn’t aware that there was one, and that the wait had given her time for a bit of reflection and thought.
The man laughs and asks why she’s calling, and when she explains that she wants to know absolutely everything about a Victoria Bergman, born in 1970 and registered in V?rmd?, he asks her to wait.
After a couple of minutes he comes back, sounding bemused.
‘I presume it’s Victoria Bergman, 700607, that you’re interested in?’
‘Maybe. I hope so.’
‘In that case there’s a bit of a problem.’
‘Oh. What kind of problem?’
‘Well, all I can find is a referral to Nacka District Court. Otherwise nothing.’
‘So what exactly does it say?’
The adviser clears his throat. ‘I’ll read it out. “According to a decision by Nacka District Court, this individual’s identity is protected. All enquiries must therefore be directed to the aforementioned authority.”’
‘And that’s all?’
‘Yes.’ The adviser sighs laconically.
Jeanette thanks him, hangs up, then calls the police operator and asks to be put through to Nacka District Court. Preferably via a direct line.
The court clerk isn’t quite as amenable as the adviser at the tax authority, but promises to send everything they have on Victoria Bergman as soon as possible.
Bloody bureaucrat, Jeanette thinks, before wishing the clerk a pleasant evening and hanging up.
At twenty past four she receives an email from the court.
Jeanette Kihlberg opens the attached document. To her disappointment, the information from Nacka District Court covers no more than three lines.
VICTORIA BERGMAN, 1970-XX-XX-XXXX.
CASE CLASSIFIED.
ALL INFORMATION DESTROYED.
Gamla Enskede – Kihlberg House
JEANETTE HEARS THE car arrive as it pulls into the drive and parks behind her Audi.
She has butterflies in her stomach.
Before she goes to let Sofia in she checks the mirror and adjusts her hair.
Maybe I should have put some make-up on, she thinks. But seeing as she doesn’t usually, it would only feel odd and plastered on. She doesn’t really know how to do it. She can manage a bit of lipstick and mascara, but after that?
She opens the door and Sofia Zetterlund comes into the hall, closing the door behind her.
‘Hello, welcome!’ Jeanette gives Sofia a light hug, but is worried about holding her for too long. Doesn’t want to be too obvious.
Too obvious about what? she wonders as she lets go.
‘Would you like a glass of wine?’
‘Please.’ Sofia is looking at her with a slight smile. ‘I’ve missed you.’
Jeanette smiles back and wonders why she had felt nervous. She looks at Sofia and notices that she looks harassed.
Jeanette goes into the kitchen and Sofia follows her.
‘Where’s Johan?’ Sofia asks.
‘He’s with his grandparents for the weekend,’ Jeanette replies. ‘?ke’s mum picked him up a little while ago. He barely said goodbye before he left. Clearly it’s only me he’s refusing to talk to.’
‘Wait him out. It’ll pass, believe me.’
Sofia gazes around the kitchen, as if she’s trying to avoid looking Jeanette in the eye. ‘Do you know any more about what happened at Gr?na Lund?’
Jeanette sighs and opens a bottle of wine. ‘He says he met a girl who offered him some beer. He doesn’t remember anything after that. At least that’s what he’s saying.’
Jeanette hands Sofia a glass.
‘Do you believe him?’ Sofia asks, taking it.
‘I don’t know. But he’s clearly feeling better now, and I’ve made up my mind not to be the nagging mother. I won’t get anything out of him that way.’
Sofia looks thoughtful. ‘Would you like me to get him an appointment with Childhood and Adolescent Psychiatry?’
‘God, no! He’d be livid. What I reckon he needs is normality, like a mother who’s home when he gets back from school.’
‘So you and Johan agree that everything’s your fault?’ Sofia says.
Jeanette freezes. My fault, she thinks, tasting the words. Doing the wrong thing for your child tastes bitter, it tastes of overflowing sinks and filthy floors. She fixes her gaze on Sofia and hears herself ask what she means.
Sofia puts her hand on Jeanette’s with a smile. ‘Just relax,’ she says comfortingly. ‘What happened could be a reaction to your separation, and he’s pinning the blame on you because you’re closest to him.’
‘He thinks I’ve let him down, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Sofia replies in the same gentle voice. ‘Which is obviously irrational. ?ke’s the one who let him down. Maybe Johan regards you and ?ke as a single entity. You’re the parents who let him down. ?ke’s betrayal becomes your shared betrayal as parents …’ She pauses before going on. ‘Sorry, it sounds like I’m teasing you.’
‘Don’t worry. But how do we move on from here? How does anyone forgive a betrayal?’ Jeanette takes a large sip from her glass before pushing it dejectedly away from her across the table.
The softness in Sofia’s face vanishes and her voice gets harder. ‘You don’t forgive betrayal. But you learn to live with it.’
They sit in silence, gazing at each other.
Jeanette understands, albeit reluctantly, what she means. Life is full of betrayals, and if you don’t learn to live with that, you can’t really keep going.
She leans back and lets out a long breath, simultaneously letting go of the day’s accumulated tension and anxiety about Johan.
A deep breath in, and her brain starts to work.
‘Sofia,’ Jeanette says hesitantly, ‘I’d like you to meet a girl I know. Well, actually, I’ve said she could see you, which might have been a bit stupid, but …’
She stops herself to give Sofia a chance to say it’s OK, and when she looks at her she gets a nod in response.
‘She’s pretty messed up, and I don’t think she’s capable of sorting things out on her own.’
‘What sort of problems has she got?’
‘Well, I don’t really know that much, except that she encountered Karl Lundstr?m.’
‘Ah,’ Sofia says. ‘OK, that’s good enough for me. I’ll check what appointments I’ve got and let you know tomorrow.’