called back. JW had to keep at it. Took over a week to reach him.
Finally, they were able to talk. A real anticlimax for JW. The lawyer/administrator didn’t have any more information than what was written in the documents he’d ordered. The company hadn’t kept any books, had no employees, and there were very sparse annual financial reports. The accountant wasn’t in the country, and it wasn’t clear who owned the stocks.
All the leads to the Ferrari ended in a bankruptcy that seemed Criminal with a capital C. It was blatantly obvious that something wasn’t right, but JW’d stopped thinking about the car for a few days. There wasn’t much more he could do.
He tried to let it go.
Didn’t work. He couldn’t escape his thoughts. His sister was missing and there had to be a way to learn more.
Four years ago, a policeman had told JW’s family the odds: “Normally, the unfortunate fact is that if we don’t find a missing person within a week, the person is most likely dead. The risk of that is nine out of ten.” The police kept explaining, “Most often, the person hasn’t been the victim of a violent crime. As a rule, there are accidents, like drowning, heart attacks, unfortunate falls. The body is usually found. On the other hand, if it isn’t, it can be a sign that other circumstances brought about the death.”
Memories of the conversation with the police gave JW ideas. He knew Camilla’d last been heard from on the night of April 21 of the year she went missing. At the time, she called a friend, Susanne Pettersson, who was also the only known acquaintance of Camilla’s that the police’d been able to dig up in Stockholm. She’d told the police she didn’t know anything. Her only connection to Camilla’d been that they studied together at Komvux, a continuing-education center. Maybe that’s why he hadn’t given her more thought before.
In JW’s opinion, the police couldn’t have done a particularly thorough job; they must’ve seen the pictures of Camilla in the Ferrari. Still, it wasn’t mentioned in the reports JW’s family’d been shown. They could’ve missed other things, too.
JW grasped desperately at the poor odds-one in ten missing people wasn’t dead.
Maybe Camilla was still alive.
He had to know more; he felt he owed it to his sister. A week after he heard about the dead board member of Dolphin Finance, Ltd., he called Susanne Pettersson. They talked for a bit. She’d never completed her studies, never gotten her GED. Now she worked as a salesclerk at H amp;M in the Kista Mall. When he suggested they meet up, she asked if their phone conversation wasn’t enough. It was obvious that she didn’t have an interest in digging deeper into the Camilla story.
JW went out to Kista anyway. Wandered around the brightly lit mall until he found the H amp;M store and asked for Susanne. He introduced himself to her.
They stood in the middle of the shop floor. There were few customers in the store at that time of day. JW wondered how it could be worthwhile to keep the place open.
Susanne had bleached-blond hair, but dark roots were visible at the base of her scalp. She was dressed in skinny jeans tucked into a pair of high boots, and a pink top with print across the chest: Cleveland Indians. Her entire body language screamed, I don’t want to talk to you. Arms crossed, gaze glued somewhere other than on JW.
JW tried to pressure her, gently. “What subjects did you study together?”
“I had to redo almost everything. Math, language arts, English, social science, history, French. But school was never my thing. I wanted to be a lawyer.”
“It isn’t too late.”
“It is. I have two kids now.”
JW sounded genuinely happy, “That’s great! How old are they?”
“One and three, and it’s not great. Their good-for-nothing dad left five months before the youngest was born. I’ll stay in this store till the cellulite finishes me off.”
“I’m sorry. Don’t say that. Anything can happen.”
“Sure.”
“It can, I promise. Would you please tell me more about Camilla?”
“But why? The police asked all they needed to know four years ago. I don’t know anything.”
“Relax. I’m just curious. You know, I hardly even knew my own sister. I was just wondering what kind of classes you took together and stuff.”
“I would’ve been a good lawyer-you know, I can really argue when I need to-and then Pierre came along and fucked it all up. Now I’m here. Know what a salesclerk makes?”
JW thought, The chick could never have been a lawyer. Totally lacks focus.
“You don’t remember which classes you took with Camilla?”
“Hold on. I think we were in the same language arts and English classes. Used to do our homework together, study for the tests. She got good grades even though we cut a lotta class. I got shit grades. Never knew how the hell Camilla did it. But then, I didn’t really know her that well.”
“Do you know if she hung out with anyone else?”
Susanne was quiet for a beat too long.
“Not really.”
JW looked her in the eyes. “Please, Susanne. I care about my sister. Don’t I have a right to know what happened to her? Don’t I have the right to ask you these questions? I just want to know more about Camilla’s life. Please.”
Susanne twisted uneasily, looked toward the empty registers, as if she had to go help some invisible customer. Obviously uncomfortable.
“I don’t think she was friends with anyone else in her Komvux classes. Camilla sort of kept to herself. But ask the language arts teacher, Jan Bruneus. He might know.”
“Thanks. Is he still at Komvux, do you know?”
“No clue. Some made it; some didn’t. I never finished. Haven’t set my foot in that place since and don’t plan to, either. And I don’t know anything about Jan. But there are a lot of salesclerks who’ve made a load of money. Won reality-TV shows and stuff like that. Camilla might’ve done something like that.”
Susanne said she really had to get back to work. JW got the hint, went home. Wondered about Susanne’s last comment. Reality TV and Camilla-what was the connection?
He thought that he had to concentrate on school and selling C, couldn’t waste more time playing detective. The Susanne Pettersson trail didn’t lead anywhere. The chick would’ve already said something if she knew something, wouldn’t she?
JW was at home studying when Abdulkarim called his cell phone. The Arab wanted to meet up-preferably today. They decided to meet for lunch at the Hotel Anglais on Sturegatan, near Stureplan.
JW kept reading. He couldn’t let his studies slip. He’d made a deal with himself: Go ahead and snort, deal, make millions and be happy-but don’t flunk out of school. He saw that kind of thing among the boyz. There were two types of people for whom Daddy picked up the tab. The knowledge that they’d never have to worry about money made one type into lazy, disinterested, stupid freeloaders. They couldn’t care less about their studies, failed their exams, made fun of people who were ambitious. They wanted to do their own thing, pretended to be entrepreneurs, visionaries. In the end, things worked out no matter what. The other type got anxious, knowing they’d never have to lift a finger for their own livelihood. They wanted to prove themselves, had to prove themselves, to create their own successes, to earn the right to the fortunes they were going to inherit anyway. You found them at the Stockholm School of Economics, in law school, or in London. They sat till one in the morning with group projects, before quizzes, tests, oral exams. If they could fit it in, they had part-time jobs, at law firms, banks, or with Dad. They strove and achieved-got somewhere on their own merit.
JW wasn’t the kind of guy to take shortcuts, not really. Sure, he could probably live on C for a few years, but he still wanted the safety. Study a lot, never flunk out.
He packed up his books. Undressed and got into the shower.
With practiced technique, he held the showerhead in his hand with the stream of water angled away from him, as he tried to set the right temperature. Why was it that no matter how you turned the dial, it was impossible to get it right? Too hot. A nanotwist to the left-too cold.
He began by running the water over his legs. The blond hairs flattened downward when the stream of water
