34
Ylva lay in bed looking at the TV screen. The light was taking over, morning forcing back the night. It was the best time of day. She knew that she would soon see Sanna and Mike flit past the windows and three-quarters of an hour later leave the house and get into the car.
Ylva stared at the screen as if their safety depended on her vigilant supervision. She concentrated so hard that everything around her disappeared. It was almost as if she was there, inside the image of reality that she was watching.
Mike and Sanna had found new routines. It was obvious from their familiar movements. The way Mike closed the front door, the way Sanna walked round the car and jumped in as soon as he opened it. The booster was now a permanent fixture on the passenger seat. Sanna put her backpack down under the seat and reached up for the safety belt. Mike might throw out yesterday’s rubbish. Hesitate for a moment before he emptied the right things into the right bins.
Mike had adapted his working day to suit Sanna’s timetable. In the mornings, at least. His mother was there most afternoons. She came back hand in hand with Sanna from school, carrying bags of food.
Ylva wondered whether her mother-in-law was happy now. If she truly valued the importance she had acquired.
Kristina had also lost a spouse. The difference was that she’d known. She had almost certainly taken her fair share of the blame, gone over and over what she might have done differently, punished herself in that way. But she had known.
Sanna had a new autumn jacket. Ylva was sure that Mike had let her choose it herself. She thought to herself that she wouldn’t have been so generous.
As soon as they had disappeared from the screen, Ylva started her morning exercises. Five minutes marching on the spot, pulling her knees up high, hands at her side. A hundred sit-ups and twenty-five push-ups.
Ylva wanted to do more, but was afraid that she might injure herself and have to stop altogether. The feeling of strength was important to her mental wellbeing.
They had murdered Anders, they had murdered Johan. Murdered. The man had told her proudly, in great detail, and informed her what they now expected from her.
There was no rush, the woman had explained. Ylva could prolong her own suffering if she liked, she didn’t deserve a quick fix. But when she was ready, they would provide her with the necessary equipment.
Then the woman had complained about the smell of sweat. She complained about everything. Ylva was more scared of her than of the man.
Once she had showered, Ylva made a cup of tea and buttered a slice of bread. Then she did the laundry and ironing, the jobs she had been given. She carried them out with surprising energy and care. She was given food, electricity and water in return for her work. Allowed to carry on living.
The floor lamp, electric kettle and books were in return for the other thing.
Ylva deserved rewards, she did more than was expected of her.
And she was always ready.
Calle Collin was in the Odengaten branch of Stockholm Public Library. There were signs everywhere that said that you could only take one newspaper at a time, but Calle was in a hurry and so grabbed half a dozen of the local newspapers before he sat down in the reading room.
Journalism was cyclical. The one thing spawned the next, which in turn required research, which resulted in new articles, which spawned … etc.
Textbooks tended to emphasise the importance of multiple, independent sources. Access to objective information was a prerequisite for good citizens to make considered choices and then vote for the party that he or she believed was best placed to rule the country for the coming parliamentary term.
Political journalism was not really Calle’s bag. His ‘cause’ was primarily to keep the wolf and creditors from his door, but even the content of the weeklies worked on the same cyclical basis. He got ideas for his own material from other people’s articles.
He flicked through the papers quickly, looking for material with a trained eye. The notices in local papers were what interested him. That was where he normally found stuff, unusual events in normal people’s lives.
He made a quick note of everything that caught his eye. Even if it wasn’t suitable for an article or interview, it could perhaps be turned into a Readers’ Own Story. These weren’t as well paid, but easy to cobble together. Calle had been working as a freelancer for a family magazine for a while now, providing that sort of copy, and had soon come to realise that it was far simpler to write the article yourself than to edit the incomprehensible manuscripts that readers sent in.
Thirty minutes later, Calle left the library. He went home and fired off emails with ideas for three stories to four editorial desks. To send any more suggestions would test the patience of the editors.
He would call them in the afternoon and ask if they’d managed to look at his suggestions. Hopefully, some of them would be cautiously positive.
He heard the post drop through the letterbox – the postman must have been a basketball player in the past. Calle went out into the hall and picked up the window envelopes with a sigh. He opened them with his thumb and, true to form, confirmed that even when things looked bad, they could always get worse.
Three hours later he had spoken to the fourth and final features editor. No takers. Two of them said they would think about a couple of the ideas but couldn’t promise anything. One had been openly disinterested and sighed loudly when Calle introduced himself. Another, a young man with great social skills but obviously very little between the ears, had declined and wittered on about cutbacks. Calle was sure that the guy would swiftly clamber his way to the top of Sweden’s largest media group.
Calle had just laid down on the bed and started to stare at the ceiling with apathy when the phone rang. He checked the display. Helen, the managing editor of
‘It’s been a while.’
‘Yes,’ she said, harassed. ‘And I’m sorry. We’ve had so much to do. And still do. Which is why I’m calling. Quick question. Could you come in and do some editing?’
‘Absolutely. When?’
‘Tomorrow and Friday. And the whole of next week.’
‘Of course,’ Calle said.
‘Really? That’s fantastic. I love you.’
‘No problem,’ Calle said, and hung up.
‘The phone just hasn’t stopped ringing,’ he said out loud, with a huge grin.
35
Ylva was dead, Mike was certain of it. He no longer held out any hope that she would suddenly get in touch from somewhere on the Mediterranean, where she was picking grapes in sandals and loose clothing, making trouble as a horny, post-pubescent hippie. Something had happened and he didn’t care to speculate too much about what. Instead of ruminating on how terrifying the final hours of her life might have been, Mike consciously blocked all thoughts that led in this direction and focused instead on the practicalities of what lay ahead.
