She's Never Coming Back

She felt his hand on her stomach. Stroking her, moving up to her breasts. Ylva hated him touching her afterwards more than anything. When it should be over, but carried on all the same.

This time it was worse than ever.

And yet she still did exactly what was expected of her, lowered her eyelids and moaned with pleasure.

He moved his hand down between her legs, felt the wetness. Lubricant and sperm.

‘We talk a lot, your husband and I. He’s full of admiration for me. He asked if I’d lost anyone, so I told him about Annika. For obvious reasons, I didn’t go into details. Your husband said that my loss was greater than his, that he couldn’t imagine losing his daughter.’

Gosta lay quietly for a while.

‘And I have to agree with him,’ he said, and rapped Ylva on the hip. ‘Turn round, I want to take you from behind.’

Family Journal was interested. They were happy with Calle Collin’s last job, and had already talked about inviting him down to Helsingborg for a meeting with the editors to discuss more regular work. When he presented his idea for Then the Game Was Over, the matter was clinched. Calle’s flight to Angelholm was paid for and he took a taxi to the big, silvery grey publishing house on the southside of Helsingborg.

The managing editor showed him round and gave him lunch in the staff canteen. Because the subject matter for his proposed series would be highly sensitive, she wanted more details.

Calle suggested that, following a couple of introductory articles, they should, as far as possible, let the readers approach them, and not chase anything or go looking for names in old death notices. As the person who had died was to be portrayed by a family member or friend, the perspective would vary. It might be about the grief of losing a spouse, or a child, a parent, a sibling, a friend. They should try to keep the tone as objective as possible, as the contrast with the heartbreaking story would maximise the impact. Each article would include a brief biography of the deceased, a detailed account of events leading up to their death, the interviewee’s favourite memory of their lost loved one, and a few interesting details from the life that had ended. The sort of thing that was never given space in or was deemed unsuitable for more traditional reports.

‘When the readers put down the magazine, I want them to understand that this great tragedy could strike any one of our family or friends at any moment,’ Calle explained. ‘I want them to feel the need to give their nearest and dearest a good long hug.’

The managing editor studied his face, as if she was trying to gauge whether he was being ironic or not. When she was convinced of his sincerity, she gave a decisive nod.

‘How did you get the idea?’ she asked.

Calle told her about the Gang of Four, the tyrants from his past, who had fallen, one by one, until now there was only one left.

‘In fact, she and her husband live here in Helsingborg. I thought I could look her up and see what she knows.’

Calle had got her married name from the tax register. Then he’d found the address and her husband’s name on the Internet.

‘For the series?’ the managing editor asked, horrified.

Calle realised that bullies and nasty sudden deaths were not high on the list of dream articles. She looked at him again with renewed suspicion.

‘No, no,’ Calle assured her. ‘It just struck me as odd. Three out of four. Did they lead harder lives? Did they court death? It’s not really directly related to my idea, I just thought it would be interesting to meet her again. After all these years. It’s a long time since we last met.’

He put on a bright smile, but the managing editor was still sceptical. Who wanted to meet bullies from their past?

‘She lives just outside town,’ Calle carried on, to fill the awkward silence. ‘Hittarp, or thereabouts.’

‘Oh, I live there,’ the managing editor said. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Ylva,’ Calle replied. ‘She’s married to someone called Michael Zetterberg.’

The managing editor stared at him, aghast, her eyes wide open.

Something was wrong, Calle realised that much. Something was very wrong.

45

Calle was sitting on a yellow bus on his way into the centre of Helsingborg. He was finding it hard to swallow, his face was flushed and he thought about his wealthy friend, Jorgen Petersson. Who was he, really? He could obviously be tough and cold when it came to business. Rich people were their money, their bank balance was their identity. That’s how they defined themselves. But it was quite a leap from there to believing that you could play with life and death …

Calle went to the front to speak to the bus driver.

‘Excuse me, a quick question. How do I get to Hittarp?’

‘Well, you take the 219,’ the driver said with a thick Skane dialect.

‘And where does that go from?’

‘Well, you’re on it.’

‘So this bus goes to Hittarp?’

‘Well, either that or it’s not the 219.’

Calle didn’t understand. Was the bus driver taking the piss?

‘So you go to Hittarp?’ Calle insisted.

‘Well …’

‘I don’t understand,’ Calle said. ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

‘Well, I’m joking with you a wee bit. But you can take a joke up there in Stockholm, can’t you?’

‘Can you just let me know when we get to Hittarp, please?’

Calle sat down again. He could never live outside the capital.

‘We should talk to the bastard,’ Gerda said.

‘Why?’ Karlsson wanted to know.

Gerda shrugged.

‘He might be ready to tell us what actually happened.’

‘Big risk,’ Karlsson said. ‘He’s fallen in love and has a daughter to look after. Why are there never any pastries? Only those God-awful biscuits that are so dry that you have to drink something just to be able to swallow them.’

‘Maybe he didn’t do it,’ Gerda suggested.

‘Who? What?’

‘That upper class twat. He could be innocent.’

Karlsson laughed.

‘Yeah, right. A regular Snow White. What was it she said?’

‘Who?’

‘That actress?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘You know,’ Karlsson continued. ‘The blonde one who sounded like a transvestite. Old black-and-white films.’

‘Rita Hayworth?’

‘She didn’t sound like a tranny. Before that. Hands on her hips, crude as hell.’