Still no reply. It was half past four. He started the engine and pulled out onto the street.
The last thing Joakim did before he headed south was to hand in the keys of the Apple House at the real estate office.
Now he and Katrine were no longer property owners in Stockholm.
The rush-hour traffic heading for the suburbs was in full swing when he hit the freeway, and it took him forty- five minutes to get out of the city. By the time the traffic finally thinned out it was quarter to six, and Joakim pulled into a parking lot in Sodertalje to call Katrine one more time.
The phone rang four times, then it was picked up.
“Tilda Davidsson.”
It was a woman’s voice-but he didn’t recognize the name.
“Hello?” said Joakim.
He must have keyed in the wrong number.
“Who’s calling?” said the woman.
“This is Joakim Westin,” he said slowly. “I live in the manor house at Eel Point.”
“I see.”
She didn’t say anything else.
“Is my wife there, or my children?” asked Joakim.
A pause at the other end of the phone.
“No.”
“And who are you?”
“I’m a police officer,” said the woman. “I’d like you to-”
“Where’s my wife?” said Joakim quickly.
Another pause.
“Where are you, Joakim? Are you here on the island?”
The policewoman sounded young and slightly tense, and he didn’t have much confidence in her.
“I’m in Stockholm,” he said. “Or rather on the way out… I’m outside Sodertalje.”
“So you’re on your way down to Oland?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ve been to pick up the last of our stuff from our house in Stockholm.” He wanted to sound clear and lucid and make the policewoman start answering questions. “Can you tell me what’s happened? Have any of-”
“No,” she interrupted him. “I can’t say anything. But it would be best if you got here as quickly as possible.”
“Is it-”
“Watch your speed,” said the policewoman, breaking off the conversation.
Joakim sat there with the silent cell phone to his ear, staring out at the empty parking lot. Cars with their headlights on and lone drivers whizzed past him out on the freeway.
He put the car in gear, pulled out onto the road, and carried on heading south, doing twelve miles above the speed limit. But when he began to see pictures in his head of Katrine and the children waving to him outside the house at Eel Point, he pulled off the road and stopped the car again.
The phone rang only three times on this occasion.
“Davidsson.”
Joakim didn’t bother saying hello or introducing himself.
“Has there been an accident?” he asked.
The policewoman didn’t speak.
“You have to tell me,” Joakim went on.
“Are you still driving?” asked the woman.
“Not right now.”
There was silence at the other end of the phone for a few seconds, then came her reply:
“There’s been an accident. A drowning.”
“A… a death?” said Joakim.
The policewoman was once again silent for a few seconds. Then she replied, sounding as if she were reciting a formula she’d learned by heart:
“We never give out that kind of information over the telephone.”
The little cell phone in Joakim’s hand seemed to weigh two hundred pounds; the muscles in his right arm were trembling as he held it.
“Possibly. But this time you have to,” he said slowly. “I want a name. If someone in my family has drowned, you have to give me the name. Otherwise I’ll just keep on calling.”
Silence at the other end of the phone.
“Just a moment.”
The woman disappeared again; it felt to Joakim as if several minutes passed. He shivered in the car. Then there was a scraping noise on the phone.
“I have a name now,” said the woman quietly.
“Whose?”
The policewoman’s voice was mechanical, as if she were reading out loud.
“The victim’s name is Livia Westin.”
Joakim held his breath and bowed his head. As soon as he had heard the name, he wanted to get away from this moment, away from this evening.
“Hello?” said the policewoman.
Joakim closed his eyes. He wanted to put his hands over his ears and silence every sound.
“Joakim?”
“I’m here,” he said. “I heard the name.”
“Good, so we can-”
“I have one more question,” he interrupted her. “Where are Katrine and Gabriel?”
“They’re with the neighbors, over at the farm.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. I’m setting off now. Just tell… tell Katrine I’m on my way.”
“We’ll be here all evening,” said the policewoman. “Someone will meet you.”
“Okay.”
“Do you want us to send for a priest? I can-”
“That won’t be necessary,” he said. “We’ll sort things out.”
Joakim switched off his phone, started the car, and pulled quickly out onto the road again.
He didn’t want to spend any more time talking to some policewoman or priest, he just wanted to get to Katrine right now.
She was with the neighbors, the policewoman had said. That must be the big farm to the southwest of Eel Point,
whose cows grazed on the meadows down by the shore-but he didn’t have the telephone number, and right now he couldn’t even remember the name of the family who lived there. Evidently Katrine must have had some kind of contact with them. But why hadn’t she called him herself? Was she in shock?
Suddenly Joakim realized he was sitting there thinking about the wrong person.
He could no longer see anything. The tears started pouring down his cheeks, and he had to pull over to the side of the road, switch on his hazard lights, and rest his forehead on the steering wheel.
He closed his eyes.
Livia was gone. She had sat behind him in the car listening to music this morning, and now she was gone.
He sniveled and looked out through the windshield. The road was dark.
Joakim thought about Eel Point, and about wells.
She must have fallen down a well. Wasn’t there a well lid in the inner courtyard?
Old wells with cracked lids-why hadn’t he checked to see if there were any around the place? Livia and Gabriel had run about wherever they wanted between the buildings; he ought to have talked to Katrine about the risks.
