Frozen Moment (65 page)

    'Not
at all; it was love that caused all her problems. She moved into one of the
staff residences, over and over again, to live with our - how can I put it? -
caretaker
.
General factotum.
At
first it was all sweetness and light. Then there were quarrels and tears and
she moved out again. Then it was back to sweetness and light. I have to say
that it all took place quite openly, and if you want my opinion, it was rather
embarrassing. Stensjö wasn't a big school; everybody knew most things about
everybody else. Not that I'm one of those old-fashioned types - even if I am
old - who doesn't tolerate tendencies outside the norm, but I mean you don't
have to advertise what you do in the bedroom.'

    She
paused for breath.

    'But
listen to me going on and on! This will be costing the police a fortune,
calling me on my mobile!'

    'Don't
worry,
fru Larsson, that's fine. But I don't
understand. What do you mean by "tendencies outside the norm"?'

    'She
was a lesbian, of course! What did you think I meant? Not that there's anything
wrong with that, Constable, but it was just so public! The thing was
,
the school's old rules and regulations were still in
place, which meant that the students who were boarding weren't allowed to have
visitors in their rooms, which is why she moved into the caretaker's cottage
every time things were going well between them. The school wasn't exactly
adopting a modern approach, and in many ways I think we avoided problems by
sticking to the old ways. There's nothing that causes as many difficulties as
love, Constable. And the students were there to study, after all.'

    'So
you're saying that Maya Granith had a relationship with the female caretaker at
the school.'

    'I
am, and it went on more or less the whole time she was at the school. I even
remember trying to talk to her once, when she came to me wanting her room back
yet again, with her eyes all red from crying after they'd fallen out for the
umpteenth time. I suggested it might be better if she concentrated on her
studies, something along those lines. I did feel a bit sorry for her - she was
a bright girl after all. But she certainly wasn't going to take any notice of
me; I expect she thought I should keep my nose out of her business. And she was
so deeply in love as well, and love is blind, isn't that right, Constable? You
must have seen plenty of that sort of thing in your job over the years - all
those
crimes passionnelles,
or whatever they're called.

    She
became serious once again.

    'It
wasn't my place to have an
opinion,
of course, but to
be honest I didn't think much of that woman, the caretaker I mean. She was…
strange in some way. I thought that right from the start. Not just because she
had those… tendencies. She…'

    Greta
Larsson hesitated.

    'What
is it, fru Larsson?'

    'I
don't like to pass on gossip, but it's so long ago now, and if you say it's
important to your investigation, then…'

    'What,
fru Larsson? What's important to our investigation?'

    'I
think she'd been in some kind of mental hospital before she came to the school.
You see, I was the permanent secretary to the admissions team and I think there
was some feeling that the school ought to take some kind of social
responsibility. The charter was formulated mainly during the 6os. I can tell
you that opinion was divided as to whether so-called diversity created a
positive study environment or not. In my view… well, I don't suppose that's
relevant any longer. Anyway, there was a testimonial with her application, from
a psychiatrist. Of course I had no reason to read it, so I didn't, but I assume
it said it would help her recovery if she could spend some time in a peaceful
environment out in the country. I remember it clearly because of course she
became an employee of the school later on. We were almost colleagues in a way.
It felt a bit… odd. But on the other hand, this business of psychological
problems doesn't seem to be such a big thing any more. These
days
people decide they have mental health problems at the drop of a hat. It's not
like in my day, when there were only three categories: those who were as fit as
a fiddle, those with aches and pains, and then the lunatics.'

    'Do
you remember her name?'

    'Of
course I do! Caroline Selander. I hope you haven't misunderstood me - she might
not have done anything wrong - but I don't think I was the only member of staff
who felt she was a bit unpleasant. Eventually she resigned and disappeared.
That would have been around the time you mentioned - 95, perhaps.'

    Gonzales
was furiously taking notes.

    'Fru
Larsson, this is very interesting. I'd like to contact you again, if I may. I'd
also like you to think about whether there's anyone else that I could contact,
just to supplement the information you've given me.'

    'There
are a couple of people I could put you in touch with. But I don't think their
memories are as good as mine. I was the spider at the centre of the web, you
see. I saw and heard most things.'

    She
laughed again.

    'Before
we finish, I wonder if you could describe this caretaker to
me?
'

    'Yes,
of course. She was tall and powerfully
built,
a bit
masculine if you ask me.
Tattooed like a sailor, and not just
on her arms.
She had a snake crawling up her neck, as black as a leech
it was - horrible. Short hair, far too short for a woman, but I suppose that
goes with the territory. And she wore quite masculine clothes, even in her
spare time. She often wore dungarees. Er… and I think she had a big nose.'

    'OK,
thank you, fru Larsson. You've been a great help.' He hung up. 'You really have
been a great help,' he murmured to himself.

    The
phone rang, the display showing his home number. He could just picture his
mother, smarting from his brusque snub, pressing 'Redial' and waiting to give
him an earful.

    He
let it ring.

    As
a child she had visited her aunt in Borås. Apart from those family gatherings,
Seja had set foot in the town only once, when she had gone to see a band she
quite liked with an untrustworthy boyfriend and a couple of other boys at a
frightening bikers' club.

    That
was typical of what she did in those days; her teenage years were spent with
people she didn't necessarily like, going to parties and pubs where she didn't
enjoy herself. Listening to music she sometimes didn't even understand, just
because that's what you were supposed to do,
then
listening to different music in secret. Giving boys what they wanted because
she was grateful that they wanted her.

    She
tried looking at it differently.
What an achievement to have finally learned
to say no to things you don't really want to do.
No thank you to boring
parties with tedious self-obsessed people. No thank you to the perpetual
competition to see who owned the most,
who
could be
the coolest, who was the most loved.

    
If she really had achieved that state of mind.

    She
was forced to concentrate on her driving for a while. Navigating through
strange towns wasn't one of her strong points, and when she finally turned into
the right street, it was more a matter of luck than good map reading. She put
money in the meter for an hour - she shouldn't need any longer than that.

    Seja
hesitated before getting out of her car, and allowed herself one final moment
of reflection.

    She
knew there had to be a reason why she had stood outside the bikers' club twelve
years before, just as the first snowflakes were beginning to fall. Why she had
had a funny feeling in her stomach as she watched Maya leave. Why fate had
decreed that she should be one of the first people to see the dead body outside
Thomas Edell's workshop.

    She
had no firm plan. Christian had accused her of having a hidden agenda when she
embarked on the relationship with him. She felt unsure now. Had she had an
agenda that was hidden from
herself
as well? Was their
relationship - the dizzying rush of happiness she had experienced, the intense
sense of loss she now felt - yet another sign? Just one of the many signs that
had led her to the same decision: she was going to deal with this story and
make it comprehensible. And she was going to do that by writing. The only way
she
could
do it was by writing.

    Maya
had died. Not only because she had been hunted down like a fox, but because no
one had come to help her. She could have survived if someone had got there in
time, before she lost too much blood.

    That's
why Seja felt so guilty: because of the disrespect she had shown to Maya. She
had been too weak to act on her feelings or to talk to the police about it. The
world had shown Maya nothing but contempt by letting the three men who had
robbed her of her life
remain
at liberty. Until now;
the murderer had seen to that. The murderer had not been able to tolerate that
disrespect. In a way, Seja could understand the person who had taken justice
into their own hands. A feeling of envy, irrational and primitive, fuelled the
curiosity that had driven her to come here. She was jealous of Maya, who was
loved so much that someone had killed in her name.
Jealous of
the murderer who had chosen to do something with their rage, rather than
allowing it to eat away their soul.

    She
was going to write to get some justice for Maya, thus atoning for some of her
guilt. She wanted to write an in-depth crime report. She was a journalist -
well, a trainee journalist - but she would write this story from her own
perspective, as a participant in the drama.
As a member of
the cast, albeit with a walk-on role.

    She
had no idea how to go about it, but in order to portray Maya as she had been in
life,
she needed to talk to those who had been close
to her. She would start with the family, her mother. Then perhaps she could
track down Caroline, the woman who had been the love of her life.

    John
Svensson, the friend of Hanna's friend Bjorn, had known Maya only in passing
when they were growing up in Borås. It wasn't until they both ended up at the
same school that they had become friends, close friends, or 'as close as
Caroline allowed them to be'. That was how he had put it. He had talked for a
long time about Maya and Caroline. Their love was quite something, he had said.

    Standing
outside the door of the apartment, Seja took a deep breath. She could still
change her mind. She could call Christian, suppress the bitterness she had felt
when they parted and make a fresh attempt to get him to sit down and listen.
Instead she knocked on the door. It was opened immediately. The skinny woman
must have seen her through the spyhole and been waiting for her to knock. This
put Seja on edge straight away, and her apology sounded confused even to her
own ears.

    She
said she wanted to talk about Maya. She had been more of a passing acquaintance
than a close friend, but she would like some help in clarifying one or two
things that had happened.

    'I
can imagine you must have many questions too. I won't give you false hope - I
don't know much - but I… I was thinking of writing something about Maya, about
what happened.
Because I knew her.
And because I
thought somebody ought to do it.
Anyway…
I just wanted
to talk a bit.
About Maya.'

    She
stopped. The woman stood there motionless. She might have been listening
intently to every word that came from Seja's lips, carefully interpreting the
slightest twitch in every muscle of her face, but her gaze seemed fixed on a
distant point, as if she was in a world of her own.

    'I
hope I'm not opening up old wounds, turning up like this,' Seja said hesitantly
when she got no reaction. 'May I come in for a while?'

    That
seemed to penetrate. The woman disappeared into the apartment, obviously
expecting Seja to follow her.

    Alone
in the hallway she slowly undid her boots. She looked around and realised the
woman didn't live alone. There were two pairs of men's shoes on a rack, as well
as several pairs of women's shoes far too large for her. On the hall stand hung
a red coat that would come down to the feet of someone even as tall as Seja.

    There
was the scent of smoke, and something that reminded her of cut flowers that had
gone off - a rotting smell. Suddenly fear hit her like a well-aimed kick to the
small of her back. She had just bitterly reproached herself for ignoring an
instinctive feeling in her stomach at an important point in her life, and it
was impossible to miss the physical signals now, yet she continued into the gloom
of the apartment. It was a typical 70s layout, with all the rooms off the
central passageway. Since all the doors were closed, the light in the
passageway was dim.