She's Never Coming Back (8 page)

Sanna was somewhere in between. The pet shop was an attraction, as was the ice-cream stall and all the people.

The hustle and bustle, sounds and impressions, were the highlight of the week for many.

Ylva would lay her newly purchased finds out on the bed when she got home, as if they were prey or a trophy. Admiring her own skill. She’d tell Sanna what she’d bought, why she’d bought it and how the various new items of clothing could be combined with the ones she already had.

Mike wondered whether it was some kind of training, whether that was how new consumers were generated.

And he certainly didn’t have the peace of mind to wander round and pretend that nothing was wrong now.

‘So, what do you reckon, sweetheart? McDonald’s and then home?’

‘But we’ve just got here.’

‘Well, aren’t you hungry?’

‘Not really.’

‘Okay, let’s go round the shops a bit and then we can have a bite to eat. Okay?’

Ylva still hadn’t called and a nagging worry was starting to keep his anger company.

The thought that something might have happened, that there was a legitimate reason why she hadn’t phoned, was almost comforting. Being worried was easier than being frightened.

But he was frightened, frightened of being dumped and written out of the plot.

At least as a consoler – or, God forbid, a mourner – Mike would have a role to play.

Sanna chewed slowly and surveyed the world around her with big eyes, and in here that meant overweight families, dirty tables and stressed staff.

Mike had finished his food and was bouncing his foot nervously under the table.

‘You enjoying that?’

He smiled at his daughter and did his best to hide the fact that he would happily pay a substantial part of his salary if he could leave the place immediately. McDonald’s was their last stop. They had been to the pet shop, browsed through the DVDs in the bookshop and looked for cheap jewellery in the accessories shop.

Sanna nodded, took a bite of a fry. Everything was slow. Mike had finished before his daughter had even picked the cucumber out of her burger.

‘If you concentrate on your burger, then maybe we could take the fries with us,’ he said and forced a smile.

‘Are we in a hurry?’

‘What? Um, no. We’re not in a hurry.’

Sanna chewed her deep-fried potato thoughtfully as two little boys at the next table squabbled over the toys they’d got with their happy meal.

Mike resigned himself to the fact that he had at least another half-hour of torture ahead of him.

He got his mobile out from the inside pocket of his jacket, checked the screen to make sure that he hadn’t missed any calls and tried Ylva again. Straight to voicemail. He hung up without leaving a message. He dialled the house and let it ring about six times before ending the call.

He looked at his daughter and then held the phone up with the exaggerated explanation of a parent.

‘I have to make a phone call,’ he said. ‘I’ll be standing just over there where I can see you. Okay?’

‘Can’t you ring from here?’ Sanna asked.

‘There’s someone I need to talk to.’

‘But you just phoned someone.’

‘That was someone else. I don’t want there to be a lot of noise in the background. Just sit where you are, I’ll be right outside.’

He went to the door, waved over at his daughter and dialled Nour’s number.

‘Hi, it’s Mike.’

‘Hi, has she shown up yet?’

‘No, she hasn’t. At least, I don’t think so. I’m at Väla with Sanna, but I left a note to say she should call. And she hasn’t. And there’s no answer on her mobile or at home. Have you heard anything?’

‘Well … I … Nothing much, no, but I’ll carry on. I’ll let you know if I do hear anything.’

‘Okay, thanks. And, Nour, listen …’

‘Yes?’

‘Well, if she is … you know, if she has done something stupid, well, I’d still like to hear from her. It doesn’t feel right like this. I’m getting worried.’

Nour rang the restaurant that was owned by Ylva’s ex-lover. It was just after one and she guessed that they would be open. She said who she was and asked to speak to Bill
Åkerman. Luckily he was there, which lowered the chances that he’d spent the night with Ylva or knew where she was, but Nour wanted to make sure.

‘Hello.’

His voice was aggressive, just like his personality.

‘Hello, my name is Nour. I work with Ylva Zetterberg.’

Bill waited for her to finish and to say more.

‘I’ve seen you a couple of times,’ Nour continued. ‘But I don’t think you know who I am.’

‘I know who you are.’

His voice was cold and businesslike, there was no hint of invitation or intimacy. But Nour still felt flattered in a way. She wondered whether Bill’s success with women was simply due to social ineptitude. Or was it disinterest? Bill didn’t care, which aroused a competitive spirit in women who were normally spoilt for attention.

‘I’m sorry to call you like this, but it’s kind of urgent. Ylva’s disappeared. She didn’t go home last night. Her husband’s called me a couple of times and asked if I maybe know where she is.’

‘I have no idea.’

‘So she wasn’t with you?’

‘Why the hell would she be?’

‘I know that you—’

‘That was a hundred years ago. Was there anything else?’

‘No.’

Bill hung up. Nour sat with the telephone in her hand. Her immediate impulse was to go to the restaurant and apologise. She didn’t feel good, like an old gossip sniffing out scandal.

Ylva would be furious when she found out that Nour had phoned Bill.

Nour was ashamed. She had let herself be drawn in by Mike’s anxiety. Instead of reassuring him, she had taken his hysteria a step further.

Did Mike even know that his wife had had an affair with Bill? Nour wasn’t certain.

If Ylva didn’t turn up soon, Mike would ring her again to find out who she’d spoken to. She couldn’t really say that the only person she’d contacted was Bill. Nour had to phone a few other people, so she could say that she had. Despite the fact that she already knew that none of them would have any idea where Ylva might be. The phone calls would only reinforce the image of Nour as some hysterical gossipmonger.

Nour felt her irritation growing. How come she should be tidying up after Ylva? She wasn’t the one who’d fucked around.

Sanna saved the longest fries until last.

‘Look,’ she said, holding one up in front of her.

‘Wow, that’s a long one,’ Mike said.

He glanced over quickly and then looked back at the road. He stayed in lane on the roundabout and out on to the motorway.

‘I’ve had longer ones,’ Sanna said, world weary. ‘One was super long.’

‘Longer than that?’ Mike exclaimed.

‘Much longer. Double as long.’

‘Really?’

‘Well, maybe not double.’

‘But very long?’

‘Yes.’

Sanna happily stuffed the fry in her mouth.

Mike wondered whether he should drive into town and ask his mother to look after Sanna for a couple of hours. That would leave him free to make phone calls and do some ferreting, and it would spare Sanna having to witness the scene when Ylva finally decided to pitch up. The problem would obviously be his mother’s questions and accusations. She and Ylva rubbed along well enough, but their friendliness was strained, and he didn’t want to upset the balance.

Mike should probably contact the police. Not because he thought it was necessary, but because Ylva deserved it. It made it seem more serious and reinforced the idea that he’d been taken in. The alternative, that he suspected her of being unfaithful without doing anything about it, was worse.

He decided to go home. It was more than likely that Ylva would be waiting for them there.

Mike managed to convince himself and took the northbound exit at Berga.

*

The front door was still locked and there were no new shoes in the hall. But Mike called anyway.

‘Hello?’

Sanna looked up at him.

‘Is Mummy still not home?’

Mike shook his head.

‘Where is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know.’

Mike didn’t reply.

‘Has she vanished?’

Sanna said it as a joke.

‘No, no, not vanished,’ Mike said, and forced a smile. ‘She’s somewhere. Obviously.’

‘But where is she then?’

‘Probably with a friend.’

He looked at his watch. Quarter to two.

‘I have to make some phone calls,’ he said.

‘You keep making phone calls all the time.’

‘I have to. You don’t want to go and play with a friend?’

‘Who?’

‘Klara, maybe?’

‘She’s not at home.’

‘What about Ivan?’

‘I want to wait for Mummy.’

‘Go and watch a film then, please. I’ll come through as soon as I’ve made my phone calls.’

Sanna sighed and disappeared.

Mike waited until he heard the sound of a film, then phoned Nour.

‘Who have you spoken to?’ he asked, when she explained that no one knew anything.

‘Pia and Helena,’ Nour said. ‘I don’t know who else to contact.’

Mike mustered his courage.

‘Could she be with that restaurant muppet?’

He forced a laugh when he said it, as if he wanted to joke away his only real question as something unthinkable.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I phoned him too, just to make sure. They haven’t met.’

Mike felt relieved even though he knew that that meant his wife was possibly being unfaithful with someone else.

‘What time did she leave you yesterday?’ Mike asked.

Nour took a deep breath and released it in a sigh.

‘I think it was quarter past six or thereabouts.’

‘So she would have been back by seven, if she’d come straight home,’ Mike calculated.

‘Yes, I guess.’

‘And she went down the hill?’

‘She said she was going home.’

‘I think I’d better call the police,’ Mike said.

Nour thought he sounded a bit embarrassed, almost as if he was asking her permission. She didn’t know what to say. Mike filled the silence himself.

‘I had a mate in Stockholm who pissed on the palace once. He’d been to Café Opera and was shambling along Skeppsbron when he had to take a leak. Which he did, not very carefully, by the fountain. The police kept him in overnight, he wasn’t even allowed to phone home. His girlfriend was waiting for him with the rolling pin, thought he’d been sleeping around.’

The story was irrelevant and his voice was forced, as if he was trying to convince himself. Mike was about to crack.

‘I mean, it might be something like that.’

Yes, Nour thought to herself, if Ylva was a man and there was a palace to piss on, it might.

‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘Of course it might. I think it’s best that you call the police.’

‘Just to be on the safe side,’ Mike said.

Ylva stared at the screen. Mike and Sanna were back, and the car was parked in front of the garage. Her beloved, patient and stubborn husband was sitting only a hundred metres away, wondering what had become of her. Ylva felt a physical longing to be there.

She pulled all the paper from the kitchen roll, let it fall in a pile on the floor. Then she took the empty roll and positioned herself on the bed. By directing the sound and shouting through the cardboard tube she hoped she could attract the attention of anyone passing. She waited in suspense, eyes on the TV screen.

When the first couple walked past, she shouted as loud as she could. Unfortunately a car drove past at the same time and drowned out what little noise she was able to make. The next person to pass was a jogger, with music in his ears, not worth the effort. Then an elderly couple who looked like they might stop, which made Ylva shout even more so that they’d realise that something was wrong. They actually stopped and looked at the house. Ylva was sure that they could hear her, without knowing where the sound was coming from, but they didn’t look particularly concerned and after a while they carried on walking, despite her loud cries for help.

Of course they couldn’t imagine that the couple who had recently moved in had locked someone up in the cellar.

Ylva tried to listen instead. She sat with the cardboard roll to her ear and pressed it up to the vent. She heard an electric fan, but nothing from outside. A couple of cars passed without the sound of the engine penetrating down into the cellar.

When finally Lennart, Virginia’s pathetic husband, glided silently past on his Harley Davidson, which didn’t have a silencer, she realised that the cellar room was cut off from the rest of the world, at least in terms of sound.

It was almost impossible to comprehend. That it was actually possible to build a cube under a house with air ventilation both in and out, and water, and yet not a sound could escape.

Ylva reminded herself to think constructively. So, she couldn’t attract attention using her voice. Instead of wasting energy thinking about that, she had to come up with another solution.

If she’d had a lighter or matches, she could set fire to the kitchen roll and let the smoke seep out through the vent and attract someone’s attention that way. The disadvantage of that would be that she risked burning to death or inhaling smoke, and if the vent opened into the chimney pipe, the smoke wouldn’t make anyone react, not even now, when it was warm outside. People would assume that the new couple were burning rubbish in the fireplace and not think any more of it.

And it was perfectly feasible that the vent was connected to the chimney. That would explain why her cries couldn’t be heard.

What else then? Fire, air … water.

There was water in the bathroom. It came in via the pipes and disappeared down the drain. Could she flush
down some kind of waterproof message in the hope that someone at the sewage works would notice it? She pictured the tampons, condoms and rubbish in a revolting sludge of shit and toilet paper. No one would be exactly tempted to look any closer.

Paper. What about if she blocked the toilet so it overflowed? They’d be forced to open the door then.

She heard a sound outside. A key being inserted in the lock of the metal door that separated her from the outside world.