The Shapeshifters (37 page)

She had collapsed and he had not got a word out of her.

That was bad.

Anxiously he glanced over his shoulder, towards the street.

What if someone came in?

He took a step towards the door curtain but stopped and let the little creature down on the floor before he hurried into the hall and locked the front door. At least no one could come into the salon now.

There were no curtains he could close, so he would have to get her into the next room. After throwing a second swift glance at the salon window, he stood behind the collapsed woman and forced his hands under her limp arms, which were sweaty underneath. Laboriously he dragged her into the other room. Her thick hair gave off a heavy aroma of musk. It made him want to turn his face away. The lemmingshifter sat inert for a while in front of the pool of urine before scuttling after Seved on all fours. He heard the scraping sound as it ran up the steel legs of the massage table in the next room.

Seved moved a chair and propped Cecilia against the wall, with her head hanging to one side. Her eyes were still shut tight and she was breathing so fast through her nose that her nostrils flared.

It did not look good.

There was a paper-towel holder on the wall and Seved drew out a long piece which he crumpled up and used to wipe his trousers, mostly because he did not know what else to do. Should he wipe the pee from the floor as well? Was there time for that?

Not a word had he got out of her. Nothing.

‘Can you hear me?' he said, rubbing the paper against his trouser leg, but she did not react. She just sat there against the wall, eyes closed, panting. The little creature had hopped down from the massage table and was beside Seved's naked foot, nudging his heel with its nose. Probably the salts in the bowl of water had made his skin smell exciting. He let it continue. He was actually
afraid of it. He never imagined it could be so powerful.

Seved crouched down and was trying to open one of Cecilia's eyelids when a trilling noise made him turn his head.

A mobile phone.

At first he was afraid and he dared not move until the tones had stopped. Confused, he had the idea the phone was ringing because someone was coming. Of course, he understood that was not the case but he could not shake off the growing uneasiness that told him to get out as fast as possible.

The ringing had come from the treatment room and he stood behind the door frame for a while, hiding himself from anyone walking past outside. A handbag stood gaping open on top of a small chest of drawers. It could be inside. He hurried out and rummaged around in the bag but the phone was not there. Then he continued out into the hall.

He found it in her coat. A red mobile with an antenna. Lennart could use that in some way, he was sure. Maybe there were messages on it? As he shoved it into his pocket he discovered his rolled-up socks. He put them on, followed by his boots.

The little shapeshifter stood in the middle of the floor, watching vigilantly. The eyes in its wrinkled, distorted face were like a couple of chocolate buttons.

‘Come on,' he said, picking up the lemmingshifter and letting it glide down inside his jacket. It scratched around in the lining of the sleeve before it found its way into the pocket.

He zipped up his jacket, put on his hat and went out. There was not a single person in sight. The cold soon homed in on his wet trousers and, with its icy grip on his leg, he hurried towards the hostel.

 

 

They found themselves on the outskirts of Mjölby. Swollen clouds hung low in the sky and sleet had started to fall. The slivers hitting the windscreen could hardly be called snow. Ahead of them the asphalt was black and water sprayed up from cars' tyres as they passed. Susso was holding Gudrun's mobile, moving her thumb indecisively over the worn, loose keys.

‘I don't know what to say,' she muttered. ‘Can't you ring instead?'

Gudrun was sitting in the back seat, her head leaning heavily against the window.

‘I'm too tired, Susso.'

Her voice was weary, almost whining.

Susso waited a few moments longer. She could not understand why Mats Ingvar would want to mislead them. Clearly the Vaikijaur man had stayed with him and his family, but why send them to John Bauer's house? She could not equate Mats's sorrowful expression with someone who was conning them when a little boy's life was at stake. It did not add up.

There had to be another explanation. She had toyed with the idea that Bauer might have made the same observations as her grandfather and had some connection with authentic trolls. Perhaps the Vaikijaur man was acquainted with Bauer?

‘Okay, I'll phone,' she said, pressing the keys.

She pressed the mobile to her ear and rested one foot on her
knee. A yellowing pine needle had hooked itself onto one of the laces. She picked it off and rolled it between her fingers. The phone rang at least twenty times before she gave up. She was relieved that he had not answered. Her anger had not lessened but it was diluted with doubt. There was so much she did not understand at the moment. She borrowed Torbjörn's smartphone and typed ‘Bauer' and ‘Björkudden' into the search box.

After a short delay a list of links appeared on the screen. The first was to the John Bauer museum.

‘Look!' she said triumphantly. ‘I've found something.'

The screen filled slowly with text, and as sleet splashed against the car windows Susso began to read aloud from the phone as it glowed in the dark interior of the car:

Upon their return from a trip to Italy, John and Esther Bauer found Villa Björkudden, beautifully situated on a small headland beside Lake Bunn, south of Gränna. They rented the house from the artist Pelle Malmborg and lived there between 1910 and 1911. But Esther was not happy living at the isolated property through the winter, so for a couple of years they lived at Björkudden during the summer months and rented a home in Stockholm for the winter. In 1914, John and Esther decided to buy the house at Björkudden, and the following year Esther gave birth to their son Bengt, who was given the nickname Putte. This was a harmonious time for the family, who appeared to have settled happily in the idyllic location.

The house was surrounded by thick forest, essentially untouched. Here John Bauer found the silence and tranquillity necessary for his creativity. They planned several ambitious renovations and extensions to the property, but these were never realised. It became obvious that Esther was not smitten with Björkudden like John. She was lonely in
the wild forest and longed to return to Stockholm. John's father paid for a plot of land in Djursholm, on the outskirts of Stockholm, where the couple built a new house. They were on their way to the newly built house on the steamer ferry
Per Brahe
when it capsized on Lake Vättern in November 1918 and the whole family died.

Susso clicked on the link ‘
Per Brahe
capsizes' and continued reading:

The accident was widely discussed and contributed to John Bauer's fame. Perhaps it can be regarded as fitting, if tragic, that the artist who illustrated fairy tales met his death in the mysterious depths of Lake Vättern.

Susso dropped her hand to her knee. Torbjörn said nothing. He pulled at the edge of his hat and then replaced both his slender hands on the wheel.

‘I didn't know he drowned,' he said. ‘Did you?'

Susso shook her head.

‘I don't get it,' Susso said. ‘It can't just be coincidence, can it?'

‘What?' said Torbjörn.

‘That he wanted to be given a lift
there
, of all places.'

‘No, of course it can't!' snapped Gudrun.

‘So what was he doing there then—assuming Mats isn't making the whole thing up, which I find hard to believe,' Susso said. ‘How would he have been able to do that? It's perfectly obvious it's the same person on the film and in my photo. There's no mistaking it.'

‘Maybe he felt he belonged there?' Torbjörn said. ‘It's like it was a leper colony, or however you want to describe it. A sanctuary . . .'

‘Ring that man,' Gudrun said. ‘The one who owns the house.'

‘Ring him yourself,' Susso said. ‘You're much more polite.'

Gudrun keyed in the number she had written on the back of a receipt.

‘Is this Fredrik Dahllöf?' she said. ‘My name is Gudrun Myrén and I'm phoning you because . . . well, because I'm looking for a missing person and I think this person could have visited you in the spring of 1980. At Björkudden, your holiday home in Gränna . . . I was given it by your neighbour . . . He looks quite unusual. He's short, very short in fact. So if you have met him, I'm sure you would remember . . . Hello? Yes. Like a child, except he isn't a child, he's . . . old. He looks a bit like a troll. Or a gnome perhaps . . .'

She sat in silence for a moment before folding the phone shut and saying:

‘He hung up.'

‘But what did he say?' Susso asked.

‘He hung up. He didn't say anything.'

‘But why didn't you say anything about Mattias?'

Gudrun took a deep breath, and after she had exhaled she said:

‘I didn't have time. I just told you, he hung up!'

‘You'll have to ring again.'

‘Ring him yourself.'

‘Mum!'

‘You ought to phone,' retorted Gudrun. ‘You know more about the boy than I do.'

‘Give me the phone then.'

‘Use Torbjörn's.'

Susso gave a laugh.

‘Why are you being so silly?'

‘I'm not. He hung up on me! If he gets another call from the same number, it's highly likely he won't answer.'

They pulled in at a petrol station. Gudrun and Torbjörn vanished into the shop but Susso stayed in the car. Outside the illuminated circle of the filling station it had become night. The beams from their headlights lengthened in the rainy darkness and turned into spiralling veils, and Susso could not tear her eyes away from them.

Later, as they swung back out onto the motorway, she said:

‘He wasn't lying. I'm sure about that.'

‘You can never be completely sure,' Gudrun said, chewing.

She had bought a hot dog and the whole car smelled of sweet mustard and grease.

‘I can be sure of that, at least.'

‘You ought to phone Tomas,' Torbjörn said. ‘His son. To get it confirmed.'

‘Yes,' said Gudrun. ‘That's not a bad idea.'

‘It is him on the film,' Susso said. ‘Definitely.'

‘Why don't you ring Dahllöf again?' Gudrun said, her mouth full of food.

‘But he didn't know anything,' Susso said over her shoulder.

‘I didn't say that.' Gudrun finished her mouthful. ‘I only said he hung up.'

Susso held out her hand, and when Torbjörn saw it out of the corner of his eye he fished his phone out of his pocket and unlocked it.

‘Give me the number then,' she said.

‘Dahllöf.'

‘Please don't hang up,' Susso said, ‘because what I want to tell you is important. It concerns a child who has been kidnapped.'

‘Look, what is this all about . . . ?'

‘You've probably read about it. Mattias Mickelsson, who disappeared at Christmas. In Jokkmokk. We're looking for someone who might be involved in that.'

‘Who am I speaking to? Are you the police?'

‘My name is Susso. You spoke to my mother a minute ago.'

‘No, I did not. Goodbye!'

‘Stupid bloody man,' Susso said, pressing the disconnect key hard with her thumb.

‘You ought to phone the police and ask them to phone him,' Gudrun said, crumpling up the hot-dog wrapper. ‘That'll make him talk.'

‘It's a bit suspicious, I think,' Susso said. ‘Hanging up like that and refusing to answer.'

‘Maybe he's mixed up in it,' Torbjörn said.

‘We might have to track him down,' Gudrun sighed. ‘And make him understand.'

‘Where does he live then?' Susso asked.

‘Didn't she say Helsingborg?' answered Gudrun.

Torbjörn snorted.

‘How far is that?' said Susso.

‘It's in Skåne,' Gudrun replied.

‘If we go there, we've practically driven down the entire country,' Torbjörn said. ‘And judging from his response on the phone it's not going to be a very rewarding journey.'

‘He'll understand how serious it is,' Susso said, ‘if we come to him.'

‘Unless he's protecting someone,' said Gudrun. ‘It's like Torbjörn says—they might both be involved in the kidnapping.'

‘You've got to phone the police,' Torbjörn said. ‘And explain.'

‘Explain what?' Susso said, unscrewing the lid of her snus tin.
‘That the person they're looking for visited the headland where John Bauer lived? Twenty-five years ago?'

She inserted a pouch under her lip, pressed it into place with her tongue and went on:

‘It's hardly a hot lead.'

 

 

Seved was sitting in his shirt and underpants, eating a meal he had bought at the fast-food kiosk. He had hung his trousers over the radiator below the window after rinsing them under some running water in the handbasin.

Cecilia Myrén's telephone was locked, so he could not get into it. He thought about phoning Lennart again. Perhaps Jola would know how to unlock it? If it proved to be impossible to get into the phone and find some useful information, he would be forced to make another attempt with the sister, and this time it would be considerably more difficult. His only chance would be to break into her place at night, and if her bloke was there, who knew how it would end? It was tempting to talk to Lennart instead and tell him there had been a cock-up, that he had tried but had not been able to get anything out of her. That she had collapsed. And that was the truth. But Lennart would not give up until he had pushed Susso Myrén's sister so hard she died.