Authors: Camilla Ceder
The
first time Seja heard the nickname Herpes Hanna was at a table by the window at
the Northern Station. She hadn't gone so far as to agree with the claim;
everyone knew that Hanna was her friend. But she had taken pleasure in it. As
time went by the name became well established, and Seja would take every
opportunity to protest:
Hey, she doesn't sleep around any more, she's
actually grown up
… But even in retrospect she was aware that her own
self-confidence was built on the fact that she had been compared, to her
advantage, with someone she used to think played in a higher league: Hanna,
with her big tits and her interesting voice and the parties that people
actually came to.
No
doubt all teenage girls have a capacity for taking pleasure in the misfortune
of others and for constantly comparing themselves with their peers, but this
didn't make Seja feel any less guilty as Hanna talked about how difficult
things had been in the years after they lost contact.
'I
moved to Stromstad and finished my education there - a friend of Mum's took
pity on me. It did me good to get away from everything and start afresh. Like a
clean page, a place where nobody knows anything about you. It can be like a
drug, that feeling. You want to do it all over again, just up sticks and start
again somewhere else.'
Seja
thought about her cottage. 'I wanted to invite you to my place,' she said.
'Bring Markus and come over. But I won't lie to you: one of the reasons I rang
was because I'd like your help with something.'
'Help?
What on earth could I help you with?' said Hanna in
surprise.
'I
need your help to dig into the past.'
Hanna
laughed.
'Bloody hell, Seja.
But I'm very good at
digging into the past.'
'And
it will be brilliant to see you,' Seja added quickly. 'I'm in the middle of a
love affair that's not going very well, and I've got several bottles of wine
here. You'd be doing me a really big favour if you came over and helped me
drink them.'
This
time Hanna's laughter was lighter.
'When?
Now?'
'Now
would be good. I'll pick you up at the bus stop.'
'Junkie.'
'She
probably was, but I think she pulled herself together towards the end, before
she… disappeared.'
'Disappeared?'
Hanna looked at Seja, deliberately opening her eyes wide in marked contrast to
the drooping eyelids of a moment ago, a consequence of the quantity of wine
they had consumed.
They
had carried the TV and video up to the loft so that Markus could fall asleep
watching the films his mother had cleverly brought with her. Downstairs Norah
Jones was whispering from the speakers, and the remains of a Thai chicken curry
stood on the draining board. An almost empty wine box was balanced on the edge
of the worktop.
Seja
pushed open the kitchen window to let in the midnight air as Hanna lit a
cigarette.
She
recoiled as the high flame singed her eyelashes. 'Shit! Just like the old
days!'
'Anyway…
she did disappear, but never mind that. I just need to know who she was.'
'Look,
I'd really like to help you, Seja, but I don't remember her. There were so many
people who drifted in and out of the gang. Lots of young girls and lots of
friends of friends, people you didn't really know. People you just recognised,
you know… but she had black hair, you said?'
'Yes,
at least later on. I think she had red hair at first, pinkish red. I often saw
her at the cafe - we talked about it that last time we met. She used to write
in the visitors' books. Her alias was… Shit, I can't remember it.'
Hanna
smiled at the memory of the visitors' books. 'My alias was Hannami.'
Seja
became animated. 'I wonder what happened to the books.'
'Later
on, you mean?'
'Yes,
when the cafe closed down.'
'Let's
hope they were burned. Bearing in mind all the embarrassing crap we wrote in
them. I remember writing about my suicidal thoughts once; I just didn't think
about the fact that my alias gave me away. The next time I turned up there were
three complete strangers sitting there, three girls, waiting to convince me
that life was worth living.'
She
splashed some wine on her trousers. Seja got up to fetch some salt, but Hanna
waved it aside.
'Leave
it. I can hardly do up the button on these old jeans. It's time to accept
they're too small and chuck them away.'
'I've
a feeling she was friends with Kare… I used to see them together. Not that they
were a couple or anything. I haven't seen Kare for ages either.'
Hanna
seemed to be thinking. The column of ash from her cigarette landed on her knee
as the penny dropped.
'Hang
on. I think I know who you mean. A little girl - short, I mean. She always used
to wear a white leather jacket, do you remember that?' 'That's it!
A white leather jacket with
Alice Under
on the back.'
Now
it was Seja's turn to spill her wine. The liquid was soaked up by the pale
green tablecloth, making batik swirls around the saucers containing the
flickering candles. Muted sounds came from the loft.
Hanna
stood up on wobbly legs and went out into the hallway.
Seja
stared at the stain for a moment before tipping salt over it, turning it into a
pink sludgy mess.
The
stairs creaked and Hanna padded back into the kitchen.
'She
hung out with Magnus for a while. You know, Magnus with the plaited beard. He
used to play the fiddle. I spent a whole evening talking to them at Solsidan.
Not that I remember what she was called or what we talked about.'
She
sat down heavily and placed a hand over Seja's.
'Now
tell me what this is all about!'
Seja
looked at Hanna's hand. The nails were long and painted dark purple. Beneath
her own short unpainted nails she could see a line of horse shit.
She
hoped her expression conveyed her feelings.
'I
promise I will, Hanna.
In time.
But right now I just
want to know her name and… what happened to her.'
'So
you think something happened to her?'
'I
heard a rumour that something happened to her, then I heard she was dead. I
just need to find out, otherwise I won't get any peace, and the only
thing
I have to go on are my mixed-up memories and you.'
'And the visitors' books from the cafe, of course.
The
alias,' Hanna added.
'Yes,
but I hadn't actually thought about those until now.'
Hanna
looked at her suspiciously.
'Seja.
What has all this
got to do with you? Are you sure I don't need to worry about you?'
Seja
put her hands together.
'You
don't need to worry.
At least not much.
But right now
I'm going to make myself a bed on the sofa, and you can squeeze into my bed
with your son.'
Hanna
didn't seem to have the energy to protest. She nodded gratefully at Seja. 'I'm
absolutely worn out.
And pissed.'
She turned back just
as she was about to climb up to the loft. 'You said it yourself.'
'What?'
'The visitors' books.
I know a
guy
who knows one of the people who used to run the station cafe. He has a
restaurant on one of the streets off Kungsgatan.'
After
Hanna had gone to bed Seja took a last walk over to the stable. The old door
creaked.
Must remember to oil the hinges.
She
didn't bother putting on the light; she stood in the darkness listening to the
restful sound of Lukas snuffling around in his oats. Her exhaustion disappeared
and was replaced by a strange almost electric energy.
She
went back inside, switched on the computer and wrote for the rest of the night
in a kind of fever.
It
had fallen to Beckman to go over to the Klara hostel at seven thirty that
evening. She had just been on the point of calling it a day, having already
phoned Goran and the kids twice to say she was going to be home late, when the
supervisor at the hostel for homeless women had called just after seven and
passed on the information that Susanne Jensen had booked in ten minutes earlier
for an overnight stay. As usual when it came to interviewing children or
vulnerable women, the inspector wasted no time in delegating the job to Karin
Beckman. She liked Tell, but he was so predictable.
She
accepted the job in silence, knowing perfectly well that this would enable
Goran to debit her account with yet another night spent working late, which he
would expect to cash in for a night at the pub with the lads.
She
was getting over her cold but still felt exhausted to the very depths of her
soul. If it hadn't been a matter of pride she would have asked Tell to send
another member of the team, somebody who hadn't spent virtually all of
Christmas away from their children. But she'd been in this game long enough to
know that that would be like volunteering to eat the crap the conservative old
guard happily slung as soon as the opportunity arose. It was difficult to
credit, but there were still coppers who believed that the profession of a
policeman
demanded greater commitment than a normal
responsible mother with small children could reasonably demonstrate. It drove
her mad. Then again, there were some days when she was tempted to agree with
them.
When
she called home for the third time she got the answering machine. Usually she
would hang up and call back if she knew they were home, but this time she
didn't bother; she wanted to avoid Goran's voice, at best teasing and at worst
disappointed, when she told him that she wouldn't be home in time to say
goodnight to the children this evening either. She left a short message with
three kisses, and set off.
She
was just navigating around Brunnsparken, through the conglomeration of trams,
cyclists and people who stepped straight out into the road without looking,
when Karlberg rang to pass on another message from the hostel. Susanne Jensen
was no longer there. The supervisor didn't know what this meant. Either she had
gone out to buy something and would be back soon, or she had got wind of the
fact that the police were looking for her.
Beckman
decided to carry on anyway. The court building was looming up ahead of her, and
the hostel was supposed to be just behind it. If she had missed Jensen, at
least she would be able to talk to the staff.
At
this time of day there was plenty of activity in the long narrow hallway. Two
women arrived at the same time as Beckman and heaved their shoes, jackets and
handbags into lockers with practised ease. The keys were on an elastic band,
like the ones you get at swimming baths. A signing-in book lay open on a desk,
and beside it stood a young woman with her hair in thin bunches. She greeted
the overnight guests briefly. Several seemed to be regulars as she called them
by name.
Beckman
tried not to regard those signing in as tragic, but told
herself
the same thing she usually did when she came into contact with vulnerable
outsiders: they were just ordinary girls and boys who had been unlucky in life
and were at rock bottom, on their way back up. Nothing was for ever, after all.
It
could just as easily have been me.
Right now she didn't have the strength
to follow the thought through - for example, what would happen if Goran threw
her out during their next excoriating row; the house actually belonged to him.
But it isn't me.
An
older woman with dark hair drawn back into a knot seemed familiar as she pulled
off a bright green scarf. At first Beckman couldn't place her. Then she
remembered a television debate on the new prostitution laws. The woman had
introduced herself as a
spokeswoman
for prostitutes,
homeless and abused women. She had furiously maintained that the new law did
street girls a disservice by making their work something shameful and driving
them underground. The old arguments for and against had been trotted out, and
Beckman's abiding memory of the debate was surprise that this impressive woman
should belong to what were usually regarded as the dregs of society.