Caroline Åberg - Stockholm Noir
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- Название:Stockholm Noir
- Автор:
- Издательство:Akashic Books
- Жанр:
- Год:2016
- Город:New York
- ISBN:978-1-61775-297-1
- Рейтинг книги:3 / 5. Голосов: 1
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Stockholm Noir: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация
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“How much do I owe you?” she asked, reaching for her purse.
I stopped her by grabbing her wrist.
“Ow,” she said. I have strong hands. I’d grabbed harder than intended.
“I’m not going to sell to you,” I said. “And if I ever sell to you, I won’t do it like this.” Then I let go of her wrist.
As I walked back, it was starting to get dark. The sun peeked though the pillars of the highway bridge, as it got ready to prepare another beautiful sunset over Vinterviken Bay. If things had been different, we could have walked back together to watch the sun set.
They found her dead in the water the next day. She was right where I had left her. The scene did not match any of the ones I’d imagined: She was in the water with all her clothes on and no obvious wounds. Her hair was loose, the best fashion for drowned people. (A hundred years ago, someone would have written a poem about the scene, and it would have been just as perverse as anything crime novelists write today.)
The cause of death was drowning — but not a typical suicide. In addition to the psychological improbability of the whole thing, it was just not possible to jump into the water and drown right there without rocks or weights in your pockets or a great deal of sleeping pills in your system. Neither of those was found. Yes, a small amount of alcohol, but nothing else, no foreign substances in her blood. How carefully did they check, though? Did they know what to look for? Her purse was missing, and with it, the small envelope I’d given her.
The scene was suspicious — not just because of the missing purse, but also the bruises on her wrists and neck. This could indicate that her head had been held underwater. Or something else. But when the police traced the text messages between us, which they’d gotten from the phone company, and realized I was her overemotional and disappointed ex, it did not look good for me.
I had no alibi, of course. When the police took me in, I pointed out she’d told me she had another errand to run nearby. I told them about the dark-skinned guy who’d been hanging around. What did he look like? “Dark-skinned” and “sweats” were not much to go on. I don’t think they worked very hard to track him down, either. Shortly after that, they confiscated my computer, which, stupidly enough, I hadn’t erased any documents from. The photos of Anette, the detailed descriptions of murder, the records of my side business — it certainly did not look good for me.
So you can imagine how it went. First she appeared in the headlines: “Fashion Model Found Dead.” Then I came into the picture: “Model Murder: Police Suspect Ex-Boyfriend.” And on and on: investigation, arrest, jail, court case. Everything has been written in such detail that it makes me sick to write another word about it. I was no longer a nobody. I was either a killer or a man wrongfully accused. I got hate mail and letters of admiration. There are so many idiots out there.
I was convicted, by a divided court, over my protestations of innocence. Yes, yes, I was guilty of trading in illegal substances, there’s no doubt about that. In Sweden, that’s just as bad as murder anyway. But as far as Anette’s death goes, there was hardly any real evidence — a disturbing lack of it — and my lawyer and many other people knew this. Perhaps I did too.
So we’re in the midst of an appeal, a process that’s slowly moving forward. I’ve begun to serve my sentence. I’m a great prisoner. My cell reminds me of my tiny office, even if it lacks a view of the water.
Prison is not a game, but it has done wonders for my work ethic. I’ve finished my crime novel, such as it is. I now have some new experiences I can use. It also helps that describing murder scenes is no longer an obsession of mine, and I’ve found that I no longer believe crime never happens in Stockholm.
It was easy to find a publisher. I was infamous, hardly a disadvantage. The book is coming out next year. I’m already writing a second. That’s what crime writers do: they write one book and then the next.
Still, my appeal is coming up. My lawyer is convinced I’ll be set free, if I don’t do something stupid (he’s not all that happy about my devotion to the written word). Whatever happens, the dead are still dead, and people will continue to believe whatever they want about the living. Whether the court decides I’m innocent or guilty is just a small detail in the bigger picture.
Only losers care about details.
Horse
by Anna-Karin Selberg
Translated by Rika Lesser
Rågsved
I’ve pursued her for months. Waited. Waited for tracks she must have left behind, signs. People think they can be invisible moving through the world, but they always leave something behind. Sooner or later, if you wait long enough. If there’s anything I’ve learned, this is it.
At first, all I could do was sense her, a slender shadow in the investigation, she scarcely existed, but gradually she assumed a body, and finally all her names collapsed into one.
I hold it in my hand. Kim. There’s something about her that almost arouses jealousy in me. Her face in the passport photo, the narrow marked jawline, the serious expression. And then something in the eyes that doesn’t go with the rest of her expression, a slight feminine nonchalance almost creating a touch of condescension around her. Natural, inborn contempt. I can see how she uses it, how with only a glance or gesture she dismisses anything in her surroundings that doesn’t suit her. She knows the art of disdain and I can sense the feeling of being its target. The resentment that would call for revenge. But I’m not someone she can dismiss. She chose me such a long time ago, she waits for me as patiently as I do her. As if our lives sought each other out from the first moment. In retrospect, everything we ever experienced will appear as inevitable steps, slowly closing the distance between us.
I check the address again, Sköllerstagatan, and then the map.
When Erik reported on the case to his colleagues that morning — it’s months ago now — I instantly knew what kind of case it would be. In certain investigations something breaks into me, hits me, and starts to communicate with something deep in my body, forever forgotten. Draws out a nasty, stirring anxiety and forces it forward. Forces me to return to the place I never want to come back to. The place I always return to, in every investigation that draws my attention. Some inexorable magnetic power. Pushes me back to the day that turned me into who I am, the day that repeats itself in my life, a repetition I have transformed into a profession, into a hypersensitive instrument. Shivering, it searches its way into each case that awakens my sleeping unease with vague promises of something I cannot understand, something I can sense but not see, brute patterns and indistinct connections on their way to forming. A raw anxiety that gives no rest until every possibility is reviewed, every opening is searched out, and the evasive tracks of a perpetrator are decoded and identified. It is an instrument I bear like an imprint of the past, of the hours I cannot recollect: the lost hours my thoughts grope for in the investigations, but will never comprehend. As if a part of me should exist there, somewhere in the cases.
I can see my parents, I can see them perfectly clearly, although I was only one and a half years old when they found us and I know what I see is my own creation, something I’ve gleaned and put together from scant reports and the four photos the social services sent with me. I can see their eyes when he leaves them, their eyes in death. He killed them for the five grams of heroin my father hadn’t yet shot up his veins and some cash. I’ve never returned to the place we lived, have avoided it all my life, I never went back to that side of the city.
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