Emelie Schepp - Marked For Life

* * *

It had just started snowing when Jana Berzelius and Per Åström decided to leave the local restaurant, The Colander. Per had suggested a restaurant dinner out to celebrate their judicial successes in a dirty divorce case, and Jana had finally given in. Making food alone was not exactly her favorite pastime, nor was it Per’s.

“Thanks for this evening,” said Jana and got up from the table.

“Happy to do it again soon. If you’d like to,” said Per and smiled.

“No, I wouldn’t,” said Jana and refused to return his smile.

“That was a dishonest statement.”

“Not at all, dear Mr. Prosecutor.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No.”

“May I remind you that you appreciate my company?”

“Not one bit.”

“A drink before we go?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I fancy something with gin. It’ll have to be the usual. You?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then I’ll get two.”

Jana sighed as Per vanished off to the bar. She reluctantly sat down and saw through the window how the snowflakes were slowly falling to the ground. She put her elbows on the table, leaned her chin against her clasped hands and looked across toward Per who was talking to the barman.

She caught his eye and he waved from the bar the way small children often do, by opening and closing his hand. She shook her head at him and then looked toward the window again.

The first time she met Per, she had just arrived at her new office at the prosecution department. Her boss, Torsten Granath, had introduced them to each other and Per had amicably told her about routine procedures at the office. He had given her some tips about good restaurants too. Also about music. And asked her questions about everything else that wasn’t work-related. Jana had answered briefly. Some questions she hadn’t answered at all. Per wasn’t satisfied with the answer in the form of her sultry silence, and continued to ask various unnecessary questions. To Jana, Per’s curiosity felt like a sort of interrogation and she had told him to stop. Then she briefly informed him that she did not like small talk. He had simply grinned at her, in a dreadfully stupid way, and from that day on their friendly relationship developed.

The restaurant was fully booked. The dining room felt rather squashed with all the winter coats, and the brown checkered floor was wet from the snow tracked in on the guests’ shoes. The buzz of voices was loud and the clinking of glasses quiet. There were a few lamps and a lot of candles.

Jana’s eyes left the window and were again drawn to the bar, past Per and on to the mirror shelf behind the barman. She looked at the selection on offer and recognized the labels like Glenmorangie, Laphroaig and Ardberg. She knew they were among the classics and were all distilled in Scotland. Her father was keenly interested in whisky and insisted on sipping a smoky sort at every family dinner. Jana’s interest was limited, but she had been brought up not to say no to a glass when it was offered. She preferred a glass of white, from a well-chilled bottle of sauvignon blanc.

Per came back and Jana looked suspiciously at the large measures in the glasses he put down on the table.

“How strong?” she said.

“A single.”

Jana glared at her dining companion.

“Okay, okay, a double then. Sorry.”

Jana accepted his apology. She sipped her drink and made a face at the dry taste.

Somewhat later, when they had emptied the contents of the glasses, and Per had insisted on ordering two more, the conversation had turned into collegial bickering about morality and ethics in the world of law. After having discussed various stories about much-publicized cases and lawyers of doubtful reputation, the conversation turned to the problem of tired lay magistrates.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the lay-magistrate system should be radically changed. Instead of political nominees they should appoint people who are interested in law and justice,” said Per.

“I agree,” said Jana.

“You want people who are dedicated. After all, their votes on the magistrates’ bench are decisive.”

“Absolutely.”

“Now two adolescents in Stockholm have lodged an appeal on the grounds that one of the lay magistrates had a snooze during the court proceedings.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“It’s simply not acceptable that we have to incur the expense of a retrial just because a lay magistrate dozed off during the court hearing. He should be docked his pay. Unbelievable,” said Per.

He took a gulp of his drink, then leaned across the table and gave Jana a serious look. Jana met his eyes. Serious too.

“What?” she asked.

“How are you getting on with the Hans Juhlén murder?”

“You know I can’t say anything about that.”

“I know. But how’s it going?”

“It’s not going at all.”

“What’s happening?”

“You heard what I said.”

“Can’t you tell me a little? Off the record?”

“Drop it.”

“Is there some dirt there?”

Per smirked at Jana and his eyebrows went up and down.

“Bit of a dirty story there, right? There’s usually some dirt when it’s about bosses.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“I interpret your silence as a yes.”

“But you can’t do that.”

“Can’t I? Cheers, by the way!”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Wednesday, April 18

JOHN HERMANSSON FOUND THE BOY.

Seventy-eight years old and a widower for five years, John lived at Viddviken, a little village by the coast, five kilometers from Arkösund. The house was really too large for the single man and needed far too many hours of maintenance. But what kept him there was his love of the natural surroundings. Since his wife had died, he had trouble sleeping. He usually woke up very early in the morning and instead of lying in bed he would get up, regardless of the weather, and go for a long walk. Even on a chilly morning like this. He had stepped into his Wellingtons, pulled on his anorak and gone out. The sun had just started to rise and was spreading on the frosty grass in the garden. The air felt damp.

John passed the gate and decided for once to skip the forest and walk down to the sea instead. It was only a couple of hundred meters to the shore and the rocks facing Bråviken Bay. He walked down the narrow gravel lane to the water. The gravel crunched under his feet.

He followed the narrow lane that turned off to the right and after the two big pine trees he reached the sea. The water was like a mirror in front of him. That was unusual. There were usually high waves in the bay. John took a deep breath and could see it as he exhaled. Just as he was about to go back, he caught sight of something strange by the shore. Something silvery that glistened. He went closer to the ditch and bent down to look. It was a gun and it had blood on it.

John scratched his head. A bit farther away, the grass was red. But his eyes fastened on what lay next to that, under a fir tree. A boy. He lay with his face down with wide-open eyes. His left arm was bent at an unnatural angle and his head was covered in blood.

The nausea came quickly and John breathed heavily. His legs failed him and he had to sit down on a rock. He was unable to get up again, just sat there with his hand over his mouth and stared at the dead boy.

In his heart he knew that this horrific scene would be etched in his memory.

Forever.

* * *

The alarm reached the Norrköping Police at 05:02.

Thirty minutes later two patrol cars turned down the gravel lane at Viddviken. Another five minutes later the ambulance came for John Hermansson who was still sitting on the rock by the sea. A man who was delivering newspapers had noticed the old guy and asked him if everything was okay. He had pointed at the dead boy and then rocked back and forth and made a strange mumbling noise.