A Death in Sweden(21)

“Why is her husband terrible?”

“Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. He’s a good husband and father, good son-in-law too. I just don’t like him very much. I think it’s mutual.”

“You’re just not compatible?”

“That’s it.”

“And he’s a good father, husband, son-in-law . . .?”

He laughed, liking the fact that she was comfortable enough to tease him, then said, “What about you, your parents still alive?”

“Of course. And I also have one sister, but I like her husband and children.”

“Point taken.” He’d reached the end of his shelf, and said, “I’m done.”

“Me too, very soon.”

He turned, looking out of the window. Beyond the reflection from the lights it already looked dark outside. He looked at Inger then, the snug beige jeans, the equally fitted sweater, the gentle flexing of her body as she reached up for a book, inspected it, put it back, took another, repeated the process.

She finished and turned, and when she realized he’d been watching her she raised her eyebrows and said, “If you spent more time with your mother she’d tell you it’s rude to stare.”

He smiled and said, “I wasn’t staring, I was watching, and I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry.”

She nodded, a truce, but looked around the room with a sigh and said, “What next? We must be missing something.”

“I noticed a small cabin at the back.”

“It’s a sauna, I think.”

“Okay, so I guess if he used it, not the best environment for hiding anything, but we’ll take a look in there, check the garage.”

“Good, but in the morning, I think. The Eklunds should be bringing dinner soon.” Dan nodded but didn’t move, and then Inger said, “Can I ask you something?” He looked expectantly. “I was thinking about the kind of person he must have been, and you told me people are trying to kill you now, that they’ve killed people you know, so I wonder, could you live like this, the way Jacques Fillon did? Could you disappear?”

“I’ve been asking myself the same question since I got here. I’m one of life’s optimists, so I still believe I’ll find a way out of this current situation, quite possibly with this guy’s help.”

“But if you don’t?”

“Yeah, I guess I could disappear. It’s what I’ve done my whole life, but I always disappear to somewhere, you know, I keep moving. What this guy had here, no, I don’t think so.”

“Nor me. I like all of this.” She gestured toward the room, as if summing up the whole property. “But to leave everyone behind, no connections, I couldn’t do that.”

It summed up the difference between them, between Dan and most people. The difficulty of Fillon’s life in Dan’s mind was the boredom, the lack of color, the claustrophobia, whereas for Inger it was the thought of leaving behind friends and family.

It reminded him of the conversation with Charlie. What were they doing with their lives, what did they even hope to do with them? At least Charlie was fixed on the idea of getting back with Darija, as fanciful as that dream might prove to be.

Dan had nothing to aim for, only a continuation of the transient lifestyle he should have grown out of ten years ago. It wasn’t enough, he knew that, but at least it meant he had nothing to lose, that he would never lose anything ever again.

“I guess we can’t say what we’d do, not until we know his reason for coming up here. Maybe the guy was a natural loner, or maybe he just didn’t have much choice.”

She nodded, looked around the room one more time and said, “We should go.”

They walked back in total silence, only the rough sound of their footfalls and the distant indistinct sounds of birds. Insects hovered around them as they walked too, probably the last of the year, before the cold encroached and added a new layer of peace to these woods.

They got back just as Mr. Eklund reached the cabin carrying a large tray. He was elderly, but Dan could see now that he was strong, that he’d labored in his life, either for his work or in the everyday chores of living out here, and he carried the tray effortlessly.

He left them alone to eat and they got beers from the fridge. It was meatballs in a sauce and some sort of dumplings, which amused Inger in some way, though she seemed to enjoy it.

And they talked casually enough, about the small town south of Stockholm where she’d grown up, about the global village in which he’d lived his formative years. They talked more about family, too. And elliptically, they talked about their work.

They washed up afterwards, stacking the plates and cutlery back on the tray, and then sat with another couple of beers in the lounge area. He’d been unsure how he’d get on with her, but now that he was with her it felt as though they’d been around each other a long time; a sense of familiarity that was out of step with the few hours they’d spent together.

He felt comfortable with her, even though he sensed she still had reservations about him, about his work and his past. Then he made a mistake. She swigged from her beer and hiccupped, then looked in danger of having a full-on attack, but held her breath until it had passed, and it was such an insignificant thing, but she looked so beautiful as she sat there, patient, her lips pressed together in concentration.