We Know You Remember (39)

“Was that how he described it?”

Mejan sat down again, at the very end of the daybed, as far away from Eira as she could get.

“He was a different person back then,” she said. “The court ruling and the time he spent in prison made him understand—he even changed his name to become someone else. I called him Adam for a while in the beginning, but I always liked Tryggve better. He barely even dared touch me when we first met. But you don’t want a man to fumble gently, do you? I had to tell him I wasn’t made of glass, that’s how scared he was.”

“Of you?”

“Of himself.”

“Does anyone else in the area know about this?”

Was that a shiver? Had her muscles tensed slightly? Eira wasn’t sure. The pause lasted no more than a second, but she still took it as hesitation.

“I haven’t told anyone, and I can’t imagine Tryggve has either. There was no reason to. We’re just living our life. It’s a good life.”

Her anxious eyes sought out the door. They could no longer hear Patrik’s voice. Bosse Ring must have managed to get him to calm down.

“Was it important to Tryggve that no one found out about the assault?”

“Yes, if that’s what you insist on calling it. I’m sure you know how people like to gossip and judge. Tryggve was an immature boy back then, he had no experience of women. We’ve never had any problems with our sex life, if that’s what you think.”

Various details from the trial transcripts seemed to have settled like a filter over Eira’s eyes: seven men, a vaginal wall splitting. Ask open questions, she reminded herself, listen carefully. Make the woman talk. That was the key.

“How do you think Patrik would have reacted if he found out about this from someone else? Or your daughter-in-law, your daughter?”

“Why, have you called her as well?”

“Not yet.”

Mejan looked away, mumbled something.

“Could you repeat that, and speak up for the tape?” Eira asked.

The woman got up and turned on the tap. Drank a glass of water. Eira tried to read her movements. Nervous, angry, shocked—or all three. She tried to work out what a more experienced interviewer would ask next. Her eyes were aching. The smell of smoke was still lingering like a bitter taste in her mouth; it was on her clothes, everywhere. She had forgotten how little she had slept.

“Sven Hagstr?m,” she eventually said.

“Yes?”

“Did Tryggve mention talking to him? During May or June, let’s say.”

“Maybe, I don’t know. Didn’t you ask about that already?” Mejan seemed to be thinking, trying to remember what had been said. “It would be about the road or the broadband if anything. The kind of thing neighbors talk about.”

“We think Sven Hagstr?m might have heard about the assault.”

“So that’s why you came up here, turning everything upside down . . . ?” Without warning, Mejan got to her feet. The cup rattled as she gripped the table. “Tryggve works for the council. He looks after their finances. You lot are out of your bloody minds.”

“Did Sven Hagstr?m threaten to tell anyone else?”

“I have no idea.”

“Could you tell me what you were doing that morning?”

“Like we haven’t already done that, over and over again.” Mejan picked up her cup. The coffee she still hadn’t touched sloshed over the side. She tipped it into the sink. “I think Tryggve was cleaning the drain in the bathroom. Chopping wood, that kind of thing. Everything has to be just so for Patrik and his family. Tip-top. Sofi can be a bit particular—more than a bit, actually. She wants everything a certain way, even though it’s our house she’s visiting.”

“Did you actually see your husband doing those chores?”

“I was back and forth between the two buildings all morning, pottering about in the kitchen. I would have noticed if he was gone.”

The sound made them both react: footsteps in the hallway, a voice. Through the window Eira saw Bosse Ring step out into the yard. Patrik slammed the door behind him. Mejan flinched, as though the sound was a physical blow. What had she said last time? That they wanted to create their own little space on earth?

Bosse Ring was getting into the car as Eira came out, and he waved in a way that made her hurry over.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“It wasn’t the lightning that started the fire at Hagstr?m’s place.”





Chapter 20





The charred black ruins were a stark contrast to the beauty of summer all around them, the sunlight glittering on the river. A reminder that nothing lasts forever.

The fire was completely extinguished. By a stroke of luck it had spread only to the trees closest to the property, singeing the dry lawn. The forensic technicians moved slowly through the burnt-out home, carefully picking among the remains of a life.

“Have you found him?” asked Eira.

The crime scene investigator who came to meet them was called Costel. She had forgotten his surname, but remembered that it meant “forest” in Romanian. He came from Transylvania and had once told her that the two landscapes, with their peaks and valleys, were related.

“There’s no one inside,” he said.