We Know You Remember (81)

It was a hand.

Wedged into the riverbank, partly above the surface.

The bones of a hand.

“There’s more there,” said Shirin, pointing down into the water.

Slightly murky, difficult to see; golden brown sediment mixing with the clear river water.

“A thigh bone,” Eira heard a voice beside her say. “Likely a thigh bone.”





Chapter 44





He was floating, as though through water, drifting upwards. Had no idea where he was coming from, or where he was going, and he didn’t know how he could be breathing if it really was water.

There were voices, but he couldn’t reach them. Floating far away from him, up above, like birds in the sky, crossing overhead, like the cuckoo on the other side of the river, calling out.

There was a name.

Olof.

In the distance, where there was nothing.

Olof.





Chapter 45





The jazz club was in the very heart of Sundsvall, on a tree-lined boulevard that suggested that, in its heyday, the city had once dreamed of becoming another Paris.

The walls were lined with photographs of jazz legends, footage of a fire burning on a TV screen. Eira immediately recognized the woman sitting at the bar, a half-empty glass of beer in front of her.

Unni, twenty years later, but with the same cropped hair, still dyed red. Wearing a pair of tight jeans and multiple necklaces. Before she met a jazz musician and moved to Sundsvall, she was always over at their house, one of Kerstin’s many friends who had scattered in the wind. Eira remembered their voices drifting through the wall.

She had to be well over seventy now.

“God, you’re all grown up! Let’s have a look at you. Such a pretty girl now!”

Unni protested when Eira tried to order a nonalcoholic beer—she could stay the night, couldn’t she? She’d always have a place for Kerstin’s daughter to sleep.

“Funny you got in touch today of all days,” she said. “Have you seen the news? Looks like they’ve found that girl who went missing in Marieberg. I was staying with you when all that happened, do you remember?”

News of the discovery in Lockne was already out; it had broken on the local radio that morning, and by afternoon the speculation was rife. It didn’t take long. The dust had been stirred up recently, ever since the murder of Sven Hagstr?m, and the journalists quickly put two and two together.

The question on everyone’s lips: Is the body that of missing Lina Stavred, who vanished one July day twenty-three years ago . . . ?

“Yeah, I remember,” said Eira. She sipped her beer, dark and bitter. “That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you.”

“And here’s me thinking it must be something to do with Kerstin.” Unni clutched her chest, breathed a sigh of relief. “I didn’t dare ask over the phone; I was sure you were going to say something about cancer or death.”

Eira quickly told her about the dementia.

“I’ll be damned,” said Unni. “That has to be the worst—disappearing though you’re still here.”

“I don’t know why the two of you lost touch.”

“It happens sometimes.” Unni watched as a couple of musicians stepped onto the stage, tuned their instruments. Turning up amps, testing the strings on a double bass.

“We don’t know whether it’s Lina Stavred’s body yet,” said Eira. “It’s all just media speculation. That kind of thing takes time to determine—especially if it’s been underwater for years. At this stage they often don’t even know if the body is historic or recent; they haven’t found all the pieces yet . . .”

Unni stared at her for a few seconds, then laughed. “My God, I forget you’re a police officer now. To me you’ll always be that little girl with pigtails and dungarees. I remember how you used to try to hide behind the sofa to eavesdrop on us while we were drinking wine.”

“I’m not here on police business.”

“Ah, good. Then you’ll have another.”

Unni waved to the bartender, gesturing for two more IPAs without even asking. Eira felt a sudden urge to knock it back in one go.

“You know Magnus and Lina Stavred were dating,” she said.

“Uff, yes, it’s awful when it’s so close to home. Kerstin was petrified. Your brother ran off and got drunk instead of talking about it, kept everything inside, you know? Boys.” Unni drank a little too quickly, her gaze wandering. Following the musicians as they got ready onstage, reacting to every new customer who came into the bar.

“I miss her so much sometimes,” she continued. “We lost touch after I met Benke and fell head over heels in love. Maybe you remember him? Played bass like a god. Probably still does. Kerstin was honest with me, told me he was no good. I was angry that she couldn’t just be happy for me, but she was right. It lasted seven years and he definitely wasn’t good for me, but I’d do it again in a flash.”

“I was wondering what you remember from those days,” said Eira. “When they were looking for Lina and you came to stay with us . . .”

“Everything, I think. You don’t tend to forget the things that scare you most—I can still remember the nightmares I had as a girl.” Unni pulled out a lipstick and found her reflection in the glass on one of the frames on the wall, her face blending with Louis Armstrong’s. “I lived on my own over in Paradise, you know? One of the workers’ blocks in Marieberg. And then I heard that was where Lina went missing. Not even a kilometer away.”