Oswald was sitting in front of an open newspaper. He snorted, crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it at her. It bounced off her head and fell to the desk.
‘Read this shit, but get hold of Bosse first.’
She sent a quick message to Bosse, unfolded the crumpled paper, and had no trouble spotting what had caused Oswald’s outburst.
Madeleine was gazing up from the page. It was a graduation photo, complete with the traditional white dress and cap. Prisoner of the diabolical sect on Fog Island, read the caption.
Oswald loomed over her as she read. He was breathing heavily, and his presence was so palpable that it was hard to focus. But the article was short. It said that Madeleine’s parents, who lived in Stockholm, had been trying to get in touch with her since New Year’s Eve. They had called, emailed, and sent letters, all in vain, and at last they took the ferry to the island but were turned away.
We couldn’t even get through the gate. A rude young man told us she was busy and didn’t have time to see us.
The article concluded by saying that the police would investigate Madeleine’s disappearance and take all necessary measures to reunite her with her parents.
Bosse had appeared in the doorway. He must have come running, because he was panting and sweat was dripping from his forehead.
‘Come in and close the door,’ said Oswald.
Bosse obeyed but leaned against the doorjamb, staying as far from Oswald as possible.
‘Have you stopped sending out the staff mail?’
‘No . . . yes, I mean . . . After what you said . . .’
That was all it took. Oswald’s marble paperweight went flying and Bosse barely had time to duck. It struck the doorframe and left a mark in the woodwork before it fell onto Bosse’s foot. He cried out. Sofia couldn’t help picturing blood spurting from his forehead — it had been such a close call.
‘So I’m the one who stopped the mail?’ Oswald shouted.
‘No, sir, no, not at all. I mean . . . the letters were there for a long time, but a few days ago Sofia found them. And we sent them out.’
Oswald looked at Sofia. ‘What’s this?’
‘I found a bunch of letters from the staff in the mailroom. I knew you would never allow them to lie there for months, so I directed Bosse to mail them.’
Oswald didn’t say anything for a moment.
‘What does that matter now? This rag will take credit for the fact that we released the letters at last.’
‘They can’t,’ Sofia said. ‘The letters will have been postmarked two days ago. Before the article came out.’
‘We can say we were having issues with the mail,’ Bosse suggested.
‘If you don’t shut your mouth, I will superglue your lips together,’ Oswald said.
But he looked calmer. He turned back to Sofia.
‘I’m going to make a few calls. You go talk to Madeleine. She needs to call her parents right away and say that it was her choice not to contact them. And she can say she’ll visit them this weekend. Sten will listen in on the conversation, as always — and make sure he records it too.’
He fixed his eyes on Bosse, who was still standing with the paperweight between his feet and his back pressed against the door.
‘She can’t go alone. Send a chaperone. Someone who can handle it if Madeleine gets any ideas. Katarina, maybe. Drill into Madeleine’s feather-brain what she is and is not permitted to say. We can turn this whole mess around to our advantage.’
*
Sofia found Madeleine in the stable with Benny. They were fixing the door to the pigpen and didn’t notice Sofia until she was almost on top of them.
She decided to get straight to the point.
‘Madeleine, your parents went to the police.’
‘The police?’
‘They haven’t heard from you since January.’
‘But I wrote to them.’
‘The letters were never sent. Your parents came to the island asking about you.’
‘Oh no! Does Franz know?’ She was nearly hysterical.
‘What do you think? It was in the paper today.’
‘The paper? Oh my god, I’m so ashamed.’
‘Yes, but he’s giving you a chance to fix it. You have to go see Sten and give them a call. Tell them it’s all a big mistake. That the mail got lost. And you’re going to go visit them next weekend. With Katarina.’
‘Katarina?’
‘Yes, just say she’s your best friend, and she’s really been looking forward to meeting them.’
Madeleine nodded frantically. ‘Sure, I’ll do whatever it takes. Just so Franz doesn’t fire me.’
‘He won’t. Do you know anyone who’s left ViaTerra?’
‘Just Elvira.’
‘She’ll be back, believe me.’
Every time Sofia spoke to Madeleine it felt like there was an infinite gap between them. As if everything she said just bounced back to her from the invisible walls of the void — even her barbed comments.
Once she had delivered Madeleine to Sten, she went back to the office. The door was ajar and she could hear Oswald’s voice. He was on the phone and sounded livid. For once he wasn’t using the speakerphone, so she couldn’t hear the other end of the conversation.
She lingered outside the door to eavesdrop.
‘Yes, you heard me. Some idiot misplaced the mail. She’s calling her parents now and she’ll be visiting them this weekend. Right, it’s all a misunderstanding.’
Silence for a moment. She was just about to enter the office when he started talking again.
‘That sounds good. As usual, thanks for your help, Wilgot. You have to visit us this summer. I’ve released the fifth thesis. Total dynamite.’
Wilgot. She could picture him at dinners in the annexe. The chief of police who had sat at her table with his wife, the accountant.
‘Then that’s settled. Yes, just call the parents later so they can confirm it. I’ll handle the newspaper. They’re damn well going to publish a public apology.’
She walked in, pretending nothing was wrong, and sat down at her desk to clean up one of his lectures.
He ended the call, then sat down to type something on his computer. For a while they worked in silence. But something was wearing on him and creating a cloud of irritation in the air between them.
‘Did Bosse tell you I was the one who asked them to stop the mail?’ he asked at last.
‘Yes, I suppose he suggested as much.’
‘And you still told him to send it?’
‘Bosse always acts like a robot, you can’t keep track of everything around here.’
‘Right, right. It’s just a little too . . . perfect. You aren’t up to something, are you, Sofia?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Good, then that’s that.’
*
On that same day, she was struck with serious doubt. It wandered into her mind sometime after lunch. Everything had seemed so simple just a few days ago. She wanted out. The cell phone had arrived like a gift from heaven. All she had to do was call home and say, ‘I’m stuck here. Help me.’ Or call the police directly. But nothing seemed quite that easy anymore. Not at all.
She thought of what had just happened to Madeleine. Wilgot Östling was so tight with Oswald. And there were other things to consider, and now she didn’t know which way was up.
If she just left, what would happen to all the others? Simon, his hands busy in the earth, waiting for the walls to fall. Benjamin, who she both loved and hated. How long could he hold out without transforming into a passive bag of bones?
But why did she even care? They were all there of their own free will. Although that wasn’t entirely true. No one could know how another person truly felt inside, and there was so much they weren’t allowed to talk about. She was torn, and it felt like her doubt might drive her to madness. She wished she could come to a decision and turn her thoughts to something more sensible.
I need ammunition, she thought. Proof of everything that’s going on around here. If I run now, he’ll send the whole police force after me.
She had hoped Oswald would take the five o’clock ferry for his meeting with the newspaper and leave her alone with all her troubling thoughts, but he decided to call the paper instead. The conversation didn’t seem to go as he’d hoped. The calm, authoritative voice he started out with soon grew annoyed and angry, until at last he slammed down the phone. The barrage of curse words he aimed at the paper were ones she seldom even used in her mind.
It was going to be a gloomy evening. Even the weather was horrid. A storm had moved in during the afternoon, and the wind and rain pounded the windows. Thick black clouds hung over the estate and extended off over the sea. The trees were bending in the wind and leaves and flower petals flew across the yard like butterflies. Just as she was considering which excuse she could use to get out of the office for a while, the phone rang. It was Benjamin.
‘Sofia, the five o’clock ferry is cancelled due to the weather. I can’t bring Franz’s food over today. I don’t know what to do.’
‘There’s not much you can do, is there?’
‘No, but try to explain to him, please. I spoke with Björk but he said the winds are too high. It’s too dangerous.’
‘I’ll take care of it,’ she said, hanging up.
Oswald glanced in her direction.
‘Who was that?’
‘It was Benjamin. They’ve cancelled the five o’clock ferry. Your food won’t be coming, but I’ll make sure the kitchen fixes you something.’
‘No you will not. He can make sure the ferry goes instead. I want my food.’
He was thoroughly worked up after his conversation with the newspaper.
‘Benjamin said he talked to Björk, but the wind is too strong. It’s too dangerous.’
‘It’s nothing! Look out the window. Look, I said! This weather is child’s play for anyone who knows the first thing about boats. But this whole damn village is full of cowards, and Benjamin is even worse. I never understood what you saw in that idiot.’
‘I understand.’
‘No you don’t, not at all, because you don’t know how many times I’ve had to eat crap when he’s screwed up. Go ahead, go to the kitchen, but I bet it will be something nasty, as usual.’
She was on her way out of the office, but he had risen to block her way. He walked up to her, and with every step he took she backed up until she was standing with her back to the wall. He grabbed her wrists, pulled them up above her head, and held them in an iron grip.
‘Benjamin this, Benjamin that,’ he hissed.
Her body was stretched out before him, and when she tried to pull her arms back he only squeezed her wrists harder. He moved even closer and pressed his body firmly against hers. His face was right up next to hers. She could feel him breathing into her ear, in little starts.
‘Is there something misfiring in that head of yours, Sofia? Don’t you get that what you need is a man with drive, not a whiny little brat?’
A voice inside her head was screaming at him to stop, but no words could pass through her compressed lips. He pressed against her even harder, and she felt his erection against her stomach.
Do something! Kick him!
Just then, he let go. He stepped back and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Now go get that bloody food.’
*
The rain was pouring down outside. She opened her umbrella, but the wind caught it and blew it inside out. She bent it back and aimed it into the wind instead. By the time she’d battled her way to the annexes, her legs were soaked and the hem of her skirt was dripping.
She forced the images of what had just happened from her mind. The way out is through his office, she thought. I have no choice. Unless I want to go to Penance again. And I don’t. I’d rather die. I’ve got to get out of here, I’ve got to.
Negotiations with the kitchen staff about what to make for Oswald took a long time. The pantry was low on stock and at last they decided to make spinach-and-cheese ravioli.
‘We have a good French cheese to use in the filling,’ said Inga, one of the cooks.
‘Do you have fresh tomatoes?’ Sofia wondered.
All at once, the cooks looked dejected.
‘No, only tinned ones. But we do have some fresh lettuce from the greenhouse.’
Sofia considered this for a moment. It seemed like the best solution.
‘Okay! But you’d better start right away.’
She didn’t want to go back to the office, so she waited in the kitchen as they prepared the food. The tomato sauce smelled delicious as it simmered on the stove, and she got her hopes up that they might be able to appease Oswald despite his horrible mood.
The rain had let up by the time the meal was ready. She asked Inga to help her carry the food to the office, because she didn’t want to be alone when she served Oswald.
They stood quietly in the doorway until he nodded at them to come in. Inga placed the tray on the desk in front of him. The kitchen staff had arranged the food with care and garnished it with basil Simon had already managed to grow in the greenhouse. When he first lifted the dome from the plate, Oswald looked pleased.
‘What’s this?’
‘Ravioli with spinach and cheese, sir,’ said Inga. ‘The cheese comes from Brittany. And the lettuce in the salad was grown here, of course.’
‘Hmm . . .’
He poked at the sauce with his fork.
‘You didn’t use canned tomatoes, did you?’
They deflated. Neither of them dared to answer. Inga’s cheeks had gone bright red.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Sofia. ‘We simply didn’t have any —’
The tray came hurtling at them so fast it flipped end over end in the air. The plate shattered into hundreds of tiny shards and the ravioli bounced off the floor here and there. Their legs were splattered with tomato sauce and water from the glass, which had also smashed to pieces.
Suddenly everything was still, except for the plate dome, which was spinning on the floor with the unpleasant scraping of steel on marble.
‘Get out!’ he screamed. ‘Get out of here and don’t come back!’
At first she didn’t know where to go. She sent Inga back to the kitchen and went to her room, where she sat on the bed and forced back the tears that were burning her eyes. I won’t go back there, she thought. I will not suck up to him for the sake of fucking canned tomatoes. He can clean it up himself.
Her pager buzzed.
Come back to the office.
She went anyway. Her legs stood up on autopilot and trudged up the stairs.
But if he keeps complaining about the tomatoes, I’m leaving, she thought. I’ll just walk away without a word.
He smiled at her as she came in, as if nothing had happened. As if the wreckage and the food on the floor didn’t exist. She almost slipped on a piece of ravioli as she approached him but caught herself just in time.
‘It’s not your fault, Sofia,’ he said. ‘Frisk is the one who hasn’t done his job. He’s been messing with me for a long time now. I think he’s trying to take over.’
‘Take over?’
‘Yes, take over my job. I’m sure that’s why he got hung up on you. Because I’m the one who brought you here. He wants anything that belongs to me, you see.’
‘But he only ever has good things to say about you.’
‘Exactly, he can be so ingratiating. You don’t know him, Sofia. Get this into your skull. I know what I’m talking about. You saw what happened when you wanted to run away. Anyone with a speck of initiative would have just stopped you. But not Benjamin. He didn’t dare. He came crying to me instead.’
She wanted to challenge him, but she reacted too awkwardly. She cleared her throat, but no words came out. He stood up and came over to her desk.
‘I can read people. Believe me. Benjamin is a deceitful jerk, and you should be glad things ended the way they did between the two of you.’
‘I’ll make sure the ethics unit investigates.’
‘Not necessary. Just make sure he comes by as soon as the ferry arrives in the morning. I’ll deal with him myself.’
It’s by sheer chance that I overhear their conversation.
Sara has gone to bed. I’ve been chatting with them in the living room, or the salon, or whatever the hell it is.
Once again I’ve suggested that I should move out. Get my own place.
It’s not something I truly want to do, but it seems polite to suggest it.
Show them I don’t want to be a burden. Once again, I allow them to convince me to stay.
‘The house is so large’; ‘Emilie feels safer with you here’; ‘Sara would be crushed.’
The same old arguments. And I pretend to buy them. I head for the kitchen, planning to make a midnight snack.
But they think I’ve gone upstairs and I can hear their voices clearly through the cracked door.
‘I have to take a look at the will,’ he said. ‘Fredrik is like one of our own, but it’s still not proper for him to have the same right of inheritance as Sara.’
‘What does it matter?’ she says. ‘I don’t understand why you’re bringing it up. We’re not going to die.’
‘You can never be too careful. We’ll leave him enough money to manage, of course.’
She doesn’t say anything.
I hate them. It takes effort to keep myself from walking in and slugging them one. Those ungrateful idiots. After everything I’ve done. All these years of toiling, fawning over them, and immaculate behaviour.
I stare out the giant window that faces the sea.
How much money is in question here? I’m sure it must be billions.
Enough money to live whatever life you like. Instead they live here, mincing around on their marble floors.
Throwing pathetic parties for boring people.
It’s almost criminal to waste resources like that. My course has been so steady; my plan clearly staked out.
But now it’s time for Plan B. And it has to happen fast.