IT WAS FRIDAY and she had almost reached the deadline that she had mentally set for Hallin to start paying the bloody support. It had been on Midsummer’s Day that he had unexpectedly given in when she had called him, but just as she had suspected, this had simply been a delaying tactic. He had needed time to prepare the next phase of his vendetta: sabotaging her car. That had clearly shown her who she was up against. The only thing she had been able to do was plead with his wife to ask him to stop his persecution, and perhaps it had worked. Four days had passed without any threats, and Sandra could only hope that it was over.
Personally, she had absolutely no intention of taking the matter any further—not in light of what she now considered to be a death threat hanging over her. Sandra had explained clearly to his wife that she didn’t care about the money—all she wanted was to get out of this with her health intact. If they communicated with each other at all, then the news had surely reached Hallin.
That was why she was hopeful, but she also regretted not being warier back when the bunch of flowers had turned up on her porch. Then she would have avoided the fear, as well as the logistical hassle involved in having her life in one place and living in another.
Despite all the negativity, the thought of the bollocking that Hallin must have got from his wife after Sandra’s visit was very entertaining. Even if the intention at the time hadn’t been to cause trouble for Hallin, she had still given him a real kick in the balls, metaphorically.
Despite her budding optimism, the fear wouldn’t go away entirely. It wasn’t just any old person she was dealing with—she occasionally had to remind herself that the guy was literally capable of murder. Peter Norling had been lured to a secluded spot before being brutally beaten to death. Despite his presumed innocence. After all, he hadn’t taken those photographs, let alone sent them to Hallin. Hallin was ruthless, stopping at nothing to conceal his mistakes. Which were only mounting up.
And he was the father of Sandra’s child.
But she refused to see it like that. Erik was her son. He had no father, and if he were ever to get one in future, it wouldn’t be Hallin. He was more than welcome to pay child support—in fact, he was going to—but she didn’t view it as child support. Thus far, she had managed just fine to cover the expense of food, clothing, toys, housing, and childcare. Erik got what he needed. This was money for Sandra—damages. For the pain and suffering, the sick leave, the anxiety, and all the harrowing memories. An unwanted pregnancy that she had initially been uncertain how to deal with. And a tenacious fear of men in general, and intimate relationships as a whole.
THE FIRST TIME it rang, she was at work standing in a circle with her colleagues issuing instructions to them on how to structure the rest of the afternoon and evening. She glanced at the display while continuing to talk, noting that it was the kindergarten calling. She rejected the call, meaning to call them back straight after the meeting. Less than a minute later, she had another call from the same number and realised that something might have happened. Maybe Erik had come down with a fever or started throwing up; in that sort of situation the staff were usually keener than the parents were to have the child picked up quickly. So she rejected that call too, although her anxiety was rising. When they rang again immediately afterwards, she excused herself and went into an adjacent room where she could shut the door.
“Erik is missing,” said the head.
“Missing?” Sandra said, dumbfounded.
“We were in the woods at Furulundsskogen on an outing and suddenly he was gone.”
Sandra pulled out a chair and sat down while thoughts whirled around her head. She concluded that if the head of school was compelled to contact a parent on such a sensitive matter, then it had presumably been a while since the child had gone missing.
“When did this happen?” she asked.
“Around two o’clock. We’ve looked everywhere, but we can’t find him. I’m sorry—I never thought I’d have to impart news like this.”
Sandra looked at the time and noted that it was ten past three. “Hasn’t he just gone home?” Sandra suggested. “To his grandparents, that is.” She didn’t want to believe that it was anything worse than Erik falling out with someone and deciding to leave. Little Igor, she thought to herself. That little bully had probably done something bad to Erik—made him angry and upset, made him feel unfairly treated so that he ran away, offended.
“One of the staff has driven over, and he wasn’t there or anywhere on the way.”
“He’s three years old, he probably doesn’t know the way,” Sandra said.
Then she realised that this was not an exchange of words that either of them had to win. She couldn’t stand the head of school, but this wasn’t about their personal chemistry—it was about collaborating.
“Have you called the police?” she inquired.
“I’m going to do that now, if you’ll let me.”
“Do it,” said Sandra. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Furulundsskogen, did you say?”
“We’ll keep searching. See you at Gråbo.”
“Whereabouts?”
“In the free car park behind Träffpunkt Gråbo. Outside the youth club.”
Only now did the penny really drop. Erik was missing and the situation was serious enough that Sandra had been called and the police were going to be brought in. The picture of the future being painted before her eyes looked extremely ominous—a life without Erik was unbearable, unthinkable, and couldn’t be allowed to become reality. This was a warning shot that was shaking her into action, a hint about how things might go if she didn’t take good enough care of what gave her life meaning.
It was in a state of rising panic that she got into the car and drove over to the woods at Furulundsskogen.
TEN MINUTES LATER, she arrived on the scene. A couple of her colleagues from work had come with her, and her father also appeared. Her mother was waiting at home in case Erik—in spite of everything—managed to find his way there, somehow. There was an ambulance in the car park, and Sandra got it into her head that it was for Erik. Had he climbed into a tree, fallen out, and lost consciousness? Broken his arms, legs, neck? Had he cut himself on something sharp or been bitten by a dog? A snake? Had he had a bad reaction to a wasp sting?
The Furulundsskogen woods comprised a charming but compact area consisting of delightful beech trees with dense canopies in places, while elsewhere there were a variety of trees including a sprinkling of pine. The chirping of birds and the dancing sunlight filled the treetops, while the ivy struggled to make its way up towards the sky. The ground was covered in goutweed and moss, soft and bewitching. There were a thousand shades of green, each one the source of a unique scent. A great place to take kindergarten kids on an outing. No water, no obvious dangers. On the other hand, it was surrounded on all sides by houses and roads. Houses with people living in them who might take it into their heads to take a kid home, roads that led to bigger roads, bigger forests, and the sea, which was everywhere.
The world grew around Sandra, while at the same time her field of vision shrank.
Children and grown-ups were tugging at her—they had things to tell her and questions to ask. That made the gravity of the situation even more palpable. Maybe this wasn’t a warning sign—maybe Erik was gone for real? Forever? The police had a thousand questions, were talking about mobilising search parties and inquiring about Erik’s habits and things he didn’t do, his appearance, his build, medical issues, clothing, and interests. Did the child have a father? Any threats?
Were there? What was she supposed to say? If there was no child then there was no father—that was the nature of the threat. But yes, she had already reported threats to the police. And yes, there was a father—not a nice one. Concentrate on him, do it now, but be discreet, and don’t make yourselves known. Follow his every movement and sooner or later you’ll find Erik. Unless he’s dead already—then we won’t find him for a long time.
Over and over, she had tried to get the policeman to understand this vital point. It was only when he pointed out that he had got the message long ago that she fell silent. He promised that they wouldn’t prioritise police procedure over Erik’s health and well-being. And that they would immediately put Hallin under surveillance.
She had irrevocably taken matters to the extreme, created desperation of a calibre that had put her own child in mortal peril. Had she really not grasped until now that she was facing something that might already be fact? But—she had to remind herself—it might not be.
Contacting Hallin was out of the question—terrified as she was of riling him up. Driving by his house to look for traces of Erik would be both futile and dangerous. An approach from the police would be even worse. If Erik was unharmed, Sandra’s and the police’s actions couldn’t be allowed to change that.
All she really wanted to do was set off and search, but there were more important things to do and others were doing the searching. It ended with her being sent home—not to her parents’ house but back to her own. Since Erik knew his own address, perhaps he might have asked someone for a lift home? It was just for the night, then she could be reunited with her parents, enveloped in the warmth, share her despair with them.
So Sandra spent the night alone in her desolate house. She had rejected all offers of company from friends and family. Her father was roving through the woods with hundreds of others, searching, while her mother watched over her house and Sandra over hers.
She worked. With raging ferocity. But when her thoughts began to wander, she allowed herself to be distracted by the summer night outside. Then she crept out of the open door, taking in the dew-heavy scents and wandering around the garden. Searching for sounds and shadows, shouting and crying.
She sat down at the computer again. Now things were urgent. More urgent than ever before. She thought and pondered, turning everything that had happened inside out. Her brain was overflowing with thoughts, but that kept her going and on her toes.
Hadn’t she expressed herself clearly enough—was there any doubt when it came to the financial demands? Hadn’t she said that yes, she wanted to withdraw her claims, but that the threats had to stop? Please, I don’t care about the money—just make sure he doesn’t hurt us. Surely that had gotten through?
Or was the problem that she had done just that—pleaded? Was the kidnapping retribution for humiliating herself in front of his wife? Because she had got his wife involved?
Or, to go one step further—had the visited been misinterpreted as Sandra putting her threats into action? Might it have been seen as the first step being taken—his wife had been informed that something had happened that afternoon, that forbidden and immoral relations had occurred? Had he interpreted it as meaning that she was about to take the next step—the one that could not be taken at any cost—informing the police about the rape?
Was it one of these elements, or all of them in combination, that had driven the man who had raped Sandra to steal away her son? If there was no child, then there was no father. The child was the only thing that could support loosely created theories about rape and drunk driving, which might in turn lead to accusations of manslaughter, hit-and-run, and even murder. A kidnapping added to the charge sheet hardly mattered.
Or another murder.
Perhaps it might make the difference between the longest time-specific sentence that could be handed out and a life sentence—if the murder of Peter Norling and all the other stuff wasn’t worth a life sentence, then a child murder would be. But for Hallin, it probably didn’t make much difference. He didn’t want to be deprived of his liberty, full stop, and he was clearly prepared to do whatever it took to avoid it.
Perhaps even killing a child.
Sandra entertained little hope that the police surveillance on Hallin would lead anywhere. Assuming they had even taken her misgivings seriously. He had killed Peter Norling with a heavy shovel—it couldn’t have taken more than a few seconds. If the intention was for Erik to die, then he was already dead and buried by now.
Sandra tried to keep that incomprehensible thought away from herself. She alternated between padding back and forth by the window with a sob in her throat and working, biting her lip so hard that she tasted blood. She didn’t sleep a wink that night—there was no time.