SANDRA HAD CALLED ahead and warned that she was on the way round to Kerstin’s flat in Bingeby. Kerstin was worried about what Sandra would make of the neighbourhood dominated by blocks of flats and looking so tired in the depths of July; it was a far cry from the roses and ruins of historic Visby and the slightly mad week dominated by visiting politicians taking place within the old walls. Kerstin had thus far been no more than a voice to Sandra. A voice and an assortment of life experiences. She hoped that Sandra wouldn’t be too disappointed, that she wouldn’t have to cope with the same mistrust in Sandra’s eyes that had materialised in her parents’.
Her worries turned out to be unfounded. Sandra was beaming when she turned up, and embraced her without any prior examination. Kerstin concluded that it could be one of three things: Sandra had already checked her out at a distance to prepare for their first meeting, Sandra had been prepared for the worst after what had passed between them in their calls, or Sandra didn’t care about Kerstin’s appearance since she knew who she was. Kerstin hoped it was the last.
“It’s so good to finally meet you, Kerstin.”
“Sorry,” Kerstin said awkwardly for the third or fourth time.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” said Sandra. “And there’s really no need to apologise for being unable to be in two places at once. You prioritised your friend, and you were right to do it. Unlike me, she wasn’t surrounded by medical staff, and she couldn’t help herself. I’m so sorry about what happened to Jeanette.”
“It was what she wanted,” said Kerstin. “That’s some comfort to me.”
Sandra nodded and looked around the small flat.
“This is a really lovely place,” she said. “You’ve got so many books—I like that.”
“Thanks,” said Kerstin. “I’ve got a hell of a lot of money too.”
Sandra strolled over to the bags and slung one over her shoulder with some effort.
“And you cycled with these?” she said, laughing. “Quite a job, I have to say.”
Then she looked at the spot where a tag had clearly been removed from the holdall she had picked. She looked up and caught Kerstin’s eye.
“You know that was just the final straw, right?” she said. “The one that broke the camel’s back.”
Kerstin wasn’t so convinced. She shrugged her shoulders and pursed her lips.
“If Jeanette hadn’t found that tag, some other last straw.”
It was possible that Sandra was right. Kerstin wanted to believe she was, but she felt far from certain. However, there was comfort in the fact that Jeanette had made the choice herself, and that even in death she had looked satisfied with the choice she had made.
“Come on, Kerstin. You’ll have to take the other bag.”
“But I can’t . . .”
“Nonsense, of course you can. We’re going to end this together.”
It wasn’t what they had agreed to, but Sandra was so persuasive that Kerstin was unable to resist. And perhaps it was about time to get a new, healthier relationship with the long arm of the law.
HALF AN HOUR LATER, they were standing at a desk in an open plan office at Visby police station. Sandra had specifically asked to speak to the same investigator she had been assigned as a liaison while Erik had been missing, but Kerstin also knew him. He was one of the two officers who had brought her the news of Karl-Erik’s death after he had gone missing—the one who had been there when she had identified the body.
“This bag contains three million kronor,” said Sandra, heaving the holdall onto the table with a loud thud. “The proceeds of multiple robberies years ago.”
Following Sandra’s cue, Kerstin did the same thing. Several other officers had already stood up at their desks and joined the trio with ill-concealed curiosity.
“This bag contains another three million kronor,” said Kerstin.
“Consider this cash as evidence,” said Sandra. “As the background to a sequence of dramatic events. You’ll have to decide yourselves how to respond to them. They’re all described in this document, which also contains the as-yet unpublished conclusion to the summer serial in Gotlands Allehanda.”
Now she let the manuscript drop onto the table: a printed copy of all the words and sentences that comprised the story of the fateful events forever binding together Sandra, Kerstin, and the destinies of several others. The police around them—ten or so by this point—exchanged looks, unclear whether to be taken aback at the workload or to look forward to getting stuck into the thick bundle of prose.
“Here’s the mobile that has photos from the hit-and-run at the ravine in Madvar,” Sandra continued. “That’s evidence too. And here’s a document that sets out the real details that I’ve disguised in the serial. It includes names, ages, years, dates, times, weather, places, car brands, professions, modus operandi, and so on. You’ll find everything that you need to proceed all set out nicely.”
There was a murmur spreading among the police now, which gradually rose and became an expectant hubbub while the mobile was examined, the bags opened, and the manuscript thumbed through.
It suddenly felt very good to see the police officers’ reactions to the handover, and it was no use denying that Kerstin felt a certain pride at having been involved in the work that had gone into that thick document. She had obtained redress of sorts for Karl-Erik, and perhaps even for herself. Despite what it had cost her. And what it might cost her in the future.