Broken Mirrors (ARC) Read online

  'Do you recognise the road?' I asked Johan, passing him the phone.

  He pinched to zoom, frowning intently. 'I think it could be Malmgårdsvägen,' he said finally. 'There is a little bit of a cottage here, maybe, and part of a tree. It is at the bottom of Vitabergsparken,' he added to me.

  I nodded. I knew the road he meant, I'd run along it a few times.

  'How do we begin to find out who she is?' he asked me. He was trying to keep his voice steady, but I could hear the hope dancing in it, and I knew why.

  It wasn't Mia.

  The woman in the pictures was shorter, curvier, her stride entirely different. I reached the final photo in the set, in which the photographer had finally managed to get enough ahead of her to grab a shot of her face before she disappeared around the corner.

  'We don't have to,' I said. 'I know who that is.'

  It was Lotta Berglund.

  27

  She did not like things that could not be undone. It wasn't fair. On some days, she would never do the things that seemed natural, obvious even, on others. Yet she was expected to account for who she had been on quite a different day.

  Often she would say or do something on one day, and on the following day not feel that way at all any more, and yet those around her still gazed at her with suspicion and silence and judgement. It was just one more reason to hate people. Their lack of imagination.

  Even Lisbet, who really ought to have known better, banned her from seeing the little girl ever again after she caught her sister pinching the baby when she was just a few months old. Not hard, the girl was barely even crying, and she hadn't intended to hurt her. It was just that those little pudgy arms were so intriguingly fragile looking. Then Lisbet started screaming and she could never make them all understand that now she had done it once she never needed to do it again. Lisbet died soon afterwards so it really didn't matter in the end, but the memory still rankled.

  Somebody, one of the teachers or doctors or social workers, had once tried to explain the concept of consequences to her. That words and actions meant something to other people, and would not always be forgiven or forgotten just because the moment had passed. She hadn't been particularly interested at the time and couldn't see what it had to do with her, but now she was a little bit curious about the potential consequences of what was happening now.

  The storm she had started.

  The storm that had begun to grow beyond her, to include other people. That was the bit that was simultaneously exciting and frightening. She could see it in the others' eyes. Understanding was dawning all around her, tiny invisible synapses connecting to her and how she saw the world.

  She had lived many years without ever experiencing connection to other people, and it was an odd sensation, like stepping into a bath she expected to be warm only to find it stone cold. She didn't mind a cold bath, she had had many of them. She just liked to know what she was stepping into beforehand.

  28

  'It was the same old bullshit.' Anki Manheim had short dark hair in a sleek bob and wore thick, seventies style glasses. She sat back in her desk chair, pressing her fingertips together, looking all the world like an inspiring photo of a female scientist in a school career brochure. Though we must be the same age, give or take, something about her made me feel a little like a naughty school girl called up in front of a stern headmistress.

  'How do you mean?'

  She sat forward and stared at me intently. 'Well, it is like this,' she said tartly. 'When a team of scientists comprised entirely or primarily of men report results, they are accepted. There is of course a rigorous process of peer review, but it operates within the context that we are scrutinising the results of work that is fundamentally sound. However, when the findings are from teams that are comprised entirely or primarily of women, they are subjected to an endless round of defending not only their conclusions, but the most basic aspects of their process. At best, it is a gigantic waste of time and at worst it fundamentally undermines the dignity of women as professionals working in the field. Several studies have shown that people unconsciously question work that is presented by women.'

  'And you believe this is what happened to Lotta's team in Boston?'

  'There is no question. She called me close to tears once, recalling how she had been asked to confirm what steps she had taken to ensure that the lab was sterile. It was a level of questioning more suited to an undergrad, and it was humiliating. I don't know whether or not the drug they were working on should have been approved, Lotta herself admitted there was still work to do, but it was this kind of insulting response that made her quit. Not — how did you say that man described it? Like a temper tantrum because she did not get her way? Absolutely not. It was one of the few times I knew Lotta to express vulnerability.'

  I nodded as I wrote that down.

  'Please do not imagine I am confirming the impression of her put out by that man in the press,' Anki continued, her voice cold. 'The fact is, Lotta is a very contained, reserved person, but this most certainly does not suggest she was capable of cold blooded murder. We live in a society that dismisses women as emotional and weak should we ever betray that we are human, and if we then hide ourselves accordingly we are painted as unfeeling automans who must therefore be capable of the most depraved violence.' Just as I was thinking that Anki herself had a teeny bit of the unfeeling automan about her, her face broke into a grin so sudden I almost jumped. 'Sorry,' she smiled, with an impatient shrug. 'I get a little bit angry when I get going on how women are judged for getting angry. I might not be helping our case.'

  'Oh no worries, you are preaching to the choir,' I said, with more than a touch of relief. 'I've had my sources and data questioned so many times that at one point I took to snapping a rubber band around my wrist to stop me screeching 'do you think I'm a moron' before throwing my skirt over my head and dancing out screaming.

  'I knew a woman once, who, every time she was asked to defend her most basic ability to do her job, she would fling her head back and howl like a wolf, then smile and answer the question like nothing had happened.'

  'She is my hero,' smiled Anki. 'As is Lotta. Quitting the project and getting on the next flight home the way she did was born of years of that frustration, and in my opinion it took guts. Some would say to stay and fight the bastards, but I understand why she did what she did. Sometimes you know that you are fighting a losing battle. She never responded to a single call or email from anyone associated with the project, she simply said this is not acceptable and she removed herself. After losing her, the project folded. I think in this case, she did the right thing.'

  'Based on what you know of the drug she worked on in Boston, could it have been the one used in the murders?'

  Anki thought for a moment. 'Yes, it is possible' she said finally. 'Look. I have no evidence to offer you that Lotta is innocent. Nobody can say for certain what they did not witness. None of us even know what those closest to us might be capable of, and I do not even know a Lotta so well. Perhaps she killed these people. But perhaps not. I have not seen any evidence to confirm her guilt, and neither have any of these people calling for her head on a platter.'

  'Is anyone doing that?'

  Anki rolled her eyes impatiently. 'There is some group of vigilante idiots who announced this morning that they're going to find Lotta and dispense justice because the police are being too slow. They have been patrolling the streets for days claiming they're keeping us safe, when they're probably more dangerous to the general public in the actual killer.'

  Don't you want to be safe? The guy with the mournful face and the long hair.

  'I think I might have run into them the other day,' I said.

  Anki nodded. 'They have been gathering in public places. What the point is I don't know – so they can intimidate any serial killers who happened to be walking past? It is absurd.'

  'How do they imagine are going to find Lotta when the police can't?' I asked.

  Anki shrugged, r
olled her eyes. 'I believe they claim to have inside information, but I doubt it. They are just making noise. They announced this morning that if there is one more murder they will no longer wait for the police, and they will take action themselves. Like some kind of playground threat. I do not imagine there is any real danger from such idiots, but they are consolidating the idea Lotta is guilty in people's minds. They are a danger to her for that reason.'

  29

  I had promised to cook for Johan, Krister and I, then completely forgotten, so had nipped out for pizza while they watched football.

  'I'm not an invalid,' I'd smiled at Johan when he tried to insist on coming with me. 'I've got a bloody cut cheek for heaven's sake.'

  And I wasn't an invalid. The break I'd given myself had done me a power of good and I felt more like my old self than I had in a long time. I'd even miraculously managed to remember utan parmesan, and though the pizzas were freezing by the time I'd scuttled home through the sub-zero evening with them, I was quite looking forward to mine.

  I could hear Johan and Krister laughing and shouting at the screen as, having failed to get three pizzas under one arm to free a hand to open the door, I shoved it open with my shoulder. They sounded normal, roaring at what I vaguely deduced to be a referee's decision they did not agree with.

  Krister was looking better too, I thought as I shoved the pizzas in the oven Johan had already heated. There was something a bit less gaunt, less haunted about him. He'd even given me one of his sardonic smiles when I'd confessed to forgetting about dinner. Those smiles used to make me want to stick my tongue out at his smug face, but I was relieved to see one now. Maybe he really was on the mend.

  I heard Johan laugh and call something over his shoulder as he came into the kitchen to grab more beers. He kissed the top of my head and ruffled my hair as I stared at the oven in horror, realising that I had managed to bloody burn one of the arsing pizzas.

  'Smells good,' Johan grinned, handing me a beer.

  'Thanks, I ordered it all by myself.'

  I noticed a pile of pamphlets on the counter top. Don’t you want to be safe? The group of weirdos Anki talked about. The guy who took his life in his hands by trying to get between me and a pastry at Urban Deli.

  ‘You’re not involved with this crew, are you?’ I asked Johan.

  He screwed up his nose, grabbed the pamphlet and chucked it in the bin. ‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘Someone just gave it to me.’

  ‘I was hearing a bit about them. They don’t seem like good news.’

  'Does your pizza have parmesan on it?'

  'No,' I grinned with a level of joy that was somewhat disproportionate. ‘Utan freaking, parmesan, baby.’ Johan high-fived me.

  It was my pizza that had burned, but it was just the edges and I decided I could pick around the worst of it.

  'Did you get pizza salad?' Johan asked.

  'Ahh no, I forgot.' I made a face. 'But you're welcome, because nothing pickled has any business being anywhere near pizza.'

  'Pizza salad is our greatest invention,' Johan proclaimed as he followed me into the living room. I sat cross legged on the floor by Johan's feet and handed Krister's pizza to him.

  'Surely your greatest invention is…' I frowned, pretending to think. 'Weird facial hair? Dynamite?'

  'It is the cheese slice,' said Krister.

  'The what?'

  'The cheese slice. It is a beautiful thing.'

  'Do you mean — a knife?' I asked with a grin.

  'No, a cheese slice.' Krister swallowed a mouthful of pizza and mimed running something with a handle along a block of cheese. 'Cheese slice,' he said firmly.

  'You're making this up. There is no such thing as a utensil specifically for slicing cheese and nothing else. I mean, can it also slice, I don't know, carrots?'

  'No it cannot slice carrots.' Krister stared at me in horror. 'Johan, back me up.'

  'Dude I have no idea what you are talking about,' Johan said with an almost straight face, and we all burst into giggles.

  My phone buzzed with a text and I licked the grease off my fingers as I swiped open it. Corinna again. She had promised to ask Tove's mother if she would meet with me.

  She is not so comfortable speaking English but if I am there too to help translate she says okay.

  I quickly typed a response saying that was fine, as Johan caught Krister up in Swedish.

  'Va?' Krister spat.

  I felt a nasty twist in my stomach at the venom in his voice. Johan was taken aback too, he almost cowed for an instant, staring at Krister in horror. I shuffled forward a little so that Johan knew I was near.

  'What are you playing at Ellie?' Krister turned to me. 'It was you who discovered what Mia was doing and now you — what? You just change your mind and decide someone else is the killer?'

  'Of course not,' I said. 'But if new evidence comes to light then —'

  'You are just fucking about with people's lives for fun? Playing detective then changing your mind?'

  'It's not like that.'

  'Mia is guilty. Mia is a fucking psychopath maniac who murdered Liv. Did you forget that?' he demanded.

  Johan flinched as he shook his head.

  'Krister, of course we —'

  'Why would this Lotta person kill Liv? How would she get into Liv's apartment? No one broke in, remember? Liv let someone she knew in and that person murdered her. Mia.'

  'Krister, we don't know exactly —'

  'There is not enough evidence —' said Johan, getting to his feet suddenly. His beer toppled over, but he ignored it. 'How can you condemn Mia without stronger evidence?' His voice was tight and strained, and I could see his hands almost straining to form fists.

  'We're just asking questions, Krister,' I said quietly.

  'Haven't you asked enough questions, Ellie?'

  'I am only trying to —'

  'Mia is guilty.'

  'I don't think she is innocent,' I said. 'I just don't think we know enough about everything that —'

  'What the fuck does that even mean?' he demanded.

  'Why did you take back your statement about her?' I blurted.

  'What? You think a charge of bullying her boyfriend is the main thing the police should focus on about her? She has murdered nine people.'

  'Maybe, but taking it back gives the impression that —'

  Johan finally spoke again, a stream of rapid, hurt Swedish that I had no hope of following. I sensed him tense up and for a horrible moment was terrified he was going to hit Krister, but he didn't move. Krister shouted back and when Johan replied I caught the word 'Liv' laced with such anguish that it tore at my guts.

  'Johan,' I said softly, putting my hand on his arm. I could feel him trembling. 'Guys, let's just —'

  'Fy fan, du vet ingenting,' burst out Krister. 'You think this woman is guilty because her boyfriend said do? What the fuck does a boyfriend know?'

  'There is other possible evidence that —'

  'The boyfriend is the last person to know.' He towered over me, ran a hand through his hair, clutched at his head in a way that made my heart break for him. 'How could anyone share a life, share a bed with someone and not know they are a monster?' he pleaded. 'Eat with her, laugh with her, touch her, hold her. Remind her to charge her phone before she leaves for work. It is not possible.'

  'Krister —' I got to my feet, reached out to him but he shook me off.

  'It is not possible,' he repeated, almost under his breath.

  I could hear Johan's upstairs neighbours walking on their creaky floorboards, downstairs' telly. A car roared in too low a gear in some nearby street. The silence in Johan's flat was deafening.

  'Ja vet inte,' Krister muttered.

  'Krister —'

  'Ja vet ingenting.'

  I know nothing.

  Johan and I both jumped when the door slammed behind him a few moments later.

  30

  'Good evening. Thank you very much all of you for coming. I am extrem
ely pleased and proud to see that so many of you share my passion and my belief that we do not have to put up with this. We do not have to cower behind closed doors and glance behind us when we venture out into the darkness. We can stand tall and dignified knowing we have done all we can to keep our community, our friends, our children, our neighbours, safe.'

  A little tremor of excitement trembled through her, but she was fairly confident her voice remained steady. She stood at the front of the room – a residents' meeting room in an apartment building where one of the group lived. It was dull and lifeless, painted an industrial beige, the walls adorned with insipid watercolours of flowers. There was a folded up ping-pong table at one end, and a small kitchen area bearing a coffee maker and a tray covered in crumbs that were all that remained of some cardamon rolls an older, stern-looking woman had brought.

  And yet it faced with excitement so palpable that she wanted to scream. And she could scream. She might. These were people who would understand. They might even join in. A bolt of sheer thrill rocked through her at the thought of all these people – how many were they, twenty, thirty forty? – all screaming as one. It would be the most real, the most natural thing that had ever happened.

  'I am here tonight because I'm angry,' she continued, feeling her voice ring through the gathering. The room was entirely rapt. 'I believe that you are too.' She began to pace at the front of the room, dozens of eyes following her every move.

  'Just like you, I bought into society. I paid my taxes, I obeyed the rules. I remove my shoes when I enter someone's home, I take a number to queue for service in a shop, I don't ever drink alcohol before 5pm. And yet I wake one day to learn that a woman, a young beautiful woman with everything to live for, has been murdered? I wake up to learn that none of us are safe in our beds any more?