Chapter 93
It was a sultry evening, but heavy, dark clouds were closing in from the sea. The newscasters on the radio in Vidar’s car warned of downpours. Nothing yet, in these parts. The village had settled in for the night. Livestock dozed out in the pastures, and insects chirped and buzzed loudly.
They almost missed it, an SUV half-hidden in a small grove of trees. Vidar stopped at the edge of the road and eyed the oversized vehicle as though it were a crime scene.
“Wait here,” he told Siri, and stepped into the humid, hot air.
Vidar approached with caution. He recognized the license plate. He rested a tentative hand on the hood. Still warm. He peered into the side window. Empty black beer cans on the passenger-side floor.
The car looked clean, although the roads got very dusty in this summer heat. He studied the door handle on the driver’s side, then walked around the car to do the same with the passenger side.
He took out his phone and snapped a picture, then returned to his own car.
“You know who that belongs to, don’t you?” Siri said.
“Yes. It’s empty, aside from a few cans of Spendrups Premium Gold on the floor. Prints on both door handles too. Hard to say if they were fresh, but they looked it.”
They drove on, taking their time. Siri was quiet, looking out the window.
“You didn’t even want to touch my binder at first,” Vidar said. “Now you want to come along. Talk about changing courses midstream.”
“Horses,” Siri said.
“Huh?”
“The expression is ‘changing horses midstream.’ ” She turned her head slowly. “Your colleague didn’t want me to come, did he?”
“No. But he’s young and idealistic, still.”
“More like he’s a stickler for the rules.”
Vidar glanced her way.
“I know this is important to you, and it’ll be great if you can get her to talk. But you have to follow my instructions.” He turned off the road, drove in among the trees, and parked in a small grove nearby, with a view of the house. “Better if we approach on foot, I think.”
They looked around as they walked toward the house. Through the windows they caught glimpses of lamps, dim lighting, and movement. She was home.
A doorbell sounded loud and clear through the white wooden door. They took a step back and stood very still, listening for sounds.
A woman opened the door with an uncertain smile.
“Goodness,” she said when she saw Siri. “It’s been ages.”
Siri smiled in response. “It’s nice to see you, Felicia.”
They stepped into the front hall. Vidar introduced himself.
“If you think it’s too quiet in here, that makes three of us. It’s not the same when the kids aren’t home. I always think it feels strange without them.”
“When will they be home?” Siri asked.
“Tomorrow. Then the battle will begin again.”
“Teenagers?”
“You bet. Do you have kids?”
“Two of them.”
“Teenagers?”
“Not yet, but I’m dreading it.”
“You’ll miss them when they move out,” Vidar said. “Believe me, I know.”
Felicia asked if they wanted tea. She rummaged in the cupboards and stood by the stove, waiting for a saucepan of water to boil. Steam rose toward the fan. On the kitchen table, in front of Vidar and Siri, she set cups and teabags, and an open jar of Halland Honey.
“I know something’s going on,” she said once she’d poured the water and taken a seat at the table. “I’m sure you’re not here just for tea.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re right,” Siri said.
Felicia dunked her teabag into the piping-hot water, avoiding their gazes. “I don’t know quite what to say. This is dredging up all that old stuff again, somehow. For a split second, you’re eighteen again. And not in a good way.”
“I understand. I’m no longer a police officer—I want you to know that—but I thought I should be here anyway. If that’s okay with you.”
Felicia nodded. Vidar had selected his tea. He watched dark ribbons swirl out of it like smoke, coloring the water golden brown. Felicia studied him, looking hesitant.
“We’re trying to understand what’s going on,” he said slowly. “For that reason, I have some questions for you, and they might seem a little strange. But all you have to do is answer as straightforwardly and thoroughly as you can.”
Felicia crossed her legs and leaned forward, cupping her hand around her own mug of tea to warm it.
“When did you last see Killian Persson?” he asked.
“I thought you wanted to ask about Filip.”
“We’ll get to him. When did you last see Killian?”
“Oh boy. Um, Christmas Eve of 1999. That evening.”
“And when did you last hear from him?”
“Well, that same night. That was it.” She blinked. “Killian is dead. You know that, right?”
Vidar’s tea was ready. He lifted the teabag out and wound it carefully around his spoon, squeezing out the last few drops and placing it aside.
“We have reason to believe,” he said, sounding apologetic, “that Killian Persson might not be dead.”
“What?”
“We think Killian might be alive.”
She stared at them.
“Killian…” Vidar began, but Felicia beat him to it:
“What do you mean, reason to believe? What the hell kind of reason would that be? Are you completely—”
She leaned back against her chair. Her sudden rage evaporated.
“I know you were friends when you were young,” Vidar went on. “That you were close. If he is alive, he might have contacted you, or tried to. That’s why I’m here. I want to try to help him.”
“Help him.” She was breathing harder now, as if she needed air. “I can show you his gravestone.”
“Felicia.” Siri took over now. “We wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t important.”
Vidar looked at Felicia’s hands, quiet around her mug.
“What are these reasons you’re talking about?” she said again, having collected herself.
“There is evidence that he may have been involved in Filip Soderstrom’s death.”