The Bucket List Read online

  “What’s this?” his mother said, looking at the plate.

  “It’s sausage stroganoff with rice. And then some cheesecake with raspberry jam and cream on the side.”

  His mother prodded it with a spoon and snorted.

  “You call that cheesecake?”

  “It’s good—I’ve tried it,” the nurse said, exchanging a look of understanding with John before heading for the door.

  He reciprocated her smile, realizing that Mrs. Nerman was not the staff’s favorite resident at Gunnarskärsgården.

  “Did you know that Billy has a daughter?” she said, once they were alone again.

  “No, I had no idea.”

  “Her name’s Nicole and she’s almost eight. The best girl in the world.”

  “Is her mother still around?”

  A dark look crossed his mother’s face.

  “That Baltic whore took off before the child even turned one. Billy hasn’t exactly had his pick of the local girls, so he imported this one from Latvia. I warned him, but he didn’t want to listen. Maybe it’s for the best that things worked out the way they did. If she hadn’t moved away, I would have—and then who would have taken care of Nicole? Those two couldn’t tell you which end of a diaper was the front or back.”

  “You all lived together?” John said in surprise.

  “Of course—that was before my stroke. Them downstairs, me upstairs. The whole damn family in one place.”

  She laughed hoarsely again, and John wondered if her lungs were giving out. The almost-empty pack of cigarettes by the bed told their own story.

  “No, it wasn’t easy for Billy,” she said, lowering her voice. “He probably wouldn’t want me to say this, but …”

  John leaned in.

  “But what?”

  “He tried to off himself when things were at their worst.”

  “Off himself?”

  “Yes, he’d gotten drunk and took a load of pills when I found him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Seven years ago. Around the time the Baltic whore left. But it was okay—he made it, thank goodness. Couldn’t even succeed at that, my Billy.”

  Her gaze drifted out the window and up toward the treetops outside. Her words lingered in the confined room. John didn’t know what to say. It was still impossible to summon the image of his brother as a grown man. All he could see before him was a little boy who shouted and cried if he didn’t get his way.

  “You didn’t bring any wine with you, did you?” his mother said.

  The question was so unexpected that John needed a few seconds to reply.

  “Are you allowed to drink in here?”

  “No, but you can see how it is for me, can’t you?”

  John looked at her inflamed, red face again.

  “Maybe another time,” he heard himself say.

  “Billy always brings something to drink. If it’s good weather, he takes me out into the garden and we sneak a few drinks.”

  John could picture it. Mother and son drinking secretly in the garden, their nostrils pricked by the smell of sulfur. In a parallel universe where his father hadn’t taken him to New York, he would have been there with them.

  He nodded slowly while contemplating how to formulate his next question.

  “In the letter you wrote in the spring, you said you were dying …” he began, not knowing how to continue.

  “Yes. You don’t think I look like I’m dying?”

  “How bad is it?”

  She rolled her working eye and laughed drily.

  “I can still eat and shit under my own steam, so I’m doing okay. But if I hadn’t laid it on a bit thick you might not have come this time either. Right?”

  John looked at her in confusion. “So, you’re not dying?”

  “We’re all going to die someday. Me too. Just not quite as soon as you might have thought.”

  The words tumbled out as if she were discussing the weather forecast for the next day. To her, it was no big deal that she had lied about her health to get him where she wanted him. Maybe he should have been angry, but he realized it would be foolish to raise his voice. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

  “How’s your father?” she said out of nowhere.

  John was ready and had decided not to soften the answer. His mother had never liked that kind of thing.

  “He’s dead,” he said, looking at her to see how she reacted.

  He tried to detect some emotion in the marred face, but if the news had shaken her there was no sign of it.

  “Serves him right,” she said, spooning some cheesecake and jam into her loose, lopsided mouth.

  John sat in his parked car outside Gunnarskärsgården for a long time. It would take him an hour or so to get to the treatment center outside Charlottenberg, and he wanted to get there as soon as possible. In spite of this, he felt unable to turn the key in the ignition. Previously, he had only guessed how miserable his mother’s and Billy’s lives had been after he and his father had left. Now he knew.

  You’re here now and that’s what counts.

  That was what his mother had said. But was it that simple? Was she prepared to casually forget the betrayal ten years ago, when she and Billy had called on him for help and he failed to respond? John suspected it depended on which way the wind blew in the new investigation.

  He sighed heavily, started the engine, and prepared to reverse out of the parking space. At that moment, a car swung onto the expanse of asphalt, forcing him to wait as it passed. John looked in his rearview mirror. He recognized the driver. It was Ruben Jonsson, driving a white Toyota Auris.

  What were the odds of his new colleague from the Karlstad police turning up here and now? If he was seen outside the nursing home, it would lead to inconvenient questions for John to answer. And if there was one thing that his time in Baltimore had taught him, it was to lie as little as possible. Each lie took you one step closer to being uncovered.

  The Toyota’s driver didn’t seem to be looking for somewhere to park—he drove it all the way up to the entrance. He honked twice and a woman came through the door carrying a bag. John leaned forward and saw the nurse who had served his mother her lunch jump into the passenger seat.

  He slapped the dashboard hard. Of all the people on earth … Presumably, she had just finished her shift and was getting a lift home from her husband. He watched the Toyota drive off down the hill. The car wouldn’t even have made it across the bridge off the island before the nurse had reported that someone from the police had come to visit Billy Nerman’s mother. As soon as she described him, it would be clear to Ruben Jonsson that the visitor had been the new guy on the cold case team, the one who had come back from the States.

  John took fresh aim at the molded plastic, but then stopped himself. Nothing would be changed by his smashing the car’s interior to pieces. He’d just have to wait and see how Jonsson reacted. Unfortunately, there was no other choice.

  19

  According to the GPS, the treatment center was a few kilometers south of Charlottenberg, not far from the Norwegian border. John turned off the main road and made his way along a series of winding lanes to Björkbacken.

  The building was surrounded by a tall stone wall and John had to announce his arrival outside a pair of black iron gates. The main building was magnificent, situated on a slope running down to the lake. It had its own sandy beach and bathing jetty. It was an old stately home that had been renovated and now functioned as a refuge for the troubled daughters of wealthy parents. The façade was painted in a shade of yellow with white detailing and wood carvings. On either side of the main building were outbuildings that were presumably used to accommodate patients. Or guests. John didn’t know which word best described the relationship that the girls admitted to Björkbacken had with it.

  He parked the car in the yard beside the westward facing conservatory with its transom windows, where the gentry would once have taken their evening digestif. On
the way in, he nodded to two girls sitting on the stone steps playing backgammon. He was met in the entrance hall by a man of about fifty who he assumed was the manager.

  “Fredrik Adamsson—I’m with the police,” said John.

  The man greeted him with his right hand while putting his left hand to his own throat.

  “Welcome. I’m Torsten Andreasson—I run this place,” said an artificial, robotic voice.

  John guessed that the man had no vocal cords and was using a voice generator to speak.

  “Is there somewhere we can talk in private?”

  The manager nodded and asked John to come into his office.

  “It’s beautiful here,” John said, once they had sat down on opposite sides of the desk.

  “It’s a family estate that’s been passed down through four generations. When the farming no longer paid, I sold some of the land and started Björkbacken. It’s a good environment for the girls. Gardening is just as important a part of their treatment as talk therapy.”

  Despite the fact that he needed help from the gadget at his throat, it didn’t appear to be difficult for him to talk. He just had to take care to articulate his sentences clearly. He had fallen silent now and was waiting for John to state the reason for his visit.

  “I’m working on an old case and trying to find a connection between two girls. My guess is that they were both treated here,” he said.

  The man put his hand to his throat again. “Why do you think that?”

  “I know for certain that one of the girls was admitted here, and the other has a background that would make her a suitable candidate for Björkbacken.”

  Once John had given the girls’ full names—Emelie Bjurwall and Kirsten Winckler—the man looked up from the keyboard.

  “That’s the AckWe daughter, right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “I read in the paper that you’d opened the investigation again. It must be at least seven or eight years since all that business.”

  “Ten, actually,” said John. “We’re taking a fresh look at it. I assume you keep records of who’s been admitted here.”

  The man looked uncertain. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know whether you keep records?”

  “Yes, of course we do. But I don’t know if I can disclose that information to you. We have a duty of confidentiality. The families don’t really want to advertise that their daughters have been here.”

  This wasn’t the first time someone had waved patient confidentiality in his face. “I don’t have to tell you that this is in relation to a very serious crime,” he said, fixing his gaze on the source of the robot voice. “A young woman was abducted and very probably raped and murdered.”

  “I understand that. But I still need to consult a lawyer before I can disclose personal information.”

  John got up and went to the bookcase at the far end of the room. It was filled with thick volumes, mostly about psychology and sociology. One of the shelves, however, was different. There was a collection of white books—albums with years printed on the spines. John guessed they were yearbooks for Björkbacken and he picked the one from 2007—the year Emelie Bjurwall had been admitted to the treatment center.

  “Wait a second—you have no right to look at that,” the manager said.

  He presumably missed his own voice in situations like this. The artificial voicebox had its limits in relation to volume.

  “Obstructing the police in doing their job is a bad idea. Might lead to all kinds of problems for you,” John said, trusting that Torsten Andreasson would fill in the gaps. A place like this clearly needed good relationships with the police and other authorities.

  The manager got up and stood next to him by the shelves, but made no attempt to take the book from his visitor’s hands. John leafed through the pages. They were packed with pictures of young women working on flowerbeds, canoeing on the lake, and cooking together. The captions were general and omitted names. Nevertheless, John had no trouble spotting Emelie Bjurwall. She seemed to have participated in daily life at Björkbacken, appearing in several photos. In one of them, taken in a clearing in the woods, she was flanked by two other girls of the same age. The caption read: “The good old tent-pitching gang.”

  “Who are they?” he said, pointing at the girls.

  The manager looked tired. He returned to his desk and sank back into his chair. John followed and put the photo in front of him.

  “Is one of these girls Kirsten Winckler? It’ll be easier for us both if you just answer the question.”

  The man leaned forward and then nodded slowly.

  “It’s her, isn’t it?” said John, pointing at the girl to Emelie’s right, whom he thought he recognized from the autopsy photos.

  A new nod from the man.

  “And the other girl? Who is she?”

  The manager held his hand to his throat.

  “I don’t remember.”

  John sat in silence and scrutinized him. Small beads of sweat had appeared on his brow and he was struggling to meet John’s gaze. It was obvious that Torsten Andreasson wanted to avoid this conversation for some reason.

  “You remember Kirsten Winckler, but you don’t remember the other girl?” said John.

  “Exactly.”

  “Why are you lying to me?”

  “I’m not lying. So many girls have come through here over the years. It’s impossible to remember all their—”

  He got no further than that before John pounded the desk with his fist.

  “Bullshit. You damn well know who she is and if you don’t tell me, you can expect to be charged with obstruction of justice the next time I pay you a visit. Do you understand?”

  The manager appeared to be frozen to his desk chair, his eyes wide. Finally, he moved his neck in a barely perceptible nod and swallowed. John put his index finger on the photo and lowered his voice.

  “So I’ll ask again—who is she?”

  “Her name is Matilda,” rasped the metallic voice.

  “Matilda what?”

  “Jacoby. Matilda Jacoby. Those girls were always together. If you were looking for one, you would generally find all three.”

  “The good old gang,” John said, noting that the man seemed to remember more about the girls’ time at Björkbacken than he wanted to let on. “Did Emelie spend time with anyone else, anyone specific—someone she might have stayed in contact with?”

  “Apart from Kirsten and Matilda?”

  “Yes.”

  Torsten shook his head.

  “I’m not coming up with anyone.”

  “No one named Maja?” said John, thinking of the friend from Magnus Aglin’s party.

  “No, not that I remember. I don’t even think we had a girl by that name here then.”

  There was a knock at the door and a woman stuck her head in. She reminded the manager that he had a meeting with the family of one of the girls and that some visitors were waiting on the terrace. Torsten Andreasson looked at John and nervously spread his hands out as if to say that there was nothing else he could do for him.

  “One last question,” said John. “Do you know where I can get hold of Matilda Jacoby?”

  The man put his hand to the voice generator.

  “Afraid not. The girls were discharged at the same time but I don’t know what happened to them afterward.”

  “Okay,” said John, tearing the photo out of the album without permission before getting up to go to the door.

  When he emerged onto the terrace, he put the photo in his jacket pocket and nodded at the couple waiting to meet the manager. He assumed it was their car—this year’s Mercedes SUV—that was parked in front of his own car in the yard. The SEAT, by comparison, looked like an Optimist dinghy lagging behind a yacht. He waited for as long as possible before unlocking it, in the hope that the couple would go inside before they saw which car he was driving. But they were still standing there, visible through the side window, as h
e squeezed in behind the wheel.

  He turned the ignition and released the hand brake. Suddenly, there was a scraping sound in the car. It took a second for John to realize that it was coming from the transmission, in a loud protest at his attempts to put the car into gear without depressing the clutch. The couple on the terrace looked around in horror and the man took a few worried steps forward. The two girls playing backgammon were still on the stone steps. They looked at each other and laughed.

  “What the hell is so goddamn funny?” he heard himself say.

  He tried to put the car into reverse again and heard it shift into gear. But the biting point came sooner than he expected. The car leapt backward, almost hitting the veranda.

  The girls’ hands flew up to their mouths and they laughed even more loudly.

  John turned the car around and drove away across the gravel so fast that stones were thrown up on all sides.

  On the way back to Karlstad, John wished the manager had offered him coffee—but maybe he’d been too brusque to deserve such a reception. He stopped at a hot dog stand and ordered an American-size cup of coffee. Leaning against the hood, he enjoyed the sensation of the caffeine spreading through his body.

  The trip to Björkbacken had definitely been worth it. Not only had he managed to confirm that Emelie Bjurwall and Kirsten Winckler had known each other from their time at the treatment center, but he had also found out that there had been a third girl in their group. John wanted to find Matilda Jacoby as quickly as possible. She might know something that would cast new light on Emelie’s disappearance. If the woman was still alive, that was. Things hadn’t gone well for two members of the good old gang, and John began to worry that the third member might have met a similar fate. What on earth had he gotten mixed up in? Had Kirsten Winckler not committed suicide, in spite of all the evidence? Was this investigation about more than just Emelie Bjurwall, or was that John letting his imagination run away with him?

  He opened the rear passenger door and took out his laptop. He couldn’t get remote access to the police server that hosted investigation files, but he could check the population register through a regular internet connection. Back in Baltimore, he had made himself familiar with many of the open databases that were available in Sweden.