“Where did you sit?” the caretaker asked.
She lifted her brows. Oh, the book. “Right here.” She pointed to the chair beside her. “I guess I must have left it in the library after all.”
They walked back downstairs to the vestibule. Behind the stairs, in the corridor leading to the vault, a movement, low down by the floor. Dark, small. A rat? Laura hesitated. “I’m just going to have a look . . .”
There was a poster on the wall in the corridor: The Finnish Cause Is Our Cause, depicting two soldiers dressed in white, skiing, one wearing the Finnish flag, the other, the Swedish. The poster was old; the cause had already been lost and now “the Finnish cause” was no longer the same as the Swedish; the Finns had joined forces with the Germans to fight the Soviet Union. But at least the worst fears of the Reds storming into Sweden hadn’t materialized. Not yet.
On the floor, a short trail of brown spots. Coffee? The caretaker was losing his touch.
She came to the opening and stopped.
Britta sat in the dim room on a chair by the table, wearing a brown skirt and a brown sweater with a collar. Her head was lowered and her loose blond hair hung over her face. She hadn’t put it up as she usually did, yet Laura would have recognized that mane anywhere.
Laura held her breath.
“Britta?”
She felt, rather than heard, Andreas and the caretaker approach. Her heart thudded in her chest. She took the two steps down. Britta didn’t move. Was there a rope around her torso?
Britta’s sweater was bloody, torn into shreds, her ravaged chest visible through the slashes.
Did she fold away Britta’s hair to see her face? Put her hand under the chin and raise it?
She must have done so, for afterward she knew that there was a tiny black hole in her friend’s right temple. The left side of her face was swollen. Her mascara had run and painted black shapes on her cheek. What was on the other side, you couldn’t tell. It was covered by blood since her right eye had been gouged out. Later, Laura would only remember details: minutiae, vibrant, in color and excruciatingly clear, such as how white and clean the rope was that held her friend upright. Or how Britta’s ankles were crossed, and one shoe had come off, displaying a stockinged heel discolored black by the leather. The tinny moan from the caretaker behind her. Andreas leaning against the wall as if broken. Her own scream that seemed to fill the small area. Or the sour tear in her throat, as she vomited on the floor.
A POLICEMAN LED her upstairs. Laura was standing with her arms wrapped around herself in the windowless gray room. She couldn’t breathe. Her lungs had collapsed. She closed her eyes, but the image of what she had seen was imprinted on her mind. It always would be. There was a wave of nausea, and she thought she might vomit again. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. This couldn’t be happening. Impossible.
A man in his forties entered. He had heavy facial features and thick black hair. His eyes were deep set and dark. “Laura Dahlgren?”
Had she told them her name? She couldn’t remember.
“I am Police Inspector Ackerman. Please take a seat.”
Laura sank down on the chair closest to her. Her knees were shaking, knocking against each other. Her fingers tugged at the sleeves of her shirt as if they had a life of their own. The policeman watched her for a moment, brown eyes squinting, then opened a black notebook and took out a pen.
“You found her,” he stated.
Her teeth were chattering. Breathe, she told herself. Focus. Her grandfather had taught her: when panicking, focus on your breathing and the next task. Then the next. Don’t think. Whatever you do, don’t think. Her father would just say “Control yourself.” Same thing.
“What is her name?”
“Britta Hallberg.” Her jaws were tight, and she had to force her mouth to open. Her voice sounded distant. Not like her own.
“Where was she from?”
“Blackåsen.”
“How did you know her?”
“We studied together, before the war broke out.”
“And she continued her studies?”
She nodded. “Research, for her doctorate.”
“What?”
“What do you mean?” She didn’t understand.
“What did you study?”
“History.”
“And what do you do now?”
“I work for a trade delegation in Stockholm.”
“Stockholm. Why are you here today?”
“Andreas . . . Britta’s friend, was worried,” she said. “He couldn’t find her. He called me. I came, and we searched for her together.”
“Why was he worried?”
“He and Britta had agreed to meet last night, and she didn’t come. That made him worried.”
She inhaled and it sounded like a hiccup. Don’t think now. Later.
“Has this happened before? Her going missing and him calling?”
“No.”
“You said ‘Britta’s friend.’” Does that mean he’s not a friend of yours?”
“Yes.”
“So why did he call you?”
“I think she must have been frightened.” A flash of Britta’s streaked face. She had to swallow. Breathe. “She had told him that if anything happened to her, he needed to call me. And when I met her last time, I got a feeling there was something wrong.”
“But she didn’t tell you what it was?”
She shook her head. If only she had insisted! Her face twisted into a sob, but she forced it back under control. If she started, she’d never stop.
Inspector Ackerman tapped his pen against the book.
“How did you know you would find her here?” he asked.
“I didn’t . . .” She sounded desperate. “Andreas had already looked for her in other places. I didn’t expect to find her.”
He scribbled in his book. “The young man. Was he her . . . ?”
“They were childhood friends, that’s all. Where is he? Andreas?”
“We will question him at the station.”
“Why?”
“It is better.”
He didn’t want them here together after finding Britta, she thought. He wanted to ask his questions without them having spoken to each other about what they’d seen. Perhaps also because Andreas was Sami.
Andreas knows, she thought then, with such certainty she surprised herself. He knows who did this.
No. Impossible. He cared for Britta, she had to give him that. If he knew more, he would have said. But he had been scared. Perhaps he was just worried about Britta. But that worried after only one evening’s absence? It didn’t make sense.
“Did she have anyone else?”
“No one in particular. Well, not that I know of.”
Erik would be devastated. The others . . . She’d have to tell them. Britta, who’d remained outside the war, was the first one among them to die. It didn’t feel real. Her teeth began chattering again and she shivered. She put her hands between her thighs, squeezed them, tried to calm her body down.
The policeman studied her.
“Did she have any enemies?”
“She is friends with everyone . . . Was . . . Everyone liked her.”
Images of Britta flickered through her mind—Britta laughing, cigarette between two fingers, champagne glass in the other hand, her head turning right and left as she said hello to people. Everyone’s gaze following her.