“You look tired,” he says. “Are you sure you need to go?”
“Yes, I am,” I answer.
“Can’t it wait for another day?”
“I want to get it over with. And he could only meet me today.”
“Maybe I should come along.”
I readjust his shirt collar. “Why? You said you have meetings all day. Important meetings, too, apparently.”
His suit fits like a glove, his tie is beautifully knotted, he has on new shoes. He’s newly shaven and handsome and successful-looking.
His phone rings, and he picks it up. He apologizes, turns halfway and answers. He smiles and laughs.
“I’m on my way. Yes, I am. I’ll see you in ten minutes.”
He puts his phone in his pocket and looks at me.
“Sure you can handle it?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll be late today.”
“You already said that.”
He walks toward the door but stops there.
“By the way, I won’t be able to take any calls the whole day. Text me if you need anything, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can, okay?”
In other words: Keep an eye on your phone. Make sure you’re back by the time Milo gets home. Please don’t forget.
“And if there’s an emergency—”
“There won’t be,” I interrupt him.
“And eat before you leave,” he continues. “I noticed you only drank some coffee.”
He disappears through the door.
“Do you want any more, Milo?” I ask when I get back to the kitchen.
“Nah.” He finishes his sandwich before he says, “Are you and Dad getting a divorce?”
“Why do you say that?”
“You never used to fight,” he says. “Now you do all the time, even though you think I can’t hear you.”
“I don’t agree with that. Not all the time.”
“Both you and Dad seem angry. And sometimes you look sad.”
“We’re not getting a divorce,” I say. “We’re just discussing some stuff right now. And we don’t always see things the same way. It’s not the end of the world. I love your dad, and he loves me. Okay?”
Milo doesn’t look convinced.
“Are you done?” I ask.
He nods.
“Then let’s get going.”
I drop Milo off at school. Wave to him and then get back on the road.
I’ve canceled all my appointments today. They’re going to start to talk at the clinic. Maybe they already are. I can’t keep on like this, neither at work nor at home. That’s why this meeting with Sven Nilsson is so important. After all this, I deserve a little good news. It’s awful that Milo is worrying about a divorce. That’s the last thing I want. I’m happy with Henrik, and he feels the same way about me. I’m sure of it. Despite everything.
It’s overcast in Norrköping. I grab the bag of cinnamon buns I bought, open the car door, and hurry across the parking lot through the rain toward a row house. I ring the doorbell. After a while, a tall, skinny man opens the door. He’s aged, but I recognize him. Twenty years ago his hair was thinning, now there are only a few white tufts left behind his ears. His pants hang loosely on his thin body, his shirt is only half tucked in.
“Sven Nilsson?” I say.
“That’s me,” he answers.
“Hello, I’m Stella Widstrand.”
He looks at me uncomprehendingly. Am I at the right place? It’s him, I’m sure. Has he forgotten about my visit? I try again.
“Stella Johansson?” I say. “We talked last week. You told me I could visit today; it’s concerning the investigation into my daughter’s disappearance.”
No reaction.
“It’s about Alice?”
He jerks as if I’ve woken him from a trance.
“Yes, please come in. What are you standing there for? Come in, come in.”
I follow him into the kitchen. It’s neat and tidy, smells like freshly brewed coffee and something else. The faint smell of an elderly person and their urine.
“I brought buns,” I say, holding up the bag.
“How lovely. Come in. Sit, sit.” He’s taking down some coffee cups when a short, dark-haired woman enters the kitchen. She looks at me.
“Sven?” she says with a slight foreign accent. She takes him by the elbow and speaks more loudly. “Sven, are you having coffee with someone?”
He looks at her, smiles distractedly.
“Are you having coffee? C-o-f-f-e-e?”
“Coffee?” Sven Nilsson says. “Yes, coffee, that’s right.”
She takes the coffee cups from him and puts them on the counter. Sven takes the buns to the kitchen table and sits down next to me. The woman serves us coffee and leaves the room. I wonder who she is.
“Well, so you’ve driven all the way here from . . .”
“Stockholm.”
“Yes, Stockholm, that’s right. Goes pretty quick on the E4. When there’s no traffic.”
“Yes, it was no problem at all.”
We continue to chat about the road, about my drive from Stockholm, about how rainy the autumn has been. Aren’t they all rainy? But that means there’ll be plenty of wild mushrooms to pick. The pride of our Swedish forests. And berries, there’s sure to be a good crop this year. And how was the road? You drove in from Stockholm? Have you been out to the woods yet, found any mushrooms there, the pride of our forests?
He repeats himself a number of times. Seems like he wants to drag out our visit. Maybe he’s lonely and just wants to talk awhile. I want to cut to the chase, but hide my impatience. We spend a little more time talking about the sights of Stockholm and the traffic. In the end, I can’t wait any longer.
“Sven?”
“Yes?”
“You said there was a tip? I’d really like to know what it was.”
He looks at me as if he has no idea what I’m saying, and it gives me the sudden urge to express my frustrations physically. I want to slap the old man until he wakes up. I take a deep breath instead.
“Strandgården, 1994,” I say. “A tip that you didn’t follow up? You said you had information. You saved all the files.”
“The investigation, yes.” Sven Nilsson lights up. “The files, absolutely. Come with me.”
He stands up and stumbles a few steps to the side before he gets going. He leads me down a corridor, into an office. Inside there are stacks and stacks of boxes. The desk is covered with paper and an ancient computer with an enormous screen.
“Now, let’s see. Johansson, Strandgården, 1994.” His voice sounds sharper, more alert. “What you’re looking for should be in one of these three boxes.” He points to them. They are at the far back, close to the closet.
“Unfortunately, this old man isn’t as spry as he used to be; I need to sit down for a bit. Make sure to look in the red binder. And don’t hesitate to ask for help.”
I squeeze his fragile, veined hand.
“Thank you, Sven.” It makes him happy.
After he leaves the room, I move box after box to reach the three he pointed to. The boxes are heavy, and I’m sweaty and out of breath by the time I get to the ones I want.
I squat down and open the first box. It’s full. I take away the top layer of newspapers to reveal more of the same below.
Newspapers, lots of newspapers.
Local newspapers from 2010, some from 2012, and some saved since 2002. I flip through them, trying to make sense of it. The pages are full of red marks. Seemingly random circled headlines, sometimes just a single word, arrows drawn between different articles. It’s impossible to discern the pattern. If there even is one.
Does this have something to do with the investigation surrounding my daughter? I lift out the newspapers and sort them on the floor. I have to ask Sven Nilsson about it.
At the very bottom I find two overflowing binders. I open the red one. Old bills from 2006. I scroll through each page, but find only junk. This must be the wrong box.
I look at the top again, Strandgården, Johansson, 1994. Odd. I open the next box, same thing. Newspapers, bills, bank statements, and old tissue paper. Same thing in the third box. I don’t understand. I look at the clock. Two hours have slipped by.
I stand up, intending to go ask Sven Nilsson where the boxes I’m looking for might be, but a woman is standing in the doorway. She’s tall and slim and her face resembles Sven’s. She seems angry.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here?” she says.
“Oh, hello,” I manage to get out. “Sven invited me to—”
“When did you talk to my dad?”
“I called on Friday and—”
“Did you talk on the phone?” She looks up at the ceiling and sighs. “I told them that he shouldn’t be talking on the phone with anyone other than the family.” She looks around at the mess in the room. “What are you doing here? Why are you rooting around in this junk?”
I feel like I’ve been caught trying to steal something.
“Your father was in charge of an investigation many years ago that involved my daughter. He invited me here to take a look at his files. But there must be some kind of mistake.” I point to the newspapers behind me. “I was just going to ask him about it.”
The woman stretches out her hand.
“Excuse me, I should probably introduce myself. My name is Petra Nilsson. Let’s go have a talk in the kitchen.”