The Cruel Stars of the Night - Kjell Eriksson [89]
How she hated the sight of a brightly smiling Stig, for in that smile there was no real joy only a desire to please. It affected the entire office. Everyone knew that Stig was a pushover. Barbro would joke about Stickan who was Jessica’s little lap dog and Laura had often wished ill on Barbro because of her taunting laughter and deadly comments.
Laura lifted the receiver, dialed Jessica Franklin’s number, and heard with rising anticipation how the call was connected and the phone rang. When Jessica finally answered Laura smiled and hung up. The sudden elation when the realization sunk in that that voice was going to be silenced for good made Laura teeter, steady herself on the telephone table, and laugh out loud.
Jessica would be allowed to realize that Stig was lost to her, that life was lost, that it was Laura’s time.
“Laura’s time,” she muttered and it sounded unfamiliar, as if she was saying an unknown person’s name.
The mirror above the table reflected a figure who lifted a fist against her own head and struck. The blow landed on her temple and Laura collapsed to the floor. Not so much the force behind the blow but more that the feeling of falling filled her with great happiness.
“That’s how it is,” she said, while she stared out across the naked wooden hall floor, in whose deep cracks decades of grime had gathered.
She sat in bed, naked except for panties and a camisole. Daylight filtered in through the gray-streaked window. She tried to counter the dizziness by chewing on some pieces of crisp bread that she had found in the pantry. They tasted like summer.
An untouched glass of wine stood on the bedside table. She absently brushed the breadcrumbs from her stomach and thighs. The dark scratches stood out on her pale skin.
This was the bed where she and Stig had lain the other night. The bedclothes were unchanged and she thought she could pick out his scent. She was no longer so certain that he was going to come back. He hadn’t called her like he said he was going to. No one called.
The silence in the house was unbelievably dense, as if she lived in a vacuum. She chewed in order to produce some sounds.
She had decided to take a shower but when she walked past the cellar door she had instead gone down to get her suitcase. Now it was in the hall. There was still a tag from the Linate Airport in Milan on the handle. It looked like a good friend who was waiting for her. Without fuss, secure and stable, there it was.
She liked it. Everything else was expendable, everything else could be stuffed into sacks and heaved into garbage containers but this suitcase was going to take her to the sea and the little harbor pub.
Stig would come later. When everything had calmed down he would be standing there one fine day, smiling, the way he did when he was in a good mood.
“Let the final arrow fly,” Laura said softly and reached for the glass of wine.
She spilled a few drops on the already stained camisole.
Twenty-seven
The Brain Squad was assembled. Morenius from the Criminal Information Service was talking to the chief of criminal investigations and the chief of police. Ottosson came walking along carrying two thermoses. The security chief was standing on his own, leaning against the wall with a paper in his hand that he was reading with a perplexed look on his face.
On one side of the table there were Ola Haver, Sammy Nilsson, and Allan Fredriksson. Fredriksson was a deep red color and looked painfully tense. Lindell saw how he was trying to sort a file of loose papers, but apparently he couldn’t get the pages under control.
Gusten Ander, called in as an expert, looked almost frighteningly focused, as if he was working out his next move, as he stood leaning over a slim booklet. Lindell thought it was a chess magazine.
At the short end of the table two colleagues from Investigations were leaning over a map. One had a pencil in his hand and Lindell