‘He was walking over a bridge—’
‘What?! What the hell are you saying, woman?’ Reidar roars.
The woman flinches. She’s tall, and has a long ponytail down her back.
‘I’m trying to tell you that he’s alive,’ she says.
‘What is this?’ Reidar asks uncomprehendingly.
‘He’s been taken into Södermalm Hospital for observation.’
‘Not my son, he died many years—’
‘There’s no doubt whatsoever that it’s him.’
Reidar is staring at her with eyes that have turned completely black.
‘Mikael’s alive?’
‘He’s come back.’
‘My son?’
‘I appreciate that it’s strange, but—’
‘I thought …’
Reidar’s chin trembles as the policewoman explains that his DNA is a one hundred per cent match. The ground beneath him feels soft, rolling like a wave, and he fumbles in the air for support.
‘Sweet God in heaven,’ he whispers. ‘Dear God, thank you …’
His face cracks into a broad smile and he looks completely broken, and he stares up at the falling snow as his legs give way beneath him. The policewoman tries to catch him, but one of his knees hits the ground and he falls to the side, putting his hand out to break his fall.
The police officer helps him to his feet, and he is holding her arm as he sees Veronica come running down the steps barefoot, wrapped in his thick winter coat.
‘You’re sure it’s him?’ he says, staring into the policewoman’s eyes.
She nods.
‘We’ve just had a one hundred per cent match,’ she repeats. ‘It’s Mikael Kohler-Frost, and he’s alive.’
Veronica has reached him. He takes her arm as he follows the policewoman back to the car.
‘What’s going on, Reidar?’ she asks, sounding worried.
He looks at her. His face is confused and he suddenly seems much older.
‘My little boy,’ he says simply.
From a distance the white blocks of Södermalm Hospital look like gravestones looming out of the thick snow.
Moving like a sleepwalker, Reidar Frost buttoned his shirt on the way to Stockholm and tucked it into his trousers. He’s heard the police say that the patient who has been identified as Mikael Kohler-Frost has been moved from intensive care to a private room, but it all feels as if it’s happening in a parallel reality.
In Sweden, when there are grounds to believe someone is dead, the relatives can apply for a death certificate after one year even though there is no body. Reidar had waited six years for his children’s bodies to be found before he applied for death certificates. The Tax Office authorised his request, the decision was taken, and the declarations became legally binding six months later.
Now Reidar is walking beside the plain-clothed officer down a long corridor. He doesn’t remember which ward they’re on their way towards, he just follows her, staring at the floor and interwoven tracks left by the wheels of countless beds.
Reidar tries to tell himself not to hope too much, that the police might have made a mistake.
Thirteen years ago his children disappeared, Felicia and Mikael, when they were out playing late one evening.
Divers searched the waters, and the whole of the Lilla Värtan inlet was dragged, from Lindskär to Björndalen. Search parties had been organised and a helicopter spent several days searching the area.
Reidar provided photographs, fingerprints, dental records and DNA samples of both children to assist in the search.
Known offenders were questioned, but the conclusion of the police investigation was that one of the siblings had fallen into the cold March water, and the other had been dragged in while trying to help the first one out.
Reidar secretly commissioned a private detective agency to investigate other possible leads, primarily everyone in the children’s vicinity: all their teachers, football coaches, neighbours, postmen, bus drivers, gardeners, shop assistants, café staff, and anyone the children had come into contact with by phone or on the internet. Their classmates’ parents were checked, and even Reidar’s own relatives.
Long after the police had stopped looking, and when everyone with even the faintest connection to the children had been investigated, Reidar began to realise that it was over. But for several years after that he carried on walking along the shore every day, expecting his children to be washed ashore.
Reidar and the plain-clothes officer with the blonde ponytail down her back wait while a bed containing an old woman is wheeled into the lift. They head over to the doors to the ward and pull on pale blue shoe-covers.
Reidar staggers and leans against the wall. He has wondered several times if he’s dreaming, and daren’t let his thoughts get carried away.
They carry on into the ward, passing nurses in white uniforms. Reidar feels composed, he’s clenched tight inside, but he can’t help walking faster.
Somewhere he can hear the noise of other people, but inside him there is nothing but an immense silence.
At the far end of the corridor, on the right, is room number four. He bumps into a food trolley, sending a pile of cups to the floor.
It’s as if he’s become detached from reality as he enters the room and sees the young man lying in bed. He has a drip attached to the crook of his arm, and oxygen is being fed into his nose. An infusion bag is hanging from the drip-stand, next to a white pulse-monitor attached to his left index finger.
Reidar stops and wipes his mouth with his hand, and feels himself lose control of his face. Reality returns like a deafening torrent of emotions.
‘Mikael,’ Reidar says gently.
The young man slowly opens his eyes and Reidar can see how much he resembles his mother. He carefully puts his hand against Mikael’s cheek, and his own mouth is trembling so much that he can hardly speak.
‘Where have you been?’ Reidar asks, and realises that he’s crying.
‘Dad,’ Mikael whispers.
His face is frighteningly pale and his eyes incredibly tired. Thirteen years have passed, and the child’s face that Reidar has hidden in his memory has become a man’s face, but he’s so skinny that he looks like he did when he was newborn, wrapped in a blanket.
‘Now I can be happy again,’ Reidar whispers, stroking his son’s head.
Disa is finally back in Stockholm again. She’s waiting in his flat, on the top floor of number 31 Wallingatan. Joona is on his way home from buying some turbot that he’s planning to fry and serve with remoulade sauce.
Alongside the railings the snow is piled about twenty centimetres deep. All the lights of the city look like misty lanterns.
As he passes Kammakargatan he hears agitated voices up ahead. This is a dark part of the city. Heaps of snow and rows of parked cars throw shadows. Dull