The Spring Tide by Cilla Börjlind, Rolf Börjlind Page B

Arne, the way he would busy himself repairing the house, his fishing and the endless things he would always think up for the evenings. He was a different sort of dad out there. A daughter’s dad, one who had time and room for everything that never found a placein their professional home, which she called the house in Rotebro, where she grew up. A house where everything was done in a planned and orderly manner and ‘Not just now, Olivia, we’ll discuss that later’. At their summer place it was always the opposite.
    But now Arne was no longer there. Just her mum, Maria, and that wasn’t really the same. For Maria the place seemed to almost be a liability. Something they must take care of all the time so that Arne wouldn’t be ashamed if he had seen it. But how could he see it? He’s dead, right. He never bothered if the paint on the façade started to peel off. But Maria did. Sometimes Olivia got the impression that there was something neurotic about it. That Maria felt obliged to work away out there to keep something else at bay. Perhaps she should try to talk about it? Perhaps she should…
    ‘Yes?’
    Her mobile had rung.
    ‘Hi, it’s Ulf.’
    ‘Hi.’
    ‘I’ve spoken to my dad. About that Stilton guy.’
    ‘Already? Great. Thanks! What did he say.’
    ‘No idea… he said.’
    ‘OK. So he didn’t have any idea where Stilton can be found?’
    ‘No, but he was familiar with that case on Nordkoster.’
    ‘Oh, right.’
    Then there was silence. Olivia was now leaving the Klaraberg road and driving up the ramp towards Centralbron. What more could she say? Thanks? For what? ‘No idea’ again?
    ‘But thanks anyway.’
    ‘You’re welcome. If you need help with anything you only have to phone.’
    Olivia hung up.
    * * *
    Bosques’ sister had given Dan Nilsson a lift to Paquera, on the other side of the island. He had taken the ferry across to Puntaneras and then proceeded to San José by taxi. Expensive, but he didn’t want to risk missing the plane.
    He stepped out of the taxi at Juan Santamaria, the international airport at San José. He didn’t have any baggage. It was hot and humid. His thin shirt had sweat rings almost down to his midriff. A bit further away, newly arrived tourists poured out and were enchanted by the heat. Costa Rica! They were here at last.
    Nilsson went into the departure hall.
    ‘Which gate is it?’
    ‘Six.’
    ‘Where is the security check?’
    ‘Over there.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    He walked towards the security check. He had never travelled this direction before, only come into the country. A long time ago. Now he was on his way out. He tried to stay inside his own bell jar. He simply must. He must not allow himself to think. Not think about more than one phase at a time. Now it was the security phase, then came the gate phase, and after that he would be on board. Once he was there, that was it. Then it wouldn’t particularly matter if he started to crack a little, he could cope with that. Upon his arrival, the next phase would start.
    The Sweden phase.
    * * *
    He twisted and turned in his seat on the aircraft.
    Just as he had suspected he would, he felt like a deflating balloon on the plane. Hidden corners had become visible and the past was oozing out.
    Bit by bit.
    When the professionally pleasant serving staff had done their bit, and the lights were finally dimmed inside the plane, he had fallen asleep.
    Or so he thought.
    But what took place in the dreamlike state inside his brain could hardly be called sleep. More like torture. With ingredients that were painfully tangible.
    A beach, a murder, a victim.
    Everything revolved around that.
    And everything should revolve around that.
    * * *
    Olivia had now applied herself to the floor drain in the bathroom . With a growing feeling of nausea, and with the help of a toothbrush and a borrowed screwdriver, she had fished up a fat grey-black sausage about twenty centimetres long. A sausage of hairs which had effectively blocked