Page 34 of Hidden in Memories
The hotel dining room is filled with a festive hum of conversation when Monica walks in at about seven o’clock in the evening, carrying a tray of cocktails for the round table with a view over the extensive mountain landscape.
The group consists of eight people, four children and two sets of parents. Children are usually served earlier, but because it is Christmas Eve, they are allowed to stay up and eat with the adults.
Monica sets out the tall V-shaped cocktail glasses. Dry martinis with green olives for the gentlemen; rusty nails mixed from Drambuie and whiskey for the ladies.
“At last!” exclaims the nearest woman with a coquettish smile as she reaches for her glass. “I’m dying of thirst!”
Her hair is up, and she is wearing a moss-green silk dress that looks ridiculously expensive. Her long, pointed nails are dark red, and the eternity ring on her left ring finger is sparkling.
“Chin-chin,” she says, toasting her friends. “Here’s to a wonderful vacation together!”
Her husband smiles contentedly and takes out a slim gold lighter, which he uses to light a Marlboro cigarette.
Monica stares at him in fascination. In his elegant smoking jacket, he looks just like the actor Sean Connery. He must be twenty years older than her, but Monica has never seen such an attractive man before.
As if he is aware of her silent admiration, he glances up and gives her a warm, almost flirtatious look.
“Are the other drinks for our friends?” he asks in a jocular tone of voice. “Or are they staying on the tray?”
Monica tugs at her dress in embarrassment and quickly serves the other couple. The children each get a bottle of Christmas soda.
“Are you new here?” the stylish gentleman asks when she has finished.
Monica blushes. “This is my first week,” she mumbles. Her cheeks are burning; she can’t look him in the eye.
He blows a perfect smoke ring. “How charming. Everybody here is like one big family.”
27
No one on Facebook seems to be missing a long-haired gray-and-white cat.
Hanna is standing at her adjustable desk in the police station. She has checked all the groups in the area, and posted a message of her own saying where Morris is.
He has been with her for only a few days, but she already knows she would be happy for him to stay. The warm feelings have come as a surprise. She hadn’t realized how lonely she was.
She moves the mouse. She has spent the last hour surfing the net, looking for more information about Charlotte Wretlind and her private life. It is now after two o’clock; she has a meeting with her colleagues in just over twenty minutes. Before that she wants to see if people have written anything about Storlien online.
She starts searching on Facebook, and immediately gets a hit.
The group is called Preserve Storlien. It has several hundred followers, and the banner shows an image of the hotel complex. The photo seems relatively recent—the buildings look dilapidated and very much the worse for wear.
Hanna scrolls down through the plethora of comments. It quickly becomes clear that the group is opposed to the plans for a new luxury hotel. They don’t like the idea of international tourists, or that awell-used area of common land will be taken over in order to extend the complex. They are also concerned that some of the most popular ski slopes will be reserved for the exclusive use of hotel guests.
The project doesn’t seem to have much support. The tone of the comments is bitter, and unexpectedly strong language is used. In several places Hanna reads that the environment is being “raped,” and that the judgment of future generations will be harsh. The expenditure involved is mocked and derided. Many ask why the council doesn’t put its foot down and stop the plans before it’s too late.
“We don’t want to become a new Åre!” someone insists.
One post refers to a newspaper article where a former minister for rural affairs, Stefan Forsberg, had only positive things to say. Apparently he is attached to the project as an adviser, which leads a number of people to complain about superannuated politicians who accept lucrative roles as lobbyists.
Prejudice and swear words abound, the use of language is anything but sophisticated. And the most explicit posts have attracted the highest number of likes.
The nasty comments make Hanna uneasy.
People have become so careless in the way they direct threats and hatred toward their fellow human beings online. It’s as if they think the recipient doesn’t really exist, as if it’s all pretend, even though the words are frightening and hurtful.
Hanna reads a few more posts, then decides she has had enough. Presumably these idiots don’t even realize that the majority of what they write would be punishable by law if anyone chose to take action.
She leaves the Storlien group and searches for an image of Stefan Forsberg instead. A photo of a man with short gray hair appears on the screen. He has a firm chin and is looking straight into the camera. It isn’t hard to picture him in a political debate—or as a convincing and well-paid lobbyist.
