Of course he had never thought it would catch up with him. In one way the timing was particularly annoying. He had finally attained something of value, something to fight for. Now he would be forced to fight.
Every sound outside the cabin made him jump. The impenetrable darkness increased the panic which he had felt all day. Keeping hold of his gun at all times, he crawled around on all fours so he couldn't be seen through the cabin's single window. He didn't dare to use the forest for his bodily functions; instead he used one of the buckets that the children had left behind. The food he had grabbed in leaving soon ran out.
It wouldn't take long for him to lose his mind. Unless he starved to death first.
Since his mobile phone had no clock, he quickly lost all notion of time. His parents' number flashed silently on the display at regular intervals, interspersed with a withheld number which he presumed belonged to the police. They had left a message on his voicemail asking him to go to the nearest police station immediately. That could have been days ago or hours ago, he had no idea. He didn't trust the police, and he certainly didn't believe they could protect him from a lunatic.
From the start, giving himself up had been unthinkable. His thoughts had gone round and round in circles. Would his part in the incident be seen as manslaughter, aiding and abetting an attempted rape, or refusing to cooperate in a police investigation? Would the incident be covered by the statute of limitations, twelve years later?
As time passed it became more a matter of fear, but a different kind, more primitive. He would have liked the police to be with him in the hunting cabin, as he lay huddled in his sleeping bag, shaking with terror and expecting the deranged avenger to kick down the door at any second. The battery on his phone had almost run out - he would soon have no choice. As he sat there poised to key in the emergency number, a text message came through: 'The police authority in Gothenburg has been trying to contact you with regard to a possible threat to your safety. We are now able to confirm that this threat no longer exists, as the perpetrator is in custody. Please contact Detective Inspector Christian Tell on 031-739 29 50 immediately in connection with this matter.'
He had to read the message several times before he grasped what it said.
Molin's heart was still in his mouth as he ran, half-stooping, through the forest to the place where he had hidden his neighbour's car. He leapt inside, locked all the doors and took off along the dark twisting gravel track at death-defying speed. Away from the worst twenty-four hours of his life, away from feverish waking dreams of a silhouette looming over him, its arm raised. He would contact the police as soon as he got home.
He screamed as a shadow leapt at the car. For a fraction of a second he stared straight into a pair of terrified eyes. The car struck the back of the deer, and it let out a scream. In the rear-view mirror he saw the animal collapse in a heap on the road; it stopped moving. He would have assumed the deer was dead had it not then struggled awkwardly to its feet and dragged its damaged body off into the forest, emitting long drawn-out cries of pain.
Everything flickered in front of his eyes. He made himself stop the car at the crossroads by the mailboxes. Almost home.
… this threat no longer exists, as the perpetrator is in custody. The danger was over. He breathed as calmly as he could.
The ghostly cries of the deer seemed to be coming closer. He glanced in the rear-view mirror once more. Behind the car the branches of a dense fir tree were swaying.
For a moment he hesitated, then leaned across and picked up his gun. When he opened the door and got out, the animal's cries sliced through him. It was unbearable. He had to shut it up - it would only take one shot.
He followed the sound, his way dimly lit by the rear lights of the car. He didn't have to go far before he almost fell over the animal. The shot echoed through the forest, and a merciful silence descended. He hurried back. He was only a couple of metres away from the car when he sensed a movement behind him.
The next second he felt a stabbing sensation between his shoulder blades. At first he was surprised, and instinctively twisted his arm back to touch the source of the pain. The second blow caught his wrist. The agony shot up his arm and through his body and brought him to his knees. There was a figure leaning over him and the sound of rapid breathing. His bewildered brain repeated on a loop: The danger is over. The danger is over.
* * *
Chapter 60
Tell had waited outside the off-licence with the alcoholics, and when the doors opened had bought himself a bottle of Glenfiddich and one of decent red - to celebrate if nothing else - then called in at the local mini-market on Vasagatan. The girl behind the counter was chatting loudly on her mobile phone, but lowered her voice when Tell walked in. He picked up a few DVDs, some crisps and other snacks for a day on the sofa with the blinds drawn.
In the rear-view mirror he could see a traffic warden approaching and a road sweeper slowly clearing the junction between Vasagatan and Viktoriagatan, while the cafe in Tomtehuset, with its promise of coffee and freshly baked cinnamon buns, was opening its doors for the day.
Tell breathed a sigh of relief as he pulled away without having acquired a ticket; he didn't need another fine, particularly on a day like this. It was crazy to use the car for the short trip between home and work - but he knew that already. He narrowly avoided being hit by a number 3 tram. The driver made an obscene gesture and angrily sounded his horn, but Tell was far too tired to get annoyed.
The apartment had a musty smell when he got home. He kicked off his shoes in the kitchen and poured himself a Glenfiddich, moved in slow motion towards the living room and crash-landed on the sofa.
The end-of-shift siren from Valand woke him several hours later. He glanced at his watch: it still said a quarter past seven. He had slept for a long time, but he still felt tired as well as hot and sticky. The leather sofa was slick with sweat.
Stiff from lying in an awkward position, he hauled himself to his feet and shuffled into the kitchen to find something to eat before attacking the crisps. He ate a sandwich, gazing down on Gotabergsgatan and the part of Vasa Park he could see from his window. A gang of youths were shouting as they made their way along Avenyn.
In the old days the drunks had at least confined themselves to Saturday nights, he thought. The noise of the city had never really disturbed him, though, not seriously. In fact he found the silence out at Seja's cottage more unnerving.
He took a shower with a glass of red perched on the edge of the washbasin - he was planning to spend his day off in a pleasant haze of intoxication - while the trailers flickered on the TV screen, introducing Clint Eastwood's Million Dollar Baby. He didn't hear the phone until the answering machine kicked in.
'… have reached… automatic answering service…'
As he towelled himself dry his recorded voice requested the caller's name and number. He reminded himself to disconnect the landline next time he was planning a day to himself.
The extended tone stopped, replaced by Karlberg's agitated voice. Tell went into the kitchen and leaned over the speaker so he could hear more clearly. The poor quality of the recording meant he had to rewind and listen again.
The second time he played the tape, he had no doubt what the message said.
'Sven Molin has been found dead. Murdered. I've rung Beckman too. Give me a call when you get in.'
Tell looked at the bottles over on the draining board, at the useless watch still showing a quarter past seven; according to the clock on the wall, it would soon be showing the right time. He decided to call a taxi.
If he hadn't been so keen to conceal the fact that he wasn't entirely sober, Tell would have laughed at the deathly pale detective waiting for him. If the reason for this meeting had been funny, that is.
'We didn't forget to lock Granith up before we went home, did we?' Tell couldn't resist it, but he pulled himself together when he saw the surprise on Gonzales' face. 'OK, OK. This isn't exactly what we were expecting.'
'Bloody hell! How the fuck…' he burst out before making an effort to think clearly. 'Is Karlberg up there?'
Gonzales nodded. 'He took the call from Bengtsfors and went there straight away. We were waiting for you so we could check before-'
'Who's spoken to Karlberg?'
'I have.'
Bärneflod appeared in the doorway, threading his belt through the loops in his jeans.
'And?'
'Molin was lying there on the road, stabbed to death just a couple of hundred metres from the officer on duty.'
'Close to where he lived, then.'
'Yes, at a crossroads just before you get to the farm. For some reason Molin had stopped the car and got out - the driver's door was wide open.'
'Karlberg thought maybe he'd stopped to pick up the post,' Gonzales interjected, 'he was only a few metres from the mailboxes. Or he might have hit something. There were brown marks on the front of the car that could be blood. If it's an animal, they should find it before long.'
The sound of high heels echoed along the corridor, and Beckman appeared. Her tousled hair indicated that like Tell she had turned the day upside down and been woken by the bad news. 'Bed hair,' Barneflod whispered loudly to Gonzales, who didn't move a muscle.
Beckman slumped down next to Gonzales, looking at Tell with an expression that said she couldn't get her head around this latest development either.
'How did it happen?' asked Tell, perching impatiently on the very edge of the chair. 'Stabbed, you said? Which means we have a completely different method. I just can't understand-'
'Well, it's a completely different murderer,' Bärneflod informed him.
Tell closed his eyes for a second before replying. 'Yes, I'm aware that Sebastian Granith can't have murdered Sven Molin while he was locked in a cell. But, bearing in mind the background, perhaps we should consider that it would be a strange coincidence if Sven Molin had been murdered by a total stranger, someone with no connection whatsoever to Sebastian Granith. Wouldn't it?'
'Never say never when it comes to police work. Not unless there's proof,' replied Bärneflod loftily.
No doubt that's your intelligent comment for the day, thought Tell. Then he set out his own hypothesis.
'Without taking anything for granted, we must start from the premise that this third murder also has something to do with the fact that Maya Granith, the sister of Sebastian Granith, was probably attacked by Thomas Edell, Olof Bart and Sven Molin. So it's someone who's working with Granith.'
'Someone who was also close to Maya,' said Beckman.
Tell nodded. 'Or is close enough to Sebastian to go along with his campaign of revenge. And of course there's another alternative, namely that Sebastian Granith has confessed to two crimes he didn't commit. That he's protecting someone else.'
'Who found Molin?' asked Beckman.
'One of the neighbours,' said Bärneflod.
'Have they been questioned?'
'Yes. The local police have started knocking on doors. Not that there are many doors to knock on out there. But one person thought he heard a shot.'
'A shot?' said Beckman. 'Now I'm getting confused.'
'Yes. Molin's rifle was on the ground next to him. He could have felt uneasy; he could have shot at the murderer and missed. How should I know?'
'Right.'
Tell could feel his brain revving up, emerging from the alcoholic haze.
'Beckman, you go up and join Karlberg. I'll talk to Sebastian Granith and see what I can get out of him. The rest of you, keep going through
Maya Granith's life from when we broke off the other day. The investigation into the accident took place in 1995. Start from there and work backwards. Bärneflod, you can bring me a preliminary report later.' He fell silent for a moment. 'By the way, has anyone spoken to Ostergren?'
Bärneflod looked thoroughly confused. 'Isn't that your job? Isn't that why you get paid more than us?'
Tell got up, shoving Bärneflod past on his way out of the room.
'Stop moaning and get on with it.'
The door of Ostergren's office was closed. Tell decided not to call her at home just yet.
Half an hour later Tell walked into Bärneflod's office.
'I've got Gonzales following up a couple of leads. I thought you and I should go and see Ma Granith.'
'Borås, then?'
'Borås it is.'
'Can't Björkman take it?'
'No, he bloody well can't. This one's ours. Get a move on.'
Just as they were passing Landsvetter, the traffic jams started. Tell was forced to slow down and eventually came to a standstill. He swore. They heard on the radio that a lorry had overturned right across the motorway, and the vehicle still hadn't been removed. It would probably be a couple of hours before the traffic was flowing normally again.
After a forty-five-minute wait and countless curses, they were able to crawl along for what seemed like an eternity before turning off at the exit for Kinna and Skene, taking the minor roads towards Borås.
Considerably later than expected they arrived at the address, a relatively central but depressing block of flats. On the second floor the curtains were closed.
They went upstairs and came to a door marked S. GRANITH. A scraping noise from inside the flat persuaded them to wait, even though no one answered at first. Bärneflod hammered on the door with his fist. He pushed open the letterbox and caught sight of stocking-clad feet.
'We're from the police, fru Granith. Could you please open the door and let us in?' After a further delay the key was turned and a woman with messy hair peered out.
'What's it about?' she said with affected surliness, clearly trying to conceal her anxiety. Tell showed her his ID. When she failed to react he took a step into the flat, followed by Bärneflod. The woman backed away.
Tell had to remind himself that the woman's son had just been arrested on suspicion of murder. She looked terrible: her unwashed grey hair hung in clumps around her neck, and her face looked as if it had been distorted by too much anger, humiliation or perhaps weariness. She was tugging frantically at her sweater, which was much too short - a band of pale wrinkled skin showed above her waistline - and faded tights hung loosely around skinny legs.
'My apologies for the late hour. May we come in?' asked Tell once again.
'You're coming in anyway, aren't you?' the woman spat but led the way into what seemed to be the living room. It was bursting at the seams with an incredible amount of mismatched furniture. Tell counted four tables of different sizes. The policemen squeezed their way past and each sat down on a two-seater sofa. Solveig Granith remained standing at first, as if to say she didn't expect them to stay long. When Tell and Bärneflod didn't appear to take the hint, she sat down on the armchair nearest the window.
'Your son is Sebastian Granith, is that correct?' said Bärneflod, brushing the dust off the back of his sofa with an expression of unmistakable disgust.
The woman nodded peevishly.
'You have been informed that he is being held in custody, and that during the night he confessed to the murders of Lars Waltz and Olof Bart.'
Solveig Granith turned to the window without the slightest change of expression.
Bärneflod and Tell looked at one another. This woman wasn't going to be an easy nut to crack. She was probably in shock, but something about her behaviour told them there was more to it than that. Tell decided to get straight down to business.
'As we understand it, your son lives here, which gives us reason to ask where he was on the evening of Tuesday 19 December, and early on Thursday 28 December.'
He wrote the dates on a blank page in his notebook and passed it over to Solveig, who squinted at the paper before staring out of the window again.
'Please take your time if you need to give it some thought.'
'Let me put it this way: on the night between 19 and 20 December last year, did he come home?'
'How the hell am I supposed to remember?' she asked scornfully.
A door closed, and Bärneflod raised his eyebrows, wondering where the noise had come from. Tell stiffened and instinctively placed his hand close to his holster.
'Is there anyone else here?'
Solveig Granith shook her head. Bärneflod glanced at Tell and stood up. Granith chewed nervously on her lower lip.
'OK, I'll ask you this instead,' said Tell, seizing the opportunity. 'Where were you last night?'
'I don't have to answer your questions,' she said without conviction. Her eyes darted between Tell and Bärneflod, as if she expected one of them to agree with her and put an end to the unpleasantness.
'Where were you at the times written on the piece of paper in front of you?'
'I don't remember!' she screamed.
With her eyes wide open and a deranged expression on her face, the feeble woman took two steps forward and stuck her chin out at Bärneflod, who was nearer to her. He was unprepared for her agression and knocked an ornamental dove to the ground.
Fragments of porcelain flew across the scratched parquet floor, and one shard ended up at her feet. She crouched down with some difficulty and placed it in the palm of her hand. For a second Bärneflod thought she was crying.
'I don't remember,' she whispered, placing the sharp fragments she was now collecting in her cupped hand.
'But I'm sure you remember what you were doing yesterday evening,' Tell went on inexorably.
He had to repeat the question before she answered. 'I suppose I was here. I'm always here.'
'Is there anyone who can confirm that?'
'No.'
Tell felt a draught across his neck. A window or a balcony door must have been opened in another room. He was now certain that there was someone else there, listening to every word that was spoken. He gestured to Bärneflod to get ready to search the flat.
Frozen Moment Page 40