‘That was a long time ago now, before I went to sea. Youthful misdemeanours, ask anyone.’ Rooth’s tone was provocative, as usual. As was his body language.
‘That’s exactly what we’ve been doing,’ Borg said from over by the wall. ‘We’ve asked loads of people if there’s anyone who might have a grudge against the Aronsson and Nilsson families, and guess which name kept popping up? You don’t seem to be very popular locally.’
‘People round here talk a load of crap,’ Rooth snorted. ‘They always have done. That’s all well in the past now.’
‘Well in the past?’ Bure turned a sheet in the folder. ‘It says here that on 5 October last year you paid a visit to Harald Aronsson’s home. According to the report, you were intoxicated and threatening.’
‘Intoxicated and threatening? Fucking hell, Aronsson’s such a liar. He’s just pissed off that someone put him in his place for once. Everyone around here does whatever Harald Aronsson says, including Månsson here.’
Månsson looked away, avoiding the men’s gaze.
‘So you admit you were there, then? And that you and Aronsson had an argument?’
Rooth gestured towards Månsson. His hand had long, strong fingers, tanned as brown as his face.
‘We’ve already been through all this, me and Månsson. Most recently last week. No, hang on, it wasn’t Månsson who questioned me, it was one of his puppets. Månsson didn’t dare do it himself.’
Månsson clenched his teeth.
‘We know you’ve already been interviewed,’ Bure said. ‘But now it’s us asking the questions. Did you go to see Harald Aronsson at his home on 5 October last year?’
Rooth raised his eyebrows in a fake grimace of resignation.
‘Sure, I was there. We argued. The bastard bought the Northern Woods from the estate last autumn and revoked my hunting licence there and then. Claimed there was no written contract and wouldn’t even let me hunt to put food on the table, even though I live next to the forest. My grandfather used to be gamekeeper on the estate back in the day. My dad inherited the hunt from him, and then it passed to me. We never needed a contract. The forest is what we live off half the year. That’s how I provide for my family, so believe me, I was pissed off.’
‘Pissed off enough to put a bullet through the windscreen of Aronsson’s car that same night?’ Bure asked.
Rooth folded his arms over his chest and pulled one corner of his mouth up in an arrogant smirk.
‘That’s already been investigated. The bullet didn’t come from any of my guns. Ask Månsson, his people tested all my rifles. None of them housed that bullet. The investigation was dropped, wasn’t it?’
‘That’s correct,’ Månsson muttered, unable to stop himself. He knew what the detectives were thinking, he could see it on their faces. Useless fucking rural police.
‘The car was parked in the yard,’ Bure said. ‘So the shooter must have been very close, using a silenced weapon. The sort of rifle poachers use.’
Rooth’s smile grew even broader, and his eyes glinted.
‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
‘So you don’t go poaching in the Northern Woods? You and your seafaring mate, Kjell-Åke Olsson, more usually known as Sailor?’
Rooth let out an exaggerated sigh. ‘You city types don’t understand how anything works around here.’
Neither of the detectives said anything. Rooth leaned across the table.
‘Look, it’s like this. Harald Aronsson is pissed off because I sit on my side of the boundary of the Northern Woods and shoot deer he’d rather sell to trophy hunters from Denmark. I hunt whatever the hell I like on my land, especially animals that eat my crops. Game belongs to whoever owns the land where it falls. Everyone knows I’m within my rights, but no one dares say anything because they’re so bloody terrified of getting on the wrong side of Aronsson.’
He leaned back in his chair.
‘I’m not frightened of Harald Aronsson. He can go to hell. Who knows, he could well have shot his own windscreen and tried to blame me, to give Månsson a chance to snoop around my farm and take a look in my gun cabinet. Aronsson was probably hoping I’d have illegal weapons there, so I’d lose my guns and licence. That would have solved all his problems. But I’m not that bloody stupid. You should be investigating Aronsson instead. There’s a lot of stuff about that family that could do with being dragged out into the light. But obviously no one’s got the guts to do that. Not even hot-shot city cops like you.’
Rooth grinned again, then crossed one leg nonchalantly over the other. Månsson saw Borg straighten up over by the wall. He could almost feel how angry he was, and sympathised with him. But Bure kept his cool, and seemed to decide it was time to change the subject.
‘You didn’t join in with the search for Billy Nilsson. Why not?’
‘I was busy. It’s the middle of harvest.’
‘Where were you the night he went missing?’
‘I’ve already answered that, several times. In the forest, probably, or out in my fields.’
‘Is there anyone who can confirm that?’
Rooth shook his head. ‘The dogs, maybe. You could try bringing them in for questioning.’
Another grin, but Bure refused to let himself be provoked.
‘Several witnesses say they saw your car in the vicinity of the search areas on the days following the disappearance. What were you doing there?’
Another shrug. ‘I didn’t know I wasn’t allowed to move around the place where I live. I suppose I must have had business that way, and was a bit curious. Especially when time started to run out. I couldn’t help wondering what on earth the police were doing if they couldn’t find the lad.’
Månsson gritted his teeth again and clenched one hand behind his back.
‘The boy, yes. Billy Nilsson. Were you curious about him, too?’ Borg took a step towards the centre of the room.
‘How do you mean?’ Rooth turned towards Borg. He suddenly seemed more wary.
‘Have you ever spoken to Billy Nilsson?’
Rooth shook his head. ‘Never.’
‘Never? You’ve got a boy the same age. Haven’t you ever run into Billy and his family in the village, exchanged a few words? You’re quite sure about that?’
‘Yes. Nilla looks after the kids. I’ve only seen the lad from a distance, I know who he is.’
Borg and Bure exchanged a glance. Here it comes, Månsson thought.
‘We have a credible witness who saw you and Billy Nilsson together the day before he went missing,’ Borg said.
Rooth’s expression changed. It was so fleeting that afterwards Månsson couldn’t help wondering if he’d read it correctly. But for a couple of seconds in that stifling room, he could have sworn the man looked scared.
‘That’s a lie.’
Borg and Bure exchanged another glance, and Månsson understood what it meant. They had uncovered the fact that Rooth was lying. And where there was one lie, there were usually more.
‘You spoke to Billy down at the petrol station just after five o’clock when his mum was inside paying,’ Bure said. ‘He was sitting in their car, and you spoke through the open window. The witness says it looked like you pulled the door handle and were trying to persuade Billy to get out of the car. That you’d probably have persuaded him to go with you if his mum hadn’t shown up.’
Rooth said nothing for several seconds. The mocking smile was gone. His mouth was a thin white line. Månsson held his breath.
‘I want to talk to a lawyer,’ Rooth finally said. All of a sudden he sounded tired, almost resigned.
*
Afterwards the two detectives were giddy with delight. They slapped each other on the back and shook hands. Their tone was friendlier now, more comradely. Månsson mostly felt bemused, and couldn’t quite figure out what he thought.
Borg called the duty prosecutor while Bure poured shots of Gammel Dansk from a hip flask. The atmosphere in the room was elated, but Månsso
n had trouble sharing the men’s excitement. He thought about Rooth’s hard eyes, his long, strong fingers. And little Billy Nilsson. The spicy liquor burned his throat, its warmth spreading through his chest and out into his blood.
In the background he heard Borg’s conversation with the prosecutor.
Has a grudge against the family . . . Suspected of previous offences against the boy’s uncle . . . Has shown a keen interest in the search . . . Tried to get the boy to go with him the evening before he went missing . . . Rooth’s car has been washed, and looks like it’s been cleaned up inside.
That last line was a lie. Bure had already taken a look in the car using the keys they had taken from Rooth. He had concluded that the rust-red Volvo Amazon estate had been tidied up, but on closer inspection they had found what might well be traces of blood in the back.
Bure was still trying to convince the prosecutor: Rooth has lied under questioning, and has previous convictions for violent conduct. And then the nail in the coffin: He doesn’t have an alibi for the night of the murder.
The night of the murder, that’s what they had started to call it now. The evening Billy Nilsson went missing. The evening Billy was murdered.
Månsson’s shirt was sticking to his back. He suddenly felt short of breath, and had to loosen his tie and undo the top button. Borg hung up, grinned and gave them the thumbs up.
‘Rooth is formally under arrest, as of now. And we’ve got warrants to search his car, home, business premises and surrounding areas, so call in Forensics and all the police officers we can get hold of. Two days, maximum three, before we find where he’s buried the boy.’
Bure poured more Gammel Dansk and they drank another toast. More alcoholic warmth. Månsson coughed, then let out a belch.
Borg slapped him on the back. He was one of the gang now. One of the team who had cracked the case. He felt suddenly overwhelmed by relief. The tight band around his chest gave way and for a couple of seconds he thought he was about to burst into tears.
Chapter 21
S
he dreams about the sound made by the door of the crooked little wardrobe in her room – which would later become Billy’s – when it is slowly opened. Claws scraping drily on the floor. Noses sniffing to find a young child.
She pulls the covers over her head and screams until the air runs out and her head is spinning from lack of oxygen. Someone grabs hold of the duvet and pulls it away. And then her mum is there, the wardrobe door is closed and for a brief moment everything feels better. She huddles into her mother’s embrace, squeezing her as hard as her five-year-old arms can manage. But then she notices the streaks of grey in the long, strawberry-blonde hair, sees the absent look in her eyes and recognises the smell of medication, cigarette smoke and institution. This is her mum after Billy disappeared.
Mum says nothing, she hardly ever does in dreams. Just strokes her cheek and looks at her in a way that expresses both disappointment and sadness. As if it’s Veronica who has let her down, who has made her mother sad, and not the other way round. The words burn in her throat, but as usual they don’t emerge until the dream is starting to dissolve.
I did my best, Mum. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find him.
It wasn’t my fault.
I love you.
And then, at last, the question. The question that all the participants in her therapy group can’t stop asking:
Why?
*
It’s scorching hot inside the car when she wakes up. She winds the window down a few more centimetres to release the smell of hot plastic, but there’s barely any breeze, like most days this summer. The air is quivering above the tarmac, and on the other side of the road, in front of the grey concrete box of the Civic Centre, the weeds are yellow and dried up. It is almost five o’clock on Friday afternoon, still a long time till dusk, when the heat becomes more bearable. She shifts position on the seat and tries to shake off the dream. She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a few minutes, but her clothes are still sticky against the seat.
She goes through the dream in her head. Can’t help smiling a little at first. Why did Uncle Harald tell such terrible stories? What did he get out of frightening little kids? She wonders if he told the same stories to Billy when she and Mattias had grown too old. If he does the same for his own son, now that he’s belatedly become a father. If Timothy too wakes up crying and needing to be comforted by his mum.
She reaches for the bottle of water between the seats, drinks a couple of mouthfuls of the tepid liquid and watches the usual members of the Friday group walk up the steps, one by one. Elsa with the pearls of grief, Mia with the dead husband and old Sture with the combover. Still no sign of the blond man who says his name is Isak.
The past few days have been sheer torture, and she’s had to throw herself into all kinds of activities just to get the time to pass. Cinema, jogging, television, sessions in the gym that left every muscle aching. And now she’s sitting here, unable to stay away.
She carries on waiting, taking little sips of the water so she won’t need to go to the toilet and interrupt her surveillance. Drink because you’re thirsty, not because you’re bored. Leon used to say that when they were out on trips together. Dalarna, Värmland, the Kingdom of Crystal in Småland. Leon liked driving. Likes driving. He isn’t dead, after all, just out of reach. Unobtainable.
She’s not particularly fond of cars herself. Her rattly old Golf is ten years old and has a tendency to overheat if she forgets to top up the radiator.
At two minutes to five she imagines she can hear a motorbike and adjusts the rear-view mirror in an attempt to see where it is. She sits motionless for several seconds, then opens the window a bit more to try to work out where it’s gone. But the sound is drowned out by the rest of the traffic and there’s no sign of a motorbike in the street.
Five o’clock, ten past, quarter past. By now at least two group members would have had time to tell their stories. There’s no sign of the blond man.
Her drinking tactic doesn’t seem to have worked, because her bladder is making itself impossible to ignore. At twenty past five she starts the car and sets off for home, looking in the rear-view mirror more often than she needs to.
*
She’s in luck, and finds a parking spot just round the corner from her flat. She rushes up the stairs, throws the front door open and only just manages to pull her trousers and underpants down in time. She sits on the toilet with the door open and shuts her eyes as the smell of warm urine spreads through the little bathroom. The blond man hadn’t shown up. She didn’t get a chance to see what brand of cigarettes he smokes, make a note of the licence number of his motorbike, perhaps even follow him to wherever he lives. And the next therapy session isn’t until Monday. Can she manage to wait that long?
The other question is whether she’s still going to have a job after the weekend. It all depends if slightly-too-tall Bengt has allowed himself to be persuaded.
A sudden noise inside the flat makes her jump. A faint, irregular sound, a bit like rain on a windowsill.
She holds her breath. There it is again, and this time she hears it more clearly. There’s someone there. Someone or something. Because she imagines that she recognises those clicking footsteps. She hears them in her nightmares. Claws scraping on the floor.
She gets to her feet, pulls up her trousers and lunges for the door, slamming it shut and locking it. Her heart is trying to break out of her chest and her vision blurs. She leans back against the wall and sinks down onto the floor. She forces herself to take deep, slow breaths. She can feel the small vibrations as someone walks across the floor outside. Coming closer and closer. She feels like turning the light out, because she has no duvet to pull over her head, but immediately realises that the darkness and enclosed space would only make her more frightened.
There’s no window in the bathroom. The door is the only way out, and then there are three metres of hall before you reach the fro
nt door and freedom.
The cautious footsteps stop outside the bathroom door. She leans forward, trying to see under the door. She can make out a dark patch on the floor. The shadow of whoever or whatever is standing outside.
She stares at the door handle and the feeble brass lock above it. Holds her breath. Shuts her eyes.
Nothing happens. And when she opens her eyes again, the shadow outside has gone.
She doesn’t know where she gets the strength to unlock the door, throw it open and rush for the front door without looking round. She thinks she hears noises behind her. Heavy breathing, feet with claws scraping on the floor.
She fumbles with the lock, instinctively keeping her head lowered. She’s expecting to be bitten, to feel warm breath on her skin, teeth biting into her. Or, more likely, a strong hand grabbing her by the shoulder and dragging her back into the flat.
The front door opens and she rushes headlong into the stairwell, colliding with a man in a dark motorbike helmet and black leather jacket who’s standing right outside. He’s big, and looms over her like a giant. She screams, kicks and flails her arms. Hands grab her wrists, holding her clenched fists away, and he pulls her to him. The smell of leather and petrol fumes is nauseating.
‘Vera,’ the man yells in her ear, but the helmet makes his voice muffled and unclear. ‘Vera, it’s me.’
And suddenly she recognises the voice.
Mattias.
Darling,
We both know that this is dangerous, that we stand to lose everything. Yet we still can’t stay away from each other. We’re like two moths being drawn towards a lamp, circling the flame, round and round, while our fragile wings get hotter and hotter.
Are we going to be consumed by the flame? I don’t know, and I’m not really worried about that. All I know is that I have to be near you.
I’m yours. Yours alone. Now and forever.
Chapter 22
Summer 1983
R
ooth’s farm was at the end of a narrow gravel track, just a few hundred metres from the edge of the Northern Forest. Three small buildings arranged in a horseshoe as protection against the wind. Walls and roofs made of dirty brown fibre cement, leaky windows that could have done with being replaced a long time ago.
End of Summer Page 10