A couple of grey mongrels were roaming the paved yard, barking and baring their teeth, forcing the officers to stay in the car until Rooth’s wife had shut them in the run at the end of the barn.
Nilla Rooth was shy, and seemed keen to avoid direct eye contact. Månsson had met her in town. He had said hello to her in the store, or in the tailor’s where she sometimes worked, but had never exchanged more than a few words with her.
The small kitchen looked out onto the yard, and smelled of fried food and damp. Two flaxen-haired children, a girl of seven and a boy around the same age as Billy Nilsson were sitting at the table, and stared up at them wide-eyed when they stepped in.
‘We’re here to search the house,’ Bure said, unnecessarily brusquely. ‘You’ll have to stay in here in the meantime, is that understood?’
Nilla Rooth dried her hands on her trousers and mumbled something with her head bowed, while the children went on staring at them.
*
With Rooth’s keys at the ready, Bure and Borg set off across the yard towards the stable and barn. They unlocked the door, then struggled to open it – the wood seemed to have swollen in the frame. Månsson stayed in the kitchen. He looked at the children and smiled as warmly as he could. The girl looked down at the table, but the boy shyly returned his smile and Månsson tried not to think about Billy Nilsson and Tommy Rooth’s strong fingers.
‘A cup of coffee would be great, if you’ve got any,’ he said to Nilla Rooth. ‘Perhaps the children could go up to their rooms while we’re here.’
Månsson let the two city police officers get on with it while he drank his coffee. He already knew that the only things out there were empty pigsties and a filthy workshop, but Bure and Borg were welcome to find that out for themselves. Rooth never used the farm to store things that could link him to anything criminal, Månsson had figured that out last autumn, after the business with Aronsson’s car. Rooth was an arrogant bastard, but he was evidently smart enough to keep his legal activities separate from those that were less legitimate. Which was why Bure and Borg weren’t going to find anything today. Not here, anyway, Månsson was sure about that.
Nilla Rooth reappeared with the coffee pot and Månsson raised his chipped mug.
‘Thanks, I wouldn’t say no to a bit more. It’s good coffee.’
Nilla Rooth blushed and looked away. She clearly wasn’t used to compliments.
The last time Månsson was at the farm, Rooth had been home. He had followed them as they searched the house, mocking them when they got their uniforms dirty. Nilla and the children had mostly stayed out of sight, only visible as frightened faces in the upstairs windows.
Månsson looked at the woman standing beside him. Once upon a time she had probably been very attractive. But that was before she ended up out here with Rooth, before her body had borne the burden of childbirth and monotonous labour. Nilla Rooth could hardly be much more than thirty, even though she looked at least ten, fifteen years older.
‘What does Tommy do with the animals he shoots?’ Månsson said.
The hand holding the pot trembled, spilling some coffee on the table.
‘I know he doesn’t keep them here on the farm, he’s too smart for that. So what does he do with them, Nilla?’
The woman turned her back on him. She put the coffee pot back on the hotplate and started to busy herself with the washing up, unnecessarily noisily.
‘We’re not actually bothered about the poaching. We’re here because we think Tommy might have done something really stupid. That he might have harmed Billy Nilsson. After all, everyone knows what Tommy thinks of the boy’s uncle.’
He paused for a few seconds, letting his words sink in.
‘Tommy sometimes loses his temper. Sometimes he does things he later regrets, doesn’t he?’
She stopped moving. Månsson made his voice as soft as he could.
‘We have to find Billy. His mother is beside herself, she’s shut herself up in her bedroom and won’t talk to anyone. You have to help me, Nilla. Imagine if it was your son. Your little . . .’ Månsson couldn’t remember the boy’s name, so he gestured towards the ceiling and said: ‘. . . lad.’
He fell silent. Nilla Rooth stood motionless with her eyes fixed on one of the crooked cupboard doors.
‘Tommy will never know that you’ve said anything,’ Månsson said quietly. ‘Never, I swear. Please, help me.’
Nilla’s shoulders slowly sank. When she breathed out, it sounded almost like a sob.
Chapter 23
V
eronica is sitting out on the landing with Mattias’s motorcycle helmet in her lap. Her hands and thighs are shaking. Her breathing is jerky, and she hardly knows what to do with herself as Mattias goes into the flat with his pistol drawn.
Through the open door she hears him move inside the flat, methodically checking the rooms. Bathroom, kitchen, living room. And last of all the closet at the far end of the bedroom.
She doesn’t hear any shouting, no commotion, no shots from the pistol. Just the sound of his cautious footsteps. She fiddles with the helmet, pushing the dark visor up and down. When did Mattias start riding a motorbike? And what is he doing six hundred kilometres from home with a pistol tucked inside his jacket?
Mattias looks out of the doorway. And says what she’s already realised. ‘There’s no one here.’
Veronica gets to her feet and walks back inside the flat on unsteady legs. She follows him into the living room.
‘Can you see anything that’s missing?’
She looks around. The television is still there, and the cheap little stereo system she hardly ever uses. In the bedroom her chest of drawers looks untouched, and when she opens the top drawer the little boxes containing her few pieces of jewellery are exactly where she left them.
Everything seems to be the way it should, but she still knows that it isn’t. Something about the room feels wrong.
‘Do you normally leave this open?’ Mattias is pointing to the narrow window in the far bedroom wall.
‘Sometimes. Why?’
‘It isn’t properly closed.’
He’s right. The window is shut, but the two metal catches on one side are pointing upwards rather than sitting in their clasps. He opens the window and sticks his head out. There’s a fire-escape ladder outside which leads down to the dark inner courtyard. He seems to study the ladder carefully. Then he goes back to inspecting the catches and windowsill.
She tries to remember the last time she left the window open. Last night, probably. The through-draught is the only way to cool the flat. She shuts her eyes, takes a deep breath and tries to remember if she closed the window.
‘No signs of forced entry on the frame,’ Mattias says, and closes the window. ‘No evidence that the ladder has been used either. You’re sure you heard footsteps? It couldn’t have been the window banging in the breeze?’
She almost snaps at him, saying she’s certain there was someone inside the flat. But she stops herself, realising that just a few minutes ago she thought she was being chased by monsters from nightmares she had when she was a child.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she says instead.
‘Up for a meeting. Do you think you might have forgotten to shut the window properly?’
‘Maybe. What sort of meeting?’
‘A narcotics case we’re working on. National Crime wants to be kept informed, so they asked me to come up. It could be connected to one of their cases.’
‘You’re on your own?’ She doesn’t really know why she’s asking. She sees him stiffen slightly.
‘Me and a colleague. It was all very last-minute so I didn’t have a chance to tell you beforehand.’
He turns his back on her and checks the other bedroom window, the one looking out on the street. Then he goes into the living room and does the same with the windows in there. They’re all closed, and she lives on the third floor.
‘I just thought I’d call by and see if
you’d heard any more from that Isak. If you’d found out who he is and what he’s after.’
His police voice is back. Unless it’s his older brother voice. Whichever it is, it makes it clear to her that she shouldn’t ask any more questions about why he’s there and who he’s with.
‘No, he wasn’t at the last meeting,’ she says, which of course is perfectly true. The fact that she wasn’t there either, and the reasons for that, are none of Mattias’s business.
He sits down on one arm of the sofa. She can see the strap of the holster under his leather biker’s jacket. Mattias’s shoulders sink, and his tense jaw relaxes slightly. He’s lost weight, she notices now. He looks fit and agile. His hairstyle is different too. She likes it, and tries not to think about how long it’s been since they last saw each other.
‘Are you absolutely certain there was someone in here?’
He tilts his head a little, the way he always used to when he was worried about her. She hasn’t seen the gesture in years, and it makes her feel warm inside. Mattias has good reason to be worried. Her behaviour over the past few days has hardly been healthy. Bordering on crazy, to be honest. What would have happened if he hadn’t appeared? Would she have banged on the neighbour’s door? Called the police? Ruud?
She looks down. Mutters a vague apology about maybe mishearing. That the draught when she opened the front door might have made the back window slam, which then set her imagination off. At the same time she tries to convince herself that all the rest of it – the sound of footsteps and the shadow outside the bathroom door – were just figments of her imagination caused by stress and lack of sleep. Even so, she can’t quite shake the uneasy feeling. Something about the flat is different. Something she can only detect as a faint tingle in the hairs on the back of her neck.
She tries to persuade Mattias to stay for dinner. She’d like to be able to tell him about the photofit picture of Billy, which looks like the blond man who says his name is Isak. She’d prefer to do that calmly, in a way that doesn’t sound crazy. Besides, she doesn’t want to be left on her own in the flat.
But Mattias has a prior engagement. He doesn’t specify what, clearly indicating that he’s not going to answer any further questions. So she walks outside with him.
His motorbike is big, black, and looks very new. The saddle has two seats, they look like little armchairs, and when he opens one of the panniers she glimpses another motorbike helmet. He sees her looking and quickly shuts it.
‘Call me if you need anything, you’ve got my mobile number.’
She nods, then gives him an awkward hug.
‘Are you free this weekend, Vera?’
‘Sure.’ She hopes he’s about to suggest lunch or dinner, and doesn’t realise she’s walked into a trap before it even has time to spring shut.
‘You don’t feel like coming home for a couple of days? It’s been so long. Dad would be really pleased. It’s Mum’s birthday on Sunday. You know what that means to him.’
‘Maybe,’ she mumbles, realising that none of her usual excuses feel entirely appropriate. It’s much harder to lie to his face than it is over the phone.
‘Great,’ he says, as if the matter were settled. ‘Well, see you there tomorrow afternoon, then we’ll have time to talk properly. I’ve got to go now.’
He starts the engine before she has time to protest. He folds the visor down and waves to her as he slowly rides away.
She stands down in the street for a long time. It takes her almost ten minutes to pluck up the courage to go back upstairs. The unsettling feeling is still there, like an invisible mist. She opens the windows in an attempt to air it out. She gets out her cleaning things and mops the floors until the flat stinks of detergent. The effort leaves her in a sweat, and she goes into the bathroom and takes her shirt off. She stands at the window in just her bra. She leans on the windowsill for a couple of minutes until the tension has eased. The scar on her right arm looks an angry red, but it isn’t actually itching at the moment.
In a while, an hour, maybe, she’ll call Mattias and tell him that she won’t be able to make it after all, that she can’t go home to mark their mother’s birthday this year either. He won’t be surprised, barely even disappointed.
She goes into the closet to fetch a clean shirt. The little steps from IKEA are standing beneath one of the shelves, even though she’s sure she put them back in the corner.
One corner of the box containing her grief collection is sticking out over the edge of the shelf. And when she lifts it down with trembling hands she sees that the lid isn’t on properly.
Chapter 24
Summer 1983
T
he little gravel track was almost impossible to spot if you didn’t know exactly where to look, Månsson thought. Two barely visible tyre tracks that ran alongside a stone wall between two fields. There were plenty of similar, half-overgrown tractor paths around here, and almost none of them were marked on any map.
One of the wheels drove into a hole, making the bottom of the Saab scrape along the strip of green in the middle of the track.
Bure swore. ‘Damn, this car’s almost new. Are you sure Rooth’s old woman isn’t winding us up?’
Månsson shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed off towards the dark strip of forest at the end of the field.
‘There!’ He pointed at the outline of a low roof, barely perceptible beneath the canopy of trees.
They left the car in the middle of the track and walked the rest of the way. They found clear tyre marks in the mud next to a puddle – probably from Rooth’s Amazon – and while Bure photographed the imprint Månsson took the chance to look around. The little pump house was right on the boundary between field and forest, just as Nilla Rooth had said.
The walls were yellow-brown brick, which had taken on a greenish tone over the years. The roof had sunk beneath a covering of moss, and the foliage brushed the tiles in places. It looked almost as if the building was huddled up. As if it was hiding, crouched in the shadows.
Something about the windowless little building and the dark forest behind it made Månsson feel uneasy, and it took him a while before he realised why. The silence. No chirruping from crickets, no birdsong, not from the fields, and not from the forest either. Only a faint rustling as the wind blew weakly through the treetops.
They didn’t hear anything until they were approaching the door in one end of the building. A rattling bark, almost a scream, from somewhere in the gloom of the forest. The two detectives stopped.
‘What the hell was that?’ Borg said.
‘A fox,’ Månsson said. ‘Nothing for a grown man to worry about.’
Borg glared at him sullenly and his colleague grinned. Månsson felt the sweat starting to run down his back again. The heat was oppressive, this whole summer felt like one long session in the sauna.
There was a steel bar across the door, fastened with a sturdy padlock, but Borg found the right key on Rooth’s keyring at the first attempt. The door swung open without a sound, letting out cool, damp air and a cloying smell that Månsson recognised at once. Rotting meat.
He looked at the others without saying anything. Bure switched on the torch he had taken from the boot of the car and went first.
The pump house was approximately thirty square metres in size, and the roof was open all the way to the beams. The pump had been removed, probably back in the sixties when the farms in the area were put on the water-grid. But the damp and cold from the well far beneath the foundations was still clinging to the walls, mixing with the smell of blood and decay.
There were three animal carcases hanging from the roof. Stainless steel hooks had been driven into their thin necks before the animals were hoisted up with the help of chains and pulleys attached to the roof beams.
Their chests and abdomens gaped emptily, their hooves hanging scarcely any distance above the bloodstained stone floor. The glare of the torch reflected off empty, glassy eyes, and the two city detectives stoppe
d.
‘Two roe deer calves and one red deer,’ Månsson declared. ‘None of them legal to hunt at this time of year.’
The beam of the torch swung round, and Bure must have found a light switch because there was a click and a couple of old fluorescent lights flickered into life. There was a battered old freezer along one side of the room, and a low door at the far end. Bure put the torch away and pulled out his camera. The click of the shutter echoed off the stone walls.
Månsson went over to the freezer. It was big enough to hold a grown man, so it could take a five-year-old boy with no problem at all. The white lid was covered with bloody fingerprints. Månsson took a deep breath. Steeled himself. Raised the lid cautiously.
The freezer was divided into two large compartments. In the right-hand one were a couple of dozen neatly marked paper parcels of various sizes: Pheasant July ’83, Roe deer saddle July ’83, Red deer fillet June ’83, Red deer haunch June ’83.
The other end contained large transparent plastic bags. He picked one up and found a black and white badger pelt. Borg looked over his shoulder.
‘Well?’
Månsson shook his head despondently. ‘Just a load of meat and skins that Rooth hasn’t managed to sell yet.’
Along the other wall there was a stainless steel bench, also covered with bloodstains, and above it hung a selection of tools, ten knives and meat cleavers of various sizes. There was a large saucepan on top of an electric hotplate. Borg lifted the lid and immediately jerked back.
‘Jesus fucking Christ, what the hell is that?!’
Månsson looked down into the pan. A pair of horns were sticking up out of the grey-black porridge-like sludge. The stench was overwhelming.
‘A red deer skull,’ he said. ‘The antlers look pretty good. Bronze or silver, maybe. Rooth’s boiling the flesh off so he can mount and sell them.’
End of Summer Page 11