‘I thought about the bank. I got so angry I almost passed out.
‘Then I put my hands around his neck, and I couldn’t see anything, everything was black. I could hardly breathe, and I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed, and the bed broke and then that was that.’
Malin and Zeke remain silent. Waiting for Berit Andersson to go on.
‘I tried to make it look like he’d hanged himself. That sort of thing does happen. Old folks hanging themselves from the cables of their alarm buttons.’
Berit Andersson takes one last deep drag on her cigarette before stubbing it out in her empty coffee cup.
‘I’ve got the money under the bed in there. In plastic bags. I haven’t touched any of it.’
Malin takes a sip of her coffee.
Hears the wind again.
Feels a slight gust against her neck, and it’s warm and cold at the same time, and she knows she never wants to feel that wind again.
‘Ronny’s going to be so upset,’ Berit Andersson says, looking out across the garden before lowering her eyes.
Berit in the back seat of the patrol car. Her hands cuffed.
Malin looks at her, then at the house she is leaving for ever.
Sees the drowned world disperse in all directions.
And Malin wants to scream.
Scream, scream, scream.
But she remains silent. Knows that no scream can be heard in a storm like this one.
61
Tuesday, 17 August
Malin stares at her computer screen. Rubs her eyes, takes deep, deep breaths.
No rain today, the storm has moved on, leaving just a thin layer of cloud covering the sky.
Hans Morelia is staring out at her from the Correspondent’s website. In a live broadcast from Merapi’s head office he announces that the deal with the American company Nexxus has been concluded, ‘a milestone in the provision of care in Sweden, possibly internationally, and proof that diligent and conscientious work pays off’.
What’s he saying?
He’s mad, Malin thinks. Her neck feels sore after the collision with the tree yesterday. She recalls how frightened Hans Morelia had been outside the Hotel Ekoxen the other day, but that fear seems to have blown away now.
Grey suit, red silk tie.
Neatly combed hair.
Self-confidence personified.
The press conference is approaching its conclusion when Malin hears Daniel’s voice off-camera.
‘The murder of Konrad Karlsson, how do you explain that, the fact that one of your employees killed him while she was working for you?’
For a moment Hans Morelia seems to lose his grip, but mere seconds later Rebecka Koss takes the microphone.
‘We’re here to talk about the conclusion of the deal. There’ll be a press release about that other business later on today.’
‘What do you have to say about the fact that your care workers’ wages are so low that they can hardly survive on them?’
‘That’s all for now,’ Hans Morelia says, adjusting his hair and tie before stepping down from the podium.
Börje and Waldemar are questioning Berit Andersson, for the third time, in the gloom of interview room one.
The money was indeed under the bed, and she is cooperating fully, without showing any real remorse. Malin closes her browser, thinking that Berit Andersson is a woman who has been pushed to the limit. And when that happens, there’s no regret.
They’ve tried to get hold of Ronny Andersson, but have been unable to reach him by phone, or at home.
Malin looks out across the open-plan office.
Case concluded.
The summer can move towards its end in peace now.
The city’s inhabitants can sleep soundly, as if this occurrence were merely an aberration. And out on the streets today there are twenty new multi-millionaires, looking just like everyone else.
Malin gets up from her chair. It’s already four o’clock, and she wonders about going down to the gym, but changes her mind.
The sun is shining outside.
I’m going to walk home, she thinks, slowly, and enjoy the late-summer air, the breeze against my skin. I shall take possession of the world, and then I shall sleep, properly, for a very long time.
There’s a black car parked to one side of the car park in front of the police station, and Malin knows immediately whose it is. The driver’s door opens and a tall, gangly figure gets out. Has he got something in his hand? No. He walks straight towards her, and she squints in the oddly harsh light, tries to see his eyes, see if there’s anger or sadness in them, and to start with he seems to speed up, but then he stops. Malin can see the sorrow in Ronny Andersson’s eyes now, and he seems to slump, and she goes over to him, suppressing an urge to put her arm around him. He looks up at her blankly, about to say something, but can’t seem to find the words.
‘I’m sorry,’ Malin says. ‘I’m sorry it turned out this way.’
‘That bastard,’ Ronny Andersson says. ‘He’s made a billion, and my mum’s locked up in there. He’s the one you should be arresting, he was the one who drove Mum to this.’
The sorrow in Ronny Andersson’s eyes switches to anger, and he talks more loudly, almost shouting now: ‘You should lock that bastard up for good. Throw away the key. He should be shot,’ and Malin knows he needs to scream, knows she has to soak up that scream herself, so she just stands there, lets him yell right in her face.
‘My mum!’ he shouts, pointing towards the cells in the basement. ‘He’s taken her life away! She’ll die in there, and he’s responsible for that. How the fuck could you let that happen? Is he just going to get away with it? You have no idea what I’m capable of right now, no idea! Do you hear me?’
And then the anger is gone, replaced by mute grief, and Ronny Andersson’s knees give way, and he curls up on the tarmac, sobbing.
‘Go away, leave me alone.’
But Malin doesn’t move.
‘Go,’ Ronny Andersson whispers, and she leaves him, walks away from the police station and all the broken people, walks through the city, and when she gets home to her flat on Ågatan the strange smell has gone, vanished, as if it had never existed.
Tove is lying on Malin’s arm. She’s fallen asleep beside her on Malin’s bed. Outside the window the stars are shining in the clear night sky, and Malin finds herself thinking that beyond that quivering black sky there are unquiet souls, people she once knew and who have now left this earthly life. Somewhere beyond that beautiful, terrifying sky is angel dust, drifting through unknown space.
Tove is tired after working an extra evening shift, and Malin feels her daughter’s weight on her arm, filling her with life.
She strokes Tove’s hair with her free hand. Thanks to her, Malin can put up with anything.
Thirst.
Shame.
Fear of love.
Hatred, violence.
And loneliness. This wretched loneliness.
Then she thinks about Stefan. Things have happened quickly today. In just a few hours he was moved to his new home. They’re going to see him there in a week or so, and Malin strokes Tove’s cheek, knows how upset she is by the truth behind Konrad Karlsson’s murder.
But not surprised.
Tove’s smart. Mature and sensitive enough to understand how violence arises.
We’re going to be all right, Tove. No one can take our love away from us.
She hasn’t felt up to talking to Sven about his job. She doesn’t know what she wants. But her desire for something, anything, has returned.
Daniel.
We’re older now.
Alone. We can’t hurt each other, can we?
Malin looks out of the window again. Tries to calm her thoughts. Imagines she can see birds of prey circling distant stars, and perhaps there are unknown creatures flying through space, hungry beasts surviving on all the evil that human beings do to one another.
Stefan.
He ought to be h
ere, in Linköping, near me, maybe near you, Tove, but near me at any rate. You were right to start with.
We’re the only people he’s got.
But I can’t do it. Don’t hate me for that.
She pulls free of Tove.
Heads out into the Linköping night.
62
Daniel can see how tired and sad she is as she stands at the threshold of his flat, looking at him in silence. There’s no fear or panic in her sadness, and he sees himself reflected in her, in the emotions that shape her.
Give in, he says to himself, and he gestures to her to come into the flat, closes the door behind her, and she stands in the hall, waiting.
He’s about to say something, but she puts a finger to her lips and hushes him.
No more words, she seems to be saying, we’re done with that. You’re right, she seems to be saying, we mustn’t escape into each other, we’ve done enough of that.
We’re here now.
Older.
Stupider. Wiser.
I’m here now, you, we are here.
His body is warmer and harder than she remembers, but also softer, his hands more gentle, as he sweats above and below her. She runs her fingernails down his back, the way she remembers that he likes, and the moonlight breaks through the clouds as they drift off across the sky. Was this what you used to feel like, Daniel? Softer than Peter, more considerate, or am I the one who’s changed, getting harder while you’ve got softer?
I put my hand around you, my mouth, you don’t taste of anything, and we’ve both been longing for this.
We’ll be kinder this time.
Not ruin it.
Just love each other.
Love all the goodness of the world into existence.
63
Wednesday, 18 August
Hans Morelia looks out across the city from his terrace.
Sun, storm, sun.
All in the space of a week.
He waves away a sluggish hornet, his head slightly muzzy after the champagne in the office yesterday, but he feels happy. He thinks of everything that lies ahead for him and his family.
He hasn’t yet said anything to his colleagues about his plan to take some time off and travel the world, to spend as much time as possible with Lova and do things she thinks are fun.
Kaizen.
Every detail of life, improved. The tiniest aspects made more beautiful.
At first he expected the Americans to oppose his wish for time off, but they said they could understand why he needed it.
‘The value of this company stretches beyond you. You’ve done a great job.’
The city.
The same as it was a month ago, a week ago.
The same greenery in the Horticultural Society Park, the only sign of the storm is a single large tree lying on the grass. According to breakfast television news, the damage wasn’t as bad as predicted. A thousand acres of forest destroyed in Småland. Roofs torn off a few barns. Homes flooded. But nothing insurmountable.
No longer any waves on the water at the Tinnerbäck pool.
The swimmers are back.
Yet the city is different. A city he knows he’s going to leave.
He hears someone come out on to the terrace behind him, Lova, judging by the lightness of the footsteps. Presumably wondering if they’re going to be leaving soon, they’re planning to go down into the city, to Rocklund’s horse-riding shop to buy some new boots, at long last.
Lova has been nagging.
I could buy the whole shop for you, Hans Morelia thinks. I could buy it a thousand times over for you.
The bodyguards aren’t due to start work until the afternoon, but that can’t be helped.
Lova puts her hand on his back, small and soft, and he wishes he could stay like that, feeling her touch, knows it’s worth more than all the money he could ever earn.
‘When are we going, Daddy?’
‘How about now?’
‘OK.’
Riding boots. What do they cost?
A thousand kronor. Or seven and a half thousand?
The ones Hans Morelia buys his daughter cost the latter, and he pays with his debit card, and then they go out into the summer sun and head toward Bosse’s ice-cream parlour.
Not many people about. He looks around.
That Ronny Andersson hasn’t shown up again since the business at the Hotel Ekoxen, but he must have his hands full at the moment, now that what his mother did has been uncovered.
Hans Morelia takes Lova’s hand, looks at her blond hair shimmering in the sun. She’s wearing a white dress that’s a little too tight, he doesn’t know where it’s from. When she was younger he often used to buy clothes for her, but he’s stopped that now. The last few times he tried he got it completely wrong.
I shall learn what sort of taste you have, he thinks. And then I shall spoil you.
I only have one daughter, and she’s only going to grow up once.
He squeezes Lova’s hand and she squeezes back.
They reach Stora torget, where people are quietly drinking coffee on the pavement terraces.
‘What flavours do you want?’ he asks when they reach the ice-cream parlour.
‘Blueberry and After Eight,’ Lova replies. ‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to have caramel,’ he says.
As they walk back across the square in the opposite direction, he can’t help thinking that the people walking towards them are looking at him, that they recognise him.
Is that derision he can see in their eyes?
No.
More like admiration.
He has done what everyone dreams about. Has made himself properly rich, and he feels the sun on his face.
They reach the old savings bank building, and even its grey bricks look beautiful today, and then he sees a man, a tall, rangy man emerge from a doorway, out of the darkness, into the blinding light.
I’m going to do it now, Ronny Andersson thinks, taking a firmer grip on the pistol in his hand.
The pistol.
Bought long ago from an old friend who could get hold of such things.
A lovely, unregistered gun.
The gun that he’s fired so many mornings, alone at the shooting range. The gun that’s left powder stains on his fingernails. The gun he’s kept carefully greased, hidden away under the kitchen sink.
He lay awake all last night, thoughts racing through his head.
Realised that the only way to stop those thoughts was to take matters into his own hands and get some sort of justice that way.
And as he walks up to Morelia it feels like he’s in a perfectly clear jet-stream, an immaculate, radiant now, no one shouting at him, all he can do is this, this, this.
And he raises the pistol towards Morelia, looks into his eyes.
You’re going to die now.
How did you die, Hans Morelia?
A shadow, a movement in front of him.
He fires.
Hang on.
No.
Something’s wrong, this isn’t what was supposed to happen.
Lova Morelia sees the man coming towards them, realises something’s wrong, so she takes a step forward and swings the bag containing the riding boots at him. The movement makes her lose her balance and she tries to stay upright, but she stumbles in front of her father, and then she hears a sharp, loud noise, feels an intense pain in her chest, or does the pain come first, then the noise?
And she drifts into blackness, then out of it, into whiteness.
And now she is floating, sees her dad clutching her body, pressing his face against her cheek, and she hears him scream, and a few metres in front of them the unknown man puts the pistol in his mouth and fires.
She hears her dad scream.
Sees him shake and tug at what used to be her body.
Lova Morelia wishes she could whisper something in her dad’s ear, but knows he will never be able to hear her.
That she will never be a
ble to comfort him.
That he will never, ever stop screaming.
Epilogue
There’s another old man in room number seven of the Cherub old people’s home.
He’s breathing. The air that comes out of his nostrils becomes a wind that makes its way through the city, becoming Malin Fors’s breath, and this new air manages to change her dreams, making them gentle as cotton wool, night after night, hour after hour, second after second.
Malin Fors is able to rest in the gentleness of people’s love for each other. And in a room close to running water in Hälsingland, Stefan is breathing. He is far away yet still close, as deep inside her dreams as anyone alive can get.
Responsibilities, Mum, Tove whispers to her in her dreams.
Don’t worry about us.
About me.
I always survive.
We are love, Mum.
And, carried on a different wind, Tove looks out of the window of an aeroplane, and the jungle beneath her is speckled green, the camp’s white tents are clouds on the Earth’s own chlorophyll sky.
There’s no horizon, Tove thinks. Only new stories.
Don’t miss the other titles in the Malin Fors series
MIDWINTER SACRIFICE, SUMMERTIME
DEATH, AUTUMN KILLING, SAVAGE
SPRING, THE FIFTH SEASON and
WATER ANGELS
Out now in paperback
Also available as eBooks
and as Digital Audio Downloads
www.hodder.co.uk
Souls of Air (Malin Fors 7) Page 25