I see you, Malin. Is it the truth you see? Does what you’re looking at make you feel safe or scared? Will you sleep better at night?
Look at him, look at me, at Rebecka, or Lotta, as she will always be to me. We are lonely.
Can your truth cure our loneliness, Malin?
Malin looks at the inside of the wardrobe, covered with wallpaper whose pattern represents a stylised tree full of green apples. On the bottom, beside a packet of plain biscuits, are various books about Æsir beliefs and psychoanalysis, a Bible, and a copy of the Koran. A black notebook.
Malin leafs through the book.
Diary entries.
Neat handwriting, letters so small that it’s hard to read.
About work at Collins.
Visits to Viveka Crafoord.
Further on in the book it’s as if something inside the writer has capsized, as if another hand is holding the pen. The writing becomes shaky, there are no dates any more, and the style is fragmented.
. . . in February it is midwinter . . .
. . . now I know, I know who has to be sacrificed . . .
And in various different places: Let me in.
At the back of the book is a detailed map. Blåsvädret, a field with a tree marked on it, close to the site where Ball-Bengt was found, and then a site in the forest, close to where the Murvalls’ cabin must be.
He sat here talking to us.
With this book behind him, with everything inside him.
The whole world, at its very worst, was right here in front of us, and it managed to maintain its mask, it managed to cling to reality as we know it.
Malin can hear all his voices roaring. Out of the wardrobe, into the room, and on, into herself. A chill passes through her, a chill far worse than anything below zero outside the window.
Fault-lines.
Within and without.
The fantasy world.
The real world.
They meet. And right up to the end his consciousness knows what is required. Plays the game. I’ll escape: the last remnant for his mind to cling to before awareness and instinct become one.
Another map.
Another tree.
That’s where Rebecka was going to be hanged, isn’t it?
Don’t lose heart, Malin. It isn’t over yet.
I see Rebecka in her bed. She’s sleeping. The operation to transplant skin to her cheeks and stomach went well; maybe she won’t be as beautiful as she was before, but she’s long since abandoned vanity anyway. She isn’t in pain. Her son is sleeping on a bunk beside her bed, and new blood is pumping through her veins.
Karl isn’t doing so well.
I know. I ought to be angry with him, because of what he did to me. But he’s lying there in his cold earthen cellar, wrapped in blankets in front of a stove where the fire is fading and I can’t see anything but that he is the loneliest person on the planet. He doesn’t even have himself, and I always had that, even when I was at my most despairing and cut off Dad’s ear.
So I can’t be angry with such loneliness, because that would mean being angry with humanity, and that, if it isn’t impossible, is no consolation whatever. Fundamentally, we’re all basically good, we mean well, don’t we?
The wind is getting cold again.
Malin.
You have to go on.
I won’t get any peace until that wind has dropped.
Malin puts the book back.
She curses herself for leaving her fingerprints on it, but it doesn’t really matter now.
Who shall I call?
Zeke?
Sven Sjöman?
Malin pulls out her mobile, calls a number. It takes four rings before anyone answers.
Karin Johannison’s voice, full of sleep.
‘Yes, this is Karin.’
‘Malin here. Sorry to disturb you.’
‘No problem, Malin. I’m a light sleeper anyway.’
‘Can you come out to a flat at 34 Tanneforsvägen? Top floor.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.’
Malin examines Karl Murvall’s clothes.
Finds several strands of hair.
She puts them in a freezer-bag she finds in the kitchen.
She hears another car pull up in front of the building. A door closing.
She whispers down into the stairwell, ‘Karin, up here.’
‘I’m coming.’
Malin shows Karin round the flat.
Back in the hall Karin says, ‘We’ll have to examine the wardrobe, then the rest of the flat.’
‘That’s not why I wanted to get you here first. It’s because of these. I want DNA tests on them.’
Malin holds up the bag containing the strands of hair.
‘Right away. And compare the results with the profile of Maria Murvall’s attacker.’
‘Are they Karl Murvall’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘If I head off to the lab now, the results will be ready first thing tomorrow.’
‘Thanks, Karin. As quick as that?’
‘It’s easy with perfect samples like this. We’re not completely useless, you know. Why is it so important?’
‘I don’t know, Karin. But somehow it’s definitely important.’
‘What about all this?’ Karin gestures at the rest of the flat.
‘You’ve got colleagues, haven’t you?’ Malin says. ‘Even if they’re not as sharp as you?’
As Karin pulls away from the pavement Malin calls Sven Sjöman. Passes it on. Sets in motion things that need to be set in motion.
75
The bedroom of the flat is lit up by the arc lights brought in by the forensics team.
Sven Sjöman and Zeke look tired as they search the wardrobe. Earlier, over the phone, Sjöman had asked her why she had gone to the flat and how she had got in. ‘Just a feeling. And the door was open,’ she had said, and Sven had left it at that.
Zeke pulls on a pair of plastic gloves and reaches for the notebook again, leafs through it, reads, then puts it down once more.
Malin showed Sven and Zeke the book with its writing and maps as soon as they arrived, explained and drew connections, told them what she’d done, that Karin had already been there, gave them an outline of what must have happened, of the events leading up to this point. She noticed them getting even more tired from what she told them, that the fact that they had only just woken up was getting in the way of her words, and that they weren’t really absorbing what she was saying, even if Sven was nodding as if to agree that this must be the truth.
‘Bloody hell,’ Zeke says, turning to Malin. She’s sitting on the chair by the desk, longing for a cup of coffee.
‘Where do you think he is now?’
‘I think he’s in the forest. Somewhere out near the hunting cabin.’
‘We didn’t find him.’
‘He could be anywhere.’
‘He’s wounded. We know that. Rebecka Stenlundh said she hit him.’
A wounded animal.
‘We’ve put out a national alert,’ Sven says. ‘There’s also the possibility that he’s killed himself.’
‘Are we going to send dog-teams into the forest?’ Malin asks.
‘We’ll hold off until first thing in the morning. It’s too dark now. But the dogs can’t pick up scent in this cold, so maybe it isn’t such a great idea. The dog-handlers will know,’ Sven says. ‘We’ve got all our cars looking for him. And the only thing that suggests he’s in the forest are the marks on the maps in that notebook.’
‘That’s quite a lot,’ Malin says.
‘He wasn’t in the cabin late yesterday afternoon. If he’s injured he would have found his way somewhere at once where he can lie low. Which means that it’s highly unlikely that he’s in the cabin now.’
‘But he could be nearby.’
‘It will have to wait, Fors.’
‘Malin,’ Zeke says, ‘I agree with Sven. I
t’s five in the morning, and he wasn’t in the cottage as recently as early yesterday evening.’
‘Fors,’ Sven says, ‘go home and get some sleep. It would be best for everyone if you got some rest before tomorrow, and then we’ll take a thorough look at where he might be then.’
‘No, I—’
‘Malin,’ Sven says. ‘You’ve already gone too far, you have to get some rest.’
‘We’ve got to find him. I think . . .’
Malin lets the sentence die; they wouldn’t understand the way she’s thinking.
Instead she gets up and leaves the room.
On her way downstairs Malin bumps into Daniel Högfeldt.
‘Is Karl Murvall suspected of murdering Bengt Andersson and attacking Rebecka Stenlundh?’ As if nothing had happened.
Malin doesn’t answer.
Pushes past him down the stairs.
She’s tired and stressed, Daniel thinks, as he climbs the last steps up to the flat where two uniformed officers are on guard outside the front door.
Might be tricky getting in. But if you don’t try . . .
Malin didn’t seem bothered that I turned down Expressen.
But was I expecting her to be? We’re nothing more than fuck-buddies, are we? Something for the body, not the soul.
But you looked beautiful just now, Malin, when you pushed past me. So fucking beautiful and tired and exhausted.
The last step.
Daniel smiles at the uniformed officers.
‘Not a chance in hell, Högfeldt,’ the taller one says with a smile.
Sometimes when Malin thinks that sleep will be elusive it comes to her in just a minute or two.
The bed is warm beneath her in her dream.
The bed is the soft floor of a white room with transparent walls that are swaying in a warm breeze.
Outside the walls she sees them all as naked shadows: Mum, Dad, Tove, Janne. Zeke is there, and Sven Sjöman and Johan Jakobsson, Karim Akbar and Karin Johannison and Börje Svärd and his wife Anna. The Murvall brothers, Rebecka and Maria, and a fat figure lumbering with a football in his hands. Markus pops up, and Biggan and Hasse and the security guard at Collins, and Gottfrid Karlsson, Weine Andersson and Sister Hermansson, and the Ljungsbro bullies, Margaretha Svensson, Göran Kalmvik and Niklas Nyrén and lots, lots more; they’re all in the dream, like fuel for her memories, as navigation points for her consciousness. The people in the events of recent weeks are buoys anchored in an illuminated space that could be anything. And in the middle of that space beams Rakel Murvall, a black light radiating from her shadow.
The alarm clock on the bedside table rings.
A harsh, loud, digital noise.
The time is 7.35.
After an hour and a half, the time of dreams is over.
The Correspondent is lying on the hall floor.
They’re behind on developments for once, but probably only because of the inevitable delay caused by the printing process.
They’ve got everything on Rebecka Stenlundh, that she’s the sister of the murdered Bengt Andersson, but nothing about Karl Murvall, or that they carried out a raid on his flat last night.
The paper must have gone to press by then. But they’re bound to have it on the net. I can’t be bothered to look right now, and what could they have that I don’t already know?
Daniel Högfeldt has written several of the articles in the paper. As usual.
Was I too abrupt with him earlier? Maybe I ought to give him an honest chance to show who he is.
The water in the shower is warm against her skin, and Malin feels herself waking up. She gets dressed, stands by the draining-board to drink a cup of Nescafé made with water heated in the microwave.
Please, let us find Karl Murvall today, Malin thinks. Dead or alive.
Might he have killed himself?
Anything is possible now as far as he is concerned.
Might he commit another murder?
Did he rape Maria Murvall? Karin would soon have the results, some time today.
Malin sighs and looks out of the window at St Lars Church and the trees. The branches haven’t given in to the cold, they’re still sticking out defiantly in all directions. Just like the people at this latitude, Malin thinks, as she catches sight of the posters in the travel agent’s windows. This place really isn’t habitable, but we’ve managed to create a home for ourselves here nonetheless.
In the bedroom Malin pulls on her holster and pistol.
She opens the door to Tove’s room.
Most beautiful in all the world.
Lets her sleep.
Karim Akbar is holding tight on to his son’s hand, feeling the eight-year-old fingers through the glove.
They are walking along a gritted path towards the school. The blocks of flats in Lambohov, three and four storeys high, look like moon-bases, randomly scattered across a desolate plain.
Usually his wife walks their son to school, but today she said she had a headache, couldn’t possibly get up.
The case is cracked. They just have to catch him. Then, surely, this will all be over?
Malin has delivered. Zeke, Johan and Börje. Sven: their rock. What would I do without them? My role is to encourage them, keep them happy, and how feeble it is compared to what they do. Compared to the way they deal with people.
Malin. In many ways she’s the ideal detective. Instinctive, driven and, not least, a bit manic. Intelligent? Certainly. But in a good way. She finds short cuts, dares to take chances. But not rashly. Not often, at least.
‘What are you going to do at school today?’
‘I don’t know. Normal stuff.’
And they walk on together in silence, Karim and his son. When they reach the low, white-brick school building Karim holds the door open for him and his son disappears inside, swallowed up by the dimly lit corridor.
The Correspondent is in the postbox by the road.
Rakel Murvall opens her front door and steps on to the porch, notes that the cold is damp today, the sort that gives her aches. But she is accustomed to that sort of physical pain, thinking, When I die I shall fall down dead on the spot. I’m not going to hang around in some hospital, rambling and unable to keep control of my own shit.
She walks carefully through the snow, worried about her hip-joints.
The postbox seems a long way off, but it’s getting closer with every step.
The boys are still sleeping; soon they’ll be awake, but she wants to read the paper now, not wait for them to bring it in to her, or read the latest news on the screen in the living room.
She opens the lid, and there it is, on top of some half-covered dead earwigs.
Back inside she pours a cup of fresh coffee and sits down at the kitchen table to read.
She reads the articles about the murder of Bengt Andersson and the attack over and over again.
Rebecka?
I understand what has happened.
I’m not that stupid.
Secrets. Shadows from the past. My lies, now they’re seeping out of their leaking holes.
His father was a sailor.
As I always said to the boys.
Was everything a lie, Mother?
Questions that lead to other questions.
Was Cornerhouse-Kalle his father? Have you been lying to us all these years? What else don’t we know? Why did you and Dad get us to torment him? To hate him? Our own brother?
Maybe even more.
How did Dad fall down the stairs? Did you push him, did you lie about what happened that day as well?
Truths need to be stifled. No doubts must be sown. It isn’t too late. I can see a chance.
She, Rebecka, was found wandering the fields, naked, like Maria.
‘Well done, Malin.’
Karim Akbar applauds her as she walks into Police Headquarters.
Malin smiles. Thinks, Well done? What do you mean, well done? This isn’t over yet.
She sits down at her desk. Checks t
he Correspondent’s website.
They have a short piece about the raid at Karl Murvall’s flat, and the fact that a national alert has gone out. They don’t draw any conclusions, but mention the connections to the ongoing murder investigation, and the fact that his mother has complained about police harassment.
‘Great work, Malin.’
Karim stops beside her. Malin looks up.
‘Not quite according to the rulebook. But, between the two of us: it’s results that count, and if we’re ever going to get anywhere, we have to apply our own rules sometimes.’
‘We have to find him,’ Malin says.
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I want to harass Rakel Murvall.’
Karim stares at Malin, who looks back into the police chief’s eyes with all the seriousness she can muster.
‘Go,’ he says. ‘I’ll take responsibility for any repercussions. But take Zeke with you.’
Malin looks across the office. Sven Sjöman hasn’t come in yet. But Zeke is hovering restlessly over at his desk.
76
Silence in the car.
Zeke hasn’t said he wants music, and Malin likes hearing the monotonous sound of the engine.
The city outside the car windows is the same as it was two weeks ago, just as greedy as ever: Skäggetorp full of rigid life, the retail boxes at Tornby just as blunt, the snow-covered Lake Roxen just as compact, and the houses on the slopes of Vreta Kloster just as inviting with their radiant sense of wellbeing.
Nothing has changed, Malin thinks. Not even the weather. But then it occurs to her that Tove has probably changed. Tove and Markus. A new note has emerged from Tove, less contrary and inward, more outward and open, confident. It suits you, Tove, Malin thinks, you’re going to make a really great grown-up.
And maybe I should give Daniel Högfeldt the chance to prove that he’s more than just a shag-machine.
There are lights on in the houses of Blåsvädret. The brothers’ families are at home in their respective houses. Rakel Murvall’s white wooden home looms at the end of the road, isolated at the point where the road stops.
Clouds of snow are drifting to and fro around the house, and behind the pale veils of winter there are still secrets hidden, Malin thinks. You’d do anything to protect your secrets, wouldn’t you, Rakel?
Midwinter Sacrifice Page 37