'No. We threw it away.'
He looked down at his slippers; their frayed edges had absorbed moisture from the grass, and they had turned dark grey.
'It was such a long time ago. We thought… we got the impression that the person who wrote it wasn't quite…'
'Who wrote the letter?' said Beckman.
Dagny Molin met her eyes. 'I have no idea. We have no idea.' She straightened her back and looked at Beckman with an expression of defiance. 'Unfortunately we know next to nothing about Sven's life these days. We really don't have any contact with him at all.'
Her defiance collapsed as the sobs welled up from her stomach. Beckman placed a hand on her back and felt the knobbly spine trembling beneath her fingers.
* * *
Chapter 53
Seja allowed her upper body to slump back as she sat on the sofa. A broad crack running across the ceiling had branched out into thinner cracks, forming the shape of a spindly tree. She followed the crack steadily with her eyes. Yellowish-brown patches bulged between the ceiling and the edge of the window, caused by a leak she hadn't noticed before. It was easy to follow the progress of the water underneath the wallpaper.
She realised the ceiling would have to be redone. Maybe it would need to be taken down and replaced? What if there was mould up there in the loft? What if the dampness from years of melting snow had run down the walls and damaged the wood? An icy chill passed through her body at the thought that the entire house might be rotten.
'The cottage smells exactly like my aunt's summer cottage on Gotland,' she had whispered to Martin with starry-eyed enthusiasm as they went on the brief tour of the house with old man Gren just before they jumped in and bought the place. At that time nobody had lit a fire in the grate for months and it looked as if the most obvious common denominator between her aunt's rarely visited summer cottage and this charming but oh-so-neglected little house was that the chill of the outdoors had eaten its way into the walls, or as Tove Jansson wrote, 'the rain and storms had moved into the rooms'. The whole place was probably on the point of falling down, she realised. And there she was: a lonely town mouse, and a girl into the bargain - no reason to insist on equality when there was no one to be equal with.
She sniffed the air tentatively, hating the idea that the smell of Christian Tell still lingered in the curtains and covers, that mixture of cigarette smoke and some unfashionable aftershave like Old Spice or Palmolive. And sometimes, at close quarters, a sweetish hint of fresh sweat beneath his jacket. Tears of self-pity welled up and threatened to spill over at the thought of the betrayal, the loneliness, the cottage and the stable and the many, many hours of time and money it would take to make a decent home for herself and Lukas - far more than she could afford with her student loan. Perhaps you could borrow books on doing up houses from the library?Home Improvement for Dummies.
She needed to get herself off the sofa, sit at her desk and start writing; go out to the stable and give Lukas his evening feed; go across to the shed and fetch more wood so that she could build up the fire, which was slowly going out. Bring some warmth to these little rooms, and into her soul. Get up off the sofa and open the windows wide to let in the evening air, ridding the place both of the smell of damp and of Christian Tell and his old-fashioned scent and unfulfilled promises.
Since he had left she had felt hollowed out, caught up in her own life story. Admittedly his bitterness had been replaced by a desire to understand during the course of the evening. For a moment she had also imagined he was groping for the closeness they had lost, until she realised it was the case he wanted to understand, not her. When he finally left, the distance between them was tangible.
There was a slight draught coming up between the floorboards. The fingers of her hand dangling over the arm of the sofa were gradually going numb, and that finally decided the matter: she had definitely made a fool of herself once more. Fallen in love and allowed herself to hope for a future that would never happen. But this was her home, mouldy or not, and there was no reason to freeze.
Before she went out on to the steps she turned off the light above the porch and stood there with only the light from the kitchen behind her, until her eyes grew accustomed to the dark.
For some reason, when she had to go to the stable or the shed after dark, she often found the limited pool of light from the outside lamp more frightening. Having to step over that border between what was illuminated and what was hidden, out into the blue-black unknown and its brooding dangers, just waiting for her to take that step.
* * *
Chapter 54
He had thought about opening the cage doors wide and letting the revolting little animals run away. That way he could fool the local police into thinking that Molin's death was the result of a raid by the Committed Militant Vegans, or whatever they were called, those rabid fanatics dressed in black. It would give him a head start of a day or two. Not that the forests of Dalsland were home to any murder investigation teams worthy of the name, of course - it was more Keystone Kops than CSI.
Since before Christmas Caroline had bought and read every single newspaper that was available. Sebastian knew perfectly well she was looking for something about the murders. He didn't know how she had realised it was him. It was strange, both of them knowing something they could not mention. She gave him her support, her silent collusion. He interpreted her looks: We're in this together. We have to keep going to the end of the road.
He established later, shut in the memory room with burning cheeks, that there had been only a couple of brief articles, a short unemotional item on the local television news, but nothing else. He felt a certain disappointment, despite the fact that he was intelligent enough to realise that the ignorance of the media served their purpose.
It was an unfamiliar feeling, but he was proud of the fact that everything had gone according to plan. That he had succeeded in something that demanded greater courage than most people would be required to summon during their lives: he had killed two men, no, two miserable bastards, whose very existence was an insult to the surface of the earth and the air they breathed. The fact that he had succeeded gave him the sense that he was slowly approaching the point at which he would receive Caroline's love, and in the long term his mother's love, and he would actually deserve that love. Because that was what this was all about, after all - being worthy of love.
This time he was driving a different make of car, hired down in the Varberg area to be on the safe side. He had wanted to stay for a while on the shore at Skrea, resting in the sand dunes and listening to the wind blowing through the tall dry grass, and the sound of the sea rolling in. Instead he had allowed himself to drive slowly along the promenade. For a few minutes he switched off the engine and gazed out along the blue-grey horizon, just visible between the beach huts and the luxurious houses with their burglar alarms.
Closely linked to this seascape was his only clear memory from childhood; the rest remained only as blurred fragments of things he was at best indifferent to, or in many cases had chosen to forget.
He hadn't been very old when he and Maya were sent to stay with a family in Falkenberg for the summer. He ought not to be able to remember anything at all, yet the pictures were surprisingly sharp, with a clear band of colour around them, like in a catalogue. In Skrea the water was clear blue, the beach blissfully sunny, the sand the colour of hot chocolate with cream. The swimming trunks bought before the trip were bright red.
They were meant to go back the following summer and the one after that, perhaps during the Christmas holiday too; instead Solveig had withdrawn her application for support after only a week. Presumably being without the children hadn't been as pleasant as she had expected, so there were no more trips to Skrea for Sebastian. No more azure sea until now, when he had finally decided to take his life into his own hands.
He decided to leave the mink in their cages. There was no reason to cause mayhem and put the isolated farm on the police radar before it was necessa
ry.
At the distant sound of an engine, he raised his binoculars. A cloud of dust surrounded the dirty grey truck coming round the bend in the track. Molin was on his way back; it was exactly two hours since he had moved the Asian woman and the children out, his expression grim. Sebastian realised this meant that Molin had found out about the fate of his former friends and smelled a rat. Now it seemed as if he was planning to go to ground as well. Earlier in the day he had thrown a sleeping bag and a bulging supermarket carrier bag into the truck. His gaze had roamed over the field in front of the house and in among the trees behind it.
The fact that Molin was preparing his escape didn't make Sebastian nervous; he was actually enjoying almost being able to smell the fear. He realised this was the reward. Molin had put two and two together: he understood why he had to die. And the fact that he was planning to run away was irrelevant - he wouldn't get very far. However, Sebastian did feel obliged to change his plans. Presumably Molin knew that the previous two victims had been shot from inside a car and he was clearly on his guard. He would have the hunting rifle he doubtless owned at the ready. It other words, it would be difficult to get close enough to execute him, even on an ostensibly innocent errand. In addition, Sebastian's shooting skills were limited, to say the least.
The gun had been laughably easy to get hold of, thanks to a friend's father who had criminal connections and swallowed hook, line and sinker Sebastian's woolly explanation involving gambling debts and that he only needed the gun to gain the respect of the people who were threatening him. Once he had the pistol he had practised out in the forest a couple of times.
Shooting Edell and Pilgren and running over them had given him adrenalin-fuelled pleasure, hearing their bones splinter and their bodies being torn asunder beneath the weight of the car. But this was nothing compared with the enjoyment of observing Molin's twelve- year-old shame and terror from his hiding place.
Sebastian moved further in behind the dilapidated old outhouse. There was no reason to reveal his presence to Molin yet. For one dangerous moment Sebastian was almost overcome by an urge to walk up to the house and knock on the door. Ask the way to the nearest garage or something, just to watch Molin weighing him up. He grabbed hold of the rotting corner of the outhouse with an iron grip until the urge passed, talking to himself all the while: just a recce today. He had positioned his camouflaged one-man tent in the densest part of the forest, at a safe distance from the farm.
All in good time. All in good time he would see Molin's mortal terror close up, even if it wouldn't be for nearly long enough.
* * *
Chapter 55
Driven on by his misgivings, Tell floored the accelerator. It was after eight in the evening, and as expected once they had passed Kungalv there was nothing, just an empty carriageway, the forest growing thicker and thicker on both sides. His breathing was rapid and shallow. Going to see Sven Molin had been a snap decision, and if they hadn't been in such a sparsely populated area, his speed would definitely have attracted flashing blue lights and sirens.
He really wanted a cigarette. Instead he wound down the window and replaced the stuffiness with the aroma of the pine forest and a starry sky that was just too beautiful for the occasion. Irritatingly, this made his mind wander. He fixed his eyes firmly on the road ahead and tried to deny Seja a place in his thoughts. Mainly because during their brief acquaintance she had managed to erode his normal decisiveness.
Her betrayal seared his chest and throat like heartburn. The feeling of reconciliation he had had as she sat in front of him had disappeared completely.
It was quite simple really. As he saw it, she had played fast and loose with his job, which in the final analysis meant she had put people's lives at risk. How could he ever trust her again? Not only had she deliberately kept from him facts that would have helped solve a murder case, but she had also carried out her own private research. And at the same time she had exploited him, listening to him as he put forward his hypotheses in good faith, hypotheses that turned out to be completely wrong. She had deceived him. The more he went over it, the more embarrassed he felt. The knowledge that he had also committed a serious professional error by allowing himself to be seduced and misled by a witness made him feel even more unbalanced.
When he remembered his most recent conversation with Ostergren he just had to have that cigarette. He gave Beckman an apologetic look.
'You look as if you need it,' she responded.
The cross-draught whirled the smoke up towards the roof and out through the window.
'I'm thinking about that letter,' said Tell after a while.
'Me too.'
'It's reasonable to assume that Edell and Bart received one as well.'
'But Edell was dead.'
'What do you mean?'
'He was dead by that time, I assume. The Molins said they got the letter some years after the attack, which happened in 1995. Edell died in 98 or 99, if I remember rightly?'
'He might have been alive. Or if he'd just died there's a chance that Lise-Lott might have ended up with the letter.'
'But wouldn't she have mentioned it, in that case?' Beckman rummaged in her handbag. 'No point in speculating.'
She keyed in Lise-Lott's number. After a short conversation she flipped her mobile shut.
'She doesn't know anything about any letter. Either Edell received it before he died - and it's more than likely he wouldn't have said anything to his wife about something like that - or the letter writer, unlike the murderer, knew he was dead.'
'Which means the murderer and the letter writer are not the same person.'
They sat in silence for a while.
'I'm thinking about Susanne Jensen,' said Beckman eventually.
Tell smiled at the accord between them. 'Me too. About her notes from social services.'
'Exactly. They said she was dyslexic. Molin said there were upper- and lower-case letters all mixed up.'
Tell braked suddenly as a hare shot across the road. He smacked the wheel with his hand.
'But how does she fit in? Susanne Jensen, the sister of one of the attackers from 1995. What the fuck has she got to do with all this? I mean, it was her brother who… Did she send him a threatening letter as well? And if so, why? Plus she came to talk to you, didn't she? About what Olof had said when he was drunk. If she'd been trying to get money out of Edell and Molin, would she really want to draw the attention of the police to the case and risk being found out herself?'
'Maybe she's suffering from a guilty conscience and wants to put things right. Sinners must pay, and so on. Or maybe she was in need of money for a fix when she wrote those letters. Or maybe she was raped at some point and thinks-'
'But Maya Granith wasn't raped.'
'Maybe Susanne didn't know that. And it wouldn't be so surprising if she re-evaluated the whole thing now her brother's been murdered, would it? Obviously she wants the murderer to be caught. And she might think that the business with the money is now covered by the statute of limitations.'
Tell sighed.
Beckman found a forgotten packet of throat sweets in the glove compartment and took two. The chewy mass stuck between her teeth.
'What are you thinking?' she said, poking at her mouth with a fingernail.
Tell didn't reply straight away, but he nodded to show that he'd registered the question. 'I don't actually know,' he said in the end. 'It's just a feeling I've got. That time is important. As always, but now more than ever.'
Beckman accepted his less than exhaustive answer and instead thought about what they might get out of the trip to Bengtsfors. Whether she ought to try to convince Tell to contact their colleagues in the local force before they got to Sven Molin's farm. Whether she ought to ring home and say that she was probably going to be late again tonight.
The familiar excitement wasn't really there, presumably because for once she didn't know where she was with Tell. She accepted that he could be temperamental in stressful situations
and sometimes over- keen on prestige, but over the years she had learned to tackle these issues.
When she had first joined the group, she had secretly been pleased to detect behind Tell's harsh facade - he sometimes demanded an unreasonable amount from his subordinates - a team leader who was fair, self-critical and had a greater insight into relationships than he was necessarily willing to reveal. But recently she hadn't recognised him. He had seemed distracted by something he was keeping from the team.
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He had been running
his hand over his head, removing any vestige of a hairstyle, and his eyebrows protruded over his narrowed eyes, making him look annoyed and dejected.
'Is anything wrong?' she ventured at last. 'Anything else, I mean?'
The car veered on to the verge as he leaned over to switch the radio on. The sound of some pop anthem was quickly throttled as Beckman turned down the volume. He glanced at her.
'Sorry, I didn't hear what you said.'
'I said, is anything wrong?'
When he still didn't reply, she leaned back in her seat and sighed.
'You have a few minutes before we get there. I might not be able to help you, but I can always listen. If you want me to.'
The bend of the exit road was sharper than he expected. The tyres screeched as they passed a garage with its lights off.
'It's just that I…' She searched for the right words. 'You seem to have had a lot on your mind recently. Like now, for example. I can see that something's weighing you down.' A look from Tell made her add, 'I mean, apart from the case.'
Now it was Tell's turn to sigh.
'Nothing gets past you, does it? If you really want to know, I was thinking about a chat I had with Ann-Christine the other day…'
He was putting out a feeler. If she knew what he knew, she would pick up on it. At the same time he was reluctant to reveal what he had been told in confidence. He had never called her anything but Ostergren before, or possibly 'the boss', ironically putting some distance between them. Ann-Christine was the person behind the professional role.
Frozen Moment Page 37
