‘Really? No, I haven’t noticed anything.’
‘I’m always asleep at that time of day.’
‘In this sort of cold I stay indoors.’
‘I keep myself to myself, it’s better that way.’
The same response for Johan and Börje as for her and Zeke: no one knows anything, no one has seen anything. It’s as if the hundred-and-fifty-kilo body flew up into the noose in the tree, parking itself on the end of the rope in anticipation of attention.
Back to the studio.
‘Naturally we’ll be following developments in Linköping.’ Pause. ‘In London . . .’
Then Tove is standing in the door to the living room.
‘I read about that on the net,’ she says. ‘Are you in charge of it?’
But Malin can’t answer her daughter’s question. Instead she just gawps when she sees her, the child who was lying in bed this morning; the little girl who went into the bathroom just quarter of an hour ago is transformed. She is wearing make-up and has tied up her hair, and something has happened, a hint of a woman has superimposed itself over her daughter’s appearance.
‘Mum? Mum, hello?’
‘You look lovely.’
‘Thanks, I’m going to the cinema.’
‘I’m working on the case.’
‘It’s a good thing I’m going to Dad’s tomorrow, so you can work late.’
‘Tove. Please. Don’t say that.’
‘I’m off now. I’ll be home by eleven. The last screening ends about then, but we’re having coffee first.’
‘Who are you going with?’
‘Anna.’
‘If I said I didn’t believe you, what would you say?’
Tove shrugs. ‘We’re going to see the new Tom Cruise film,’ then Tove gives the name of a film Malin has never heard of. Tove is as liberal in her choice of film as she is selective in her taste in books.
‘I haven’t heard of that one.’
‘Oh Mum, you don’t know anything about stuff like this.’
Tove turns and disappears from Malin’s sight, but Malin can hear her rummaging in the hall. She calls, ‘Do you need any money?’
‘No.’
And Malin wants to follow her, doesn’t believe any of this, but knows that she shouldn’t, can’t, won’t. Unless she will?
‘Bye!’
Anxiety.
Johan Jakobsson, Börje Svärd, Zeke: all parents are familiar with it, that anxiety.
It’s cold out.
‘Bye, Tove.’
And the flat closes around Malin.
She turns off the television with the remote.
Leans back on the sofa and takes a sip of her tequila, the one she poured herself after they’d eaten.
She and Zeke had been out to Borensberg and spoken to Liedbergh’s lover. The woman was around forty, neither beautiful nor ugly, just one of the mass of normal women with passions to live out, to fulfil. She offered them coffee and home-baked buns. She told them she was single and unemployed, how she tried to fill her days while applying for any jobs she thought she might stand a chance of getting. ‘It’s hard,’ Peter Liedbergh’s lover had said. ‘You’re either too old or you haven’t got the right qualifications. But something will turn up.’
The woman confirmed Liedbergh’s story. Then she shook her head. ‘It’s a good job he went that way. Who knows how long that man might have been left hanging there otherwise in this cold.’
Malin looked at the porcelain figurines arranged on the kitchen windowsill. A dog, a cat, an elephant. A little porcelain menagerie for company.
‘Do you love him?’ Malin asked.
Zeke shook his head instinctively.
But the woman didn’t take against the question.
‘Who? Peter Liedbergh? No, not at all.’ She laughed. ‘You know, it’s just something we women need, isn’t it, a bit of company?’
Malin sinks further into the sofa. She thinks about Janne, about how difficult he finds it to talk, how he sometimes feels like a black outline superimposed over her own. In the window she can see the tower of St Lars, and waits for the bells to ring, tries to hear if there are any whispering voices in the darkness.
If you weren’t deaf you would hear the sound of the branch breaking. You would hear the sound of fibres splitting, hear my body slicing through the cold and the air; you who are standing directly underneath would throw yourself to one side, but none of this happens. Instead all my many kilos land right on the tent, smashing the aluminium frame as if it were made of matchsticks, and the whole construction collapses and you who are standing there when I fall, you poor uniformed policeman, at first you notice something hitting you, then you feel my weight, and then you are flattened to the ground by my frozen hardness, and something inside you, you don’t know what, breaks, but you’re lucky, it’s only a bone, nothing the doctors can’t put right, your arm will be fine. I’m perfectly harmless in that respect, even now I’m dead.
Because you didn’t get me down, in spite of my pleas, I had to persuade the tree, and to be honest it was tired of having me hanging on the oldest of its branches. It’s ready to be cast off, the oak said, so go ahead and fall, fall on the tent, to the ground, and stir things up a bit down there.
And now I’m lying here on top of the screaming policeman, in a muddle of words, tent-pegs and canvas. The heater is roaring in my ear. I can’t feel its heat but I know it’s there. Beneath my hands I can feel the earth, made damp by your heat; pleasantly wet and nice, like the innards of something, anything.
Malin is woken by Tove’s voice.
‘Mum? Mum, I’m home. Don’t you think you should go to bed instead?’
‘Oh yes, of course.’
Malin wakes slowly, grows doubtful. Whenever she had done anything silly, she always woke Dad to say that everything was all right. But before Malin has time to doubt Tove, her daughter says, ‘Have you been drinking, Mum?’
Malin rubs her eyes. ‘No, just a bit of tequila.’
The bottle in front of her, the half-bottle of cask-aged tequila, bought on the way home from the station, a third empty.
‘Okay, Mum,’ Tove says. ‘Shall I help you into bed?’
Malin shakes her head. ‘That only happened once, Tove. You only had to do that once. ONCE.’
‘Twice.’
Malin nods. ‘Twice.’
‘Well, goodnight, then,’ Tove says.
‘Sleep well,’ Malin says.
The clock on the sideboard says quarter to twelve. From behind Malin can see that Tove’s hair is now loose, and she looks like the little girl again.
A bit of tequila left in the glass. A lot more in the bottle. Another little one? No. No need. Malin gets up with an effort and stumbles towards the bedroom.
She can’t be bothered to get undressed and falls on to her bed.
And dreams dreams that might have been best undreamed.
7
Friday, 3 February
The jungle is at its most dense at night.
The damp, the insects, the damn wildlife, leaves, snakes, spiders, millipedes and mould growing in the sleeping-bag at night.
Then they land at the airport, endless masses of tiny lights, a starry sky on the ground and the Russian Tupolev plane plummeting straight down like a helicopter, the wings tear and he flaps with his soul in the cramped space, child and mother standing there, Tove, only little then, now: What are you doing here, Dad? You ought to be at home with me. I’m coming, I’m coming, and then they unload, break out of the plane’s innards: food, plumbing pipes, and they come towards them in the darkness; you can only see their eyes, thousands of eyes in the darkness, eyes to trust in, and the hungry scared muttering and the salvos from the automatic rifles. Back off or we’ll finish what the Hutus started. Back away and a millipede crawls over my leg, the mould grows, Kigali, Kigali, Kigali, the inescapable mantras of dream.
Get this fucking millipede away from me.
Janne, someone shouts. Tove? Malin? Melinda?
Per?
Get this . . .
Someone cuts the leg off someone who’s still alive, throws it in a pot of boiling water and then eats first, before someone else lets their children share the rest. No one cares, but if you stole milk from anyone still fully alive the punishment is death.
Don’t shoot him, I say. Don’t shoot.
He’s hungry, he’s ten, his eyes are large and yellowish white; the pupils expand in time with the realisation that this ends here, now. I can’t even save you either.
Then you shoot.
Dog, dog, dog, Hutu, Hutu, Hutu, your cries echo, and your greed, your fucking bastard humanity makes me want to drown you all in the latrines we came here to build for your sake, so that typhoid and cholera and other shit wouldn’t kill you in numbers that even the Hutus couldn’t match.
Janne. Dad. Come home.
Has the rain-sheet broken?
It’s so fucking wet. How do the millipedes cope with all these drops?
Fuck, it stings, fucking savages, fucking things up for themselves.
Don’t raise that machete against me, don’t hit me, don’t hit me, no no no and the scream is in the room outside the dream now, outside sleep, in the wakefulness of his room, in his loneliness and the dream-soaked sheets.
He sits up in bed.
The screams echo round the walls.
His hand on the fabric.
Soaking wet. No matter how cold it gets out there, it still seems to be warm enough in here for him to break into a full sweat.
Something crawls over his leg.
The last remnant of the dream, Jan-Erik Fors thinks, before he gets up to fetch a new sheet from the linen cupboard in the hall. The cupboard is an heirloom. He and Malin bought the house, in its isolated forest setting a couple of kilometres north of Linköping, not far from Malmslätt, just after Tove was born.
The floorboards creak as he moves, alone, from the bedroom and out into the rest of the house.
The dogs are barking round Börje Svärd’s legs.
For the Alsatians there is no such thing as morning cold, not even at five o’clock in the morning; they’re just happy to see him, excited about being able to run around in the garden, chasing the sticks he throws in different directions for them.
Entirely unconcerned.
Unaware of naked beaten dead men in trees. Every conversation with people in the area yesterday was fruitless. Silence and blindness. As if people were ungrateful at having senses that functioned.
Valla.
The district of detached houses built in the forties and fifties, wooden boxes with assorted extensions illustrating the way life just kept getting better and better and better; when this city still worked for ordinary people, before a factory worker was forced to get a university education to look after a robot.
But some things work.
Inside the house they’re busy with her right now, the carers. They come once late at night to turn her, then they’re there, in Börje and Anna’s house, their home, all day and long into the evening, simultaneously more and less natural than the furniture, the wallpaper and the carpets.
MS. Multiple sclerosis. A few years after they got married Anna started to slur her speech. It progressed quickly after that. And now? The disease-modifying treatments came too late for her. Not a single muscle obeys her now, and Börje is the only person who can understand what she’s trying to say.
Darling Anna.
This business of the dogs is crazy, really. But there has to be some sort of breathing hole, something that is his own, uncomplicated, full of happiness. Pure. The neighbours have complained about the kennels, the barking.
Let them complain.
And the children? Mikael moved to Australia about ten years ago. Karin moved to Germany. To escape? Almost certainly. Who could bear to see their mother like that? How do I bear it?
But you do bear it.
Love.
They may well have said that she can have a place in a home whenever you want it.
When I want it?
Dogs, pistols. Concentrating on the target. The firing range acts as purification.
But Anna, for me you are still you. And as long as you are still that for me, maybe you can bear to be the same for yourself.
‘And then we open the garage.’
The spoon of cereal can’t seem to find its way into the one-year-old’s mouth, and for a moment Johan Jakobsson is brusque, holding the boy’s head still with his hand and slipping the spoon into the reluctant mouth, and the boy swallows.
There.
Their terraced house is in Linghem. That was what they could afford, and as far as Linköping’s dormitory villages are concerned, Linghem isn’t the worst. Homogenous, rural, middle-class. Nothing remarkable, but nothing visibly dreadful either.
‘Toot toot, here comes the lorry.’
From the bathroom he can hear his wife brushing their three-year-old daughter’s teeth, hear her screaming and fighting, and how his wife’s voice betrays the fact that she is on the brink of losing patience.
She asked him yesterday if he was working on the man in the tree and what was he supposed to answer? Lie and say no to keep her calm or tell it how it was: Yes, I’m working on that case.
‘He looks so lonely up there in the tree,’ his wife had said. ‘Lonely,’ and he hadn’t been able to think of anything to say to that. Because you don’t get much more alone than that.
‘Brrm, brrm, here comes a Passat.’
After that she got annoyed because he didn’t want to talk about it. The children were tired, out of control, until they collapsed for the night.
The children: they make him feel wiped out, their all-consuming will makes him exhausted, so tired. At the same time, they make him feel alive and adult. Life itself seems to go on somehow alongside the family. As if the crimes they investigate have nothing to do with the children. But they do. The children are part of the social body in which the crimes have taken place.
‘Open wide . . .’
Breakfast television on in the background. The first news bulletin of the day. They mention the case briefly.
I’m going to miss these moments, Sven Sjöman thinks, taking a break from sanding down in the woodwork room in the cellar of their house in Hackefors. I’m going to miss the smell of wood in the mornings when I retire. Of course, I can carry on having that smell afterwards, but it won’t be the same when I don’t have police work ahead of me. I know that. I find meaning in shoring up the others. It’s good to have young officers like Johan and Malin who aren’t yet fully formed. I can feel I’m having some influence on them. Malin, in particular, seems to be able to take in what I say and make something of it.
He usually sneaks down to the workshop in the mornings before Elisabeth has woken up. Sand down the leg of a chair, apply some varnish. Something small and simple to get the day going before the first coffee.
Wood is simple and obvious. With his skills, he can make it do whatever he wants, in contrast to the rest of reality.
The man in the tree. The scarred corpse falling on top of one of his officers. It’s as if everything is constantly getting worse. As if the boundary of violence is advancing relentlessly and as if people in their despair and fear and anger are capable of doing anything to each other. As if more and more people feel that they’re somehow out of reach; beyond their own and that of everyone else as well.
It’s easy to get bitter, Sven thinks. If you decide to mourn the fact that all decency and honour seem to have vanished into the darkness of history.
But you can’t mourn something like that. It’s better to be happy about each new day, about the fact that consideration and solidarity still seem able to hold the worst cynicism at bay.
Masks.
All these masks I have to put on.
Karim Akbar is standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, freshly shaven. His wife has set off for school with their eight-year-old son, just as she usually does.
&
nbsp; I can be many people, Karim thinks, depending what the situation demands.
He pulls a face. He conjures forth anger, he smiles, looks surprised, attentive, reserved, inquisitive, watchful.
Which of all of these am I really?
How easy it is to lose your own view of yourself when you sometimes think you can be anyone at all.
I can be the tough police officer, the successful immigrant, the media manipulator, the gentle father, I can be the man who wants to cuddle up with my wife, feel the warmth of her body beneath the sheets.
Feel love.
Instead of cold.
I can be the man who pretends that the fat body in the tree never existed, but my task right now is a different one: the man who gives him justice. If only in death.
‘What have you got planned?’
Malin’s question to Janne and Tove echoes in her head.
It’s just after eight. The day is fully awake now.
So far they haven’t called from the station, but Malin is expecting the call any minute. The debacle yesterday evening at the crime-scene, when the body fell out of the tree, is on the front page of the Correspondent.
This whole thing is like a farce, Malin thought when she glanced through the paper fifteen minutes ago, far too tired to read it properly.
Janne is standing in the hall next to Tove. He looks tired, the skin stretched tight across his sharp cheekbones, and his tall, muscular body seems to be hanging from a swaying gallows. Has he lost weight? And aren’t those a few mute grey hairs at his temples, scattered among the otherwise so glossy amber locks?
Tove off school, a study day, early Friday pick-up instead of late. Changes of shift. A jigsaw puzzle.
She sent Janne a letter in Bosnia when she had packed her and Tove’s belongings and moved into a small flat in the city, a stop on the road to Stockholm.
‘You can have the house. It suits you much better than me, you’ve got room for your cars. I’ve never liked the countryside that much, really. Hope you’re well, and not having to witness anything awful. Or put up with anything awful. We can work out everything else later.’
His answer came on a postcard.
‘Thanks. I’ll get a mortgage when I get home and buy you out. Do as you like.’
Midwinter Sacrifice Page 5
