Jimmy Kalmvik goes on: ‘He was, like, completely fucked up, chasing after balls every match. And he stank. Of piss.’
‘And that made it okay for you to torment him?’ Malin can’t hide the anger in her voice.
‘Sure.’ Jimmy Kalmvik grins.
‘We’ve got witnesses who say you vandalised Bengt Andersson’s home, and that you attacked him with stones and water-bombs. And now he’s been found murdered. I can take you in to the station here and now if you don’t talk,’ Malin says.
She falls silent and lets Zeke continue: ‘This is murder. Can you get that into your thick skulls?’
‘Okay, okay.’
Jimmy Kalmvik throws out his arms and looks at Joakim Svensson, who nods.
‘Attacked him? We threw stones at him, and we cut off the power to his flat, and sure, we put shit through his letterbox, but now he’s dead anyway so what does it matter?’
‘It might matter a very great deal,’ Zeke says in a calm voice. ‘What’s to say you didn’t go too far one day? That you got too close. That there was a fight. And you just happened to kill him? Try to see it from our side, boys. So what were you doing on Wednesday night?’
‘How would we have got him out there?’ Joakim Svensson says, then goes on: ‘We were at Jimmy’s, watching a DVD.’
‘Yeah, my mum was at her bloke’s. Dad’s dead so she’s got a new one. He’s all right.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’ Malin asks.
‘Yes, we can,’ Joakim Svensson says.
‘No one else?’
‘Do you need anyone else?’
Teenage boys, Malin thinks. They switch between arrogance and fear in a matter of seconds. A dangerous mixture of overblown self-assurance and doubt. But still: Tove’s Markus seemed very different. What would Tove make of these two? They’re not exactly heroes in the Jane Austen mould.
‘You silly little sod,’ Malin says. ‘Murder. Got it? Not torturing cats. Of course we need it confirmed, you can be fucking sure of that. What did you watch?’
‘Lords of Dogtown,’ the two boys answer at once. ‘Fucking good film,’ Jimmy Kalmvik says. ‘It’s about blokes who are as sound as we are.’
Joakim Svensson grins.
‘And we’ve never tortured any cats, if that’s what you think.’
Malin looks over her shoulder.
Outside the lathes and sanders and saws are in action as if nothing has happened. Someone is hammering frenetically at a box-like construction as she turns to face the boys again.
‘Have you ever fired a gun at Bengt Andersson’s flat?’
‘Us? A gun? Where would we have got that from?’
Innocent as lambs.
‘Are you interested in the Æsir belief-system?’ Zeke asks.
And they both look nonplussed. Stupid, or guilty, impossible to tell which.
‘Interested in what?’
‘The Æsir belief-system.’
‘What the fuck’s that?’ Jimmy Kalmvik says. ‘Believing in asses? Yeah, I believe in them.’
Full-blown chauvinist pigs, when they’re scarcely out of short trousers. Noisy, rowdy. But dangerous?
‘Torturing cats? So he blabbed, Unning,’ Jimmy Kalmvik says. ‘The little shit. He’s so fucking useless.’
Zeke leans over to him, his eyes looking like a snake’s. Malin knows what that looks like. She hears his voice, its gruffness as cold as the night approaching outside the windows.
‘If you touch Fredrik Unning I will personally see to it that you have to eat your own entrails. Shit and all. Just so you know.’
33
‘Yes, she can stay over.’
Janne’s text arrives at 20.15. Malin is tired, on her way home in the car from the gym at work, obliged to clear her head after a day full of too much human crap.
They went back to the station after talking to Ljungsbro’s bullies, and in the passenger seat beside Zeke she summarised the situation to herself.
Bengt Andersson is teased and bullied and possibly more than that by testosterone-charged little bastards. We’ll have to talk to their parents tomorrow. See where it comes from. Nothing to get them on so far. The offences against Bengt Andersson that they admitted to stopped being chargeable with his death, and may have been youthful mischief as much as anything else.
The shots through the living-room window.
Æsir nutters out on the plain. The murder apparently carried out as a heathen ritual.
And then the Murvall family casting its large shadow across the whole investigation. Weapons in a gun cabinet.
Maria Murvall silent and mute, raped. By whom? Bengt?
Malin wanted to answer no to that question. But knew that she couldn’t yet close any doors in any direction, to any room. Instead she had to try to get an overview of something impossible to get an overview of. Listen to the voices of the investigation.
What else was still to emerge from the darkness of the plain, the forests?
‘Yes . . .’
She sees the first word of the text.
Her concentration leaves the road for a few moments.
Yes.
We made that promise to each other once, Janne, but we didn’t manage to find a way through what lay before us. How over-confident can you get?
Malin parks and hurries up to the flat. She fries a couple of eggs, sinks into the sofa and turns on the television. She gets stuck on a programme about some excitable Americans competing to build the most perfect motorbike.
The programme cheers her up in an uncomplicated way, and after a couple of advertising breaks she realises why.
Janne could easily be one of those Americans, happy beyond belief to let go of routine, of his memories, and just devote himself to his real passion.
She sees the bottle of tequila on the table.
How did that get there?
You put it there, Malin, when you cleared the plate and the remains of your eggs.
Amber liquid.
Shall I have a bit?
No.
The motorbike programme is over.
Then the doorbell rings and Malin thinks it must be Daniel Högfeldt, transgressing the final boundary and turning up unannounced, like they were officially in a relationship.
Hardly, Daniel. But maybe.
Malin goes out into the hall and pulls open the door without checking through the peephole. ‘Daniel, you bastard . . .’
No.
Not Daniel.
Instead a man with blue-black eyes, a smell of engine oil, grease and sweat and aftershave. Burning eyes. They are screaming, almost in a fury, at her.
He stands outside the door. Malin looks into him: anger, despair, violence? He’s so much bigger than he was in the kitchen. What the hell is he doing here? Zeke, you should be here now. Does he want to come in?
Her stomach clenches, she feels scared, in a fraction of a second she starts to tremble, invisibly. His eyes. The door, have to shut the door, nothing puppyish about this man’s determination.
She slams the door, but no, a heavy black boot in the gap, a fucking boot. Hit it, kick it, stamp on it, but the steel toe-cap makes her stockinged feet useless, and the naked pain is hers instead.
He’s strong. He puts his hands in the gap and starts to push the door open.
No idea to try and stop him.
Maria Murvall. Is the same thing happening to me?
Scared.
A thought more than a feeling now.
Adam Murvall.
Did you hurt your sister? Is that where the look in your eyes comes from? Is that why you got so angry today?
Nothing but fear. Force it aside.
Where’s my jacket, with my pistol? But he’s just staring at me, smiling, leering, and then he stares again, confused, pulls his foot back, doesn’t force his way in, pulls his hands back, turns and leaves as quickly as he must have come.
Shit.
Her hands are shaking, her body twitchy with adrenalin, her heart racing.<
br />
Malin looks out into the stairwell. There’s a note on the stone steps, shaky handwriting: Let Murvall rest. You should leave us the fuck alone.
As if all this were a steak, or dough, or a tired old man. Then a vague threat. You should . . .
Now Malin feels it again, the fear, it bubbles up as the adrenalin runs out of her body and fear becomes terror, and fast, shallow breathing takes over. What if Tove had been at home? Then the anger of terror.
How the hell could he be so fucking stupid?
The man outside the door.
He could have taken me, just like that. Broken me.
I was alone.
She goes back to the sofa. Sinks down. Resists the temptation to drink tequila. Five minutes pass, ten, maybe half an hour before she pulls herself together and calls Zeke.
‘He’s just been here.’
‘Who?’
Suddenly Malin can’t say his name.
‘The one with blue-black eyes.’
‘Adam Murvall? Do you want a patrol?’
‘No, for heaven’s sake. He’s gone.’
‘Fuck, Malin. Fuck. What did he do?’
‘I think you could say that he threatened me.’
‘We’ll pick him up at once. Come in as soon as you’re ready to. Or do you want me to come and pick you up?’
‘I’ll be fine on my own, thanks.’
Three cars with blue lights, two more than just a few hours ago. Adam Murvall sees them through the window, they stop outside his house; he makes himself ready, knows why they have come, why he did what he did.
‘You have to say no.’
And a thousand other things. Little sister, big brother, events in the forest; if you persuade yourself of one truth, perhaps a different truth doesn’t exist?
‘Go and pay a visit to that female pig, Adam. Give her the note, then leave.’
‘Mother, I . . .’
‘Go.’
The doorbell rings. Upstairs Anna and the children are asleep, his brothers sleeping in their own houses. Four uniformed officers outside the door.
‘Can I put my jacket on?’
‘Are you arguing with us, you bastard?’
And the police are on him, he’s fighting for breath on the floor, they force him down and Anna and the children are standing on the stairs, screaming and shouting, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
In the yard other policemen are holding his brothers back as they lead him like a chained wild dog to the waiting van.
Further off, in the illuminated window, stands Mother. He sees her, in spite of his bowed, stiff back.
34
The cold eats up the last of the anxiety and fear, and the effects of adrenalin have already worn off. The closer Malin gets to Police Headquarters, the more prepared she feels to face Adam Murvall now, and the other brothers tomorrow. Because however much they may want to live outside society, they have stepped into it now, and after that step there is no return, if there ever was.
When Malin walks past the old fire station, she comes to think of her mum and dad, without knowing quite why. How she gradually realised that her mother was always trying to make their home seem smarter than it was, but that the few trained eyes that set foot over their threshold must have realised that the rugs were of low quality, that the prints on the walls came from vast print-runs, that the whole décor was an attempt to appear significant. Unless it was something else?
Maybe I should ask you next time we meet, Mum? But you’d probably just push my question aside, even if you doubtless understood what I meant.
‘What an idiot,’ Zeke says.
Malin hangs her jacket on the back of the chair behind her desk, and the whole station is breathing expectation, and the smell of freshly brewed coffee is noticeable the way it usually is only in the mornings.
‘Not too smart, was it?’
‘Well, I’m not so sure,’ Malin says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘They’re the ones setting the pace here. Have you thought about that?’
Zeke shakes his head. ‘Don’t make things more complicated than they already are. Are you okay?’
‘Oh, I’ll be fine.’
Two uniformed male officers come in from the staffroom, their cheeks glowing with warm coffee.
‘Martinsson,’ one of them calls. ‘Is your lad going to get a few goals against Modo?’
‘He was bloody good against Färjestad,’ the other one says.
Zeke ignores them, pretending that he’s busy, hasn’t heard.
Karim Akbar comes to Zeke’s rescue. Stops alongside him and Malin.
‘We’re bringing him in,’ Karim says. ‘Sjöman has arranged for the van to pick him up. They ought to be here any minute.’
‘What can we hold him on?’ Malin wonders.
‘Threatening a police officer in her own home.’
‘He rang on my door, and left a note.’
‘Have you got the note?’
‘Of course.’
Malin digs in her jacket pocket, pulls out the folded sheet of paper, holds it out to Karim, who carefully unfolds it and reads.
‘No problem,’ he says. ‘An obvious case of obstructing a criminal investigation, on the verge of threatening behaviour.’
‘It is,’ Zeke says.
‘This is directed at you personally, Malin. Any idea why?’
Malin sighs. ‘Because I’m a woman. I think it’s as simple as that. Have a go at the easily scared woman. Tiresome.’
‘Prejudice is always tiresome,’ Karim says. ‘It couldn’t be anything else?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘Where’s Sjöman?’ Zeke asks.
‘On his way in.’
A commotion over in reception.
Are they coming now? No, no flashing lights outside.
Then she sees him: Daniel Högfeldt, gesticulating, talking non-stop, but nothing can be heard through the bulletproof, soundproofed pane of glass between the open-plan office and reception, just a familiar face, a figure in a leather jacket who wants something, knows something, looks serious but who somehow always seems to be playing a game.
Alongside Daniel is the young photographer. She is taking picture after picture of Ebba the receptionist, and Malin wonders if her nose-ring could ever get caught in the camera, if her rasta plaits ever get in the way of the lens. Börje Svärd is trying to calm Daniel down, then he just shakes his head in resignation and walks away.
Daniel glances in Malin’s direction. Self-satisfaction washes across his face. Possibly also longing? Playfulness? Impossible to tell.
Fixed expression, Malin thinks.
‘Meet the press,’ Karim says, smiling at her as the skin on his face seems to change and become entirely new. Then he adds, ‘By the way, Malin. You look like it’s all getting to you. Is everything okay?’
‘Getting to me? You’d never say that to a male colleague,’ Malin says and turns towards her computer, trying to look busy.
Karim smiles again. ‘But Fors, it was just an innocent remark, no harm intended.’
Börje comes over to them. A look of faint amusement on his face, like someone who knows something no one else does, but isn’t telling.
‘The pride of the press corps. He wanted to know if Adam Murvall is suspected of the murder, or if we’re bringing him in for something else. He got angry when I said, “No comment.”’
‘Don’t annoy the press for no reason,’ Karim says. ‘They’re bad enough as it is.’ Then: ‘How does he know we’ve got something going on right now?’
‘Eight police, eight mobile phones,’ Zeke says.
‘Plus ten others,’ Malin says.
‘Plus ridiculously low wages,’ Karim adds, before leaving them and heading off towards Daniel.
‘What was that about?’ Börje says. ‘An attempt to show solidarity with the foot soldiers?’
‘Who knows?’ Zeke says. ‘Maybe he’s had an epiphany that’s gone beyond getting his own fa
ce noticed.’
‘He’s okay,’ Malin says. ‘Stop mucking about.’
Then blue lights do start to flash urgently outside the entrance and soon their gym-pumped colleagues are opening the doors of the white police van.
Muscles.
Iron fists on Adam Murvall’s upper arms, bent back and up, the metal of the handcuffs cutting into his wrists, then a jerk, and his body leans forward instinctively to protect itself. His head is bent downwards, and their blue-clad legs, black boots and the magnetic blue light make the snow-covered tarmac look like a star-studded sky. Camera flashes. Automatic doors opening. One sort of cold exchanged for another.
A shrill voice, woman or man?
‘Adam Murvall, do you know why you’ve been arrested?’
Do you think I’m stupid?
Then another door, a blue and beige pattern under his feet, voices, faces, the young girl, a couple of moustaches.
‘Take him into the interview room right away.’
‘Which one?’
‘One.’
‘We’re waiting for Sjöman.’
A firm male voice. He probably thinks his accent can’t be heard. But he’s just a fucking coon.
Through the window of the interview room Malin sees Sven Sjöman turn on the tape recorder, she hears him give the date and time and his own name and the name of the person being questioned and the case number.
She sees Sjöman sit down on the black-lacquered metal chair.
The room.
Four metres by four.
Grey walls covered in perforated acoustic panels. A large mirror that doesn’t fool anyone: behind that mirror I’m being watched. The ceiling is painted black with recessed halogen spots. Confidences are built up, broken, guilt is allocated, admitted. The truth will out, and the truth needs silence and calm.
No one is calmer than Sven.
He has the gift.
The ability to get strangers to feel trust, to make a friend of someone who is an enemy. Briefed: ‘What’s it like where they live? Inside their homes? Details, give me details!’
On the other side of the table: Adam Murvall.
Calm.
Hands in handcuffs in front of him on the polished silver tabletop, the beginnings of bruises just above the metal rings. In the relative gloom the colour of his eyes fades and for the first time Malin notices his nose, how it sticks out tentatively at the root, then juts out in a sharp tip before easing into two flared nostrils.
Midwinter Sacrifice Page 18
