Savage Spring

by KALLENTOFT MONS

  Mummy, she ought to be here with us. And Daddy. But instead we were drawn to you. Why? What is it we don’t know, we who ought to know everything?

  Mummy.

  The man with the pillow in your room, who is he? How could he do that? Perhaps he had to do that to you, to us, to protect, save others from the same fate?

  Perhaps everyone is innocent except the greedy.

  They won’t end up where we are.

  They will end up among glowing worms, among burning lizards that eat human flesh until they burst, and thousands of new, hungry lizards flood out of their bleeding entrails.

  The other children are locked up in the anteroom of that place.

  There can be no rest in that place.

  Only screaming.

  33

  ‘What the hell do we do now?’

  Sven Sjöman is leaning back in the sofa of his living room, and treats Malin’s question more as a statement than a question.

  Malin is sipping the tea that Sven’s wife has just brought her, washing down the sharp taste left in her mouth from the Västerbotten cheese in the sandwich she’s been given.

  Darkness in Sven’s garden.

  She drove around to tell him the news about Hanna Vigerö.

  Wanted to talk to Sven in person rather than sound the alarm, calmly discuss what it means for the investigation, the fact that Hanna Vigerö was murdered in her hospital bed. Let the others sleep, because they all need their sleep now, need to calm down, not rush off madly in all directions, as if they were all running away from a timebomb that only had seconds left before it exploded.

  ‘Yes, what do we do now?’

  Malin takes another bite of the sandwich. Thinks about how isolated the Vigerö family seemed, no friends, no extended family, no visitors to see Hanna Vigerö in hospital. And what the man with the hotdog-stand said, that they were often there in the morning.

  The cheese prickles her palate.

  She called Tove on her way to see Sven, didn’t mention the reading of the will, wanted to say it would be better if she stayed at Janne’s tonight, but Tove had insisted on sleeping at hers, and Malin got the impression that there was something important she wanted to say.

  Maybe she’s got a new boyfriend?

  Malin’s first reaction was that the last thing she wanted this evening was another piece of news. There’d been more than enough for one day, and all she wanted was to shut her brain down the way you switch off a computer, and let all conscious activity stop. And she didn’t want to talk to Tove about the care home, didn’t feel ready for that.

  ‘OK, see you there,’ she had said. ‘We can watch some telly and eat pizza.’

  Malin finishes her mouthful and takes another sip of tea.

  ‘Maybe the people behind the bomb wanted to get rid of her. They might have thought she was a witness,’ Sven says. ‘Maybe they were just making sure.’

  ‘Which means it could have been terrorists, activists, the Economic Liberation Front, a biker gang, or someone else entirely,’ Malin says. ‘It strikes me that the more we dig into any of those lines of inquiry, or dismiss them, the further we seem to get from the truth.’

  ‘Or else it’s there,’ Sven says, ‘and we just can’t see it, just haven’t managed to find the right thread.’

  ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you,’ Malin says, looking Sven right in the eyes.

  ‘Should I be worried?’ Sven jokes. ‘Out with it.’

  ‘I think we should include a different, separate, line of inquiry from now on,’ Malin says.

  I know what I want to do now, Malin thinks. And you’re going to let me do it, aren’t you, Sven? She takes a deep breath and leans towards him to emphasise how serious she is.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’d like to work on the hypothetical assumption that the Vigerö family were the target of the bomb. That this isn’t some big plot, some sort of conspiracy, or anything to do with politics at all. That could explain both the bombing and the fact that Hanna Vigerö was murdered in hospital.’

  ‘That’s what your intuition is telling you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Sven. But that hotdog-seller, didn’t he say that he often saw the family in the square? Maybe someone had worked out their movements? And why would anyone take the risk of going into the hospital to murder Hanna Vigerö? How much could she really have seen? None of the witnesses in the square had anything very useful to say, so why would she? She must have known something else, something important for different reasons. Don’t you think? And that’s making me want to focus on the family. Feeling and logic, Sven. The way it should be with good police work.’

  She takes another sip of tea before going on: ‘Everything’s gone so bloody fast with this. It’s hardly four days since the bomb went off. It feels like we haven’t had time to catch our breath, and that’s no good foundation for any sort of intuition, that needs time, space. But I do think it might be a possible way forward for the investigation.’

  Sven appears to consider what she’s said.

  ‘This is what we’ll do,’ he says, thirty seconds or so later, without a trace of hesitation in his voice. ‘You and Zeke concentrate on that angle. The others will carry on with the rest of the case and the murder of Hanna Vigerö using the lines of inquiry we’ve already identified. Let me know if you need help bringing anyone in for interview.’

  ‘We ought to talk to one of Hanna’s workmates, someone at the nursery. Maybe Börje and Waldemar could help with that?’

  Sven nods.

  ‘You only have to ask.’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible?’ Malin says after a pause. ‘Do you think I could be right?’

  Sven nods again, then says: ‘Her husband was killed in a car accident, no other vehicle involved. That always makes me suspicious. What’s to say he wasn’t targeted as well? We’ll have to take a closer look at that accident.’

  ‘And see if there are any security cameras at the hospital that might have caught the perpetrator on film.’

  ‘And talk to the staff on duty the night Hanna Vigerö died.’

  Sven looks at her.

  ‘Are you up to this, Malin? Taking this off in that direction?’

  ‘I’m up for whatever it takes. Child-killers can’t be allowed to get away with it.’

  Sven nods, and she knows that their conversation about the case is over, and that Sven will steer the others in the direction demanded by their duty as police officers.

  Keep all options open until we know for sure.

  Don’t shut anything off, don’t get sidetracked. Keep an open mind. And Sven looks at her – right into me, Malin thinks, and then he leans forward and asks, for the second time that day: ‘What about your meeting? The reading of the will. How did it go?’

  And Malin can hear how serious Sven is, there’s no quick follow-up question about hidden millions, just a long silence until she replies: ‘I’ve got a brother, Sven. It turns out I’ve got a younger brother,’ and she can feel her stomach clench, her eyes fill up, but she swallows, imagines she’s downing a whole glass of tequila, and holds back the tears.

  She clears her throat. Takes a gulp of her tea. Then she starts to talk, and Sven listens, and when she falls silent again he looks at her for a long time before saying: ‘See it as an unexpected gift, Malin. Try to forgive. Otherwise it’ll drive you mad.’

  He takes a deep breath.

  ‘And stay strong. There’s no solution to this in the bottle. But you already know that, don’t you?’

  When Malin leaves him, Sven slumps onto the sofa in the living room, gazing out at his peaceful, safe home.

  He hasn’t got many years left before retirement. A year or so back he felt very tired, but that feeling has eased. Instead he’s worried about stopping work, realises how empty life would be without all the low-key but unquestionable drama his job presents each day.

  No calm drama in Malin’s life.

  Boom, boom, boom.

 
Events like a series of detonations from bombs dropped from a low-flying plane.

  Bombs exploding in clouds of smoke.

  And the world vanishes.

  Is that how it feels, Malin? I can see you. Fighting to hold everything together.

  Maybe you’ll manage it. The only way I can help you is by giving you support at work, trying to keep you on the right track, pull you up if things get out of hand.

  Rehab did you good. And you don’t seem to resent the fact that I forced you to go.

  If there’s one thing you should know, Malin Fors, it’s that I’ll look out for you as long as I’m able.

  Malin breathes in the air inside the car, with its smell of spilled coffee and sweat, of hours spent hunting and searching, of cherished work that’s leaving its mark in the form of wrinkles that are growing ever deeper with the years.

  Linköping, relaxing in the spring.

  Coming to its senses.

  This evening there is no extra service in the cathedral.

  There are lights on in the flats built on the site of the old military barracks, people like dark aquarium fish behind the glass.

  Tove must be back home in the flat now.

  What am I going to tell her? Nothing. No energy, and inside her she sees the figure of her brother in a hospital bed, and she wants to go to him, they’ve already lost so much time, but is it really him she can see? Or is it Maria Murvall? Are the two of them the same person, is there yet another secret behind the secret?

  But I have to tell Tove this evening.

  Anything else would be out of the question.

  Because she’ll find out, and she’ll know I didn’t tell her straight away, and she’ll hold it against me, lose her faith in me, a faith she’s only just found, if it exists at all.

  Shame like a black fist in her stomach. As ashamed as anyone can feel.

  The dull rumble of the car.

  The engine doing its job.

  The lights of Linköping twinkle on the night sky in front of her.

  Soon she’ll be home.

  She wonders about calling Peter Hamse again, maybe she could talk to him about the new information that’s emerged about Hanna Vigerö, but it’s late and he’s probably busy doing something else. And it’s not essential to the investigation and I’d just seem desperate. She feels the motion of the car in her body, and she becomes a shudder of contentment.

  She stops at a red light at the junction of Drottninggatan and St Larsgatan.

  Through the windscreen she can see people out for the night, dressed up and looking forward to an evening in a bar.

  Hang on a moment.

  That man there, in the blue suit, with the pretty young blonde on his arm, much younger, much prettier. I recognise him, but he’s not supposed to be here like this, and what the hell is this? What the fuck’s he doing here? She feels like jumping out of the car and running over to him, to Janne as he crosses the road in his funeral suit, chatting to the pretty young woman without looking in Malin’s direction. She’s finding it hard to breathe, feels the world as she knows it get torn apart.

  But she stays in the car.

  Unable to move.

  The lights change.

  And Janne and the young woman disappear among the buildings.

  She sees them get smaller and smaller, can’t hear the horns blaring behind her, the angry motorists who want her to move, off into the unknown world of the spring.

  34

  Keep it together, Malin.

  Keep it together, Malin Fors, don’t go mad, don’t do anything stupid, leave the bottle alone, go up to your flat, tell Tove what you have to tell her, then go to bed and try to sleep, so you’re not too tired tomorrow.

  But how the hell could he? How dare he? And how old was she? She was pretty damn attractive, and Malin feels like running out to look for them. Where the hell have they gone? Aphrodite, the Greek restaurant, all yellow walls and candles, she’d put money on them being there, staring into each other’s eyes.

  She’s pulled up in the car park next to St Lars Church, in front of her flat, and right under the inscription above the sidedoor.

  She’s read it a million times now, but reads it again.

  Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.

  My arse.

  Janne. You fucking bastard.

  She slams the car door shut and feels melancholy take hold of her stomach. She stands still in the spring evening and realises that what she has just seen marks the start of something new. That Janne is moving inexorably and conclusively away from her, and that what they had is fading away for good, and she can’t help wondering just how melancholic the world can get?

  Confused.

  Obviously very confused. I’ve never felt more confused.

  Malin looks over at the pub, the Pull & Bear. Bound to be full of people now, and she hears Sven’s words: ‘Alcohol can’t solve your problems,’ is that what he said? And her body is screaming that Sven is wrong, she wants nothing more than to settle down at the bar and drink her way into another dimension full of cotton wool and free of memories and future.

  But there are lights on up in the flat.

  Daniel Högfeldt.

  You bastard. All men are fucking bastards who ought to have their dicks cut off. They’re completely in thrall to their fucking cocks, and she steps through the door and thinks that she really doesn’t have any right to demand anything from them, yet their behaviour still drives her utterly mad.

  Jealousy.

  She hates the word.

  But knows that’s what she’s feeling.

  I shouldn’t feel like this.

  Tove. What do you know about that girl Janne’s seeing? Have you known about her but not told me? In that case, then . . . then what? No confrontations tonight. Don’t say anything, don’t do anything.

  Tove can go and gets pizzas.

  What do I want on my pizza? Ham, prawns, and salami. Maybe some artichoke hearts. Pizza with artichokes on is seriously good.

  Tove’s sitting at the kitchen table, in the cone of light from the ceiling lamp that Malin bought from Rusta a month or so ago, after the old lamp from Biltema broke.

  She’s got her head buried in a book, but looks up when Malin comes into the kitchen and says: ‘You’re home late.’

  ‘You’d never guess what sort of day I’ve had.’

  Then Malin realises that she can’t help herself, and yells at Tove with a voice so full of fury that it takes even her by surprise: ‘So, why haven’t you said a word about your dad’s new lover, then? Well? Did you think I wouldn’t find out sooner or later?’

  Tove stares at her.

  Surprised. Roused from her literary dreams by sudden danger, and Malin watches as Tove pulls herself together, stands up and yells back at Malin: ‘Stop shouting! What did you say? Has Dad met someone?’

  Malin stops, wants to say something, but her tongue feels paralysed.

  Instead Tove goes on in a calm voice, as if what her mum’s just said has sunk in.

  ‘I don’t know anything about any lover. He isn’t seeing anyone, is he?’

  And Malin goes over to Tove and hugs her, feeling her thin, wiry, edgy teenage body against her, hugs her tightly and whispers in her ear: ‘Sorry.’ Then they sit down at the table, opposite each other, and Malin tells her what she just saw, and Tove listens, slightly distracted, and seems to think a thousand thoughts before she asks: ‘What did she look like?’

  Is that what you’re wondering? What she looked like? And Malin feels like throwing the question back at Tove, but resists and says instead: ‘Blonde, pretty.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  ‘Maybe twenty-five. No more.’

  ‘But Mum, there’s no need for you to be angry. It’s not as if you’re together, you and Dad. It’s good if he meets someone, isn’t it, so he doesn’t have to be alone? You should try to find someone, so you don’t have to be alone.’

  Alone, Malin feels like a
sking, what do you mean, alone?

  ‘He’s hardly alone, is he?’ she says. ‘He’s got you in the house. And I’ve got you, we aren’t alone, either of us. I just don’t want him to rush. I suppose I just don’t want anything to happen.’

  Tove smiles.

  Seems to be weighing something up.

  Then she seems to make her mind up, and Malin can see a nervous twinkle in her daughter’s eyes.

  ‘You’re right, Mum. You’re not alone. But you’re soon going to have to get used to the idea of me not being around all the time.’

  Then Malin sees Tove pull an envelope out of her book and put it in front of Malin, with a proud smile and eyes sparkling with anticipation and a look that shows she’s being brave, doing something that has to be done.

  ‘I haven’t told Dad,’ she says. ‘I wanted you to be the first to know.’

  Malin puts her hand on the envelope.

  Not something else, she thinks, not something else, and tries to force a smile. I can’t deal with anything else, and Tove says: ‘Read it, Mum, read it!’

  Malin doesn’t look at the logo on the back of the already crumpled and opened envelope. She just opens it.

  She unfolds the paper, then she sees an old-fashioned logo, and reads the words ‘Lundsberg Private School’, then:

  It gives us great pleasure to inform you that Tove Fors has been awarded a full scholarship for the school year 2010–11 from the Grevestål Memorial Foundation for students with artistic talent from less privileged backgrounds.

  The essay that Miss Fors enclosed with her application, ‘Love in Jane Austen’, was deemed by the scholarship committee to be a mature and accomplished piece of work, suggesting that we could be dealing with an author of the future.

  Words.

  More words.

  Then a request for Tove’s guardian to contact the school’s headmaster, an Ingvar Åkerström, to arrange the details of the scholarship, free accommodation, and everything else, all the formal arrangements that are required for a sixteen-year-old minor, even if the signature on the application was formal confirmation of parental consent.

  Malin lets the letter slip from her hands.